“… said she had never even seen the prince, but the photographs showed …”
“… so we need to talk to the Assembly about more cross border co-operation …”
“… and if the papers once get hold of that, good-bye to her chances of a Spring wedding, or any wedding at all …”
“… need to show solidarity with the Nationalist people in the north …”
The T.D. was interrupted by a well known columnist, Terry O’Hanlon, from the Irish Times, who was sitting opposite.
“Hey, Sally,” he called out, “Do you know why Ian Paisley gets on so well now with Martin McGuiness?”
“No,” said Sally obligingly.
“Marty promised him he’d have a word with his old comrades about Peter Robinson!”
Everyone within hearing laughed. Sally, laughing with the rest, suddenly broke off and spoke down the table to Sheila.
“Sorry – I didn’t think. That wasn’t funny to you, I suppose!”
Sheila smiled. “Don't worry, people in the north make jokes like that all the time. As a matter of fact, I first heard Mr O’Hanlon’s joke last year, in Belfast.”
O’Hanlon groaned cheerfully. “That's me shot down in flames. I’ll have to be more up to date in future. It’s the journalist’s nightmare, to be behind the times.”
“Whereas you, O’Hanlon, are normally at the front of The Times – The Irish Times!” called out someone else.
When the meal was over and people had pushed back their chairs and begun to wander about, Pat touched Sheila’s arm and led her unobtrusively out of a nearby door and along a corridor.
“Just around this corner, I think,” Pat said. “It gets a place of honour because she’s so famous. Tod and Sally bought it with the house, naturally.”
The portrait hung at one end of a long drawing room elegantly furnished in the latest styles, though not in keeping with the Georgian period of the house.
Bare parquet floors shone, and the low tables, bureaus and chairs in which the room abounded were cut on straight, uncluttered lines.
Wood predominated, giving a clean, natural look, in rejection of the frills and fuss of an earlier generation. The comfortable chairs were mainly in soft leather, in warm reds and browns.
On the furthest wall, carefully placed to catch the available daylight while avoiding the dangers of direct sunshine, and with artificial lighting set up for the evenings, hung the famous portrait by Millais.
Barbara O’Hara, wife of the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland in the mid eighteen hundreds when England still held sway over the whole island and Home Rule was still a burning issue, gazed out at them with wide green eyes.
A famous beauty in her day, Barbara O’Donnell had come from the wilds of Connemara and married into the Anglo-Irish ascendancy because, so the story went, Fitzroy O’Hara had fallen madly in love with her at first sight of her face.
The Irish peasant girl had quickly learnt to be a great lady and had moved freely through the society of both the London and the Dublin of her day.
She had been presented at court and Queen Victoria had written in her Diary, concerning the red-haired Barbara, “O’Hara has tamed the wild vixen, but let him look to his cubs!”
Or perhaps it was Disraeli who had fed Her Majesty this epigram.
Whatever its source, it contained an element of truth.
There had been a wild streak in the O’Haras ever since.
Brenda O’Hara, friend of rebels who had eloped with her lover, Patrick Stevens, was only one example of that continuing streak.
Sheila stood before the portrait and studied it gravely.
She could see clearly the resemblance between the famous beauty and her granddaughter Brenda, whose miniature portrait she had been shown by Roisin Boyd Cassidy.
The red hair, white skin, and green eyes under dark eyelashes were there in both O’Haras. She could see, also, why others compared these two people to herself and remarked on her likeness to them.
But now, looking at the portrait in cold daylight, Sheila was more inclined to notice the differences.
Those dark eyelashes, for instance.
It was unusual for anyone with Sheila’s colouring to have dark lashes – and, in fact, Sheila’s own natural lashes were a much lighter shade.
She knew that by darkening them she had added something to her beauty.
How much, she could not have said, but her own opinion was, a great deal.
It was when she had begun to do this at the age of fourteen that people had first begun to call her pretty.
These O’Haras seemed to have the darker shade by nature.
(In fact, this was not true. Like most red-haired women, Barbara and Brenda had regularly darkened their lashes).
Then again, as Pat Fitzwilliam had remarked, there was a difference in the noses.
Sheila’s nose was slender and delicately cut, only a fraction on the right side from being over long.
Barbara O’Hara’s nose was much shorter and did not have the same delicate line.
Sheila was well aware that her fine features came from her mother, Kathy. She concluded, inwardly, that people had not really looked much beyond the general appearance and the colouring in remarking on the much discussed resemblance.
Sheila knew that Pat, in telling her that many others had compared her to Lady O’Hara’s portrait as well as himself, was speaking no more than the truth.
Even the journalist who had interviewed her for The Irish Times had mentioned it and had made a passing reference to it in his completed article.
Sheila would have preferred to hear no more of the matter, but Delmara, she knew, saw it differently. His nose for publicity accepted this as an interesting extra strand in Sheila’s public image.
“When we go to New York next month,” he told her, “I think we might play up this resemblance, my pet. A touch of mystery and romance – especially for the Americans, who love anything to do with Ireland’s romantic past. You needn’t confirm it, Sheila but, when it’s mentioned, don’t deny it either.”
