Last of the Great Romantics (22 page)

'How did you know about that?' said Tweedledum, sidling up beside her. 'That's classified.'

'Because you've been bellowing it all over the Hall on your walkie-talkies, ya feckin' eejit, that's what woke me.'

'I told you to cup your hand over the mouthpiece when you're talking,' Tweedledee griped at his partner.

'Jaysus, the smell of him would knock ya sideways, so it would,' she said, plonking down in an armchair beside a distraught Lucasta. 'I nearly passed out when I went by yer office just now, Daisy luv.'

By now, Julia had cooled down a bit and was deep-breathing in between taking big slugs from the neat brandy in front of her. 'Just what the world needs,' she muttered under her breath, 'another fucking Davenport.'

'Oh, get lost the whole buggery lot of you,' snapped Lucasta, waving over at Gorgeous George to come and refill her gin and tonic. 'If it wasn't for me looking after him so well, you'd have found a rotting, maggoty old corpse in the shed instead of a real live human being. Shower of ungrateful bastards. Only for me, this would be a game of Cluedo, with dead bodies being found in cowsheds.'

'Excuse me, with or without you, I'd have got to the bottom of this sooner or later,' said Mrs Flanagan. 'I was just on the verge of finding out who was nicking all the stuff that's been going missing from the Hall . . .'

'You were?' said Daisy.

'Course I was, luv. Why do ya think I've been holed up watching all the old Sherlock Holmes fillums and
Murder, She Wrote,
not to mention the odd
Miss Marple
? For the good of me health? What, do youse all think I enjoy watching seven hours of telly a day or something?'

'Anyway,' said Lucasta, rudely ignoring her. 'If he is who he says he is then he's family, so you should all be thanking me, really.'

'But is he family, Mummy? That's exactly what I'm trying to figure out. He could be absolutely anyone. Why would any relation of ours sneak around the old cowshed for weeks and then turn around and claim to be the new Lord Davenport? Why not just come and tell us who he was in the first place like a normal person?'

'I don't know, sweetie, but I do know that there are an awful lot of lunatics on your father's side, perhaps he's one of those Davenports. A dreadful shower of gits, but then, show me any man connected to this family who isn't. Now, I haven't set eyes on any of them since my wedding day, but I do distinctly remember thinking that they were all complete mental cases, every last one of them. When I was courting your father, he used to tell me about a cousin of his who was thrown out of the IRA for being too mad. Of course, at the time, I thought that was just one of his chat-up lines, although now I'm wondering . . . Mad Dog Davenport they used to call him. So maybe now he's escaped from an asylum or something and the cowshed reminded him of his cell. You mustn't worry though, he's perfectly harmless, I'm sure. I'll do a spell tonight to keep us all from dying violently.'

By now, Daisy was on the verge of an anxiety attack. If her mother could describe someone as mad, then they could only be eye-rollingly, torch-the-Hall-down-in-five-minutes barkingly certifiable.

'Sweet baby Jesus and the orphans,' said Mrs Flanagan, echoing her panic, 'we'll all be stabbed in our beds. It'll be a bleedin' massacre.'

'Ah, give over,' said Tweedledee, 'or else I won't be able to sleep tonight with all this scary talk.'

'I think you're right,' said Daisy. 'Whoever he turns out to be, they'll have to keep him in the station in Ballyroan, it's not safe otherwise. I mean to say, he could turn out to be anyone.'

Just then, the door opened and Noreen came in. All heads turned anxiously towards her as she clip-clopped across the long wooden floor to where they were all gathered beside the bar. 'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long,' she said briskly, addressing Daisy. 'But we had to make a few phone calls to see if his story checked out.'

'And?' Daisy was on the edge of her seat.

'Well, either he's the most well-researched actor I've ever seen or he's your cousin, Jasper Davenport. Also known as Mad Jasper.'

'Oh, now I remember,' said Lucasta as though this was a cocktail party and there was a last-minute arrival whose name she'd temporarily forgotten. 'Mad Dog and that awful wife of his were killed in a car crash, so this can't be him. But he had a baby son, a good few years older than you, Daisy. The social workers called here after the accident to see if we'd take in the baby.'

