The Larton Chronicles

by James Anson

  "She's a darlin'," said Michael. "Pity she was away when we were trotting round the bogs."

  "Don't remind me," said Robert. "Oh, what's the use! Come here, blast you ..."

  "I hate to spoil a tender moment," said Michael, "but could you shift a little? My arm's gone dead."

  Robert, grumbling, shifted then started to sort himself out. "I'm going to have a terrible crick in my back tomorrow," he complained. "It's no good - have to wait till we are home in a decent bed. Passion on the rug isn't a good idea at our age."

  "I think it's a splendid idea at any age!" said Michael. "Not my fault you went and banged your head on the coal scuttle."

  Robert began to giggle, joined by his companion. "It's not funny!" he gasped finally.

  "Come on, help me up. My leg's got cramp now. I'll never make it back to Montague Place, I'll just settle on that sofa."

  "I can give you a hand to my large Victorian four-poster with curtains," said Michael. "Can you carry the sandwiches, or shall I come back for them after I've hauled you upstairs?"

  "We are not going to hold an orgy up there," said Robert. "No, you'd better come back for them - and see if there is anything else in the fridge. Come on, help me up those damned stairs ..."

  * * * * *

  "Great heavens!" said Mr Halliwell. "You must have a couple of tons of paper piled up here."

  "And every last bloody shred important notes!" said Robert. "I give up, I surrender, I can't take this place any more. Another week and I'll be as barmy as Edgar. The London Library will post me any more books I need and I don't mind coming down for the odd day-trip, if I get really stuck."

  "We do find this flat has a stimulating effect on writers," said Mr Halliwell. "My wife really enjoyed the wedding reception, by the way. We received some wedding cake in the post this morning."

  "My God," said Robert, "were you there, too? I never spotted you."

  "I'm afraid I met an old friend from Cork," said Mr Halliwell, "and we went into a huddle discussing old times for most of the afternoon. Muriel thoroughly enjoyed the dancing; said it took her back to her youth when she was continually beating off young officers."

  Robert sighed. "I don't think I was ever young," he said. "Mike is the one who enjoys a knees-up." Not, he thought to himself, that we didn't have a great party of our own later.

  "Agnes throws a good party," he added.

  "Yes," said Mr Halliwell. "It appears that as the young Mrs Coghill will be moving to our part of Shropshire, the Countess has chosen us to ease her into local society. Well, it's a sensible idea and Muriel, having once been a young bride fresh from Ireland herself, will be happy to help. Mr Faulkner will be relieved you are going home; he expressed concern about you to me."

  "He's an idiot," said Robert affectionately. "And right, of course. I forget to eat when I'm working. Told him last night I was going home. He rang moaning about the trip, the weather, the horses, the helicopter. Terrible line. I think he said he was sending me some plants. I'm not sure you're allowed to do that without a licence."

  "I doubt Mr Faulkner would let a trivial fact like that deter him," said Mr Halliwell.

  "Now, I must be off. Edgar is calling with his new opus. I expect it will be another long, steamy saga set in some South Sea paradise. Oh dear."

  * * * * *

  "You can stop going on," said Robert to his cat. "There is no more dinner for you till you shift some of that weight!"

  He had been shocked when collecting his pet from Colonel Heaton's lady to find a pleasantly plump Persian had become an obese one, Alice Heaton being a pushover for a melting green-eyed gaze. Sam, due to happy trips out with the Colonel 'rabbiting', was his customary rakish self.

  Amos gave up on the pathetic look and yowls and went to look in Sam's dish. Yuck, only charcoal biscuits. He retired to his basket to sulk.

  Robert grinned and went back to work, carefully averting his eyes from the three seed catalogues temptingly piled up on the sideboard next to a very undistinguished postcard of the Giant's Causeway from Michael.

  Coffee, that's what I need, thought Robert. Stimulates the brain while rotting the nerve endings.

  He made a short but compulsive detour to the bathroom to inspect the jar of cuttings in there: two violet plants and three 'unknowns' having treatment for dehydration. Their accompanying note had been so impregnated with soil and damp that only five words, none of them useful, had been legible.

  I must train Mike how to do that better, he thought, and find out who 'squiggle' is to write and thank him, her, or it! Good, they seem to be picking up. Come on, March, back to work.

