‘That’s not going to happen again. Just a brick or something.’
Twenty seconds later there was another bang. When they had come to a halt, he said, ‘I don’t care how you feel about it. I’m going back to see what that was.’
‘Oh, all right.’ They got out together and surveyed the road. ‘Good grief,’ she said, ‘that’s an impressive pothole.’
‘It’s enormous. A deathtrap. And must be the second one we’ve met in less than a mile.’
‘Odd. It’s been a very good road until now. Well, come on, come on. Get in.’ She switched on the engine, put her foot gingerly on the accelerator and uttered words Amiss had never thought to hear from her. ‘I think I’d better go slowly for a while.’ Her caution was fully justified. By the time they reached their destination, they had encountered more than three dozen substantial potholes.
It was not until they had located the restaurant, ordered lunch and the baroness had finished delving into her oysters that she looked over at Amiss, contentedly finishing his fish soufflé. ‘I still can’t fathom the craters.’
‘Nor can I.’
‘Better consult a native.’ She summoned a waiter. ‘We’re puzzled by the condition of the road we took here. Without warning it turned from a class A road suitable for a Formula One race to a bogtrotters’ boreen that would challenge a Landrover. It’s the same country. It’s even the same county. What’s going on?’
Unlike Amiss, the waiter had not winced at the word ‘bogtrotter.’ He looked at her indulgently. ‘What you’ve left out of your calculations, mam, is that it’s a different constituency. And they won’t give us a minister.’
‘What do you mean minister? What sort of minister? Cloth? Government?’
‘It wouldn’t be a priest I’m talking about here, but a fellow down there in Dublin with the power to get good roads for his constituents.’
‘Do you mean a minister for transport?’
‘Not necessarily, mam. Any minister would do. Any fellow with the clout.’
Seeing their puzzled faces, he pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘I can see you’re not political people,’ he observed kindly. ‘Or maybe they do things differently in England. But the way it is here, do you see, is that Mickey Pat O’Shaughnessy in the constituency next door was Minister for Fisheries and was able to do a good turn for the boyo in charge of forestry who then did another deal with the lad who does transport who’s a pal of the EU commissioner. So, with help from Brussels and a bit more from the lottery, all the roads in Mickey Pat’s constituency were attended to in the last few years.’
He gazed at them sadly. ‘The way it is is they’ve got it in for us up here for reasons I won’t trouble you with now but go back to certain matters I could tell you about that have to do with the Taoiseach’s* grandfather. This shower would do anything to keep us from having a minister. They’d rather make the thickest BIFFO a minister than one of our own.’
‘BIFFO?’ asked the baroness, who was frowning with concentration.
‘Saving your presence, mam, a BIFFO is a Big Ignorant Fucker From Offaly.’
He sighed. ‘So we have to live with the potholes. Mind you, I’d say at the next election we’ll get our revenge. Isn’t Bandy Corcoran intending to stand as a candidate on the holes issue and won’t he trounce the rest of them?’
‘I know my grasp of Irish politics is slimmish,’ said the baroness, ‘but is it really possible to win parliamentary elections over an issue like potholes?’
‘Sure, missus,’ said the waiter, ‘isn’t one of the democratic joys of this country and our PR* system that you can win an election on anything as long as you’re not up against a widda?’
‘A widda?’
‘Or a son. Or a daughter. You know, someone entitled to inherit the seat.’ He looked at her kindly. ‘It’s all a bit beyond you, isn’t it? But it’d take a good while to explain and I’ve work to do. You’ll pick it all up eventually with the help o’ God.’ He collected their plates, smiled and exited.
Amiss looked at the baroness, who was in a reverie. ‘Do you get the feeling that we’ve a lot to learn?’
She shook her head. ‘Not fundamentally, I think. Just the small print. The fact is that Paddies are always up to sharp practices.’ She smacked her lips. ‘Enough of that. If my sources are accurate we’re about to have the best wild duck in these two islands.’ She raised her glass of Sancerre. ‘I’ve feeling that our Irish trip will continue to be memorable.’
Chapter Four
Cullally Hall was a Georgian gem.
