At the auction, Tom tried to bid, but he could go nowhere near the price offered by the highest bidder. The highest bidder was eighteen years old. He was not yet out of secondary school. But he won the place easily. And to Frankie Lynch’s credit, he had come over, after the bidding had ended — Mark had seen it — and tried to shake Tom’s hand. But Tom had turned. The older boy had looked at Mark and shrugged before going back to where Frank Lynch stood, chequebook in hand.
She wouldn’t remember it. There would have been too many people who despised her father, too many people he had wronged, for her to make note of anyone in particular. And by the time she had come to her own conclusions about the crooked fucker that her father was, the falling-out with Tom would have been far into the past.
The bell over the shop door rang as Mark pushed it open. He walked to a shelf of foil-topped bottles as though he knew what he was doing. When the guy behind the counter called over to offer his assistance, Mark explained to him what he had in mind.
Chapter Eleven
Elizabeth Lefroy turned out to look nothing like Joanne had imagined. There were no scarves and jewels and shawls. She wore a simple dark suit over a cream blouse, with a gold pin on the lapel. She wore glasses, and her silver hair was pulled into a tight bun. She was tall and thin. She resembled, more than anyone, the nun who had been principal of Joanne’s boarding school.
Joanne sat with Imelda, facing their barrister, Linda O’Halloran, and took notes as Glackin, the barrister for the plaintiff, made his closing arguments. He took his usual approach, clearly trying to wring as much pity as possible from the judge. This woman was broken, he appealed in his final summation. This woman had been betrayed at a time of her life when she should have been looked after, should have been thanked for all she had done. She was just another of the elderly Irish men and women, he said, who were now at risk of being abandoned and forgotten by her state. He warned, too, against the temptation to scapegoat a woman like Mrs Lefroy, the widow of a British army officer, for her connection to a time that was now past, to punish her for things that were long over, for having led a life with privileges and power that some would resent. He had shown beyond all doubt, he said, that Elizabeth Lefroy’s son had broken the law, had changed and indeed destroyed a property without the consent of that property’s rightful owner. That was what the case came down to — a simple matter of permission and authority and of trust.
‘Of trust,’ he said, eyeing Rupert Lefroy, and he thanked the judge.
‘Jesus Christ,’ breathed Imelda, as Glackin took his seat. ‘That’s a trip to the parish pump the judge isn’t likely to forget.’
Linda O’Halloran stood. She demolished Glackin’s arguments in minutes. She mocked their provincialism, exposed their presumption, and reminded the court that the case was a question of property law; that her client had broken no law and transgressed no authority. Sympathy and sentiment, she warned, had no place in a court of law. It did no disrespect to a person to follow the rule of law, regardless of the age or the stage of life of that person; on the contrary, one did disrespect to a person to assume that, just because that person happened to be an elderly woman, she should be treated differently, should be afforded certain liberties.
‘There are loyalties, there are longings, and then there are laws,’ O’Halloran said, as she addressed the judge for a final time. ‘We all have mothers. Most of us love our mothers, want the best for our mothers; many of us have lost our mothers, and would do anything to have them back with us. But, Judge, we must be wary of the dangers of sentiment. We must listen to the facts. The facts are: my client was given this property to do with as he pleased. It was a useless property, nothing more than a shed, and he made of it a booming business, a contribution to his city and to his community. We have heard his testimony, which has been honest, patient and full of reason. We have heard, too, the testimony of my client’s mother, which has been — as have been the questions and statements of her counsel — emotive, unreasonable and contradictory. This testimony has made much of the matter of duties, of obligation, of what is right and proper, of where our loyalties should finally lie. My loyalties lie, Judge, with the law, the law as it is set down in the statutes of this country — with laws that are fair, and reasonable, and which have the best interests and the rights of the people of this country at their core.’
Throughout this speech, Joanne kept an eye on Elizabeth Lefroy, seated close to the back of the court. Elizabeth had been watching O’Halloran with an expression of intense focus. Her chin was drawn high, her mouth was closed, her eyes were bright. As she listened, only the muscles of her face seemed to react, twitching and tightening. There was nothing, in that face, of the woman ruled by her emotions, maddened by her jealousies and paranoias, who was being described by O’Halloran. Elizabeth’s testimony that morning had been the testimony of a woman who wanted no sympathy from the court, who would dismiss such sympathy were it to come her way. Paddy Glackin was an idiot, a country barrister of the kind Joanne knew so well, appealing to the lowest sentiment, pulling on heartstrings. And that rubbish about England — where did he think he was, the local clubhouse? Was he forgetting that the judge in front of him was as much of a West Brit as he was likely to encounter in a house like Elizabeth Lefroy’s or anywhere else? It was the final proof that Elizabeth had no money. Even the pension that Rupert claimed to be giving her would get her a barrister with more style and more clout.
O’Halloran sat down. She raised her eyebrows at Imelda. She did not look to Joanne or back to Rupert. Then, things moved quickly. The judge spoke briefly before granting judgment in favour of Rupert. Elizabeth was instructed to pay his costs. At the verdict, Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to her son, who was frowning and nodding hard. Afterwards, he left with Mona and Imelda. Joanne watched as his mother talked quietly to her solicitor. When Elizabeth was alone, Joanne stood and approached her.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, hearing her voice at an unnatural pitch. She cleared her throat. ‘Mrs Lefroy?’
Elizabeth glanced up sharply; she had not expected her thoughts to be disturbed. But her expression was not unfriendly. She looked interested. She looked intelligent.
‘Yes?’ she said lightly. ‘Was there something more you needed from me?’
‘I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what happened.’
The old woman seemed startled. ‘Aren’t you with my son?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You are one of the solicitors who represented my son?’
‘Yes,’ Joanne nodded, but halfway through the nod she shook her head. ‘Well, I’m training with them.’
‘I see,’ Mrs Lefroy said slowly. ‘Well, my dear, you know it won’t do you any good to be seen talking to me. I think it’s best if you go on.’
‘Of course,’ Joanne said, her cheeks burning.
‘My son gets what he wants,’ Mrs Lefroy said, standing. ‘It was foolish of me to imagine that that would not always be the way.’
‘Will you be. .’ Joanne said, and she stopped. What was she going to ask the woman — whether she would be OK? What kind of answer did she expect to get? ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and took a step back from the table.