Last of the Great Romantics

by Claudia Carroll

  'Ehh, yeah . . . I mean, yes, I do,' she answered, staggered that he'd chosen to speak to her and aware of the spotlight that was shining on her. 'Your . . . ehh, President,' she added, unsure how to address the Head of State.

  'In that case, I'm sure you must have your work cut out for you, in a house this size,' replied the President. There was a sycophantic roar of laughter from all around him, led by Julia. Anyone would have thought that he'd just re-enacted the Monty Python parrot sketch all by himself and done all the voices, such was the level of appreciation for this mundane comment. He nodded and smiled and made to move on to the next person, but Mrs Flanagan was having none of it.

  'I voted for ya in the Presidential election, ya know,' she said, a bit more confident now.

  'Thank you very much. Most kind,' he answered, turning back.

  'Yeah. Sure, you were miles better looking than the other fella.'

  Next in the line-up was Daisy, red-eyed and sniffling, but still looking beautiful in the Donna Karan dress she'd managed to filch from Portia earlier.

  'May I introduce the Honourable Daisy Davenport, your excellency,' said Julia, anxiously looking over her shoulder for Portia and Andrew. No sign.

  'Oh, you're a Davenport,' said the President, shaking her hand and smiling warmly. 'You've had the builders in then.' Another roar of laughter from the throng, at which Julia whispered something discreetly in the President's ear.

  'I'm very sorry to hear about your father's passing. It must have been an awful shock for all of you,' he added, really looking as though he meant it.

  'Thank you,' was all Daisy could mutter in response as fresh tears started to well up, choking her.

  'You must introduce me to Lady Davenport too. I'd very much like to offer my personal condolences.'

  'Where in God's name have you been? The President is about to make his speech and you're not even dressed!' Julia was snarling by now, well and truly pissed off with lackadaisical clients like these. These people confirmed what she'd always suspected: the aristocracy really were a law unto themselves; the type of people who fell off their horses after a long day's hunting and into their ball gowns without even bothering to shower. Too posh to wash, the lot of them. They'd be herding a flock of sheep through the Long Gallery next.

  'We'd run out of champagne, I had to stock up,' Portia replied, indicating to George, the head barman, which crates were to stay in the cellar and which were to be brought upstairs to serve. 'Not very glamorous, I know, but someone's got to do it.'

  Ever since Andrew had dropped the bombshell on her, Portia was finding it increasingly hard to stay calm. Particularly with Julia, who, for no other reason than that she looked fabulous, was really getting on her nerves. Just get through tonight, she promised herself, and I'll deal with everything else in the morning.

  She had tried her best to make it back to the gate lodge to shower and change, but guests had already begun to pour through the main entrance and she didn't want to be seen looking like a dirty big knacker who smelt of methane fuel. So she'd sneaked down the back stairs and out through the back door which led on to the kitchen garden but, to her horror, she realized that her car was completely hemmed in by the hordes of newly arrived Mercedeses and BMWs, not to mention the Presidential state limousine. As it was a full two-mile trek to the gate lodge and two miles back again, walking was out of the question. Bitterly upset, she was left with no choice but to stay behind the scenes for the time being, overseeing all the last-minute stuff which somehow always gets overlooked at parties.

  'Isn't there something here that you could borrow to wear?' Julia's tone was impatient.

  'Unless you want me to appear in one of my mother's Goddess of Samhradh robes, no there isn't anyone I can borrow from. Do you think I hadn't thought of that?' Portia hadn't meant to sound so snappy; it had just been a long day.

  'What about your sister? Surely she must have something suitable?'

  Portia had to fight really hard to resist the temptation to say, 'Daisy wears a size eight and, compared with her, I'm the size of a carpet warehouse, just in case you hadn't noticed.'

  'Come on, Portia, you cannot miss the President's speech. That's out of the question. We've no choice, it seems. You'll just have to go as you are.'

  'What some of you may not realize is that the Davenport family has lived in this house for over two hundred years. Now, if only I could stay in office that long.'

  Gales of laughter greeted Robert Armstrong's speech and every face in the packed Long Gallery was gazing at him in googly-eyed adoration.

