A discreet cough and, “Would you care to order, gentlemen?”
Bertie Bishop said, “Spoil yourselves. It’s my shout.”
“Thank you, Bertie,” Lars said. “I’ll have a roast ham sandwich. White bread. Lots of mustard. I do like Coleman’s mustard with ham.”
“Deep-fried scampi and chips,” O’Reilly said. “You can steal some of my chips, Lars.”
“And I’m for the Irish country chicken breasts. Flo says white meat’s better for me. And mashed spuds and vegetables.”
“Thank you.” The waiter folded his order pad and left.
Bertie sank half his lemonade. “Doctor, have you told Lars why I wanted to talk to him?”
“He’s only told me in very general terms,” said Lars, “that you needed advice about a will. I’m glad to help. I do have business in Belfast later this afternoon so I may have to trot off a bit sooner than I might like. Sorry. I was very happy to take you up on your offer of a meal here, Bertie. Nice place, the Crawfordsburn Inn.”
Bertie looked round the room. “They’ve certainly done great things in here since the ’50s. Very swell. And I’m very glad you’re going til help me, Lars.”
“My pleasure,” Lars said, “and as you’re buying lunch, Bertie, my advice, which costs me nothing to give, will be free of charge.”
Bertie Bishop sat back. “Away off and chase yourself. Oh no. Ohhh no. The workman’s worth his hire. I’ll expect you to charge me your usual fee for this meeting and what you’ll have to do later, and I’ll be glad to pay it, so I will.”
Lars inclined his head. “If you insist. But I’ll make it as reasonable as possible. I always do for friends of Fingal’s.”
“Fair enough.”
“Now,” Lars said, and chuckled. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to be a bit of a dry old stick of a solicitor and ask you some questions.”
“Fire away.”
“Can you outline for me your financial situation, Bertie, and where you’d like your money and possessions to go?”
Bertie fumbled in his inside pocket and brought out several sheets of paper. “I want to be sure my wife Flo’s taken proper care of when I’m gone.” He coughed. “I’m not a young man anymore. I’ll be turning sixty-three this year and I’ve had a couple of scares about my health. I near died from a heart attack three and a bit years back, and last month it looked like I might have cancer. I don’t, but the scare got me to thinking, so it did.”
“I’m not surprised. I know how worried you must be, and I think you are being very sensible, Bertie,” Lars said.
The waiter appeared, arm bent at the elbow, hand cocked back under a large circular tray. “Lunch, gentlemen,” he said, setting the tray on a folding support and serving each man in turn.
When he had gone, O’Reilly laughed. “I think it’s a natural law that waiters always interrupt conversations at important points. I suggest we tuck in first, and then get down to business.”
He speared a piece of scampi. The batter was done to perfection and he had a very soft spot for Dublin Bay prawns, or Nephrops norvegicus—a kind of little lobster. It would be a pity to let his get cold.
31
Hail Wedded Love
Calliope music was coming from the bank of the Seine in the angle between the Pont d’lena and Quai Branly.
“That,” said Sue, pointing to a brightly painted roundabout, “is the renowned Eiffel Tower Carousel. Can we take a look? The book says Paris is famous for carousels.”
Barry hesitated. He wanted to give Sue all that her heart might desire on this holiday, but carousels had a particular kind of clientele—children. Selfish, he knew, but his plans for the rest of this afternoon could be sidetracked by an upset Sue. “You sure?” he asked.
Sue smiled. “You’re worrying that seeing kiddies might upset me, aren’t you?”
He nodded.
“I won’t let it. I promise, and I’d love to go for a ride. I loved roundabouts at the funfairs when I was a little girl. There was one with a wonderful swan I used to beg to be put on.”
Barry heard no wistfulness, no regret in her voice, only a happy childhood memory. He smiled. Back then he hadn’t had much time for merry-go-rounds. They had been for girls. He’d much preferred the ghost train or the dodgems. He kept that to himself.
By then they had arrived in front of the roundabout and mingled with a small crowd standing and admiring the contraption.
“Look at that,” Sue said. “It’s amazing.”
