Twomey's Pluck

By Seth Gilfield

The closing months of WW2 set the backdrop to a story of young love in South Galway. The first generation after independence have reached adulthood and the sharp divides of religion and class have eroded like the limestone terraces to the South. Jarrlath Twomey has come of age, the son of a slain rebel leader, he lives with his widowed mother on a small tenant holding.In retrospect, given the chutzpah of the sporting tyro and the beauty of the titled young lady from the big house, it seemed inevitable their paths would cross.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rory Bannon
• Release date: Jun 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370010639

Book preview

TWOMEY’S PLUCK

COPYRIGHT 2017

BY SETH GILFIELD

SMASHWORD EDITION

Chapter1

Chapter2

Chapter3

Chapter4

Chapter5

Chapter6

Chapter7

Chapter8

Chapter9

Chapter1

It was a scorching August afternoon and it seemed that all the silk finery the titled ladies and gentlemen were wearing was inappropriate for the day that was in it. Jarlath wrestled with the uncomfortably tight collar that he was wearing and he loosened his tie just a little so that he could undo his top button without anyone seeing. He looked along the seated line of dignitaries to where the president of the Royal Dublin Society was seated and beside him the minister for external affairs, his boss. As the junior parliamentarian in the ministry he had been chosen to accompany the gruff northerner on the one occasion in the year that he abhorred as it meant he had to mingle with the despised ascendancy class. A brass fanfare heralded the parade of the horses for the Aga Khan trophy, a blue riband international jumping event, at which Ireland competed on level terms with the rest of the world. A pipe band led the column their kilts swirling as they bellowed a medley of marching tunes. The competing nations followed in alphabetical order behind their flag, held aloft by swarthy soldiers who marched stiffly ahead. As each team approached the dignitary box they stopped to pay their respects whilst a brass band played an abridged version of their national anthem. The protocol on these occasions obligated the ministers’ acknowledgement by removal of his hat. When the turn of the British team came all eyes turned to the cagey northerner to see what he would do. Jarlath had been briefed to be ready to take the salute should the minister choose to forego the honour. As it happened, true to form he made an exit for the toilets situated close to the member’s bar. He remained ensconced in the plush hostelry availing of the refreshments until the final round commenced some hours later. He returned just in time to see the red hunting jacket of the final rider for the British team complete a remarkable round free of faults to win the trophy. The minister unable to contain his disappointment threw his programme angrily to the ground. The gesture went unnoticed by the British ambassador who stood in rapturous applause. Accompanied it had to be said by most of the enclosure. It was in stark contrast to the crowd on the terraces who reacted mutely. The minister promptly did an about-turn and retraced his steps to the bar his evening ruined. Being the worse for wear he subsequently sent a note to Jarlath, via a cretinous parliamentary secretary, which Jarlath opened disdainfully. The writing was in the minister’s spidery hand appointing him to present the rosettes to the winners that traditionally took place in the centre of the arena. It read as follows Jarlath make the presentation will ye I’ve got a half bottle of Jemmy to finish. Wouldn’t ye know those Brits would sneak it, they’ve never had their arses out of the saddle for eight hundred years. Those army lads of ours need to be told off by their superiors don’t they know their history?

Jarlath had half expected the task would fall to him and mindful of the press photographers he kept the brim of his hat firmly pulled down over his forehead for the presentation. A politician had to be mindful of the consequences of photos wired to provincial papers where their constituents might view them in a less favourable light. In the runners’ up place was a team of Irish army riders. They saluted smartly holding the reins firmly in their left hand. The minister is disgusted at the way the Brits were allowed win he upbraided the young subalterns money could be tight next year, Rome could be in jeopardy over this. Their jaws dropped it was the one event they wanted to compete in more than any other. Now he turned to the British team waiting to the last moment to relieve the President of the Society of the trophy he quickly funnelled the cup to the chef D’equipe and set off for the striped awning that shaded the serried ranks of the dwindling band of influential Anglo-Irish aristocrats from the glaring sun. As he did so he heard a voice call out his name. Wary of a press ruse he strode adamantly ahead to his seat.

