Redemption - Leon Uris [331]
“Wars and deaths and boys enlisting under false names and divorced husbands who may or may not be divorced, you can be certain that the record offices are in a shambles, so many dead, so many unidentified. So, coming to Brisbane as a pregnant war widow was no trick at all. I’m entirely accepted here, and as for our child, it was the most beautiful decision of my life.”
Liam caught sight of a pram being rolled up Kangaroo Lane by a nanny, with a wee head sprouting over the top. Liam stumbled off the porch. He picked up the wane with a tenderness sometimes needed in his profession, like holding a stray lamb.
“Her grandda,” Georgia said to the nanny.
“What did you name her, now?” Liam asked.
“Rory,” Georgia said.
“Rory? But that’s a boy’s name.”
“Not anymore, Squire. The boys will have to share it.”
“Well, come to think of it, Rory O’Moore was a great Celtic King. The Chieftain of the Chiefs. Rory. That’s grand…Rory.” He edged his cheek to his granddaughter’s cheek as he held off the tears. The wee lass approved of him, and he breathed air from a sweet-scented place beyond all altars, all sky, beyond all mortal pleasure.
89
Sir Llewelyn checked the gear in at the rear of the utility lorry used for hauling and odd jobs at Brodhead Abbey. Fishing poles, boots, creel, fishing box, extra flies, lantern, stove, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
“Everything appears to be here,” he said to his caretaker, Mr. Mufflin.
“My missus packed the refreshments in this case.”
“Jolly good.”
“In the event of an emergency, may I say where the General has gone?”
Sir Llewelyn thought about it. Part of the game was taking the small risk that an emergency doesn’t come up. “Actually I’m driving south near Carrick-on-Shannon,” he said giving the opposite direction of where he was going. “I’ve a retired pal with a very secluded cabin—and Mufflin, I’m in desperate need of absolute quiet.”
“I quite understand, sir.”
“Brigadier Cushman has things well in hand at Dublin Castle. If someone calls, Mr. Mufflin, I will be here at Brodhead Abbey Sunday late afternoon and will be at Dublin Castle for Monday parade. Now crank me up.”
The van engine clug-clugged alive and in a moment he drove through the gates of Brodhead Abbey on down to the main road, where he turned north for the short trip up Inishowen Peninsula.
An hour later Brodhead turned onto a dirt road before Carrowkeel, satisfied he had not been spotted or followed wearing fishing clothing in an old utility lorry. He came to a half before the pillars of the big iron north gate of the Earldom of Foyle.
As he emerged from the vehicle, Sir Llewelyn stiffened himself for the possibility of rejection, walking gingerly to the gate. Cheers! The lock was open and the chain down.
He shut the gate behind him and drove with the daylight to make it in before it grew dark, his mind now opened to a delirium of flesh-borne illusions. He pressed the throttle down, glimpsing occasionally about and behind him to see if anyone else were around. Clear, all clear. Clear sailing. There? The hillock and stand of birches. Yes! Yes! There was her automobile.
Brodhead parked next to her vehicle, just as the sun dipped behind the hill shading the surroundings. He walked briskly up the path still scanning for the unwelcome watcher.
“Hello!”
By George! There she was, waving and coming to him at a run. Powerful sighs of relief as they embraced hard. The magnificent smell of the peat smoke wisped to them as they made up the pathway, arms about the other’s waists.
Inside the main lodge room he set down his kit and they embraced and kissed. “I was beginning to get into a snit,” she said, “I was afraid you’d decided not to come.”
As she left to make herself comfortable, his eyes played over the rafters, he quickly opened and shut closet doors, poked back curtains, and otherwise looked for any sign of another person. There had been no shoe tracks on the path outside, and thus far, the place seemed alone to the two of them.
She came out as sheer and open as could be considered