Venetia Kelly's Traveling Show: A Novel of Ireland

by Frank Delaney

  Miss Fay retired to her writing desk, and James told me more—about the characters that heroes meet on such quests: the scheming queen; the evil king; the wizard; the princess; the gatekeeper.

  “If this is a legend, what are you?”

  He laughed. “You won’t know that until it’s all over. But—and this is what I’ve been trying to do with you—you’ll be able to see it all as a legend. And boys, oh, boys, that’s a powerful cure.”

  Miss Fay reappeared and handed me an envelope.

  “Now,” she said, “I’ve handed you a weapon. God forgive me.”

  Time, the pressure of it, and the concern over my parents’ circumstances, forced my hand. I should have researched everything. Instead, I went at the problem headlong. It took one day to locate King Kelly, and another day to come face-to-face with him. Dublin, most cities, confused me; I knew fields and riverbank pathways and trout pools, not long rows of tall houses. Country cuteness—our term for cunning—travels well, however. I used my experience of talking always to everybody, and despite my confusion in the streets and lanes, I gathered the information I needed.

  While in Dublin, King Kelly lived in an apartment at the top of his sister’s house, where Sarah and Venetia had stayed when they first came to Ireland. I went there.

  Gretta, Aunt Kelly, looked askance at me (she did in the later years too, when I went back to question her). No information of any kind would she impart about her brother. Nor would she “send the fool farther”—that is, give me a clue as to how I might find him.

  A doorman at the Mansion House had more specific news. Mr. Kelly would be attending a meeting tomorrow morning of his party’s elected members—in the same Mansion House on Dawson Street. The meeting, set for ten o’clock, would go on until noon.

  Next morning, I stood there from nine o’clock. They began to arrive at about half past, King Kelly among the first. He saw me and had reached the door before I could get to him. I waited. On the way out, two hours and more later, he tried to walk away very quickly—until I said, “I’m going to follow you everywhere.”

  Turning like a cornered rat, he fumbled in his vest pocket, handed me a card, and said, “Be at this address this evening at six.”

  I mostly recall the staircase, winding and elegant, and the white stucco details—relics of empire. He had a large office, and when he opened the door he hustled me in.

  “What do you want, boy?”

  “I’m married to your granddaughter, Venetia.”

  “Ah. A handout? Is that it?”

  I didn’t even know what a handout was.

  “My father’s farm. Put it in her name.”

  The cigar. The brown suit. The veins on the face. The nose hair. He plucked at his crotch like a banjo player.

  “You cute little bastard. That’s why you married her.”

  “Why should my parents have to suffer like this?”

  “You’re too young to understand stupidity, Ben. But you will, you will.”

  “Did the Morans in Ballymore—did they understand it?” I didn’t yet show him Miss Fay’s piece of paper.

  He walked to his desk, sat behind it, and pointed to a chair. I walked to the chair, thinking slow, deep thoughts.

  “I was right to pick you. You were wrong not to come with me.”

  “My parents.”

  “What about them?”

  “Give us back our land. And the house.”

  “Ben, who told you about the Morans?”

  “Isn’t it well known?”

  He sighed and sat back, as thoughtful as a judge.

  “I see where you’re headed. When are you going home again?”

  “When I get an answer from you.”

  “Oh?” He looked amazed.

  “I’m going to follow you everywhere. People will start to ask questions.”

  “God,” he said. “You mean it.”

  “It’s our farm.”

  “Go home to your parents. I’ll work something out.”

  “The men there. With the guns.”

  “Leave that to me too.” He glanced across at the clock on the mantel. “But I’ll have to hurry.”

  I said, “I’ll take the morning train.”

  Then came the moment that I described at the outset of this tale, what I called the “Beginning of the End.” As I’ve said, I saw my father standing at the door of the cottage, cheek by jowl with a man I’d never seen before. Now that I look back on the scene, I should have guessed from the demeanor of both men that my father had been instructed to look out for me, and that the other man was now hustling him with some force indoors.

