The Kilternan Legacy (3 page)

“Get that!” Simon’s eyes were wide with amazement.

“That was odd,” Snow said. “What an elegant key!” She took the set from my limp hand, holding up an old key, long and wrought iron, with a curlicue in the handle and huge teeth in the business end: a real honest-to-God lock-the-door-against-invaders key. “What’s the map say?” And she opened it, Simon craning his neck to look too. The mileage was clearly marked between checkpoints, and landmarks were indicated.

There was also a second small map, marked OFFICE, showing me how to get to Noonan’s, just off the Grand Canal on Baggot Street.

“I didn’t know Dublin had a canal,” I remarked.

Snow shook her head dolefully. “The essential mother hath not changed. Let’s put her to bed and hope for an improvement overnight.”

They did. And oh, how quickly I was asleep, not troubling my conscience over the fact that I was leaving two fourteen-year-olds on their own in a hotel in a strange city.

SIMON IS a born organizer. The Renault was ready at the Hertz place at 9 in the morning. All I had to do was sign. I did try to explain how nervous I was about driving on the wrong side of the road, and that I’d be very careful, but Snow and Simon interrupted me. (Preserve the Image.)

So, planting Simon as map reader and conscience in the front seat, and sternly abjuring him to watch my left-hand side and keep me on and in the right, I drove off. And tried to shift with my right hand.

“Here, Mother, here,” Simon said, grabbing my left hand and placing it on the gear shift.

By the time we were on a dual highway, I had the hang of shifting left-handedly and some notion of judging distance on the left side of the car. Just as well, because we turned off the wide road where minor errors were easily correctable onto a very narrow one with walls and high earthen banks, and winds and turns and cars coming down at me on the wrong side.

“There it is!” Simon cried, his arm across me indicating frantically to make a right turn.

“Where is what?” I cried, jamming on the brakes in reflex action. There was a screech behind me, and I shuddered, expecting the angry blast of a horn. When nothing happened, I bravely used the right-turn indicator and hastily did what I said I was going to do.

Swann’s Lane was narrower and dirt.

“Are you positive it’s Swann’s Lane?” I had a glimpse of incomprehensible syllables on a green-and-white sign imbedded in the low stone wall.

“Yeah, the first line’s in Irish, Mother.”

“This is nice!” Snow said.

I had the impression that it was, but I was watching the road to avoid the rocks and ruts.

“Look at the old horse! He’s sweet!”

I got a glimpse of brown rump and tail, and then saw the cottages nestled into the cut of the hillside. And another one on the right side of the lane.

“Is that where we’re going?” Snow was dismayed.

“Naw,” Simon replied with contempt, “that one’s where we’re going,” and he pointed to my left where a sandy-colored house loomed beyond some thick hedges and small trees, quite separate from the nest of cottages. As we drove up, a small sign at the corner of the wall confirmed that this was indeed Hillside Lodge.

The house had a forlorn look, unfinished sort of, despite the fact that (as I later learned) it was two hundred years old and a good example of farmhouse Georgian; I suppose I had envisioned a thatched cottage, charmingly rose-covered. There were gardens front and rear, and a lawn in front which had obviously been seeded when the house was built, because it had that velvet integrity so much prized. But the house wasn’t at all what I had expected. Then I chided myself: Who was I to look gift houses in the face?

The front door was reached through a small glassed porch which was shelved with plants, all carefully potted and recently moistened. Someone was tending the place. There was a huge modern padlock on the front door and the older large keyhole. The door paint wasn’t new, but it had been washed scrupulously clean.

Inside smelled musty. Well, Aunt Irene had been dead nearly two months. In front of us was a small hall with stairs, and doors on either side. To the right was a long sitting room, with fireplace, lace curtains, and the incredible combination of wall papers that I learned was an Irish failing. There wasn’t much furniture: a Victorian two-seater, a modern fireside chair and hassock, a good mahogany table, a small desk, several lamps, an electric heater, and a few worn pieces of carpeting. Everything was immaculate, discounting the fine layer of dust.

“It’s a pretty room,” said Snow in a dubious tone.

“It could be.”

To the left of the front door was a dining room with a nice old round table in its center, the buffet to one side, and a second fireplace with an enclosed stove. We could see beyond to the kitchen; the sink facing the front of the house was at a backbreaking height. Good God, how could any decent cook function? I groaned.