  'Of course the Hall was designed by James Gandon back in 1770, who also designed Government Buildings in Dublin. But I think the Davenports might be hoping to attract a somewhat different type of clientele than mere politicians.'

  Another howl of laughter. The President could easily have been forgiven for thinking that a new career as a Perrier-award-winning stand-up comedian beckoned.

  'And so nothing else remains but for me to declare the Davenport Country House Hotel officially open for business. May God bless her and all who sail in her.'

  There was a huge round of applause and Portia could feel people glancing in her direction. She'd slipped up the back stairs and was now trying to wedge herself up against one of the long, shadowy window shutters at the back of the Ballroom in the hope that no one would see her, but she wasn't nearly as invisible as she'd have liked. There was one thing going for her though: thanks to Julia's dogged insistence on only A-list celebrities being invited, she hardly knew a sinner there. Be hell to pay the next time I bump into any of the neighbours in Ballyroan, she thought. They were entitled to be rightly peeved at not being invited. Mind you, that was the least of her worries tonight.

  Across the packed Ballroom, she spotted her mother-in-law, Susan, deep in conversation with one of Ireland's best-loved actresses, Celia Moore, whom Portia recognized from her role in the TV drama series Affair City. Susan never failed to look anything less than immaculate and had really outdone herself in the style stakes tonight. She wore a pale blue silk evening jacket with a matching floor-length skirt, nipped tight at the waist to show off her girlish waistline. She'd obviously spent half the day in the hairdresser's too, Portia thought. Susan wore her silver hair in a severe Margaret Thatcher, helmet-style 'do', with enough lacquer to cause another rip in the ozone layer. Andrew regularly teased her about it. 'Are you waiting for that hairstyle to come back into fashion or what, Mum?' he'd say to her. It was the kind of comment that only an adored only child could get away with.

  From the corner of her eagle eye, Susan spotted Portia and waved imperiously for her to come and join them. Portia had no choice but to run the gamut of the crowded room, fully aware of the picture she cut in her slobby tracksuit, filthy hair scraped back and not a screed of make-up. But there was nothing else for it but to be polite, she thought, smiling wanly and moving over to her mother-in-law.

  'Bloody Julia Belshaw never gave me a goodie bag,' she could hear Celia Moore moan as Susan greeted her Mediterranean style, with one careful kiss on each cheek. Then followed an all-too-familiar routine where Susan eyed Portia up and down, taking in her appearance and, what was worse, saying nothing, as though Portia lived, ate, drank and slept in the same stinking tracksuit. Putting her daughter-in-law down was almost a blood sport with Susan, although, in fairness, Portia showed Olympian levels of patience in never rising to take the bait. Andrew's her only child, she used to reason with herself; if he'd married Marie of Romania it still wouldn't be good enough for Susan de Courcey.

  'I was very sorry to hear about your father,' was her opener. Portia waited patiently for the put-down, which never failed to follow any sympathetic comment from Susan. 'Although I know you were never close to him.'

  There it was, right on the nail and straight to the jugular, as ever. She was saved from having to answer by the appearance of Andrew, who greeted his mother warmly.

  'Darling!' Susan cooed at him, standing on tiptoe to kiss
him. 'Why on earth didn't you change?' she asked, noticing that he was still in day clothes.

  'Arrived late, I'm afraid, Mum,' he answered, slipping his arm around Portia's waist. He still looked effortlessly gorgeous though, in a floppy-haired, Hugh Grant-ish, country-squire, I-couldn't-really-care-less-what-people-think sort of way. Then, taking Portia aside so they wouldn't be overheard, he said, 'I've been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been? Eleanor Armstrong wants a guided tour of the whole house, so I suppose one of us had better oblige.'

  'You go. I need to help Tim downstairs.'

  From the corner of her eye, Portia could see Julia working the room and making her way over to them. Last thing I need right now, she thought. The sight of Julia looking amazing and flirting with her fella was something she could do without.

  'Look, honey,' said Andrew, a bit more softly, 'I know you've had a really shit day and I'm sorry I wasn't here for you. Only another few hours of this and then, I promise, we'll slip off.'