It was circular, brightly enamelled, and travelling in an anti-clockwise direction. Round the circumference, narrow gilded poles reached at regular intervals from ground floor to roof. On the deck a carriage pulled by two prancing horses, one black and one white, was pursued by a brightly coloured hot-air balloon with three laughing children in the basket. In the cockpit of a red-and-yellow biplane, two little boys sat, one behind the other. Barry laughed when the one in the rear seat thumped the one ahead, whether in play or rivalry Barry couldn’t tell because the plane vanished from view as the little drama unfolded.
He glanced at Sue. She must have seen the thump, and to his relief was laughing too. He squeezed her hand. They joined a queue, paid, and were taken to the balloon, where they sat side by side. The music started and Barry recognised the song from the 1950s movie Moulin Rouge, a dramatization of the life of Toulouse Lautrec. His mother had talked about the film for weeks and had sung the song as she hoovered. He and Sue had watched a rerun on TV a couple of years ago. He sang along, as usual off-key, “‘Here we go my darling, my dearest, we’re riding on love’s roundabout.’” Ignoring the spectators, Sue leant forward and kissed him, long and hard. “Thank you for loving me,” she said. “And thank you for bringing me here.”
Barry tried to control his breathing.
“And just to clear the air, I see the children all around us. I can hear them screaming and laughing. Yes, I want us to have children—” She grabbed on to Barry as the balloon swooped up and then fell back down. “Think how much fun it would be if we had one or two of ours on this ride.”
Barry nodded, bracing for what was next.
“But,” Sue said, “I’m beginning to understand that no matter how much you may want something, how hard you are willing to work to get it, it doesn’t always happen.”
Oh-oh, Barry thought. Sue grasped his arm again as the balloon continued its stately motion up and down.
“So, I’ve been thinking. I know how much you love me and I certainly know how much I love you—and nothing, and I mean nothing, is going to change that or come between us.”
Barry’s spirits rose like the hot-air balloon they were riding in. He rejoiced to think of Sue perhaps not hurting as much. “Thank you, darling.”
“We will finish all that Graham can offer. I’ll have that test—what did he call it?”
“Postcoital.”
“I’ll have it next month and the laparoscopy in May and then, Barry, I want us to take stock. Make some decisions, but then. Not now.” She kissed him and he felt her tongue flicker. “Now I’m in gay Paree with the man I love. Can we go to the Louvre? I want to see the Mona Lisa’s smile.”
“I’ve seen it,” Barry said. “It’s not nearly as lovely as yours.”
Her grin was wide. “Flattery will get you…” and up went her eyebrow.
I hope so, Barry thought, and chuckled.
“I’ve never been on a bateau-mouche. I’d love a short voyage on the Seine.”
“Of course,” he said, but not this afternoon. Red roses were waiting in their room.
Barry returned the kiss and thought, Going to enjoy ourselves? Indeed we are.
* * *
In fifteen minutes they were back in room 51, Hotel Regina De Passy. “Oh, Barry, they’re lovely.” Sue crossed the floor, bent, and inhaled the scent of the dozen red roses in a vase on the circular table. “Thank you.” She turned, went to him, and kissed him long and deeply. “I do love you so very much,” she said.
“It is Saint Valentine’s Day, after all,” Barry said, and smiled at her. “And see what else we have?” He inclined his head to an ice bucket on the table. The gold-foil-wrapped cork and neck of a bottle of champagne leaned over the stainless steel rim. A white napkin was draped beside the bottle. Two cut-glass flutes flanked the arrangement. “Fancy a drop?”
“Mmm. Please.” Sue nodded and smiled. “You’re a bit like your hero, you know,” she said. “Fingal pretends to be a gruff old ogre sometimes, but inside he’s a pussycat. You keep a stiff upper lip, show little affection in public.” She moved to him and snuggled against him, putting the palm of her hand over his heart.
He inhaled her perfume.
“Alone with me you are the most romantic man in or out of all Ireland.” She kissed him. “You got Lars to arrange for champagne and red roses on the first night of our honeymoon in his place in Villefranche too.”
“That’s not all I got,” Barry said. “I got you to love and to cherish. I do and I will. Now and forever.” He ached for her, but he wanted them to take their time, taste each moment.
He noticed a bowl of dark chocolates and an envelope addressed to Doctor and Mrs. Laverty. He gave it to Sue. “What’s in it?”
She opened it and produced a card with a red heart on the front. She opened it. “Happy Saint Valentine’s Day. With the manager’s compliments. How sweet.”
