Anglo-Irish Murders

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘Good,’ shouted Kelly-Mae. ‘Piddy they weren’t all run out of the country.’

  As the baroness rose threateningly, Laochraí intervened. ‘That was out of order, Kelly-Mae. We have to be inclusive.’

  The baroness looked at her in amazement. ‘Blimey, I didn’t expect you to talk sense. Now continue, Professor Reilly. And if that woman interrupts again she will be thrown out. Freedom of speech is not an inalienable right when I’m in charge.’

  Reilly pressed on vigorously with an increasingly impassioned denunciation of the Anglophobia, rampant Romanism, hypocrisy, corruption, infantilism and necrophiliac aspects of the Irish state. ‘We’ve reached adolescence,’ he concluded, ‘but the MOPE tendency remains in the kindergarten, playing with dangerous toys.’

  The applause was even more uneven this time. The baroness clapped enthusiastically. She looked down at a piece of paper and read ‘Gorrymeeleemahagat. For those of you who don’t know,’ she announced proudly, ‘that means, “Thank you very much.”’ She turned to the minister. ‘I’ll master the coopla fuckill yet, Packie,’ she added gaily. ‘But you’d better learn to spout Kipling as a quid pro quo. You could start with “While the Celt is talking from Valencia to Kirkwall, The English—ah, the English!—don’t say anything at all.”’

  ‘Hardly applies to you,’ said the minister jovially.

  ‘Exception that proves the rule, Packie.’

  She looked down the table at Reilly. ‘That was most illuminating, Professor Reilly.’ Ignoring the hands that had shot up in the MOPE corner, she added, ‘Now I know we were to have had some questions, but since both speakers talked twice as long as they were asked to, we’ll adjourn immediately to the bar.’

  As the crowd surged out, Amiss asked the minister’s secretary to excuse him for a moment, caught up with the baroness and pulled her aside. ‘Jack, you’ve to stop being partisan.’

  ‘Why should I? I am partisan. I haven’t been a bloody civil servant for a long time now. I feel gloriously, irresponsibly free.’

  ‘But you complained about Barry being partisan.’

  ‘That’s because he was partisan on the wrong side.’

  ‘You’re being very unfair. Barry, MOPE and the Irish have a perfectly legitimate complaint against you.’

  ‘Nonsense, Robert. Absolute balls. I absolutely refuse to treat indecent people as well as the decent.’ She grinned. ‘So there. Now I’m going back to my raven-haired beauty.’

  A great deal of wine had been consumed during dinner, and the bar buzzed with mostly merry chatter. While it was clear that people were tending to stick to their own kind, there was a certain amount of unexpected mingling. Amiss was surprised by the pairings of Kapur and Okinawa, Steeples and Wyn Gruffudd, and O’Farrell and the newly-arrived Pooley, as well as by the sight of Barry and Reilly, who were both drinking large whiskies, in deep and amicable conversation with the minister. Indeed Amiss heard them all laughing loudly at Barry’s observation that of course revisionists believed that the victims of the Famine had all died of anorexia nervosa.

  A sense of duty led Amiss to chat politely to several of the participants, particularly the signer, Joe, who announced his intention of getting drunk and trying to forget about everything. The baroness was afflicted by no inhibitions about indulging herself, so she stayed by Aisling’s side throughout. By midnight, though, Amiss was in a corner gossiping happily with Siobhán, so it was therefore with intense irritation that he heard a violent altercation begin at the other side of the room. The source of the noise turned out to be Barry and Reilly, who were shouting abuse at each other. Insofar as Amiss could hear what they were saying, Barry’s allegations appeared to be that it was well known that Reilly’s grandfather had taken the King’s shilling and that his father had been a turncoat and a traitor during the civil war. This Reilly countered by saying that Barry’s father had been responsible for blowing up a whole convoy of Free State soldiers. ‘Pity they didn’t get more of those fucking Blueshirts*,’ cried Barry, which caused Reilly to denounce him as a thug and a life-long IRA groupie. ‘And why not?’ screamed Barry. ‘It’s better than being a sycophant and a lickspittle to the British establishment,’ at which moment Reilly’s fist connected with his head. Within seconds the two were slugging it out unsteadily.