  'Great. Look forward to hearing all about your job offer. Big day for me, huh? My father dies and my husband decides to take up some job offer Ken Courtney dangles at him in New York. Without even telling me.'

  Andrew looked at her, a bit stung by her narky tone. So unusual for her. He was about to answer but Julia interrupted, wafting over on a cloud of Chanel No. 5.

  'There you are,' she said breathlessly. 'Eleanor is ready for the guided tour now, so shall we, Andrew?'

  'Go,' said Portia dully. 'We'll talk later.'

  He stroked his finger against her pale, tired face and turned to go. Portia could hear Julia clear as crystal as they drifted off.

  'I so wish she'd found the time to smarten up a bit, you know. That new dress you bought her in Khan must have cost a fortune.'

  'Another large gin and tonic there, George, easy on the tonic.' Lucasta was perched on a bar stool in the Long Gallery, deep in conversation with poor George, or Gorgeous George as she'd affectionately nicknamed him, who as well as trying to serve the remaining guests, had to listen to her ladyship's tale of woe.

  'Nothing against Portia and Andrew now,' she was twittering on, 'they've done a wonderful job on the old place, full credit there. But, Jesus Christ, neither one of them has the first clue how to organize a good old-fashioned piss-up. I don't know a sinner here tonight. The place is full of actors I've never heard of and gobshite politicians. There's a string quartet in the hall, for fuck's sake. Where do they think they are? Church?'

  One of Lucasta's main grievances was that both Andrew and Portia had expressly forbidden her from launching into one of her customary sing-songs at the grand piano. She was particularly pissed off as she'd gone to a lot of trouble to compose a song in honour of the occasion entitled 'Whoops there, Vicar, you're sitting on one of my artichokes'. Vegetables were a big motif in her musical repertoire this year.

  'And they've banished all my kitties to my bedroom and now the poor little things are totally disorientated and they keep weeing everywhere. Apparently they're not good enough for Portia and her poxy hotel. I wouldn't mind, but Mr Fluffles was the Shah of Iran in a past life.'

  'Lady Davenport?' She turned round to see Robert Armstrong standing beside her, extending his hand.

  'Jesus, you gave me a fright,' she answered. 'I'm only ever called that in court.'

  'I just wanted to say how sorry I was to hear about your husband's death.'

  'Why's that?' asked Lucasta, taking a slug of her drink. 'Did he owe you money or something?'

  Ever the diplomat, Robert just nodded and smiled, well aware that grief did funny things to people. 'I'm a widower myself, you know, and I just wanted to say that the pain does get easier. You must miss him dreadfully.'

  'Easy come, easy go,' she replied, bored now with playing the grieving widow. She was squinting at him intently, racking her brains to figure out why his face was so familiar. 'I know you. Are you that idiot who does the National Lottery draw on a Saturday night? If you are, then your chakras are a complete disgrace. I've lost count of the number of spells I've done for my numbers to come up and they never bloody do.'

  Although the President had probably never been spoken to like that before in his entire life, he didn't seem to mind. In fact, this eccentric-looking creature in her oilskin jacket and wellies was the first person really to make him laugh all evening.

  'Oh, I know, did we sleep together in the sixties?' asked Lucasta, signalling to Gorgeous George to top up her gin.

  'I'm afraid I'm going to leave you guessing,' Robert replied, kissing her hand politely as he took his leave. 'But I'm very glad to see that you're not entirely prostrated with grief

  'Weirdo,' Lucasta muttered drunkenly. But at least she waited until he'd left the room.

  Much later, he and Eleanor were back in the presidential limousine zooming down the motorway to Dublin, heading for Phoenix Park House, their official residence.

  'So what did you think?' Robert asked his daughter.

  'Perfect,' she replied with her eyes shining. 'Oh Daddy, it's absolutely perfect.'

  'That's settled then. We have a plan B.'

