1972 (30 page)

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Authors: Morgan Llywelyn

BOOK: 1972
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Éamonn patted his wife's hand. “It's all right,
Roisín.”
ae
“It's not all right. Tell Barry what happened next.”
“I complained to Cathal Goulding. Since Cathal has a reputation for ruthlessness, you can imagine my surprise when he said—very gently—‘You have your fingers in so many pies, Éamonn. Your friends thought you were probably doing too much already.' In the kindest possible way, he was telling me I'd been purged without even knowing it.”
9
“I'm gobsmacked, Éamonn.”
“So was I, at the time. I suppose I should have seen it coming when I was voted off the Army Council. But there were things going on that I couldn't stomach and I said so.”
“Such as?”
“Robbing banks, for one. The dissidents have been doing it for a while; now some of our lads seem to think it's a good idea. But I ask you, Barry—how can we hope to create the republic we dreamt of on the proceeds of thievery?”
“Put that way, it sounds absurd.”
“It is absurd. Men who break the law can't be trusted to make the law.”
“Where does that leave the IRA? And you, for that matter?”
“I honestly don't know,” Thomas said wearily. “The physical-force men were afraid I'd take the Dublin brigade in the opposite direction, so they got me off the Army Council. Now those who think like Cathal Goulding have denied me any power in Sinn Féin because I can't support their communist leanings. But I'm still a republican. I'll always be a republican.”
“So will I,” said Barry.
Whatever that means today.
W
HEN Barry returned to Harold's Cross a letter was waiting for him. “It's from a woman,” Philpott said. “The envelope smells of perfume.”
“Thank you.” Barry took the note and turned away.
Philpott followed him. “That doesn't look like your mother's handwriting, Mr. Halloran. I don't allow women here. You know that, don't you? You have to abide by the rules!”
Barry walked swiftly to his room, fighting back an impulse to hit the man.
October 5th
Dear Barry,
I'm in Dublin and I'm staying at the Russell Hotel. Please phone me. I'm dying to see you.
Yours ever,
Barbara Kavanagh
“
D
o you want to make love to me?” Barbara asked.
Barry choked on his tea. “What?”
“I said do you want to make love to me?” Her eyes were bold with challenge.
Nothing in Barry's experience had prepared him for this moment. “Have you ever … I mean …”
“I was in Italy for two years, so what do you think? I went through those romantic Italian men like a hot knife through butter.” Seeing his appalled expression, Barbara laughed.
B
ARRY had telephoned the Russell with mixed feelings. Barbara Kavanagh made him uncomfortable, yet he found the prospect of meeting her again exciting.
He was not disappointed. Waiting at the front desk when she emerged from the lift, Barry saw the way every man in the hotel lobby turned to look at her. She ignored them. Fixing her golden eyes—
tiger's eyes!
—on Barry's, she walked straight across the lobby to him. “I'm so glad you're here!” She threw
her arms around his neck and kissed him on either cheek.
Barry felt his ears burning. He was terribly, wonderfully aware of the other men staring at them.
“Of course I'm here,” he said. “Your letter amounted to a command performance.”
Two years had wrought a number of changes in the girl. She was by far the tallest woman in the hotel lobby; she did not have to stand on tiptoe to put her arms around his neck. Her bosom was fuller than Barry remembered, and her voice had taken on a husky quality.
He gently disentangled her arms and stepped back. Yet he could still feel the imprint of her body on his. “Would you care to sit down?” he asked politely. “They'll serve us tea right here if you like.”
“I'd like something stronger.”
“But you're only …”
“Nineteen years old, and I'd like a drink.”
“I don't think they'd serve you anything alcoholic here.”
“Then let's go somewhere else.”
I'm not about to let her dictate to me. Nineteen years old indeed!
Firmly taking Barbara by the elbow, Barry steered her toward two armchairs on either side of a small table. “I would like a cup of tea,” he said emphatically. “You can have one with me, or not.”
“Can we have some cookies too? Real cookies, not amaretti or anything like that?”
Barry ordered tea and an assortment of sweet biscuits. “Now tell me about Italy, Barbara. And your singing.”