Sheila would have preferred to bury the whole idea but it was, after all, Delmara’s business and Delmara’s clothes and designs which she was there to promote.
She sighed inwardly but was willing to go along with most things he suggested.
It did not seem worthwhile to make a big issue out of this one. The story would undoubtedly die a natural death before long.
Meanwhile, if Francis Delmara saw it as a useful way of increasing public interest in Delmara Fashions, she would not stand in his way.
She gave the portrait a final inspection and then turned to Pat Fitzwilliam.
“Thank you, Pat,” she said. “It was interesting to see it. Now take me back to Sally and Tod. I must say goodbye to them and get moving. I have to be at the Burton Studios in about half an hour to get ready for this photographic session, remember.”
Chapter Forty
John Branagh finished an article for the BBC Web site on the new plans to increase tourism and pushed his keyboard back with a sigh.
He felt bored and restless. He had a good life, on paper. He was young, free, doing work which he enjoyed doing and being paid at a rate well above the Province's average.
There was the possibility in the pipeline of a move to London, carrying with it promotion.
So what was wrong with him?
Even to himself, John refused to admit that the disappearance of Sheila Doherty from his life could have anything to do with his unhappiness.
He glanced round the noisy, busy office where he worked and caught the eye of a girl sitting not far away who had been watching him with a hopeful expression.
She was about twenty, slim, small and fair-haired, and her wide open brown eyes always reminded him of a dog he and Mary had owned as children.
“Hi, Rosie,” he said, smiling pleasantly because it seemed cruel not to acknowledge her.
“Hi, John,” Rosie Brennan responded eagerly. “Finished
? So am I. Feel like a drink?”
“Good idea,” said John easily. “Brian, Tim, Katie – anyone else? Rosie’s trying to turn us all into alcoholics.”
“The only way to survive in this office,” called big Tim Cameron, from his desk across the room. “Let’s get stuck in.”
John did his best not to see Rosie’s disappointed expression as four or five of the journalists trooped out together to the nearest bar. He was well aware that Rosie had hoped to get him on his own, had been trying to attract his attention for months.
The favourite pub was Murphy’s and they piled into the crowded, noisy warmth, laughing and chatting together.
“Talk about a Zoo!” said big Tim, settling himself comfortably at the corner table they had taken over. “More like a snake pit than anything else, isn’t it? Which reminds me, what did St Patrick say when he was driving the snakes out of Ireland?”
“What?” John asked lazily.
“Are yis all right in the back, there?”
Everyone laughed, Rosie after a pause for thought.
Looking around, John realised that he knew most of the people there as they were TV journalists, people whose job it was to get the news even if it meant being up late.
Brian Gallagher, a friendly balding man with a noticeable paunch, began to talk about his experiences that day interviewing some of the family of the victims of a bank robbery the previous night.
“Ex para-militaries, it looked like,” he said. “They’ve moved into this stuff now we’ve got the ceasefire. Just out for the money, a bit extra to what they make from the drug trade, I guess. The Belfast Mafia, they call them.”
“That’s happening more and more these days,” said Katie Acheson, a haggard but still attractive blonde in her late thirties, who was one of the staff reporters with a regular spot on the News. “Crazy. We get rid of the terrorists and what do we get in return?” She sipped her gin and tonic with a cynical shrug.
“I had to interview the parents of the guy who got shot, and his girlfriend,” said Brian. “A bad experience, I can tell you. I’ll let you do it, next time, Rosie.”
Rosie shuddered. “No way, Brian. I’m sticking with the Women’s News.”
“Very wise,” said big Tim. “D’you think they would let me join you?” He winked at Rosie in a mock lecherous way.
Rosie, determined to stop the talk of horrors, began to chat about her own area.
“I was listening to some interesting stuff about the new fashions just now. This Sheila Doherty looks like being a big name,” she said. “You must have read about the splash she made in Dublin with Delmara Fashions. Good to see someone from here starting to make it big. They’ll be off to New York soon, I’m told. Gnash, gnash – wish I was her.”
John Branagh winced and said nothing. Brian showed signs of interest. “Some smasher, isn’t she?” he commented. “I saw a write-up about her last month in Now magazine. She was wearing one of these new mini skirts that are even shorter than the originals. Cor – legs a mile long. I think I have a copy of it somewhere about. I’ll show you when I get back to the office.”
“Right on,” agreed Tim. “I told you the Women’s News was the stuff to work on.”
John felt his face becoming frozen in the effort to show nothing. Sheila showing off her legs in a popular magazine. The idea stabbed him painfully. What was it to him? he asked himself savagely. She was always the same. Nothing but a tart. He was well rid of her. Turning to Rosie in desperation, he began to ask her about herself in a determined effort to change the subject.
Brian, Katie and Tim became involved in a discussion of their bosses, working conditions, and the chance of a pay rise. As John knew, once started on those subjects they could go on for hours. He continued to talk to Rosie and, when the others got up to go, found to his dismay that he seemed to have committed himself to giving her a lift home.
Later, when he stopped the car outside Rosie’s house and she gazed up at him with those pathetic brown eyes, it seemed very natural to John to kiss her good-night.
