The Monsignor stood by the fireplace. Mrs Fitzgerald, the enigmatic mistress of the so-called Seahorse Hotel on the sofa with Bernice. Fenella’s mother, Ursula, was serving tea. She held the cake slice aloft, unsure whether to hurl it at the couple who had just entered the room or plunge it deep into her own chest. Perhaps she would just die of shame right there and then; that would be by far the easiest, most convenient outcome.
The elegant man in black put his cup down and walked towards the stricken pair.
“Have you anything to say in your defence?”
His eyes were bright with emotion as the Monsignor descended upon them.
He found his voice. “If we’ve done anything wrong, I’m the one to blame. She’s innocent.”
The Monsignor raised an eyebrow. “We’ve been watching you both, she’s far from innocent.” His eyes lingered fleetingly on the girl’s bare legs. “Go and get dressed, we’ll deal with this back on the island.”
“Deal with what?” She lifted her chin to challenge flinty eyes.
“This highly distasteful incident,” the Monsignor replied, evenly.
“This incident, as you call it, is none of your damn business!” She swore to shock him, pompous prig.
“Now, now.” Mrs Fitzgerald crossed the room. “Come, have some tea. You can tell me all about it in your own time.”
“But it’s not what you think … it’s not …” she cried.
“Don’t deny it,” the young man said, softly. “Don’t deny us.”
Mrs Fitzgerald took her arm but she was holding his hand, holding on as tightly as she could, as if she knew, if she let go he would be gone forever.
“Get your things,” the Monsignor told him. “We’re leaving.”
The young man released her, looking into her face, laughing eyes turned to stone.
“It’ll be alright,” he assured her.
“It will be far from alright,” his superior said sharply. “Go, I can’t bear to look at you a minute longer.”
His touch scorched her shoulder as he left, she pressed the heat with her hand trying to hold it in. Mrs Fitzgerald led her to the couch.
The elegant priest started to pace, heels ricocheting off the polished floor. The young man reappeared at the library door. He was wearing the chambray shirt, open at the neck, her gift of love beads, turquoise and silver glowing on his tanned skin.
“I’ll send my report,” the Monsignor said.
“Your report?” Ursula asked, confused.
“I cannot emphasise enough how serious this is, Madam. This young man’s life could be ruined. His vocation snatched away because of a moment’s weakness. He may have committed a criminal offence for all we know.”
“Ah, Sylvester,” Mrs Fitzgerald protested. “They’re young people in love, can’t you see that?”
The man glared at his hostess. “His moral welfare is my responsibility. Would you took your duty of care as seriously!”
He strode into the hallway, pushing the young man ahead of him. Mrs Fitzgerald followed.
“Sylvester, you’re being over-zealous. Playful fun is all it is.” Mrs Fitzgerald kept her tone light. She wanted them to dine together, broker peace.
“This place doesn’t change, Madam, I can see that much,” he threw back.
“We have no reason to change.” Mrs Fitzgerald folded her arms. “This has always been a safe house, you of all people should know that.”
He had been captured during the war, The Seahorse Hotel providing sanctuary after his escape from a Nazi concentration camp.
A pillowcase stuffed with linen stood at the door, the Monsignor bent to pick it up.
“Leave that,” Mrs Fitzgerald ordered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Leave it.” She pointed at the pillowcase. “Still have spies everywhere, I see.” Somewhere a door closed. “You can’t force him to become a priest if he doesn’t want to.”
“Temptation goes with the territory,” the Monsignor smiled grimly, looking directly at her. “He’ll confess, ask for forgiveness.”
“Beg, more like.” She knew what she was talking about.
“Just doing my job.” The Monsignor placed the black fedora firmly on his head and giving a brief bow, left.
That very day they had made their plan to escape. Under cover of darkness he would take a boat, send signal and she would know to steal out to the jetty and meet him. There was a safe bay close by, they would come onto the mainland there, head for the city and disappear.
