The Pig Goes to Hog Heaven (22 page)

Mr. Tovey seemed to give this some thought. He furrowed his brow, then said, “That should do quite well. Every Saturday Mrs. Sweeney helps bring in the cows from the far side of the mountain there. Sort of a tradition they started when they married. Come then, just before sundown, and the doors will be unlocked. Go in and find a place to hide yourself—an unused closet between the bathroom and the master bedroom …”

Convinced that the man was unhinged, possibly by his prison stay or, more likely, by a lifetime obsession he could no longer contain, Declan began and continued to unscroll invention upon invention, giving no hint that his cooperation in the plot was being manufactured spontaneously, fashioned to oblige his lordship's needs as soon as they had been made manifest. Nor did he show any pleased surprise that the date recommended by his lordship coincided perfectly with the date set for the departure of the “trespassers” to move their cows to a place down from Blarney in preparation for Kitty's teaching assignment in Cork. By sundown they would already be on their way.

“Ah, yes. The bedroom,” his lordship was saying, all the while rubbing his hands together in unrestrained glee. “That will be ideal for my brilliant presentation. Except that the wait will be rather prolonged—”

“No, no. There you're in luck again. After the cows (milked in no time by the two of them, it's another tradition), before even thinking about their evening meal, they retire to the bedroom—but not, I suspect, for sleep …”

“Say no more! Surely the gods themselves are in attendance! All is perfection. Absolute perfection. I shall enter. The candle will flicker. There will be ghostly shadows and I … and I …”

Overcome, he could go no further.

Declan, to give the man time to recover, said, “A week from Saturday, then? If that's your pleasure.”

Breathing heavily, his lordship managed to say, “Pleasure is hardly the word. I would act more quickly, but, as you can imagine, I am very much in demand in London and prefer not to disappoint. Saturday week will be excellent. Excellent. Agreed then, Tovey?”

“I'll do my best.”

“Than which there is no better. Eh, Tovey?” His lordship chose to laugh.

Declan wasted no time giving him reply. “Saturday after this it will be. At your service. Honored to oblige.”

Another laugh burst forth, this time more from the man's lordly nose than from this lordly mouth. “And if you see me, attired as I'll be, you must not believe you're seeing a ghost. Your good offices will exempt you from the horror. I will be very much who I am, prepared at last to receive what is rightfully mine.”

“As you say.” Declan made the slight bow the occasion demanded, and the interview was over.

The final fitting of the spectral raiments was being completed. For the outer coat, the justaucorps, a wine-colored velvet had been selected, not exactly a neutral color, the wine of choice being not a watery Burgundy but a virile Tuscan vintage known only to the most discriminating. A more insistent hue had been considered, but the tailor opined that this outer coat must not compete with the splendors decided upon for the inner coat, the one that buttoned only at the waist to give some prominence to the lace jabot, the frilled scarf worn at the neck of the silken shirt. Rich brocades shot through with crimson and gold, intricate embroideries not seen since the period being emulated—all were brought together in a cunning design of the tailor's own invention, providing a climax to the man's long and distinguished career, so that anyone privileged enough to behold so magnificent a spectacle would know immediately that he or she was in the presence of an individual they were not worthy to look upon.

The cuffs protruding from the sleeves of the outer coat, if less imposing, still had enough frilling to give them a distinction that competed with the jabot as to which was the more decorative. (The jabot was, but the cuffs came in a not-too-distant second.)

The outer coat, of course, flared below the waist, and its front displayed buttons that added to the desired impression of extravagance. The knee-length britches were allowed to be rather plain (no need for distraction), and the white stockings surrendered completely to the sartorial magnificence above. (The stockings had been procured from a bystreet shop dealing mostly in medical uniforms for women.) The shoes, however, were another matter, having been made by a shoemaker who boasted not only a crest but an elaborately printed statement on his card that he was, by appointment, shoemaker if not to Her Majesty, then at least to many of the courtiers who waited upon her. The shoes' modesty was rewarded by golden buckles, each easily worth the ransom of any of the courtiers mentioned above.

