1949 (23 page)

Henry Mooney had missed his ladies very much while they were in New York State with Kathleen Halloran Campbell. When he met them at Union Station in Dallas he was amazed by how much the girls had grown over the summer.

There had been other changes as well. Saratoga Springs, where members of New York society spent the summer entertaining one another in high style, had made a powerful impression on Bella Mooney. She was no sooner off the train than she demanded to be addressed by her full name in all its grandeur. “I am
Isabella
. I wish you would all
remember
that!”

Henry drove his family home in a Chevrolet coupe he had bought secondhand while they were away. He was proud of the car and Ella seemed pleased. But with the suitcases taking up the rumble seat, everyone had to cram into the front. Hank sat on her mother's lap while Bella claimed the window.

The windows were down in the heat and the girl thoughtlessly rested her arm on the top of the door. In the first week of September the metal was red-hot from the Texas sun. With a gasp, Bella snatched her arm away. “This is an appalling place, simply
appalling
. I don't know how
decent
people are expected to
survive
.”

“We manage,” Henry remarked dryly.

“Mrs. Halloran has a much
larger
car than this,” his daughter continued, “and a
chauffeur
.”

Henry was trying to keep his eyes on the road. “Mmm. Does she now.”

Ella volunteered, “Kathleen's involved with a number of Irish-American organizations in New York. Through one of them she met a man—from Wexford I think—who had brought his whole family over here after the Civil War. Rather like us. He was desperate for work, so Kathleen hired him as a handyman and driver.”

“Chauffeur,” Bella corrected pointedly. “Really, Mother!”

 

Henry was not surprised to learn of Kathleen's chauffeur. After the Irish Civil War a number of embittered anti-treatyites had emigrated to America to help found an IRA-sympathetic political movement. It was exactly the sort of thing that would have appealed to Ned Halloran's sister.

 

That night as they were getting ready for bed, Ella told Henry, “I don't know what's come over Bella. In Saratoga Springs she began giving herself the most frightful airs.”

“She's still a child, Cap'n, and children love make-believe. Today Bella's a princess, tomorrow she may be Florence Nightingale. And a schoolteacher the day after.”

“I hope so. I was thankful we left Tilly here to keep house for you, because otherwise Bella would have been bossing the poor woman around. As it was, she kept referring to ‘my maid Tilly,' as if she had a personal servant at home.”

“She must get it from your side of the family,” Henry teased.

Ella's golden-brown eyes blazed. “That is not funny. My people aren't snobs.”

He laughed. She had the grace to blush. “Well, they aren't
all
snobs.”

When they were snuggled comfortably in bed, and after Henry had welcomed his wife home very, very thoroughly, Ella remarked, “I'm not so certain it was a good idea to take the girls to visit Kathleen at all.”

“Why? Did the two of you not get along?”

“Nothing like that, I like her very much. But our girls are at an impressionable age and…”

“And what?”

“Kathleen has a male friend who often dined with us. And stayed overnight. Saratoga Springs is very social, everyone has houseguests and plenty of guest rooms, but…when she and this man looked at one another there was something in their eyes. When they spoke there was something in their voices. He and Kathleen are lovers, Henry. I'm certain of it. And they're middle-aged!”

Henry ran one hand along the curve of his wife's hip. “Don't sound so shocked, Cap'n. We're middle-aged. And we're lovers.”

“We're husband and wife.” She shifted slightly to accommodate his hand.

“We're lovers,” he replied, his voice dropping deeper. “Without a doubt. If the widow Campbell has found something half as good as we have, she's a lucky woman.”

“I don't think you fully understand the seriousness of…”

“Don't tell me you're turning into a prude after all this time. I remember when…”

“I remember too,” Ella interrupted hastily. “And I'm not prudish, as you have good reason to know. But the man is…was…”

“Was?”

“A priest. A defrocked priest called Paul O'Shaughnessy.”

“I know him,” said Henry.

“You're not serious!”

“I am serious, Cap'n; I met him in Ireland.”

“Are you sure it's the same person?”

“Has to be,” Henry replied. “Father Paul O'Shaughnessy had been the priest at Saint Xavier's in Manhattan, which was Kathleen's parish. He was sent to Ireland on a sabbatical and while he was there he looked up her brother. That's how he came to marry Ned and Síle in my cousin Louise's parlor. I was Ned's best man.”

