Last of the Great Romantics

by Claudia Carroll

  'But this is my look, darling, why should I change what Works? Are you suggesting there's something wrong with me as I am?' Lucasta replied, fishing in her pockets for the remains of a battered pack of cigarettes. 'Yes! Two left!' she said, jubilantly stuffing a fag into her mouth and lighting it. 'You see? My outfit is functional as well as flattering. I can fit five packs of ciggies in the pockets as well as little treats for my kitties. You know, darling, if you're going to insist on smartening us all up you really should invest in a full-length mirror for yourself, you know. I don't give a tuppenny shite what Andrew says, the happiness fat most definitely does not suit you.'

  And so, looking like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, she tripped down the stone steps at the front of the Hall just in time to see Eleanor about to clamber into the passenger seat of Julia's nippy sports car. 'Good morning, Lady Davenport!' she called up the steps to her. 'My father said if I saw you I was to be sure to pass on his very best!'

  'Who the hell are you now, I wonder?' muttered Lucasta, blowing cigarette smoke into the early morning mist and squinting suspiciously at her. Fortunately, Eleanor couldn't hear as Julia was revving up the engine, impatient to move on to the next appointment she'd carefully scheduled for the bride-to-be.

  'I think he's quite taken with you actually!' Eleanor added before hopping nimbly into the tiny two-seater and zooming down the driveway.

  'Well, your father's only human, whoever he is,' Lucasta shouted back, oblivious to the fact that two more guests were coming down the steps behind her, out for a stroll to work off their enormous breakfast. They were a youngish couple, city types by the look of their brand-new 'his and her' matching tweed jackets and spotless walking shoes.

  'I mean, like, I can handle the quiet of the countryside OK,' the girl was saying in a whiny, nasal, south Dublin accent, 'but it's the smell that drives me, like, totally nuts, you know?'

  'Exactly, babe,' replied her boyfriend in an equally irritating accent. 'It smells like, I dunno, like raw sewage or unemptied bins or something, like, really putrid, you know?'

  'It's only horse manure from the stables, you idiots,' said Lucasta as they walked by her. 'This is the country, for Christ's sake, what do you expect? That the horse shit smells meadow fresh? What do you want me to do? Go down there and spray them with air freshener? Arseholes.'

  She was in a foul humour that morning and not without good reason. Lucasta was the proud owner of at least two dozen cats, including an army of strays she fed and who frequently slept in bed beside her. However, since the Hall had reopened, her absolute favourite cat, Martini, had vanished. She'd searched for him high and low and had even sneaked into guests' bedrooms, half the time not caring whether they were there or not, but no sign. She placed the blame for poor Martini's disappearance firmly and squarely at Portia's door; if she and Andrew hadn't insisted on all her cats being confined to the family rooms once the hotel was open, then this wouldn't have happened.

  'They've been used to having the run of the Hall and now the poor angels are completely disorientated since you've so cruelly banished them from their natural habitat. What in God's name is wrong with them anyway, I'd like to know?' she'd screeched at Andrew on one of the rare occasions when he'd firmly put his foot down with her. 'These animals have a damn sight more pedigree in them than the bloody middle-class snobs you want to come and stay here. I've a good mind to report you to the ISPCA, you unfeeling bollocks.'

  Martini, however, had proved himself to be something of a daredevil in the past. When the builders were in, he'd vanished for a full day before one of the workmen discovered him stuck at the bottom of a cement mixer. But by now a whole week had passed without any sign of him, which led Lucasta to conclude the very worst. With her chin up and her head held high, she decided that if Martini had indeed passed over to the other side, then she should try to make contact with him to make sure he was being fed and minded properly in the spirit world. It was the least a loving pet owner could do and far more than she would have done for her ex-husband (who often used to goad Lucasta by saying that the only good cat was a dead one squashed on the side of the road).

