Conna in Crisis & The Marriage of Ulick (3 page)

Ali led them into an ornate lounge where glass panelled doors provided an excellent view of the harbor. The Contessa, who was sitting behind an antique desk, rose and came forward.

‘U-lick,’ she greeted him like a long lost friend. ‘How good of you to visit.’

She turned to Ali. ‘Will you fetch the coffee?’

She smiled and departed.

The Contessa looked lovely in a mauve flowing silk dress.

Ulick almost bowed. ‘Gina, I would like to introduce Toby Moore; I’m happy to recommend him for the position of general manager of your estate.’

She smiled at Toby and shook his hand.

‘Please sit down gentlemen.’

She resumed her seat behind the desk and consulted her notes.

‘Mr. Moore, your principal duty will be to supervise our gardeners; they are not to enter the house under any circumstances. They have their own service shed inside the rear gate. You will have access to the entire estate and I will provide you with a car; you will need it to drive the ladies when necessary and collect messages in Conna or Galway.’

She stopped and looked at him.

‘Is that satisfactory?’

‘It is Contessa, but please call me Toby.’

‘Very well, To-by,’ she continued, ‘Your monthly salary will be 4,000 euro; your working week Monday to Friday. You will cease work at 12 noon on Fridays and be entitled to one month’s vacation per year.’

Toby smiled. ‘That will be most acceptable, Contessa.’

‘To-by, you must call me Gina; we’re very informal here.’

The coffee was served. Toby’s bewildered expression was that of one who wondered if this might be heaven!

‘Gina,’ Ulick asked smiling, ‘Will you need Toby to do your airport runs?’

She smiled—that smile again.

‘No, U-lick, we do those ourselves. To-by is entitled to his weekends off.’ She paused and handed Toby a set of keys. ‘Take the Mercedes in the garage beside the swimming pool and be sure to charge up all expenses to the house.’

‘Thank you, Gina,’ he grinned broadly.

She rose.

‘Now, my friends, I’ll introduce you to my assistant, Olga Bartok; she’s French, her parents were Russian emigrants. I’m going away for the next few weeks; she’ll be in charge.’

She picked up the phone, spoke briefly and smiled at Ulick. She fancies him, Toby thought. He took a deep breath when Olga entered the room; a tall shapely brunette with beautiful fair skin and big grey eyes. She was dressed casually in a tight fitting white blouse and tailored grey slacks. She shook hands and smiled seductively at them; Oh, Ulick thought, that silky accent is like a purring cat.

Gina saw them to the door. Before Toby left to collect his car, he turned to Ulick and grinned. ‘I could get to like this job.’

*

T
he great day finally dawned, when the Hi-Brazil national band led the parade in the Galway road, followed by a cavalcade of cars—led by Moxy O’Shea’s Mercedes, supplied by Brussels, complete with driver and he wearing a peaked cap—to be greeted by the humble people of Connemara. The TV cameras rolled. This was Moxy’s day; the Taoiseach, Frankie Carney, wasn’t even invited to attend this momentous event.

Standing, with Ozzy, at the back of the crowd, Ulick watched Moxy leave his official car, smiling graciously at the assembled multitude. Accompanied by the management and staff of the new agency, he walked to the entrance of the new offices where he was handed a megaphone. A very happy man was Moxy: this new agency would fit in well with his plans. He’d show these bastards; how dare they throw his party out of office.

He addressed the crowd. ‘Good people of Connemara, you have no idea how much pleasure it gives me, as Commissioner for Trade and Agriculture, to officially open the USE local Economic and Social Services office for this area. It will bring about a wonderful transformation in your lives, securing, as it will, your financial and social future.’

The people applauded this wonderful news.

Moxy paused and turned to the low sized man standing beside him.

‘Before officially launching this innovative initiative, let me introduce to you its Director, Mr. Everard Bur O’Crat.’

The crowd cheered again while the squat, bald, middle aged, serious looking man took the megaphone. Immaculately dressed in a grey suit with a white shirt and black tie, he showed no signs of humour and spoke through tight lips.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, we will endeavour to fulfil our duties fairly and efficiently as laid down by the Council in Brussels.’

He paused and deferred to a frumpish, blonde lady, whose appearance was not improved by a somewhat dour expression; she was dressed in a dark blue business suit at least two sizes too small for her.

