Authors: Joseph O'Neill
The Savoy is only a step or two down the Strand from where I work, so there was no difficulty in meeting Mr Donovan as arranged, at one o’clock. I walked in and looked around. He had told me to look out for an old man in a wine-coloured polo-neck shirt and a grey tweed jacket. That was what he looked like, he said.
I saw someone who matched the description reading a newspaper in an armchair. What made me sure it was Mr Donovan were the hands that gripped the pages: they were like the hands of his son.
He rose with a beam across his face. Fergus Donovan was about sixty-five years old, I guessed. He looked very fit and trim, and his skin was like a yachtsman’s, darkened and flecked by the elements. His hair was white and distinguished, and his eyes were pale green, paler than his son’s. He led me briskly to our table and immediately began cross-examining the waiter about various items; finally he ordered a pamplemousse followed by a baked potato and a salad of raw cauliflower, Californian lettuce and cucumbers, a meal not offered by the menu. He ordered further that olive oil and lemon juice be brought to the table with the salad so that he could concoct his own dressing. He drank Irish mineral water.
When the waiter had gone, Mr Donovan leaned towards me with twinkling eyes, as though he were about to tell a joke. ‘Jim, I want to ask you a question. You don’t mind, do you?’
I shook my head. June was right, there was a slight transatlantic inflexion to his speech. ‘No, please do, Mr Donovan,’ I said.
‘Fergus – call me Fergus. Jim, how well do you know Michael?’
Not very well, I explained, and briefly went through the history of my relations with his son.
‘And what do you make of him?’
‘Well, he’s a fine lawyer, of course,’ I said. The question made me uncomfortable. ‘He’s a very gifted man.’
‘What else?’ Mr Donovan still wore his friendly, expectant smile. It was a grin, in fact.
‘What else? Well – I mean, he’s … he’s a remarkable person,’ I said. I could think of nothing else to say without becoming too personal.
‘He’s remarkable all right,’ Mr Donovan said vehemently. ‘He’s a remarkable dope, that’s what he is.’
Mr Donovan had a resonant voice, and his remark caused one or two heads to turn in our direction. Without changing the expression on my face I reprimanded myself. Stupid. I was stupid to accept this invitation. Look where it had got me, lunching with a crackpot.
‘Yes, well …’ I said.
‘You think I’m just a crazy old man. I know you do, I can tell by looking at your face.’ I began to make a gesture of denial but Mr Donovan waved me down. ‘But I’ve known Mikey longer than you have, and take it from me, he’s a dope. When it comes to law, maybe not. But when it comes to life, he’s got nothing but rocks in his head.’ He unfolded his napkin carefully and placed it on his lap. Then he vigorously broke up his bun, milking remarkably few crumbs, and buttered a piece. Chewing it, he said, ‘Now I don’t know much about anything.’ He spoke with his mouth full, but in a strangely wholesome and appetizing way. I crumbled my bread and took up my napkin. ‘I’m just a druggist. A quack. I’m full of bullshit, I know that. But that doesn’t disqualify me from seeing what’s in front of my nose. And you know what I see? Trouble. Trouble with a capital T.’
I said nothing to this, I just dabbed at my mouth with my napkin.
‘You know why?’ Mr Donovan said in that rhetorical, American way. ‘You know why I see trouble? Because Michael is taking charge of the whole action. He’s calling all the shots. And if I know my son, which I do, it’ll be his foot he’ll be
shooting.’ He paused in satisfaction. The waiter made a timely arrival and served the pamplemousse. I had not ordered a starter. I was watching my weight.
‘You seem to have forgotten, Mr Donovan, that when it comes to legal matters, Michael is peerless. He’s more than capable of looking after his own interests.’
Mr Donovan stopped segmenting his pamplemousse and stared at me in disbelief. ‘You really think that?’ he said. ‘Is that really what you think?’
I smiled at Donovan’s father. He obviously had no idea how skilful a lawyer his son was. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And besides, I don’t think it’s quite right to say that Michael is calling all the shots, as you put it. I am there to advise him, and I can assure you that I am not without experience in the field of matrimonial law. There’s really no need to worry, Mr Donovan,’ I said.