  If I’d known—would I have gone ahead to the cottage? And been grabbed by the throat? And seen my parents terrorized? And my father hammered on the ear with a gun-butt?

  When they released me and pushed me into the center of the room, they should have had more men there. Four proved insufficient, especially if you immobilize two of them with heavy kicks to the knees, a trick that I saw dirty players use on the football field.

  Bizarre, isn’t it? For a moment I hated using that piece of foul play. It paid off. I elbowed the third in the ribs, deflating him, and ran so heavily and fast past the fourth that he couldn’t catch me. And in such a small room he didn’t fire at me—that was my gamble, which paid off. They couldn’t now kill us all, they couldn’t now erase the family; my parents would be safe; I was an escaped witness.

  If you ever have the misfortune to become involved in a piece of violent contact, know three things. First, it’s faster than you think. Second, it’s nastier than you’d ever anticipate. Third, no matter how well you acquit yourself it leaves you feeling lower than you’ve ever known. After the fight with my father I couldn’t smile for days; after this fracas, I felt smeared with slime.

  And yet some kind of new feeling had gripped me. I can best describe it by saying that I behaved almost as though I were acting a part. At this far distant remove in time I’ve been able to see that I’d thrust myself into the story of my life; I was acting my own deeds. And believing them. Once again I was striding like a hero; once again I wore seven-league boots.

  In those boots I took my next steps. I felt sure that my parents wouldn’t be harmed. And I also felt sure that King Kelly had no intention of restoring our property to us. I’d need greater force on my side.

  My newspaper reading had informed me of an event about to take place in Ennis, the principal town of County Clare. That, I felt certain, and I don’t know why, would ensure my success—after which I would go to join Venetia and the company in Donegal, where I could read the newspapers, and watch for the fallout.

  With a new assurance I asked all the right questions in Ennis. I was directed to be at a certain place at a certain time. Be there early; get up to the front; be the first through the door. Have my question ready; ask it succinctly; ideally have my name and address on a piece of paper; don’t waste time.

  Powerful men have a singularity of purpose about them. When they look, they look only at you. When they focus, they focus only on you. I saw and felt all of that when I went to Clare and met Mr. de Valera in the room where his constituents came for his help. Most elected members held a “clinic” or “surgery” once a week; he, given the demands on his time, could do so only once a month; acolytes and party managers did the rest.

  The queue formed early—eight o’clock for his arrival at ten o’clock; I’d been there since six. He stepped from the car and walked up along the line of people, shaking hands, until he reached the doorway. How tall he was, and how forbidding—and yet a flash of good nature, because as he shook my hand he said, “If you’re the early bird, I must be the worm.”

  He had no idea what I wanted—I presume he expected help with a grant, planning permission, or, given my age, a scholarship to some college.

  When I, his first supplicant of the day, was shown into the room, he was sitting at a table, a statue in remoteness and authority. Men hovered, and at his side a
woman sat with a pad taking shorthand notes.

  “Tell the Chief your name,” said a hovering man; I had no piece of paper.

  Too nervous to accept the great handshake, I blurted, “Sir, there’s a private militia, wearing blue shirts, hundreds of them training with lots of guns on the farm that was swindled from my father.”

  It wasn’t a face you could ever forget. I’ve used the word “hawk” before; after that encounter I prefer “eagle.” If Ireland ever had a Mount Rushmore, there would have been room for only one face. Not only that, I seemed to see it all at once—the dark and fierce eyes, the long nose, the longer jaw.

  Did I feel comfortable? Oh, God, no! I felt that my body had been strung across wires. It got worse. He stood up—he was much taller than me—and put his hands on my shoulders.

  “This, young man, had better be the truth.”

  “It is. Sir, it definitely is. I’ve just come from there. To tell you.”

  “Who’s in charge? Who brought them together?”

  I’d rehearsed all of this. “Sir, the newly elected member for North Cork, Mr. Thomas Aquinas Kelly.”