  He settled down with the coffee and began to unravel a complicated skein of family relationships, sighing with relief when he'd finally sorted it out.

  "Now, that makes more sense," he said. "And you need some milk in this." He crossed to the fridge, turning on the radio as he passed. Might get some gardening in later if it's not going to rain - unwind a little.

  He listened idly as the announcer said that: "All hope of finding any survivors in the helicopter crash which took place off the west coast of Ireland has now been abandoned. Among those known to be on board were the head of the English showjumping association, Colonel Henry Morris, and Commandant Michael Faulkner, Irish Army, whose team competed here some years ago. Family members have been informed ..."

  Robert stood there stunned. There must be some mistake, he thought. He is going to ring tonight. Someone knocking at the side door - they can leave whatever it is ...

  Jack came into the room, Agnes close behind him. One look at their faces told him.

  "It's not true," said Robert. "There's been a mistake. He is ringing tonight."

  "We have been trying to get in touch," said Jack. "Your phone seems to be off."

  Robert glanced at his phone. As usual when he was working, it was off the hook.

  "Always do that," he said vaguely, replacing it, "so I won't be disturbed ..."

  "Sit down, Rob," said Jack. "Make us some hot tea would you, love? Drat that phone. No, I'll answer it. Hello, it's you, Charles. Yes. No, Mr March is not available to speak to you or anyone else. If you want to know anything, ring me at the Hall later in the week. I see. Charles, try not to be a bigger bastard than usual." He replaced the phone.

  "He won't bother you again," he said to an uncomprehending Robert, who remembered little of that day afterwards apart from the terrible aching numbness inside.

  Agnes tried to get him to eat a little, while Jack dealt with people on the phone.

  "Young Denis," he said after one conversation. "Wanted to say how sorry he was, and if he could do anything. Decent lad - at Sandhurst - doesn't take after his ghastly parents at all."

  "He has Mike's sword," said Robert.

  The phone went again. "A Mr Halliwell," said Jack. "Would you care to speak to him?"

  "No," said Robert. "Tell him thank you and I'll call him later. Jack, I'm just going to my room a while."

  Jack looked after him worriedly. "We had best stay on here, girl," he said to Agnes.

  "I wouldn't put it past Charles to come sneaking round. He's worried reporters might get wind of the 'relationship'. You know how he is."

  "Too well," said Agnes bitterly. "And blight his career, no doubt. If they ever promote Charles past his colonelcy, I'll lose all faith in the British Army. I'd take an axe to him, except living with Winifred is almost sufficient punishment. I still can't believe it myself. I know I often wanted to murder Michael, but I'm going to miss him awfully."

  She blew her nose violently.

  Jack went on dealing with callers, not in the least surprised, though he imagined Robert would be, at the people concerned about him. Robert reappeared, red-eyed and horribly distant. He started for one moment at the news picture of twisted wreckage on a wave-soaked rock and went out into the yard. He found Jos busy rugging up the horses.

  "Colder today, Mr March," he remarked. "Now, you stop that, lad," to Piper who was fidgeting ab
out. "I'll feed you soon enough."

  "I'll see to Sarah," said Robert. "She's been rather skittish lately - nipped poor old Flash hard at the weekend."

  Jos nodded then went up to the house. He tapped on the kitchen door. "Sir?"

  Jack looked up. "Ah, Hesketh, good. I wanted a word with you. You have met Colonel Charles Faulkner, haven't you? Yes, thought you had. Now, if he starts sniffing around, get in touch with me at the Hall - and any reporters. Not that I expect any, but ..."

  He went on giving instructions.

  "Right, sir," said Jos. They looked at each other with the perfect confidence of those whose ancestors had fought side by side from Crecy to Worcester. "Damn shame, it is," said Jos. "You can rely on me."

  It was after midnight when Robert was persuaded to go to bed, waving aside the offer of a sleeping pill.

  "I'll stay up a while," said Jack. "Call me if you need anything."

  Robert nodded. "Thank you," he said and retired.

  Jack settled by the fire, Amos purring on his lap, and had almost nodded off when the phone rang.

  "Drat!" he said. "Should have switched it off. Who the hell is on at this hour! Hello, yes, this is Parsons Farm. No, Mr March is asleep; can I take a message?" His expression became more startled as he listened.

