Last of the Great Romantics

by Claudia Carroll

  'I honestly don't know whether to laugh or cry' Portia whispered to Andrew as they made their way down the aisle and out into the biting February cold.

  'Just think,' he replied, putting his arm around her, 'in a week's time, we'll be strolling down Park Avenue together and, I promise you, we'll look back and laugh.'

  A sharp stab of worry struck her, but she wisely let it pass, for the moment anyway. There's a time and a place for that conversation, she thought as they moved out through the portico and down the stone steps outside the church.

  Agnes and Lucy were still there and warmly shook hands with both of them. 'You're freezing!' Portia said kindly. 'You must both come back to the Hall for a cup of tea.'

  'And you can see the renovations for yourself,' said Andrew, holding open his car door for them both.

  'Oh, how sweet of you,' they chimed in unison, gingerly stepping up into the back seat of his jeep. 'I read all about your lovely party there the other night,' said Lucy, sounding just a tad peeved. 'It looked wonderful.'

  'Yes, imagine Robert Armstrong being there, I'd have loved to meet him,' replied Agnes.

  Portia winced at the barb but felt it was better to say nothing than to launch into a whole explanation about party planners and A-list celebrities and the kind of drivel Julia Belshaw would come out with. An awkward pause hung in the air as they turned sharp left past the gate lodge and on up the long driveway to the Hall. There was only one other car ahead of the hearse, which was Mrs Flanagan driving Lucasta, Shelley-Marie and Daisy, with great clouds of cigarette smoke spewing out of the windows. The convoy had almost reached the forecourt at the main entrance to the Hall when Lucy eventually spoke.

  'Do you know what I was just wondering, Portia dear?' Portia turned around to face her. 'Well, I know your father signed the Hall over to you the year before last, when you were married,' she said very deliberately, as though bringing up a distasteful subject.

  'And we're all so pleased about that, best thing your father ever did,' said Agnes diplomatically. 'It rightfully belongs to you and now Andrew too, of course. That's quite as it should be.'

  'Least Blackjack could have done,' said Lucy in her loud deaf old lady's voice. 'The girls can't inherit, you know, the title only goes through the male line. You were very lucky he signed the Hall over to you when he did, Portia dear. Can you imagine some usurper coming along now and trying to turf you all out?'

  'So what was it you wanted to know?' asked Portia, baffled and dying to know where all this was leading.

  'Why, who the new Lord Davenport is, of course, dear.'

  Chapter Six

  ' "Cecily! At last!"'

  '"Gwendolen! At last!"'

  ' "My nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of triviality."'

  '"On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I've now realized for the first time in my life the vital Importance of Being Earnest."'

  A thunderous roar of applause broke out as the cast stepped forward to take a well-earned bow. The audience got to their feet and the clapping grew to a deafening crescendo as the prison Governor rose from the front row and up on to the stage, patiently waving for a bit of hush. It took ages for everyone to calm down; even the armed prison officers dotted throughout the auditorium were going bananas.

  'Thank you, thank you all very much for such a wonderful response,' he gushed when eventually the applause died down. 'All I can say is that based on tonight's performance, I think we can safely say the All-Ireland Padraig Pearse award for drama in the prisons is ours, for the fourth year running!'

  More ear-splitting, raucous cheers from the audience, forcing the Governor to wait for several minutes before he could continue.

  'Thank you very much. Now, I'd only love to be able to take credit for this remarkable feat, but I'm afraid all the accolades rightfully belong to one person and one person only. It is with great sadness that, only the other day, we heard that the best director this theatre has ever seen is unfortunately not going to be with us for very much longer.'

  There were a lot of disappointed oohs and ahhs from the audience. Clearly, not everyone had heard this news.

  'The time has come for this incredibly talented individual to, as actors would say, exit stage left.' The governor paused for laughter, delighted at his own gag, but none came. 'But all I can tell you is the outside world's gain is the inside's loss. Will you please put your hands together for the show's director, Jasper Davenport, our very own Mad Jasper!'

  Mad Jasper stayed resolutely in the wings, apparently preferring the shadows to the bright glare of the spotlight.