Her face was pressed against the glass, watching them leave.
“Why the linen?” she whispered as the car swept away.
“Evidence, I suppose.” Mrs Fitzgerald glanced sadly at the portraits looking down from the gallery.
Unseen hands had stripped her bed, she felt suddenly sick. The older woman locked the door and took her back to the library. She had started to weep, a stuttering sob, like hiccups. Her mother was lighting the fire; even in summer the house grew quickly cold come the evening.
“A holiday romance, hardly the end of the world.” Mrs Fitzgerald told Ursula.
Fenella’s insides had twisted into a ball. She would not give him up, they were in love, meant to be together; she would never, ever give him up. And then a tiny sliver of doubt. Unless he gave her up first, that was the only way she could accept it was over and then it would, without a shadow of a doubt, be the end of the world.
Passing the window on the landing Fenella shook her head, trying to shake away the ache in her heart as she forced herself not to look at the island. She kept it all here, the love, the joy, the anguish, this was where her past lived, separated from her present. She had never allowed it to seep into her real life but returning to Galty always had the same effect; longing to be here when she was away, yet always desperate to leave when she could bear the pain no more.
Leela found the actress in the kitchen staring out to sea. She failed to turn round even when the door closed and Leela’s fluffy mules click-clacked across the floor.
“I’ve just checked, he’s fast asleep,” Leela said, quietly.
“A bad night,” Fenella told her.
Leela looked away, steeling herself. Mrs Fitzgerald had left her in sole charge of the family; Archie, Bernice, Fenella and baby Mia. She had just slipped the maternal mantle over her shoulders. Mrs Fitzgerald had been like a mother to her, Leela would never let her down, dead or alive. She had to stay strong.
“Where’s Bernice?” Fenella asked.
“Asleep too. You being here gives her a break, Archie’s been play acting he’s in fine fettle for years. Surely you guessed, seeing him over there in England?” Leela was making fresh coffee.
“I rarely see him,” Fenella replied. “We might meet for a drink, have dinner, that’s all.”
“Does he never come to the Lodge? I believe you have a guest suite and all.”
Fenella did not answer, Archie did not like Trixie and the Lodge was Trixie’s home too. Besides, once Archie took against someone that was it, he could never be swayed, no matter how unfounded his misgivings.
“Some breakfast?” Fenella shook her head. Leela pitied her, she looked so small in the big bathrobe. “Will I do a reading for you? Always helps, takes your mind off things.”
“Good idea,” said Fenella, going to the drawer where Leela kept the precious tarot cards hidden amongst her mystic accoutrements; the vagarious paraphernalia of the white witch.
“You haven’t given a reading in a long time.”
“Not publicly.” Leela glanced at the door. “With Archie ill Bernice banned me. Said she didn’t want any of that ole nonsense clouding the issue.”
“She’s changed her tune, always loved a reading, hoping for a tall, dark stranger to fall …” Fenella stopped, avoiding Leela’s eyes, she handed over the cards, wrapping the bathrobe about her. “Cold in here.”
Leela drew the curtains against the squall, indicating Fenella pull a chair alongside the range.
“We know that,” Fenella said.
“No, not Archie, bigger than that, way bigger than that.”
Fenella felt her eyes burn. What could possibly be bigger than that, she wanted to ask. But she knew Leela too well. The passing from this life to another was as natural and as constant as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west to Leela’s way of thinking. She always said those who live among us never leave us and requiring the physical presence of someone to believe they exist was naïve. Leela had always embraced other-worldliness, there was no such thing as supernatural; it was all natural, if you opened your mind to it.
Leela dealt until there were nine cards face down between them. Moving left to right, she turned the first card over.
“Remind me, which is this?” Fenella said.
Leela hushed her. “Wait until the hand is out. I need to see the complete picture.”
