So here he sat, in the last lesson of the Monday after Reek Sunday, listening to Brother Riordan droning on about the rivers of Ireland. Quite what use it would be to anybody, acquiring knowledge of these waterways, Cathal had no idea. The bloody man was sticking a great map all over the blackboard now with these damned rivers marked on it. The Shannon, the wretched fellow was saying, pointing halfway down his map. Were they even now setting off for the Head Gardener’s Cottage, ready for the fray? The Liffey, running into Dublin, serving Ireland’s greatest city, Brother Riordan blathered on. Perhaps they were in the cottage already? Perhaps they were beginning to take their clothes off and he, Cathal, was not there to see it. The Lagan, which flows into the sea at Belfast Lough – did the man never stop talking, even for a minute? – and nourishes many of the great industries of that northern city. And now? Here Cathal’s imagination failed him. Only reality would do, and reality was half an hour or more away when the last bell of the day would be rung and the boys would be free to leave.
Then Father Riordan did a terrible thing, quite against all the rules in Cathal’s view. He took down his map, told his class to take out their exercise books, draw a map of Ireland in outline and fill in the routes of the three rivers they had been discussing. Not so, Cathal thought. You, Brother Riordan may have been discussing these rivers. We, the boys, have not. It was a low trick asking people to fill in a map of Ireland when they mightn’t have been paying full attention. The Brother should have said at the start that the class would have to do an exercise. Then they would have tried to pay attention. Desperate glances were exchanged all around the room. Anybody whose map was deemed unsatisfactory, Brother Riordan declaimed from his desk, would have to stay behind after school.
Cathal opened his exercise book. Page after page contained harsh comments from Brother Riordan. ‘Poor,’ ‘Very poor,’ ‘Why were you not paying attention in class? See me after school.’ Cathal often felt that his progress through the place was marked out by the critical remarks in his exercise book and the lashings of the strap. It wasn’t fair. He opened a new page and began to draw what he thought was an outline map of Ireland. It wasn’t too bad, except that the south-western section, which should have been filled with the long inlets of Kerry and Dingle, had turned out completely round. And the north was square, completely square like the top of a biscuit box. The Shannon, on Cathal’s page, began life at the top of the square and flowed into the sea south of Belfast. The Liffey entered the Atlantic Ocean north of Galway and the Lagan was a pathetic dribble which seemed to begin at Wicklow and terminate at Waterford. Cathal looked at his map. There was, he felt, something not quite right about it. And here was Brother Riordan, strap in hand, coming to inspect his work as most of the class filed out. The Christian Brother looked carefully at the map. His finger ran experimentally down his strap. His face turned red. ‘Get out!’ he shouted at Cathal. ‘Get out of my sight! You’re so stupid it’s a waste of time trying to teach you! Get out now!’ Cathal needed no second invitation. Before the Brother had finished his tirade he was out of the door and heading at full speed for the demesne.
When he reached the Head Gardener’s Cottage he tiptoed round the front to look for any signs of life. All seemed quiet. Then he went on the detour that brought him behind the hedge close to the bedroom window. He thought he could hear sounds coming from inside. There was a gap in the curtain once again. Very slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself by a sudden movement, he rose to his full height and peeped in the window. Nobody had any clothes on. The pair of them were as naked as the day they were born. The man seemed to be lying on top of the girl and jolly uncomfortable it looked too. Cathal dropped down slowly behind his hedge. He thought the young man might have been looking out of the window. He ran back to Butler’s Cross as fast as he could. After all, he reflected as he went, he had a good start. Anybody trying to follow him would have to put their clothes on first. Surely, he said to himself, this has to be worth another five shillings from Father O’Donovan Brady. Maybe even ten.
13
Powerscourt and Fitzgerald watched Butler Lodge for almost an hour. The smoke continued to pour regularly from the chimneys. The only human they saw was a young man who came out of the front door and returned five minutes later with a bundle of logs. There was no sign of any women. Powerscourt crept back into the wood and beckoned to his friend.
‘What do you think, Johnny?’
Fitzgerald pulled his Daniel O’Connell memorial bottle out of a side pocket and took a tentative swig of the clear liquid. ‘I think they’re in there, Francis. I really do. I know we haven’t seen any of the ladies, but I wouldn’t let them out of the house if I could help it. Christ, this stuff has got a kick in the tail. At first sip you think it’s lightly spiced water or something like that. Then it tries to knock your head off. It reminds me of some Polish vodka a fellow gave me once. It was so powerful the authorities banned its manufacture altogether in case it killed off half the population of Poland.’
‘I agree with you, Johnny, I think they’re here. I wish I knew what to do tomorrow, mind you. I hope that bloody hotel has got a telegraph.’ Powerscourt rubbed his leg, stiff from lying by the edge of the water. ‘Could you stay here for a while, and keep watch? I’m going back to see if young Bradshaw has spotted anything up that damned mountain. I’ll see you in the hotel about nine o’clock.’
Powerscourt found himself wondering what the cuisine would be like in Butler Lodge. If the kidnappers were all young men of the age he had seen so far, the bill of fare might not be too elaborate. He speculated about how Lucy would survive on a regimen of ham and eggs for five days or so. He had to climb some way up the hill before he found Bradshaw. The young man had veered off a couple of hundred yards to the right to find a better view.
‘Have a look for yourself, sir,’ he grinned, handing over the instrument. Powerscourt now had the back view of the lodge. He saw part of the drive leading up to it and the woods stretching out on either side. On the far side of the lawn he thought he could see a small river, flowing into the lake. Two of the rooms on the first floor were visible, one of them with a window open to let in the evening sunshine, but his eyesight was not good enough to spot a person inside. He asked the young man if he had seen any female inhabitants of the house on the upper floor, but Bradshaw shook his head.
‘Keep watching for half an hour or so and then make your way to the hotel,’ Powerscourt said, patting the young man on the shoulder, and he set off to find his other watcher. Jones was so well hidden that Powerscourt walked past him twice before he realized Jones was there. ‘Nobody’s gone in, nobody’s come out, nothing at all, sir,’ he said. Powerscourt asked him to watch for another half an hour and then make his way to the Leenane Hotel. He wondered if they should take turns to watch the house through the night but he didn’t see what purpose would be served. As far as he knew the kidnappers were not yet aware that there was a rescue mission at the gates.
Later that evening, after enormous helpings of Irish stew, Powerscourt outlined his plans for the following morning. Operations were to begin at first light. He and Johnny were going to watch the road leading from Leenane to Butler Lodge, at a safe distance from the house. Bradshaw and Jones were to maintain a similar vigil on the other side. Anybody who looked as if they were going to the place of captivity was to be seized, and any messages taken from them. Prisoners, Powerscourt explained, were to be taken to a secure room in the basement of the hotel which was fitted with a great many locks. It was, the hotel keeper explained, where they had concealed contraband in days gone by.