Tipperary (74 page)

I was dispatched to find this woman—and by now you have guessed. She was Margery Nugent; her maiden name was Coleman. She had told Mrs. O'Brien how it broke her heart that she couldn't have children. And how much she had wished that she could have married Charles O'Brien. I might be wrong about this, but I think she said that she married into the county so as not to be far from Charles.

When all the papers were done, it was of course discovered that April had indeed donated the house to the nation. The idea came to her as a trick to stop the Irregulars from burning down the place—and then she and Charles followed it through and donated it formally, because at that stage they had no heir. The takeover would not be complete until they died, and in the meantime they would open it to the public on certain days a year, and get tax relief for any work they did to improve the building.

Then, the pregnancy was so all-consuming that they never got a chance to take the estate back again. They had started legal proceedings, but the lawyers hadn't even got around to making the application.

Mrs. O'Brien and I put the adoption process in motion. The papers presented no problem—Mr. and Mrs. John Joseph Nugent would be the legally adopting parents of this child, who was never to be told. I have never understood why the child was never to be told—probably because there was such a stigma attached to adoption; it usually meant illegitimacy.

Not only that, the adopting father insisted that some device be constructed whereby people would think the child was his—and to pretend that she was away in confinement at her parents' house, Margery went to stay at Ardobreen for several months. You can imagine how Mrs. O'Brien loved having her grandchild—namely you—in that house.

But I can't stand lies and deceptions, and I decided to write this letter and let the wise hand of Time take care of it.

That was the only complication. Except for one thing. The nation, after years of dithering, divided the estate lands. A family that bought Ardobreen after the O'Briens passed away got a large chunk of it. And nobody wanted what was left of the house; nobody wanted to rebuild it. So it just lay there, and people plundered the beautiful stone.

But the law specified a sum of ten thousand to the heirs of the castle, should any next of kin wish to claim it. Nobody did—because everybody knew about you and thought that one day you'd find out. The money, with interest accumulating every year, is there in the Land Commission in Dublin.

I have drawn all these facts together and left it to the discretion of my family as to whether they should ever be divulged. If they decide to tell the story to you, Michael, they'll have done so because they'll have assessed that it will do you nothing but good to be told who you are. In Ireland, that's something we don't always know.

If and when you read this, know that you were doubly fortunate. Not only were you raised by decent folk, you also came naturally of wonderful people. What man can say that he had four parents, all of them exemplary? In short, in your spirit you had a brilliant past, and in your being you had a safe existence. That's Ireland for you!

And wherever you go, you'll also have my good wishes like fair wind in your sails.

Yours sincerely,

Joseph (Joe) Harney.

It will take me years to make sense of all this—to make emotional sense, that is. I know that I'll go back over the “evidence” again and again for things that I insufficiently celebrated.

Such as the sacrifices of my adopting mother, Margery Coleman, who must have longed to tell me the story of my life. That was her main thrust—the truth of things as she saw them through her camera.

Such as the decency of my adopting father, John Joe Nugent, to behave to me so gently and amusingly and acceptingly. He taught me to sing, and he taught me the words of songs—mostly railroad songs—and how to identify a locomotive, and how his uncle helped build railroads in North America.

Such as the size of the spirit possessed by my mother, April Burke— to use the money she had been left for such a noble and brilliant enterprise, to keep beauty preserved. And to perceive the man who loved her, even if it took her a while. Or did it?

And such as my real father, Charles O'Brien, whose writings taught me that we do not have to continue as we were. Or thought we were. And that life brings out its brightest colors only when you ask.

In the Land Commission offices, I was attended to by a boy I once taught. He was a quiet fellow in school. And he became a quiet man. I had not known that I would be dealing with him.

He also knew of other papers—the inheritance from Bernard and Amelia O'Brien at Ardobreen. My adopted father would have nothing to do with it, and my mother never told me. It simply sat there and piled up, and if I never claimed it the state would have when I died. There's nothing so complicated as inheritance law.

This former student of mine had prepared all sorts of documents for me. And some of them were clearly outside his purview. I asked him why. He said that I'd told him one day that he had a mind like the poet John Keats, and that ever since then, he could always raise his spirits up on that memory.

On the street outside, I was scarcely able to walk. Or take in how much I was now worth. But I knew immediately what I was going to do.

I was going to establish—and I have—an annual award through the library for the writing of personal history. Above and beyond that, I have more than enough money to build and endow a small theater. It will have within it an exhibition space for local photographers and an annual contest for them. And if anyone wants to found a railway historical society, I will pay for that too. Thus, I shall honor all to whom I feel indebted. What man, indeed, has been fortunate enough to have four parents?

On Sundays, when the weather is fine, Marian and I drive over to the castle and trace again its outlines. And we stand on the grass-covered terraces and admire the view, the son of the owners and the daughter of their beloved friend.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

F
RANK
D
ELANEY
was born in Tipperary, Ireland. Before his novel
Ireland,
a bestseller and his first novel to be published in the United States, and
Simple Courage,
his American nonfiction debut, a career in broadcasting earned him fame across the United Kingdom. A judge for the Booker Prize, he has had several fiction and nonfiction bestsellers in the United Kingdom; he also writes frequently for American and British publications. He now lives with his wife, Diane Meier, in New York and Connecticut.

Also by Frank Delaney

Ireland

Simple Courage

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2007 by Frank Delaney, L.L.C.

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Random House,
an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

R
ANDOM
H
OUSE
and colophon are registered
trademarks of Random House, Inc.

LIBRARY  OF  CONGRESS  CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION  DATA

Delaney, Frank
Tipperary: a novel / Frank Delaney.
p. cm.
1. Land tenure—Fiction. 2. Landowners—Fiction. 3. Ireland—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6054.E396T56 2007     823'.914—dc22     2007013186

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eISBN: 978-1-58836-657-3

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