Last of the Great Romantics (9 page)

As if this wasn't bad enough, there appeared to be an altercation of some sort, Father Finnegan couldn't help noticing, between that pretty young Daisy Davenport and the new widow.

'No member of my family has ever gone to their final resting place without this being laid over them,' Daisy was snarling at Shelley-Marie, waving the tattered standard threateningly under her nose. 'If you don't like it, you can shove it up your lardy arse.'

'Why, all I said was that it looks like a picture of two cats doin' the business, that's all. I'm pickin' up so much hostility from you, Miss Daisy, when all I want is for us to be friends. Your papa often visits me in my dreams and I know that was his dyin' wish. Don't take it out on me just because you don't have a boyfriend.'

'Perhaps we might get started now?' Father Finnegan, trained in conflict resolution, judged this to be an opportune moment to intervene. The priest was at his wits' end, however, to think of something respectful he could say about the deceased in his eulogy. It was doubly hard, given that he had barely known him and also that his private life seemed so, well, colourful to say the least.

'John Davenport was, emm—' He broke off as his eye wandered down along the front pew. There were his two wives, sitting companionably side by side, Portia and her husband holding hands and then young Daisy looking distraught and sitting all by herself at the very end of the pew. Mrs Flanagan, whom he knew only slightly, was sitting in the back row by the door, and kept popping in and out for a cigarette. 'John Davenport was a family man,' he said without very much conviction. 'He valued his family above all else and, emm . . .' He silently racked his brains to think of more. 'He was a compassionate man, he certainly cared about, emm, about . . . those he loved.'

Portia glanced across at Andrew, deeply embarrassed at a priest having to He so blatantly from the pulpit. Agnes and Lucy Kennedy, two elderly spinster sisters from the nearby town of Newbridge, were sitting behind them looking equally at sea.

'Excuse me,' Agnes whispered to Portia, leaning forward in her seat. 'Are we at the right funeral?'

Portia nodded, not blaming her a bit for being confused.

'Sure, God love poor Father Finnegan,' said Lucy, who was a bit deaf, in a loud stage whisper clearly audible around the church. 'What a dreadful job to have to eulogize Blackjack Davenport. Do you remember the time, Agnes dear, he can't have been more than ten years of age, when he called around to our house and ate my gerbil?'

There was a stony silence as the tiny congregation turned to look at her.

'Oh, for God's sake, can somebody just say one good thing about him, please!' hissed Daisy, at the end of her tether.

'Well, there is one thing you can't take away from him,' replied Agnes after a long pause. 'He had the most wonderful head of hair.'

'Yes, you're quite right,' said Lucy, nodding at her, 'just like Clark Gable's. Not a bit oily at all.'

Pretty soon the whole awful ordeal was over and Blackjack's remains were being ceremoniously carried down the aisle by a red-eyed Daisy. That was, until Shelley-Marie overtook her and snatched the tiny tin box out of her hands, marching triumphantly ahead of her like a rugby player who'd just scored a try. Lucasta, meanwhile, had made her way around to the church organ behind the altar, but instead of playing a suitable hymn, she was bashing out one of her favourite songs: 'Make a Bonfire of Your Troubles'.

'I honestly don't know whether to laugh or cry' Portia whispered to Andrew as they made their way down the aisle and out into the biting February cold.

'Just think,' he replied, putting his arm around her, 'in a week's time, we'll be strolling down Park Avenue together and, I promise you, we'll look back and laugh.'

A sharp stab of worry struck her, but she wisely let it pass, for the moment anyway. There's a time and a place for that conversation, she thought as they moved out through the portico and down the stone steps outside the church.

Agnes and Lucy were still there and warmly shook hands with both of them. 'You're freezing!' Portia said kindly. 'You must both come back to the Hall for a cup of tea.'

'And you can see the renovations for yourself,' said Andrew, holding open his car door for them both.