  De Valera beckoned to a hoverer and whispered something. I was escorted, neither kindly nor unkindly, from the room and taken in the official car down the street to the Old Ground Hotel. There, I was asked to wait in a small meeting room at the back. A minder hovered and a waitress brought me tea and toast.

  At just after noon de Valera and his entourage arrived, including the woman with the shorthand pad. I rose, trembling again with anxiety. He gestured for me to sit, and took the chair beside me.

  He questioned me like a policeman—not a flash of warmth, not a kind look. He asked the same questions over and over—the first time the men arrived, the first time I saw a gun there, the number of men. He asked me again and again, “Are you sure of Mr. Kelly’s identity? What you’re saying is very serious.”

  At the end of it I saw why he had become a leader. He softened his attitude and thanked me so warmly and with such respect that not only would I have followed him out of a burning house, I’d have gone into one for him. As he rose, I heard him say to one of the men, “Sooner than I thought.” Then he turned to me and said, “I don’t think there’s anything I can do about the farm. But you should keep up the pressure.”

  I never met him again. Not face-to-face. I saw him many times, at rallies, functions, national events. The ferocity seemed never to dim; the aloofness never broke down. When people hated him, they couldn’t say it temperately. When people loved him, they idolized him.

  I stood at neither extreme—fascination was my response. This was a man who had been alive since the beginning of the world—or so his sheer force suggested to me. In that encounter I believe that I matured by several years.

  Exhaustion swept in like the seventh wave, which, they say, is the biggest of the tide. I felt that I should leave Ennis as soon as possible and get to Venetia. A complicated journey—I had to take a train to Galway, and then to Sligo, and then a bus to Letterkenny—slow trains and bad roads. I stayed that night in Galway and reached Letterkenny late evening. To find a surprise—a closed and dark hall; no show was playing.

  I knew where they were staying—and found nobody. The engagement had been canceled, the hotel told me, and Miss Kelly had changed all her plans. In those days we didn’t pay deposits in order to book some of the venues; touring companies kept to their agreements—otherwise they’d never work. They said that she’d gone back to Charleville. And the company? Nobody knew; nothing had been said. Had everything seemed all right? Oh, yes. The de Valera encounter had jangled me to the marrow. I told myself, You’re worrying unduly.

  Nevertheless I set out next morning, urgent as a storm. In the hotel the previous night I spent an hour squeezing everything I could from the map. Buses, trains—yes; but if I had to, I’d walk. I made a hectic journey, in assorted ways. They included a ride in a hearse, a motorbike pillion, a delightful pony trap, and, at the end, a drive in a constantly-breaking-down Morris car from Limerick.

  No lights in the house; no open door; I had no key. I peppered the windows with pebbles from the gravel on the street; no answer. All along the route, my heart had beaten faster—and for no reason that I could discern. Sheer anxiety? Perhaps. Premonition? I thought so, particularly when nobody came to a window.

  The house had a small garden; I’d walked out there on the night of the gunman. A wooden door led into it from a lane at the rear. Easy to climb and, as I’d hoped, yes, the kitchen door hadn’t been locked. I lit the lamp, found food—and an unsigned letter addressed to me. On official government writing paper, in a brawling scrawl, it said, The damage you’ve done. And you’ve destroyed everybody’s chances.

  I knew who had written it; was he in the house?

  Across the street, life continued in the public house. The summer night had led one or two people to drink outside. I opened the front door, lit the lamp in that hallway, and, seeing people fifty yards away, felt safer.

  From above came sounds—feet on the floor. By now I recognized them. Yet I still thought my heart would stop when I saw her dear face peep around the edge of the baluster. She said nothing; she hurtled down without a care. I held her with the deepest sense of relief that I had yet known.

  Venetia had been asleep; so had Mrs. Haas, who now appeared, beaming like a toothy sun. You’ll not be surprised to learn that she prepared food—her answer to everything. I used to think that if an earthquake opened a fissure in the ground, Mrs. Haas would throw food into it.