The wig was then put in place, the hair a bit darker and more profuse than the strands cross-combed over his lordship's balding pate. This was, after all, a disguise. His lordship had felt from the first that he was a faithful reincarnation of the long-ago Lord Shaftoe immortalized in the portrait painted by a close competitor of Gainsborough. If, as seemed likely in the painting, a wig was worn, then he, too, must sport a replica. (It had occurred to his lordship, on the previous day, that the wig did somewhat become him, and he briefly considered making it—or some portion thereof—a part of his daily attire. He'd have to think it over. Some might suspect it was not his God-given locks and be less than charitable in their response. Still, what did he care what others thought? Or said. Was he not Lord etc. etc. etc.? The decision was postponed, but he seemed inclined in favor of an even darker, thicker possibility.)

As his lordship was preening in front of the three-paneled mirror, his tailor, a man whose pretensions were even grander than any mere lord could hope to accumulate, said, “I assume your lordship is pleased.”

His lordship fluffed the jabot, trying to determine how it could cover as much of his wattled neck as possible and create the illusion that his chin was not as recessive as the one bequeathed by those illustrious ancestors already mentioned. “It will do. It will do.”

“And you feel it will influence others invited to the same event in … is it Dublin?”

“A bit outside, where there are more stately houses able to accommodate a ball so grand in scope and discriminating in its assemblage. They will be more than impressed, I have no doubt.”

The change in his lordship's tone from reluctant approval to enthusiastic endorsement was made necessary by the arrangement he had suggested to the tailor: in lieu of vulgar payment, his lordship, at a date sufficiently in advance of the great event, would display the tailor's masterpiece—which in turn would occasion a crowding of his shop, each suppliant begging for similar treatment. The tailor had raised not one but two excited eyebrows and quickly acceded to the suggestion. He had long wished for a clientele throughout the entire kingdom, which (to him as to his lordship) included a temporarily misguided but soon to be repentant Ireland, reunited to its northern counties and received again into the forgiving bosom of the Mother Country, a prodigal come home. If no fatted calf were to be slain, at least a thin-lipped welcome would be offered.

The vestments being too valuable to be trusted to a delivery service, and the apparel too unwieldy when boxed, it was decided that the tailor's assistant, himself schooled in all the courtesies needed for waiting upon someone of his lordship's prominence, would accompany the gentleman to his hotel, bring the clothing safely to his room, all the time in the company of his lordship himself, who would oversee a proper handling. The assistant would then hang the outer coat, the inner coat, the silken shirt, and the breeches in an accommodating closet, reverently fold the jabot and the stockings into a well-designed bureau, place the shoes in the closet after having brushed them with his very own sleeve. His lordship felt no need to surrender his silk boxers for similar treatment.

Viewing it all once the assistant had taken his leave at the hotel, the man barely having disguised his resentment that no monetary recognition had been made for his professionalism, his lordship was mightily pleased and had only to worry how he could possibly wait for what lay ahead Saturday week.

13

L
ittle by little, undeniable changes began to take place in the relationship of Peter the patient, silent observer and Declan the concentrated, efficient laborer. There was still the shared meal when, sitting side by side on the rock wall, Declan would force yet another chunk of bread on the shy but eager boy, or would insist that he eat his share of the oatcake baked by the Widow Quinn. The bacon or bits of cold pork chop or chicken leg were pressed upon him, along with produce from the castle garden—leeks, green beans, turnips, and tomatoes for the taking, especially after Mrs. Sweeney or Miss McCloud or whoever she was had commanded them to help themselves under pain of her displeasure. They greedily obliged. The leeks, threatened with decimation, were rescued just in time by the ripening tomatoes, which were surely the most succulent either of them had ever eaten.

But there was still little or no talk beyond Declan's gruff but quiet complaint that Peter would never grow to be a thatcher if he didn't eat more than what would keep a pipit alive. Then there arrived the day when Declan began to explain his actions: the use of the tarred twine and the various implements, the names of which Peter already knew from his book.

