The Grey Knight: A Story of Love in Troubled Times

By Patrick DeVaney

Major Coote has recently moved his somewhat reluctant family from their comfortable London home to a run-down Irish demesne in pursuit of his grandiose farming dreams. His neighbors, the OConnors, are struggling with the problems of raising a large, strong-willed brood. Relations between the two families become strained when the OConnors acquire the Grey Knight, a Jack B. Yeats painting which Major Coote believes to have been stolen from his mansion. Then seventeen-year-old Hugh OConnor meets Hazel, the Majors beautiful fifteen-year-old daughter, and trouble mounts, with unforeseen tragic consequences. Set in Connacht in 1981, a time of rising tensions and sporadic violence brought about by the Northern Ireland hunger strikes, this novel delineates the fragility and wonder of first love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524676421

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© 2017 Patrick Devaney. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/09/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7643-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7642-1 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

EPILOGUE

In memory

of my sister

Angela

A pity beyond all telling

Is hid in the heart of love

(W.B.Yeats: "The Pity of Love")

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

MY THANKS ARE due to my wife Cheryl for invaluable comments and criticisms, my sister Christina for carefully reading the manuscript, my daughter Deirdre for an in-depth critique that made me clarify relationships and motivations, Aidan Kearney for information on the South Westmeath Harriers, Charlie O’Neill, senior Joint-Master of the Kildare Hunt, for courteously answering my questions and inviting me to a meet, my colleagues Michael O’Donnell for insights into the Northern Ireland conflict and Noel McWeeney for advice on dairying practices in 1981, Michael Farry for his proof reading of key chapters, Kristen Eaton for comments on Chapter X1X, and Amanda Bell for hers on the entire ms and, finally, to my daughter Clare for a forensic examination of style, as well as advice on omitting a prologue and some explanatory passages.

CHAPTER I

"COME ON, GUYS! Hugh held his bike and waited for Freddie, Paul and Tommy to catch up. You’re not going to back out now?"

Three weird figures pushing bicycles hurried forward, their mud-covered runners looking incongruous under the hems of gaudy dresses, their rouged faces veiled with pieces of net curtain held in place by straw wigs.

Keep it down, O’Connor, Paul, who at eighteen was the oldest of the group, warned. If Coote hears you he’s liable to let fly with the shotgun.

This was no exaggeration. Just over a year previously Coote, the new owner, had fired at four boys raiding his orchard, nicking one of them in the bottom. The boy’s parents had been induced to drop their legal action on the offer of an undisclosed sum of money. Since then all the lads had avoided Larchfield demesne.

Even Coote wouldn’t fire at wrenboys, Freddie raised the veil over his head to scan the nearby fields. I’ll bet they have them in England too.

No, they don’t, Tommy asserted. They call St. Stephen’s Day ‘Boxing Day’ - my cousin told me. He never went around like we do.

Oh, who cares what they do in England? Hugh scoffed. We’re going to educate these foreigners in the ways of the Wild Irish.

Freddie grinned at this show of bravado. Up the Provos! he cried.

Hugh picked his way along the rutted avenue, under the arch of massive beech trees, the others following at his heels. It was three years since he had seen Coote’s Land Rover cruising down this very stretch and had fired a shot to warn his brother Des and their pheasant-poaching comrades, Ned Kennedy and Gerry Dowd, who were raiding the unoccupied mansion. Then, as he was hightailing it back to the gap in the boundary wall, somebody, probably Coote, had fired in his direction. Since then a lot of things had happened, many of them unpleasant. His father had got work at Larchfield repairing leaking roofs and the boundary wall. Mrs. Coote had been nice to him but her husband’s haughty manner quickly got under his skin. One day his father had fallen from a ladder, injuring his back. He had sued Coote unsuccessfully.

Hugh squirmed inwardly as he recalled the headline in the Killeden Herald :

‘LANDOWNER DENIES CALLING HANDYMAN A LAZY LOAFER’.