“Romantic lot the French, I’m told.” Barry lifted the dripping bottle from its icy bed and wiped it with the napkin.
“My,” Sue said. “Pol Roget Brut. Thank you.” She sighed. “Oh dear. I suppose this means the trip on the bateau-mouche is out?”
Barry thought she’d never stop giggling. “Looks like it, doesn’t it? But I’m sure we’ll find something to do. Since we met in 1964, Sue Nolan, we’ve been writing a book of memories. How’d you like a page or two about sitting on our deck, sipping bubbles, admiring the view, and—?” And while she might be thinking of the Eiffel Tower, he had a different view in mind.
“Just be a minute,” Sue said, and slipped off her coat and walking shoes.
In the bathroom Barry busied himself opening the champagne. And a good thing he did it over the hand-basin. He wasn’t able to control the cork’s escape, and with a loud “pop,” some of the foaming wine ran out of the bottle. He bent, poured, left the bottle behind, and carried two glasses to the table. A quick fiddling with knobs and a very Gallic voice came from the wall radio’s speakers.
Edith Piaf sang,
“Non, non de rien, non, je ne regrette rien…”
Barry took the glasses outside to the balcony.
Muted traffic noise drifted up. Two seagulls far from home screeched as they flew by. And to the east the tower watched over the lovers.
Sue sat on one of the deck chairs, legs crossed and inclined to one side. She had changed from her walking clothes to high heels, dark nylons, a mini-skirt, and a white silk blouse, under which, judging by the two dark circles with raised centres, there was no bra. Her copper mane was free and flowing round her.
For Barry the view had improved so much he was able to forget the tower.
He gave her a glass and sat in the other chair. “Happy Saint Valentine’s Day, darling,” he said, raised his glass, noted his tiny tremor, and drank.
“I love you, Barry.” Sue sipped her own bubbles. She looked all around. “Do you know,” she said, “there’s not a single soul on any of the balconies that can see onto ours? And for February the sun is really quite warm.” She drank again more deeply, put her glass on the table, stood, moved to the railing, and said “Au revoir, M’sieur le Tour, et merci très bien. Á la prochaine.” Barry heard the huskiness in her voice. She’d had her hands in front of her. Slowly she turned, glanced round the adjacent balconies, and began to walk, as stately as a high-fashion model, toward Barry.
She smiled, ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, never let her gaze leave Barry’s eyes, and with a hand on each side of her blouse, slowly, slowly moved the silk aside. She tossed her mane of copper hair to cover her breasts. When Sue was two feet away from him she stopped, stood hip-shot and, with her right hand, caressed her own left breast.
Barry shuddered, stood, and with his eyes wide drank in her loveliness, her sensuality. He knew his breath was coming in short gasps. He left his glass on the table.
She said, “I hope, my love, this will make a start for that book of memories entry, but it could be warmer out here.”
Barry, who could see perfectly well the effect the temperature was having, inhaled and swallowed.
She took his hand and started for the bedroom. “I’m sure it will be hotter inside.”
And Barry Laverty, consumed with love for Sue, aching with lust for her, had to agree.
Piaf was singing her “Chant d’Amour”: “… je veux chanter un chant d’amour…” as Sue led Barry inside, and as he paused to shut the French windows he closed his eyes and dropped a kiss on the nape of her neck. And the rest of the champagne? Before they fell on the bed he had only the briefest fraction of a second to think, forget the champagne.
32
It Is the Generous Spirit
The men had eaten in silence for several minutes, until Bertie laid down his fork and said in a low voice, “I think it’s time til get down to business, if that’s alright?”
Lars nodded his approval.
“I have no personal debts, and assets of about two hundred thousand pounds.” He handed Lars one sheet of paper. “Some’s in shares, some’s in mutual funds, and some’s liquid. That cash is in the Bank of Ireland. It’s all listed here.”
“Thank you.” Lars accepted the page.
“I have one promise til keep. The day he passed his Eleven Plus that let him go til grammar school, I promised young Colin Brown fifty pounds a year when he goes til university. Will you look after that, Lars?”
“Of course.”