“Oh. That. Well, Italy turned out to be nothing like I'd expected. It's a beautiful country, but I didn't get to do any of the things I wanted. And I'm not going to be an opera singer after all.”
“Oh, Barbara, I am sorry.”
“I did my best,” she said petulantly. “But every time I made a little progress I was sent to a new and supposedly better voice coach. Practice practice practice. I was always singing—except when I was working on my breathing, or my diction, or studying foreign languages. There was no time for anything else.” She gestured constantly as she spoke. Finger butterflies fluttering in the air.
“I thought Milan would be wonderful. I was going to go to lots of fashion shows and learn to ski in the Alps and meet lots of gorgeous Italian men. Instead I might as well have been a nun.” Barbara broke off when the biscuits arrived and began cramming them into her mouth.
Barry waited.
With her mouth full Barbara mumbled, “No more sugar, that's what my last voice coach told me.” She paused to swallow. “He was an absolute dictator, Barry. Have you ever heard of Mussolini?”
“The Italian dictator? I have of course.”
“Well, Maestro Antonelli was Mussolini Junior. He ruined my life.”
Barry felt as if a petrol bomb had exploded inside him. “Do you mean …”
“He made me work hour after hour until I was hoarse, then he said I was too weak and must build up my vocal cords with still more exercises. Eventually I had the most awful attack of laryngitis, I couldn't talk for ages. As soon as it cleared up he started on me all over again. You can't imagine how terrible it was. Finally my voice simply wouldn't come back, it was absolutely shredded. The doctor said the vocal cords were permanently damaged. Mother's going to sue. Can we get some more of these cookies?”
So that's all, just her voice. Thank God. I thought she'd been raped.
“What a dreadful thing to happen,” he commiserated. “Your beautiful voice.”
“There's a lot more to me than a voice,” she said indignantly.
“Of course there is, I only meant …”
“Mother's exactly the same. I've had to endure two absolutely awful years and all she cares about is what happened to my God-damned voice.”
So she swears, on top of everything else.
“Where is Isabella? Is she with you?”
“Mother hated Europe. I knew she would, she doesn't like anything. After a couple of months she went home and left me at the mercy of dictators.”
Barry signalled the waiter to bring another plate of biscuits.
“What are your plans when you get back to Dallas?”
“I don't intend to go back to Dallas. Would you like to sit around the house all day with your mother?”
Barry gave a wry smile. “Surely you have other options.”
That was when Barbara asked if he wanted to make love to her.
I
am not going to take advantage of this girl's naïveté,
Barry told himself sternly.
Besides, she's Henry Mooney's granddaughter, which makes her practically family. If I laid a finger on her, Ursula would have my guts for garters.
“I'm flattered, Barbara, but …”
“Don't you want to have sex with every beautiful woman you see?”
He was disconcerted by her bald use of the word sex. “Of course not!”
“You're lying. I don't mind, I'd expect you to. You have such good manners.”
She made good manners sound like a character flaw. “I am not lying, Barbara. You should know better than to accuse anyone of—”
“Signore Favarelli accused me of lying when I said he was hurting my throat.”
“Must you always interrupt?”
“I don't interrupt. I anticipate.”
“Then tell me what I'm about to say next.”
“You're about to call me a bloody pain in the ass.”
“You're not as good as you think you are,” Barry said stiffly. “I don't use language like that around women.”
“So you admit I'm a woman.”
“You are of course, but …”
“Then don't treat me like a little girl. Give me a straight answer. Do you want to have sex with me or not?”
“Feck it!” Barry exploded. Jumping to his feet, he signalled the waiter to bring the bill and strode toward the front desk.
Barbara followed him. “And just where do you think you're going?”
“Home.” He flung the word over his shoulder without looking back.
“But you can't!”
Barry whirled around. “I can do anything I want!” His eyes were savage. It was the first time he had let any woman glimpse the other Barry. The one he kept tightly leashed.
Barbara froze like a rabbit in the lights. “Yes,” she said in an uncharacteristically faint voice. “Yes, of course you can.” The two stood facing each other. The air between them vibrated with tension.
