‘It’s the biggest day of my life,’ sniffed Edwina, on the brink of tears, ‘and I’ll look like I have transsexuals for my bridesmaids. When I walk down the aisle, it’s going to look like The Rocky Horror Show.’
‘Leave it to me,’ replied Kate calmly. ‘Both bridesmaids’ dresses will have to be completely remodelled, I’m afraid,’ she said to the seamstress, ‘even if it means working all night to get them ready in time. It’s now four p.m. We have exactly twenty-four hours to show time.’
Chapter Thirty
THE STORY TRAVELLED like wildfire. By the time Portia and Daisy had reached Ballyroan, the first person they bumped into was Steve, driving down Main Street on his way to Davenport Hall to discuss the news.
‘So what on earth made Shamie Nolan decide to sell?’ Portia was quizzing him.
‘Money,’ he replied. ‘What else? I’ve just had a call from Michael de Courcey to tell me that he met with the Minister this morning. The Tribunal will start its hearings in the next few weeks and he thinks it could last for at least eighteen months, given the amount of evidence against Nolan there is to sift through. So his costs alone will be extortionate.’
‘And how would it look in the papers if he and Bridie were spending millions renovating the Hall while all this was going on?’ said Portia, thinking aloud. ‘How much do you think it’ll sell for on the open market?’
‘Hard to say,’ he replied, taking off a very cool-looking pair of designer sunglasses and slipping them into the ‘V’ of his shirt. ‘Nolan got it for two million, but that was a bargain basement price. I imagine by the time you get home, he’ll have an estate agent scouring the place to put the highest guide price on it that he possibly can.’ He glanced over to Daisy, who instantly reddened. ‘So, how do both of you feel about this?’
‘Well, short of one of us winning the Lottery tonight, it’s not really going to affect us, is it?’ said Portia, ignoring the fact that Daisy was looking like a beetroot by now. ‘We’re no longer the legal owners anyway, we were just there on borrowed time. So unless you’ve got a few million stashed away you’d care to lend us . . .’
Steve smiled and turned away.
‘No, I didn’t think solicitors made that kind of money,’ Portia teased. ‘But at least one good thing has come out of all this. Whoever does buy it, they could never be as awful as the Nolans, not in a million years. Who knows, they may even take pity on us and give us jobs on the estate.’
Steve nodded sagely, then, suddenly changing the subject, he asked if he could offer them a lift home.
‘No, thanks,’ Portia replied, answering for them both, ‘we’ve got to collect the car from Mrs Flanagan.’
‘Actually, I’d love a lift home,’ said Daisy without a second’s thought. ‘It’s so wet and drizzly and I don’t want my boots to get wrecked.’
Portia looked on in mild bemusement as Daisy clambered up into Steve’s passenger seat.
She was wearing Wellingtons.
Mrs Flanagan too had heard the story. The crackly portable radio in the hairdresser’s had just broadcast the lunchtime news, so chances were the whole town knew by now. No sooner had Portia walked through the door of the Crown and Glory than she came waddling over to hug her. Portia hugged her back tightly, realizing all over again how much she really missed her.
‘Well, I’m delighted that aul’ bastard Shamie Nolan is finally getting his come-uppance,’ Mrs Flanagan said. ‘Sneaking off to Las bleedin’ Vegas to con your halfwit of a father in the first place; he should have been jailed for that alone. And as for that aul’ cow of a wife of his, do you know she comes in here all the time to get her roots done and never, ever tips?’
‘Shhh,’ Portia whispered, in case customers might overhear.
‘Are ya afraid someone might be listening?’ laughed Mrs Flanagan as she waddled back behind the empty receptionist’s desk. ‘Where in the name of Jaysus do ya think ya are? Vidal Sassoon?’
Portia glanced over her shoulder to see that the salon was completely empty.
‘So, has she asked for me yet?’ said Mrs Flanagan, lighting up a cigarette. ‘Or has she even noticed that I’m gone?’
Portia paused for a moment before answering, knowing all of her inherent tact and diplomacy would be needed here. She had spent most of the previous day alternately coaxing and begging her mother to apologize to Mrs Flanagan, all for nothing. ‘I’d rather cut off my left tit and eat it for dinner than apologize to that wagon,’ had been her actual words. And once Lucasta dug her heels in, that was usually that.
