SEVENTEEN

It is a sunny morning of beguiling warmth in Dublin. Eldritch Swan ambles north along O’Connell Street, smoking a cigarette and savouring the sweetness of the contrast with yesterday morning, which he began in a cell at Dublin Castle. He is in ample time for his appointment with Ardal Quilligan and confident their meeting will go well. He realizes, however, that he cannot afford to take anything for granted. Trams and buses are filling and emptying in orderly fashion at their stands beneath Nelson’s Pillar, the admiral watching them benignly from his stony perch. The city is going about its business at a calm and leisurely pace. But it has not always been thus. Swan is passing the General Post Office and there are bullet holes in the columns of its façade to remind him that in 1916 this was a scene of pitched battle. Glancing up at the building, he imagines Desmond Quilligan, rifle in hand, staring out defiantly from one of its windows twenty-four years earlier. The past and the future hold many surprises. And the wise man, as Swan fancies himself to be, must be prepared for them.

But some contingencies are simply too improbable, not to say incredible, to be prepared for. Never in his wildest imaginings would Swan suppose that twenty-six years from now he will be standing in the dinner queue at Portlaoise Prison when the inmate behind him whispers in his ear, ‘The IRA have blown up your Nelson’s Pillar in Dublin, Swanny. What d’you think of that, then?’

*

Ardal Quilligan was as tall as his brother, but narrower of build and humbler of bearing. Sleek-haired and bespectacled, neatly moustached and trimly dressed, he had acquired a palpable air of reticence and caution along with his legal training. He sat at his desk in a small, book-lined office overlooking Rotunda Gardens, carefully studying the document Swan had handed him, while Swan himself watched the smoke from his cigarette curl and spiral in the sunlight that streamed through the open window behind him. The hoof-clop and wheel-rumble of a horse and cart passing by in the square merged briefly with the clacking of typewriter keys in the next room. Then Quilligan laid the document down in front of him and plucked off his wire-framed glasses. His lengthy perusal was at an end.

‘This undertaking has the effect of granting my brother unfettered access to his son,’ he said, enunciating his words slowly and precisely. ‘You understand that, I assume.’

‘I do. As does Mr Cardale.’

‘It commits my brother to nothing in return.’

‘Mr Cardale will ask him to perform a small … artistic service … as an expression of his … appreciation.’

‘What service might that be?’

‘It would be agreed between them. I’m not privy to the details.’

‘But my brother already has some idea of what it might be?’

‘He seemed to have, yes.’

‘And is willing to perform it?’

‘Apparently so.’

‘Signing himself out of internment is no small matter, Mr Swan. It involves renouncing principles he’s held dear all his life. He’ll become a pariah to the men he’s served and suffered with.’

‘But he’ll know his son. And his son will know him.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And wouldn’t you welcome such a renunciation, Mr Quilligan? I’d imagine it must cause you some … professional embarrassment … to have a brother in prison.’

Quilligan coloured at that. Swan had ventured on to sensitive territory. The lawyer cleared his throat. ‘Internment is not imprisonment, Mr Swan. It’s a … political matter.’

‘It looked and smelt and felt like imprisonment to me.’

‘Possibly, but—’ Quilligan broke off and took a calming drag on his cigarette, studying Swan as he exhaled. Then he slid the document across the desk to him. ‘We digress. And I’ve no wish to detain you. The undertaking is entirely satisfactory in form and content. I’ll visit my brother and tell him so.’

‘When will you go?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘And how long before …’

‘I’m not sure. I have no experience of such procedures. The Department of Justice isn’t exactly noted for its administrative alacrity. A week at least, I should say. More likely two. Possibly longer. I’ll keep you apprised, naturally. Where are you staying?’

‘The Shelbourne.’

‘Your wait will be a comfortable one, then.’ A smile hovered warily beneath the moustache. ‘A nice holiday from the war for you.’

‘So people keep telling me.’

Quilligan swung round in his chair and crossed his legs. He ran a hand down over his knee. He seemed nervous, unsure of himself. ‘About the boy, Mr Swan. My nephew. You’ve met him?’

‘Yes. And I took a snapshot for your brother to see. Would you like to see it yourself ?’

‘Thank you, yes. That’s … kind of you.’

Swan took the photograph out of his wallet and passed it over. ‘He’s a bright lad.’

‘Is he, though?’ Quilligan put his glasses back on and studied the child’s face. ‘He’ll be breaking a few hearts when he’s grown to manhood, I should reckon. Just like his father.’ He sighed and handed the photograph back. ‘My sister worries for him, Mr Swan. I know she’d like to see this and ask you about him. We’ve neither of us children of our own, you see. And our only nephew, little Simon, is being raised to be a perfect English gentleman. It saddens me, of course, but Isolde takes it harder. Women do, don’t they?’

‘If you want me to talk to her …’

‘I was hoping you might agree to. We have a house in Ballsbridge. Well, it’s the house we were born in, actually. Desmond too. Would you come to tea on Saturday?’

‘I’d be happy to.’

‘Let me just …’ Quilligan took out a pocket diary and frowningly consulted it. ‘Ah, no, I can’t do Saturday, now I come to look. What about Sunday?’

‘I have no plans at all for the weekend, Mr Quilligan.’

