Arrowood

‘For the money, I shouldn’t wonder. Costs money to fight a war.’

‘And you don’t know any other names?’

‘Don’t know nothing about the others. And before you say anything, I ain’t going to ask around neither. Those lot ain’t afraid of tying a person up and dropping him in the river on a cold night and that’s a fact.’

‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, Nolan.’

He shook his head, jamming his hands in his pockets. A cat appeared from behind the oven and padded up to him, rubbing its side on his trouser leg. He kicked it away.

‘Mary’s Irish, too, ain’t she?’ I asked.

‘She was born here. Her mother and father, they come over after the famine, but they don’t know nothing about these Fenians. Most of them lot’s American.’

‘What does she think of them?’

‘Her cousin Kate’s the one goes to all the land reform meetings. But the whole lot of them’s for a free Ireland. Father was too, before he croaked.’

‘How couldn’t they be, living with you?’

More than once, Nolan had bent my ear on self-government. He’d come over himself during the depression twenty years ago; his brother who stayed behind was thrown into Tralee gaol for helping tenant farmers resist eviction. The more he’d told me about what was happening over in Ireland the more ashamed I was at what my people were doing. The guvnor was with Nolan on this, and that was one of the reasons they’d grown to have such respect for each other.

‘A lot of yours see us as no more than filth,’ said Nolan, nodding. ‘There are plenty of law-abiding Irish round here, mate. Not me, of course, but plenty of others, yet any crime that’s done, they says it’s us. If there’s work we’re the last to get taken on. Our people got good cause to take against you. But listen, Norman. I’ll be for the liberation of my country till I die, but I don’t go along with the bombs. Never have done.’

He crossed his arms and shook his head, and from the look on his face I could see he was about to start up on some more serious talk. But just then the door squeaked open and his Mary’s head appeared. ‘Potboy’s here, lads,’ she said.

Nolan made a noise like he’d been holding his breath. He smiled.

‘You want a drop o’ porter with me?’ he asked.

I had a bit of porter with him and Mary, and then she went out for whelks. Still I couldn’t persuade him to make any enquiries. He was frightened of these Fenians. And Nolan wasn’t usually frightened of anything.

Chapter Eight (#ulink_ad2bad25-8cb2-5eac-a425-ab6b8909b239)

There had been an accident outside The Fontaine when we arrived that evening. A horse had fallen over and died, pulling its carriage onto its side. A lady was sitting on a step howling, blood all over her face and a posy of flowers in her hand, while the cabman tried to uncouple the carriage from the horse’s corpse. A crowd had gathered to poke at the horse and stare at the howling woman. The guvnor bent down to her as we passed.

‘Are you hurt, miss?’ he asked, holding out his handkerchief. ‘Here, take this.’

Her crying calmed as she peered through her teary eyes at the guvnor, then at the tattered red cloth. Seeing the tobacco stains and the dangling threads crusted with who knows what, she shuddered and turned away.

He quickly pocketed his rag.

‘Can I send for someone?’ he asked.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she hissed, covering her face with her hands. ‘I don’t need your help.’

He tapped his stick against his boots and nodded, a look of sadness on his face. He didn’t seem to know what to do.

‘Come along, sir,’ I said, taking his arm. ‘Cabman’ll sort her out.’

Eric stood in the window of the studio, watching the crowd. As we pushed open the door he stepped quickly behind his counter. He wore a spotted cravat and a high-collared shirt of some yellow fabric. He recognized the guvnor immediately.

‘Ah, sir, you’ve come to make an appointment for your portrait. I’m so pleased. I’d absolutely relish the opportunity to record your noble features for posterity. You’ve precisely the profile that I’m in this business for.’

‘Well, yes, indeed,’ burbled the guvnor, blown off course by this rare flattery. I’d never heard anyone describe his great potato head in such a way before. Never before.

‘When did you have in mind?’ asked Fontaine. ‘Mmm?’

He had opened his appointments book and taken up his quill.

‘But first, we’d appreciate a short meeting with Miss Cousture, sir,’ said the guvnor. ‘If that’s not too much trouble. Only a brief meeting.’

Fontaine’s firm lips drooped, revealing two front teeth that overhung his bottom lip like a hare.

‘She isn’t here. She went out for soup several hours ago and didn’t return. And if you see her you can tell her I’m very close to finding another assistant. You know, sir, I hired a woman because I believe in the emancipation of the female species.’

‘My sister, also,’ said the guvnor firmly.

‘Well, this is how I am treated.’

He had got irked, just for a moment, and it was then his accent slipped. I could distinctly hear a flavour of Irish in his vowels. The guvnor shot me a glance.

‘It certainly does you credit, sir,’ replied the guvnor. ‘How long did you say she’s been working here?’

Fontaine sighed and raised his quill.

‘You said an appointment?’

The guvnor nodded and looked around the portraits on the wall. ‘You have a very fine eye,’ he said, scratching his chin. ‘I see such spirit in these people.’

‘That is my goal as an artist,’ replied Fontaine seriously. He pointed to a portrait of a soldier that hung behind the counter. ‘This one is my finest.’

‘Ah! It is indeed a work of art,’ declared the guvnor.

Fontaine gazed at it for some time.

‘You have a good eye yourself, sir,’ he said, turning to the guvnor.

‘I wonder if perhaps you might have time now for my portrait?’

‘Why, yes! I believe I do. Just enough time before my next sitting, I believe. Come, come.’ He gestured for the guvnor to go through the black curtain. ‘Enter! A man like yourself should absolutely have a representation of his fine visage for his hallway, or his drawing room, or perhaps his library – absolutely!’

He was still talking as he disappeared behind the heavy curtain. I waited a moment or two before taking the opportunity to explore the drawers of his counter. They were full of screws and plates and bulbs. In the bottom drawer, I found his accounts book, from which I learned that he’d begun to pay Miss Cousture in January of this year – not four months previous. I hunted for an address and eventually found it written on the back leaf of a small notebook.

The guvnor appeared twenty minutes later, his side-hair combed and greased down, his whiskers trimmed, his cravat tied neatly at his neck.

‘Yes, sir,’ Fontaine was saying. ‘One week. And your address?’

‘Fifty-nine Coin Street. Behind the shop.’