  ‘Bare-knuckle fighting,’ said Siobhán. ‘It’s supposed to be all the rage in America these days.’

  Their fight was short-lived. With the help of Steeples and Pooley, Amiss pulled the protagonists apart before they could do any real damage, only for both of them to turn on their saviours. Amiss was denounced as ‘a fucking Brit’ by Barry and Steeples as ‘a fucking unionist’ by Reilly. Since neither of them knew anything about Pooley, he missed out on any insults.

  ‘Why would a revisionist call anyone “a fucking unionist?”’ asked Amiss of Siobhán, as they watched the pair being calmed by the minister. ‘Don’t they usually take their side?’

  ‘Because when the Irish get pissed,’ explained Siobhán, ‘which we frequently do, we all turn into nationalists. It’s in our blood.’

  ‘It’s tribalism,’ said Steeples. ‘It’s bred into us, like bulls.’

  The baroness came over with Aisling. She looked pleased. ‘Things are livening up. That’s certainly got things off to a good start. Pity you didn’t let them go on longer.’

  Amiss cast her a withering look and took Siobhán back to their corner.

  ***

  ‘I want to apologize to you, Lady Troutbeck, for that appalling scene.’

  The baroness, who was listening intently to Aisling, looked up crossly. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m from the Irish Department of Culture. Theo Mathew is my name. And, as I say, I’m heartily sorry that this disgraceful scene has occurred. I wouldn’t want you to run away with the impression that Irish people normally behave like this.’

  ‘Like what? You mean getting drunk and fighting? I thought they did it all the time.’

  ‘I understand the purpose of this conference, Lady Troutbeck, is to show that these stereotypes are mistaken and outdated.’

  She chortled loudly. ‘Wishful thinking won’t conceal the fact that there’s always a lot of truth in stereotypes. And if that’s what you’re trying to do with this conference, your advisers have certainly gone about it in a funny way. Anyway I don’t mind that the Irish drink and fight. I’m always in favour of people doing what they’re good at. I’m a libertarian.’

  Mathew looked shocked. ‘I wouldn’t know about that, Lady Troutbeck. Myself, I’m in favour of liberty, not license.’

  ‘How pious.’

  ‘I should tell you for the record, your ladyship, that the reputation the Irish have for drinking is most unfair. If you look at the statistics you’ll find we drink less per head than the majority of the countries in the EU.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Indeed I am not. I’m only telling you the honest God’s truth. We’re a much maligned people and I would hope that this is a point that will be made and made forcibly during the next few days.’

  ‘You’ll have plenty of opportunity to do that, won’t you?’

  He looked at her shiftily. ‘Alas, your ladyship, much to my regret, that will not be possible.’

  ‘You’re leaving already?’

  ‘With great sadness, I assure you. But a crisis has arisen in the department. They need me and so I must go. Worse, I have just heard that the minister too has been called away. Still, every cloud has a silver lining and this does at least mean that I’ll have a lift back to Dublin.’ He smirked at her. ‘We must count our blessings.’

  The baroness stared at him. He made a slight bow. ‘I’ll make my farewells now, Lady Troutbeck. I’m very sorry to go, but I’m sure that in your capable hands the conference will be a tremendous contribution to harmonious relationships between our peoples. I wish you every success.’

  ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘you can’t just drop out like that. We’re already short of
several delegates.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of just dropping out. I’ve already made arrangements for a substitute. A most experienced man will take my place.’

  The baroness stormed over to Amiss and brutally interrupted his tête-à-tête. ‘That little creep Theo something-or-other’s leaving.’ She jerked her head towards Siobhán. ‘And your creep’s leaving as well.’

  Siobhán’s grin almost split her face in two. ‘Really? That’s surprising.’

  The baroness looked grim. ‘I hear the noise of scuttling rats abandoning ship.’

  ‘Look on the bright side,’ said Siobhán. ‘You have to be better off without that craw-thumping little kill-joy with his pioneer pin and his rosary and his daily mass and his first Fridays and his scapulars and his novenas and his…’

  ‘Calm yourself, girl. What’s all this about?’

  ‘Theo is a throwback to what we don’t have many of any more but what used to be known as Holy Joes who lived lives of conspicuous virtue which they liked to ram down everyone’s throat at all times under a cloak of supposed humility.’