‘This is my deputy, Madame Anna Assnholfden. We will commence business at nine o’clock tomorrow.’

Moxy took back the megaphone, and inserted the key in the lock of the glass panelled door.

‘I now formally inaugurate this new exciting service.’

The crowd cheered yet again.

Ulick turned to Ozzy. ‘Bur O’Crat: he doesn’t look like Santa Claus and he doesn’t sound like Santa Claus. Let’s go have a pint.’

*

P
aulo, who was standing at his front door nearby, greeted them affably and led the way into his pub. Paulo Kelly—a friendly, rotund little man in his fifties, thin on top, with expressive deep blue eyes, had travelled the world before coming home to Conna to fulfil his life’s ambition; own one of the finest pubs in the town.

He shared his living accommodation over the pub with the widow Nan Casey; they worked together in his saloon in Philadelphia. There were those who wanted to know if they were married. Nan wasn’t telling. Keep them guessing she always said. A pleasant little woman in her early forties; her grown son and daughter were still in America.

Paulo stopped to talk to Ulick.

‘How are your friends in the Haven getting on?’

He was looking for news; everyone in Connemara was looking for news about the Contessa and her friends.

Ulick smiled. ‘You know as much as I do. Don’t you deliver a consignment of booze there every Thursday?’

‘I do and I’m delighted to have the business, but that doesn’t satisfy my curiosity.’

*

T
hey were joined by Martin Sandys who looked—unusually for him—extremely depressed. One of the country’s wealthiest and most successful business men, born and reared in Maam Valley, he never lost the run of himself. He went to London as a young man, worked on the building sites, eventually set up his own contracting business and made a fortune buying and renovating old houses.

A big heavily built man, with black hair and sharp blue eyes, he was regarded by his competitors as a thick, abrasive, ignorant, uneducated Connemara yob; a description he didn’t fault. But he was the one getting the big contracts.

Ulick knew him from way back; they were in national school together, not that Martin was academically minded.

‘What are you having, Martin?’ he inquired.

‘A large brandy,’ he replied.

Paulo didn’t need any prompting.

‘How is your mother, Martin?’ Ulick asked.

He shook his head sadly. ‘She’s back in the clinic. It’s only a matter of time now; I told the lads in London to come home immediately.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?’

Paulo added quietly. ‘We’re here for you when you need us, Martin.’

‘I know that and thank you,’ he paused. ‘Paulo, will you send out a good supply of drink to the house; we’ll need it for the wake.’

‘I’ll look after everything,’ Paulo assured him.

Ozzy shook Martin’s hand in silence.

They were joined by Toby Moore, who, on hearing about Martin’s mother, took him by the hand.

‘I’m so sorry, Martin, it’s hard to lose the mother.’

‘Thanks, Toby,’ he responded preparing to leave.

Toby handed a list to Paulo.

‘Will you have that lot ready by four?’

Paulo scanned the list.

‘I will, but I’ll have to go into Galway to get the Champagne.’ He paused.

‘How are you getting on with the ladies?’

Toby grinned. ‘It’s the nearest I’ve been to heaven so far. Mind you, it’s a bit of a pain having to dress up like this every day.’

‘You’re executive class, now,’ Paulo grinned.

‘The people of Conna raise their caps and shake their heads in wonder every time you drive by in your new Mercedes,’ Ulick added.

Paulo put down the glass he was polishing.

‘We have to do something about the tourist season; every hotel and guest house in Connemara is empty.’

‘What have you in mind?’ Ulick asked.

‘I don’t know. Galway has its Art festival, the races, the theatre, the oyster festival; we need something different, something spectacular—something that will bring the crowds.’

*

B
idding farewell to them, Ozzy headed out the road towards the lake. He passed Ned’s Line as the sun climbed higher in the sky; he was so entitled because he was a resident. It was believed by the good people of Connemara that Ozzy owned a small farm out by the lake; no one had ever seen it, or would dream of asking where it was.

Approaching the tall circular grass covered Rath, he blinked twice. No longer Ozzy, there stood Dannonimus, known to his people as ‘Dandaboy.’ A youthful figure with tightly cropped blonde hair, he stood all of thirty inches tall. Dressed in a green suit, sporting a red peaked cap, his innocent, impish features were dominated by big friendly brown eyes.