  'Ah, come on out and take a bow,' the Governor coaxed, beaming at him as the cheering continued. 'I think he's a bit shy,' he said to the audience, teasingly. 'Maybe he's only waiting on me to address him by his fancy new title.'

  More puzzled oohing and ahhing from the audience.

  'Oh yes, indeed,' the Governor rambled on. 'We had a solicitor's letter only the other day with the big news. The most talented director this prison has ever seen is now entitled to call himself by a very grand new name, you know. So come on out and take a bow, Mad Jasper, your lordship!'

  'Portia, for God's sake, Daisy is twenty-two years of age. It's high time someone handed her a bit of responsibility. It'll be the makings of her. Will you trust me on this?'

  It was bloody hard to argue with Andrew when he was all fired up thus, Portia knew of old, not to mention the fact that he had a stubborn streak as long as Lake Geneva. Once he'd made his mind up about something, that was it. No going back. They were driving back from Kildare town where, among other things, they'd just been to collect their airline tickets from the local travel agency.

  'Your flight is at two-thirty tomorrow afternoon,' the heavily made-up agent had cooed at Andrew, unable to take her eyes off him as she passed over the business-class tickets with perfectly manicured fingernails. 'Check in is two hours prior to departure.'

  'Thanks, I'm familiar with the routine.' Andrew grinned back at her, taking the tickets and slipping them into the breast pocket of his leather jacket. Right, Portia had said to herself, that gives me exactly twenty-four hours to sort this out.

  It wasn't that she didn't want to get on that flight with him the next day. A huge part of her had been swept along in his usual tidal wave of enthusiasm for what lay ahead. New job, new faces, three blissful months together in one of the most exciting cities on earth. What more could she possibly want? It was sorely tempting to fantasize about the adventure that was in store and the sheer adrenalin rush of being part of that adventure with him. But like it or not, there was no shifting the awful sinking feeling she had deep in the pit of her stomach that she shouldn't go. Half of her knew how devastated she'd feel, watching him bound into the airport terminal without her, unsure of when she'd see him again, but the other, more practical side of her was resolute. The way things were at Davenport Hall at present, she considered herself lucky to get as far as Ballyroan, never mind the bright lights of Broadway.

  The memorial service had been three full days ago and Shelley-Marie showed absolutely no inclination to go anywhere. Nor could Portia put her continued presence down to plain old-fashioned gold-digging. The reading of Blackjack's will had come and gone and, unsurprisingly, he had left nothing of any value behind. Any money he'd won, he'd gambled and lost again, equally quickly. Lucasta got nothing; his lucky deck of cards and his lucky cigarette lighter he bequeathed to Mrs Flanagan; and Portia had to make do with a bill from the Bellagio Hotel for some three months' bed and board, which he'd let accumulate. To add insult to injury, Daisy wasn't even mentioned in the will. She hadn't been born when he'd written it and he'd never gone to all the bother of making a new one.

  'I sure am mighty glad old Jackie didn't leave me nothing,' Shelley-Marie had pronounced, unconvinc-ingly, Portia thought, as they all made their way back from the solicitor's office. 'Now no one can ever say that I married him for material gain.'

  'Quite right too, darling,' Lucasta replied.
'There's far more to being a widow than just the jewellery.'

  In the same short space of time, Daisy's behaviour had gone from distraught daughter to harridan from hell and not without just cause. Things weren't helped along by the fact that Shelley-Marie seemed to be one of those people who had an innate knack for ingratiating herself with those around her. She was already bosom buddies with Lucasta, who even went to the bother of giving her a guided tour of the Hall, a rare honour seeing as how she herself rarely got beyond the bar these days.

  'And you know, darling,' she'd said to Shelley-Marie, pouring her a stiff gin, 'my idea is that every year we host a sort of bachelor festival on the grounds here in one of those big stripy circus tents. A little bit like the Lisdoonvarna bachelor festival, except that it'll be for bachelor girls too, or singletons, or desperados or whatever it is they call themselves these days. You know what single people are like; they'll fork out any amount of money if they think it'll buy true love. Their loneliness is our villa in Greece. We'd clean up.'