‘We all miss you dreadfully and we want you to come home so badly. I don’t suppose there’s the smallest chance that I could persuade you to—’
‘Listen to me, luv. Hell will freeze over before I work for that mad bitch again. It said on the lunchtime news that Shamie Nolan is looking for five million for the Hall. Well, ya can tell yer mother from me, she’ll be a long time turning tricks in the Kildare Arms before she’ll buy it back at that price.’
The level of interest in Davenport Hall was phenomenal. Eamonn Cassidy, the estate agent who was handling the sale, had never seen anything like it. Almost as soon as it went on the market, his tiny office in Kildare town was flooded with phone calls, emails and faxes from as far away as Canada, all full of enquiries about the impending auction. Shamie Nolan’s instructions on the subject had been clear and concise. ‘Squeeze as much cash out of this as ya can and, for Jaysus’ sake, try not to show too much of the kip when yer’re having viewings. If a buyer was to see the real state of the place, sure they’d run a mile.’
And so Eamonn hit on the one ingenious excuse that was staring him in the face.
‘Of course I’d be delighted to show you over Davenport Hall,’ he would smarm down the phone to potential buyers, ‘except that there’s a film being made there at present, which makes certain parts of the property inaccessible to viewers.’ He would then conduct clients over the land and when it came to viewing the inside of the Hall, he would try to steer them clear of the most decrepit parts of the house and concentrate instead on the Ballroom, the one room the film crew had jazzed up a bit for the interior scenes. Cleverly, he also arranged for private viewings only to be held at night, when it was less likely a buyer would notice the decaying ceilings and rotting floorboards, and he was also careful never to show it whilst it was raining for fear of bringing a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘water feature’.
The level of media interest in Davenport Hall had certainly put it on the map, and Eamonn had his work cut out in distinguishing genuine potential buyers from tourists who only wanted access to the Hall in the hopes of catching a glimpse of a Hollywood star. (His rule of thumb was that if a client arrived at the Hall clutching a camera and an autograph book, chances were they didn’t have a few million euros to throw away.)
However, there were a number of genuinely interested buyers, with a notable celebrity amongst them. Billy Toner, the lead singer with Ireland’s most famous rock band, the Living Dead, had flown in by helicopter to inspect the Hall and seemed very taken with it. The fact that it was night-time and that he didn’t once remove his trademark wraparound sunglasses had helped to shield him from the worst horrors of the house. Billy Toner, it seemed, was the proud father of no less than nine children, all by different mothers, and felt that at least here they could each have their own bedroom.
‘Yeah, man, sure it’s a bit run down,’ he said to Eamonn in his acquired mid-Atlantic accent, ‘but I want my kids to grow up knowing what it’s like to be underprivileged, a bit like I did, man. This house could be the nearest they’ll ever come to living in a ghetto.’
Another serious contender was the leader of a religious cult called the New Age Loons. He arrived at the Hall with Eamonn late one night, clad entirely in white robes, and introduced himself to Lucasta by his spirit-guide name, Chasing Moonbeams. He then examined every square inch of the Hall, commenting on how poor the ley lines were. When he saw the Ballroom, he said th
at it would make a perfect temple to the Goddess of Isis, but that it would have to be feng-shuied from top to bottom first. Chasing Moonbeams was equally taken with the Yellow Drawing Room, saying that it would make a wonderful past life regression centre. Then, standing in the middle of the entrance hall, he claimed that he could sense a great number of lost spirits there who weren’t fully at peace on the other side.
‘Well, I hope to fuck he doesn’t buy it,’ said Lucasta, firmly banging the door behind them. ‘I think he could be a bit mad.’
There was also interest in the Hall from a most unexpected quarter. Early one morning, as Guy and Ella lay in bed together, sharing a post-coital cigarette, inspiration struck.
‘I win, darling,’ said Guy, throwing his copy of the previous day’s National Intruder on to the floor. ‘My name is mentioned forty-one times and yours only thirty-six. Sorry, baby, I’ve counted. So, if I’ve tallied up right, that’s a win for me two days running.’
