Promised Land (5 page)

‘Man-mad! Even at Uncle Martin’s funeral she’s flirting,’ sighed Slaney, raising her blue eyes to heaven, though a tone of admiration could be heard in her voice. Marianne pursed her lips, wishing that she hadn’t been burdened with such good-looking sisters, while Ella smiled, glad of the friendship and banter of her cousins.

‘Girls, what did I tell you, circulate!’ ordered Aunt Nance, interrupting them, her cheeks flushed with the heat of the room and with tending the oven and the fire. ‘That Scottish uncle wants another drop of whiskey, and Father Hackett has had nothing to eat yet, see if there’s any cold meat
left
in the kitchen for him. Go on now, Ella’s enough to be doing!

‘Are you all right pet?’ You know your daddy would be right proud of you, and how well everything’s gone. Martin’s had a grand send-off, thank God!’

Ella didn’t trust herself to speak. Her Aunt Nance was always the one to hold her and comfort her. Her aunt squeezed her hand. ‘It’ll all be over soon, pet, honest it will. It doesn’t seem right, a young girl like yourself burying two parents, but then that’s God’s will. You know that you always have Jack and myself and the girls and Brian. We all care so much about you, we always have.’

Ella hugged her aunt, relishing the comfort of the familiar smell of her lily of the valley cologne and warm skin.

‘I’m glad that the rogue Liam has come home. It’ll be good for you to have him around the place, and that wife of his seems a nice sort of girl. Martin was always worrying about him; you know he felt your mother’s death unsettled him. Anyways that’s all water under the bridge now and the two of them had made their peace, which is the main thing. The farm needs a man, it’s too much for a girl on her own to run.’

Puzzled, Ella drew back and was about to quiz her aunt when the two of them got caught up in a discussion about her father’s prowess as a boxer with an old school friend of his.

‘A Wexford champion so he was!’

‘He had his first fight when he was sixteen!’ murmured the old man proudly, ‘and I was the one who tried to floor him.’

It was well into the night when the funeral party finally ended and the last of the neighbours made their way home. Liam insisted on escorting most of them to the front door, though he hadn’t spoken to many of them since he was a young fellow and it was Ella that they had come to pay their respects for Martin to.

Sean had hugged her closely on the doorstep as they said goodnight, his lips clinging to hers, wanting more.

Ella began to lift cups and saucers, and glasses and ashtrays.

‘Leave it, Ella,’ suggested Liam. ‘We can do it in the morning.’

She watched as Carmel and he, arms wrapped around each other, made their way upstairs. She turned out the lamps and checked that Monty was safely asleep in the kitchen before going to bed herself. Through the stone walls she could hear their grunting lovemaking, and turned her face to her pillow, tears scalding her eyes.

Chapter Five

ELLA CLEARED OUT
the wardrobe in his bedroom, his suits hanging to the left, his tweed jackets and his trousers to the right. The shirts she had ironed were still stiff and suspended; he didn’t like too much starch in the collar. The jacket smelled of him – soap, sweat, skin and tobacco. In the pocket she discovered a mint humbug, his favourite sweet. He must have been saving it. She had already parcelled up his vests and socks and pyjamas to give away, and taking the garments from the metal bar placed them carefully in the brown box her aunt had given her. Someone would benefit from her father’s demise.

His shoes were too big for Liam and carried the shape of the way he walked, his footfall. Someone else might be glad to wear them. She didn’t put the jacket away into the box; she couldn’t. It reminded her too much of him and like treasure was secreted and buried in the back vaults of her own wardrobe.

* * *

Ella walked the fields for hours. She knew every hill and hedgerow in the place, every stick and stone of it was precious to her. She remembered each fence her father had laid, each ditch he’d dug. The land he’d deliberately left fallow, believing every piece of earth had a time and a season. The livestock that he’d bred and raised; did the animals know he was gone? She doubted it. Monty grieved him. The old collie had adored Martin and had been his constant companion for more than twelve years. Dogs were loyal. She would be his master now, a poor substitute.

