The Kilternan Legacy Read online

  “Well, that’s one thing settled. However …” and I told them about Mr. Kelley’s call.

  “I wouldn’t see the man,” said Snow autocratically.

  “That’s a bit quick, isn’t it, Mother? Sounds fishy.” Simon was giving me that too-intent look, which meant that he and Snow had been conspiring.

  “Okay, what’s with you two?”

  “Well, we’ve all summer to do nothing in, why not do it in Ireland?” she asked guilelessly. “If that cottage is habitable at all, it’ll do as a base for any touring we want to do.”

  “You don’t like the Westfield routine any more anyhow, Mom,” Simon said. “Swimming club and that nonsense.”

  He didn’t add “and running into your ex-husband and his new wife.”

  “You haven’t been in Ireland more than …” I glanced at my watch, but Simon covered it, his expression very earnest.

  “It’s the feeling about it,” Snow said, raising her hands in an unconscious effort to enfold the new experience, “and the people have time to talk to you, and answer questions, and listen.”

  “And give advice.” Simon’s grin was suddenly a faint echo of Teddie’s I’ve-got-this-account-sewed-up smile. “I mean, they’re nice, Mom.”

  “They know we’re tourists,” I said, to cushion their eventual disillusionment.

  “Even if that’s the case, it’s a very welcome change!” Snow’s eyes flashed, and her lips compressed against the increasingly frequent and distressing incidents that her young beauty provoked. If she felt less threatened in Ireland …

  “Look, let’s not go leaping without looking.”

  “Aw, Mom, Ireland’s nice,” Simon said, as if that were the definitive reason.

  “I’m not saying no, I’m just—”

  “Temporizing as usual,” Snow finished for me.

  “Really, Sara!”

  She subsided, making a face, because usually she is not pert with me.

  “Getting back to Mr. Kelley,” Simon said adroitly, “you’re not going to talk with him?”

  “How can I avoid it? He was very insistent.”

  “Nine o’clock, you said? Well, you can be a number of places at nine. I think his insistence is a bit suspicious.”

  “So do I, but it doesn’t hurt to listen.”

  The twins were dubious; they know how soft I am.

  “Got an idea,” said Snow. “You said he’d ring your room? Okay, nineishly, Sim sits in the lobby where he can hear. You sit in here, where you can see. Kelley announces himself at the desk, asks for you. Simon opens the map … wide. You see if you like Kelley’s looks, and if you don’t, when you get paged you don’t answer. The girl at the desk can’t find you if you’re not here.”

  “That is rude. I mean, what if he is nice, and on the level…”

  “So call him at T K & B and apologize. You were out for dinner and it took longer than you expected. Basic!” said the practical Snow.

  I really wasn’t up to meeting Mr. Kelley and being pressured, and the children knew it, so in the end I agreed that the plan was sensible.

  Then we pored over the map to get some bearings. Dublin wasn’t very big compared to New York (or, for that matter, Westfield, New Jersey), but the streets were irregular, and I could see that finding places might be a problem. And that led to looking at the full-scale map, and by the time we’d finished dinner the twins had plotted quite a tour of Ireland. Really, I could see their point. If we had a base, we could take short forays to historical sites, and it wouldn’t be all that expensive—certainly no more than living in Westfield and shelling out five dollars a day at the pool—and more for air conditioning—or for trips to see cousins. Well, I made no promises, but the twins knew me well enough to realize that they’d half persuaded me to stay.

  “That is, if all goes well,” I said, trying to be firm.

  There were variables. For instance, how much cash would be left over after death duties and stuff from Aunt Irene’s estate? I am not mercenary, but the trip over had taken most of my sinking funds. Of course, the support money from Teddie would be in on the first of July, and that would probably go further in Ireland than in New Jersey.

  I suppose it was because everything was grown in a different soil, or maybe not to such homogeneous standards, but the peas at dinner were heavenly, the steak tender and delicious, and even the french fries [“Chips, Mom, chips,” Simon corrected me] which I don’t usually like, tasted superb!

  “Maybe I was just hungry,” I said, finishing the coffee with a sigh of repletion, and then saw my watch. “Oh, dear.”

  “Stations, everyone. Snow, you stay with Mother.”

  Simon put the maps under his arm and strode masterfully into the lobby and ensconced himself on the small sofa facing the entrance.

  There weren’t many people in the lounge yet as Snow solicitously ushered me in. We had a choice of seats, so I took one where, by leaning slightly forward, I could see anyone at the desk but I couldn’t be seen from the desk. I was nervous, for I don’t like deceptions of this sort.

  “You wouldn’t have Canadian Club whiskey, would you?” I heard Snow asking, and turned around in shocked surprise. “Oh, for you, Mom. Relax. Dutch courage.”

  “With ice?” asked the waiter.

  “If you have it,” replied Snow, at her most regal. Then she grinned impishly at the waiter, who winked back conspiratorially.

  “Would you be wanting something, miss?”

  “A Coke, please.”

