by Jon Cleary
Brigid was cool. “Thank you, Jonathan. But we’re keeping it as quiet as possible, if you don’t mind. She’s a nun, she doesn’t want to be bothered by the Hourigan name.”
“Of course not. It must be nice to have her so close to you again.”
He told Fiona and she, being a society hostess, which meant not missing the opportunity to examine any newcomer with the proper connections, even if she was a nun, suggested a dinner party for the Hourigans.
“You must be out of your head!” said Tewsday, though the idea intrigued him. “Nuns don’t go to dinner parties, do they? And Fingal would never come. Neither would Brigid, for that matter.”
“Leave it to me,” said Fiona. “It’s time I met Brigid. I’m told you once had a yen for her.”
“Who told you that?”
“I heard it at the bottom of a football scrum.” She had never forgotten her All Black heritage. Her approach to her society hostess competitors was said to be as rugged as that of her rugby compatriots.
Tewsday never learned how she did it, but she brought the three Hourigans to dinner at the house in Pymble. Twelve sat down at the table, all well mixed: the Tewsdays, the Hourigans, a politician, a businessman, a lawyer and their respective wives and a young gallery owner looking for buyers. The two older Hourigans, father and daughter, were quiet, as if uncomfortable with each other’s company as with that of the other guests. Only the granddaughter, the nun whom everyone expected to be mum, was voluble and gay.
“I was teaching some girls in Year Twelve the other day and I mentioned adultery. What’s adultery? said one of them. Some sort of kinky sex, said another one of them. I’m not even sure they were pulling my leg. The kids of today are way out, I can’t keep up with them.”
“I suppose it’s much different in Nicaragua?” said Fiona.
“Where is it?” said the businessman’s wife, brain as feathery as her teased-out hair. “I keep seeing it in the headlines, but I’ve never tried to find it on the map.”
Mary Magdalene stopped being gay, gave her a withering look. “Oh, it’s on the map, all right. I’d like to come and talk to you some time about it, Grandpa.”
Grandpa Fingal took a moment to recover from being so addressed. “You should talk to your uncle, the Archbishop. He knows more about that part of the world than I do.”
“Oh, I have talked to him,” said Mary Magdalene, and Brigid, sitting beside her, looked at her sharply. “I want to talk to lots of people about Nicaragua, now I’m here in Sydney.”
“We have our own problems, my dear,” said the politician, whose party was not in power and didn’t look like winning it.
“I’d love to go there,” said the gallery owner. “I just adore Aztec art. It’s so knowing.” Whatever that meant.
“I tried to talk Mother into coming there to paint.”
“We’ll go there together!” exclaimed the gallery owner.
“I’d love that,” said Brigid without enthusiasm.
Fingal contributed little to the dinner conversation, but at least he succeeded in not being ungracious. He was fascinated by his granddaughter, still finding it hard to believe that his blood ran in her veins. His mother, whom he had not thought of in a long time, would have been in a fit of religious ecstasy: a grandson an archbishop and a great-granddaughter a nun. He was covertly gazing at the young nun, looking for signs of himself in her, a hopeless search, when Fiona touched his arm. “Fingal?”
He blinked, then looked at her. “Eh?”
“You seemed miles away.”
“I was.” He had always tolerated Fiona, neither liking nor disliking her. Sometimes he wondered what she had ever seen in her husband. “I’m just getting used to the idea of having a grandchild. It’s a shock to a man of my age.”
“I’m looking forward to having mine, when my daughters get around to it. I like the idea of the continuum of the family—I’ve traced my own family back three hundred and fifty years in Scotland. The present and the past, the now and the then, they are always connected, don’t you think?”
“The now and the then,” he repeated. “Yes, I guess you’re right. Which do you prefer?”
“Oh, the now,” she said. “The present. At least we know that, don’t we?”
“I guess so.” But he had an old man’s memory and the past was clearer for him than it was for her.
