EIGHTEEN

They left the ornamental lake behind and struck out along the perimeter path round the park. Linley pitched his voice at a confidential mid-point between normal speech and a whisper. The ‘little something’ he was hoping Swan would do for him evidently merited greater secrecy then the comings and goings of the Minister of Health.

‘I’m in love, old fellow. That’s the long and the short of it. But the path of true love, etcetera, etcetera. She’s Antrobus’s secretary. He’s number two at the legation. She’s also married, which is the bugger of it. Husband in the Navy. I needn’t tell you what it would do for my career prospects if I was discovered to be cuckolding a serving naval officer. But the fact of the matter is that we adore each other. We want to spend time together. But it’s damnably tricky. She shares digs with a couple of other secretaries. I lodge with my boss in Donnybrook. We can’t be seen out on the town. What we need is …’

‘A love nest?’

‘Exactly. That’s exactly what we need. Somewhere we can—’

‘No need to spell it out, Linley. I catch your drift. Tell me, you and …’

‘Celia.’

‘Right. You and Celia. Do you see a long-term future with her? Or is it just that you can’t keep your hands off her?’

‘We can’t keep our hands off each other, since you ask. Anyway, I don’t know about the future. A divorce could be messy. I can’t look too far ahead with a war on. It’s complicated. What isn’t complicated is that we can’t go on like this. Something’s got to give.’

‘Cold baths could be the answer.’

Linley shot Swan a daggered look. ‘I don’t think you’re taking this seriously, Cygnet.’

‘All right. What can I do to help?’

‘I thought you’d never ask. An opportunity’s come up. Furnished rooms to let. Just round the corner from here, as a matter of fact. Close enough to the legation, but not too close. If I rent them there’s always the risk word will get back. But if someone else rents them … and lends me the key …’

‘Someone you can trust who isn’t in the diplomatic community would suit, I suppose.’

‘He would. Perfectly.’

‘We’d better take a look at this opportunity, then, hadn’t we?’

They left the park and walked back past the Shelbourne round into Merrion Street. On the other side of the road was an imposing terrace of Georgian town houses, not all of them in imposing condition, facing the spectacular baroque dome of what Linley told Swan had originally been the Royal College of Science. They paused to look in through the colonnaded entrance. A fountain was playing in the courtyard. An Irish tricolour was fluttering next to the dome. A couple of studious-looking young men were walking up the steps beneath it. And a policeman was standing guard over the approach to the northern wing of the complex.

‘Government Buildings, they call it now,’ said Linley. ‘Though University College still have the use of part of it. Dev’s probably lurking in there even as we speak, pondering just how resounding a no to deliver to MacDonald. The RCS was the last public building we gave the Irish before independence. God knows what slum they’d be housing their Taoiseach in but for the gift of some decent British architecture. But never mind that. Walk a little further with me and direct your gaze across the street.’

They moved on to the corner of Government Buildings. The Georgian terrace ended opposite them, where it met the railinged greenery of Merrion Square.

‘The Duke of Wellington was born over there, at number twenty-four,’ Linley continued. ‘The house had a better class of resident then. Now it’s all dentists and solicitors and servants’ agencies. But that means plenty of toing and froing, which is just the kind of camouflage I’ve been looking for. The widow Kilfeather, who lives at number twenty-eight, also owns number thirty-one.’ It was the door of number thirty-one, adorned, like its neighbours, with decorative columns, architrave and fanlight, that they were standing opposite. ‘A surveyor has the basement and ground floor. A chiropodist has the next two floors. The top floor, however, is currently vacant. And furnished for a private tenant.’

‘Sounds perfect.’

‘It does, doesn’t it?’

‘But why do I want it?’

‘Let’s walk on while I answer that question.’

They crossed an alley leading to the rear of Government Buildings and headed north, with further Georgian terraces flanking Merrion Square to their right and a sweeping lawn backing on to a large mansion to their left. ‘Leinster House,’ Linley explained. ‘Seat of the Dáil.’ High railings barred access and another policeman was in evidence at the gate. Neutrality, it appeared, required a deal of protection. ‘You could attend one of their debates if you have a spare afternoon and a taste for windy rhetoric.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘Of course, as an elocutionist, you might take a professional interest in the deputies’ varying methods of delivery.’

‘Elocutionist? What the devil are you talking about?’

‘I thought you might tell Mrs Kilfeather that’s what you did for a living. It would account for you having visitors from time to time: strangers seen on the stairs by other tenants. But invent something else if elocution doesn’t sit well with you.’

‘You’ve gone into this very carefully, haven’t you?’

‘Well, Cygnet, in my experience, Burns had it all wrong. It’s actually the worst laid schemes of mice and men that gang aft a-gley.’

‘When do you want me to broach my interest in the accommodation?’