'His parents were killed?' Daisy didn't know which part of the story to be more alarmed at.

'Yes, darling. Oh, donkeys years ago,' replied Lucasta, who was a great natural storyteller and was really enjoying her captive audience, which comprised Daisy, Noreen, Julia, Mrs Flanagan, Tweedledum and Tweedledee. 'I remember the social workers thought we should look after the boy. Next of kin and all that stuff, you know. But I think they must have called on a bad day. You were only a baby too, Portia was away at boarding school and I was hosting one of my Goddess of Isis naked initiation rituals for a few new and very dishy male members, if I remember. Anyway, the buggery old social workers rejected us as foster parents, if you can believe that. They said that I was an alcoholic and that your father was insane. Or perhaps it was the other way around, I really don't remember. Gorgeous Georgie-porgy? Be an angel and top up my gin, will you?'

Daisy found herself brushing away a tear, stunned by her mother's callousness and consumed with curiosity as to what had become of the orphan baby in the meantime.

'Oh, stop blubbering,' said Lucasta. 'Who the hell do you all think I am, Mia Farrow?'

'That's exactly what ya said to the social workers at the time,' said Mrs Flanagan. 'I remember.'

'He probably ended up in some foster home or other,' said Lucasta, knocking back the dregs of her gin.

'And been a lot better off,' said Mrs Flanagan.

'Noreen, can I see him now?' Daisy asked, a bit red-eyed as she rose to her feet. She was well aware that, bar Tweedledum and Tweedledee, everyone there was well used to Lucasta's heartlessness, but she herself felt she'd heard quite enough. It hurt like a cold stab to think about this tiny baby, a relation she'd never even known she had, who was a Davenport and who should have grown up at the Hall with his blood family instead of . . . what? What had become of him in the intervening years?

'Certainly,' replied Noreen, 'of course you can see him. But I'd like a quick word with you in private first.'

Daisy followed her as she clip-clopped back down the length of the Gallery, closing the heavy oak door firmly behind them.

'Now, please don't be alarmed,' said Noreen, 'I've spoken both to his parole officer and the Governor of Portlaoise prison and he's not going to harm anyone. In fact, they both talked about him in unbelievably glowing terms; you'd think he was an old friend. The Governor said that the prison drama society just hasn't been the same since he got out.'

'He's been in prison?' Daisy was horrified.

'He was released last month. He's just served a ten-year sentence.'

Daisy didn't quite know what to expect as they obediently trotted after Noreen all the way up four flights of stairs, along the family corridor and down as far as the office door. Her partner, a junior garda who still looked young enough to be ID'd in bars, was waiting patiently on the narrow passageway outside.

'Would you believe he's still on the phone?' he said to Noreen, jumping to attention the minute he heard footsteps coming down the corridor.

'To who?' asked Daisy.

'The Governor of Portlaoise. They're nattering away like two aul' ones sitting at a basin getting their hair done.' He was spotty and his voice sounded like it had barely broken. Noreen rolled her eyes to heaven. 'I only stepped outside to give him a bit of privacy,' he added apologetically. 'And because of the smell.'

Noreen just glared at him and opened the door without knocking. Daisy was glued to her shoulder, filled with trepidation about meeting this long-lost cousin she never even knew existed until ten minutes ago. He was sitting comfortably on a leather swivel chair with his back to them, deep in conversation with the Governor.