  'Why, Lucasta, you truly are a financial visionary! I have never in all my born days met anyone with your business savvy. You know, you are gonna be a mighty wealthy woman some day.'

  Lucasta beamed, totally unused to compliments. 'And you know I have great plans for in here,' she went on, sweeping her hand across the bar in the Long Gallery. 'You know how all those Hollywood stars spend fortunes going into detox in those ferociously expensive glorified health spas? God-awful places where you can't even have a drinkie or a ciggie, twenty-first-century concentration camps really.'

  'I sure do,' replied Shelley-Marie, coughing slightly on the gin. 'Well, this room should be called the retoxification centre, where they can all come to top up on nicotine and booze and, well, name your poison really. Of course I suggested all this to Portia and she told me to sober up and bugger off.'

  Shelley-Marie's expression instantly turned from gushing to aghast. 'Why, I simply cannot believe that your wonderful suggestion was brushed aside! You know, Portia' – which she pronounced 'Purrsha' – 'sure seems like a mighty good person, but . . . well . . .' she hesitated, deliberating, and then flashed her biggest, brightest, toothiest smile. 'I should learn to hush my mouth, shouldn't I? She is your daughter after all.'

  'Oh, don't be so ridiculous. You're like a daughter to me now, darling, we're connected on quite another plane entirely. All that crap you read about how a mother should be bonded with perfectly ghastly people just because they've been down your birth canal is utter bollocks, if you ask me. Anyway, it's bad luck not to share gossip.'

  'Well,' replied Shelley-Marie, dropping her voice conspiratorially, 'I know I've only known her a short time but I'm pickin' up such a lot of tension from her. I wonder if the stress of running a fancy big hotel is all gettin' to be too much for her. That handsome husband of hers must have spent a fortune on the place. She must be mighty worried that they won't make all that money back. How long has she been married to him for?'

  'Oh I don't know, sweetie,' Lucasta giggled. 'About two stone?'

  Portia had walked in on this cosy little tête-à-tête just in time to hear the tail end of the conversation. Shelley-Marie heard her footsteps on the polished wooden floor and had the wit instantly to shut up, beaming angelically at her, as if she and Lucasta had been discussing nothing more innocuous than the weather.

  'I didn't know you drank neat gin,' Portia said, coolly taking in the scene.

  'Why, as I was just remarkin' to your mama, it's never too late to learn a new skill.'

  'We'll be seeing you go around the Hall in your nightie and Wellingtons next, bashing out show tunes on the grand piano,' Portia had replied, silently boiling and wondering just how much more of her she could take.

  Shelley-Marie didn't answer her, just smiled condescendingly as if to say: I understand exactly where you're coming from and I forgive you. She held her gelatined smile until Portia was out of sight and then shot a significant 'told you so' look at Lucasta.

  It was as though she'd quickly assessed the pecking order at Davenport Hall and, having won Lucasta over, she next went to work on Mrs Flanagan. Andrew was the one who discovered them this time, sitting companion-ably together in the family living room watching daytime TV.

  Mrs Flanagan had the rare gift of being able to follow about eight soap operas all at once, be they American, Australian, English or home-grown, as well as being fully abreast of what 'was happening on each and every one of the daytime talk shows. It was useless to ask her anything about current affairs – US Presidential elections could have been won and lost and she wouldn't know – but ask her who'd just had a makeover on Live at Five or who was about to have an affair with whom on Coronation Street and not only would you get a full report, but an in-depth analysis of future storylines to come as well. She could barely tell you the names of all the new household staff that she was supposedly supervising at the Hall, but when it came to characters on her favourite soaps, her memory was encyclopaedic. She was like a human computer: if you programmed in just one soap character's name, she'd immediately give you their fictitious date of birth, place of education, number of sexual partners past or present, number of marriages, brain tumours, occasions when they were left at the altar – the list went on and on.

  'Now, you know so much more about TV than I do,' Shelley-Marie was saying, 'but it's my opinion that Oprah Winfrey is a prophet for our time. In another hundred years or so, I believe she'll be deified.'

  She'd hit another home run.

  'I'm hoarse saying that and no one ever listens to me,' replied Mrs Flanagan, delighted. 'If it wasn't for Oprah, I'd never have lost the half-stone.'