‘Come, Monty!’ she called, leading him down by Lough Garvan. It was so peaceful down there, she had forgotten how much its still blue waters soothed her. The long thin rushes caught in the breeze, setting a dancing wildness rippling like a wave along the shore. She watched as a pair of wild swans glided by, long white necks arched. Soon there would be cygnets, dabbling in the lake. When she was small she used to think that their swans were ‘the Children of Lir’ and had kept hoping to catch them one day returning to their human form. Her father had never disillusioned her.

It must have been hard for the old man raising a daughter on his own, though he had never complained. He’d been content to sit in by the fire with her night after night, until she was old enough to
be
left on her own. He’d helped her with her homework, listened to her spelling lists, read the newspapers out to her, listened to programmes on the wireless with her. He’d never courted another woman after the death of her mother, never even looked at one. He’d been a good father, no matter what Liam thought. Her experience of him had been totally different from that of her brother. It was as if they had been raised in different households by a different parent. She was glad to have Carmel and Liam staying but was curious that they had made no mention of returning to England now that her father was buried. She supposed that neither of them was in a hurry to return to the rented flat they’d told her about. Death seemed to have frozen everything and it was probably the same for them. She couldn’t imagine her life returning to normal without her father.

Monty began to bark furiously. Ella turned round and grinned, seeing her Uncle Jack tramping across the damp grass towards her. Monty leapt on him enthusiastically, whirling and whining.

‘Get down boy! Get down!’ ordered her uncle.

‘He misses Daddy.’

‘Aye, we all do. Nance is above with Liam but I thought I’d find you down here.’ She linked her arm with her uncle’s, the two of them falling into step automatically. ‘’Tis peaceful here. There’s some huge row going on at home and the ladies are all sulking with each other. I thought it best to get
Nance
out of the house in the hope that they’ll either kill each other or make up. That’s usually the way with sisters.’ He sighed aloud.

‘They’re not that bad!’ she teased him.

‘Aye, I know that! How are you doing, Ella?’

She stopped and looked across the lake. ‘I’m fine, Uncle Jack. I miss Daddy, that’s all.’

‘Ella, I don’t know if Nance said anything to you the other day but Maurice Sweeney the solicitor wants us to meet him in his office in Wexford town … the day after tomorrow. It’s about reading Martin’s will.’

Ella didn’t want to hear about wills and the like when her father was barely cold in his grave, but she knew that her Uncle Jack was not normally an insensitive man and was only doing his duty.

‘I believe that I’ve been named as his executor.’

She wasn’t sure of what to make of this information. Probably it had been a wise choice by her late father, as he and her uncle had been close friends for more than forty years.

‘Should we be getting back?’

Ella nodded. She wanted to get back to Fintra and thank her aunt for all she’d done. She didn’t know what she’d do without both of them.

Maurice Sweeney sat at the large mahogany desk positioned close to the window of his office overlooking the harbour. It had been his father’s, and his father’s before him. He was a great believer in tradition. The chair that supported his overlarge
body
had been stuffed with horsehair and wadding and then covered in leather. His arse fitted snugly into it and it gave him a bird’s-eye view of the busy quays and the town bridge, where the Slaney River entered Wexford’s harbour estuary. He watched the people, down below, going about their business. Wexford town with its narrow winding streets and alleys was one of the oldest towns in Ireland, known long before the fierce Norsemen captured it and made it a trading post, the quays the lifeblood of the town as ships entered and sailed from them over the centuries, his ancestors signing required documents and contracts for generations of locals. Many were clients already, others would be eventually, for such was the way of a solicitor’s profession. Humankind was always destined to need the good offices of law men like himself. He took a sip of the dark strong tea that he liked. His secretary had already informed him of the arrival of the Kennedy family. He had got out the file on the last wishes of a Mr Martin Kennedy, now deceased. It all seemed straightforward enough.

The Kennedy brother and sister were shown in accompanied by an aunt and uncle and a sister-in-law. Luckily there were enough chairs for everyone to be seated. Joan his secretary offered them all a cup of tea before disappearing down to the kitchenette on the lower landing. Why the woman had to make every business meeting of his into some kind of tea party was beyond him. She said
that
clients appreciated it, especially those that had been recently bereaved. Experience had taught him it was better to wait till the tea had been poured and all concerned had a slice of Madeira cake, before getting down to business. He always hated being disrupted midway through reading a legal document.