  ‘Uriah O’Heeps?’

  ‘Saint Uriah O’Heeps.’

  ‘What’s all this baloney he was telling me about the Irish drinking less than any other European nation?’

  Siobhán gurgled throatily in a way that Amiss found overwhelmingly attractive. ‘That’s one of our great Irish lies. It is of course true, yet it is not true.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘We drink less than other countries because half of us don’t drink at all. The rest of us make up for it. So the drinkers drink more than anyone else in Europe but the semblance of moderation is there for statistic-massaging. Courtesy of Pioneers like yer man.’

  ‘Pioneers?’

  ‘Didn’t you see that little badge in his lapel?’

  ‘I thought it was something religious. Didn’t it have a bleeding heart or something?’

  ‘It’s the symbol of the Pioneer total abstinence movement—which is indeed Catholic.’

  ‘So that’s what it is. I saw it the other day on a barman in Sligo.’

  ‘You see it on a lot of barmen. Pretty rational, really.’

  ‘Isn’t it hypocritical to sell drink if you disapprove of it yourself?’ asked Amiss. ‘Rather like being a celibate brothel-keeper.’

  ‘Why are you English so keen on consistency? We regard our inconsistency as part of our charm.’

  She gurgled again. ‘Anyway, you’re much better off without Old Mother Mathew. He’d have driven you mad. And from what I’ve seen there’s plenty to drive you mad as it is. Whoever you get in his place has to be an improvement. Forget about him. He’s only an ould fossil.’

  Amiss eyed the baroness. ‘In that case, surely you should be cherishing him, Jack. He’s part of Irish tradition. The kind of throwback you love so well.’

  ‘I’ll cherish what I like,’ she said petulantly, and marched back to Aisling.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Sweet suffering Jesus, Robert.’ Philomena was quivering with rage.

  ‘What’s the matter, Philomena?’

  ‘It’s that fat whinge of an American. I’ve a litany of complaints from her that you wouldn’t get from a reverend mother kidnapped into a hoorhouse.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Well, she comes down to breakfast and looks at the menu with a face on her like a wet Good Friday in Leitrim. “What would you like, madam?” says I. “Bagels, cream cheese and a Danish, with a strawberry milkshake on the side,” says she. So as it happens, knowing the ways of Americans, we have some of that muck available. But when I brings it to her she says, “Is the bagel fat-free and the cream cheese lite?” And I says, “I don’t think so.” “And the milk for the milkshake,” she says. “What about that?” “I can do you semi-skimmed, madam,” says I. “That’s useless,” says she. “It’s fattening.”’

  Philomena placed her hands on her ample hips. ‘To tell you the truth, it was too much for me. I looks at the cow and says, “Tell you what, missus, if you’re that worried about being fat you’d be better advised to start the day with a jog than a Danish.” She got as mad as a wet hen.’

  ‘I’ll back you up if there’s any trouble, Philomena.’

  ‘I’ll let you know. I’ll tell you what though, I wouldn’t be in your shoes if Jesus, Mary and the good Joseph went down on their knees and begged me to. I heard about the fighting last night. You’ve got a right shower there.’

  ***

  ‘OK, let’s do a tally, you two,’ said the baroness. ‘How many were we supposed to have and how many have we actually got?’

  ‘Originally we were supposed to have thirty, of whom at least twenty were to be from the island of Ireland, representing every shade of nationalist and unionist culture. What was it we were promised, Simon? People of the highest quality, by-words for cultural achievement, rooted firmly in their tradition, yet cultivated and open and generous to other cultures.’

  ‘I did warn you, Robert.’

  ‘Indeed you did. But remember there was just you on the one hand, sounding cynical, while on the other were Crispin—and even more so, Roddy McCorley and co—telling me of a glittering line-up of prize-winning poets, artists and even—at one stage—the likelihood of an opening address from Seamus Heaney.’ He clapped his hand to his brow. ‘Crispin even told me the Poet Laureate wanted to become involved and make the conference a focus for a new poem on the changing face of these islands.’

  The baroness was looking impatient. ‘We know all this. Don’t know why you’re going over old ground again. They caved into the politicos. Surprise. Conference attendance got into the hands of the cultural committees. Surprise surprise. So we’re left with cultural fundamentalists, freebie-lovers, the press-ganged and assorted other tossers. Now talk numbers. What are we down to?’