Fenella sat back as Leela’s fingers glided across the pack; gold and purple shapes and swirls. Turning them over she watched the jewel colours of the illustrations, faded now, corners worn, and was again the little girl in the library, entranced as Mrs Fitzgerald, diamonds flashing, tapped each card explaining every symbol and the impact it would have on the life of the person before her.
Mrs Fitzgerald loved the tarot. When war broke out, with everything uncertain, she became known for her readings, she had the gift. Her soirées grew in fame and popularity, especially during the dark days when the coastline was a very dangerous place.
The official Look-Out Posts were Ireland’s first line of defence and the whole harbour breathed a sigh of relief when one was erected on Phoenix Island, manned by the newly-formed Coast Watching Service ‒ ex-soldiers mainly, who had fought the bitter fight for Irish independence.
As hostilities deepened and fear of a German invasion increased, Galty was declared a ‘safe house’ and a young Irish officer, working under the Director of Military Intelligence, gave it a codename, The Seahorse Hotel. The pseudonym stuck and so did the legends that went with it. Mrs Fitzgerald had been proud to do her bit, providing sanctuary and succour for young men returning from the ravages of war.
Fenella adored Mrs Fitzgerald and tales of The Seahorse Hotel were her favourites. Sitting before the fire, she would regale them with wartime adventures. But the ‘spy-priest’ stories were the best. Some of the men went onto great things, others returned angry and broken, and a few never came back at all. But Galty House remained a safe haven, providing comfort for these clever, brave young men fighting for freedom all over again.
The storm railed outside as Fenella gazed at the cards spread before her. He had heard of The Seahorse Hotel, she recalled the conversation distinctly.
“You live at Galty House? Isn’t that the Seahorse Hotel?” He had rowed over from the island, Archie and Humphrey helped pull the boat onto the beach.
The girls stopped reading to watch them. Archie bursting with energy, wild locks escaping from his coloured bandana; Humphrey big and broad, sporting the crew cut he favoured and the visitor, deep bronze skin, thick dark curls damp on his brow and his smile, sardonic, mocking.
“I’ve seen him on the island,” Bernice whispered. “When I go to paint, he sits on the wall, reading.” Bernice was the only female from the mainland allowed to go to the island, the Monsignor gave her special permission, saying her art must be encouraged, she was gifted after all.
“The Seahorse Hotel, haven’t heard that in a long time,” laughed Archie. “Don’t tell me they still talk about the scandalous Mrs Fitzgerald and her safe house over on the island?”
“It’s legendary. All sorts of things went on, apparently. Wexford’s version of the Hellfire Club.” He had an elegant voice, an English accent.
Bernice put her book away. “Do you need a hand?” She rose from her towel, going to help.
Fenella stayed where she was. She fluffed up her hair, biting her lips to colour them, then lay back, stretching her legs and placing sunglasses on her nose, hiding her face behind her novel. She was pleased she was reading ‘Far From The Madding Crowd’. If he was as educated as he sounded, he would know Thomas Hardy’s classic, about a determinedly independent nineteenth century heiress. But cool as she wished to appear, she could feel her pulse starting to race; his voice had stirred her, it was most odd, no sound had ever made her feel like that.
Leela clapped her hands, she was just about to speak when the door opened. Bernice appeared, in pink pyjamas.
“I’ve told you about that!” She pointed at the cards on the table.
“My fault,” said Fenella defending the housekeeper. “Just trying to distract me.” Leela kept her eyes fixed on the cards.
“What is it?” Fenella asked.
Bernice leaned in to look. “You may as well tell.”
“You’re at a crossroads.” Leela pointed at the Hanged Man. “The road you decide to take will be life changing. There’s turmoil, conflict in close relationships.” She tapped the Ace of Cups. “I love this one, emotional happiness, home and family.” She thought for a moment. The Seven of Swords. “Hmm, this fella, possibly betrayal, someone getting away with something.”
“Anything say where my earring is? I can’t find it anywhere.” Losing the earring was driving Fenella mad, she even dreamt about it, the exact scenario over and over and when she woke she was trembling, desperate to find it … find him.
