“But you don’t know which?”
Denny Mallon shrugged. “Only time will tell. Meantime, I think we should make full use of young McGrath.”
Kevin Murphy said, “Will he oblige?”
“Give me a chance to ask him!”
Celia Larkin pounced. “You’ll do it, then?”
Denny Mallon grimaced. “Seems like I’ve got the job.”
The general snorted. “Seems like we’ll have to get ourselves an interim government.”
Kevin Murphy looked doubtful. “D’you think they’ll take orders from us?”
“They’ll take them from Larry,” Celia Larkin pointed out. “He still runs the army. And he can delegate duties to us. It will work ’til we get a new Master.”
Denny Mallon got out his pouch and poked his pipe bowl into it. He said casually, “I have to visit the McGraths tomorrow. The McGrath infant is not well, and I have a theory to check. I’ll find an opportunity to talk to Liam.” He rolled up the pouch and slipped it back into his pocket. “But we’ve got to offer him everything—Lord of Barley Cross, Master of the Fist, the lot—or it won’t work. He must replace Patrick in every way. Anything less would confuse the village.”
Kevin Murphy grunted doubtfully. “I’m not sure the village will accept him.”
Larry Desmond drained his glass. “I’ll guarantee the army’s acceptance.”
Celia Larkin smiled acidly. “And I the schoolchildren.”
The vet said, “But how can we justify his taking the O’Meara’s place? He’s no more than a boy. They’re used to an adult tyrant like we built Pat into.”
The general chuckled. “Those in the know won’t need any justification other than his fertility.”
“But the others? The O’Connors, the Toomeys, the Flanagans—?”
“If Pat had only left a will nominating young Mc-Grath…” Denny Mallon began pensively.
Celia Larkin sniffed disparagingly. “That would be too good to be true.”
The doctor fumbled inside his jacket for one of the last ball points in Barley Cross. “Get us a bit of paper, Celia. I’ll write one out straightaway that meets the bill.”
The following afternoon, Doctor Denny Mallon found Liam McGrath’s donkey standing by a peat stack on the main road out of the village. The doctor rested an arm on the animal’s rump and waited. Liam appeared from behind the stack, arms piled with clods of turf.
Denny Mallon waved a salute. “God bless the work, Liam. ’Tis a soft day we’re having.” He shielded his pipe bowl from the drizzle and struck a homemade match.
Liam pitched his peat into the panniers borne by the donkey. “Are you looking for me, Doctor?” His voice was sharp with anxiety. “You’re not worried about our Tommy?”
Denny Mallon puffed smoke into the moist air. “I want another look at him, Liam. And maybe take a sputum sample. But nothing to worry about. I want a quiet word with you first.”
Liam’s face set hard. “About what, Doctor? Is there something wrong with my son? If there is, there’s nothing you can’t say in front of my wife.”
Denny Mallon cocked an eye at the white cottage perched on the toe of the mountain. Up there, presumably, Eileen McGrath went about her wifely duties. The top of Kirkogue was lost in mist. The nearest house in Barley Cross was a drizzle-masked shape. Doctor and youth might have been the only inhabitants of a nebulous, rain-soaked, peaty landscape. Which was the way Denny Mallon had planned it.
He said, “Well now, Liam, I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to make such pronouncements meself. What if I was to say I’m here on an errand for General Desmond?”
“Like what?” Liam demanded guardedly. “I’m not old enough to serve at the Fist yet. And if someone wants help with a job, he don’t have to get the general to order me to–”
“Now, now,” soothed Denny Mallon. “No one is complaining about you, son. And the only person seeking your help is the general himself.”
Liam frowned. “What can I do for him?”
Denny Mallon put away his pipe. Homegrown herbs didn’t burn well in damp weather. He said, “I believe you had an interview with the O’Meara when you got married?”
Liam McGrath grinned at the memory. On that particular day, he reckoned, he grew up. “The Master told you about it, did he?”
Denny Mallon turned up his jacket collar and dug his hands into his pockets. “Let’s say I had his confidence. Did he happen to let you in on a certain secret, about which I would be reluctant to expand any further?”
Liam’s grin disappeared. “If you mean, do I know who fathered our Tommy—yes.”
