Venetia Kelly's Traveling Show (48 page)

They concluded that I must keep calm no matter what I found, that above all I must attend to my parents, establish what they needed, and see how I could help their lives.

“Imagine how they’re feeling,” said James. “Just think on both positions—your father embarrassed beyond description, your mother torn between delight and despair.”

“When I’m in a bind,” said Miss Fay, “I like to walk very slowly because it helps me to think deeper thoughts.”

My train journey next day had no fires, and no stories. All the way from Dublin the sunlight beamed like glory through the windows. I walked from the train station to our house, a distance of four miles.

On a fine morning, with only a light suitcase, it almost felt pleasant, especially as the road from Dundrum Station passes through woods, and on the last stretch to our house I walked along and above the river. Once again I found our front gate closed, and once again I opened it wide and propped it open with the stone that had been there since before my father was born.

As I rounded the bend in the driveway to the point where the house first appears, two sentries in blue shirts barred my way.

“State your name and state your business.”

“My name is Ben MacCarthy and I’ve been sent by Mr. Kelly.”

“Have you a letter?”

“My parents live here.”

“Nobody’s allowed on this property without written permission.”

They made me leave my own driveway—my own ground, where I knew every pebble on the gravel, every plant in the hedgerow. They made me turn my back on the white fence snaking up the field where I’d seen the great and shapeless Animal in the Incident. They made me turn away from the sight of my own doorway, with the stained-glass porch windows throwing colored petals on the floor inside.

To think slowly—walk slowly:
I held on tight to Miss Fay’s advice and decided to outwit these armed men. No sentries barred the old road that
led to the wood. By now the sun had heated the countryside, and a strong wind blew feathers along the river.

No sign of life in the cottage—surprising on such a beautiful day. I knocked on the closed door.

“Give the password,” called my father’s voice.

“It’s me. Ben.”

He opened the door—he looked twenty years older. Behind him stood Mother, haggard and scared.

“They told us we’re not to open the door to anybody,” Mother said. “How did you get in?”

“They tried to block me.”

Like fearful people—which they were—they hauled me in and closed the door. Both vented relief—and excitement that I had come home.

“If you can call it home,” said my father.

They told me a dismal story. An officer, whose name they didn’t know, had taken charge of them and said he had orders to keep them indoors. New housing was being arranged for them, perhaps in the United States, and they remained on the land at Mr. Kelly’s pleasure.

“It’s like house arrest,” said my father.

When my puzzled face asked why, Mother said, in a whisper, “We think there’s something big going on.”

My father said, “I got talking to one of the fellows. In a few months there’s going to be a big announcement of a new political party. These fellows here will be its army.”

“Why are they wearing blue shirts?” I asked.

“Why do Hitler’s fellows wear brown shirts?”

Mother said, “They’re drilling and marching and handling guns. They told your father that this is the biggest secret in the country.”

Once I sat down with them and we began to talk, my parents became for a time much like their old selves. The previous months had cut furrows in them. Equally, they had no idea what was going to happen to them, or what they would live on. In the cottage Mary Lewis brought them food twice a day, but they weren’t allowed out under any circumstances.

“She’s so nasty to us,” said Mother.

“No surprise there,” I said. I looked like a young man flourishing in his life—which I was.

“We’ve been the victims of a confidence trick,” said my father. “And it began a long time ago.”

Strange to say, I’ve never been more impressed with my parents than at that moment. Despite the pain for both of them, my father told the story of how he was—as he saw it—drawn into the web. He loved the show; he’d long known who Sarah was—and he met her at a performance that one night when he delayed his return from the Galway races.

She charmed him, he said, and he now realized that she extracted a great deal of information from him—where he lived, the size of the farm, his station in life, all of that. On the next visit, he met Venetia, who captivated him. Then, and with great skill, it seemed to me, Sarah drew him into a web at whose center sat her daughter.

Soon he had met King Kelly, who told him of Venetia’s “financial plight.” My father began to give what Sarah called “loans”—and I ascertained, because it was crucially important to me, that Venetia had never had a conversation with my father about money.

Not long after that, the trap was ready to be shut. When my father complained that he had no more money, Professor Fay moved in. We all three felt that this plot had been long in the hatching, that King Kelly had been looking for some prime victims.

For hours we sat there, talking back and forth, back and forth, inspecting every wrinkle, every twist in the story. My father spoke openly—and often with apology—of his role and how he had been fooled. Mother never, not once, made him feel bad. As we talked they expanded, and apart from the physical wear and tear, they began to sound like my parents again. We went over the story from every angle, until we were satisfied that our version of the story was what my father called “a true bill,” his verdict of authenticity.

Next we discussed strategy. Getting the farm back, we agreed, had to be our prime thought. We debated the legality of all that had gone on—and we agreed that we needed to see Leonard Horgan. Getting there might be problematic; the men with guns had taken my father’s car.

We plotted this: I would stay the night, and at dawn slip away, cross the river down at the ford, where the trees gave me the greatest concealment, and get to Cashel and Mr. Horgan’s office. Having outlined the story, I would get his opinion and bring it back to my parents.

Mother confided to me that my father had almost ceased eating. And sleeping.

“You never saw such fretting.”

“What about you?”

“At least I eat something,” she said.