'Will you just listen to me, Michael? I'm telling you, Bertie Dwyer is totally wrong for the part of Henry Higgins. And, God love him, but he hasn't a note. Many's the time I had to listen to him squalling in the showers and you just take it from me, he sounds like a constipated crow. He hasn't been the same vocally since Tooler O'Shea walloped him in that fight over the rice pudding in the canteen back in ninety-five, do you remember? And never mind what Bonecrusher says, he just doesn't have the range for Eliza Doolittle. He looks shite in a corset and he's not able for Edwardian. Do you remember him doing the Widow Twankey in last year's panto? Brutal, sheer brutal. Jesus, the only time the audience laughed was when the show was over. I'm telling you now, Machete O'Malley is your man. He can just shave his legs and fit into the Eliza Doolittle costume and shut up with his aul' nonsense. Lighting now is another thing altogether, especially for the Ascot races scene—'

He broke off as some sixth sense told him that he wasn't alone. Swivelling slowly around in the chair, he turned to look at the two faces staring at him. Without a trace of embarrassment he rose to his feet, making an I'm-really-trying-my-best-to-wrap-up-this-conversation face at them, and indicated for them to grab a seat. But for the fact that he looked like the result of a one-night stand between a cavewoman and the Abominable Snowman, you would almost think he was the chairman of a busy corporation instructing the Chinese cleaners to take a seat while he took a conference call from Tony Blair. Daisy didn't bother sitting, she just stood rooted to the spot, open-mouthed.

He was an enormous man, big in every sense of the word and physically built like a Tipperary shithouse. It was near impossible to put an age on him, he could have been anything between twenty and fifty, mainly because of his heavy, scraggy beard and long, matted hair. The raggedy hobo look was completed by the clothes he was wearing: frayed denim jeans with big holes in embarrassing places and a huge chunky, cable-knit Aran sweater which on a normal man would have looked oversized but on him only just stretched to fit. The sleeves barely came as far as his elbows. The sight of the jumper triggered a memory in Daisy: she'd definitely seen it somewhere before . . . then the penny dropped. She
had
seen it before – on Tim. Christ Almighty, she thought, what else has Lucasta been filching for him?

He was still chattering on the phone, in no rush to wind up the call, giving Daisy plenty of time to have a good long stare at him. It was hopeless to try and discern any kind of family resemblance, there was far too much facial hair going on for that, but the more he made eye contact with them, the more she thought she could see a resemblance to herself around his eyes. Clear, wide, bright blue, the kind of eyes that focused directly on you, unflinching, just as hers did, particularly when she wanted something.

'Listen to me, Michael, I'm going to have to get off the phone now. Long story, I'll tell you all when I see you. Oh God, of course I'll be there for the opening night, just try and stop me. And if you need help with stage managing the show, just give me a shout. I'll be staying at Davenport Hall for the next while. All the best now, Michael, and give Margaret a big hug from me, won't you? And the kids too? Tell them I'm really looking forward to Easter Sunday dinner with all of you. All right, so. Good man.' As he hung up the phone, there was an awkward moment when they just stared at each other in embarrassment, no one wanting to be the first to speak. Eventually, Daisy piped up.

'So you're going to be staying at the Hall then, are you? Nice of you to let me know.'

He turned to face her and looked at her with blue eyes so like her own that it unnerved her a bit. 'You're Daisy,' he said softly. 'I've often seen you out riding early in the mornings. The stables are a credit to you; I've never seen such fine, healthy-looking horses.'

Daisy glanced across at Noreen, temporarily wrong-footed, but he was a step ahead of her.

'I have so many apologies to make to you, I don't know where to start,' he said, smiling warmly, 'but I'm really sorry if I freaked you all out downstairs. It's all those big rooms, you see, they give me desperate panic attacks. I'm a million times more comfortable in a small space like this one, so thanks for letting us use your office for my chat with the gardaí. You're a star.'

Daisy shook the hand he offered her and he seemed impressed that she didn't recoil from him. There was something so friendly and sincere about him, she found herself listening to him and letting him talk on.

'I'm sure Noreen there has filled you in on my, eh, background. And I know it must all seem a bit mad, what with me living in your cowshed ever since I was paroled, but you see, the thing is, I had nowhere else to go. I copped on that it was a desperate time for you, what with the big wedding and all, so I thought I'd just He low, for the time being at least. Your mother was kindness itself, I swear I've put on more weight since she started feeding me than I did in ten years inside. Not to mention all the clothes she smuggled out for me. I must owe you a fortune.'