Conna in Crisis & The Marriage of Ulick (2 page)

He sat back and smiled.

‘You don’t look like a nun?’

She smiled again—that captivating smile.

‘Correct, that’s part of our cover; we’re now the owners of this fine property that we’ll call “The Haven” and we will carry on our work as before.’

‘You will treat local people?’

‘No, no. We will continue to treat our existing patients who come from various parts of Europe.’

‘Won’t that be difficult?’

She smiled agreeably.

‘We have our own executive jet; we will fly in our patients—in rotation—for weekend retreats. Most of them are, shall we say, wealthy and can well afford our services. The rest of the week we will devote to prayer, meditation and perhaps, a little shopping.’ She paused and leaned forward; he was hit by successive waves of that perfume.

‘U-lick, we would like the people here to believe we are going to operate a very exclusive and expensive rest home.’

‘That might work.’

‘It will, U-lick, if you say so; the people here have great respect for you.’

He wondered how she knew that, but couldn’t disagree with it.

‘I think you and your order are entitled to your privacy.’

She smiled again.

‘Thanks U-lick. You must come and visit when we get settled in.’

‘I’d like to do that. In the meantime, I’ll introduce you to the man I’m recommending as your general manager.’ He paused. ‘When are you moving in?’

‘Tonight.’

Ulick opened his file and extracted some documents.

‘Here are your deeds with the list of local suppliers you asked for.’

She handed back the deeds. ‘You keep these for me.’

She stood up. ‘This is a small area, U-lick. If you should see any curious strangers please let me know.’ She smiled again. ‘It’s just a precaution.’

‘Certainly, Contessa.’

‘Please call me Gina.’

He smiled as he escorted her to the front door, where she shook his hand and walked across the road to her limousine. Setanta was looking expectantly at him when he returned to his office. With a bemused expression he put aside his file; if she’s a nun, I’m Finn Mac Cool.

Setanta agreed with that. The nuns in Conna are not like her; maybe Italian nuns are different.

Ulick smiled at him. ‘Let’s go.’

Together, they walked down the Main Street.

*

U
lick read the exciting press reports about the new pilot scheme in which Connemara would participate. Everything, these days, was preceded by a campaign of euphoric publicity: roll up, the good times are coming! He wasn’t unduly impressed; the farmers of Connemara would receive a handsome increase in income on cancellation of the CAP, (the Common Agricultural Policy) as it was called. Would Brussels bearing gifts be an improvement on the Greeks?

He wondered why Connemara was so honored to be chosen as one of ten areas in the USE, where this exciting pilot scheme would be initiated before being extended to the entire community. Frankie Carney didn’t know anything about it.

The ground floor of the new—and only—modern office block on the Main Street in Conna—a Martin Sandys development—was leased to the new tenants; fitted out with state of the art office furniture, phones and banks of computers with Internet access.

Situated two doors from Ulick’s dull looking offices, it was just across the street from Paulo’s well appointed pub. The area director and deputy would be assisted by six staff. A brass plate on the front of the building read: United States of Europe—Local Economic & Social Services.

The small farmers of Connemara—there weren’t any other—were delighted; the miserable dole and the CAP would now be replaced by a decent reliable income. The days of fighting with Brussels over subsidies and grants, which took years to deliver: were gone. The people could now relax: do a bit of hunting and fishing; grow potatoes and vegetables for their own use; keep a few tourists and students during the summer months, spend more time in the local pubs and elsewhere. It would be a whole new and very agreeable way of life.

*

U
lick Joyc sat down to breakfast with his beloved Ella, in the living room of their comfortably furnished modern bungalow. Built on a secluded site on the western side of Conna, high above the river, near the Maam Cross Road—with a small wood to the rear—it was surrounded by well manicured lawns. Ulick wasn’t much of a gardener although he loved to sit outside on the long summer evenings and watch the sun sink over Connemara.

A man of the people, in his late thirties now, he was tall and handsome in a rugged fashion, with deep blue eyes and premature tinges of grey hair. He usually dressed, as today, in a black tee shirt over grey slacks with a beige sports jacket. As he would say, he was built for comfort. If scheduled to appear in court, he would dress formally. He was pleased that he wasn’t a candidate for the best dressed man in Hi-Brazil—in this or any other year.