  'Well, you'd better just be mighty careful not to smoke yourself too skinny now, you hear?' replied Shelley-Marie, affectionately patting the TV guide beside her. 'Now, would it bother you to tell me again all about the character of Ken Barlow in Coronation Street? I never tire of hearing you talk about him.'

  Somehow, she'd even managed to get around the humourless Tim in the kitchen. A great snob and an even greater stickler for the niceties of protocol, he doggedly insisted on referring to Shelley-Marie as 'Lady Davenport' and Lucasta as 'the elder Lady Davenport'. He'd made the cardinal mistake of saying this to Lucasta's face the morning after the funeral when they were all having breakfast together in the Red Dining Room. The jar of homemade raspberry jam she flung across the room at him in response only missed his impeccably starched, crisp white chef's jacket by a hair's breadth.

  'Elder my arse!' she snarled as Tim sensibly beat a retreat into the relative calm of the adjoining kitchen.

  Recognizing her cue, Shelley-Marie followed him, carefully closing the door behind her. 'You must find it in your kind heart to forgive her,' she said, as though she'd known Lucasta all her life. 'She's still a little shocked, it's my opinion.' Then, perching herself on a stool, she flashed him her toothiest grin (which was reserved for men only) and hoisted up the thigh pelmet which passed for her Lycra mini-skirt. 'Tim, I wanna compliment you on that wonderful breakfast. Truly, that is the nicest meal I have been privileged to enjoy since I came to the Emerald Isle,' she half whispered in her breathy little girl's voice, being careful to point her breasts at him. Although it was a freezing morning in mid-February, she wore a see-through black gauze top through which her double D assets were clearly visible, with only the flimsiest scarf around her neck for warmth.

  'Would you mind covering up, please? It's unhygienic not to wear the correct sanitary uniform in the kitchen,' he sniffed, flinging a chef's jacket and gauze hairnet at her.

  Instantly copping that the sexy approach wasn't going to get her anywhere, she abruptly changed tack.

  'Say, Tim? Would you have the time to show me exactly how you made the deeeelicious poached eggs with hollandaise and caviar? Where I come from, everything is just deep-fat fried till you can't barely taste nothin' but the grease. It sure would be a right honour for me to see a master chef like you in action,' she drawled, gamely tryi
ng to stuff her thick backcombed hair into the tiny hairnet.

  Tim rarely smiled but he did now, delighted to have such a willing guinea pig, especially as one of his long-term ambitions for the Hall was to have a cookery school where he'd give hands-on demonstrations to guests who'd pay a fortune for the privilege.

  Meanwhile, Andrew's jeep was just zooming past the outskirts of Ballyroan and still the debate raged.

  'Do you know that when I was Daisy's age I was well on my way to being a junior partner in Macmillan Burke?' Andrew was saying, glancing sideways at Portia, who knew it was best for the sake of peace to let him have his say without interrupting. 'Her trouble is that she's just coasted along through life, indulged by your father, dropping out of school when she felt like it, messing around in the stables and calling it work because no one has ever pushed her to try and make something of her life. Don't you see? You and I are presenting her with a golden opportunity to impress everyone, not least herself. Up until now, she's been flakier than a bar of Cadbury's.'

  Portia looked over at him to see if he had finished his pep talk, but there was more to come. She knew he didn't mean it, but there were times when he sounded just like one of those American self-help motivational experts, the 'you can change your life in seven days' type.

  She looked out the car window just in time to see Lottie O'Loughlin, who ran Ballyroan's local Spar, chatting with Danny Maguire, their postman on the street corner. Portia instinctively smiled and waved at them, but both of them utterly blanked her, turning back to their conversation. They'd seen her, she was sure of that. More noses out of joint for not being invited to the opening. It was hard to blame them, given how long she'd known them and also the massive press exposure the Hall was getting. They were neighbours and should have been asked, simple as that. Honestly, she thought, I could kick myself for not standing up to bloody Julia Belshaw . . . There and then, she made a silent resolution not to be such a pushover in future. A little assertiveness would go a long, long way, particularly at Davenport Hall.