  Amiss began to count on his fingers. ‘Two from the south—Sean O’Farrell, who is here in a sort of half-hearted liaison role with Dublin and someone who has not yet arrived who will replace Theo Mathew. Billy Pratt and Willie Hughes, who represent the different cultural aspirations of two different loyalist paramilitary groups.’

  ‘Isn’t Hughes a Catholic name?’ asked the baroness.

  ‘They’re all intermingled,’ said Gibson. ‘Gerry Adams’ surname is English, John Hume’s is Scottish and one of the most vicious loyalist murderers was called Murphy. Usually having a name from the wrong tribe makes them even more fanatical.’

  ‘OK. That’s four, assuming the Little-Nelly-of-Holy-God substitute turns up.’

  ‘Mainstream Northern Ireland nationalists aren’t turning up at all,’ said Amiss, ‘and, I may say, only bothered to tell me they had so decided when pursued for an answer.’

  ‘But that’s because they had been beaten into submission on the cultural committee by MOPE, who in the end grabbed three places,’ said Gibson.

  ‘Not that that’s an excuse for wimping out,’ said the baroness. ‘All right, that’s Lucrezia, the fat and turbulent priest and the other fella, Liam Macwhateveritis.’

  ‘Speaking of which, Jack,’ said Gibson. ‘Do you know what Liam MacPhrait is in English?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘William Pratt.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yep. He and Billy have the same name.’

  ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘I know my assumption has been that they use Irish names to upset people, but I can’t say I blame him. I’d rather be called Liam MacPhrait than Billy Pratt any day of the week. Any more surprises?’

  ‘Laochraí de Búrca is Lucy Burke. Laochraí is a completely bogus hibernicisation of something unhibernicisable.’

  ‘Can we get on?’ asked Amiss. ‘We haven’t much time. Eight, with Hamish Wallace from Scotland…’

  ‘That funny-looking hairy creature who looks like a refugee from the Highland games?’

  ‘Yes. And I still don’t know who chose him. Any more than I know who chose that garrulous Welshwoman, Wyn Gr
uffudd, who makes it up to nine.’

  ‘And don’t ask me anything about the English late substitute either,’ said Gibson. ‘All I know is that instead of three high-level delegates, we’ve got Charles Taylor, who is supposed to be some kind of cultural commentator, goes to the Wexford opera festival and…’ He assumed an exaggeratedly upper-class accent, ‘…absolutely larvvves the Irish.’

  ‘Ten,’ said Amiss.

  ‘Where are the Ulster Prods?’ asked the baroness.

  ‘We’ve Pratt and Hughes.’

  ‘You know what I mean. I mean proper Prods. Decent unionists who support the state and don’t kill people.’

  ‘None of them would come except Gardiner Steeples, who is here as an Orangeman and wishes he’d stayed home.’

  ‘Talk about the dreary steeples of Fermanagh and Tyrone,’ snorted the baroness.

  ‘Eleven,’ said Amiss.

  ‘Representatives of Anglo-Irish culture? Southern Prods?’

  ‘Nope. Pulled out at the last minute pleading a sick headache or something equally convincing,’ said Gibson. ‘They’re terrified of MOPE, so they must have got wind of what was happening.’

  ‘Still, we’ve got various academics lined up,’ said Amiss. ‘They’ll have opinions.’

  ‘They’re only coming to perform,’ said Gibson. ‘They’ll all bugger off like Barry and Reilly did this morning and like McGuinness would have done if Jack hadn’t sent him off in a rage last night. The only reason academics haven’t pulled out completely is they don’t want to get in the bad books of Dublin or London.’

  ‘So they don’t count,’ said Amiss. ‘But then of course we have Kelly-Mae O’Hara, Tomiichi Okinawa, your mate Chandra Kapur and Rollo Pooley.’

  ‘Eleven participants, four observers and us.’

  ‘I can tell you the hotel isn’t too pleased,’ said Gibson. ‘It can sleep fifty and as a special concession had agreed to close to outsiders. And even though they’ll be paid a flat rate regardless of how many cancel, they’re going to lose out in bar receipts and so on.’