A Mother’s Spirit. Anne Bennett
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the cellars. Ridiculous notion to try and turn a whole nation like this one teetotal.’
‘I couldn’t see it working in Ireland, sir,’ said Joe with a smile.
‘I couldn’t see it even being proposed in Ireland,’ Brian said. ‘Doesn’t work, of course. It will be two years by the end of January next year and already the gangs that used virtually to run the underclass of the city that I spoke about in the taxi have sprung up again. They are now in control of nearly all the illegal liquor smuggled in. Mark my words, that law will cause more problems in society, not less. Still, that doesn’t answer my question. As this isn’t a dry house yet, what would you like to drink?’
A pint of cold Guinness would have gone down a treat, but Joe couldn’t see anything remotely like that and Brian, seeing his dilemma and guessing how he was feeling, said, ‘Will you join me in a whiskey?’
Joe sighed inwardly. Whiskey at least he knew, though he hadn’t drunk it often, so he said, ‘A whiskey, sir, would be very good.’
A young maid dressed in a white apron over her black frock appeared then. ‘Ah Mary,’ Brian said, passing the paper into her hand, ‘give this to McManus. Tell him to go to this address and inform a Mr Patrick Lacey that his friend, Mr Joe Sullivan, is dining with us this evening.’
Mary gave a little bob as she took the letter from Brian, and Joe realised how easy life was for a person rich enough to employ a bevy of servants.
‘Now,’ said Brian, passing a generous glass of whiskey to Joe, ‘Sit down, make yourself comfortable and tell me a bit about yourself.’
Joe sat very gingerly on the gold suite, and told Brian of the small town of Buncrana in northern Donegal and the farm near to it where he had been born and reared. He went on to tell him of his young brother, Finn, who had enlisted in the Great War and was killed in 1916, and his elder brother, Tom, who now owned the farm after the death of his father, and his sister Nuala living in Birmingham, England. He didn’t speak of Nuala wanting to marry a Protestant man, or that when she wrote the news of this to her parents her father had had a heart attack and died with the letter still in his hand.
Nor did he say that his mother, who had become almost unbearable to live with, had disowned Nuala because she blamed her for her father’s death, and he never mentioned Aggie, his eldest sister, either – another one his mother disowned – who had run away from home when he was just a boy, because these were personal family matters and not for sharing.
‘The place was not the same at all after Daddy died,’ Joe told Brian and Norah. ‘It was as if the heart had gone out of the place. And then I felt that life was passing me by and, well, I was breaking my back for a farm that would never be mine and so I decided to give America a try.’
‘And how did your brother take that news?’ Brian asked.
‘Oh, Tom understood,’ Joe said. ‘In fact he—’ But Joe got no further for at that moment the doorbell rang.
Knowing that it was probably the doctor, Norah was crossing the room before the maid appeared at the door. ‘Have to leave you to your own devices, Mr Sullivan,’ Brian said.
‘Don’t worry, sir, really,’ Joe said. ‘I am anxious as you are to hear what the doctor has to say about your daughter.’
‘Help yourself to another drink and make yourself comfortable,’ Brian said as he left. ‘We will both be back directly.’
Joe didn’t help himself to a drink, but sipped the one he had slowly as he again looked about the room in wonder. He thought of his brother on the farm and what he would say if he saw him now, sitting in such a room in such a house, as if he had a perfect right to be there, and supping whiskey, no less.
He knew that Tom, in similar circumstances, would probably be paralysed with shock and fear, and unable to take joy in any of it. He, on the other hand, intended to make the most of every minute because he knew it would be nothing more than a glimpse into how the toffs lived, and that when this bizarre day was at an end, his life would return to normal.
The doctor stayed about half an hour and by that time Joe’s stomach had begun to grumble.
‘The news is good,’ Brian said as he re-entered the room. ‘The doctor said there were no bones broken. Of course the poor girl is bruised all over and badly shaken up, and might be slightly concussed, but he said there’s nothing a few days in bed won’t cure.’
‘I’m pleased, sir,’ Joe said with a smile. ‘You must both be very relieved.’
‘We are,’ Brian answered. ‘I told the doctor what you did and he said you undoubtedly saved Gloria from a much greater injury. Now, I suggest that I let Cook know that we will be ready for dinner in half an hour or so.’
The dining room was even more opulent than the drawing room. It was dominated by a large table laid with a white lace cloth, and more cutlery and glasses than Joe had ever seen in his life. He knew that he would have to watch and copy Brian’s use of them very carefully or risk making an utter fool of himself.
Before they had the chance to start their meal, though, there was a knock at the door and the butler came in and said that Bert Clifford was outside and would like a word. Brian was on his feet immediately. ‘Excuse me,’ he said throwing his napkin down onto the table. ‘He probably has news of Tim.’
Brian’s face when he returned was very grave. ‘The news is that Tim has a fractured skull,’ he said, ‘and it’s touch and go whether he will pull through at all, or if he will be any use if he does survive. It is a terrible tragedy altogether.’
‘Has he a family?’ Joe asked.
‘No,’ Brian said. ‘He has always lived alone in a little place above the stables. I will go up to the hospital myself tomorrow, have a word with the doctors and see what’s the prognosis, but for the moment I am without someone to see to the horses.’
And then he took Joe totally by surprise by asking, ‘What about you, Mr Sullivan? Could you take over for a few days until we find out what’s what with Tim?’
‘Me, sir?’
‘You seem to know about horses.’
‘Not horses like these, though, sir,’ Joe said. ‘I only had dealings with farm horses, not thoroughbreds, and then only one at a time.’
‘I thought many of our countrymen did a study of thoroughbred horses, especially those thundering around a race track.’
‘You are right, sir,’ Joe said, ‘but not me. I have never backed a horse in my life. There was little money, for one thing, and I have never liked the idea of throwing hard-earned money away. So you see, sir, I wouldn’t be the man for you at all.’
‘You are exactly the man,’ Brian said. ‘These are not racehorses, and I need no gambler in my employ.’
Joe didn’t know how to get out of this because he was sure that Brian thought he had more expertise than he had, but how could he refuse? Wouldn’t he scupper his chances of employment of any kind if he did? And then there was Patrick Lacey. ‘I’d like to help you out, sir, really I would, but you see, my sponsor may have already arranged a place to stay and—’
‘Naturally he would be informed of the change of plan if you agree to do it.’
Despite the benign look on Brian’s face, Joe saw the determination to have his own way in his steely brown eyes and heard it in his voice. Patrick would be informed, not asked if that was all right or convenient. That was the rich for you.
He suppressed the sigh as he asked, ‘How many horses are we talking about, sir?’
‘Not that many,’ Brian said reassuringly. ‘There’s Gloria’s pony, Bramble – the one you stopped so admirably today – my hunter, the matching pair for the large carriage and the mare Norah likes, which often pulls the small dogcart. Think about it, for you would be getting me out of a fix, and