Ella said nothing, just continued to blow smoke upwards towards the moth-eaten canopy of the four-poster bed.
‘Now, according to the rules,’ drawled Guy, ‘if they’d printed a picture of you then that would give you ten extra points, but the only photo they got was one of me doing my yoga, so you forfeit the game, darling.’
Ella turned and fixed him with a smouldering stare.
‘I know just what you’re thinking, baby,’ he laughed. ‘Sure, they’re going to take my picture if I practise yoga right in the middle of the driveway twenty feet away from the lenses, but, honey, that’s what they’re for. If they’re going to make millions selling papers with me plastered all over ’em, then surely I deserve a little publicity in return? You know, that’s probably the only good thing about this fucking hellhole, at least the press are willing to travel down here. Not like what happened to poor ol’ Burt Reynolds when he bought his ranch in Nevada, remember, honey?’
Ella continued to stare at the ceiling.
‘He thought the press boys would track him down’ – Guy laughed, cracking up at his own gag – ‘and that he’d be all, like, “Fuck off and give me some privacy!” But they all thought it was too far to travel, so they never bothered. Burt sold up within six months; he couldn’t take his face being out of the papers for that length of time!’ Guy was hysterical by now, thoroughly enjoying the media one-upmanship, and then the thought struck. Turning on to his side to face Ella he said, ‘You know, baby, you and I could do a lot worse for ourselves than to buy this place.’
He must have been getting through to her, because her eyelids flickered for a millisecond.
‘I’m serious, baby,’ he went on, taking this as an encouraging sign. ‘Sure, it’s a shithole right now, but with the right architect and the right interior designer, it could really be something. And think of the parties, baby! The A list would fly in here by the planeload! If we built a golf course, we’d definitely get Catherine and Michael; of course we’d have to have a crèche for their kids, but that needn’t be a problem. And if we had an Irish theme bar, then Leo and Brad and Tom would definitely come. Especially when I tell them that the press are camped right at the front door. A little holiday in the beautiful Irish countryside and a little press to tell the world all about it, what more could they want?’
Ella reached her arm across the bedside table and carelessly stubbed out her cigarette into a pot of Vaseline.
‘I think it’s a terrific idea, baby,’ said Guy, lying back down again. ‘I’m really glad we had this talk.’
It was the night before the auction and Portia had never known exhaustion like it. She’d spent the entire day single-handedly packing up the Library, putting one dusty tome after another into dozens of cardboard boxes and she still was nowhere near finished. Now I know why families stay in these great houses for generation after generation, she thought. It’s just too bloody difficult to move out. Eventually, as the grandfather clock in the hall chimed midnight, she’d had enough. The best she could hope for was that whoever bought the Hall the following day would take pity on the Davenports and allow them a little breathing space so they could pack up two hundred years of their history into cardboard boxes and move out with what little dignity they had left.
Exhausted, she hauled herself downstairs to the kitchen to make some tea. The Hall was deadly quiet, the film crew long since having wrapped up for the night. Lucasta had barely left her room, so intent was she on communing with the other side for help, and Daisy had disappeared all day. Rubbing the back of her aching neck with her hand, she switched on Mrs Flanagan’s TV set. Anything to distract her from thoughts of what the next day would bring. It was Channel Seven, just coming to the end of the nightly news report.
‘And finally on to showbiz news. In what must surely qualify as the wedding of the year, today in Dublin’s Pro-Cathedral the Irish supermodel Edwina Moynihan walked down the aisle . . .’ Portia stood rooted to the spot as the camera clearly showed a radiant Edwina gracefully stepping out of a vintage Rolls-Royce followed by the two most unfortunate-looking bridesmaids ever seen. The camera even caught one of them picking her nose. The bride smacked her across the wrist before waving to onlookers and lightly skipping up the cathedral steps.
Portia could take no more. She switched off the TV and slumped down into Mrs Flanagan’s tatty old armchair.
Once the tears started flowing, she thought they’d never stop.