“Hey!” Snow stopped at the kitchen door in surprise.

I hurriedly joined her, and beheld a wonder. The sink might not have been altered, but beyond it were beautifully constructed cabinets, Formica-topped, a modern countertop fridge, a lovely gas range, and wall cabinets the length of the kitchen to the back door.

“Mom? More rooms back here,” called Simon, and Snow and I, still flabbergasted by the splendid kitchen, turned back toward Simon’s beckoning arm.

One of the two rooms was an office, with an old desk, an ancient file cabinet, several shelves of books (the dull-looking type), and some ledgers.

A snitch of carpet, well swept but its original motif dimmed by usage, led down the small hall to the solidly barred back door. Hooks and a boot rack held worn raiment of a durable farm type.

The second room was full of old trunks and boxes, a few discarded bits of harness, and a well-patched saddle and bridle.

“Maybe the old horse was hers?” asked Snow, her eyes brightening. I knew what she was thinking. She’d always wanted to ride.

High windows looked out on a back yard, the barn and stable, and the garage, in which the blue trunk of an old car was visible.

“Let’s go upstairs,” said Snow excitedly. I couldn’t see why she was so eager, but I caught some of her contagion.

Except for the kitchen, there were evidences of what I’d call pride-poverty, and it distressed me to think that my great-aunt might have been in want during her last years. But that kitchen …

There were three bedrooms above.

“Three’s all we need,” cried Snow, bouncing up and down on the left-hand-room bed. “Wow! It’s hard!” She was up and peeking into the little bathroom which fitted in the space over the front hall. “Well, everything we need.” The bathroom’s fittings were old, except for the John. She flushed it experimentally, and a rush of water answered the summons.

“And indoors,” I said. I’d half expected a privy out back.

The bedroom over the kitchen-dining room had obviously been my aunt’s: the double bed was old cherry wood, with a beautifully crocheted spread, and the Victorian dresser and chair, the marble-topped, very shallow chests, and a huge ornate wardrobe were good pieces. The wide-planked floor was almost hidden by the one fine rug in the whole house: an Axminster with warm blues and reds. A good-sized electric heater stood against one wall, and Snow saw the electric-blanket attachment and whooped.

“How incongruous!”

“How practical!” I said, feeling relieved about Aunt Irene’s last days.

The third bedroom was long and narrow, with a sloping ceiling. A recently built wardrobe stretched across one wall, but apart from that, only a narrow cot, a very small chest, and a chair occupied the room.

“I’d like this room,” said Sim thoughtfully, his eyes roving about. He had to bend to see through the small rear window into the yard. “Say, there’s a vegetable garden behind the stable. We eat!”

“I don’t know if we can stay here yet, children.”

“Why not?” asked Snow.

“There are such things as death duties, and I may be wise to take the first buyer that conies along with ready money in his hand.”

“That girl didn’t want you to talk to Kelley,” Snow said.

“Mom has a point, Sis. We’ll find out this afternoon from the lawyer. But I do like this room!”

“I’ll switch beds with you,” Snow said to her brother. “You like yours rock-hard.”

“You sprawl.” Simon pointed to the narrow cot. “You’d be on the floor half the time.”

“Better than feeling like a corpse … whoops! Sorry, Mom.”

For I’d given a shudder, not so much for her untimely simile as for my growing sense of trespass, unwelcome, and trouble. My right hand itched intolerably. I mastered the desire to scratch, because Sim and Snow would know I had one of my itches again.

A loud clanging, rattling, rumbling distracted us, and, curious, we all made for the front of the house. A huge construction bulldozer was churning up the lane, figuratively and literally, because you could see the tread marks on the unpaved road. I groaned. The springs on the Renault were not good enough to take that mess. Suddenly the bulldozer stopped. Or, I should say, was stopped. Craning my neck, I could see a stocky figure standing resolutely in its path.

Simon inched the window open. It was very tight, judging by his grunts and groans.

“This is a private road,” Stalwart Defender was saying, “owned by Miss Teasey and not to be used by commercial vehicles.”

“I was told to take Swann’s Lane,” said the driver, angrily gunning his engine for emphasis.

“By whom?”