At the other end of the table Tewsday had been studying Sister Mary Magdalene. He could see something of Brigid in her; they were both iconoclasts; the young nun had already made some joking remarks about Big Business, though she had been polite enough to make out she was referring to the Americans. There was something in her, however, that suggested something more passionate in her beliefs than Brigid had ever shown. He had the feeling that Sister Mary Magdalene, for all of her mother’s statement that she wanted to be divorced from the Hourigan name, would some day look for publicity for whatever causes she adopted.
When dinner was over and the guests were leaving, Fingal offered his granddaughter a lift back to her convent in Rand-wick, but Brigid intervened. “She’s coming home with me, Dad. She has the weekend off.”
He was disappointed, but didn’t show it. “Well, come and see me some time, Teresa.”
“Oh, I’ll do that, Grandpa. I want you on my side.”
He looked at Brigid, who had never been on his side; then back at his granddaughter. “What side is that?”
“I’ll tell you when I come to visit you.”
But she did not come to the castle in Vaucluse till Kerry arrived home unexpectedly with the two Nicaraguans, Paredes and Domecq. Fingal had already had hints of what was expected of him in the way of financial support; he had looked at his fortune and knew the money wouldn’t be missed. He was just unprepared for the sudden arrival of Kerry and the two Nicaraguans and the speed with which they wanted the arms deal done.
It was the day after Kerry’s return that Teresa (Fingal could not bring himself to call her Mary Magdalene or even Mary) came to Vaucluse. For the first time Fingal saw the passion in her when she confronted her uncle; she was even more of a zealot than he because she had no control over her temper. There was a stand-up fight in the big drawing-room, a substitute set for the Nicaraguan mountains; she hurled threats and insults at Kerry and he responded with heated rage. Fingal suddenly turned against his granddaughter; she was his daughter’s daughter and more. The threats, he saw, were a real danger: she could throw Kerry’s progress right off the rails. She knew too much and she would use that knowledge in her cause. It didn’t matter whether she was a Marxist or not, he had no time for labels; she was a threat to Kerry and that was enough. So Fingal turned against her and, as always when opposed, became implacable.
He was sitting in his office next day, a Friday, his mind still stewing with yesterday’s fight, when Tewsday, unannounced, walked in. “I think we’d better have a talk, Fingal.”
Fingal stared at him a moment, then he pressed the button on his intercom. “We’re not to be interrupted. No calls, nothing.” Then he settled back in his high-backed chair. “Shoot.”
“An appropriate word,” said Tewsday, who had never been noted for his humour, “in the circumstances. Austarm, where we make things that shoot.”
“Don’t be a comic, Jonathan. What’s biting you?”
“This deal that Kerry is trying to put through with his Nicaraguan mates. You’re out of your head, Fingal, if you think the board will let you get away with that. Not to mention what Canberra will say.”
“Who told you about the deal?”
“It doesn’t matter who told me.” It had been the managing director of Austarm, a man stunned by the size of the foreign orders. So many Australians, Tewsday knew from experience, were frightened by bigness. “I know.”
“It’s none of your business. Ballyduff won’t be paying for the arms. It’s a deal between Austarm and the Saudis.”
“Oh, come off it! The Saudis have nothing to do with it. Jesus, Fingal, what
’s the matter with you? Has Kerry got you wrapped round his little finger with all that anti-Communism stuff he’s been peddling? Is he running for Pope or something?” It was a random remark, but Tewsday saw at once that there was a target he had never suspected. The discovery stopped him in his tracks for a moment; he was not religious, but he had just been confronted with a vision. “Good Christ! He’s really thinking about that, isn’t he?”
“You’re the one who’s out of his head,” said Fingal, wondering how much had shown in his face; nothing showed now but cold hatred of this man across the desk from him. “Go on.”
Tewsday sat a moment, heady with his discovery. He had no idea how the Catholic Church worked; he was a money man and he assumed that money, as in every other field, could buy position in the Church. If the price was right . . . And Kerry, more than any other cleric in the world, would have the cash behind him. He could see now why Fingal was taking risks that he would never have otherwise contemplated.