The smell of horse sweat and liniment harked back to his youth in Ballymary. They played around the marbled horse trough half full with spittled water and marvelled at the large pink tongues of the draught horses as they drank. One day in particular stood out in his mind. It was the early summer of ’44 and it had been a similar warm afternoon. Jarlath had been working in the stock room bagging oatmeal before the proprietor O’Connor retired for a nap thus allowing him to serve the valued customers. On summer afternoons there was little business as most of the farmers were out in their fields making the most of the fine weather. Jarlath set out to sweep up the loose oatmeal that lay scattered over the gnarled planks of oak worn smooth over the passage of time. He made sure to empty every crevice as the proprietor would inspect his work later. He was taken unawares when the shop-door opened and in walked the Earl of Clanmarkey accompanied by his wife and daughter. Jarlath looked around and became alarmed at the prospect of serving such a distinguished customer. The Earl was a tall man who was known to be short tempered and demanding. He wore a monocle and sported a clipped grey moustache with loin-chop sideburns combed to his earlobes. His hair was lightly oiled and swept back over a crumpled forehead. He wore a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and trim along the collar over flannel trousers and brown brogues. His wife Lady Clanmarkey wore a light airy summer dress and a straw bonnet with a swig of fresh meadow flowers. She was tall elegant and beautiful in an English way. There was a slightly detached air about her that lent to her charm. Jarlath’s heart jumped when he caught sight of Lady Susan. It had been years since their childhood when they would meet and play in the large meadow near Clanmarkey castle. That was before she went off to school in England and now she only returned in the high summer for the pony jumping in Birr. He tried to catch a glimpse of her as she walked about the shop accompanying her mother. He was surprised at how blonde her hair had become and her lips swelled in a way he did not remember. She did not look at him and he became aware of his own body as the trails of stale sweat escaped from his armpits from the feed weighing earlier. It contrasted with the scent of jasmine that infused the air as the ladies passed. It also masked the hemp like smell of the general stores. The Earl had taken the Irish Times from the rack and was reading it. His wife was admiring a basket of fresh scones with Susan in attendance.

Damned Bosch he thundered as he read the banner headlines of the paper tricky so and so’s have got away again. His features turned even fiercer as he read down the main headline on the Allies attempts to corner the enemy on the wrong side of the Rhine. It was said that the Earl had fought in Ypres and lost three quarters of his battalion there. When he returned he was a changed man. Once a strong supporter of home rule now he muttered darkly when the Free State was mentioned.

Young man he beckoned Jarlath. He screwed up his eyes as Jarlath approached have I seen you before?

Yes sir Jarlath replied promptly my mother is Mrs Twomey in Ballymary we have the land close to the river

Ah yes the Earl’s eyes twinkled Your mot\her is a good tenant .He paused and looked at Jarlath imperiously Looks after the place well he conceded, His accent was Irish guards but there was a colloquial burr to it. Take care you give her plenty of help.

‘Yes sir "he replied he could feel his cheeks reddening

Its’ good land in Ballymary he went on there’s many a farmer would love to get their hands on it He eyed Jarlath dismissively in the shopkeeper’s apron.

Farming not good enough for you? he questioned without waiting for an answer if you ask me they should be all in the bloody army

Now John it was Lady Markey

Well its true he grumbled

Susan by this time had turned around to take him into her view. Jarlath although uncomfortable under the baleful eye of the earl he could still feel a tingle when her eyes flitted across the room towards him.

Where’s O’Connor? the earl had worked himself up into a lather by now.

I don’t know Sir pleaded Jarlath I think he could be upstairs if you wait I’ll get him for you

No never mind. Tell him I’ll want proper service the next time I call he bellowed in the hope his angry voice would carry to the recumbent proprietor.

Yes sir

The Earl continued to read the paper each new story he scanned only caused to further his displeasure.

Jarlath went to the bow front window to watch them go. The 1937 Bentley gleamed in the late afternoon sun with its chrome fenders reflecting the cloudless blue sky.

Was that the Earl old Mr O’Connor’s voice startled him.