  Chapter Four

  The night had been an overwhelming success, but that was the last thing on Daisy's mind. She'd slipped away from the party at about midnight and gone straight up to the estate office on the fourth floor to start making the necessary arrangements for Blackjack to come home. There was an eight-hour time difference between Ireland and Las Vegas, so at around four in the afternoon US time, she started making phone calls. Even though it was a weekend, everything was handled with typical American efficiency; by the time she contacted the Bellagio Hotel, where her father had been living for the past year, his body had already been released from the post-mortem inquiry. All that remained for her to do was sign a note of permission and fax it through so that his cremation could go ahead. It did flash through her mind that this would probably all cost a fortune, but she was too upset to care. She'd talk to Andrew about that later. All that mattered now was getting her dad home.

  'We'll all miss him here,' the manager had sympathized with her. 'Your pop sure was a real one-off.'

  Even on such a long-distance line, the manager could still hear the sound of a hooley in full swing in the background. 'Sounds like you folks got a real Irish wake happenin' there, Miss Davenport. I know that's just what your pop would have liked. A right good send off to the heavens above, without any weepin' or wailin' or gnashin' of teeth.'

  Daisy put the phone down, knowing full well that apart from hers, there'd be precious few tears shed over her father's passing. There were a lot of big decisions to be made and she made all of them alone, knowing that if it were left to her mother, Blackjack would be buried in bin liners in the city dump.

  'I wouldn't even dream of sullying the Grand Canal by dumping that bollocks in it,' had been Lucasta's final pronouncement on the subject, the previous day. 'The sewer rats deserve better bedfellows.'

  There was no point in even trying to talk to Portia about the arrangements. For a start, she hadn't set eyes on her all evening and anyway, she and Blackjack had never really seen eye to eye. One of Daisy's earliest memories was of the sixteen-year-old Portia standing in the Library in her school uniform, bawling her eyes out because her father had gambled away her boarding school fees and she had been sent packing just before her exams. It had to be said that when Daisy's turn came to be sent to school and there was no money for her fees, it never really bothered her much. She had never been remotely academic like Portia and the loss of an unwanted education barely knocked a feather out of her. Spoilt rotten and thoroughly indulged by her father, she was perfectly happy to stay at home helping out with her beloved horses whenever the mood took her.

  Since her early teens, she'd had a string of unsuitable boyfriends, spotty local adolescents mostly, who, like Daisy, had great difficulty in holding down any kind of job. But instead of being given the third degree, or shown the door as they would in any normal home, Bla
ckjack had always welcomed them with open arms, taught them how to play five-card stud and introduced them to the advantages of having a single malt whisky still in the cellar. Her memory flashed back to one particular ex-boyfriend who would have made any normal parent's blood curdle.

  He was a twenty-year-old recovering heroin addict whom Daisy had drunkenly picked up in a bar in Kildare and who'd subsequently given her a crossbar home on a stolen bike.

  'So, you're on the dole then?' Blackjack had breezily asked when Daisy first introduced them. 'Wonderful. Got any cash on you? Even better. You cut the deck and I'll deal.'

  Not exactly a conventional upbringing, she knew; in fact Portia often used to say that if a social worker had ever visited the Hall, both she and Daisy would have been sent into a children's home immediately. (The ten-year-old Daisy was temporarily swayed by this notion; mainly because there was a pool and a trampoline in the kids' home.) But Blackjack was the only father she had and now he was gone and she never even got to say goodbye properly. Even the last conversation she ever had with him hadn't exactly been a golden memory. 'My test results came back clear!' he'd raved from across the Atlantic. 'And they're negative!'

  There would be a small, simple memorial service in Ballyroan church, she decided, and then the family Mausoleum would be his final and proper burial place. A magnificent eighteenth-century folly perched on top of a gently sloping hill, it commanded breathtaking views of the land for miles around. Nine generations of the Davenport family were buried there and now there would be ten, she reflected, starting to sob again. It was a wonderful, peaceful spot though and it gave her some comfort to think that her father would finally be at rest there.

  The Irish consulate in Nevada had also promised to contact her as soon as his remains were en route to the mortuary at Vegas McCarran international airport, from where they'd make their final journey home. His body would probably arrive at Dublin airport in about two days' time, Daisy calculated, where she'd be waiting to meet him. With or without the rest of her bloody family.