“Your secret’s safe with me, Fingal.” He all at once felt confident, in control here in this office that, some day soon, would be his. “It doesn’t concern me. But Ballyduff’s name does. If this gets out, have you thought about what will go down the drain? We are up for renewal of our mining leases in Western Australia—the State Government there would be glad to kick us out and give the leases to their local boys. We’re just about to sign that Federal ship-building contract for our yards in South Australia—280 million dollars’ worth. Canberra would cancel that without a moment’s notice. For Christ’s sake, Fingal, you’re going to walk all over the people we have to cultivate—and for what? So your son can give arms to a bunch of right-wing nuts in some Central American jungle!”
“I always thought you were a right-wing nut. You bent your knee every time you mentioned that nut up in Queensland.”
“That’s in my own country. And I wasn’t supplying him with arms, busting up Ballyduff’s contracts to do it! It’s not on, Fingal. I’m seeing Bob Borsolino when he gets back from Melbourne and we’ll call a board meeting for Monday afternoon. You’re not going to take Ballyduff down the gurgler because your son has some crazy idea about being Pope!”
“Sit down, Jonathan.” Tewsday had risen, but he sat down again as Fingal waved a stiff hand at him. “First, you’re wrong about the Pope bit—you just don’t know how the system works. If Kerry wants to be Pope, that’s his ambition, not mine.”
“You’re a liar, Fingal—I saw it in your face when I first mentioned it.”
“You’re wearing out your welcome,” said Fingal softly. Tewsday found himself leaning across the desk to hear him.
“Second, I run this corporation, not you, not Borsolino and not the board. Third, you’re finished!”
“Finished?”
Fingal nodded. He could not have imagined that he would enjoy this moment so much; but there was no outward sign of his enjoyment. His voice was still soft, but every word had a hard edge to it. “You can go back downstairs and write out your resignation. Say anything you like, so long as you say it in two lines.” He sat back, raised his voice a little. “I’ve already worked out your golden handshake. I’ll have Miss Stevens type it out and it’ll be on your desk in ten minutes.”
Tewsday was still leaning across the desk, but now he needed its support under his stiff arms. “You really are out of your head! You think I’m going to resign? Just because you’ve told me to? I’m not the office boy, Hourigan—I’m the joint managing director! I’m lined up to be executive chairman when we finally push you out of here!”
“You couldn’t be more wrong, Jonathan. It was never on the cards that you’d sit in this chair . . .” He had had power for years, but he had never felt as powerful as at this moment. He wondered if Capone had felt like this when he had ordered Moran and the others eliminated. Holding a man’s fate in your hands was the ultimate power, he told himself. But, as Tewsday had said, he was out of his head, though he would never have admitted to any madness.
“You’ll have to fire me! You’ll have to get the board to back you—and that’ll never happen! You’ll be the one to go!”
Fingal shook his head. “You’re being stupid, Jonathan. You know who has the voting stock. I’ve got it—and it doesn’t matter a bugger what the board says or does. Goodbye, Jonathan. Try and say it all in two lines.”
He swung his chair round and faced the window. When he turned back a minute later Tewsday had gone. Then the reaction set in. What if Tewsday went downstairs and called a press conference, brought everything out into the open? A vindictive man knows what another vindictive man can do.
All at once he felt the vertigo that can affect old men. Here on the sixty-ninth floor, at the top of this most tangible monument to himself, he suddenly felt Ballyduff House begin to tremble beneath him.
IV
Tewsday did not call a press conference. His rage almost blinded him; but not quite. Ballyduff had to be saved, not destroyed; which was what Fingal was going to do. He didn’t write out his resignation; how can one resign in two lines after thirty-three years? Kings could, perhaps; but not he. He would spend the weekend marshalling his forces.
He went to bed that Friday night with his mind in turmoil. He and Fiona now slept in separate rooms; occasionally they met for love-making, like a senior citizens’ wing-ding. He could not have slept beside her that night; he was an open book to her and she would have read every page of him. He tossed and turned all night, his rage increasing. All the years of enmity turned him mad, though, like the other madman, he did not recognize the madness.