  And so, armed with a tatty book she'd fished out of the Library entitled The Amateurs' Guide to Conducting a Séance, she made a beeline for the old cowshed at the bottom of the kitchen garden. It was just about the only spot on the estate which hadn't been renovated and she felt that Martini's spirit would feel at home with the leaky corrugated roof, the bales of hay strewn around and the overriding stench of dung, away from the pristine cleanliness of the house proper. This was a process which demanded absolute privacy and quiet and it was nigh on impossible to get either at the Hall these days. It was barely nine in the morning and already she could hear the whine of Molly's hoovering wafting through an open window, not at all conducive to getting in touch with the spirit world, she sighed, flicking her long grey mane over her shoulders and going inside the shed.

  It was almost pitch black as Lucasta shut the door behind her and groped her way inside, plonking down on her hands and knees and spewing out the contents of her pockets. A moment later, she had successfully lit four tiny tea lights and had expertly sprinkled some sage and marjoram in a circle connecting them. 'Now, before we get started, spirit guides, I need you to pay very close attention,' she ordered, as though the other side were no further off than a long-distance phone call. 'It says in this book that I need to sprinkle the droppings from a virgin unicorn on the ground for the spell to work. Well, I'm awfully sorry but I couldn't get any so Oxo granules will just have to do instead.' Squinting in the candlelight at the tiny print in her book, she began to chant, 'Feline Goddess of the North, I salute you. Feline Goddess of the South—' She broke off suddenly and strained to listen. There it was, a very faint, weak meowing noise and close by too, by the sound of it.

  'Oh Christ,' sighed Lucasta in exasperation. 'I'm inclined to forget how talented I am. One line of a spell is all I need utter successfully to break through to the other side.' Then, raising her voice, she called out, 'Martini, my little cherub, it's Mummy. Can't you hear me, sweetheart? Are you at peace, darling? Are there any messages you want to give me from beyond the grave? Racing tips, lottery numbers, that sort of thing? Meow once for yes and twice for no.'

  There was a rustle of hay which caught her attention and, as she turned sharply around, there was Martini, limping towards his mistress.

  'Oh my little darling, you've come back to Mummy,' she twittered, delighted, scooping him up in her arms and kissing him full on the lips. 'What on earth happened to your paw, my angel?' she cooed, noticing the tiny splint that had been carefully bandaged to Martini's hind paw.

  'I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid it could be broken,' came a man's voice, speaking very politely from the gloom. 'I've done my best with the paw, but I really think he should see a vet.'

  Lucasta knelt in silence, still as a statue for a moment, before the realization finally dawned on her. 'Do you know, Martini,' she whispered, cradling him close, 'I've always suspected that there was a vortex on the estate where spirits from the other side could port through. Well, there must be because how else do you explain the way all my ciggies keep disappearing? But never, never, never even in my wildest dreams did I imagine I'd stumble on it at the back of the old cowshed.' Then, raising her voice and trying her best to conceal her excitement at this rare find, she shouted up to the roof, 'Now, I'm quite sure you're a very benign spirit and I'm so pleased that Martini's brought a little friend with him from the other side. Are you some sort of spirit guide? Or perhaps you're a poor lost soul who's found his way through the vortex by accident? A sort of spiritual tourist or day-tripper, that sort of thing, you know?'

  'Ehh, something a bit like that, yes,' came the puzzled reply from behind a mound of haystacks.

  'Oh now, where are my manners,' said Lucasta as though she were hosting a society dinner party. 'Is there anything I can do for you to make you more comfortable?' she cooed at the leakin
g roof. 'Perhaps you'd like me to do an energy clearing or burn some incense or maybe do a little chanting to make you feel at home while you're passing through our world?'

  'I'd hate to put you to all the bother of chanting,' came the voice unenthusiastically, 'but now that you mention it, I'm absolutely starving. A few sandwiches would be brilliant, thanks. The smell of food from the Hall is driving me insane.'

  Lucasta could hardly contain her excitement. 'Unbe-fucking-lievable,' she said, awestruck. 'An ectoplasmic manifestation with an appetite!' Raising her voice again, she added, 'I'll be right back. Stay here and be at peace whilst I'm gone. Be a dear and keep an eye on Martini for me, will you?'

