IT RAINED. THE RAIN FELL ON THE NARROW ROAD AND over the green hills. It fell on sheep and badger holes and foxes. It fell on tiny weathered white-stone farmhouses, on ancient hedges, on crows and chaffinches and bees. It fell with an indifference to the little cart and to its morbid destination, or to the tiny dreams of those who rode inside. The rain gave not a fig for Annie’s wishes and desires, or for her unborn child’s. And it most definitely, Annie thought, didn’t care a jot for Joe Doyle, who drove the horse with cheerful goodwill, doing his best impression of John McCormack as he whistled ‘Mother Machree’. Time passed, because that was what time did, and rain fell, because that’s what rain did. And here she was, wishing time went faster and rain fell less or not at all, and what good was wishing anything unless you took control of your own life and made the wish come true? Which was why she knew, suddenly and with an aching clarity, that she was going to buy a ticket for the steamer to New York, and there was not a thing in the world she would let stop her.
She sat then and enjoyed the rest of the ride, the slow rhythm of the clop-clop-clopping of the horse and the swaying of the cart, and the fog settling gently on the hillside. Then she heard a loud honk! and something large and impossibly fast came up behind them, making an almighty racket, and passed almost within touching distance of the cart. The horse neighed in fright and Joe said, ‘Whoh, whoh!’ and Annie looked and saw a black automobile, and a good-looking, black-haired man driving it. Their eyes met and he smiled. Then the monstrous thing shot forward, overtook the cart and vanished ahead, raising dust in its wake.
‘Jesus!’ Joe said. The horse, panicked, gradually settled back. Annie gazed after the automobile. She’d just been granted a small vision of the future, she realised. God, who moved in mysterious ways, had done this, and she could not take it lightly, for it was a sign, meant only for her. She settled back again, resolved, and didn’t speak until they reached the village.
*
‘Through here,’ the man from Mahoney’s woollen mills said. Joe had pulled up the cart on the side of the road, let the horse loose in a ground of pasture, and gone to the pub. Annie carried the equipment inside and followed the Mahoney employee. Carpeted floors swallowed sound. The light was dim. The room was at the end of a long corridor. A woman in black stood outside, holding a handkerchief twisted into knots. She looked up when Annie approached.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Annie said.
‘He was a good man!’ the woman said. ‘A good man!’
Her breath smelled of sherry.
‘This way, please,’ the man from Mahoney’s said. He pushed the door open. Annie went in.
The dead man lay on the bed, wearing his good suit, his hair neatly combed. His pallor was untouched but his lips had been dabbed with just a touch of rouge to make them lifelike. It was a very nice job.
‘What happened to him?’ Annie said. ‘Was it an accident?’
‘Oh, no,’ the man from the mills said. ‘He just dropped on a shift.’
‘He had a bad heart,’ the woman said. ‘A bad heart, but he was a good man!’
‘Something to remember him by,’ the man from the mills said. ‘We were all very fond of Terry.’
‘My Terry!’ the woman said. She splashed sherry into a glass on the side table and drank greedily. Annie didn’t blame her. She looked at the light. She would need to use the flash, she thought. She didn’t like using the flashlight powder. No wonder Lady Julia was worried about nationalists stealing chemicals. The stuff was dangerous. She began to set up.
‘How would you like him?’ she said. ‘It should be naturalistic. Sitting up or…’ She reconsidered. ‘Perhaps in repose is best after all,’ she said.
The woman burst out crying and left the room. The man from the mills looked uncomfortable. ‘I thought Lady Julia would come,’ he said.
‘I am but her extension,’ Annie said. Lady Julia liked her to say that. Annie was little more than another piece of equipment, as far as Lady Julia was concerned. She saw the man’s worried look and tried to smile.
‘It will be fine,’ she said gently.
She moved around, setting up. The camera, the light, figuring out the angle. The man lay on the bed in repose. It was quiet. She set up the flash lamp, carefully. She had a scar on the underside of her left hand to remind her to be careful. Lady Julia had several. She looked through the camera, moved it back a little, adjusted the lens.
‘I require quiet,’ she said.
‘Of course.’
The man from the mills left the room. Annie took a long, quiet breath. She released it slowly. The light flashed, bright and terrifying. The dead man in the bed was illuminated in the sort of holy glow that Moses must have felt on Mount Sinai in the face of God. Annie took the picture. She took several more, refilling the flash lamp each time. From outside it must have looked demonic, the flashes of light, the burning smell, the dead man on the bed.
Memento mori. She packed her equipment away, opened a window. The smell of fresh rain came inside.
‘All done,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ the man from the woollen mills said.
‘Lady Julia will of course have the final say,’ Annie said. Mollifying him. He nodded.
‘Thank you,’ he said again. ‘He will be missed, our Terry,’ he said.
‘I know,’ Annie said. ‘I’m sorry.’
She hurried out. She hated it when they grieved. She just wanted to take the picture.