Yes Mr O’Connor Jarlath broke off reluctantly from his attempts to catch a last glimpse of the Lady Susan.

What did he take this time? he asked as he wrapped his ample girth with an off-white knee length apron.

The Irish Times

Did he pay for it? he queried sardonically.

He said to put it on his bill Jarlath replied defensively.

On his bill? O’Connor vented his anger He doesn’t have one he fumed that’ll come out of your wages, and let it be a cheap lesson for ye.

Jarlath held his tongue and went back to the store-room his day’s wages decimated for his momentary lapse.

That evening Jarlath rode his bike home to the village of Ballymary. It was a glorious evening with the coppery rays of the sun nestling in the ambience of the sloping drill lines of potatoes. As he sped along the shafts of sunlight fret-sawed through the sparse timberland that skirted the road. There was a sense of calm and peace that lay strewn everywhere. Lambs strayed from their flocks and cattle trudged down the hill to their water troughs their tails flicking at the myriad of flies that shadow-boxed over the pickings on their soiled hides. Jarlath’s thoughts were in a spin he could not get the image of Susan out of his thoughts. A strong pre-occupation took hold of his thoughts as he mulled on her sweet musk and soft pastel outline. He hummed as he freewheeled his bike along the country lane festooned on either side by hawthorns and bushes laden with blossoms. The little homesteads that dotted the peat-lands had twists of turf smoke trailing from their chimneys that unwound in delicate willow patterns.

After a while he could see in the distance the well maintained stone- walls of the estate of Castlemarkey. All along the walls to a depth of fifty yards great broad-leafed trees soared into the azure skies. He dismounted his bike at an old unused gate that once served the farm buildings and granary. The wrought iron entrance gates could have guarded the palace of Versailles. They were a masterpiece of spears and florets with the Markey coat of arms threaded through as a centre-piece. He stood back to try and make some sense of the latin script that furled underneath but some letters had crumbled into thickening flake making them illegible. Beyond the long green tunnel he could see light dappled meadows where the Earl kept his prize herd. Occasionally a rook would fuse the air with a raucous call and then flutter frantically in an attempt to stampede the rest of the flock. The heat of the day was all about and he felt drawn to the narrow pathway that gave way to the open pastures that nestled beneath the castle manor.

He pushed his bike into a leafy hedgerow out of sight of the road and then climbed the moss clad boundary wall with ease. Moments later he was on the property of the Earl Markey risking his landlord’s ire. The place was well known to him. An ash tree where he notched his initials still stood nearby the lettering larger than he remembered. At the edge of the copse he hesitated. A thin strap-iron rail marked the boundary of the field. At the top of the gently sloping hill he could see the west wing of the house. From the ornate chimneys with their vase like pots dark smoke from busy coal fires scribbled across the clear sky. He gazed in admiration at the setting. The house itself had a granite façade with Portland stone settings about the windows and in the portico. There was a raised garden set out in stepped terraces with an Italian sculptured fountain and a curvilinear Doric colonnade. He knew this was where the family would spend their summer evenings sipping lemonade as the men played croquet and bowls. A healthy herd of tawny Angus mingled with milk laden Jerseys barely shifted as he set out across the open field to an island copse, ring-fenced with lap-wood in the center of the meadow. Once there he could see the figures as they passed in and out of the house through the tall French windows onto the upper terrace. He could feel his heart beat as he waited to catch sight of her. He daren’t go any closer, yet he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t get her image out of his mind. He strained to identify the white clad figures, as they moved from the garden into the house, through the casement windows that were flung back to the evening skies. He could see the tall gaunt figure of the Earl his gait impeded by a piece of shrapnel too deep to remove. He had not long to wait as the lithe figure of Susan in the company of her mother joined the gathering around the gushing fountain.

There was still that something about her and about how she walked in the garden sunlight that pulled him there to this green thicket to catch sight of her again. The Earl stood aloof from the main party talking to a tall well-built man that Jarlath guessed to be the estate manager Capt. Bailham . Behind them the figures gathered at a picnic table beneath a raised canopy of white canvas reminiscent