Exit Unicorns

by Cindy Brandner

  “Change for the sake of rich man’s banter? You’d have a hard time selling that notion to your average voter in the streets.”

  “It’s only the orthodox who are afraid of change, Reverend,” Jamie said mildly.

  “And it’s only the radicals who embrace change without questioning its long-term consequences.”

  “At least,” Jamie replied, pausing to put more ice in his drink, “embracing requires action.”

  “As you said yourself, Lord Kirkpatrick, touché. Tell me though, are you willing then to embrace a new Ireland of jerrybuilt houses and glass monstrosities, of people—poor people—living in stacked-up housing on the fringes of this new moneyed society?”

  “Have a care for the poor, Reverend and how you use them as a figure of speech. If you take my father’s old seat in Parliament these people will be your concern, all flesh and blood, all with lives and hopes, fears and dreams. How do you propose to de-marginalize the poor, bearing well in mind, of course, that the vast majority of them are Catholic? Will you bring the Catholic ghetto inside the walled bastion of old line Protestantism? Will you sit down to tea in the Ardoyne? Will you break bread with the priests and kiss the ring of the Cardinals? Be wary in your use of the poor, if you make promises, they’ll watch to see that you keep them.” All this was said lightly, almost blithely as if he were discussing the mating habits of butterflies or some other contrary creature.

  Across the room though, looking through the soft evening light, a flurry of sprightly violin notes reaching their apex around her ears, Pamela watched and listened and heard the discordant notes in his speech. The strain of the evening was beginning, however faintly, to show. And knew if she had sensed it so had the Reverend.

  As apparently, for all his bluff and hearty posturing, had the Duke for he carefully turned the tables.

  “James tells me you’ve a few opinions about my factories that you’d like to share, Miss O’Flaherty.”

  Pamela swallowed and shooting a glare in Jamie’s general direction said, “Did he?”

  “He did,” the Duke replied dryly but with an encouraging smile. “Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to come and sit by Edyth and I and tell me what these opinions are.”

  After pouring herself a tumbler of whiskey for courage she sat near the Duke which put her in range of Jamie and the Reverend. She marshaled her thoughts and avoided the amused green of Jamie’s gaze.

  “Perhaps first you’ll tell me what’s wrong with my factories.”

  She took a deep breath and smoothing the brown fabric across her knees with a sweaty palm plunged in headfirst.

  “Well to begin with they’re antiquated, the machinery dates back to the last century. The safety record is abominable; there’s been seven serious life-altering injuries in the last year alone. You’re in violation of at least sixteen different city ordinances that I can think of and the pay scale isn’t even seventy percent of the European average for similar industry. Benefits are close to non-existent, and the take-home pay is only enough to exist on, not enough,” she turned and met Jamie’s eyes, he nodded in encouragement and she faced the Duke again, “to dream on,” she finished in a rush of breath.

  The Duke eyed her for a moment, a hard light in his eyes. “You’ve done your homework, I can admire that but what exactly do you know of these people that work for me, Miss O’Flaherty? Or are they statistics on a sheet to you?”

  “I think I could relax better Your Grace if you’d call me Pamela.”

  “Then I think it would be best if you left off with the ‘your grace’ bit my dear.”

  “Deal,” she smiled shakily. “I live in the Ardoyne. It’s only recently become my neighborhood but some things don’t take an entire lifetime to understand. There’s a surfeit of hope wherever there’s a lack of employment, surely anyone can see that. Still, people shouldn’t have to feel fortunate to have any job, regardless of the meager pay and medieval working conditions.”

  The Duke raised his eyebrows.

  “Alright,” she acquiesced, “I’ll take back the medieval, but really you need to go into those factories, talk to the workers, see them as people with families, with needs and wants. With faces.”

  “You’ve taken a socialist under your wing here, Jamie,” the Duke said but the words were spoken warmly and his wife patted his knee approvingly.