In the morning Fiona, their daughters and Sally Gawler left for the Bowral property for the weekend. “Will you be down this evening?” Fiona said.
“No. I’ve got too much to do.”
“Are you all right? You look as if you’ve spent the whole night at the bottom of a ruck.”
Christ, why did she have to drag up these bloody rugby similes? “I’m all right. Get on your way or you’ll be caught up in the traffic.”
She and the girls and Sally Gawler drove off in the BMW. He stood for a moment, abruptly lost; Fiona, for all their disagreements and the growing distance between them, was his only support. Maybe he should have confided in her . . .
“I don’t think I’ll wash the car, sir.” He became aware of Gawler standing in the driveway between the house and the garages. “It’s going to rain. Will you be needing me today?”
“I’m not sure, Gary. Stay around.”
He went back inside, tried to phone Bob Borsolino at his hotel in Melbourne and missed him. He did not want to contact the other board members until he had talked to Borsolino. He spent the rest of the day planning his attack at Monday’s board meeting. By Monday evening Fingal would be cut out and he would be executive chairman. Tomorrow he would go down to Pittwater and woo Brigid. Hers would be the deciding voting stock.
He did not believe in fate; yet it was fate, he appreciated, that brought the phone call from Fingal’s granddaughter that Saturday afternoon. “Sir Jonathan, may I come to see you? It’s important.”
“What’s it about?” His voice was sharp. Had her grandfather arranged this, was this some cunning ploy on Fingal’s part?
“It’s about a company called Austarm, one of my grandfather’s subsidiaries.”
“Does he know you’re calling me?”
“Heavens, no! Don’t mention it to him—he’d kill me! Please, Sir Jonathan, let me see you—it’s important! I can come to your house this afternoon—”
“No!” He had never felt like this before, his nerves worn ragged. Well, yes, he had: the night the junkie had threatened to kill him. But this was worse: his whole life was threatening to crash down around him, yet he would still be alive. “I’ll—wait a minute. You’ve caught me by surprise. Come—can you come at eight o’clock this evening?”
“That’s later than I’d like—”
“Eight o’clock,” he said firmly. “Do you know how to get here?”
“Sir Jonathan, I found my way around the mountains of Nicaragua for two years. I don’t think I’m likely to get lost in Pymble.”
She arrived on time. She was wearing a grey raincoat against the rain that had started to fall in mid-afternoon; only a sharp-eyed observer would have noticed her as a nun. Tewsday, always a man with an eye for what other people wore, thought she looked smart and not too obvious. Nuns were not regular visitors to this house.
“Does anyone know you’ve come to see me?”
She gave him a quizzical look, one of her grandfather’s. “Does it matter? No, Sir Jonathan, nobody knows. At the convent they think I’ve gone to stay with—with a friend.”
“Have you had dinner?” He was ambivalent towards her: he wanted to be rid of her as soon as possible, yet he wanted to know more about her. She was the only Hourigan towards whom he had no antagonism.
“Yes, I had supper before I left.”
“I hope they feed you well at the convent?”
“Bread and water.” She smiled, but he could see that she was nervous and highly strung.
He took her into his library. Gawler, playing houseman for the evening, brought them drinks: a Scotch for Tewsday, vodka on the rocks for Mary Magdalene. “I need a little strength,” she said when she ordered it. “I’m trying to be Joan of Arc or something and it’s a little scary.”
He had only a smattering of knowledge of European history, but he had seen the movie. “Didn’t she take on the archbishops?”
“Oh, she took on everyone. I’m not going to do that. Though I’m taking on one archbishop.”
“I shouldn’t imagine you’d be scared of anything,” said Tewsday. “Not if you’ve been in Nicaragua amongst all that’s going on there. Pymble is considered pretty safe. Even for socialists,” he added tentatively and she smiled, humouring him.
She sipped her vodka: a Russian drink, Tewsday noted. But then it was also the favourite drink of Fiona, a Presbyterian and female All Black. “I think you should know about Austarm and what my Uncle Kerry and those two Contra men are trying to do . . .”