“By Kerrigan. He owns the field there,” and the man pointed up the lane. I couldn’t see what lay at the end. But I’d all too often seen what havoc bulldozers made in fields before they got strewn with ticky-tacky boxes. Suddenly I very much did
not
want a development around this lovely pastoral setting.

“That wall also belongs to Miss Teasey.”

“She’s dead. Who’re you?”

“I own that cottage. I also own a right of way on this lane. Kerrigan does not.”

“I can’t give a damn who owns what. I got orders to use this lane to get into that field!”

“Get out!” said Stalwart Defender. “Miss Teasey wouldn’t give Kerrigan the right to spit on her land, much less use this lane. So get out!”

“You and who else’ll make me?” and the driver began to fiddle ominously with his gears, activating the plow end.

“Hey, he’ll run the guy down with that thing!” said Simon.

I started to reassure him, and then wasn’t so certain myself. There was an obstinate just to the driver’s jaw, and he was beet-red with frustration..

“I’ll make you, young man,” I shouted from the window. “You just stay where you are!”

As I turned from the window, I heard a startled, “Jasus, preserve me!” from Stalwart Defender.

The three of us rattled down the steps. “Did either of you see a phone in the house?”

“There!” Simon pointed to a hand set on the small hall table. “And here!” He detached a shotgun from the wall above it.

I took the gun and started out the door, armed to defend my property, though I’d never held a weapon before in my life. I suppose the Irish air imbued me with this sort of courage and rebellion; certainly I’d never experience it before.

“I’m Irene Teasey,” I said, foursquare on the steps. Over the wall I could see the man on the seat of the bulldozer, but not Stalwart Defender. The driver looked startled at the sight of the gun in my hands, and my loyal cohorts. “That thing of yours is making a mess of my lane. You will kindly back down this instant or I’ll have the police here immediately.”

He was still goggling when I fumbled my way through the gate—rusty from long disuse—and onto the (
my
) lane. Maybe that’s what added to my sense of power: owning the way into my own demesne.

“Now clear out! That thing’s a mortal nuisance!”

He opened his mouth to protest.

“Simon, haven’t you reached the police yet?”

That settled the driver, for he couldn’t tell at this distance that Simon was only fourteen. A gun and two men to contend with, plus police interference, were more than he liked as odds. The bulldozer churned more mud as it rumblingly clanged its destructive way back down my lane.

“Your timing is fantastic, Mrs. Teasey,” said the baritone voice of Stalwart Defender.

“Yes, thanks, even if I don’t know the rest of the script,” I replied, turning to get an eyeful of beard and body. Stalwart Defender was not much taller than I, and mostly shaggy beard and hair the last foot of that, but he looked big. He wore what I soon came to recognize as uniform for a lot of Irishmen: cord britches, heavy sweater, and a knit cap. He had very bright, light-green eyes, like Snow’s, and well-shaped lips hidden in the face-fur. He also had hands!

“You spoke your lines with true conviction and have thus foiled the enemy!” I was accorded a slight bow and a wide grin.

“I’m the heir—heiress, I guess.”

There was a startled blink of the green eyes.

“I really am Irene Teasey, you know.”

“There’s no doubt of it. I’m Kieron Thornton,” only it sounded like “T’ornton.” My hand was engulfed in one large, strong, scaly paw while the other neatly twitched the shotgun away from me. “Kerrigan may call the Garda. Swear on a stack of Bibles that I had the shotgun. You’ve no permit.”

“Huh?”

Snow and Simon now arrived to be presented.

“Say, how come we can stop that thing?” Snow asked, beaming at Stalwart Thornton, who politely ignored her and turned to me.

“You own the lane and you’ve the right to stop Kerrigan. I don’t.”

“Who’s Kerrigan?” I asked.

Thronton hesitated. “You’ve not seen the solicitor?” He considered his next words. “He owns the fields beyond that wall,” and Kieron pointed up the lane to its abrupt end. “He bought the property last fall, and was on to Irene to sell him the right of way through this lane. He’s got prime development property there, and the owner of the only other way in, from the Glenamuck Road, is asking five thousand pounds for a right of way.”

Simon whistled, and Thornton grinned at him.

“Yes, that’s a lot of money. Irene suggested that if he paid
her
the five thousand pounds he’d save on the paving costs of a much shorter road.”