Setanta, sitting at his feet, chewed away on a meaty bone with an occasional glance at his master. He wanted a run in the woods, but Ulick was too busy watching the TV news. The election results were pouring in fast and it was obvious that Frankie Carney was heading for an overall majority. Moxy O’Shea, the cute hoor, had side stepped his defeat by taking a top job in Brussels. Manny Higgins, his successor, had already conceded defeat.

Ulick poured another cup of tea; Setanta looked on with an expression that said what’s keeping you. Ella looked at her watch. A very attractive brunette with deep brown eyes and a refreshing sense of humor, she provided him with tasty morsels from her restaurant. Dressed in a smart black business suit, she would be leaving for work shortly. He liked her too, but she didn’t take him walking and he wasn’t allowed into the restaurant. Why not? He was smarter and a more cultured than some of the yobs she catered for.

She was moody quite a lot lately and he believed he knew why. He liked a peaceful house, but, was conscious of the tension between them. Their love life was good; he knew that. They were perfectly happy, if there is such a thing. If only dogs could talk; he could but no one understood him. It was very simple; Ulick wanted children—Ella didn’t, at least not yet.

He hoped this wouldn’t lead to a split up, although he wanted children around the house too. He could mind them and play with them. It was clear to him that Ulick was smitten with the mysterious Contessa and she with him. But nuns don’t or do they? That’s if she is a nun. The Contessa didn’t look like someone who would take him for a walk either, or buy him an odd bone in the butchers.

Like most households, there was little talk at breakfast, but this morning Ulick sat back and smiled.

‘Frankie will make a great Taoiseach. I must ring and congratulate him.’

‘There will be some party tonight; I have nothing to wear and I’ll have to get my hair done,’ she complained.

He’d heard that before.

‘Paulo will be coming.’ he paused. ‘I wonder if I can persuade Ozzy to come. He doesn’t like these big functions; he’ll probably join us in Paulo’s later.’

She grinned. ‘Frankie will need your help in forming a cabinet.’

‘He’s disappointed that Moxy is gone; he was looking forward to rubbing his nose in it.’

‘Moxy was smart enough to leave Helen Moore behind him.’

‘I thought that was her decision.’

She smiled. ‘That’s what you were meant to think.’ She paused. ‘Is Toby Moore going to take the job at the Haven?’

‘I hope so.’

She rose. ‘I’d best be off; Jane isn’t in today.’ She paused and looked at Setanta. ‘I know what you’re looking for.’

She kissed Ulick lightly on the cheek, patted Setanta’s head and departed for her thriving restaurant and bakery in the centre of town. Setanta fixed his gaze firmly on his master who finally got the message.

He rose from the table and smiled. ‘I’ll take you for a run in the woods before I go to the office.’

Setanta bared his teeth in what—to him—was a smile.

*

E
lla was conscious of the euphoric atmosphere in the town this morning as she walked up the main street; the sun was shining; people stepped lightly, smiled broadly at the news of the forthcoming change of government. Frankie Carney, a widower, the senior TG for Mayo, lived in Louisburg with his younger blonde partner, Lisa Hyland, a local solicitor and a widow; his two sons emigrated to Australia after qualifying as doctors at Galway University.

70 now, Frankie was a stocky, strongly built, follicly challenged (whatever that means) farmer with broad features and steel grey eyes. A founder member of the new state, with Ulick, he was a rarity for a politician; quick witted, he belied his years, and although he had mellowed a little, it would be a mistake to take him for granted. I’m a farmer, he always said and I dress like a farmer; I don’t wear hobnailed boots to the Teac and you can guess why.

The head office of the National Party was in Conna, going back to the days when it was the head quarters of the new provisional government. There would be a great open air victory parade, addressed by Frankie; afterwards Ella and her staff would have the honor of serving dinner to the new Taoiseach, his guests and his newly elected TG’s. Then, Frankie would announce the names of his new cabinet; a big departure from accepted parliamentary procedure, but perfectly normal in the state of Hi-Brazil.