Chapter Thirty-One
THE MORNING OF the auction dawned bright and clear, much to Lucasta’s disgust. She’d been up since six that morning chanting for rain in the vain hope that torrents of water gushing through the ceiling would put off prospective buyers. Over breakfast that morning, Portia reminded her for the thousandth time that the Hall would be sold whether they liked it or not, but, as usual, she was wasting her breath.
‘No negativity around me today, sweetie,’ Lucasta said, going upstairs to get dressed. ‘You must trust me. I’ve been communing with the other side all week, you know, and they tell me everything’s going to work out beautifully. And I’ve been chanting for a happy outcome too and we all know how powerful my chanting is.’
Daisy was agitated and nervous too, constantly looking at her watch and then asking Portia what time it was two seconds later. Between them, they had decided the auction would best be held in the Long Gallery. Eamonn Cassidy had told them to expect a large turnout and the Gallery was easily the biggest room in the Hall. The auction was to take place at midday and they both spent the morning arranging row after row of chairs to seat everyone, making the room look a bit like a parish hall on bingo night.
Jimmy D. had been most understanding and had kindly offered to suspend filming for the morning, until it was all over and he could have the run of the house again. Even Montana had sent a message of support from her room. I can’t watch, her note had said, but my thoughts are with you guys! I just wish this movie was paying me enough to buy the Hall and give it back to you as a gift.
‘She meant well,’ Portia said on seeing Daisy’s eyes well up with tears.
‘I know, I know,’ Daisy answered, glancing around the empty Long Gallery as though for the last time. ‘It’s just that, well, this is it, isn’t it? This is really it.’
Lucasta’s behaviour was nothing short of appalling. From as early as eleven a.m., buyers had started to throng the Hall, and the Long Gallery was soon bursting at the seams. She took it on herself to introduce herself to everyone and to inform them that the Hall was cursed.
‘Let the buyer beware!’ she said melodramatically, tossing her matted hair over her shoulders and clutching Gnasher, her favourite cat, tightly to her. ‘He who usurps the family from their ancestral home will be cursed for generations to come. No good will ever come to the occupant of Davenport Hall, you only have to look at my daughters to see that, barren spinsters the pair of them.’
No sooner had Portia steered her away from one group of potential buyers than she was over to another. ‘Well, I just hope you don’t
mind living with ectoplasmic manifestations from the other side because that’s what you’re in for. Your children might very well become possessed. Have none of you people seen The Exorcist?’
Then poor Billy Toner arrived, looking as conspicuous as ever in his trademark sunglasses, and she landed on him like a ton of bricks.
‘How can you even consider turning us out of our ancestral home? We are the last of the noble line of Davenports. Apart from the one in jail.’ She wasn’t kidding. Their cousin Mad Jasper Davenport was currently doing a twenty-year stretch in Portlaoise maximum security prison for staging an animal rights protest. (Unfortunately, his protest was to shoot dead two farmers for speaking rudely to battery hens, as he subsequently testified in court.) He did say, however, that being in jail was like staying in a five-star hotel compared with Davenport Hall.
‘You know, man, I felt really vibed out about that, so you can all crash in the gate lodge for as long as you want, man,’ replied Billy, ‘providing I get the Hall.’
Eventually, Eamonn Cassidy took his place at the end of the Gallery and tried to call everyone to order. Portia was at the back of the room glancing around to see if there was anywhere for her to sit when she saw Daisy waving to her like a lunatic from the front row. ‘We’re up here!’ she called out and Portia gratefully made her way to the far end of the Gallery. There must be five hundred people here, she thought, never having seen the room so packed. Billy Toner sat down in the second row, clutching a rolled-up copy of the auctioneer’s brochure. Chasing Moonbeams sat across from him, clad in white robes and surrounded by three women, all very young and very beautiful, and all smelling strongly of incense. There were also two very tall, handsome men, dressed in snappy black suits, standing right beside Eamonn. Portia correctly guessed that they were from the Criminal Assets Bureau, given Shamie Nolan’s involvement in the sale. However, this didn’t prevent a rumour from sweeping through the room that they were members of the Al Maktoum family who wanted to buy the Hall and turn it into a stud farm. (‘Well, at least they might cut the grass,’ she overheard one wag commenting.)
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