“And if you see any of this done any other way, it's wrong. I know only the right way and I'm telling it to you now. So you'll have it right for all time to come.”

“Yes, Mr. Tovey. And thank you—”

“That's enough. I know you're a good and grateful boy. No need to keep saying the words.”

“Yes, Mr…. I mean, I've heard and I won't forget.”

Declan made some primitive sound that Peter accepted as approval.

Then the time for their parting had come. His work finished for the day, Declan was already throwing his sack onto the seat of his truck when Peter came into the courtyard, the wheels of his bicycle grinding the gravel. He dismounted and, letting the bicycle fall to the ground, called out, “Oh, Mr. Tovey, I was so worried you'd be gone. But you're here.”

“And gone in less than a minute.”

“I've come to say goodbye, and I hope I'm allowed now to say my thanks.”

“They've been said more than enough. But why goodbye? You've given up thatching then?”

No, not at all. I'll never do a thing like that. But it's my da off in Tipperary.”

“He's not well?”

“Oh, no, he's in the best. But he's sent for me to come there. I'm to work with the horses. In Ballysheen. He has it in his mind I'm to become a jockey because I'm skinny and small.”

“That could change with the years.”

“It will. I'm sure of that. But my da, he has it in his mind, and there's nothing to be done except for me to go to him. To Ballysheen. To the horses.”

“You might like it.”

“Oh, I will. I know I will. How could I not, and me riding into the wind? But I'm still a thatcher. Or I will be. That much I know. If I didn't know it the first time I came here, I know it now after all I've seen and all you've said.”

“It will be finished here when you're back for school.”

“First thing, I'll come look.” Thrilled to be talking serious things with a master thatcher, Peter smiled and wondered if he could be so bold as to hold out his hand for a farewell shake. Mr. Tovey had moved away as if anticipating—and avoiding—any show of familiarity. He went to the large stone that marked the entryway to the courtyard, sat down, and tugged off the boot from his right foot. He wiggled the big toe poking through a hole in the thick woolen sock, almost approving its insolence in choosing this moment to put in an appearance. When he reached inside the boot, it became obvious that a stone had lodged itself, and the time had come to return it to the pebbled ground.

Peter watched as the master scraped around inside, then finally found the offending object and brought it out. Small wonder it wasn't that easy to find, a flat stone not much bigger than the protruding toenail. It was set down next to Mr. Tovey. Peter thought of asking for it, perfect as it was for being skipped across the water of the lake one valley over.

With a satisfied grunt, the master tugged the boot back on, took the stone in his hand, and stood up. For whatever reason, he rubbed it against his coat. A glint of sun caught its surface, but only for a moment. He held it out to Peter.

Peter shied back. How did Mr. Tovey know he wanted it? Now it was being rubbed between the man's thumb and forefinger. Peter had never noticed before how hard was the skin of the hand and how strong the fingers. The man stopped his rubbing and held out the stone again. “You're to have this.”

“I?” He tried not to sound too excited, but wasn't as successful as he'd hoped.

“Isn't that what I've said? Take it.”

“I'm allowed?”

Taking Peter's hand and placing the stone onto his palm, Declan said, “You're allowed.”

His manner was as gruff as it had been when Peter had first come, begging to be permitted to watch the workings of a master, pledging himself to become one himself someday. “And you needn't say thank you,” Declan added. “You've only to take it and keep it.”

Peter looked down. Slowly he, too, rubbed the stone, then stared at it. Bewildered, he said quietly, “But this isn't a stone. It's a coin. It's money.”

“And you'll keep it. And give it to the next thatcher you, as a master, might train—or to a son that might come to you someday.”

“It … It's mine?”

“It's yours.”

“But I can't—”

“You can. And you will.”

Peter squinted and gave the coin another slow rub. “Seventeen hundred eighty-five.” He raised his head. “That's a bit of a while ago,” he said softly.