“Why on earth did he leave the priesthood? Was it because of Kathleen?”

Henry said teasingly, “If she wanted you to know, I'm sure she would have told you.”

“She never discussed her personal life with me.”

“She's like her brother in that respect, then,” said Henry. “They're close-mouthed about private matters, the Hallorans. It's the Irish in them.”

“Sweetheart, you can't leave it there! You know the story, I'm sure you do. Tell me or I'll burst with curiosity!”

Henry chuckled. “Sure and a burst wife would be no good to me at all. I only know the bare bones, mind; the little that Ned told me. Apparently Kathleen's American husband abused her and she turned to her priest for comfort, as many a woman had done before her. But then she and Paul fell in love. That's why his bishop sent him out of the country. It broke his heart, leaving her. When Ned, bless his romantic soul, learned the story, he urged Paul to go back to America and fight for her. Ned always was one for the fighting. From what you tell me, it sounds as if Paul took his advice.”

“Do you suppose they were…I mean, while Kathleen's husband was still alive…”

“I wouldn't begin to speculate,” Henry replied. “Nor should you.”

“You don't sound like you disapprove, though,” Ella remarked.

Henry Mooney chuckled. “Let's just say I love a happy ending.”

 

The flight across the Irish Sea was a difficult one. A strong headwind buffeted the Moth all the way, and Lewis Baines was tired by the time he checked into the Shelbourne. According to his instructions, he and the other foreign correspondents were to meet the following morning at 2RN and go over the program before the actual transmission that evening.

Lewis had a light supper in the hotel restaurant and then several whiskies in the bar. Perhaps too many whiskies. The next morning, he overslept. When he arrived at the broadcasting station he expected an angry Ursula to be waiting for him. Instead a thin, rabbity woman with a reddened nose met him at the door. “Are you here for the interview with Miss Halloran?

“I am. Is she…”

“You're late, I'm afraid. You'd better come with me.” Sniffling audibly, the woman showed him into a small room furnished with a table and four chairs, and closed the door behind him. There were two men in the room. He knew one of them, a large-framed, balding individual who carried himself like a former prizefighter.

“Hullo, Bob. I didn't know you'd be taking part in this. I heard that you were retiring from Reuters.”

Robert Averitt shrugged. “Rumors, Lewis, merely rumors. I decided to stay with the agency for a while longer because my wife couldn't bear the thought of having me underfoot all day. I just came back from Italy, you know. Lots going on over there. Miss Halloran was very interested in hearing about it.”

“You've spoken to her already?”

“Oh, yes. Charming young woman. Got right to the point, no dithering. I like that.”

Lewis felt a surge of jealousy. “Where is she now?”

In a voice rasped raw by too many cigarettes, the second man said, “She's in the other room, talking with Malcolm Weed about his segment. Said she'd be back in half an hour or so.”

Lewis sat down on a straight-backed chair and waited for what felt like much longer than thirty minutes. He chatted desultorily with the other men, feigned interest in yesterday's edition of the
Irish Times
, and examined his lapels for lint.

There was none.

He took out his pocket handkerchief and carefully refolded it. Twice.

At last the door opened. And there she was.

Glossy brown hair worn close to the head like an aviator's helmet. Slim, fine-boned body. Smoky crystal eyes that looked at him, looked through him, looked beyond him as if the fact of his presence did not register. Smoky crystal eyes summarily dismissing him for some transgression he did not even recall.

He jumped to his feet. “Ursula!”

Her gaze swung back to him. “Oh, Mr. Baines. Thank you for coming.” A flickering, impersonal smile, as cool as rainwater. “I'll be with you soon. In the meantime I'm ready for you, Mr. Bletherington. Would you like to come with me so we can run through your segment?”

Before Lewis could respond she was gone.

 

Ursula had approached this day in a state of nervous anticipation. She tried to tell herself it had nothing to do with seeing Lewis Baines again. When the other three interviewees arrived on time but there was no sign of him, she was relieved.
How typical. How arrogant. He probably won't even come and that's all to the good
.

Then she entered the room and there he was.

The program went smoothly. John MacDonagh was waiting for Ursula when she came out of the sound studio.

“You have a fine sense of dramatic structure,” MacDonagh said. “Averitt's analysis of the crisis between Italy and Abyssinia was an ideal opener. Many of our listeners may not have known that Mussolini's been threatening to invade Africa. Then by having Malcolm Weed explain the League of Nation's proposed peace plan you reassured the audience. Lulled them into a false confidence.