'Oh, how sweet of you,' they chimed in unison, gingerly stepping up into the back seat of his jeep. 'I read all about your lovely party there the other night,' said Lucy, sounding just a tad peeved. 'It looked wonderful.'

'Yes, imagine Robert Armstrong being there, I'd have loved to meet him,' replied Agnes.

Portia winced at the barb but felt it was better to say nothing than to launch into a whole explanation about party planners and A-list celebrities and the kind of drivel Julia Belshaw would come out with. An awkward pause hung in the air as they turned sharp left past the gate lodge and on up the long driveway to the Hall. There was only one other car ahead of the hearse, which was Mrs Flanagan driving Lucasta, Shelley-Marie and Daisy, with great clouds of cigarette smoke spewing out of the windows. The convoy had almost reached the forecourt at the main entrance to the Hall when Lucy eventually spoke.

'Do you know what I was just wondering, Portia dear?' Portia turned around to face her. 'Well, I know your father signed the Hall over to you the year before last, when you were married,' she said very deliberately, as though bringing up a distasteful subject.

'And we're all so pleased about that, best thing your father ever did,' said Agnes diplomatically. 'It rightfully belongs to you and now Andrew too, of course. That's quite as it should be.'

'Least Blackjack could have done,' said Lucy in her loud deaf old lady's voice. 'The girls can't inherit, you know, the title only goes through the male line. You were very lucky he signed the Hall over to you when he did, Portia dear. Can you imagine some usurper coming along now and trying to turf you all out?'

'So what was it you wanted to know?' asked Portia, baffled and dying to know where all this was leading.

'Why, who the new Lord Davenport is, of course, dear.'

Chapter Six

' "Cecily! At last!"'

'"Gwendolen! At last!"'

' "My nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of triviality."'

'"On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I've now realized for the first time in my life the vital Importance of Being Earnest."'

A thunderous roar of applause broke out as the cast stepped forward to take a well-earned bow. The audience got to their feet and the clapping grew to a deafening crescendo as the prison Governor rose from the front row and up on to the stage, patiently waving for a bit of hush. It took ages for everyone to calm down; even the armed prison officers dotted throughout the auditorium were going bananas.

'Thank you, thank you all very much for such a wonderful response,' he gushed when eventually the applause died down. 'All I can say is that based on tonight's performance, I think we can safely say the All-Ireland Padraig Pearse award for drama in the prisons is ours, for the fourth year running!'

More ear-splitting, raucous cheers from the audience, forcing the Governor to wait for several minutes before he could continue.

'Thank you very much. Now, I'd only love to be able to take credit for this remarkable feat, but I'm afraid all the accolades rightfully belong to one person and one person only. It is with great sadness that, only the other day, we heard that the best director this theatre has ever seen is unfortunately not going to be with us for very much longer.'

There were a lot of disappointed oohs and ahhs from the audience. Clearly, not everyone had heard this news.

'The time has come for this incredibly talented individual to, as actors would say, exit stage left.' The governor paused for laughter, delighted at his own gag, but none came. 'But all I can tell you is the outside world's gain is the inside's loss. Will you please put your hands together for the show's director, Jasper Davenport, our very own Mad Jasper!'

Mad Jasper stayed resolutely in the wings, apparently preferring the shadows to the bright glare of the spotlight.

'Ah, come on out and take a bow,' the Governor coaxed, beaming at him as the cheering continued. 'I think he's a bit shy,' he said to the audience, teasingly. 'Maybe he's only waiting on me to address him by his fancy new title.'

More puzzled oohing and ahhing from the audience.

'Oh yes, indeed,' the Governor rambled on. 'We had a solicitor's letter only the other day with the big news. The most talented director this prison has ever seen is now entitled to call himself by a very grand new name, you know. So come on out and take a bow, Mad Jasper, your lordship!'

'Portia, for God's sake, Daisy is twenty-two years of age. It's high time someone handed her a bit of responsibility. It'll be the makings of her. Will you trust me on this?'