‘Jim, you’ll forgive me if I say this,’ Mr Donovan said, ‘but you’re exactly the push-over he said you were.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘He’s got you eating out of his hand,’ Mr Donovan said excitedly, ‘like this!’ He demonstrated with a piece of his grapefruit, popping a piece into his mouth with his fingers. ‘Look at you: you’ve allowed his big-shot reputation to intimidate you!’
I stiffened. There is a limit to how much abuse one can take.
Mr Donovan said, ‘Don’t get upset, Jim, I’m sorry I said that. I take that back.’ He looked apologetic and pushed aside his fruit. ‘I’ve got a big mouth,’ he admitted. ‘But it does strike me that you’re allowing Michael to dictate to you what the plan of action is. How do I know? Because I’ve spoken to Michael. And you know what he says about you?’
Something rolled inside my belly. Across the table, Mr Donovan was scrutinizing my face. ‘I’m not sure how that matters, Mr Donovan,’ I said.
‘He says you can be relied on to carry out his instructions.’
More food arrived. Mr Donovan decisively helped himself to a blade of butter and inserted it into the two steaming crevasses that criss-crossed his baked potato. He began
tucking into his food, swallowing and chewing with great relish. His eating habits were strikingly neat and tidy, and he forked and knifed and manipulated his food with an infectious precision. He made his potato seem delicious.
‘This may surprise you, Mr Donovan,’ I said, in what I hoped was a cutting tone of voice, ‘but the function of a solicitor is to carry out his client’s instructions. Reliably. It is not my role to decide for Michael where his interests lie.’
‘I haven’t come here to knock reliability. It’s a great quality to have, especially in a solicitor, Jim. But this situation calls for more than reliability. It calls for something extra – leadership.’ Mr Donovan put down his cutlery. ‘You see Jim, what Mikey knows-about women you could write on a postage stamp. This divorce – it’s not about law, it’s about feelings, human feelings. Now Mikey doesn’t have a clue about what to do with his feelings. He’s always been that way, ever since he was a snot-nose. When it comes to emotions, I’m telling you he couldn’t find his ass with two hands.’
Mr Donovan started eating again. ‘A few days ago I spoke to Arabella’s solicitors.’ He noticed my interest and said, ‘Yes, that’s right, Jim, Arabella, my son’s wife – soon to be my son’s ex-wife unless you people – unless something is done. They told me that you are refusing to talk to them. Is that right?’ He looked at me accusingly. ‘You’re not talking to them?’
‘That’s not quite accurate, Mr Donovan,’ I said defensively. ‘I have been in regular communication with Mrs Donovan’s solicitors. Moreover –’
He interrupted me. ‘Regular communication? Is that what you call it? You’ve been stonewalling every time her solicitor – what’s his name, Hughes – speaks to you! What’s going on, Jim? Maybe I’m stupid, Jim, maybe I’m just a dummy. That’s a distinct possibility, I’ll grant you that.’ Mr Donovan made a gesture of concession with his hands. ‘But as far as I can tell, if you were trying to smash the marriage for good, you couldn’t be going about it a better way!’
Mr Donovan took a swallow of water and started speaking in a calmer voice. The thing is, Jim, that if Michael took some
time to talk to Arabella, I’m sure this whole thing could be resolved. These silences must stop. We’ve got to start opening up the communication channels. Talking, I’m a great believer in talking.’
‘Yes,’ I said. Then, in my iciest voice, I explained that the only thing we refused to talk about with Philip Hughes was divorce. We were more than ready to talk about reconciliation.
Mr Donovan said, ‘OK, but is that smart? Believe me, Jim, it’s time to shake things up. This is serious. I promised myself I’d get over here and light a fire under your ass, so you’ll forgive me if I’ve come across a little strong. But what you’ve got to realize, Jim, is that we can’t leave this matter in my son’s hands. He’s bound to screw up, the headstrong gobshite.’
I made a discreet gesture of impatience with my eyes. The meeting was becoming most irregular.
Mr Donovan kept talking. ‘What am I driving at? I’ll tell you. Number one: be careful about following my son’s instructions. Take them’ – Mr Donovan searched around the table and then picked up the salt cellar – ‘with a pinch of this stuff. Ask him what he wants. Watch him like a hawk, he’s more deceptive than he looks. Number two: keep me informed about what’s going on. Number three: stop the divorce. Whatever you do, Jim, stop the divorce. Whatever it takes, get Arabella back. That means start reconciliations. Now. Tell Mick to say he’s sorry. Let’s have none of this standing on his honour crap, tell him to go to her on bended knee. This is no time for pride or pettiness. Jim, I can’t stress what a disaster it would be if she left my son. He would fall to pieces.’