  "Ballynonty!" he interrupted. "But that's nowhere near Galway. Who am I speaking to? Declan. I see. It's Jack Bourton. And why have you not been in touch before?" he asked in a tone that would have made his vassals, had he any, tremble in their homespun.

  "I see. Just a moment, I'll get Agnes - you can give her all the details while I wake Mr March. Yes, I'm sure he'll be pleased too."

  He quickly roused Agnes. "Declan," he said briefly. "Sort out a plane for Rob ..."

  Agnes gazed at him in puzzlement then took the phone. "Yes, Declan," she said. "Now let's have the full story." After a few moments a 'look' came over her face. "All I can say, Declan," she remarked, "is that this is absolutely typical of the harebrained, inconsiderate, asinine way you and Michael conduct yourselves, and if it wasn't that poor Robert is so broken-hearted, I'd be right over there to break both your necks!"

  Jack, meanwhile, was trying to explain to a still befuddled Robert. "Declan O'Brien on the phone from Tipp," he said when Robert finally showed signs of understanding. "

  Mike was never on that damned helicopter. At the last minute he decided to have a few days off. He's in Ballynonty Cottage Hospital with a compound fracture of the right leg and four cracked ribs for starters. He was out with the Tipperary Hunt; his horse caught a leg in wire - went down then rolled on him. Dec's Joint Master. You don't know him. Madder than Mike - cousin of his."

  Jack watched, fascinated, at the expressions crossing Robert's face: relief, joy, gratitude, rage.

  "Why," said Robert, "has no-one been in touch before?"

  "Well," said Jack, "they are the sort who only put the radio on to see what the weather will be like for the horses - the going underfoot. Michael had swapped his seat and the right number of persons were on board - that sort of thing. We still wouldn't have known if a nurse hadn't recognised Mike from his picture in The Irish Times, told him, and he got on to Declan in a state."

  "I'll give him state," said Robert, ominously. "I'll kill him! Find out how on earth I can get to Ballynonty."

  "I have Agnes working on that already," said Jack happily.

  "You know what I'm really going to enjoy?" said Agnes as, after too few hours' sleep, they were all seated round the breakfast table. "Telling Charles of Michael's continuing existence. It's really going to annoy him!"

  "I insist we toss for the treat later," said Jack, grinning. "And think of Winifred having to cancel the notice in The Times.

  "I can drive you to the airport, Robert, if you don't mind trusting me with the Merc," Jack offered. "A pity you can't fly direct, but they said you would have no trouble getting a train from Cork."

  "I've heard that before," said Robert. "I'm hiring a car. Okay, you're on."

  "We enjoy watching the planes land and take off," said Jack obscurely.

  "You know, Mike never mentioned a Cousin Declan to me," said Robert, "and I thought I knew all his bolt-holes by now. You mean every time we had a 'difference' and I threw the Holyhead Sailing Timetable at his head to save him ferreting about for it, that's one of the places he ended up? Always wondered why I couldn't find him at all sometimes."

  "Very probably," said Agnes. "You see, the Tipperary Hunt go out four days a week in the season and Declan is the Joint Master. Michael, not wanting to cause you any annoyance, wouldn't have mentioned that particular refuge."

  "Ha!" said Robert. "I wouldn't have thought even Mike would want to spend four days a week on a horse. No, I'm wrong - he'd love it. Is there a Mrs O'Brien in this ménage?" he inquired delicately.

  "Not all the time," said Agnes. "Only, in fact, for Christmas and Horse Show week. She much prefers to live with their family in Virginia on her estate. Malva came over on holiday years ago and fell madly in love with Declan - at a horse show, of course. He is extremely handsome and looks marvellous on a horse. Six children later it dawned she was saddled with a companion with the mental outlook of a backward five-year-old, and the lack of decent social life in Ballynonty was getting her down. Not that she spent much time there then.

  "I have every sympathy for her," Agnes went on, "especially as Declan has the house full of booted riff-raff most of the time drinking the nights away. Don't, whatever you do, accept an invitation to stay at the castle. It's normally a pigsty. I'll ring Oonagh to sort something out for you."

  "We'd better be moving," said Jack. "Don't be too hard on Dec. He's got a heart of gold, even if he hasn't much between the ears. But I agree about the castle. People just drop in, kick off their boots and start a week-long party. Malva picks up the big bills - keep telling Dec one day she's going to get fed up with it!"