‘We’ll say Sunday, then. Would four o’clock suit?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Perfect.’ Quilligan withdrew a small pencil from the spine of the diary and made a note of the engagement, then carefully replaced the pencil and put the diary back in his pocket. Every move he made, it seemed to Swan, and by inference every word he spoke, was closely considered. He was altogether a close man. ‘One other thing, Mr Swan …’

‘Yes?’

‘Lord knows my brother has had his troubles. Many, you might feel, have been of his own making, though I could debate that, given the bitter and frequent intrusions history has made into the lives of Irishmen of our generation. But however grim his present situation may seem to you, there are in reality worse things he could be by far than an IRA internee. I wouldn’t want to bear any responsibility for him yet becoming one of those worse things. The scale of the concession Mr Cardale is offering worries me, I can’t deny it. And I shall tell Desmond so. You ought to be aware of that.’

‘He may tell you to mind your own business.’ Swan smiled coolly at the lawyer.

‘He may indeed.’ Quilligan sighed. To Swan’s surprise, he did not appear to have taken the slightest umbrage. Perhaps he had already concluded that his brother would reject his advice. Perhaps his brother had always done so. ‘I’ll be able to let you know how he responds on Sunday.’ He whipped off his glasses and stood up. ‘Can I tell Isolde you’ll definitely be coming?’

‘Yes.’ Swan rose. ‘You can.’ They shook hands. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

‘So will we, Mr Swan.’

A suspicion that had grown on Swan during his walk to Ardal Quilligan’s office hardened into a certainty on the way back. He loitered by the bus stops outside the GPO, as if contemplating a journey to the suburbs. So did the scruffily suited chain-smoker he had noticed dogging his footsteps earlier. The man moved on when he did, only to stop again when Swan paused to admire the view from O’Connell Bridge. Linley had predicted Moynihan would set a tail on him and here he was, large as life. Swan wondered if Moynihan had instructed the man to make himself conspicuous. If so, the reason was clear. Swan had been freed. But he had not been forgotten. And he was not to be allowed to think otherwise.

Over coffee and an idle perusal of the Irish Times at Bewley’s in Grafton Street, Swan came to the conclusion that his best response to Moynihan’s tactic was to pretend he was unaware of it. He was, after all, an innocent man. Tailing him would only substantiate his story. He would affect a lordly indifference.

The consequence was that he was no longer sure whether he was being followed or not when he reached the Shelbourne. And the matter was briefly blotted from his mind by the surprise of seeing Miles Linley emerging from the hotel as he approached.

‘Looking for me?’ Swan called.

‘Cygnet, old fellow.’ Linley clapped him on the shoulder as they met. ‘No. I’ve just been settling a VIP in at your very own home from home. But bumping into you is undeniably opportune. Can you spare me a few minutes?’

‘I think I could probably squeeze you into my hectic itinerary.’

‘Excellent. Let’s step over to the green.’

St Stephen’s Green was a haven of summery ease, with assorted Dubliners feeding the ducks or lounging on benches, relishing the warmth of the sun. Linley set off on an ambling circuit of the ornamental lake and Swan fell in beside him.

‘Who’s the VIP, then?’ he asked, mildly curious as to the mystery man’s identity.

‘I shouldn’t really say. I wouldn’t want word to get round.’

‘You’re the only person I know in the entire city.’

‘Really? We’ll have to put that right. One of my many onerous responsibilities is organizing the legation cricket team. We have a match on Saturday and, as usual, I’m struggling to raise an eleven. Fancy a game? I could lend you some whites.’

‘Well, I …’

‘You were quite the budding Hobbs at school, as I recall.’

‘That’s not how I recall it.’

‘Be that as it may …’

‘All right, all right. I’ll turn out on Saturday.’

‘Capital. You’ll enjoy it. And you’ll meet a few people, some of them perfectly decent sorts.’

‘You haven’t told me who the VIP is yet, Linley. Don’t think you’ve put me off the scent.’

Linley laughed. ‘Perish the thought.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘But careless talk, etcetera, etcetera. There’s an ugly customer bringing up our rear who looks uncommonly like a none too subtle Special Branch surveillance officer.’

‘He’s been following me all morning.’

‘Really? Hold on here.’

Linley spun on his heel and strode towards the man in the shabby suit, who stopped in his tracks. Linley reached him in half a dozen strides. There was a murmured conversation. Shabby suit’s expression moved from poker face to something suggestive of a sudden onset of biliousness. He scowled briefly in Swan’s direction, then turned and plodded away, back the way they had come.

‘What did you say to him?’ Swan asked as Linley rejoined him.

‘I said following a member of the British Legation during a hush-hush ministerial visit to Dublin was a serious breach of diplomatic protocol and would he kindly bugger off ? He’ll be back on your tail sooner or later, I don’t doubt, but for a while at least you’ll be left in peace.’

Swan smiled. ‘Thanks a lot. That’s another favour I owe you. So, the VIP’s a government minister, is he?’

‘Malcolm MacDonald. Son of Ramsay. Currently Minister of Health. But in his previous incarnation as Dominions Secretary he’s supposed to have hit if off with de Valéra. He’s been sent over to have yet another shot at persuading Dev to bring Éire into the war. A complete and utter waste of time and effort in my opinion, but we must show willing. So my boss tells me, anyway. Now, I’m glad you feel even deeper in my debt, Cygnet, because there’s a little something I’m hoping you might agree to do for me.’

‘What is it?’

‘A matter of extreme delicacy.’ Linley grinned. ‘That’s what it is.’