“I want you to have these.” He handed her a small parcel. “They were my mother’s.” She opened the package and a pair of tiny gold hoops glinted in the sunshine. Her hands were trembling so much, she could not put them on.
“Here, let me.” He stood close.
“Are they gold?”
“Think so, all I have anyway, all I have of her too.” His breath tickled her throat.
She spun round to face him, lifting her hair so he could see.
“They never looked lovelier.” He laughed. She took his face in her hands.
“I accept.”
“Accept what?”
“Your proposal. These are enough for me.” She touched her ears. He grinned, she had read his mind; he was going to propose that very afternoon. Wrapping her in his arms, he pressed his mouth against her lips.
“I love you, Fenella Flanagan, you are my heart and soul.”
“And you mine,” she said in a quiet voice, holding him as tightly as she could.
The camera shutter closed. Bernice looked forward to developing that shot, she had people to show it to, her skill would be much admired.
“Fenella, have you gone deaf, I said you have any number of earrings.” Bernice prodded her back to reality.
“They’re special.” Fenella looked away. Bernice would recall precisely how special they were.
Sensing a spat, Leela showed them the Three of Cups. “I wonder what this could mean, some sort of celebration, maybe and Judgement, here, this represents change, a transition, a calling to do something.”
Fenella shuddered.
“Change doesn’t have to be bad. There are changes for the better, happens all the time.” Leela sounded more confident.
“That’s true,” Bernice agreed. She touched the Seven of Swords. “And I would rather know if someone was going to betray me, be prepared.”
Leela looked up at her. “The way Judas betrayed Jesus, close as brothers they were, yet Jesus knew, knew that kiss would change everything forever.”
The door opened. “What does a dying man have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?” It was Archie. He spotted the cards. “Move over, haven’t seen you with the cards in a long time, Leela. Not been banned in case they foretell something tragic?” He gave them all a grin. “Tell you what, let’s have a champagne breakfast, it’s filthy out there, scrambled eggs, tarot and champagne. That’ll set us up.” He sat down, rubbing his hands together.
“Why n
ot?” Fenella said, going in search of champagne.
Sometime later Fenella found Bernice in her bedroom, an overnight bag on the bed.
“Was it something I said?” Fenella almost fell into the room, having imbibed the lion’s share of the champagne.
“I need to go to Dublin the day after tomorrow, sort a few things out.”
“I hope you’re not annoyed with Leela.”
Bernice could be grumpy for days if the mood took her.
“I wasn’t in the best form, she was just trying to help.”
“She told me you nursed Archie all night. Thanks for that, I slept for a change.”
“You needed it.” Fenella touched her shoulder. “You don’t have to thank me, I love him too.”
Bernice placed her hand over Fenella’s. “We’ll be much reduced when we lose him. Let’s stay close, Fenella please.”
“We will. I promise.” She went to the mirror, fixing the sea green scarf tied around her head; it emphasised her eyes. She looked at Bernice through the glass, Bernice put her hand to her ear but it was too late, Fenella saw it glint.
“What’s that?”
“What?”
“In your ear, something shiny? Take your hand away.” Fenella ordered. “You found my earring and never told me!”
“I was just about to bring it to you.”
“When did you find it?” Fenella glared at her.
“Only the other day.”
“The other day?” Fenella cried, disbelieving. “I’ve been frantic. You know I have.”
“Sorry I forgot.” Bernice held it out to her. “I only tried it on.” She turned away from the glaring eyes.
“You’re pathetic, Bernice, after all this time, you’d still do anything to hurt me, anything. Even keeping an earring, just because he gave it to me. Christ, you're a sad, bad, old bitch.” And although the words were harsh, her tone was despondent.
Bernice took a breath, letting the moment pass.
“You don’t wear your hair down anymore. Why not? You’ve beautiful hair.”
That Summer at the Seahorse Hotel Page 11