that we need to see how the business does before we invest heavily in the venture.”
John should have known that he couldn’t trust Foyle. He thought miserably about the crumbling chimney, about the rotten window frames, about the missing roof tiles.
“That wasn’t our agreement,” he said weakly.
“We didn’t have an agreement about the chimney, sir. We don’t have agreements about any specific improvements. If you’d like to peruse the documents again, you will see that the Office of Public Works hasn’t said what it will and will not repair. We have no particular obligations in that sense. What we do have is an agreement to build the Visitors’ Center, tarmacadam the roadway up to the house, provide you with three minibuses and drivers, staff for the kitchen, a guide for the tours, and a salary for yourself and Mr. Francis Connolly and Mrs. Mary Connolly until yous all reach retirement age. After that, sir, your son—or daughter—remains the owner, of course, but we’ve no salary obligations towards them.”
Frank Foyle pushed the final contracts a little further in John’s direction and sat back in his chair. John signed without reading. Mr. Foyle’s tongue poked out the corner of his mouth, following the direction of John’s signature across the page. When John handed the papers back, Foyle made a show of bundling them together and putting them inside a leather case.
John had never thought of his family as privileged. They had lived in a grand house, yes, but they’d had no luxuries. And yet he realized now that he had been spoilt. He had been brought up to think that there would always be enough money, magically there, because people like them always had enough. It was unthinkable that they would have to compromise themselves to accept a job they didn’t want, a job that might take them away from Dulough, a patch of Ireland they had a right to.
“Nancy!” Frank Foyle bellowed, as he put the case in the top drawer of his desk and locked it with a key that seemed much too small for his farmer’s fingers to grasp.
She came to the door.
“Yes?”
“Change those teas to whiskeys.”
“The tea’s made.”
“Tea would be fine.” John turned to Nancy and smiled.
Foyle ignored him and gave her a look somewhere between brazen lust and fatherly scolding. John didn’t turn to see what sort of expression Nancy might conjure up in return, but the door shut and he heard the clink of glasses in the outer office.
The councillor’s seat snapped forwards when Nancy entered with a bottle.
“To your health, sir,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you and your good wife.”
John took a drink of the whiskey, trying to hide the loathing he felt for this man.
Nancy had returned to her desk; her computer keyboard clacked loudly beyond the door. John wished he’d brought one of the children with him so that he could excuse himself sooner. Yesterday, he had been sure that Marianne would understand why he had to leave, that she would forgive him, especially as he’d blamed his absence on a meeting with Foyle. But when they got into bed, she’d turned her face to the wall and drawn her knees up to her chin. He should have known that there was more to her silence than simply irritation that he’d disappeared when the movers arrived.
What glee this man must have found in catching him in a falsehood, in covering for him in his self-righteous manner: “Don’t worry, Marianne; I’m sure he’s his reasons.” And how much it would have annoyed her to have learnt that John hadn’t been in town after all, from this little man, whom she deplored. It was no wonder that her anger had carried over into this morning, that she hadn’t made him breakfast, that she’d ignored him as he wandered, lost, around the new, bare kitchen, looking for a tea bag and a slice of bread.
John finished his whiskey and put the glass down on Foyle’s desk. He realized that the county councillor had
John should have known that he couldn’t trust Foyle. He thought miserably about the crumbling chimney, about the rotten window frames, about the missing roof tiles.
“That wasn’t our agreement,” he said weakly.
“We didn’t have an agreement about the chimney, sir. We don’t have agreements about any specific improvements. If you’d like to peruse the documents again, you will see that the Office of Public Works hasn’t said what it will and will not repair. We have no particular obligations in that sense. What we do have is an agreement to build the Visitors’ Center, tarmacadam the roadway up to the house, provide you with three minibuses and drivers, staff for the kitchen, a guide for the tours, and a salary for yourself and Mr. Francis Connolly and Mrs. Mary Connolly until yous all reach retirement age. After that, sir, your son—or daughter—remains the owner, of course, but we’ve no salary obligations towards them.”
Frank Foyle pushed the final contracts a little further in John’s direction and sat back in his chair. John signed without reading. Mr. Foyle’s tongue poked out the corner of his mouth, following the direction of John’s signature across the page. When John handed the papers back, Foyle made a show of bundling them together and putting them inside a leather case.
John had never thought of his family as privileged. They had lived in a grand house, yes, but they’d had no luxuries. And yet he realized now that he had been spoilt. He had been brought up to think that there would always be enough money, magically there, because people like them always had enough. It was unthinkable that they would have to compromise themselves to accept a job they didn’t want, a job that might take them away from Dulough, a patch of Ireland they had a right to.
“Nancy!” Frank Foyle bellowed, as he put the case in the top drawer of his desk and locked it with a key that seemed much too small for his farmer’s fingers to grasp.
She came to the door.
“Yes?”
“Change those teas to whiskeys.”
“The tea’s made.”
“Tea would be fine.” John turned to Nancy and smiled.
Foyle ignored him and gave her a look somewhere between brazen lust and fatherly scolding. John didn’t turn to see what sort of expression Nancy might conjure up in return, but the door shut and he heard the clink of glasses in the outer office.
The councillor’s seat snapped forwards when Nancy entered with a bottle.
“To your health, sir,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you and your good wife.”
John took a drink of the whiskey, trying to hide the loathing he felt for this man.
Nancy had returned to her desk; her computer keyboard clacked loudly beyond the door. John wished he’d brought one of the children with him so that he could excuse himself sooner. Yesterday, he had been sure that Marianne would understand why he had to leave, that she would forgive him, especially as he’d blamed his absence on a meeting with Foyle. But when they got into bed, she’d turned her face to the wall and drawn her knees up to her chin. He should have known that there was more to her silence than simply irritation that he’d disappeared when the movers arrived.
What glee this man must have found in catching him in a falsehood, in covering for him in his self-righteous manner: “Don’t worry, Marianne; I’m sure he’s his reasons.” And how much it would have annoyed her to have learnt that John hadn’t been in town after all, from this little man, whom she deplored. It was no wonder that her anger had carried over into this morning, that she hadn’t made him breakfast, that she’d ignored him as he wandered, lost, around the new, bare kitchen, looking for a tea bag and a slice of bread.
John finished his whiskey and put the glass down on Foyle’s desk. He realized that the county councillor had
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