73

They stood together at the railing of the old ferryboat crossing the Irish Sea, and Patrick was dressed in a grey flannel suit. He was bare-headed and wore his blue Burberry. Brenda wore a tweed suit and brown leather Oxfords with little flaps over the lacings. The horn of the ship blew at regular intervals as they proceeded at half speed. The fog was dense, and it brought out the peaches and cream in her cheeks. The grey sea rolled past them in long heaving waves, and the seagulls cartwheeled through the thick air like dark birds of passage. Patrick’s uniform was packed in a suitcase in their small cabin below.

Their departure from London had been almost furtive, but Patrick paid a last visit to the countess before leaving. He left most of the remaining cosmetics with her, and she had an overnight guest—the old relic that had been flirting with the lieutenant commander at the nightclub.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with her,” whispered the countess as she greeted Patrick. “She tried to bring a sailor home last night and it was a dreadful scene.”

The lady in question appeared in a doorway in her bare feet, wearing a long nightie held up by thin straps. She was gaunt and looked like a cadaver, with her dyed-blonde hair falling thinly to her shoulders and large black circles under her eyes.

“God, what a hangover!” said the countess’ venerable guest. She padded down the hallway and nestled against Patrick, placing her balding head against his arm. “Oh, give me some youth,” she moaned. “Give me some of your future.”

“This is Mrs. Woodland-Bager,” said the countess, embarrassed. “Dora, this is the son of my dear friend Eva MacQueen from Bermuda.”

“Oh God, you’re so young!” said Mrs. Woodland-Bager. “What time did I get home?”

“It was four o’clock,” snapped the countess, with unusual severity. “You should go back to bed.”

“I want a drink,” croaked her guest. She wore none of her jewels now; the party price tag was getting astronomical.

Patrick left and promised to return. He pocketed a shopping list that she gave him, along with a fat bundle of five-pound notes. It was a bad investment.

“I know her well,” said Brenda on the ferry. “I remember her from when I was a little girl. I was in love with a tall young man in a pink hunting coat, and she rolled up the driveway in a Bentley and swept him away. I’ve hated her ever since, but give her top marks as a warrior.”

The Irish Free State was neutral during the war, although it was in the British Commonwealth and possessed a Governor General. All of the great powers maintained embassies in Dublin, including Germany and Japan. The West Nova Scotia Regiment was poised in Italy, and the Germans never recovered from their defeat at Stalingrad. The Waffen-SS were recruiting foreign volunteers, and the United States was pouring supplies into the Soviet Union through Iran, Vladivostok, and Murmansk. The Second Front in Europe was still ten months away, but the bombers flew around the clock. Lord Haw-Haw, broadcasting from Germany, predicted the imminent downfall of the decadent capitalists and their communist allies. HMCS Fleur-de-Lis was being chipped and painted, and the captain idly wondered what was happening to his gunnery officer. At heart, the captain was a romantic too, and he felt a certain uneasiness about having two romantics on one small ship. He rather admired General U. S. Grant, who had conquered his romanticism with whisky.

Patrick checked into the Royal Hibernian Hotel on Dawson Street while Brenda took a bus to a friend’s house in Kildare. The network of landed English families in Ireland was like a spider’s web, and they permitted anything so long as decorum was maintained. That evening she brought her friend to dinner at the hotel; the friend was escorted by a retired commander of the Royal Navy with the unlikely name of Godfrey Bohomund de Lallythrope. He was a Knight of the Order of St. Lazarus and liked to be called Chevalier. The lady whom he escorted was his sister, Kathy Leinster, who was an “Honourable”, and whose husband was with the British cavalry in Ethiopia. The Chevalier wore a dinner jacket and a monocle. He was as lean and erect as a toothpick, whereas his sister was muscular and hearty. The ladies wore evening gowns, and Brenda looked stunning. They stepped down three steps, into the dining room, and the Irish head waiter bowed them effusively to a table in a corner that was illuminated by candles in hurricane lamps. They ordered Irish whisky, which tasted smoky, and rare roti de boeuf. The Chevalier had danced with a Murat princess, and he had known a Canadian colonel by the name of Boyle in Bulgaria. He spoke six languages and was supported by his sister, who had married well. They raised hunters, and she even looked like a horse.

“My ancestor was a crusader and my father was an admiral,” said the Chevalier, placing one of Patrick’s Lucky Strikes into a long black holder.

“Godfrey is only interested in human bloodlines,” complained Kathy. “It’s such a bore!”

A gentleman never travels without a dinner jacket, and Patrick felt self-conscious in the flannel suit that hung on him like a sack. However, he was a belligerent and unauthorized to be in Ireland, so he couldn’t wear his uniform. Some aircrew had been interned for the duration of the war when their aircraft had strayed over this neutral country, although escape would be easy, if one was so inclined. Patrick didn’t dwell on this point of international etiquette, but he knew that this neutrality deprived the navy of valuable bases facing the Atlantic. Ireland, like Portugal, was a hotbed of intrigue; both countries tolerated this, up to a certain point. The English ascendancy class, as represented by Patrick’s guests, were not popular with the natives, but they were preferable to Gauleiters from the Third Reich.

“What time do we go to the horse show?” asked Patrick.

“Come to us in the morning for sherry,” said Kathy. “Just take the bus and we’ll have you met in a pony-trap. We have a car, but our driver joined the British army, and Godfrey always dents the fenders on our gates.”

“I can drive,” said Brenda. “It’s stupid to hire cars or bang around on those terrible buses when you have a perfectly good chauffeur right here.”

“I’d wreck it,” said Patrick. “I’ve driven bicycles on the left but not cars.”

“It’s only an old Rolls,” complained the Chevalier.

“There we are now,” said the headwaiter as he presented the main course. “It’s piping hot and oozing blood and you’ll love it. We’ll have a little claret now.”

“Permit me,” said the Chevalier. He ordered a bottle of 1929 Mouton Rothschild, and he recommended Cockburn port with Stilton cheese to polish things off. Patrick sent a prayer to heaven in gratitude for the countess’ foresight prepaying, and he tasted the best roast beef in the world.

“I think the Borgia family are very exciting,” said the Chevalier. He wore a little green rosette in his satin lapel, which was not quite correct, but it focused attention. “I would like to see inscribed on the tombs of Pope Alexander’s victims: ‘We slew thee for love’.”

“Godfrey, make sense!” scolded his sister.

The champagne cork popped and the headwaiter caught the bubbling foam with a white cloth. “There we go,” said the headwaiter, “Pour that down and see what happens!” A freckled busboy caught some of the foam with his finger, licked it, and winked at Patrick. Other diners in the long room glanced from the corners of their eyes.

“Patrick admires the Visigoths,” said Brenda.

“They were a bit uncouth,” said the Chevalier.

“I hear that Freda Lemonton is in town,” said Kathy. “She’s been run out of England.”

Patrick nearly choked on his champagne.