Long Time Coming (12 page)

‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Duthie. ‘That’s one of Desmond’s. The only one I have to remember him by.’

‘Was his death unexpected?’ I asked between sips of tea.

‘To be honest, no. He, er, drank more and more, I’m afraid. He was no trouble when he was drunk. I’ll say that for him. But …’

‘It was always a weakness of his,’ said Eldritch, toying with his Battenberg.

‘Was it now? Well, I’m not surprised. I’d have turned him out if he’d been anyone else. The empty vodka bottles …’ She shook her head at the recollection of the embarrassment disposing of so many bottles had obviously caused her. ‘Such a shame. In the end, he used the drink as a way out.’

‘A way out of what?’ I asked.

‘He had a son he hardly saw. I know that pained him. The boy lived with his grandfather in … Richmond, I think. The mother was dead. Desmond mourned her greatly, and there were other things, back in Ireland, that he dwelt on but never spoke of. Perhaps you know what they might have been, Mr Swan.’

‘He’d been in the IRA as a young man,’ said Eldritch. ‘That could have been at the root of it.’

‘Very likely,’ said Mrs Duthie. ‘Ireland’s always loaded down its sons with tragedy.’

‘Apart from the painting,’ said Eldritch, ‘do you have anything else of his?’ This was the crux. We were there in search of clues. Brenda Duthie’s reflections on the tragic course of Irish history were no help in that.

‘Oh no. He had very little, to be honest. Just a wardrobe of clothes and … the paintings, of course. I let him use the attic as a studio. He built a staircase and installed a skylight to work by. A craftsman as well as an artist, he was. Oh, I think his travelling bag might still be up there.’

‘Would it be putting you to a lot of bother if we took a look in the attic?’ Eldritch asked solicitously. ‘I’d like to … see where he worked.’

‘Well, if you don’t mind climbing two flights of stairs, Mr Swan …’

*

Eldritch did not mind, breathless though he was by the time we reached the attic. The room had been used to store unwanted odds and ends since Quilligan’s death. Trunks, boxes, old suitcases, broken-backed chairs and shadeless table lamps had colonized his studio space. His easel remained, though, propped against the chimney-breast, and several cardboard boxes amongst the jumble had words in the Russian alphabet printed on them. He’d evidently drunk himself to death on the genuine article.

Eldritch panted his way across to the easel. Something had caught his eye: a small black-and-white photograph attached to the top of the vertical bar. I followed him.

The photograph was of a young fair-haired boy. Rust from the staple that held it in place had leeched over one corner. There were a few flecks of paint on it as well. The boy was smiling. He looked to be no more than three or four.

‘That’s his son,’ said Mrs Duthie from behind us.

‘I can see the resemblance,’ said Eldritch. ‘Did you ever meet the boy?’

‘No. He never came here. And he wasn’t at the funeral. Willesden Cemetery. Just about this time of year, it would have been. But colder; much colder. Now, where’s that travelling bag?’

A few minutes of rooting around ended in the bag being hauled into the centre of the room. It was made of leather, frayed by age and use, with brass fastenings crisscrossed by the scratches of many journeyings. Mrs Duthie opened it up to reveal a yellowing pile of old magazines. They were editions from the Forties and Fifties of
Apollo
, the art monthly.

‘I’d forgotten these were here,’ she said. ‘I really should get rid of them.’

‘Did he paint a lot?’ asked Eldritch, casting an uninterested glance at the magazines.

‘When he wasn’t drinking, yes. I often used to bring him a cup of tea when he was working up here. He seemed at peace when he had a brush in his hand. I remember—’ She broke off, taken aback, it appeared, by the force of a particular memory. ‘Good Lord. I’d forgotten that. Your name, Mr Swan.’

‘What about it?’

‘Well, the last time I saw him up here, a few weeks before he died, the picture he was working on … was of a man … standing by a lake, I think … Actually, I’m not sure about the lake. But there was certainly a swan flying past behind him. I remember Desmond asked me what I thought of it. I asked him what it was called. His paintings often had strange titles. The one in the sitting-room for instance. It’s called
Low Tide
, though of course we’re miles from the sea here. Anyway, that last painting was called
Three Swans
. But there was only one swan in the picture. He laughed when I pointed that out. But he never explained it. I wasn’t surprised. He was never one for explaining himself, as you probably know, Mr Swan.’