“Your closing interview was positively inspired. Bletherington's raspy voice describing the massive German rearmament program sounded sinister enough to jolt our listeners right out of their chairs. In fact, the only part of the program I felt was weak was Baines's segment. Who cares if some American millionaire called Howard Hughes has set a new air-speed record?”

“That bit underscored the rapid developments in air power,” Ursula explained. “You'll recall that Mr. Baines also said the Royal Air Force is expected to treble in size over the next two years, so when Mr. Bletherington spoke of Hitler building fifteen hundred aeroplanes…well, the conclusion is obvious. Europe's preparing for another war.”

Three vertical lines furrowed MacDonagh's high forehead. “There's not much we in Ireland can do except try to keep out of it. God knows, we've suffered enough from our own wars. But keep an ear to the ground, will you? You seem to be our foreign affairs expert.”

Finbar Cassidy had listened with inordinate pride to Ursula's program. When it was over he tried to think of a graceful way to congratulate her without looking as if he was pushing himself forward again.

 

Ursula invited all four interviewees to join her for dinner at Wynn's Hotel. She knew better than to ask the broadcasting station to pay for it. The envelope beneath her mattress would be plundered instead.

Malcolm Weed was a sunburnt man with faded eyes. E.G. Bletherington insisted he had no Christian name, only initials, “Because I am not a Christian, my dear.” As for Robert Averitt, Ursula had liked him the moment they met. He treated her as a fellow professional.

When they entered the hotel restaurant, Lewis Baines strode forward and requested a table for five.

Ursula cleared her throat. “I've already booked a table.”

The headwaiter noticed the sudden, resentful set of her jaw. “Indeed you have booked a table, Miss Halloran. The best in the house, the one we always give you,” he added with a straight face, although he had never assigned her to “the best table” before. But Ursula had been a customer for years, and he did not like aggressive Englishmen.

“Right this way, please.” The headwaiter seated Ursula first. The Englishman was placed as far from her as possible.

As she unfolded her napkin she turned to Robert Averitt. “Would you care to choose the wine?”

Lewis frowned. Ursula knew he was knowledgeable about wines, yet she was deliberately deferring to someone else.

Throughout the meal he tried to engage her in conversation, but she always managed to speak to someone else first, or change whatever subject he introduced. She was bright and gay and full of laughter; she turned the full force of her personality on every man in turn, dazzling him. Every man except Lewis.

He was mystified. It never occurred to him to examine his recent performance in case he had done something to upset her. Secure with ten centuries of breeding and the Magna Carta behind him, he had the typical British distaste for introspection.

Meanwhile Ursula sat in her body—her treasonous body that had a will of its own, and was irrationally, inexplicably yearning for him in spite of everything, as a plant reaches for the light—and tried not to look at the handsome Englishman glowering at her across the table.

 

As they were leaving the hotel Lewis took her elbow. “What's wrong, Ursula?” he asked in an undertone.

“I thought everything went perfectly. Did you not enjoy your dinner?”

“That's not what I mean and you know it. I'm flummoxed; I can't think of what I've done to turn you against me.”

“Why, nothing. It was an excellent interview.”

“That's not what I'm talking about!”

A large hand descended on Lewis's shoulder. “Steady on, old fellow,” said Robert Averitt. “You can't have all the women, you know. Clearly this girl isn't interested.”

“You don't know anything about it.”

“I know what I see,” Averitt said evenly, “and I won't have you annoying Miss Halloran.”

Turning to Averitt, Ursula linked her arm with his. “You're very kind and I appreciate it,” she murmured, “but there's no problem.”

The big man patted her hand like an avuncular uncle. “Not while I'm around, m'dear,” he assured her. “Please allow me to get a taxicab to take you home.”

The distance from Wynn's to Moore Street was only a few hundred yards, but Ursula accepted the offer. As she was driven away she sneaked one quick glimpse out the window.

Lewis Baines was standing on the curb, looking disconcerted.

19 September 1935
HUGE NAZI RALLY AT NUREMBURG
Hitler Issues Decree Depriving Jews of German Citizenship

3 October 1935
MUSSOLINI'S FASCIST TROOPS MARCH INTO ABYSSINIA
League of Nations Threatens to Impose Economic Sanctions