  “How you can consume all that Coke and not blow up into a balloon, Snow, is beyond me.” I remembered myself at her age, rather dumpy and terrified of eating anything, for everything I ate seemed to go to my hips. If a mother is fortunate enough to have daughters (and that’s what my mother always said, with the five girls and one boy), she is doubly blessed to have beautiful, slim, elegant ones. Eventually, I too made the grade.

  “Oh, Mother,” my darling daughter said airily, “I burn it off. That’s what you always say.”

  “Snow!”

  She grinned, and then I knew her impertinence had been to distract me. Just as well: Sim’s map was flapping as if it would take off. Snow craned her neck beyond me to see the importunate Mr. Kelley.

  His broad back was to us.

  “Wouldn’t you just know!” said Snow irascibly.

  I put my glasses on, and the man was well-enough dressed from this distance: dark-haired, a mackintosh thrown over one arm. He turned his head slightly, and I could see long sideburns, slightly darker than his head hair; and the plane of his left cheek. Suddenly I was aware that Simon was shaking his head violently behind the map.

  The barman came with our drinks, an ill-timed interruption. I couldn’t seem to find the proper change, and finally Snow grabbed a pound note. By the time I could devote any attention to Mr. Kelley, he had turned his back fully toward us. And Simon kept shaking his head.

  “Oh, dear.” I mean, Simon is only fourteen, and, having lost that wonderful intuitive sense of judgment that small children have, he hadn’t yet developed mature criteria.

  Suddenly I was being paged, and I shriveled up against the overpadded seat. The waiter came back with the change.

  “Aren’t you being paged, Mrs. Teasey?”

  “Yes, but we don’t want to be bothered by that man,” Snow said in a stern voice. “Do we, Mommy?”

  “Well, that is, no. I’d rather not.” I was horribly embarrassed.

  “Well now. Not to worry,” the waiter said, very understanding, and he walked quickly to the bar. To my continuing mortification, the waiter and the barman had a conversation, the barman picked up the phone, and in a few seconds Mr. Kelley had been given the word. I watched his reaction, and he seemed to be giving the nice receptionist a very hard time. Relenting, I was about to get to my feet when he suddenly turned, and I was very glad I’d refused to see him. He was an angry man with a sort of piggy face on which sideburns only increased the porcine resemblance. Yes, he was furious
at this check in his sale. By the way he strode out of the hotel, fists clenched, mouth pursed, I’d the feeling that he’d be awfully persistent.

  “You just leave it to us, missus. If anyone comes bothering you that you don’t want to see, you just tell us,” said the waiter, back again in front of the table.

  “It’s just that I’m so tired after the plane trip.” I felt obliged to give some explanation—he’d been so cooperative—but I trailed off as he nodded understandingly.

  “You look awfully tired, Mom,” Snow said. “And we’ve such a lot to do tomorrow. You just finish that drink and off to bed with you.”

  “Really, Snow …”

  But the waiter seemed to approve. Basically, so did I. Then Simon joined us, maps folded neatly under his arm.

  “Hands,” he said in cryptic disapproval.

  “Really?” asked Snow.

  “He looked the type.”

  “Simon, how can you judge a person just by his hands?” I asked.

  “Never wrong.” Simon looked at me with mild rebuke. “Besides, you should’ve heard the time he gave the receptionist. He wanted seeing you bad!”.

  “Simon, please speak English.”

  “Why? You speak Amurrican.”

  “What’s with you two tonight?” I was suddenly very tired, and the whole improbable trip became impossible.

  “With us is you, Mom,” replied Simon, knowing perfectly well what I meant. “C’mon, Sis, we better behave. She’s plum tuckered out. Sorry, Mother.” He slipped the map into his jacket pocket and stood up. “Let’s get this wreck of the Hesperus to bed. We can watch the telly in the lounge.”

  With my children on either side of me, tugs for the wreck that I honestly felt myself to be, I left the lounge.

  “Oh, here’s Mrs. Teasey now,” the receptionist was saying to a young woman.

  I groaned in horror and sagged against the children. Mr. Kelley was persistent. How had he known that I—

  “It’s a girl, Mother,” Snow said.

  If I hadn’t wanted to meet Mr. Kelley, this young girl certainly didn’t want to meet me. She looked scared stiff.

  “Here, Miss Teasey. The keys to Hillside Lodge.” She held out at arm’s length a ring of keys, some old, some shiny-new, attached by a thick string to a tag. “Mr. Noonan won’t be free until half two tomorrow. He suggests that you might like to look at the property. Oh, the map.” She fumbled in her pocket, an operation hampered by the fact that she had to juggle a motorcycle helmet and heavy gloves. I took the keys.

  “Yes, I’d be relieved to see him. At two thirty?”

  She nodded, still scared, got the map free of her pocket, and stepped up close. As she shoved the paper into my hand, she blurted out, “If Brian Kelley calls you, don’t promise anything. Please! Not until you’ve spoken to Mr. Noonan. Oh dear!” With that she turned and ran from the lobby. In a matter of seconds we heard the explosive roar of a heavy motorcycle gunning, then varooming out of the parking lot.

  “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.

  Chapter 2

  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.