WE MOTORED UP the Carrigaline River, heeling slightly in the sharp gusts that came at us across the water and slapped little waves against the hulls of the moored yachts and fishing boats. We came around a bend to the left and another to the right, and it seemed that the river was about to peter out. Still, we continued and rounded yet another sharp bend to come to a placid anchorage, sheltered by heavy brush on one side and an extensive stand of large trees on the other, and by hills on both sides. Carved into the forest on our right was perhaps half an acre of grass surrounding a large stone cottage. A tall, lean man who looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties walked from the cottage to a stone jetty, got into a dinghy, and began to row toward us.
Mark handed me the boathook. “Stand by to pick up that mooring.” He pointed to a florescent red buoy dead ahead. As we secured to the mooring the man in the boat came alongside and clambered aboard. He greeted Mark and Annie warmly and turned to me with an outstretched hand.
“And you’ll be Willie, I expect,” he said, grinning at me broadly. “I’m Peter-Patrick Coolmore.”
“Will Lee,” I replied, taking his hand while inwardly saying goodbye to my preferred name. It was a losing battle. He came below and admired Toscana’s interior layout, then we and our gear made it ashore in two trips. We entered the cottage for the first time to a scent mixed from new wood, old furniture, paint and other building materials.
“Oh, it’s lovely,” Annie exclaimed, walking about. “So much improved since we first saw it.”
“You didn’t arrive a moment too soon,” Coolmore said. We’ve just got it together. Joan picked out what furniture she thought you’d need. We’ve a couple of rooms full of unused things at the castle if you need anything more. Your things arrived yesterday,” he said, indicating several large packing crates in an adjacent room. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He shook hands all round and departed.
“Let’s get at it,” Annie commanded.
“Haven’t we time for a glass of wine?” Mark complained. “It’s the cocktail hour, you know.”
“I’m cooking dinner in this cottage tonight,” Annie replied firmly, “And I’m not cooking until everything is in its place.”
We fell to work and, in an hour and a half, under Annie’s close supervision, we had transformed the cottage into something resembling a home. There was a good-sized living room with a dining table at one end and a large fireplace at the other, two bedrooms, one large and one small, a kitchen, and a newly constructed bathroom. Annie had a talent for nestbuilding. I remembered, now, that Toscana had the same look about her, one of lived-in comfort. What had been a bare collection of rooms was now cozy and inviting. By the time another two hours had passed, we had all showered and had a good dinner and some wine and were scattered before a cheerful fire. Shortly after that they shook me awake and sent me to my bed. Before sleep overtook me, I had a moment to reflect on where I was and what I was doing. My father’s comment to my mother came back to me, about the model airplanes I had never finished. When reciting my list of manual skills to Mark, full knowing why he was asking me, I had neglected to tell him that I had never finished my shop projects in school, either, or the building of the small house on the farm. There was something in me that, once I had learned about something, made me lose interest. I had no staying power, and I knew it. I resolved, with as much resolve as I could muster in my sleepy state, that I would finish this one; that I would make up for my lack of candor with an enthusiasm I would find somewhere. Somewhere.
Next morning, after a huge breakfast that included my favorite Irish foods, smoked bacon and soda bread, Annie set about doing still more to the cottage, while Mark and I paid a visit to Cork Harbour Boatyard.
We borrowed Lord Coolmore’s Land Rover and motored down a bewildering series of country lanes until we came upon a creek running up from Cork Harbour. As we turned and drove up its banks the water receded until there was nothing but steep banks and a bottom left dry by the receding tide. Shortly, a very large tin shed appeared. There was a rudely shingled addition attached to one side and an old, stone quay running along the dried-out creek-bed. A little railway ran from the creek’s edge into the large shed. Half a dozen yachts and boats, in varying stages of disrepair, perched on cradles scattered about the yard. We parked the Land Rover and entered the shed through a small, hinged door cut into a huge, hangar-type sliding door.