  'I'd be delighted,' came the reply. 'Oh, and by the way, I'm strict vegetarian; I don't eat anything that ever had a face. I hope that's not a problem, is it?'

  The grandfather clock in the gate lodge had just chimed ten as a scene of a very different sort unfolded. Portia had just finished breaking the big news to a hysterical Daisy, already on the verge of a breakdown over Eleanor Armstrong's impending wedding to Mark Lloyd. They were sitting in Portia's sunny little kitchen, surrounded by bulging suitcases while Andrew stomped around on the wooden floors upstairs, swearing aloud when he couldn't find clothes he specifically wanted to bring.

  It had been the worst, bitterest, most God-awful row the sisters had had in years. Daisy had always been headstrong and obstinate about getting her own way when it came to arguments, and nine times out of ten Portia would cave in to her, usually wanting nothing more than a quiet life. But the row over Shelley-Marie was different. Daisy was a great one to scream and shout and hurl things around in arguments and now was all the more effective for being furious in an ice-cold way. Far, far scarier.

  'You're telling me that Andrew went and hired Shelley-pisshead-Marie? And that not only am I left in charge of the Hall for what will be the biggest wedding of the year, but on top of that, I still have to deal with that two-faced, manipulative, conniving bitch? Tell me you're joking. Please, Jesus, tell me this is April Fool's Day'

  'Darling, I'm no happier about this than you, but just think, it could be quite useful to have a beauty salon on hand for this wedding—'

  'An A. and E. department to stitch heads would be a damn sight more useful. You're insane even to think about letting her near guests, unless you want it to look like a Dollywood wedding in all the photos.'

  The sound of another holdall being dumped on the hall outside broke the awful silence.

  'Daisy, will you just hear me out?' Portia pleaded, aware that time was ticking by and that she and Andrew would have to leave any minute. 'You know how important it is for us that this wedding goes as seamlessly as possible. We couldn't buy the publicity it's going to generate; it'll put Davenport Hall on the map for the rest of our lives. And,' she added, 'it's not as if we're completely leaving you high and dry. Julia Belshaw will be running the show with you and just look at the marvellous job she did organizing the opening of the Hall.'

  'Bugger Julia anyway. Don't you realize the longer Shelley-scumbag-Marie stays, the harder it'll be to get rid of her? At this stage, she'll probably claim squatter's rights. Not for one second would I put it past her.'

  Portia sighed. Just this once, she was going to pull out all the emotional stops. No matter how shifty she felt about it, this time she had no choice. 'Darling, I know how hard it is for you having her loitering around the place, but let me make a deal with you. If I faithfully promise you that the morning after the wedding you can personally show her the door, then will you just put up with her until then? I need you onside, Daisy, I can't go away unless I know you're OK with this. Andrew and I have practically bankrupted ourselves just to get this far with the Hall and if this wedding goes well, then we're home and dry. Please, darling?' Then came the ace she'd kept up her sleeve. 'Will you do it for me?'

  She looked across the table at her sister, trying to gauge her reaction. With Daisy, you never could tell how she'd react when faced with a situation as unpalatable as this one. There was a good chance that she'd tell the lot of them to get lost and continue hurling Shelley-Marie's belongings out of windows and generally making life a living hell for those around her.

  'Well?' Portia asked gently. 'Do we have white smoke?'

  Daisy had been staring into space, lost in her own little world, and Portia deliberately didn't break the silence. A revolting crystal carriage clock, a gift from Andrew's mother, chimed eleven, but she still said nothing, even though she knew their taxi would arrive any minute.

  'You know I hate the bitch's guts,' Daisy eventually said, looking Portia in the face.

  'I had noticed that, yes.'

  'And you know I think she's using you for free bed and board now that she's discovered Daddy had sweet bugger all of any value in Ireland.'

  'I know, darling. I agree with you.'

  'And you know I don't buy into her bloody daytime TV tale of woe.'

  'Neither do I, not for a moment.'