‘Satisfactory?’ asked the baroness as the porter carried their bags up the staircase.
‘Wonderful.’
‘I felt I owed you something good after last night. Now, sort yourself out and we’ll meet in the bar in an hour. You’ll have time for a bath.’
The porter delivered Amiss to a room full of rugs and prints and comfortable chairs. ‘You can plug your modem in there, sir.’
Amiss tipped him, disinterred his laptop, plugged it in, dialled up his e-mail connection and waited in trepidation.
***
‘One hundred and twenty-nine bloody messages! One hundred and fucking twenty-nine!’
‘I’m not surprised you’re late. You should have just ignored them. Have a drink.’ She summoned the bartender. ‘He needs champagne.’
‘Do I?’
‘Judging by your face you do. What’s up?’
‘I won’t weary you with all the cancellations and changes except to tell you that this conference seems doomed to complete pointlessness. The southern Irish are melting away like flies on the dimmest excuses, the English are sending ever fewer and more junior representatives and all the big political names are sending substitutes. I knew I should have stayed in London.’
‘What could you have done?’
He shrugged. ‘Nothing, I suppose. But I could have tried.’
‘Here’s the champagne. Drown your sorrows.’
Amiss took a grateful sip. ‘But there’s worse.’
‘More MOPEery?’
‘Yup.’
‘What do they want this time?’
‘It’s not so much what they want. It’s what they’ve got.’
‘From your obliging friends Crispin and Roddy, no doubt?’
‘From everyone, really. Judging by the correspondence I’ve been copied, at every stage there was a little token resistance and then the British and Irish officials took it in turns to cave in first.’
She drained her glass, grabbed the bottle from the ice-bucket and refilled both of their glasses. ‘So what have they got?’
‘A wheelchair.’
‘Are they bringing a cripple? And if so, why doesn’t he bring his own wheelchair?’
‘They said one of their number might need one. Hence the ramps, which the hotel is hastily installing even as we speak.’
She shrugged. ‘Is that it?’
‘No. There’s been a big problem in finding someone to do sign language.’
‘They’re bringing someone deaf?’
‘They might. The problem arises because the signer has to be bilingual.’
The baroness emptied her glass in one draught. ‘Fuck them. Let’s get pissed.’
***
‘Well, despite one spartan night, the abortive picnic and all that rain yesterday, Ireland has done us proud,’ said the baroness the next afternoon, as she drove towards a glorious sunset.
‘Mmmmm,’ said Amiss contentedly. ‘That was a wonderful hotel. Breakfast was even better than dinner. And lunch surpassed the two. The deprivations chez Lavinia and Grace are but a sweet, sad memory. Thank you. You’ve made amends for some of your misdeeds. And it’s a pleasure to be driven by you when you’re constrained by potholes.’
She wasn’t listening. ‘I’m looking forward to Moycoole Castle, anyway. Haven’t seen it for thirty years, but still remember it vividly as a…’ She interrupted herself. ‘Ha! We must have crossed another boundary into t
he constituency of a cabinet minister.’ She put her foot down hard and the car tore along the winding road. The sickening lurch that brought Amiss to near panic was caused by her slamming on the brakes just in time to avoid careering into a procession of cows.
‘Jack, will you for God’s sake please come to terms with the fact that we are in the country.’
She was slightly abashed. ‘Oh, all right, then. Perhaps I’ve been living too urban a life of late. Very well, I’ll surrender to the rhythm of the Celtic twilight.’
They crawled along behind the cows at one mile an hour. A relapse by the baroness into exhortations and impatience brought her to within a foot of the nearest cow, who repaid her by stopping suddenly, lifting her tail and depositing a messy substance on the bonnet. ‘Serves you right, Jack. Now we’re going to pong all the way to the castle.’
This episode had restored her to complete good humour. ‘Good old girl. I’d have done the same in her place. Besides I like the smell of cow dung. It’s natural.’
As the cows turned right, their guardian appeared and stood by the window, which she wound down. ‘Good evening.’
‘How are you, missus? And isn’t it a grand evening entirely?’
‘Indeed it is. And that’s a fine herd you have there.’