“Ah!” Denny Mallon’s hobgoblin face creased in what Liam identified as a grin of satisfaction. “But who fathered your second child?”
Liam goggled at him. “Eileen is going to have another?”
“I’m her doctor, aren’t I?”
Liam was abruptly babbling nonsense. He rolled down his shirt sleeves and pulled a scrap of tarpaulin from the top of the peat stack. “Come on, Doctor—let’s go! Thanks for the news. Eileen suspected she might…”
Denny Mallon raised a damp hand. “Hold on now, Liam. You’ve not heard the general’s message yet.”
Liam pulled the tarpaulin around his shoulders, gripping the donkey’s rope. “Make it quick, Doctor. Can’t we talk on the way?”
Denny Mallon shrugged. “I’ll put it bluntly, son. You’re aware of precisely what our recent Master’s most important service to the village was. And I’ve just told you that you’ve fathered your second child. Well, since your little Tommy will be the only child in Barley Cross with a sibling–”
Liam frowned. “A sibling?”
“A brother or sister.”
“Oh!” Liam’s mouth made a circle. He said guardedly, “And so?”
“So you are the only male in Barley Cross capable of taking over from the O’Meara. Because you are the only one who has inherited his peculiar talent.”
Liam glanced nervously toward the cottage on Kirkogue. “What are you trying to tell me, Doctor?”
Denny Mallon paused, like a man preparing to plunge into icy water. Inwardly he berated Celia Larkin for saddling him with this pest of a job. He said, “Our recent Master has nominated you in his will to be his successor. And since all the kids in Barley Cross are his children, you have as good a claim as any to his title. The general has charged me to invite you to take up your new role immediately.”
After what seemed to be several hours’ thought, Liam said, “He can’t ask me to do that, Doctor!”
Denny Mallon shrugged. “He can, Liam. Haven’t I just done it for him?”
“But what would folk in the village say?”
The doctor shrugged again. “You might have to put up with some comment. Even the O’Meara was criticized. You can’t expect to please everybody. But you’d have General Desmond and his men behind you.”
Liam flicked another glance at the cottage on Kirkogue. “What if I have to-—you know—?”
“That would be your own problem, son.”
Liam squared his shoulders. “And if I say ‘no’?” Denny Mallon stared impassively from beneath drizzle-bedewed eyebrows. “Then Barley Cross goes down the drain.”
Liam grumbled. “It’s not fair to expect me to–”
The doctor’s face was sphinxlike. “Who told you life is supposed to be fair? Do you imagine Pat O’Meara enjoyed playing a libidinous tyrant? Sometimes there’s a need to subordinate personal inclinations to the wishes of the community.”
“I’m not sure the community wants me to–”
The wizened, bent figure straightened up. ‘‘I’m not just talking about our village. There are bigger communities.”
Liam said weakly, “Can I talk to Eileen first?”
“That might be the best idea,” agreed the doctor.
Eileen McGrath said, “If you think I’ll agree to your taking over from the ram of Barley Cross, you’ve another think coming, my lad.”
; “But, Eileen! Didn’t you tell me that the O’Meara was a civil man and that it was an honor to be chosen for his droit du seigneur?”
“You and the O’Meara are two different people,” his wife pointed out. “The O’Meara had no wife to object to his shenanigans. And you do!”
“But wouldn’t you like to be the First Lady of Barley Cross and live up at the Fist?”
Eileen McGrath’s honest face grew sober. “I suppose any girl would say yes to that—although there’s a great deal needs doing to that bam of a place before I’d hang my hat in the hall.”
“Well, then–”
“There is no ‘well, then,’” she affirmed decisively. “One wife is enough for any man, and one wife is all you’re going to have.”
Liam found Father Con shining brasses in the village church. The priest had aged in the short time since Liam’s wedding. He now walked with a stoop, frequently clutching his side.
“Well, Liam,” he greeted. “You’ve come to help me with these dratted brasses, no doubt?”
Liam grinned. He was fond of the old priest. He picked up a rag and a candlestick. “If you like, Father. Actually I called for a bit of advice.” He told the priest of the general’s proposal,
“ ’Twould be a fine promotion for you.”