The other occupants of the hotel lobby politely averted their eyes.
Like a musical instrument changing keys, Barbara's tone changed. “Don't look at me like that, Barry. I was only teasing about Italian men. I didn't make love with any of them.”
“Really?” His voice was cold.
“Yes, really. Can we sit down again? Please?”
“If you wish.” Still cold. He was being defensive, though she could not know that.
They resumed their seats at the small table. Barry picked up his cup. The tea was cold too.
Her fault.
“I suppose I shouldn't have come out with it like that,” Barbara said, “but I've been thinking a lot about you.”
He waited. Silently.
“I'm going to make love with somebody sometime.”
“Probably,” he conceded.
“So I thought … well, it might as well be you. At least you can speak English. And you are absolutely the most handsome man I know.”
Barry had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
It would be a dreadful mistake to let this girl think she can get around me
. “You sound very determined, Barbara. Don't I have a say in this?”
“Well yes. Of course.” She reached for another sweet biscuit, crumbled it between her fingers, and let the fragments fall into her teacup. “I just thought you'd want to.” Now there was a defensive chill in her voice.
The sooner she goes back to Texas the better,
Barry told himself.
“Let's look at this realistically, Barbara. I'm eight years older than you, we hardly know one another, and you've just been through a difficult time so you may not be thinking clearly. You may not want to go home but you really have no option, so …”
“Of course I have an option. My grandfather left me a trust fund, so I can stay here if I want to. And I do.”
“But your mother …”
“My mother,” said Barbara, “is a snakes' nest of resentments that make her impossible to live with. Oh, she doesn't complain openly, she's too much of a lady for that. But she makes certain everyone in a five-mile radius knows exactly how she feels.”
“What could Isabella possibly have to resent?”
“Everything. When she was growing up she resented her own mother for being more beautiful than she ever could be. I figured that out from things she's said over the years. She still resents Aunt Hank for being the one who was named for Grandpapa Henry, although I don't see how the poor woman could help it. Mother resents that Hank will always be richer than she is, because Hank's husband makes a lot of money. She resents me for being young and having my whole life ahead of me. She even resents the law of gravity. But most of all my mother resents yours.”
“Mine?” Barry was astonished. “You mean Ursula?”
“Yes of course. Mother positively hates her. Didn't you know?”
Barry shook his head. “I'm beginning to think the female mind is beyond my comprehension.”
Barbara gave a low, throaty laugh. “Your speech is so elegant compared to the way they talk in Texas. I just know I'm going to be happy here.”
That night Barry telephoned Ursula. On the notepad beside the telephone in the hall, he wrote down the length of the call so he could pay Mr. Philpott. Otherwise he would lose phone privileges.
When Barry gave his mother a severely edited version of his encounter with Barbara, she laughed. “It sounds as if the girl has a crush on you, Barry. Surely you can handle it.”
“But she plans to stay here, Ursula. What am I going to do?”
“Nothing. She's not your responsibility. I can't imagine Barbara could ever adapt herself to our ways—or our standard of living. Simply keep an eye on her so that no harm comes to her. She'll be on her way home soon enough.”
Simply keep an eye on her. Ursula doesn't understand the situation.
He was not about to explain it to her.
Impelled by the good manners that Barbara derided, he
promised to introduce her to his bank manager and help her find a flat—which she persisted in calling an apartment. When he put out feelers amongst his friends, Barry added, “The place must be as far from Harold's Cross as possible.”
After several days Dennis Cassidy reported, “We've found the perfect flat. Alice's parents live in Dun Laoghaire, and the people next door to them want to let the top storey of their house.”
“You'll like Dun Laoghaire,” Barry assured Barbara. “There are some very pretty houses along the seafront, plus the harbour and the strand and …”
“Strand of what?”
“A strand is a beach.”
“Why don't you just say beach, then?”
“Barbara, if you're going to stay here you're going to have to learn Irish English. It isn't the same as American English.”
“It's all English, isn't it?”
“No,” said Barry firmly. “It is not ‘all English.'”

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