by Des Sheridan
‘Of course, Pascal, as you wish. But first we need to discuss Stephanie’s grave. The cemetery reported an incidence of vandalism resulting in minor damage to your mother’s gravestone. The glass on her inset picture has been broken and some of the words of remembrance defaced. You know the ones you chose? We need to agree what to do.’
Pascal’s hackles rose precipitately. Mention of his mother’s name took them into dangerous territory. They had a tacit agreement not to discuss her since it invariably led to volcanic exchanges. Hearing Evrard mention her name rekindled Pascal’s loathing of his father. He had hated Evrard with Oedipal intensity for years, blaming him for her demise and death. But despite the intensity of his emotion, Pascal’s brain was still working and sensed danger. His father could have sent an e-mail; he was deliberately probing. Pascal needed to find out why.
Taking a long, slow breath, Pascal delayed answering for a moment.
‘I suggest that a straightforward repair that replicates the original is best. Don’t you think? No need to dwell on the past.’
He looked up as he spoke and saw that Evrard was watching him keenly.
‘Absolutely, I just thought it best to check it out, that’s all. You know how I like to know how things stand.’
Pascal, anger rising in him, forced himself to master his feelings and focus on his trump card; his own source of power. His greatest pleasure was the knowledge that his father had never discovered his and Stephanie’s greatest secret - that they had been lovers. That Pascal had replaced him in his mother’s bed because she knew he was the better man. One day I will spit this out at you over your grave, thought Pascal, or better still during your last moments on earth when you are helpless on your death bed and I can be sure you won’t disinherit me.
This thought went to the heart of the matter: the inheritance. For four years after Stephanie’s death Pascal had scarcely spoken to his father. Eventually Evrard had openly threatened to disinherit him and the threat had worked. Pascal fell back into line. The inheritance was his birth right and he was damned if he would give Evrard the chance to deprive him of it, especially after what he and his mother had experienced at the cold-hearted bastard’s hands.
‘OK, let’s get down to business. As you know I want you to play a more substantial role in the business. I sense you are ready at last. To kick off I want to talk you through five aspects of the current business priorities so you understand the nuances. Go on, have a coffee and relax. I promise it will be over by lunchtime. This is for your own good, believe me.’
As his father uttered these words Pascal realised why Evrard had broken the taboo by mentioning Stephanie. It was a test to see if Pascal could, after all the years, master his rage. And he had passed. Evrard must have some important business to share with him, to trust him with. Pascal smiled inwardly at his father’s way of testing him, realising how little the man understood him. His father thought that Pascal had again bent the knee to him. He didn’t realise that Pascal was one step ahead of him. As Pascal saw it he combined both his mother’s passionate nature with his father’s analytical skills. It was a winning combination. In the long run this was why he would outfox Evrard and then he, Pascal, would come out on top.
Chapter 35
Fermoy, Ireland, 21 June 1649
After leaving Ormond Castle, it took two days to travel the forty or so miles to their destination. They rode on horseback, wearing plain clothing, and William was grateful for the escort of ten of the Bishop’s finest soldiers. The times were unsettled and soldiers, merchants and displaced persons might be encountered on the road, not to mention marauding parties of raparees, as the local brigands were called. The weather was fair and they made good time, covering over twenty miles before resting overnight at a priory near Clogheen, on the northern flank of the Knockmealdown Mountains.
The second day it rained lightly, but as they passed Fermoy the clouds thinned and cleared. As they approached their destination, the evening light began to fade and stars emerged in the sky overhead. The party moved downhill, from the low ridge they had been following, onto fertile lowland with open grassland and clumps of woodland. It was good to see intact woodland for a change. They had passed several felled woods, a sign of the times and the mark of new settlers eager to strip the land of its assets in the pursuit of wealth. Any wolves would have moved on, thought William, seeking new cover.
Proceeding into an area of open woodland, they caught their first glimpse of their destination, Labbacallee, the largest ancient stone monument in Munster. An avenue of standing stones ushered them towards a great stone edifice. The party tethered their horses some distance from the stones and set the animals happily to feed on hay, their day’s work done. The Archbishop posted soldiers, on horseback, at sentry points which formed a perimeter around the site, at a distance of about half a mile. This meant they were close in the event of trouble, but far enough distant not to be party to what would take place. Their instructions were to see off any comers at all cost. Two senior and trusted soldiers stayed close to the Archbishop.
As darkness fell the moon and constellations bathed the site in a pale light, and William felt a sense of growing unease. They were standing in a large, unroofed, antechamber and facing them was a giant slab, behind which lay the main stone-built structure. The two soldiers took up post here while the others, passing to the side of the portal slab, entered the tomb. They found themselves in a large rectangular roofed chamber that in turn led to a smaller inner sanctum. Above their head three enormous capstones slanted downwards and backwards to the end of the gallery.