  “I’ve been called worse,” Pamela said.

  “Will you come with me then, if I go meet the people as you suggest, will you come along as a liaison? A link between neighborhoods so to speak, between the red bricks of Knockdean Park and the ones of Shankill Road.”

  “I would, but I am as much of an outsider as yourself Your—”

  “Percy my dear,” the Duke’s wife said warmly, “his given name is Percy and it’s not used often enough.”

  “Percy,” Pamela amended. “I know someone who does belong to the neighborhood, who understands the lay of the land, someone that the people would trust. If he went with you it would be taken as a show of good faith.”

  “Who is this person?”

  “His name is Pat Riordan,” she said and took a nervous gulp of her whiskey.

  “A name,” the Duke said dryly, “I’ve heard once or twice of late.” He eyed her shrewdly, “And if it’s not too impertinent may I ask how you are acquainted with this man?”

  “I share a home with him and his brother.”

  “I see,” the Duke said and she could see he was taking her measure, weighing her words and the reasons he had to listen to her advice. It was possible that he’d disapprove of her bringing Pat into the situation.

  “Right then, young lady you’ve presented your case and I’ve listened. But that’s all just words isn’t it? You bring this young man,” he gave a wry smile, “to my offices on Monday morning first thing and we’ll see what there is to be done.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The Duke turned then to speak to the man on his right who worked with the Trades and Commissions Bureau. His wife patted Pamela’s hand, “You did a good job there dear; he really listened to you. Most brave, all things considered.” She shot a stern look over Pamela’s head at Jamie.

  “Riordan is a name,” the Reverend cleared his throat, “rather famous in Republican circles, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a common enough name,” Jamie said lightly, saving her the expense of answering.

  “It’s only that someone in the public light has to be careful how far out into the fringe elements they venture, wouldn’t you agree, Lord Kirkpatrick?”

  “One should always be careful when they stray out of their own element and when they do would be wise to remember they may not understand the rules by which this other world is ruled. Being on the road doesn’t necessarily mean you know where it leads.”

  “You’re being rather cryptic, even for you, James,” the Duke said his attention turned back to the two men.

  “Oh not at all,” Lucien said a benevolent smile on his lips, “Lord Kirkpatrick puts me in mind of an old Chinese tale wherein the Emperor is tricked into believing he’s merely visiting a friendly home when really he’s being borne across the ocean toward the enemy. A stratagem I believe it’s called, a military maneuver designed to obscure the true purpose or design of something. Am I right, Lord Kirkpatrick?”

  The pale eyes met and locked with the hectically green ones.

  “Smoke and mirrors, Reverend Broughton, so much in this world is smoke and mirrors,” Jamie said prolonging his stare until the Reverend blinked.

  “Indeed,” Lucien murmured, “the appearance of a thing is rarely ever the true nature of the thing at all, is it? As you say, Lord Kirkpatrick, smoke and mirrors. And on that note, I believe I must take my leave of you. I thank you for a most pleasant and enlightening evening.”

  “I hope you didn’t take offense to any of our differing opinions,
” Jamie said, all polite charm.

  “Certainly not, I always enjoy matching wits with someone of similar intelligence. Again thank you for your hospitality, no you needn’t walk me to the door, I know the way. You must attend to your other guests.”

  “Indeed I must,” Jamie rose, all fluid grace and control. Pamela hoped she was alone in noticing the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. The sparring had gone on too long; the façade was maintaining itself on borrowed time as it was.

  The Duke, casting a quick eye over Jamie himself, announced in loud tones that he too must take his leave as the hour was reaching unholy climes. Following suit, as indeed the Duke had intended they should, the rest of the company departed with effusive thanks and murmured invitations to their own homes.

  Pamela retrieved the Duke and his wife’s coats herself, taking the opportunity to thank them for their time and consideration in listening.

  The Duke paused in the doorway, as his Bentley slid smoothly round on the graveled drive. “Knew a chap named O’Flaherty, damned good businessman, American, well transplanted Irishman actually, any relation to you?”