It was a gentle kiss and John gave it with every intention of leaving things at that.
But Rosie clung to him, making it difficult for him to draw away without hurting her.
The mixture of hurt and anger which boiled not far beneath the surface of John's emotions demanded some sort of outlet.
He continued to kiss Rosie.
It was a long time before he managed, with the exercise of great will power, to call a halt.
He drove home cursing himself for his stupidity.
He, who had been determined to be different, to maintain his own moral standards in the face of a degenerating world, had allowed himself to become the victim of his own desires.
He had no love for Rosie. He had simply been making use of her.
He knew that he could not afford a repeat of tonight’s experience. Next time round, or at the most, a few times later, he would find himself drawn into the kind of casual sexual encounter he most hated.
Stupid, stupid!
The problem was, with Rosie working in the same office, it would be almost impossible to avoid her.
He didn’t want to hurt her, either.
For once in his life, the decisive John Branagh found himself confused, uncertain what to do. He wished for the hundredth time that Sheila had been different, that she had not been the sort of person she had turned out to be.
After a while it occurred to him to wonder if there was so very much difference between Sheila, and himself as he had been tonight.
Chapter Forty-One
One day, at the end of the summer term, at a time when the sun had begun to pour out his generous warmth again and to raise up spirits from their winter depths, Mary ran into Phil in Botanic Gardens. They had not met for nearly a year. Their paths had veered apart and, for lack of deliberate planning, occasions to meet had become rarer and rarer.
Mary, full of energy and bounce herself, was surprised to see how unhappy Phil looked. She reproached herself for having failed to keep in touch for so long with a girl who had once been so close to her.
Phil was mooching slowly along one of the paths and Mary, who had been hurrying on her way to the library, pulled up at the sight of her. Phil’s head was bent, her eyes fixed on the ground and an air of melancholy seemed to emanate from her bowed shoulders.
“Phil!” exclaimed Mary. “Goodness, it’s nice to see you.”
Phil looked at her for a moment as if she was a stranger. Then, pulling herself together with an obvious effort, she broke into a smile.
“Mary Branagh, for heaven’s sake! I thought you must have emigrated.”
“Not just yet – maybe never,” Mary laughed. But, Phil, don’t disappear now I’ve got you. We should keep in better contact. If you haven’t got to be anywhere particular for the next half hour or so, let’s go for a coffee and catch up on the gossip, okay?”
“Fine,” agreed Phil, looking pleased. “Good to see you, Mary.”
They headed by tacit agreement for the Union.
“So, Phil, how’s it going?” asked Mary, setting her coffee down on the table opposite Phil and flopping down on one of the plastic chairs. “You passed your exams okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll probably go on and do an MA now.” Phil’s lack of interest in this subject was obvious. “And you?”
“So far, so good,” Mary said. “I’m planning to do a teacher training Cert. after the summer.” She hesitated. “Look. I know we haven’t been in touch but we’re still friends, aren’t we? So don’t mind me asking – is anything wrong?”
Phil looked amused. “Does it show so badly? Well, since you ask, yes, things are wrong. But there’s not a lot anyone can do.”
“You're not –” Mary hesitated and Phil laughed outright.
“Same old Mary – straight to the point. No, I’m not pregnant, if that was what you were going to ask.”
Mary blushed and then caught Phil’s eye and laughed. “Well, it was
always the ultimate calamity, wasn’t it? Though I suppose if we were married it would be a different matter.”
“Yes,” agreed Phil indifferently.
“So – what is it, then?”
“Oh, Mary!” Phil sighed in exasperation. “What was it, ever?”
Mary knew the answer to that. “Davy Hagan.”
“Right.”
“But – I thought things were really good for you and Davy now?”
“Oh – in some ways.” Phil was aware of an intense longing to pour it all out, to hear Mary’s sensible, down to earth reaction, to share some of the weight with her friend. But she realised without even having to think about it how impossible that would be.
“It’s nothing you could help with, Mary,” she said instead. “I wish it was. Oh, I’m making a drama out of nothing. We just have a few relationship problems. Doesn’t everyone? We don’t see eye to eye on some things which seem important to me. Davy lives by different rules – or by breaking the same ones I try to keep. Oh, don’t let’s talk about it. Let’s talk about something else. How are things with you?”
Mary stirred her coffee thoughtfully.
“These areas where you don’t see eye to eye. They would be stuff to do with drugs, right?”
Phil nodded silently.
“You and Davy used always to agree to differ about him being a user. And I don’t think you’ve changed your views. So it must be Davy who’s changed, yes?”
Phil’s head jerked up and she stared at Mary with something of the horror she felt showing in her eyes.
“Don’t, Mary. Leave it. It’s not something I can talk about.”
Mary nodded. “I think I understand. It’s all right, Phil. We’ll leave it. But any time it helps to talk, ring me. You know me. Silent as the tomb when it matters. We’ve shared a lot of secrets in the past which never came out. This one won’t either.”
“Oh, knickers, Mary, you haven’t changed!” Phil grinned in sudden appreciation. “It’s good to see you again, you old pest!”
Mary smiled at Phil’s reversion to the swear words of their schooldays.
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