‘Ah they’re not the worst. And I see one of them has given you a little welcoming present. Sure, she must have taken a fancy to you. And why wouldn’t she?’
‘I feel very honoured,’ she said solemnly.
‘And where might ye be off to? Ye’re not from around here. Ye’ll be from London, I expect.’
‘More or less. We’re off to Moycoole Castle.’
‘Oh, is that right? Taking the son on holiday, are you? Or is he taking the mammy?’
‘That’s not my son, my good man. He’s my lover.’ The ancient gazed with interest at Amiss, who managed to keep his expression impassive as he stared straight ahead of him.
‘Is that right now? Well, now sure, I shouldn’t be surprised. Aren’t you the fine figure of a woman and aren’t they up to everything in London? Not that they aren’t up to it here too mind you. I could tell you a tale or two. Still, I’d better be getting the cows milked. Now I’ll be saying good evening to ye and God bless. I hope ye enjoy yeerselves at the castle.’
Out of the corner of his eye Amiss saw the baroness directing a broad wink at the cattle driver. ‘We will indeed,’ she said roguishly. ‘It’s not often we get away for a romantic weekend.’
‘Ah now, sure, wasn’t a lady like yourself made for romance. I’d say it’ll be a weekend to remember.’ And with an attempt at a bow, he set off after his cattle.
‘You two should be off for the romantic weekend,’ said Amiss. ‘A match made in heaven if you ask me. A pair of ham actors delivering themselves of unparalleled bullshit.’
‘When in Rome…’ She cackled happily as she put the car into gear.
***
The wind had risen and heavy rain began to fall by the time they reached a signpost saying ‘Moycoole Castle, 1 km.’
‘Now, I know you’re a complete philistine, but you’re to pay attention to this. And it’s good that you’ll be seeing it in proper Mayo weather. That sunshine was an aberration.
‘What we’re about to see is one of the finest examples of Norman castle-building in the two islands. Can’t say that I approve of such places being made into hotels, but I’ve been assured the whole effect is dazzling. Ah, here we are.’
She turned into a broad driveway, which after a few hundred yards opened out into a wide paved area. She braked and they surveyed Moycoole Castle in all its spotlit glory.
‘Jesus Christ,’ she said. ‘The barbarians have taken over.’
Amiss contemplated the pink monstrosity that confronted them.
‘Charming, Jack. Utterly charming. Your taste is impeccable. I particularly like the wings. What an interesting mixture of styles.’
‘Vandals! Vandals!’
‘You feel it’s a bit ersatz?’
‘Ersatz? Ersatz? This isn’t ersatz. This is pure fucking desecration. They’ve stuccoed the castle and built on what look like Texan ranches.’
‘Thatched Texan ranches. Sort of Hiberno-Dallas. And my, my, aren’t the hanging baskets on the drawbridge an attractive feature?’
‘I’m tempted to turn the car round and go home to Cambridge as a mark of aesthetic protest,’ she grumbled, as she drove over the drawbridge. ‘Look at that. A rose garden in the moat, for God’s sake.’ She peered further into the gloom. ‘However, it’s still pissing down, so I fear the thought of a whiskey-and-soda militates against such principled action.’
***
‘It’s comfortable, anyhow,’ said Amiss soothingly. ‘The decor may be awful, but at least the plumbing works. Now, do you want to know the latest? What the DUPEs have done? Not to speak about Wyn’s musings about alternative modes of transport?’
‘No, no, no, no, no. I can’t think of anything now except this. It’s OK for you. You’re a philistine.’
‘Even a philistine gets a nasty shock when he finds his bedroom is called “Darby O’Gill’s Hideaway.” What’s yours?’
‘“The Fairy Fucking Glen.”’ She jabbed her finger towards the fire. ‘Look at it. An original Norman fireplace and they add a fake Adam mantelpiece.’
‘But don’t you like that heart-warming picture of merry peasants dancing at a crossroads?’
She threw him a withering glance.
‘You’re perilously close to losing your sense of humour, Jack.’
The only response was a growl.
‘Try to be positive. At least it’s a turf fire.’
‘It is not. It’s gas. The turf is simulated.’
‘Nonsense. That’s a basket of turf there beside the grate.’