  “No, I’m afraid not, it’s a common enough name, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” he met her eyes in understanding, “you look rather a lot like him, funny world isn’t it?”

  “It is that.”

  Closing the door behind the Duke, she leaned against it in relief, exhaustion running into her full tilt.

  “Well,” she said sensing Jamie’s presence behind her, “who won that round the Christians or the lions?”

  “I’m afraid it was overall a bit of a draw, though we may have to award him the opening gambit.” His voice was grim.

  “What’s wrong Jamie?” she turned seeking his face in the shadows.

  “He’s been here before and the worrisome thing is he wanted me to know it.”

  She strained the evening’s conversations back and forth in her mind, “Are you certain?”

  “Oh yes, I’m certain. He made a comment about the scent of white lilacs and how heady they’d been in the spring. It was out of context and very pointed. He was here in the spring, or someone who works for him was and he wanted to be certain that I knew it. The question of course is why?”

  “Too many questions and not enough answers. Are you alright, Jamie?” For he had slumped without warning against the wall.

  “Fine, too much wine and not enough water I’m afraid.”

  “Are you drunk?” she asked, guiding him up toward the stairs.

  “There’s no need to insult my dear,” he replied, “twelve drams of whiskey, four firkins of ale and a vat of wine only lend a mellow sweetness to my spirit.”

  “You are drunk,” she said opening the door to his bedroom and standing aside so he could enter unimpeded.

  “I can hear all the hallowed generations of Kirkpatricks whirligigging in their Hebridean graves at the thought,” he sighed extravagantly, and flopped with a certain elegance onto his bed, managing to kick his shoes off in the process.

  “It’s only that you don’t look well,” she said.

  “Please you’ll make me blush flinging all these compliments around.”

  “Can I do anything for you before I leave?”

  “Stir up the fire, tie me down in silk pajamas, blush, dimple and perhaps throw in a seduction just for old time’s sake, all or any of the above and in whatever order you prefer.”

  “Chivalrous of you.” She moved about the room lightly, smooring the fire, opening the window a crack, setting a glass of cool water where Jamie could reach it. Then stopped at the foot of the bed, eyes watering, “What on earth is that smell?” She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the strangely acrid smell that had, without warning, filled the room.

  “The sweet scent of cows in hell,” Jamie murmured, head bright as a new penny against the shadow of his pillows.

  “What?”

  “I think you’ll find that you’ve thrown my shoe into the fire,” he said.

  “Oh heavens so I have,” she looked in consternation at the merrily crackling shoe. “Well the shoe’s a loss I’m afraid,” she said peering into the fire, “is there anything else you need?”

  “Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,

  A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse-and Thou

  Beside me singing in the Wilderness...

  And Wilderness is Paradise enow.”

  Jamie said lightly.

  “Not I presume,” she said tartly, “from the works of the venerated and prolific Jack Stuart?”

  “My dear girl you disappoint, any Pilgrim worth her salt should recognize the honeyed vowels and consonants of that venerable Arabic bede, Omar Khayyam.”

  “Persian poetry,” she said and had the memory to blush.

  “And now if you don’t mind I think I’ll go to sleep. Won’t your knight be impatient at the gate?”

  “I suppose he will,” she said, hesitating only slightly before heading for the door.

  It closed with a quiet click behind her and Jamie opened his eyes and gave the door a look that the perceptive observer would have apprehended as longing, pure and undiluted.

  Then with the smell of burned leather still clinging to the air, he closed his eyes and wished for sleep.

  In the middling hours of the night, when the moon’s light was impeded by a milk-splot of cirrus cloud, the Duke, feeling an acute craving for his cook’s fried chicken, eased his girth from under his wife’s limp arm and made his way downstairs.

  Having secured the chicken and a glass of port to accompany it he headed to his study. The door, freshly oiled that morning, slid to with ease and shut with an equivalent and pleasing silence.