“It would be…” Liam hesitated. How aware was Father Con of the reasons for the O’Meara’s promiscuity? One had to be discreet.
“But you’re bothered about certain aspects of the job?” added the priest.
Liam let out a sigh. “That’s about it, Father.”
“Hmm.” The priest put down the vase he had been polishing and squatted in a pew. “I think we discussed this matter before? And I refused to condemn our recent Master’s conduct—much to your dismay?”
Liam nodded. “That’s true.”
The priest sighed. “Well, Liam, if you decide to take on the O’Meara’s job, I might also refuse to condemn your conduct. One day you may learn there are higher loyalties than those between husband and wife.” The priest examined the candlestick thoughtfully. “The executioner is not necessarily guilty of murder when he carries out the state’s commands. Nor the starving woman of theft when she steals to feed her hungry children. So maybe our recent Master was innocent of adultery when he exercised his seigneurial rights—for surely our fine school would be empty of scholars and our church short of sinners had he not done so.” The old man rested his head on the wood of the pew. “ ’Tis a problem that’s given me little peace these last few years. And I’m no nearer the solution now than I was at the start.”
“Perhaps if you appealed to someone higher?” Liam suggested diplomatically.
The priest snorted in derision. “ ’Twould be a marvelous day that I hear from a superior, Liam—supposing there are any left. And remember, they too would be only men, with men’s limping insight into ethical matters. Sometimes ‘tis better to pray and take your answer on trust. Desperate situations demand desperate remedies, lad. And Barley Cross is surely in a desperate situation.”
Liam put down the polishing rag. “Are you saying it is okay for me to take the O’Meara’s job, Father Con?”
The priest grimaced. “If you didn’t want it and I said ‘yes,’ would you take any more notice than if you did want it and I said ‘no’?”
Liam shrugged. Father Con could be pretty vague when he didn’t want to come right out with things. He said, “I suppose you are right, Father Con.”
“Suppose?” The old man raised his head angrily. “Is that the best you can say? Consider, Liam, who gives me comfort and advice? Do you think you are the only soul in Barley Cross with a problem? On this matter you will have to be guided by your conscience and make your own decision. The days of dogmatic religion are gone. Soon you won’t even have this remnant of Mother Church to steer your footsteps.”
Liam sidled toward the church door. Father Con with the miseries was a person to avoid. He needed someone more cheerful to talk to. Someone like—Liam clapped his hands. Of course! Eileen’s mother. He muttered, “I’ll think about it, Father,” slipped out of the porch into the sunshine and was off, running.
Brigit O’Connor was in her kitchen, floury to the elbows over a batch of soda bread. She said, “Mister O’Connor is down at the mill. He’ll be making a new blade for Mick Mcguire’s waterwheel. Did you want him badly?”
Tom O’Connor, being a joiner by trade, was often called upon to fix bits of Barley Cross’s machinery. Liam got on well enough with him, but he would not deny that he had half hoped to find his mother-in-law alone. He said, “No sweat, mam-in-law. I’d just as soon bring my troubles to you.”
Dumpy Brigit O’Connor beamed fondly at him. She had always fostered a soft spot for Maureen McGrath’s lad.
“Will I be making you a sup of tea,” she asked, “while you tell me what’s bugging you?”
Liam hoisted himself onto a comer of the table. He swung his legs for a moment, in thought. His mother-in-law might not be as well-informed as Father Con. He said, “Doctor Denny says the O’Meara has left a will naming me as the next Master, and General Desmond has asked me to take over.”
“Well now…” Brigit O’Connor hefted, one-handed, a steaming black-iron kettle from the stove top. She poured boiling water into a dented aluminum teapot. “That would be a great step up for you, Liam.”
His legs stopped swinging. “You wouldn’t mind, mam-in-law?”
She stirred the pot vigorously. “Indeed no! Wouldn’t you make as good a Master as the O’Meara after you’ve had a bit of practice?”
Liam sneaked off the corner from a loaf cooling under a towel. He popped the bread into his mouth. “I wish Eileen felt like that.”
His mother-in-law studied him with bright button eyes. “Does she not fancy living up at the Fist?”