She found Joe at Corkeran’s, in the shadow of the castle. The automobile that had passed them earlier was parked outside. She spent a moment looking at her reflection in its polished surface. Her own, too-serious face stared back at her. She went in to Corkeran’s. Joe was nursing a pint of Beamish on the bar.
‘How was it, Annie?’ he said.
‘You know how it is, Joe,’ she said. ‘A job’s a job.’
‘It gives me the creeps, Annie,’ he said. ‘Hey, you want a drink?’
‘I’m good, Joe.’
‘We can go if you want,’ he said.
‘Finish your pint first,’ she said. ‘I won’t tell Lady Julia.’
‘You’re one of the good ones, Annie,’ Joe said.
She let it fly past her. She took a seat at the bar. Looked around the room. Not that many places to go in Blarney unless you were going to work at the mill or kiss a stone. Corkeran’s served beer downstairs and had rooms to rent upstairs for those who were visiting. She saw a face attached to a dark-suited figure in the corner. The face looked familiar, somehow. He noticed her watching him and raised his head, a mocking smile forming, and she knew who he was then. She went over to him.
She said, ‘You nearly drove us off the road earlier.’
‘That was you?’ His smile remained, and he looked her up and down, appreciatively. He had big city clothes. He had a big city attitude. He had an Englishman’s voice. ‘That would have been a shame…’ he said. He took out a slim case, gold, and extracted a cigarette before offering it to Annie. She declined. The man put the case away and lit his cigarette. His lighter, too, was gold. He took a breath of smoke and blew it out with evident enjoyment. He looked at her through the smoke.
‘John Savage,’ he said. ‘And you are?’
‘Annie Connolly,’ she said. ‘What do you do, Mr Savage?’
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Call me John.’ He toyed with his gold lighter and eyed Joe Doyle at the bar. ‘I’m in business,’ he said.
‘What sort of business?’ Annie said.
‘Shipping, logistics. Finance. I came to look at Mahoney’s.’ He shrugged. ‘I live in London.’
‘No kidding,’ Annie said.
‘You ever been?’ he said.
‘I’m just a girl from Cork,’ she said.
‘I don’t think you’re a just anything,’ he said, giving her another appreciative look. He was a funny one, she thought. It was like he was trying a little too hard.
‘What do you do, Annie Connolly?’ he said.
‘I photograph dead people for money.’
If she’d hoped to shock him, she was disappointed. His eyes opened a little wider and so did his smile.
‘My,’ he said. ‘You’re full of surprises. Care for a drink?’
‘I’m not drinking right now,’ Annie said.
‘Oh? Why not?’
Then he glanced at her belly, lost some of the smile and said, ‘Married?’
‘No.’
‘I’d like a child,’ he said. ‘Of course, I’d need a wife first.’
‘Why can’t you get a wife?’ Annie said.
Savage shrugged. ‘It’s not that easy, finding the right girl.’
‘How hard can it be?’ Annie said. ‘For a fancy man like you?’
‘You think I’m fancy?’
‘Too fancy for Cork,’ she said.
He laughed.
‘I’m just fancy enough, Annie Connolly,’ he said. ‘How about you? Will you marry me?’
It was her turn to look him up and down.
‘I don’t even know you,’ she said.
‘Does it matter?’
‘It should.’
He shrugged.
‘I have money,’ he said.
‘You seemed to imply as much already.’
‘Well, now it’s stated.’
‘You’re English.’
‘With Irish roots.’
‘You live in England,’ she said.
He opened his eyes in mock innocence. He had very expressive eyes, she thought.
‘Is that so bad?’ he said.
‘To some.’
‘And to you?’
Annie had to laugh.
‘You aren’t serious, are you?’ she said.
‘I’m always serious, Miss Connolly.’
‘To me, then,’ she said. ‘England does not appeal.’
‘You prefer Ireland?’ he said.
‘I would like,’ she said, ‘to go to America.’
‘America!’ He was mock shocked. He did everything mockingly, she thought. She watched his eyes. The way they darted to Joe Doyle on the bar. Joe was a good-looking guy.
‘I see how it is,’ she said.
‘You do?’
She touched his hand.
‘I do,’ she said. ‘And you’re trying too hard.’
He did lose the smile then.
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re suggesting, Miss Connolly.’
‘I am not suggesting anything,’ she said. ‘But you can find Joe over there most nights in one of the pubs around the English Market in town. If you’re interested.’
‘Why would I be interested?’ John Savage said.
Annie shrugged. ‘Because that’s how God made you, I suppose,’ she said. ‘And He made Joe the same. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to go for a ride in your automobile. We can discuss your marriage proposal on the way.’
He looked at her for a long moment, weighing her up.
‘Hidden depths, Miss Connolly…’ he said. Then he smiled again, with only slightly narrowed eyes, and stood and extended his hand to her.
‘Your horseless chariot awaits, my lady,’ he said.