‘ASAP. I have the address of the agent. As long as you don’t haggle – and since I’m picking up the bill there’s no need to – Mrs K will welcome you with open arms, I’m sure. A well-spoken, smartly turned-out chap such as yourself is just what she’s looking for. She’ll probably insist on a minimum of three months, with one of them paid for in advance. So, all you have to do is smile, write out the cheque and pocket the keys.’

‘You realize I’m not going to be in Dublin for three months, Linley. Not even for one.’

‘Don’t worry about that. Once you’ve set things up, there’ll be no problem. Simply send a regular cheque to the agent and I’ll keep you recompensed. If you’re worried about it, I’ll pay you a lump sum.’

Swan glanced back towards the house where he was shortly to become an absentee tenant. ‘I hope Celia’s worth all this.’

‘Oh, she is.’ Linley chuckled. ‘I can assure you of that.’

The agent was as helpful as might have been expected, given Swan’s stated willingness to pay the rent demanded. A telephone call cleared the way for an afternoon appointment with Mrs Kilfeather. Swan spruced himself up, made sure he was on time and decided to refrain from smoking to cement a favourable impression.

As it transpired, Mrs Kilfeather was not a lady of censorious disposition. A big-bosomed, bun-haired woman of sixty or so, she greeted Swan with briskly businesslike amiability. He had been unable to devise a plausible alternative to Linley’s suggested occupation, but Mrs Kilfeather remarked only, ‘There are plenty round here who could profit from elocution lessons,’ before inviting him to view the top-floor flat at number 31.

It comprised a sitting-room, bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, the sitting-room and bedroom facing Government Buildings, the bathroom and kitchen looking out over the rear gardens and courtyards of neighbouring properties. The furnishings were homely if scarcely stylish and some were in less than pristine condition. Flock wallpaper and framed hunting scenes did not conform to Swan’s idea of a sympathetic domestic environment, but his requirements were hardly relevant and he suspected Linley and the seductive Celia would not be troubled by the odd frayed lampshade. The mattress of the double bed responded with well-sprung firmness to his prod, with the barest hint of a squeak. That, he felt sure, they would appreciate.

‘I’ll take it,’ he announced, when the tour of inspection was complete.

‘You know I’m insisting on monthly terms, Mr Swan?’ Mrs Kilfeather responded.

‘Yes, yes. That’ll be fine.’

‘The previous tenant paid weekly, but he left without so much as a day’s notice, so I thought it best to revise the arrangement.’

‘I quite understand.’

‘If you get any post for the man, throw it away. He left no forwarding address. Henchy was his name.’

‘Sounds an inconsiderate fellow.’

‘You have that right, Mr Swan. But I can see you’re a gentleman, unlike Mr Henchy. So, welcome to Merrion Street.’

‘Thank you kindly. I’m sure I’ll be … very comfortable here.’

Linley was already waiting for him when Swan strolled into the Horseshoe Bar at the Shelbourne shortly after six o’clock that evening. He was looking surprisingly nervous, as if fearful that Swan had somehow botched the negotiations with Mrs Kilfeather. But his face lifted when Swan deposited the keys to the flat on the table next to his whisky and soda.

‘Well played, Cygnet,’ he said, smiling wolfishly. ‘Consider all debts discharged.’

‘Glad to have been able to help, Linley. We Old Ardinians must stick together.’

‘Absolutely.’ Linley pocketed the keys. ‘So, no problems?’

‘None at all.’

‘Splendid. Thanks again. Now, I’m afraid you’re going to have to excuse me. Much as I’d prefer to stay here chatting with you, I have to skedaddle. I’m one of those deputed to dine with the minister this evening. I must dash home and put on my best bib and tucker.’

‘How did the talks go?’

‘No idea. Badly, I expect. Or well. It depends on your point of view.’ Linley finished his drink and rose, a touch wearily. ‘Steer clear of politics, old fellow. That’s my advice. I’ll see you on Saturday.’ He played an airy cover drive with an imaginary cricket bat and clicked his tongue appreciatively. ‘It’ll be fun, I promise.’ Then he gave Swan a farewell clap on the shoulder and hurried out.

Swan took himself off to the cinema to fill his evening. The Irish censor had clearly been at work on the newsreel – the war was nowhere to be seen or mentioned – and the B picture had either been extensively cut or very badly made (he could not decide which), but Rebecca was apparently considered harmless and was enjoyed to full weepy effect by the women in the audience. Swan found its depiction of unfettered international travel depressing and its melodrama overwrought. He left before the end, conceding to himself, there being no one else to concede it to, that there really was no romance in his soul. He suspected there was little in Linley’s either and could only hope the same was true of Celia. Otherwise, he feared, heartbreak and disappointment lay in wait for her.