It had taken his family months to live down the disgrace. The amazing thing was that apart from a few glimpses of Coote walking down the main street of Killeden like the Sheriff of Nottingham striding through a Saxon village, he had never set eyes on any other member of the family. Hazel, the daughter, was supposed to be a real stunner and it was in hopes of seeing her that he had persuaded the others to venture into the lion’s den. Now, with a rush of shame, he remembered the painting of Grey Knight that Des had nicked. If the Cootes ever found out about it, they would regard him and Des as no better than common thieves.

Why are you so quiet, O’Connor? Freddie slapped him playfully on the back.

I was wondering if it was me Coote was firing at three years ago when I spotted the Land Rover, he lied.

Of course it was, Freddie assured him. ‘Best to keep the Croppies on the run! What-What?’ You may thank your lucky stars that he didn’t have a rifle.

Presently they came to a creosoted wooden gate with a hand painted wooden sign that commanded:

SHUT IT!

INSIDE AND OUT!

Resting their bikes against nearby tree trunks, they raised the loop of bull-wire over the side-post and after passing through the opening, put the loop carefully back in place. Even Hugh could sense they were now in enemy territory. Hidden eyes seemed to watch their every movement.

Larchfield House suddenly appeared beyond the end of the avenue, a dark three-storied mansion of cut stone, looking in the cold December light at once gloomy and impressive. They hurried by a paddock where a donkey and two sleek horses covered with weatherproof blankets were eating hay inside the wooden railing, turned left at farm buildings and a walled garden, passed before large, blank windows and skirted the raised portico with its four stone columns and tall, weather-beaten door. Gravel crunched under their boots as they made their way hesitantly to the freshly painted side entrance. When Hugh knocked, dogs began to bark inside; there was a whispered consultation, then a bolt was drawn back and the matronly figure of Mrs. Coote stood before them.

Immediately Freddie began to play the mouth organ and Paul to beat the tambourine, while the other two shuffled in a clumsy imitation of a hornpipe. An attractive brown-haired girl of about fifteen tugged at Mrs. Cootes arm.

Ask them in, Mummy, she whispered.

Mrs. Coote seemed uncertain but then stepped back and they filed into the kitchen, which had a black-beamed wooden ceiling, a stone-flagged floor and a large range at one end, from which an aroma of cooking emanated. There was a shotgun resting on a sideboard beyond a table laid with dishes, some of which held scones and slices of fruitcake. A brace of cock pheasants hung from a peg on the whitewashed wall above the sideboard. On seeing the intruders, a Gordon setter and a pointer came forward and woofed loudly.

Down, Beauty! Down, Spot! Edward Coote appeared on the stairs in jodhpurs and slippers, buttoning his waistcoat. He was an impressive figure, tall and imperious, with receding grey hair, neatly brushed back, a long lean face and strongly chiselled features. He stared at the visitors like a falcon sizing up unfamiliar prey. Obviously he did not know what to make of these weirdly dressed natives. His bafflement gave Hugh a sudden feeling of power. When Freddie struck up The Walls of Limerick, he took the girl in his arms and started to spin her around the open area between the table and door. She moved lightly, her face glowing with excitement, large greeny-brown eyes searching for a face behind his veil. Following his example Tommy began dancing with Mrs. Coote, while Paul rattled the tambourine, beating time with one muddy runner.

It was a wild, joyous outburst and the stern expression on Coote’s face relaxed as he surveyed it.

Oh, that’s enough! Mrs. Coote cried breathlessly. I haven’t danced so much in years, and she sat down at the table.

Hugh circled the floor one final time, breathing in the fragrance of the extraordinary creature he held in his arms, feeling the soft warmth of her hand and back, then, reluctantly, he let her go, bowing to her elaborately. With a happy grin she curtsied, her eyes sparkling.

This must be the first time that the likes of this happened in this kitchen, Hugh thought to himself as his eyes dwelt on the girl’s soft, lustrous hair, slightly up-curved nose and full lips. If the Hamiltons were here, they’d probably have slammed the door in our faces.