William felt an uncanny, brooding silence in the place and shivered. The howl of a wolf nearby broke the dead air but offered no comfort. Short and high-pitched, it was the call of a pup separated from the pack. Soon deeper, longer calls responded from further away. It seemed to William as though the pup was summoning them to come and witness these uninvited visitors to this temple of rocks. He could imagine them arriving, long tongues hanging out, their eyes red, teeth bared, watchful in the dark, waiting for their chance to pounce. And apart from their hunger, he sensed they might be driven by hatred of heathens, for such, to his shame, was what he felt like in this ancient place - this pagan temple.
Chapter 36
Sligo, Ireland, 16 September 2014
At lunchtime they were speculating on the comparison with Newgrange when the doorbell rang. On the step stood a casually dressed but determined young man who introduced himself as a reporter from the Sligo Herald, and asked if it was true that an ancient tomb had been discovered on their land. Realising that the cat was out of the bag, Brian gamely agreed for Neil to show the reporter the entrance to the chamber, but nothing more, citing health and safety concerns. A small group set off, with Jack in tow as the reporter wanted a picture of the dog beside the hole where it had all started.
As soon as the reporter left, Brian pulled Tara aside into the study and closed the door. It had wood panelled walls, leather arm chairs and a frayed Persian carpet; very much a man’s room. A large wooden desk and chair sat in the window bay, facing into the room.
‘This is not good,’ he said, over his shoulder as he looked out the window to check that the reporter had really gone. He moved towards the drinks cabinet.
‘I had reckoned on us taking this in our stride, and breaking the news at a time that suited us, but it’s obvious that one of Shay’s friends has blabbed to the Herald. Patrick is right, this is a major find and even a philistine like me can see that the artwork is outstanding and, what’s more, there is something odd about it. At Carrowkeel and Creevykeel you hardly find a carving, but here it’s like bloody Lascaux and its cave paintings. We are going to be inundated with reporters, sightseers and souvenir collectors. Just look what they have done up on the ridge in the last thirty years. Those tombs used to be dressed in quartz but now you can hardly find a piece up there. Believe me, peace and quiet are going to be pretty scarce around here.’
He looked
at Tara, his eyes peering anxiously at her over the top of his glasses. She caught his meaning.
‘Don’t worry, Dad, I will keep a low profile and I will be fine. To be honest, distractions help.’
‘It’s none of my business, I know, but is that what Shay is?’
She paused and then said, ‘Yes. Shay is a ...mistake.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’ll deal with it.’
‘Good, OK. Let’s see what sense we can make of this,’ he said, throwing himself into his favourite armchair. They quickly brainstormed what to do. Firstly, they needed to get support fast. Brian dialled the National Museum a second time and explained that the news had leaked. The Director didn’t hesitate. A team of archaeologists would be assembled and depart for Sligo that afternoon. He also advised that they would need some security. The thicket of the wood would provide some protection, but the law of trespass was no deterrent when a good story was in the air. A police presence was called for. As soon as he put the phone down, Brian dialled the Gardaí, the Irish Police, in Sligo and, calling in an old favour, got two policemen assigned to the task. They would come tomorrow, one to guard the lane to the house and the other the site.
Tara, realising that the house was going to be busy for the immediate future, recognised that Mrs Ryan would need her orders. Visitors meant rations so a shopping expedition was called for, as was an airing of the spare bedrooms. Brian, testing to see if she might broaden her role, suggested that Tara manage the publicity but the prospect visibly alarmed her.
‘No, Dad, not a good idea. Sorry, but I am not ready yet for something like that yet. No way!’
Brian reflected on how hard his daughter was to read sometimes. She had about her a natural poise that signalled all was well even when, as in this instance, it apparently wasn’t the case. He just knew that she would knock the press dead. Disappointed, he had no option but to accept her decision and instead provide the public face of Rosnaree in dealings with the press and media himself. He made a brave face of it.
‘You know, I think I’m going to enjoy this.’ he proclaimed, downing a second glass of whisky.
Chapter 37
Brussels, Belgium, 16 August 2014
Evrard took Pascal methodically through the topics one by one, in priority order, prefacing each with a masterful précis that demonstrated the nature of their company’s interest, its market niche and profitability projections. The most profitable units in the Waverloo Group of companies were manufacturing companies specialising in chemicals, pharmaceuticals and electronics. Infrastructure development was a respectable fourth with energy generation, which they had yet to discuss, coming in fifth position and accounting for less than ten per cent of activity. For the most part Pascal had listened but his intelligent and pertinent questions reassured Evrard that his son had inherited his business acumen.
‘I am not getting younger Pascal. That is why I think you should play a more prominent role.’
‘You could live into your nineties, pater. Look at the world of high finance. There are many magnates in their eighties who show no sign of slowing down. You could do the same.’
‘Perhaps but I don’t want to. At some point I will want to step aside and we cannot be complacent. Family hegemony is dying out in the business world. You can’t take it for granted, Pascal. If you want your cake you will need to help bake it.’
He half expected an angry outburst, but his son simply nodded his head in apparent agreement. He had never known Pascal to be so reasonable.
‘Tell me about energy,’ Pascal requested.
Evrard trotted out his summary. In essence Waverloo’s engagement was conservative and short-term, investment decisions being led tightly by government subsidy rates. Trading carbon credits also accounted for a small but increasing part of the business, and might in time outrank the energy sector in importance.
