Black Lake by Johanna Lane

road. Frank Foyle’s office was above Driver’s, a shop that sold goods like walking boots and fishing rods. John rang the bell and waited. He shivered in his shirtsleeves; it was not as warm as it had been the day before. Frank Foyle’s secretary came downstairs; her name was Nancy. She was a buxom, cowlike girl. She’d only left school a year or two ago, but she looked much, much older. Her face was covered in a deep, heavy layer of makeup. Smiling broadly, she said, “How are you, Mr. Campbell?” with the implication that there was no need for an answer.
    “Hello there, Nancy.” He’d come to know her quite well over the past year or so, having waited often in the outer office where her desk was while Frank Foyle readied himself for these visits. He felt sorry for Nancy. There were few prospects in the area for girls like her; the ones with any ambition went to Dublin or London. The best John could do was plant the idea in her mind that perhaps Councillor Foyle wasn’t the best choice of employer, that she might be better off somewhere else. Of course, this was a delicate thing to suggest, but he feared that he’d been too subtle. He had often wondered whether she had a boyfriend, a local she might eventually marry, someone who’d build her a nice house and protect her from the Foyles of the world. She would make a good mother, he thought; she was kind, she had sympathy for him and Marianne, he could tell by her manner. He wondered whether there might be a place for her at Dulough now; perhaps she could be trained as a guide or employed in the office overseeing the construction of the Visitors’ Center. He must ask Murphy.
    Foyle arrived at his office door, hand outstretched, boots caked in mud and, by the smell of it, dung. “Good to see you, sir,” he said.
    A mahogany desk, resembling a coffin, dominated the small room. The county councillor plunged back into his ergonomic chair; there was no such luxury for his guests. What John perched on was hard, wooden, decidedly school-like. Councillor Foyle made John uneasy. He wasn’t sure how much irony was in the “sir.” He knew that Mr. Foyle relished this deal and his own part in it, that he felt things were being righted; Irish land was being returned to the Irish people. Besides, the town needed the jobs that the estate would provide. John had to stifle the urge to remind Foyle that the house still belonged to him, that the government was only looking after the upkeep for the time being. The panic that had caused him to flee the moving men yesterday morning returned.
    “That’ll be two cups of tea, Nancy, thanks,” Foyle said, as he got up again to shut the door with his boot.
    He looked closely at John in a manner he wouldn’t have had the guts for a year earlier.
    “I spoke to your wife yesterday. She said the move was going smoothly.”
    So Marianne knew he hadn’t been in town. He should have thought of a better excuse. But he’d no time to dwell on it; a piece of paper was being pushed towards him across the cluttered desk. The thought of visitors arriving in four weeks’ time was suddenly too much.
    “Mr. Foyle, I’m still of the same mind about the opening date. The estate won’t be ready in a month.”
    What difference would it make if they opened the gates a little later? The weather would be better in June anyway.
    Frank Foyle’s mouth puckered. John knew him well enough by now to realize that the politician was annoyed, that he was trying to choose his words carefully.
    “We’ve printed the publicity materials with the May opening date already, Mr. Campbell. Paddy Friel’s putting them up this morning. And didn’t you say yourself that the house was in need of a new chimney?”
    “It is,” John paused. “That’s precisely what I’m saying, we should wait until the repairs are finished.”
    “Ah, but rebuilding the chimney is a big investment that will require a lot of capital. Michael—Mr. Murphy—and me have decided