Redemption - Leon Uris [106]
The play was neither stop nor go, but it had some sparkling moments, including a stirring soliloquy near the final curtain, a speech from the dock, no less, that never failed to mist up every Irish eye that saw it.
Atty’s return from mourning for Des was no less moving. In this time Seamus had the opportunity of working with her on the script and seeing her at Brotherhood Council meetings.
Each Council gathering continued to report another successful run of guns into Ireland. Atty could not help but become intrigued by the skill and daring of the now mysterious Conor Larkin.
The Night of the Pilgrim could be improved, and each free moment they had Seamus worked with Atty on her role. He tucked away the notes from a meeting and lit a long thin cigar.
“Up to the devil’s weed now, are you?”
“I thought a cigar would make me look a little longer,” he answered. “By the way, Conor Larkin is in Dublin. I invited him to see the play Thursday.”
“The mystery man himself,” she said, with unmistakable sudden interest.
“You’ll find him as large as his reputation.”
“Ah, Seamus, you’ve no objectivity whatsoever about your pal.”
“You’ll see for yourself. I took the liberty of inviting the three of us for a jar or two after the show.”
“Isn’t Dan a little fidgety about who meets who?”
“Oh, Dan…well, Dan thinks you and Conor might be working together on something soon.”
“Does he now? I still feel rather uncomfortable, you know.”
“You’ve been in mourning long enough, Atty.”
“What makes you think I’m ready to give it up?”
Atty was trying to intimidate. She was no more successful at it with this lad than Dan Sweeney was. “I’ve seen you battle your way out of your grief. I’ve heard you venerate Desmond so as to bring tears.”
“What are you meaning to say, Seamus?”
“Too much veneration. You’re a hell of an actress, Atty.”
She had worked too closely with the little bastard, she thought. Playwrights see through people. That’s why they’re playwrights. Ah, play it straight with Seamus, he’s too crafty for you. “Is Conor back with his woman in Belfast?”
“Uh-uh.”
Rachael raced in and Atty showed herself impatient with her daughter’s jabbering, as if she wanted to continue the other subject.
“There’s a custard in the icebox,” Atty bribed.
Rachael knew she had interrupted something and made herself vanish.
“Is he tough?” she asked.
“Extremely gentle.”
“What happened with this girl in Belfast?”
“Shankill girl. Not too hard to figure out, now, is it?”
“He loved her very much?”
“Sometime in your life you should be loved that powerfully.”
Atty felt her stomach flutter. Awakenings! Well, now! “Wasn’t there something between him and the Countess Hubble a long time back?”
Oh, Atty girl, why are you asking things like that of the poor wee man?
“Thursday, you say?”
“Thursday.”
“Well, I’ll try to remember my lines.”
“Aye, the lines are glorious,” Seamus teased, “so don’t feck them up.”
On Thursday, Atty Fitzpatrick transcended Seamus O’Neill’s lines, character, and play itself with a sudden surge of virtuosity that every actress prays will happen to her, never knowing when the moment of glory will strike or, indeed, if it ever will. The theatre was rapt as Seamus O’Neill, minor Irish playwright, sounded like Shakespeare on this night.
As Atty heard the knock on her dressing room door two words leapt out of her past—Jack Murphy.
“Aye, Jaysus, Atty girl,” Seamus said through tears, “you’ve gone and immortalized me. Oh God, you were great.”
The man behind was a tall man, above Seamus’s head. Seamus turned, “Me pal, Conor Larkin, meet Atty Fitzpatrick.”
Within a ha’penny of their introduction, without hesitation, Atty knew how her side of this relationship would go. Conor did not come as a stranger. His name in the Brotherhood Council had a mystique. His prowess on the playing field, as well as his great restoration in Hubble Manor, had been covered in the press.
He was the long-awaited return of Jack Murphy, and then some. So modest