Pascal posed a number of questions but, unlike the case for the other sectors, he seemed dissatisfied with the answers.
‘I can’t help thinking you are missing a trick here. To my mind these industries should be the big growth sector for the future. Or rather should be seen as components of a much wider climate change sector.’
‘But, Pascal, that is just the problem. The climate change debate is highly ideological. Until the argument over greenhouse gas emissions is resolved scientifically it is too political an arena - far too uncertain to attract serious business investment.’
But Pascal was not to be put off.
‘I don’t see why at all. They are wasting time arguing about causation. Hardly anyone argues about climate change itself. It would be silly to. It is an oxymoron! Climate change has always been a reality. We have lived with it for centuries.’
‘Well, perhaps, but significant climate change, accelerated climate change, is new and it is just a hypothesis.’
‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Pascal, who seemed to have turned into a lecturer. ‘Think of the Little Ice Age. It lasted from the fourteenth to nineteenth centuries. It started when the pack ice began to grow in the Atlantic in the thirteenth century. By the fifteenth century thriving Norse settlements in Greenland were abandoned as the glaciers expanded and winters became unendurable. Think of the paintings of Bruegel the Elder here in the Royal museum, or Avercamp’s in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. All those Dutch winter scenes from the sixteen hundreds are snowscapes! You have stood there yourself and looked at them. This is not fantasy. It is scientifically provable fact. Our ancestors lived through significant changes in climate.’
Evrard was listening intently but was not convinced. However, neither did he want to directly contradict his son.
‘I take your point, Pascal, but that is not what people are talking about now. They are talking about major change on a scale we know nothing about. They are taking about gross change of five degrees in a century. If it happens, and it is a big if, it would be unprecedented!’
‘That is not correct.’ Pascal would not be stopped. ‘Ice cores in the Greenland Ice Caps record an abrupt warming of up to ten degrees over a few years at the end of the Younger Dryas.’
‘What on earth is the Younger Dryas?’ Evrard felt increasingly impatient.
‘The Younger Dryas was a short-lived big freeze, named after a type of alpine flower. It lasted about 1400 years, and took place about 13,000 years ago. pater, it happened when man had been about for hundreds of thousands of years. Scientists think that it was linked to changes in the North Atlantic weather system, much as we saw with the cold winter of 2012. And there are other examples known as well. This stuff is not science fiction, it is science fact.’
Evrard had never heard Pascal speak with such authority before except when talking about his hobbyhorse, the world of the ancient Celts. He was quite taken aback. He could not recall such a sustained discussion with his son, except when they had argued in the past over his mother.
‘How is it that you have come across this information, Pascal? You seem to know a lot about it.’
Pascal seemed to hesitate, as if unsure of what to say. ‘Well, you will have to bear with me. Answering that takes us into territory you are not comfortable with.’
Evrard instantly suspected that Pascal was going to indulge in his old ludicrous mania for matters mythological and magical. But he contained himself, merely waving his hands.
Pascal took this as a signal to continue.
‘I am a proponent of Celtic Reconstructionism. The philosophy of this is to see what scientific information, such that used in archaeological methodology and records, can tell us about the Celts and indeed their predecessors, the megalithic cultures. It is a counterpoint to what you would call the mumbo jumbo of folklore. Anyhow, a key scientific source in this area is climatic records. Lake sediments are a good source but the most complete record comes from the Greenland and Antarctic ice sheets. I am familiar with this stuff as I am interested in how the environment changed for ancient peoples during and after the Ice Age, which ended about fifteen thousand years ag
o.’
‘And how do you see this relating to future business opportunities?’ Evrard asked doubtfully. He was not accustomed to being trumped in a discussion with Pascal. But his son did seem to know what he was talking about.
‘Well, if major change is coming, and it looks as though it is, the world will have to adapt by making enormous changes to how industry and societies operate. How we obtain energy - how we look after water resources - how we grow our food and lots more. I can’t think of a more important business opportunity. Can you?’
Evrard drew breath, astonished and unexpectedly satisfied by his son’s inherited acumen. He chose his words with care.
‘When you put it like that, no, I don’t think I can. But it is a very different mind-set from that we currently employ within Waverloo. Much longer term, visionary even.’
‘Yes, quite so. It is called the future.’
The two men looked at each other. Evrard was delighted at the turn the conversation had unexpectedly taken and he could see that Pascal looked satisfied as well. For the first time in years there was something important that they could agree upon; that they might even work on together. Evrard still considered his son to be contaminated by his mother’s feyness of mind but nonetheless today’s conversation was a meeting of minds. A marriage of purpose even, however limited in scope; but a marriage nonetheless.
Chapter 38
Fermoy, Ireland, 21 June 1649
As midnight drew near the Archbishop, with help from Lally, opened the wooden box they had brought strapped to the side of one of the spare steeds. Out came various objects which had been wrapped carefully in heavy outer woollen cloths and inner wrappings made of finest linen. By the light of brush torches, fixed by the soldiers in slots in the wall, William saw them take out various metallic parts and assemble the Triskell.