The scents of wood shavings and some sort of glue struck me, and a hammering from a nearly finished fishing boat that nearly filled the shed was temporarily deafening. A short, dumpy man detached himself from the crew of half a dozen working on the boat and shambled toward us.
“Captain Robinson,” he said, sticking out the hand not holding a hammer. “Been looking for you to turn up.”
Mark took the hand. “Good to see you, Finbar.” he turned to me. “This is Willie Lee, who’ll be working with us. Willie, this is Finbar O’Leary, the best boatbuilder in Britain and Ireland.”
Finbar O’Leary blushed and seemed astonished at the same time. I would learn that he had an astonished expression fixed upon his face at all times, in all moods. “Mr. Lee,” he said, “Glad to have you aboard. I understand you’re handy. We can use the help if we’re to give Captain Robinson the boat he wants.” He turned back to Mark. “Got some news for you. The little yacht we were to build after this one ….” he nodded over his shoulder at the fishing boat, “has been canceled. The owner opted for something in plastic.” There was a touch of scorn in his voice at the mention of a glass-fiber boat. “That means you’re next; we should be laying your keel in ten days or so.”
Mark’s face spread in a huge smile. “That’s news indeed, Finbar. Will we have materials by then?”
“I came upon a nice load of good Honduras mahogany last week and took the liberty of placing an order. We won’t be needing the teak decking for a while, and I’ve already the oak. I’ll put a man to ripping the mahogany as soon as I can free one from this job. We’ll make a start on, let’s see …” He screwed up his face in figuring and managed to look even more astonished. “The first of September; how’s that for you?”
Mark clapped him on the back, rocking the smaller man. “That couldn’t be better.” Mark produced a notebook and they began to compile a list of other materials for the new yacht. I walked a few steps toward the incomplete fishing boat to have a closer look and then stopped in my tracks. A man who had been painting the hull had stopped and was staring at me. We stood for several seconds like that, then with no other sign of recognition, he turned his back and began to paint again. I glanced up to the deck high above the shed’s floor and saw an identical man looking at me. He nodded amiably and turned back to his work. Connie Lydon may have told me that the O’Donnell twins, Denny and Donal, were boatbuilders, but, if so, I had forgotten. I felt unaccountably disturbed to see them, like a boy who had unexpectedly come upon the schoolyard bully away from the schoolyard. This time it had been easy to distinguish Denny from his brother, merely by the hostility of his gaze. I rejoined Mark and Finbar.
We went into Finbar’s office—the addition to the shed. The plans for Mark’s yacht were pinned to a wall, and the two men went over them carefully. They agreed on a list of materials to order and Mark gave the boatbuilder a check to cover the initial order and open an account. We made our goodbyes, and as we turned to leave, I found Denny O’Donnell staring at me again.
“Something between you and that fellow?” Mark asked as we made our way back to the Land Rover.
“Not really,” I said. “He had an interest in a girl I used to go out with here.”
“You afraid of him?”
I felt my ears go red. “We’ve never even spoken.”
He started the vehicle. “I remember that about the Irish in Belfast, that staring, on the streets when we were patrolling. A fellow looked at you like that, and you knew he was what you were patrolling for, although most times you had no hard evidence to know it.” He cocked his head to one side and looked at me again, sharply. “You afraid of him, Willie?”
“He … makes me uncomfortable,” I said. “I don’t know why.”
“Well, I’ve never seen him before today, Willie, but I can tell you this about him: let him know that, and he’ll make your life miserable, and he’ll enjoy doing it. You know what I’d do in your position?”
“What?”
“I’d pick the right moment, when he was crowding me just a bit, and I’d hit him—hard.”
I shrank from even the idea. “That doesn’t solve anything.”
“Don’t you believe it, mate,” he snorted. “Don’t you believe it. Sooner or later you’re going to have to fight him, you mark my words, and the sooner the better.”