  “You do choose the most unappealing hours for these assignations my boy. You might have at least lit the fire,” he grumbled, setting the chicken and port down on his desk.

  “Then let us meet as oft we’ve done,

  Beneath the influence of the sun,

  Or, if at midnight I must meet you

  Within your mansion let me greet you,”

  said a voice cheerfully from the corner of the study.

  The Duke struck match to paper, watched it kindle and placed a couple of peat bricks on top when it was well caught. He rubbed his hands over the blaze and turned to contemplate his nocturnal guest.

  “Lords and lambs a-leaping boy, how many goats went to the guillotine for that confection?”

  “Fret not over them, like all good little Muslim goats they went willingly and with Allah’s name on their lips.”

  Swathed in luxuriant black from head to toe, looking like some dandelion-headed Kashmiri prince or very well-heeled White Russian boyar, head wreathed artfully in spinning blue smoke, emerald clad fingers poised around a black cigarette, lay the supine and ankle-crossed form of His Lord of Ballywick and Tragheda, James Kirkpatrick.

  “Slipped the charms of your soubrette so soon have you?”

  “She’s far too sensible for French perversions Percy, besides she seems much more interested in dressing rather than undressing me.”

  “Pity,” Percy replied, filling another glass with port and handing it over to his guest.

  “No thanks,” a smoke-spiraling hand waved it away, “I’ve drinked enough drops tonight.”

  “Pigsticks you have,” the Duke snorted, “you didn’t drink even one drop of alcohol tonight, though I imagine your bladder’s seen enough apple cider to last it a goodly while.”

  “What does a man have to do these days,” feverish leaf-green eyes met his own through a haze of burning French tobacco, “to maintain the appearance of debauchery?”

  “Those bloody-minded Jesuits have a lot to answer for boy,” the Duke growled, “I can’t discern between artifice and art with you anymore, did they feed you evasion with your oats?”

  �
�I am merely the glimmer in the gimlet’s eye, the quivering aspen in airy cage, the shining, if you will, from shook foil.”

  “Speak native boy, but as long as we’re tossing about glimmering gimlets, where do things stand with the government?”

  “Well,” Jamie drawled, bemused momentarily by the construction of an airy plume of smoke, “it would seem we find ourselves caught between two rather famous Greek rocks.”

  “The devil and the deep blue sea, is it?”

  “Something like,” Jamie swung his legs around neatly and sat up, black cashmere stippled with diamond points of dew. “The Unionists are looking to shove their own man out of the tent and possibly use anyone within party ranks whose ideas are too radical as the lever to do it.”

  “Mmphmm,” the Duke mused and offered Jamie a leg of chicken, which was politely refused. “The Piranha Theory is it?”

  “A little blood in the tank attracts every cannibal in the bunch,” Jamie agreed.

  “And you get rid of all your undesirables in one fell swoop and then it’s business as usual. Could be to our advantage boy.”

  “Could be,” Jamie rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and tossed the remains of his cigarette into the fire. “But at least O’Neill was approachable on a few fronts, if we end up with someone like Faulkner or Chichester-Clark in power, we’ll be firmly wedged between those aforementioned rocks.”

  “Orange to the bone those two.”

  “O’Neill has a plan, however, that he intends to present in the next few weeks. Derry has forced his hand. However it consists of simple reforms, would have seemed like revolution two years ago but now it’s too little, too late I fear. Really, it’s hardly more than a promise to listen to the Catholic complaint. But no one is willing to talk to deaf ears anymore. Stormont doesn’t seem to understand the politics are in the streets now and not in the marbled corridors.”

  “And what do we hear from London?”

  Jamie grimaced, “Ireland is not on their agenda at present. I’ve made a few inquiries, discreet and otherwise and when I wove all the whispers together it basically came down to a rather large shout of ‘we’re not getting sucked into the Irish bog.’”