“Other than that, apart for five hundred pounds til the sports club and five hundred to the Ballybucklebo Highlanders, and any expenses like funeral costs and maybe death duties are paid, it all goes til Flo. So does the house and contents, and there’s no mortgage on it.” He handed over more of the papers. “It’s all in there.”
Lars had produced a silver propelling pencil and made notes. “That’s all easy enough to deal with.”
“I’ve no life insurance. Never believed in it. Seems like tempting Providence, but I’ve a notion how til make sure Flo has a steady income until she—aye, well. You know.” He swallowed. Took a deep breath. “I’d like the opinions of both of youse, and I know all about patient and client confidentiality with doctors and lawyers.”
“Mum’s the word, Bertie,” Lars said, “but wills are usually pretty boring stuff.”
Bertie ate a last slice of chicken. “Aye, mebbe so, but they’re about lives, aren’t they? People’s lives all down on a few bits of paper. But we’re more than words on paper, aren’t we? I reckon you are, Lars. You call yourself a dry old stick of a lawyer, but I know there’s more to you than that.”
Lars looked taken aback but recovered his poise and slowly nodded his head. “Yes. Yes, there is, Bertie.”
“So, I need til tell you a bit about my life. So you understand me and Flo and our life together.”
“You’re quite right, Bertie. Wills are about people’s lives. Thank you for reminding me. I think we can get jaded about our work as we get older. I welcome the opportunity to learn about your life.”
“Go ahead, Bertie,” O’Reilly said. “It’s safe with us.”
Bertie looked from man to man. Put down his fork and knife. “I was sixteen when I met Flo at a Saturday dance in the Presbyterian church hall in Ballybucklebo. She was fifteen. I asked her til dance. There was a great wee Céilí band. Uilleann pipes, a melodeon, penny whistle, bhodran.”
O’Reilly saw the film over Bertie’s eyes. Heard the catch in his voice. “We danced til ‘My Lagan Love.’ I’ll never forget that tune.
”
Bertie was wistful when he said, “Florence McCaffery was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. The real star of the County Down.” A smile came to his eyes, his voice softened, and he smiled as he said, “Flo’s a bit tall around now, but so am I. Back then? You could have held her waist in one hand, and like the song says, ‘the twilight gleam is in her eye,’ and what eyes.” Bertie’s inhalation must have gone down to his toes. “D’y’ever see the colour of mahogany like the water of a deep trout pool?” For a moment Bertie Bishop was not present in the Parlour Bar.
O’Reilly, ignoring his scampi, hadn’t realised what a romantic streak ran in the worldly Bertie Bishop. “They talk about Cupid’s arrow?” He laughed. “I think he was using a twelve-bore shotgun that night.” He looked from brother to brother. “She still is beautiful.” He glanced down, then up. “I never looked at another girl since that night—”
O’Reilly thought, Not quite true, Bertie, but kept quiet. O’Reilly saw his brother nodding, the remains of his sandwich forgotten. Was he remembering Jeannie Neely, the judge’s daughter, who had rejected Lars’s proposal on Christmas Eve 1933?
Bertie Bishop blushed, and said, “Except the once I took a fit of the head staggers. Doctor O’Reilly knows about it, and I made a pass at a housemaid. I don’t know what the hell come over me.”
Honest of you, Bertie, O’Reilly thought. The housemaid had been Julie MacAteer—before she became Julie Donnelly.
Lars took a bite.
Bertie continued. “Flo’s family had no time for me. Not a bit. Her daddy was a draughtsman at Harland and Wolff. Worked in an office. Kept his hands clean. He looked down his nose at the likes of me. I’d left school at fourteen. I was ’prenticed for six years to a carpenter—just a tradesman, like. The day I got my ticket I got took on by old Mister Gallagher—him who owned my building company before me—I asked Flo til marry me, and God bless her, she said yes even though she’d be marrying down. Beneath her, like.”
Lars muttered as if to himself, “I won a few bob in Monte Carlo last week. Lucky at cards—but it’s better to be lucky in love. And I do know about social gaps.” He glanced at O’Reilly, who well remembered how Lars had had the same concerns about Lady Myrna Ferguson. The gap between a peer’s daughter, a lady in her own right, and a country solicitor had seemed unbridgeable. The class system, in O’Reilly’s opinion, had a lot to answer for. Class envy as well as religious intolerance were the two root causes of the present disturbances in Ulster.
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