I scratched my eyebrow sceptically. Number two, especially, was most unsatisfactory.
‘Enough said about all of that,’ Mr Donovan said. ‘I’ll leave you to think about it. You’re smart, you’ll make your own mind up about what I’ve just said.’
I said nothing. I did not want to give Mr Donovan the slightest sign of encouragement.
‘I’ll be here for some time yet,’ Mr Donovan continued. ‘If anything comes up, be sure to call me.’ He chortled. ‘Now,
what about some dessert, Jim? That trout can’t have filled you up. Mind you,’ he said, eyeing me, ‘by the looks of you you’d take some filling up.’
‘No thank you, I’m fine,’ I said coldly. If I were in better company I would certainly have considered a small pudding. Instead, I lit a cigarette.
‘Exercise. I find exercise is the key to health. Look at me, I’m seventy-three years of age. Are you going to make it to seventy-three, Jim? Ask yourself that question. And if you’re not going to make it to seventy-three, what are you going to make it to? Fifty-five? Sixty? Then ask yourself this question: how many years does that leave you with? Let’s face it, it doesn’t add up to a lot of time, does it Jim?’ He eyeballed me again, up and down, as if I were a specimen of horseflesh. ‘How old are you? Thirty-fivish? I’d say you’re well past the half-way mark.’
My neck felt tight in my collar. ‘That may well be so, Mr Donovan, but I cannot see how that has any bearing on your son’s case.’ I glanced ostentatiously at my wristwatch.
‘Golf, Jim. You know what I do with my time? I play golf. Every free morning God gives me I’m up and going at those links. Do you play golf?’
I saw that I would have to answer. ‘I have played,’ I said.
‘Well, we should have a game sometime. When I’m at home I’m on those fairways every day, rain or shine. I play Ballybunion. Do you know Ballybunion? Marvellous course. When we came back from Switzerland, my wife wanted to go back to Limerick, I wanted to move to Ballybunion. So we compromised and went to a place called Askeaton. I live in the Old Rectory there. The old wreck, I call it. My wife’s dead,’ Mr Donovan said. ‘She’s been dead for six years now.’
Mr Donovan stopped talking to think about his dead wife. After a long silence, I decided to change the subject, and then to leave as soon as the next pause in the conversation arose. ‘Switzerland, you said?’
‘That’s right. Geneva. I worked in Geneva from 1946 to 1977. Thirty-one years. I was with the Glayer Corporation –
you know, the American outfit. Nowadays they’re probably the biggest pharmaceutical company in the world, but in those days, when I joined them, they were just chickenfeed.’ Mr Donovan laughed. ‘Anti-anxiety drugs, that was my racket. Jesus, the crap people swallow these days.’ He folded his napkin into a neat triangle. ‘Mikey went to the International School. A grand school. They taught him three languages, French, Italian and German.’ He chuckled and began to boast. ‘He creamed the French at French and the Germans at German. He wiped the floor with the Italian kid at Italian. He skipped two years. He took his baccalaureate when he was sixteen.
Mention très bien
,’ Mr Donovan said proudly. Three months later he got a scholarship for Cambridge. He had a great future ahead of him. That’s what everybody said. “Fergus, your son’s got a great future.” What the hell does that mean, a great future?’
He paused to reflect and I seized my chance. I thanked Mr Donovan for the meal and rose to go. He did not just shake my hand, he gripped it. ‘Don’t forget what I said,’ he said, looking me in the eye. ‘Use your initiative. Stay in touch.’
Walking back to the office, I resolved to avoid Mr Donovan like the plague.
Two days after my meeting with Mr Donovan, events took a bizarre, if not grotesque, turn’. I was at work and Mr Lexden-Page was sitting at my desk. I was trying to dissuade him from continuing his ill-judged action against the local authority responsible for the paving-stone he claimed to have stubbed his foot on.
‘The likelihood is that your claim will be struck out as frivolous and vexatious,’ I was explaining. ‘You will be forced to pay not only your costs, but also the costs incurred by the council. I can assure you that these will not be negligible. They could easily run into thousands of pounds.’