“It was a poor leaf, then,” he answered and held out his hand.
“Why didn’t you go into the house?”
“The big Englishman is there. He’s asleep in the porch, a book on his knee,” and he imitated a deep snoring sound.
“He wouldn’t mind.”
“No, no. I’ll be beating away. The robins don’t mix with the blackbirds.”
There was a heavy, sweet perfume in the air. It came from wild woodbine that had climbed an old hawthorn close to the house and was still putting out pale yellow flowers in the high branches.
Robert Booth was asleep in the porch. Ruttledge entered the house by the back. The black cat was sitting on Kate’s knee, the white paws opening and closing on the blue denim.
“Fats goes to London!” she said laughing as Ruttledge entered the room, and the cat hearing the tone purred louder.
“She’ll not like that.”
“I’m not sure I’d like it either. It’s lovely to be asked.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t want to think just now.”
“I caught Jamesie prowling round the house, inspecting everything. He even tasted your tomatoes in the glasshouse.”
“Why wouldn’t he come in?”
“He saw we had a visitor and wouldn’t.”
Robert Booth felt refreshed when he woke. He showered, changed, went for a long walk round the shore and was in particularly good form when he returned to a dinner of steak and salad and wine. The steaks were cooked over a fire of dried oak on an iron grill the Shah had made for the fireplace in the small front room. As they cooked, grease dripped from the raised grill and flared in the red embers. Robert Booth sat in silence with a whiskey, watching the fire and the lights from the fire play on the white walls. At the table he came to life.
He told stories they had heard before but they were still all interesting because Robert Booth was interesting, and they stayed up late.
In the morning they could see that he had already left them; in spirit he was already in Dublin. “Write me or call if you have any questions,” he said as he embraced Kate. “Thank you for a wonderful visit. I hope I’ll be seeing you very soon in London. It was a very great pleasure.”
“Thanks for coming. Thanks for everything.”
“Are you staying in the Shelbourne?” Ruttledge asked as they drove to the station, passing green hedges and green fields and the odd farmhouse among the new bungalows.
“Yes, but going out to dinner this evening,” and Ruttledge did not ask further.
They arrived early at the small railway station because Robert disliked being pressed for time and did not mind waiting. When they checked the time of the train, he removed a book from his case.
Robert Booth walked to a green bench beside the flowerbeds and opened the book. He did not look around at the other passengers waiting for the train. He would not welcome conversation or any interference. His life had already entered another of its closed compartments.
Ruttledge went to an assistant manager he was friendly with in the bank about getting Frank Dolan a loan. “There should be no problem,” Joe Eustace said in his agreeable way after Ruttledge stated his business.
Within a week Joe Eustace had the loan approved, subject to an interview Frank Dolan would have to undergo in Longford. That town was chosen because it was both close and far enough away for nobody to know their business.
“He’ll have to say he intends to expand the business and employ more people. That’s bank policy: it looks better for the bank when they have to face the politicians, and the bank likes nothing more than lending money to a thriving business. He’ll have to say all that so that it goes in the report. Once he gets the loan he can do whatever he wants as long as he makes his monthly payments.”
“Why can’t you do the interview yourself? That’s what we did years back when I got the loan.”
“You were already a customer. We had more power back then as well. Now head office has the power. I know the man who’s doing the interview and I have put him in the complete picture. The loan is in the bag. It’s all arranged. It’s just a matter of going through the motions and him saying the right things.”
Ruttledge wanted to drive Frank Dolan to Longford but he insisted stubbornly that they go in his old Toyota since it was on his business they were going. The exhaust was gone, as was the ignition key: the engine was started by crossing two sparking wires.
“What does any of them do but go?” he said to Ruttledge as they battered towards Longford. Frank Dolan had a new haircut, was spruced and shaven, dressed in his dark Sunday suit and white shirt and wine-coloured tie. His nervousness gave vividness to his pleasant, sensitive face.
“Do you want me to speak about the business of expansion and employing a young lad or two — or do you want to do that yourself?”
“I haven’t the slightest intention of expanding anything or employing anybody,” he answered.
“I know that but we have to say otherwise if we want to get the loan.”
“I’ve been thinking that over. We could be setting a trap for ourselves. We could be going in away above our heads.”
“It’s nothing like that,” Ruttledge explained with some exasperation. They had been through this twice before. “Once you get the money you can do whatever you want as long as you make the payments. Until we get the loan we have to agree to whatever they want.”
“You’re sure it’s as simple as that? You’re sure it’s not some trap?”
“Certain. Absolutely certain,” Ruttledge answered. “Is it the payments that have you worried?”
“Not one little bit,” he said. “If they couldn’t be managed we might as well not be in business at all.”
The bank in Longford was an impressive Victorian stone building in the middle of the town. They entered as the heavy door was about to close for the day. They were asked to wait for a few minutes while the last customers were being attended to. They were then led inside the counter and into a large office at the back. The bank official was a tall, athletic man. He stood to shake their hands, and he and Ruttledge spoke warmly of Joe Eustace before he invited them to sit.
Ruttledge explained the background of the application, adding that while the business was profitable it had ceased to expand in recent years. Frank Dolan was a much younger man than the present owner and was anxious to expand the business and employ some young people. As the business thrived and expanded, he would certainly require further loans.
“That seems highly satisfactory,” the official said as he wrote, remarking that the bank would require the deeds once the transfer was completed, and then began to read back to Frank Dolan what he had written. All the bank official needed was his agreement.
“Oh no. Oh no,” Frank Dolan spoke. “I’d not want sight or light of those fellas round the place. They are dear bought. They’d annoy your head. You’d have to show them everything. It’d be far easier to do the thing yourself.”
The official looked up, puzzled and somewhat amused.
“We spoke about it on the way up,” Ruttledge intervened. “Frank is, I think, unnecessarily worried about having to take on too many young people. I told him he’d be free to do that at his own pace.”
Frank Dolan’s face was pale. All his attention was fixed on the bank official.
“I know there can be difficulties with young people and of course you’d be free to expand as you see fit,” the official said helpfully, but Frank Dolan had now discovered his own voice and would not be contained.
“No,” he said. “I’d cut back. In my opinion Mister Maguire has been stretching himself far too much. I’d cut back. I’d do far less than we are doing now.”