‘That’s there for effect. I’ll tell you it’s gas. Look for a gas-pipe.’
He walked over and inspected. ‘You win.’ He sat down again and took a sip of gin-and-tonic. ‘You noted the plastic suits of armour?’
‘And the stuffed wolfhounds.’
‘And the round-tower motif on the curtains.’
‘And the Celtic motifs on the carpets.’
‘And the names on the lavatories.’
She growled again. ‘I don’t think I want to hear, but I’d hazard a guess: Leprechauns and leprechaunesses?’
‘Knights and Ladies.’
‘Order me another drink. And tell the barman to turn off that appalling music. Muzac is an abomination at the best of times, but when it’s bogusly ethnic it’s even worse.’ Her face twisted in pain as the sound of a distant pipe and a lamenting female voice came closer. ‘What is this? Sounds like a cross between a dirge and a pissed-off banshee.’
Amiss caught the barman’s eye and beckoned. ‘That’s not a dirge. It’s supposed to be haunting and spiritual and it’s highly fashionable. You need to grasp, Jack, that Celts are in. Celts are even cool. What you’re listening to there is a pop promoter’s musical portrayal of Celtic mysticism.’
‘It sounds like a dirge to me.’
‘You need to see it in context. Try to imagine…’ He sighed. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Riverdance.’
‘You imagine correctly.’
‘Try to imagine a stage full of short-skirted Irish beauties, male and female, whose Irish jigs are alternated with eerie music and long-haired pale-faced sopranos singing of priestesses and lost loves in a romantic mythological past. That’s what this music is supposed to conjure up.’
‘Load of bollocks. I know about Irish dancing. Saw it in my youth. Properly done, it’s as mystical as my bottom.’ She snorted. ‘In its true form, before they invented all this Celtic codology, what happened was that in a pub or at a céilí, an old man full of stout would leap to his feet when the sound of the fiddle began to drive him wild and dancing alone and spontaneously, he would jig on till he collapsed with exhaustion. Apart from set-dancing, which is a different matter, authent
ic Irish dancing is about sexlessness. That’s why in its purest form it’s solitary, grim-faced and no part of the body is moved other than the legs. It has nothing to do with pretty girls showing their knickers in public.’
She paused. ‘Not that I’m opposed to pretty girls displaying their knickers anywhere, you understand. But not in the guise of culture. Now get that crap turned off.’
‘Are ye not fond of music then?’ asked the barman, who had materialized in time to overhear her final sentence.
‘I’m extremely fond of music. That’s the problem.’
‘Oh real music, do y’mean? Like classical?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Oh, fair enough so. I’d say this stuff could be torture if ye really liked music. Don’t you worry. I’ll have it off in a flash. And I’ll get ye the same again, will I?’
They nodded.
‘Anyway,’ he added as he turned away, ‘it’s time for Imelda to play the harp.’
Amiss tried not to look as appalled as he felt. The baroness, on the other hand, let out a roar of pain.
‘Oh, God. It needed only that. I think I’d prefer the muzak.’
‘Have you anything in particular against harp music? Or is it just general prejudice?’ asked Amiss. ‘Not that I’m disagreeing with you.’
‘It’s boring and pretentious and the audience always feels it has to look soulful.’
Amiss looked towards the door. ‘Imelda’s coming in now. Young and pretty, from what I can see.’
‘Hah. I bet she’s wearing her hair soft and loose, it’s red or black and she’s sporting a flowing gown of satin or velvet in green or blue. If I’m wrong, Celtic central casting isn’t what it used to be.’
‘You’re right. Red and green respectively. But still, she is definitely pretty.’
The baroness turned around and looked the harpist up and down. ‘I see what you mean.’ Imelda ran her hands over the strings and then addressed the drinkers in a soft, mellifluous voice. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, ’tis a wonderful privilege for me to be having the chance to play to you as the ancient harpists played to our kings and queens in the glorious days when Celtic civilization was the envy of all who knew of it, when ours was an island of saints and scholars and the world was young. Here’s a song about a boy and a girl, separated by fate but brought together again through the power of love.’
Anglo-Irish Murders Page 4