Did Dad mind?'
'I don't think so, I can't remember. They knew each other so well, served together, been at Darmouth as boys. Then Nick left the Navy and went back to live in Ireland, and they somehow drifted apart. I had the impression actually that he had the sack, but I never liked to ask. You know what an oyster Dad was about Service matters.'
'Yes…'
(Poor old Nick. A chip on the shoulder. I'd like to shake him by the hand again and wish him luck….)
She saw her mother off at the airport a few days afterwards, and made her own plans for departure to Dublin. The night before she left, searching amongst her father's papers, she found a scrap of paper with a list of dates and the name Nick alongside with a question-mark, but no word of explanation as to what the dates referred to. June 5, 1951. June 25, 1953. June 12, 1954. October 17, 1954. April 24, 1955. August 13, 1955. The list bore no relevance to the rest of the papers in the file, and must have been slipped in there by accident. She copied them down, and put them in an envelope inside her tourist guide.
Well, that was that, and here she was, on the road to… to do what? To apologise, in her deceased father's name, to a retired naval commander passed over for promotion? Wild in his youth? The greatest fun at parties? The image conjured up was not one to whip the appetite, and she began to picture a middle-aged buffer with a hyena laugh who put booby-traps on the top of every door. Perhaps he had tried it on the First Sea Lord and received the boot for his pains. A car accident turned him into a recluse, an embittered one-time clown (but gallant, her father said, which meant what-plunging into oil-infested waters to rescue drowning sailors in the war?) who sat gnawing his fingernails in some old Georgian mansion or mock castle, drinking Irish whisky and regretting all those apple-pie beds.
Some seventy-odd miles from Dublin on a balmy October afternoon, though, with the countryside becoming greener, lusher, yet somehow sparsely inhabited, the glint of water more frequent away to the west, and suddenly a myriad pools and lakes with tongues of land thrusting between them, the prospect of ringing the bell of a Georgian mansion faded. Here were no high walls encircling stately demesnes, only wet fields beyond the road, and surely no means of access to the silver-splintered lakes beyond.
The description of Ballyfane in the official guide had been laconic. 'Situated west of Lough Torrah with numerous smaller loughs close to the village.' The Kilmore Arms had six bedrooms, but there was no mention of mod. cons. If the worst came to the worst she could telephone Nick his old friend's daughter stranded in the neighbourhood, could he suggest a comfortable hotel within ten miles, and she hoped to call upon him in the morning. A butler would answer, an old retainer. 'The Commander would be pleased if you would accept his hospitality here at Ballyfane Castle.' Irish wolfhounds baying, and her host himself appearing on the steps, leaning on a stick….
A church tower appeared over the crest of the road, and here was Ballyfane itself, a village street straggling up a rise flanked by a few sombre houses and shops, names like Driscoll and Murphy painted on boards above doors. The Kilmore Arms could have done with a coat of whitewash, but marigolds in a window-box making a valiant attempt at a second flowering suggested someone with an eye for colour.
Shelagh parked her Austin Mini and surveyed the scene. The door of the Kilmore Arms was open. The entrance hall that also served as a lounge was bare and neat. Nobody was in sight, but a handbell standing on the counter to the left of the entrance seemed there for a purpose. She rang it briskly, and as a sad-faced man emerged from an inner room, limping and wearing spectacles, she had a fearful feeling that it was Nick himself, having fallen on hard times.
'Good afternoon,' she said. 'I was wondering if I could have tea?'
'You can,' he told her. 'A full tea or just the pot?'
'Well, full, I think,' she replied, with a vision of hot scones and cherry jam, flashing him the smile she generally reserved for the stage-doorkeeper.
'It will take about ten minutes,' he said. 'The dining-room is to the right, just three steps down. Have you come far?'
'From Dublin,' she said.
It's a pleasant drive. I was in Dublin myself a week ago,' he told her. 'My wife, Mrs Doherty, has relatives there. She's away sick at present.'
She wondered whether she should apologise for giving trouble, but he had already disappeared to get the tea, and she went down the steps into the dining-room. Six tables laid ready, but she had the impression nobody had eaten there for days. A clock on the wall ticked loudly, breaking the silence. Presently a little maid emerged from the hack regions, breathing heavily, bearing a tray that had upon it a large pot of tea and, not the scones and cherry jam she had anticipated, but a plate with two fried eggs and three fat slices of bacon, as well as a heap of fried potatoes. A full tea…. She would have to eat it, or Mr Doherty would be offended. The maid vanished, and a black and white cat that had made its appearance with the tea arched itself against her legs, purring loudly. Furtively she fed it the bacon and one of the eggs, then tackled the remainder. The tea was piping hot and strong, and she could feel it searing her inside as she swallowed it.
The little maid emerged once more. 'Is the tea to your liking?' she asked anxiously. 'I could fry you another egg if you're still hungry.'
'No,' said Shelagh, 'I've done very well, thank you. Could I see your telephone directory? I want to look up the number of a friend.'
The directory was produced and she thumbed the pages. Barrys galore, but none in this district. No Commander. No Nicolas Barry, R.N. (Reid.). The journey had been in vain. Her mood of high expectancy, of daring, turned to despondency.
'How much do I owe for the tea?' she asked.
The little maid murmured a modest sum. Shelagh thanked her, paid, and went out into the hall and through the open doorway to the street. The post office was on the opposite side. One last enquiry and then, if that was unlucky too, she would turn the car round again and make for some hotel back on the road to Dublin, where she could at least relax in a steaming bath and spend the night in comfort. She waited patiently while an old woman bought stamps and a man enquired about parcels to America. Then she turned to the postmaster behind the grille.
'Excuse me,' she asked, 'I wonder if you can help me? Do you happen to know if Commander Barry lives anywhere in the district?'
The man stared. 'He does,' he said. 'He's lived here these twenty years.'
Oh joy! Oh, the relief! The mission was on again. All was not lost.
'The thing is,' Shelagh explained, 'I couldn't find his name in the telephone directory.'
'That isn't surprising,' the man said. 'There is no telephone on Lamb Island.'
'Lamb Island?' repeated Shelagh. 'You mean he lives on an island?'
The man stared as if she had asked a stupid question. 'It's on the southern side of Lough Torrah,' he said, 'about four miles from here as the crow flies. You can't reach it except by boat. If you want to get in touch with Commander Barry you'd best write for an appointment. He doesn't see many people.'
The chip on the shoulder… The recluse…
'I see,' said Shelagh. 'I hadn't realised. Can one get a glimpse of the island from the road?'
The man shrugged. 'There's a turning down to the lough a mile or so out of Ballyfane,' he told her, but it's no more than a rough track. You can't take a car there. If you have stout shoes it's an easy enough walk. Best done in daylight. You would miss your way if it came on for dusk, and the mist rises too over the lake.'
'Thank you,' said Shelagh, 'thank you very much.'