  * * * * *

  "Fascinatin', ain't it?" said Jack, at the airport. "All these planes taking off for exotic places. Where's that one off to, girl?"

  "Glasgow," said Agnes, shortly. "For someone who gets frantic if I suggest we have a couple of days in London, your passion for watching planes take off is very peculiar, Jack!"

  Robert joined them. "I've fixed up to hire a car. Any messages for Mike - that I can repeat? You'll see Sam and Amos get safely to Alice's, won't you?"

  "Of course," said Agnes. "I'll save what I have to say to Michael till I next see him. Oh God - who has Jack found to speak to now?"

  Her spouse had wandered off to the bar and was accosting a perfect stranger.

  "I'd better go and keep an eye on him," she went on. "He goes all starry-eyed in these places - invites God-knows-who round for dinner."

  "That's my flight," said Robert. "Thanks ..." He rushed off.

  * * * * *

  Cousin Oonagh, unlike other members of the Faulkner tribe, was not tall and laid back; more short and excitable. She pounced on Robert as he wearily climbed out of his car at the hospital gates. He was trying to forget his journey from Cork.

  "You are Robert, all right!" she said. "You look just like your photograph!"

  Robert decided, for the moment, to accept this as a compliment - but what photograph? "How is Mike coming on?" he asked.

  "He's going to kill himself one day on some damned horse," she announced - quite unnecessarily, in Robert's opinion. "You are going to have to put your foot down!"

  "I've been putting my foot down for eight years now," said Robert. "Any further and we'll be through the floorboards. I gather he is still with us - in what sort of shape?"

  "Considering everything, not too bad," she said. "That Declan O'Brien is with him now. I'd see him off if I were you. He's a bad influence on Mike."

  Robert, privately doubting Michael was in need of a bad influence, muttered vaguely and entered the ward. A tall, incredibly handsome man was leaning negligently on Michael's bed rail. He gave Robert an affable wave of the hand.

&nb
sp; "I see," said Robert. He gazed at his partner who was grinning away and trying to look nonchalant, which with a patch over one eye and a cage over his leg, was not easy.

  "Aren't you getting a trifle old for this kind of thing, Mike?" asked Robert. He then fixed Michael's companion with a chilling stare. "And you are?" he inquired.

  "Declan O'Brien," he replied, with an attempt at charm which faltered under Robert's stare. " Mike’s cousin," he babbled. "We haven't met before. Wasn't it a laugh now, you thinkin'..."

  "Not," said Robert, "to me. Now I'm sure you have things to do and I'd like a private word with Mike here."

  Declan, on the receiving end of a Robert basilisk glare, gulped, waved vaguely at Michael and left after muttering, "If you need anything, Mike ..."

  "Well," said Michael, "you are the only one who can terrify him like that - apart from his wife."

  "Fool!" said Robert. "All right, so what's the damage this time?"

  "Just the usual compound fracture, couple of cracked ribs, this and that," said Michael in what he hoped was a placatory tone. Robert's expression definitely lacked Christian goodwill towards the injured and suffering.

  "The patch is only temporary," he added, "while it heals underneath. The eye is fine. They had a poke about to make sure."

  Robert turned slightly green and grabbed an unbandaged hand. "I could kill you," he said. A passing nurse glanced over and drew the bed curtains. "You need to rest," she said. "Your friend can stay a while as long as he's quiet."

  "Bless you," said Michael, after her. "Rob, I had no idea what was going on. I told Declan to ring you when I came to in here and knew I was going to be stuck a while. Of course the dozy fool either forgot or thought he'd ring later. Next thing, little Nurse Halligan comes up, peers into my face and asks am I really Michael Faulkner! Assure her that as far as I know, I am. 'Oh,' says she, 'then they have your picture in The Irish Times' and presents me with my obituary. Rotten picture - had my mouth open as usual. I yell for a phone, after assuring them it's absolutely necessary. Your phone doesn't answer, neither does Jack's, and I knew Oonagh was away in Dublin ..."

  "They were at my place," said Robert, "helping me cope." He blinked. "Was it a good obit? Always fancied seeing my own even though I know I'll disagree with it."