“It’s not that.” Liam hesitated. The Master’s actions were not supposed to be discussed, although the deeds were public knowledge. “There’s an aspect of the job she’s not keen on.”
Brigit O’Connor’s eyes gleamed—possibly with the memory of a night at the Fist that a bride was supposed to endure with fortitude. “You mean the O’Meara’s bedroom antics?”
Liam nodded. Somehow his mother-in-law always understood. “I don’t think Eileen is too happy about me doing that sort of thing.”
Brigit O’Connor poured out two mugs of herb brew. She pushed one toward Liam. “Well, surely the sexy bits are optional? You don’t have to do it, do you?”
He grimaced. “I’m not so sure. Doctor Denny says the village brides will expect it, because it’s an honor. And Brege O’Malley gets married in a fortnight, so the question would crop up straightaway.”
His mother-in-law lodged her elbows on the table to study him. Liam McGrath was a good lad, nothing prurient about him. But if being Lord of Barley Cross meant he had to take each village bride to bed on her wedding night, then Liam would do it, conscientiously. “I wonder why the Master picked on you,” she murmured.
He grinned with embarrassment. “I dunno.” He glanced slyly at her. “Eileen is pregnant again.”
Brigit O’Connor’s eyes opened wide. “Liam! You clever boy!” She darted around the table and hugged him. “I’ll have a word with our Eileen for you. Meantime…” She stood back to smile at her reflection in the glass on the sideboard. Mother of the First Lady of Barley Cross! That would shake them. And no harm if some of the dignity rubbed off onto Biddy O’Connor. She said, “Is there any way I can get a glimpse inside the Fist? So I can tell Eileen what it will be like.”
Liam said, “I’ll have a word with Doctor Denny.”
General Desmond ushered Brigit O’Connor through the door at the end of the landing. “It’ll be twenty years or so since you saw the inside of this room, won’t it, Biddy?” he asked, smiling.
Brigit O’Connor gave the general the gimlet eye. Twenty years ago she had been bright-eyed Brigit Callaghan on the eve of her wedding night. She remembered the bedroom well enough, and
the man who had awaited her there. She said, “That’s quite enough from you, General Desmond. What passed between me and the O’Meara that night is no business of yours or anyone else’s.”
General Desmond feigned alarm and backed off.
Brigit O’Connor stared about the room with a grim nostalgia. Same old wooden bed. Same old yellow roses on the wallpaper. Same view of treetops from the window overhung with ivy to render easy clandestine entry and exit. Same worn carpet edged by bare boards. She sighed. For all his tyrant’s power, Patrick O’Meara had never looked after himself properly. She gave the general a quick, belligerent glance. “If you want my opinion, Larry Desmond, the place is a pigsty. Typical bachelor’s pad. Sure, you wouldn’t get me living up here for all the tea in China. And you’ll not get our Eileen so easy.”
The general’s smile faded. “What’s to do then, Biddy? Between you and me, it’s essential we get young Liam installed up here as Master. And the sooner, the better.”
Brigit O’Connor planted knuckles on her hips. “Then you’d best throw out every last stick of furniture and scrap of carpet in the house. Get some women up to scrub the place from top to bottom. Repaint every bit of woodwork. Hang new curtains at every window. Then fill the house with furniture a woman could be proud of.”
Larry Desmond rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Denny said you’d give me some advice.”
She laughed harshly. “It don’t take a clarryvoyant to spot a dirty dump. I’m ashamed to think you let the poor divil live and die in this midden.”
Larry Desmond studied the carpet. For once his assurance seemed to have deserted him. At length he muttered, “You loved him too, Biddy?”
She sniffed. “Didn’t we all? D’you think we’d have put up with his antics for a minute if we hadn’t?”
Larry Desmond sighed. “That maybe explains a thing or two. I’ll let Denny Mallon know what you recommend. It’ll mean mounting a raid for the first time in years, but we’ll have to get furniture from somewhere.”
The expedition had the village lads hopping with excitement. Reared on stories of the glorious days, they saw the opportunity for an adventure. They pleaded with the general to be let to join in. Straws drawn from a cap decided who got the hard-greased rifles resurrected for the occasion. And the general insisted on personally leading the raid.
There Will Be War Volume IV Page 14