He made polite small talk about the weather and the price of cattle and expressed his regrets at the death of his client. Joan had arrived back with the tea tray, clattering plates and cups. He supposed it was the only chance the middle-aged spinster got to fuss and act like a genteel hostess. His own wife, Lillian, usually plied their guests at home with gin and tonic, or stiff whiskeys. She wasn’t much of a one for teapots and the kitchen.

He watched as the family relaxed, then clearing his throat began to read. ‘I Martin Kennedy of Fintra, in the town land of Kilgarvan, a farmer, make and publish this my last will and testament hereby revoking all former wills and testamentary dispositions at any time heretofore made by me. I appoint Jack Kavanagh of Rathmullen House to be executor of this my will and I direct him to pay all my just debts, funeral and testamentary expenses.’

Maurice could see that Mr Kavanagh was content with his responsibility and guessed that the two men must have enjoyed a friendship which had merited a mutual trust and respect, which relatives did not always necessarily earn. Now
came
the important bit, the part that they were all waiting for.

‘I give devise and bequeath the antique sideboard which stands in my parlour to my sister Nance. It was our mother’s and now should be hers.

‘I give devise and bequeath all the jewellery belonging to my late wife Helena to my daughter Ella. I also give devise and bequeath to her the sum of nine hundred pounds which is held in an account with the Munster and Leinster bank.

‘I give, devise and bequeath my house at Fintra and all farm lands attached to my son Liam for his own use and benefit.’

Maurice Sweeney ignored the gasp of disbelief from his client’s daughter and read on. ‘In the event that my son Liam has predeceased me, I give, device and bequeath these properties to my daughter Ella.

‘In witness whereto I have signed my name the day and year herein written. Dated twenty-fourth day of January 1949.’

Maurice Sweeney finished off, leaving Martin Kennedy’s signature clearly visible on the bottom of the document. He wondered if the property concerned was a large farm or just a few poor acres.

‘No! I don’t believe it. My daddy never wrote such a will!’

He watched dismayed as the young woman with the light brown hair and pale face grabbed at
the
document and began to peruse it line by line.

‘I do assure you, Miss Kennedy, that this is your father’s will made in this very office over five years ago. As far as I am aware he did not make another one.’

The brother was hugging his wife, barely able to contain his excitement. The older couple stood up awkwardly and thanked him for his diligence. He had pity for the girl; obviously she had expected to inherit more. In his opinion nine hundred pounds was a fine inheritance for any single young woman, and he considered her late father had been more than generous towards her. Still, it was not his business to reason the ways of family, his job was only to convey the wishes of his client and this had been done satisfactorily. A copy of the deeds of the aforesaid house and farmlands rested snug and secure in his safe. Coughing and standing up he tried to convey to the family party that indeed his appointment with them was ended, but none of them seemed aware of the pressures on his time.

Joan knocked discreetly on his door, signalling the arrival of his next client Philip O’Brien, who was left to sit in the waiting room.

‘My apologies, I know this is difficult for you all but I’m afraid my next appointment has arrived. If there is anything I can do, please rest assured that I will and, Liam, if you wish to come back and talk to me or need any advice I am at your disposal.’

He shook the men’s hands and out of courtesy held the door open for the women. His stomach
growled
with hunger and he tried to push thoughts of his regular Tuesday lunch of roast beef and horseradish served in the Talbot Hotel to the back of his mind as he escorted them to the stairs. Today was bread and butter pudding day, he felt sure of it.

Ella clung to the polished wooden banister, unable to see the steps, somehow or other managing to arrive at the ground floor and step outside and into the street. She felt giddy and disorientated, her mouth dry. She couldn’t believe it. Liam had got it all. Liam, who hated Fintra, hated the farm, had been handed it on a platter. It felt like the flesh had left her body and only a bony skeleton remained. That fat legal old fart hadn’t a notion of what was going on, not a notion! How could it be that her brother would inherit the land and farm when he had only set foot on the place in the past two weeks? That couldn’t be right. Liam had left Martin, abandoned the farm, left Ireland. He couldn’t just walk back into her life and steal everything away from her. She wouldn’t let it happen. Her daddy had promised her the land, promised her the farm. She couldn’t believe that her father would do such a thing. He knew how much the farm meant to her, how much she loved it.