  We sat, and I discovered the reason for the cancellation. For the past few days, fire officers had been closing shows after they began—“the crowds,” they said; “safety,” they said; “too many people,” they said. Not yet did I put together this development with my visit to King Kelly’s office.

  However, I must have sensed something, because I chose that moment to show Venetia the unsigned letter.

  “He spent the afternoon here.”

  I recoiled. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. He left that letter on the kitchen table—and just sat there looking at it.”

  “Do you want to know what’s happened?” I asked.

  She shuddered, as if I’d flung a slew of cold water over her. “Not yet. And maybe not at all.”

  I said, “Are you worried? About the show?”

  “Not yet. We have plenty of money. And Cody’s coming here next week to show me everything. We have time to make plans.”

  Regret touched me—I’d been so enjoying the shows. I much preferred the new seriousness; the disappearance of the bawdy and low-grade material had given every performance a better texture. Their original “lowest common denominator” policy had come from Sarah—urged on by King Kelly himself.

  Until three o’clock in the morning we sat and talked; Mrs. Haas had long gone to bed. Venetia seemed exactly the same as when I’d last seen her. I told her about the fire, and Miss Fay and the train and Miss Fay’s house.

  “Dare I ask about your parents?” she said.

  “How much do you know?”

  At that moment she hooded her eyes with one hand stretched flat—and reached for me with the other hand. An actor’s gesture, it also had huge trouble behind it.

  “I don’t know what to do. My family—there are awful things. Can we ignore them for a while? Is it all right if I tell you when I’m ready to talk about them?” She smiled—the sun again. “I’ll be an honorable wife, I promise.”

  We spent the rest of that week in loose bliss, sleeping late, staying up later. We explored what it was like to be silent in each other’s company. We played the games we had known since childhood—what she called tic-tac-toe, I knew as noughts and crosses; we both had rock, paper, scissors.

  She wanted to see other gardens, so we went to Waterford. She wanted to buy jigsaws when she heard of mine, so we went to Cork. She wanted to find a good doctor—she had a midwife in Mrs. Haas—so we went to Limerick. We had picnics, a
nd late-night suppers in the little garden of the house in Charleville—the weather had become hotter than usual for Ireland—and during the day we found old public houses where the owner’s wife would make us a sandwich in the kitchen.

  Venetia said she never read newspapers, didn’t like them, a habit born of disliking reviews. And so she missed, on the Tuesday of that week, the announcement—broad headline—that King Kelly had resigned his seat. He made the statement “from his constituency,” said the report, and “with great regret,” and “for health reasons.”

  I took three things from the news—that Mr. de Valera had acted with fast brutality; that I now knew what the scrawled letter meant; and that King Kelly wasn’t far away.

  The Blueshirts didn’t disappear at that moment—in fact they hadn’t yet appeared in public. De Valera might have spiked King Kelly’s guns, so to speak, but there was more than one forerunner. By then, the organization was taking firm shape. To give you an idea of what I had stumbled upon—or had thrust upon me—this is what had begun to happen.

  Before the 1932 election, many people felt that if Dev came into power, he would use the Irish Republican Army, to which he had so long belonged, as his armed militia, and effectively declare a dictatorship. They still had caches of guns, they still carried out an armed attack here and there. Learned papers have been written, and were written at the time, discussing the suitability of Ireland for such a development—a banana republic without the bananas.

  Mr. de Valera, however, had as much to fear from his own armed republicans as from anybody else, and he also knew that their swaggering existence encouraged other would-be power brokers—such as King Kelly. Indeed, clashes had long been taking place between the republicans and the men who would later wear the blue shirts—who first appeared in public, in force, in 1933.

  The white-haired man I had met at the cottage was the same O’Duffy who then became the leader of the Blueshirts when Mr. de Valera dismissed him as police chief in 1933. But O’Duffy had proven inept politically, unstable almost, and Mr. de Valera buried the movement within a year.