*

C
onnemara’s curiosity had reached a new high since the Contessa and her friends moved into the former hotel now renamed “The Haven.” She came into town twice a week, driving her top of the range Mercedes, dressed in a style normally only seen on catwalks. Her messages collected, she usually made a courtesy call on Ulick and, occasionally, joined him for a drink in Paulo’s. Nan didn’t like this; Ella was her niece.

Paulo made a weekly delivery of drinks—including some very exotic ones—to the Haven, but resolutely refused to disclose any information about these visits. He didn’t tell anyone, except Nan, that all of the people there were young attractive looking ladies; he didn’t see any men. They were very friendly, even offered him coffee. The other members of the household didn’t visit the town; they sometimes flew out from Clifden on the executive jet.

Clifden airport is located a short distance from the bog where on 15 June 1919, after a flight of 16 hours and 27 minutes, John Alcock and Arthur Whitten-Brown, completed the first Trans Atlantic flight. John Alcock died in an air crash six months later; his colleague in 1948.

A routine was established right from the start; every Friday evening at eight o’clock the executive jet landed and parked at the end of the runway; a passenger, with head covered by a light rug, alighted and was led to the waiting Mercedes. There were those around Clifden and other points east of it, getting neck massage from trying to identify these passengers; to no avail, the car windows were blacked out. On Sunday evening, the visitors were returned to the jet, which departed without delay.

*

T
oby Moore arrived at Ulick’s office at eleven. A former sports star, he was a giant of a man. He usually dressed in navy overalls and an old red shirt; today, as instructed, he sported his best black suit, white shirt and green tie. Having visited his barber for the first time in six months, he looked younger than his 32 odd years. Lean and fit, with humorous grey eyes, he was one big ludramon.

Toby was famous for being the Folklore Commissioner for County Galway and, according to himself, was in regular contact with the Little People of Rath Pallas. He used also have a successful bunny rabbit breeding business; as he said himself—he made shag all out of either of them.

A happy and contented Connemara man none the less, he married the beautiful Sally Martin, the ladies hairdresser in Meagerly, two years back. A year later, Sally died in a road accident. Toby was inconsolable; he still hadn’t recovered fully. Ulick felt he needed to get him involved doing something useful instead of sitting moping in that big old house up the road from Meagerly.

He put the big man sitting down and inspected him while Maura served the coffee; she looked him over carefully. Could this be the Toby Moore they all knew and loved? She wasn’t the only young woman—there were several older ones as well—to pine for Toby Mor, as they called him. Ulick smiled, satisfied that Toby would pass.

In strict confidence, Ulick outlined the requirements of the job at the Haven; Toby had to know the truth—or at least the official version of it—if he was going to work there. He put down his coffee cup and sat back.

‘So, I’m going to be nanny to a house full of virgins.’ He didn’t sound very excited at the prospect.

Ulick smiled to himself as he got up. ‘Come on, let’s go and introduce you to your future employer.’

*

U
lick knew he was going to enjoy this. He drove his old Mercedes out through Screbe and took the long road for Roundstone. He stopped the car at the entrance to the Haven. In the distance they could see the tall three storey complex through a gap in the trees. In the foreground the lawns were tastefully laid out with beds of Chrysanthemums at intervals along the drive. Ulick left the car and pushed the electronic button; when he identified himself the big gates swung open. He resumed his seat and drove up to the front entrance.

They alighted and approached the ornate glass panelled mahogany front door where a darkish very attractive looking young lady was standing, waiting to greet them. She was sporting a low cut yellow dress that didn’t leave much to the imagination. Toby’s eyes opened wide—Ulick smiled.

‘Welcome, Mr. Joyc,’ her big brown eyes sparked.

He smiled. ‘Hi Alisa, we’re here to see the Contessa.’

He nodded to Toby. ‘This is Toby Moore.’

‘Welcome, Mr. Toby.’ She looked up at Toby and her eyes sparkled even more.

She grinned up at Ulick. ‘You must call me Ali.’

‘Certainly,’ he agreed smiling.

She led the way down a long mahogany panelled hallway decorated with marble statues—mostly Italian—and some of the world’s most famous paintings. Ulick, who was no expert, recognised “The Mona Lisa” and “Guernico.” Could they be originals? The stained teak floors were covered with deep Persian beige rugs; the atmosphere one of peace and tranquility. Some haven, Ulick thought. Some Ali, Toby thought.