‘Indeed not,’ said Eldritch thoughtfully. ‘What happened to the painting, Mrs Duthie?’

‘It went with the rest. His sister let me keep just the one.’

‘His sister?’

‘She took all his other paintings and personal belongings. Well, she was his next of kin. She said there was a brother as well, but I saw nothing of him except at the funeral.’

‘His name was Ardal,’ said Eldritch, his words coming slowly as he too sifted through his memories. ‘And the sister was called Isolde. Ardal and Isolde Quilligan.’

‘I believe you’re right. Though she introduced herself to me by her married name, of course.’

‘Do you have any way of contacting her?’

‘She may have given me her address. In fact, I believe she did. In case I needed to forward post that came for Desmond after his death. Not that any did, as I recall. It’ll be downstairs if you want it.’

Understandably enough, given the lapse of twenty years, Brenda Duthie had forgotten Isolde Quilligan’s married name. While she laboured her way through her address book in search of it, we waited in the sitting-room.

‘It could just be a coincidence,’ I said. ‘The title of his last painting.’

Eldritch cast me a scornful glance. ‘Neither of us believes that.’

‘But what does it mean?’

‘Without seeing it, I can’t say. He might have intended a reference to the superstition, I suppose.’

‘What superstition?’

‘Three swans seen flying together portend a death.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘I’m not asking you to believe it. The question is did—’

‘Here it is,’ called Mrs Duthie from the hall, where the address book lived next to the telephone. ‘I’ve found it.’ She appeared in the doorway, holding the book open at the place. ‘I’ve written
Desmond’s sister
under the name. She’s called Mrs Linley.’

‘Linley?’ Eldritch was left open-mouthed with surprise. ‘That can’t be right.’

‘Oh, but it is, Mr Swan,’ Mrs Duthie assured him. ‘I remember now. Isolde Linley. She lives in Hampshire. Well, she did twenty y—’

‘Did you meet her husband?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Mrs Duthie pondered for a moment. ‘No. I didn’t. He wasn’t at the funeral. And she came here on her own.’

‘Do you know him, Eldritch?’ I asked, though it was as plain as day to me that he did – and that the revelation of his marriage to Desmond Quilligan’s sister was mightily disturbing.

‘Oh yes,’ said Eldritch, in what was barely more than a murmur. ‘I know him.’

Sunlight streams through the barred windows of the visiting hut at the Curragh internment camp, striping the bare, planked interior with shadows. Eldritch Swan sits on one side of a long table, topped with a wire-mesh barrier, that divides the room. His legs are crossed and he is tapping his knee with his forefinger to distract himself from his powerful desire for a cigarette. The warder who admitted him seemed to take some pleasure in telling him smoking was prohibited. It is Swan’s impression that more or less everything is prohibited in this grim complex of tin-roofed wooden huts. He is drawn to contemplate, as he waits, the sheer horror of confinement in such a place. He could not bear it. He feels sure of that. It would crush him.

A door opens at the end of the room on the other side of the table. Swan sees a man enter, followed by a warder. The man is tall and broadly built, though clearly emaciated. There is not a spare ounce of flesh on him. As a result, his big-boned jaw is even more prominent than it might otherwise be and his eyes are set deep in their sockets. He has crew-cut fair hair, a deep scar across one cheek and a notch in one ear. He is wearing a buttonless green shirt and coarse-fibred trousers. His boots, Swan observes, are laced with string. But from his posture alone it is apparent that he is not crushed. He is in prison. But he is not in despair.

The warder closes the door behind him. ‘You can sit down, Quilligan,’ he says. ‘One touch on the wire and we’ll have you out
of here and into solitary for a fortnight. Is that clear enough for you?’

Quilligan nods and sits down in the chair opposite Swan. Quite suddenly, the sunlight is extinguished by a cloud neither of them can see. The shadows dissolve.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Quilligan, noticing Swan’s nose twitch. ‘They only allow us one shower a week. And we’re in the middle of the week.’

‘What did you do to end up here?’ Swan asked, for want of any subtler opening gambit.

‘I stayed true to my principles, Mr Swan. That’s quite enough to put you behind bars in a country with a traitor for Taoiseach.’

‘I know nothing about Irish politics.’

‘That’s the privilege of your race. I sometimes wish I knew nothing of them either.’