It was bloody hard to argue with Andrew when he was all fired up thus, Portia knew of old, not to mention the fact that he had a stubborn streak as long as Lake Geneva. Once he'd made his mind up about something, that was it. No going back. They were driving back from Kildare town where, among other things, they'd just been to collect their airline tickets from the local travel agency.

'Your flight is at two-thirty tomorrow afternoon,' the heavily made-up agent had cooed at Andrew, unable to take her eyes off him as she passed over the business-class tickets with perfectly manicured fingernails. 'Check in is two hours prior to departure.'

'Thanks, I'm familiar with the routine.' Andrew grinned back at her, taking the tickets and slipping them into the breast pocket of his leather jacket. Right, Portia had said to herself, that gives me exactly twenty-four hours to sort this out.

It wasn't that she didn't want to get on that flight with him the next day. A huge part of her had been swept along in his usual tidal wave of enthusiasm for what lay ahead. New job, new faces, three blissful months together in one of the most exciting cities on earth. What more could she possibly want? It was sorely tempting to fantasize about the adventure that was in store and the sheer adrenalin rush of being part of that adventure with him. But like it or not, there was no shifting the awful sinking feeling she had deep in the pit of her stomach that she shouldn't go. Half of her knew how devastated she'd feel, watching him bound into the airport terminal without her, unsure of when she'd see him again, but the other, more practical side of her was resolute. The way things were at Davenport Hall at present, she considered herself lucky to get as far as Ballyroan, never mind the bright lights of Broadway.

The memorial service had been three full days ago and Shelley-Marie showed absolutely no inclination to go anywhere. Nor could Portia put her continued presence down to plain old-fashioned gold-digging. The reading of Blackjack's will had come and gone and, unsurprisingly, he had left nothing of any value behind. Any money he'd won, he'd gambled and lost again, equally quickly. Lucasta got nothing; his lucky deck of cards and his lucky cigarette lighter he bequeathed to Mrs Flanagan; and Portia had to make do with a bill from the Bellagio Hotel for some three months' bed and board, which he'd let accumulate. To add insult to injury, Daisy wasn't even mentioned in the will. She hadn't been born when he'd written it and he'd never gone to all the bother of making a new one.

'I sure am mighty glad old Jackie didn't leave me nothing,' Shelley-Marie had pronounced, unconvinc-ingly, Portia thought, as they all made their way back from the solicitor's office. 'Now no one can ever say that I married him for material gain.'

'Quite right too, darling,' Lucasta replied. 'There's far more to being a widow than just the jewellery.'

In the same short space of time, Daisy's behaviour had gone from distraught daughter to harridan from hell and not without just cause. Things weren't helped along by the fact that Shelley-Marie seemed to be one of those people who had an innate knack for ingratiating herself with those around her. She was already bosom buddies with Lucasta, who even went to the bother of giving her a guided tour of the Hall, a rare honour seeing as how she herself rarely got beyond the bar these days.

'And you know, darling,' she'd said to Shelley-Marie, pouring her a stiff gin, 'my idea is that every year we host a sort of bachelor festival on the grounds here in one of those big stripy circus tents. A little bit like the Lisdoonvarna bachelor festival, except that it'll be for bachelor girls too, or singletons, or desperados or whatever it is they call themselves these days. You know what single people are like; they'll fork out any amount of money if they think it'll buy true love. Their loneliness is our villa in Greece. We'd clean up.'

'Why, Lucasta, you truly are a financial visionary! I have never in all my born days met anyone with your business savvy. You know, you are gonna be a mighty wealthy woman some day.'

Lucasta beamed, totally unused to compliments. 'And you know I have great plans for in here,' she went on, sweeping her hand across the bar in the Long Gallery. 'You know how all those Hollywood stars spend fortunes going into detox in those ferociously expensive glorified health spas? God-awful places where you can't even have a drinkie or a ciggie, twenty-first-century concentration camps really.'