Kelly’s graveside, had been hugged and thanked by all the Kellys, and admitted to the clan. The priest, Father Michael Cassidy, had also blessed him for it.
The confrontation at Talbot Place had been terrible, such was Colonel Henry’s rage. He’d slapped Justin across the face, called him a damn traitor, and Jean had pulled her father off andcalled him a bully and a bigot. Justin had shouted at him, called him a Prod bastard, and said he would join the IRA if he only could. Every servant in the house had heard it. Jean Talbot and her son left for London within the hour. There was a long break for a while. Eventually, Mary Ellen smoothed things over, but Jean visited rarely after that. Her gradual success with her painting, the fact that she’d been commissioned to do a portrait of the Queen Mother, meant nothing to her father.
With Justin, it was different. He was, after all, the heir, and when he chose Sandhurst Royal Military Academy instead of university, and embarked on an army career, the Colonel had been delighted.
Justin made one thing clear, though. After finishing at Sandhurst and joining the Grenadier Guards, he’d visited the Kilmartin Arms and given his oath to Jack Kelly that he would never fight against them in Ulster.
In any event, there was enough happening elsewhere to keep him occupied. Jean knew that he’d flown for the Army Air Corps, helicopters and light aircraft all over the world. She also knew that he’d served with the SAS, but only because—many years earlier when he’d been spending a week’s leave with her in Mayfair—a dispatch rider had delivered an envelope. A recall to duty at once, Justin had told her, and had gone off to pack leaving the letter on the desk in the study. She’d read it, of course, and discovered for the first time that he was serving with 22 SAS. She hadn’t mentioned it; there was no point as he hadn’t told her.
* * *
Not that it mattered now. All that was over. Afghanistan had seen to it, and he had survived, covered with glory, wounded and decorated and alive, which was something to be thankful for these days. The business trips to Pakistan and the North-West Frontier were only something to do. He needed action of some sort, it was his nature, and she’d long since come to terms with the fact that women were something he could never take seriously.
So here she was back at the Place again because of a call from Hannah Kelly, the housekeeper, to tell her Colonel Henry’d had another bad turn, and that was something you couldn’t ignore where a ninety-five-year-old man was concerned. She’d flown over at once, seen him with Dr Larry Ryan, and there was little comfort from him. One of these days, the bad turn would carry Colonel Henry off, and perhaps that would be in his own best interests, but not this time. So, she faced the prospect of a miserable day or so with a half-mad old man in his dotage, shouting one insult after another at the servants, in language out of the gutter, sitting in his wheelchair in that conservatory that was like a miniature jungle, a decanter of Cognac and a glass on the cane table beside him.
She looked at her watch and saw with a start that she’d been sitting there a long time. She rose, dreading the return to the house, and then like a miracle, her mobile sounded as she started down the track to the house, and Nell barked frantically. ‘It’s me,’ Justin told her. ‘I’ve just got off the plane at Heathrow, tried you in London and got your message. How is he?’
‘Still with us and even more dreadful than usual. How was your trip?’
‘Wonderful. There’s so much going on up there on the border; loads of companies vying with one another. The war inflates everything; it’s like a bad movie. You’re lucky to get a hotel bed. I’ve got to call in at the office, meet with Sir Hedley and inform him how things went.’
She was disappointed. ‘I was so hoping to see you.’
‘So you shall. I’ll drive out
The confrontation at Talbot Place had been terrible, such was Colonel Henry’s rage. He’d slapped Justin across the face, called him a damn traitor, and Jean had pulled her father off andcalled him a bully and a bigot. Justin had shouted at him, called him a Prod bastard, and said he would join the IRA if he only could. Every servant in the house had heard it. Jean Talbot and her son left for London within the hour. There was a long break for a while. Eventually, Mary Ellen smoothed things over, but Jean visited rarely after that. Her gradual success with her painting, the fact that she’d been commissioned to do a portrait of the Queen Mother, meant nothing to her father.
With Justin, it was different. He was, after all, the heir, and when he chose Sandhurst Royal Military Academy instead of university, and embarked on an army career, the Colonel had been delighted.
Justin made one thing clear, though. After finishing at Sandhurst and joining the Grenadier Guards, he’d visited the Kilmartin Arms and given his oath to Jack Kelly that he would never fight against them in Ulster.
In any event, there was enough happening elsewhere to keep him occupied. Jean knew that he’d flown for the Army Air Corps, helicopters and light aircraft all over the world. She also knew that he’d served with the SAS, but only because—many years earlier when he’d been spending a week’s leave with her in Mayfair—a dispatch rider had delivered an envelope. A recall to duty at once, Justin had told her, and had gone off to pack leaving the letter on the desk in the study. She’d read it, of course, and discovered for the first time that he was serving with 22 SAS. She hadn’t mentioned it; there was no point as he hadn’t told her.
* * *
Not that it mattered now. All that was over. Afghanistan had seen to it, and he had survived, covered with glory, wounded and decorated and alive, which was something to be thankful for these days. The business trips to Pakistan and the North-West Frontier were only something to do. He needed action of some sort, it was his nature, and she’d long since come to terms with the fact that women were something he could never take seriously.
So here she was back at the Place again because of a call from Hannah Kelly, the housekeeper, to tell her Colonel Henry’d had another bad turn, and that was something you couldn’t ignore where a ninety-five-year-old man was concerned. She’d flown over at once, seen him with Dr Larry Ryan, and there was little comfort from him. One of these days, the bad turn would carry Colonel Henry off, and perhaps that would be in his own best interests, but not this time. So, she faced the prospect of a miserable day or so with a half-mad old man in his dotage, shouting one insult after another at the servants, in language out of the gutter, sitting in his wheelchair in that conservatory that was like a miniature jungle, a decanter of Cognac and a glass on the cane table beside him.
She looked at her watch and saw with a start that she’d been sitting there a long time. She rose, dreading the return to the house, and then like a miracle, her mobile sounded as she started down the track to the house, and Nell barked frantically. ‘It’s me,’ Justin told her. ‘I’ve just got off the plane at Heathrow, tried you in London and got your message. How is he?’
‘Still with us and even more dreadful than usual. How was your trip?’
‘Wonderful. There’s so much going on up there on the border; loads of companies vying with one another. The war inflates everything; it’s like a bad movie. You’re lucky to get a hotel bed. I’ve got to call in at the office, meet with Sir Hedley and inform him how things went.’
She was disappointed. ‘I was so hoping to see you.’
‘So you shall. I’ll drive out
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