‘Well, why don’t you put them behind you, then?’

‘How would I do that?’

‘I’m here to discuss your son.’

‘You’re Cardale’s errand-boy. Do I have that right?’

‘I’m authorized to speak on his behalf.’

Quilligan smiled. ‘I have it right, then.’

‘Mr Cardale tells me you’re a gifted artist.’

‘That depends on your point of view. The last spell I did in solitary was for being found in possession of a charcoal portrait of Gerry Boland, our revered Minister of Justice. They didn’t think it was sufficiently flattering. But, like I told them, an artist must remain true to his calling.’

‘Mr Cardale wants you to lay down the rifle and take up the brush, Mr Quilligan. He wants you to follow the path of peace.’

‘And he’ll meet me on it, will he?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to see your son?’

Quilligan’s right arm shot out. The warder started forward. Quilligan froze, his fist clenched. Then he bowed his head and lowered his arm. ‘Watch yourself,’ said the warder, stepping back, his key-chain jangling to rest.

‘I don’t know what Cardale’s told you about me, Mr Swan,’ Quilligan said quietly. ‘I’ll do you the favour of supposing he’s misled you. It’d be unlike him not to. There was a time when I thought I could put the cares of my homeland behind me and make a name for myself in the world as a painter. I went to London. I impressed a few people. I tasted a modicum of success. It was sweet, but cloying. Then I met Susan Cardale. That such a man should have such a daughter is a mystery beyond my fathoming. She was altogether lovely. I adored her. And, wonder of wonders, she adored me. I would have died for her. That she should die for me – for our child – is a grief that will never heal. Cardale, to do him the small amount of justice he’s owed, must mourn her as well, I know. But to use some weaselly lawyer to steal my son from me, to have me branded in an English court as such an unfit father on account of my patriotism – my
Irish
patriotism – that I wasn’t to be permitted any contact with him …’ He sat back in the chair and stared hard though the wire at Swan. ‘I’ll never forgive him.’

‘Never’s a long time.’

‘A day’s a long time in here.’

‘Leave, then. See your son.’

‘Cardale will allow me to do that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? What’s softened his flinty heart?’

‘Perhaps he thinks Simon, as he grows older, should know his father.’

‘And perhaps you think I’m a credulous idiot.’

‘He’ll allow you to see Simon as often and for as long as you like. All you have to do in return is go to London and … paint a few pictures for him.’

‘A few pictures?’ Quilligan chuckled mirthlessly. ‘I suppose you know what that means better than I do.’

‘I’m just delivering a message.’

‘He must be sorely pressed to resort to this.’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Oh, I think you could. If you wanted to.’

‘I have a document with me signed by Cardale. It commits him
to waiving the order he obtained against you after his daughter’s death. Would you like to see it?’

‘My friend here would intervene before I had a chance to read it, Mr Swan. Keep it in your pocket.’

‘Would you be allowed to look at a photograph?’

‘What’s the subject?’

‘Simon. Taken recently.’

Quilligan seemed suddenly close to tears. He raised his hand to his face and took a deep breath, then turned towards the warder. ‘Mr Swan has a snapshot of my son, Mr Grogan. I know you’re a father yourself. May I take a look at it?’

Grogan walked over to a position behind Quilligan and nodded to Swan. ‘You can go ahead and show him, sir.’

Swan took out his wallet and removed the photograph. He laid it on the table close to the wire. Quilligan leant forward and stared long and hard at it.

‘Put it away now, sir,’ said Grogan when half a minute or so had passed. ‘Or you’ll be upsetting him.’

Swan replaced the photograph in his wallet and put it back in his pocket. Grogan retreated to the door.

‘Thank you,’ murmured Quilligan.

‘Why did you come back to Ireland, Mr Quilligan?’ Swan asked.

‘Susan was dead. I wasn’t allowed to see Simon. I was no use to anyone in London, least of all myself. Here I could … serve the cause.’

‘The cause hasn’t served you very well in return, as far as I can see.’

‘But, as you said yourself, you know nothing of Irish politics.’

‘Mr Cardale’s making you a generous offer.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Doubt away. It’s still the best offer you’re going to get.’

‘He expects me to renounce everything I’ve believed in and fought for since 1916.’

‘He’s not interested in the undertakings you need to give to extricate yourself from this place. Only in … what follows.’