Both ate hearty meals that night. He made some jokes, they had second helpings, and they shared some wine from King Kelly’s stacked cases in the little kitchen. The “theft,” as they called it, bucked them up like children.

I worried that they would turn to me and ask questions. How much had my father told Mother? About Venetia? About the fight? How did he feel—the question I hadn’t dared confront—about being ousted from his love by his son, his only child, his heir?

I didn’t ask those questions; it would be years before I could. It seemed, by the way, that he’d said little or nothing to Mother about Venetia and me. A long time later I established that he had told her that I’d replaced him as a member of the company, no more than that.

Nor did I tell them that I’d married—I didn’t know how to do that, and I didn’t know when I could. Think of their connection to Venetia—my father’s love, my mother’s hate.

Besides, the atmosphere militated against it. No matter what the jollity among the three of us, we still spoke in hushed voices. Once or twice, one or the other stopped at a noise outside—and we all froze.

Before retiring to bed, we talked it through once again. My father said that he thought he’d known of a similar case, a “land swindle,” he called it, up the country somewhere, but the details wouldn’t come back to him—except that he believed it might also have involved a politician. And as the next words began to pour from his mouth, Mother and I chimed in, “The conduct of public affairs for private advantage.”

However, as he said, “It makes it all the more difficult. He’s where the power is now.”

I’d intended to slip away close to dawn and without waking them. Instead I found Mother up and about, with breakfast ready.

“He’s thrilled you’re here,” she said.

“I wondered if he’d be cross at me.”

“At you? Ben, he couldn’t be. Your name is the only light in his face since he came back.”

It was impossible to dislike Leonard Horgan, a man who doubted everything. Head like a greyhound, sleek blond hair, he breathed as heavily as a fat man, yet if he stood sideways he’d have had no shadow; I’ve never known a thinner man. Nor a quicker mind; he grasped our story before I’d told it. And then he quizzed me.

“What’s the level of shame at home?”

“Has your mother forgiven your father?”

“Will he stay with her?”

“These Kellys—do they like your father?”

High, but being handled well by both parents.

Yes, I’d say so.

Without a doubt. He’ll do anything for her now.

Yes. They do like him.

“Not only that, Mr. Horgan.” I paused.

He looked at me, green eyes. “Oh, Christ, no.”

That’s how quick he was. I dropped my eyes; it wasn’t that I was embarrassed—it’s just that I saw how this could complicate the matter. “Tell me one thing. Tell me that you’ll marry her.”

“I did.”

He clapped his hands. “Problem solved,” he said. “Does old Kelly have any other family?”

I said, “But—there’s worse. He’s using the house—well, the place is full of men with guns.”

I described it and he grew embarrassed.

“Well, I can’t do anything about that. That’s none of my business.”

He looked uneasy; he shifted his feet in their black shiny shoes. Here’s the thought I had; here’s how fast my mind was working:
He belongs to the same party as King Kelly. He may not know about the guns, but he knows something and wants nothing to do with it. He’s looking for an easy way out
.

“Mr. Horgan, can you tell me—if we went to court—if we took an action …?”

He looked again at the mortgage document that I had brought with me—and handed it back.

“Not a sou. Not a cent. Not a chance. Your father, your mother—free will. Any judge would throw it out.”

“Have you ever heard of a land swindle like this?”

“Ben, you’ve to be very careful with your language. Calling it a swindle—that’s slander.” He softened, recovered his composure. “Prevail upon your bride to have her grandfather make over the farm to her. At least it’ll keep your parents there. As to the other business—all these things pass.”

At the door I said to him, “Mr. Horgan, the men in the blue shirts, the guns—are they Fascists?”

He stepped back. “Christ, Ben, you use strong language. You’d be best off saying nothing to nobody.”

And so I had no elevating news to bring home, but I saw one good thing, what James Clare would have called “an omen.” Workmen had begun to tear down the old hall in Cashel where my father had run off with the show. Mixed feelings for me—I had first seen Venetia there, but it had occasioned bad times in my life, and it was never good enough for her anyway.

It crossed my mind to get a souvenir. Beside the door a little plaque had been inset showing the year of construction, a curly and ornate 1842, and a workman excised it for me.

We sat up late again, we ate well again, we debated back and forth again.

My father confirmed Leonard Horgan’s politics and said, “He was almost a candidate in the 1927 election.”

I didn’t tell them his advice—how could I? The poor report notwithstanding, we relaxed even more than the previous night. They hadn’t seen anybody all day—except Mary Lewis, who’d asked if they had “any news of Ben.” We reasoned that the sentries must have made a report.

“She’s a snake, that one,” said Mother.

At last! An accurate character judgment from Mother—progress!

I asked them whether they minded if I went off and tried some things.

“If anyone can fix it,” said my father, “it’ll be you.”

Next morning I left before dawn; my note on the kitchen table said,
Back within days
.

I
went back to Dublin by train. For all the time that I knew her, and that was many years, I trusted Dora Fay more than anybody. She gave out a calm air, and yet I knew from James Clare that it came from a troubled soul—an excellent combination, because it showed that she had overcome difficulties in her own life. That evening in Dublin I told her first about my journey—people carried geese, toted hounds on leashes, small children roamed, and impossibly packed baskets and cartons blocked the corridors. Every town, village, and crossroads seemed to have its own station or halt. Nor did the train seem bound to any schedule that I could interpret.