The Hamiltons were the former owners, Anglo-Irish gentry who had remained at Larchfield long after the rest of their kind had disappeared from the county. He had seen Miss Constance once or twice at the show in Killeden, riding a great bay horse, as erect in the saddle as if she were twenty instead of seventy. Now she was probably following the hounds on Nimble Jack, the hunter he and Des had trained.

In the lull that followed the dance, Mrs. Coote invited them to have a cup of tea but they indicated by signs that a slice of cake each would be fine. As they prepared to leave, Coote gave Hugh two pounds, saying grandly, Here, laddie, divide that between you. It wasn’t much for such a rich man but it was more than they had got from the parish priest, Father Conlon, who had been quite annoyed when they trooped into his carpeted sitting room. Hugh looked again at the girl before he went out, the setter now sniffing expectantly at the slice of cake in his hand.

Whew! Freddie cried gleefully when they were beyond earshot of the house. That went better than I expected.

Yes, Hugh agreed but there was a sinking feeling inside him that persisted as they cycled home, visiting farmhouses along the way. An anonymous wrenboy had been allowed an intimacy that Hugh O’Connor could never have enjoyed; a ‘hound dog’ had nuzzled a princess and the princess had been gracious enough to pat his head.

CHAPTER II

WHEN THE WRENBOYS left, Coote turned on his wife. Why did you let those fellows in? he demanded. I told you to keep the door bolted.

I thought it would be nice for Hazel to see them, she explained soothingly. She has little enough amusement.

I wish you’d be as concerned about my feelings as you are about Hazel’s, he accused.

Oh, Dad, they were only mummers, Hazel was anxious to head off another argument.

Only mummers! Coote repeated. And who are they? Maybe the very thieves that stripped this place before we moved in. And even if they’re not, they’ll have a good idea of the layout of the house. We’ll be plagued with the blighters from now on.

Oh, come, dear – , Mrs. Coote began.

Enough! her husband cut her off. It’s done now but in future I’d like you to do as I say. Where is that son of yours?

He’s your son too, Mrs. Coote pointed out with a little show of heat.

Oh Absalom, my Absalom…., Coote muttered, staring out the window at the bleak, cheerless fields beyond the lawn.

He went down to the lake, Hazel drew up his favourite chair and straightened the cushion that he used to relieve his back.

I’ll have to drive in the cows myself now and milk them, her father growled.

No you won’t, Daddy, she piped up. I’ll do it.

Mollified he gazed down on her. No, no, poppet, he shook his head. You’ll have to help your mother prepare the food for our visitors.

There’s not much left to prepare, her mother said. I can take the pheasant out of the oven myself.

Yes, and burn yourself like you did yesterday. He pulled on his waders, donned his trilby and worn shooting jacket, buckled on his cartridge belt, picked up the shotgun and accompanied by the excited Spot and Beauty, stalked out of the house.

Where are you going? his wife called after him.

Down to the lake, his answer came like a fox bark through the crisp afternoon air.

Oh, dear me! Mrs. Coote sighed, bolting the door. I do wish Nigel hadn’t disappeared like that.

He just went for a walk, Hazel touched her mother’s arm. Why don’t you lie down for a while, Mummy? I can take care of everything. You’ll be much brighter for Reverend Ellis and the Fletchers.

I think I will, love, her mother agreed. I’ve such a migraine…. It’s all the tension.

Hazel watched her plodding up the stairs. Poor Mummy, she thought. You’ve little enough to be happy about…. That was why it had been so great to see her enjoying the dance with the mummer - or was it a wrenboy? As a matter of fact she had found her own dance more exciting than she could possibly have imagined. Maybe it was because of the feeling of strength mingled with gentleness in her partner. He was not like those well mannered, diffident boys she met at church socials. There was a wild gallantry in the way he had spun her around and bowed to her. But she was letting her imagination get out of hand. Probably under the veil he was only a common-looking fellow with a thick brogue.

When she opened the oven door a cloud of fragrant steam billowed out. Satisfied that the pheasant was roasting