  'But against all that . . .' Daisy rolled her big baby blue eyes the way she used to when she was a small child and was caught doing something naughty. 'I know how much you've ploughed into the Hall and what big news this wedding is. And of course I know how important it is to you that it goes off OK, to you and Andrew, I mean,' she added hastily. 'And I know you should be all excited about going to New York with him now, not sitting here at the last minute, worrying about whether or not the place will become famous for being the first hotel in Kildare to have a homicide on the premises within a few weeks of opening.'

  Portia smiled, sensing the conversation was going her way.

  'So, all right then, we have a deal. I'll promise to swallow my pride and behave myself until Eleanor Armstrong is safely married, on the condition that I get to fling bitchface out of here personally the next morning.'

  'You're an angel.' Portia beamed. 'I knew you'd come through for me.'

  They both looked up to see Andrew bounding through the kitchen door with his overcoat on, finally ready to go. 'So, do we have a Pax Romanus?' he asked, looking at Daisy a bit nervously.

  'Everything's OK,' said Portia, rising to go.

  'Ahh, Daisy, you're just the best,' said Andrew, sounding more than a little relieved. 'You're going to make a brilliant acting manager. And you know Shelley-Marie has some wonderful ideas for the Hall. I think she'll prove to be a real asset.'

  Daisy had to bite her tongue from replying that the only asset that conniving wagon seemed interested in was free bed and board for as long as no one saw through her. In the Mauve Suite too, only the best and most expensive in the Hall . . . She let it pass, not wanting to sour this goodbye.

  There was a maniacal thumping at the front door.

  'That'll be Tom,' said Portia, zipping up one of her bulging bags. 'Be hell to pay if we're not in that car in exactly thirty seconds.'

  Tom was Ballyroan's local taxi driver who was famous for always being ridiculously early to collect customers. He would then thump on their front doors and windows while people broke their necks to get ready and not keep him waiting; then he'd spend the entire journey berating them for delaying him, as though they weren't paying through the nose for the privilege; then he'd inflict 'the lecture' on them, about how unpunctuality was a form of disrespect bordering on bullying. There was probably no one in the entire village who hadn't been subjected to 'the lecture' at some point, with the result that most people simply booked him for about a half-hour after they actually needed to be driven anywhere.

  'I'll phone you every day,' said Portia as they stepped out into the chilly, misty morning. Andrew and Tom were frantically lugging bags into the boot of the car and the sisters hugged each other tightly. Although wild horses wouldn't have kept Portia from flying to New York that morning, she was such a natural worrier that of course she felt huge pangs of guilt at leaving her sister with so much responsibility, particularly after the events of the last twenty-four hours. Daisy knew this too and with that unspoke
n bond that exists between sisters, that gift of knowing what the other is thinking without anything actually being said, she knew full well her job was to send Portia off with as many reassurances as she could give her. Whether she believed them herself or not was entirely another matter.

  'And I'll email you every night,' she replied, trying her best to sound confident and managerial.

  'That's it then,' said Andrew eventually, when the last suitcase had been hauled into the car. 'Jump in, or we'll be late.'

  'You take good care of her,' Daisy said, pecking him warmly on the cheek. 'And don't worry about a thing here. Everything is going to be just fine.'

  Portia rolled down the window and waved after her, silently blessing her for being such a trooper. She waved like minor royalty until the taxi had turned out through the gates and on to the main road. Everything is going to be fine, she thought, banishing aside any lingering last-minute worries she felt about leaving Daisy in charge. Of course she was doing the right thing in going away with Andrew. After all, she reasoned, the Hall and all its attendant problems would still be waiting there for her when they came home. And at the end of the day, it was only for a few weeks, really . . .

  'You OK?' said Andrew, slipping his hand around hers.

  She beamed back at him, knowing she'd made the right decision. 'I'm fine.' After all, she figured, didn't her marriage come first?

  Two hours later, she and Andrew were ambling through the wide, busy duty-free area of Dublin airport, hand in hand and looking for all the world like a pair of newly-weds.

  'Do we have time for a coffee?' Portia asked, always a bit antsy about being late.

  'Plenty of time,' Andrew replied, steering her towards a Butler's café on the concourse. 'My tummy's rumbling so loudly, you could mistake it for Concorde's final flight.'