He skipped through the side of the Rath as if it didn’t exist; this was his home, the home of the Little People, an extraordinary world where the sun always seemed to shine. He was enthralled, standing, yet again, by the great water fall; millions of tons of water crashed into the chasm far below with earth shattering, deafening, awe inspiring vibrations.

Saluting his neighbors going about their daily tasks, he walked down the little street to the square in front of the King’s Palace; crossing it, he entered the Palace and made his way to the great hall. Kingpa, the high king of Rath Pallas, a little white haired old man with a long grey beard and bright blue eyes, was, as always, calm, relaxed and at peace with the world. Wearing his formal green frock coat, his crown tilted sideways, he was presiding over a meeting of the great western council.

His guests today included the high kings of the Raths of Aran, Achill, Erris, Ben Bulben, and Tory Island. It would be followed by a feast and the Rath orchestra would perform some of the wonderful classics. A visit from Orpheus was scheduled for later in the year; he wouldn’t miss that. Smiling, he slipped away quietly; he would report later.

Of all his people, Dandaboy—as Ozzy—was the only one to mix with the locals. It all started hundreds of years earlier when a great plague struck the countryside; Kingpa decided they should help, quietly and unobtrusively. To do so they needed closer contact with the people.

Dandaboy volunteered for this task and thus as Ozzy—when necessary—he became one of the locals. Known to all and sundry in Connemara, Ozzy was strongly built, ageless with lined features in a well lived in face. With deep grey eyes, and a shock of white hair, he was almost venerable.

Always affable, his expression was one of charming innocence. Dressed in traditional black, with a once white collarless shirt, his hallmark was a bowler hat presented to him by an English lord who used to live near Moycullen. While everyone knew Ozzy; Dandaboy rarely showed himself.

*

F
ollowed by his deputy, Anna Assnholfden, driving her five year old Renault, Everard Bur O’Crat drove his new top of the range Mercedes out to the Turla Lodge luxury Hotel, in Maam Valley, where accommodation had already been reserved for both of them. He resented the fact that he hadn’t been provided with a driver; after all, he was now the sole authority in this area. However, he was promised not one but two drivers when he became Director of the entire island of Ireland. Meantime, his backup staff would stay in guest houses in Conna.

A nineteenth century cut stone castle, with a central turret, Turla Lodge Hotel stood on the banks of Lough Turla, with the mountains of Maam in the background; it was surrounded by trees and walled gardens at the rear. It was built by a Spanish nobleman who needed to get lost or an English pirate turned patriot (or vice versa). No one was quite sure.

Purchased—it was believed—after the Great War, by the Spanish religious order, The Fathers of the Brothers, it was said to be in communion with Rome, but it’s unlikely that Rome knew that. Time passed and the Spanish brothers passed with it; it was now essentially an Irish religious house.

Unaware of the location of the Mother or Father House, if there was one, it operated under the rules introduced by Abbot Meskedra before he left with his fiancée. Under a charter from the British crown, Poitin was distilled but not sold, and a strict programme of variable vows still operated. The people of Connemara relaxed when they discovered the order hadn’t come to convert them.

It was a beautiful spring day in Connemara; the sun shone intermittently, through white fleecy clouds, on its many fresh water lakes, gurgling little rivers and the grey blue mountains of Maam. The boggy surface was decorated by rocks, including great boulders, scattered throughout this vast area when the ice sheet withdrew, thousands of years ago. The hills were dotted with sure footed sheep and lambs; the rabbits and snipe lurked quietly in the underbrush.

Lurglurg, the current Abbot of the Order of the Fathers of the Brothers, was delighted to be so honored by such august guests, particularly, as tourists—this time of year it would be fishermen—were in short supply. So excited was he that he ordered new uniforms for his attractive young waitresses—white tops and red mini skirts. Himself: he put on his new brown robe, tied around the waist with a white silk cord. In keeping with the tradition of the great abbot Meskedra, he did not add the long black beads.

Abbot Lurglurg, at 55 was a big boned, bald man with large square features, whose efforts to appear optimistic and confident were betrayed by a somewhat mournful voice. He didn’t seek this job, but the brothers insisted; all he ever wanted to do was work in the gardens. Reared on Inish Mor, one of the Aran islands, he worked in England, and later on the roads of Connemara, before joining the order.