Marian pointed out landmarks, towers on small hills and when they came to the corner she said, ‘And that’s Fernscourt . . . they say it’s going to be . . .’
‘I bought it. It’s mine,’ he said quickly.
‘Of
course
, they said you’d be here soon. How stupid of me not to recognise it must have been you, I thought you were another tourist. Well, well, what a beautiful place you’ve got for yourself, Mr O’Neill, and will you be making a home of it, or what?’
‘I’m going to be the opposition, Miss Johnson,’ he said simply. ‘I’m going to build a hotel. I don’t know whether we will be exactly in competition or not; I feel sure that we will be going for different markets. But what I was hoping was that we might be able to cooperate . . . If you wanted to expand your riding school say, and incorporate some of the guests from Fernscourt . . . ?’ He looked at her openly and eagerly.
It was very honest of him to come right out and say it straight, she thought. Another man might have sniffed around her hotel to steal a few ideas before declaring his hand.
‘Do you know anything about the hotel business?’ she asked.
‘I have one small motel in New Jersey. I bought it really for tax purposes, so I’m not what you’d call experienced. But I have bars and restaurants, so I guess you could say I know something about what the public wants. Only the New York public mind you, but New York is pretty cosmopolitan, and it might be a good sample of what all kinds of people want.’ He wasn’t only after the Americanpackage-tour business, he explained, he wanted local people to feel involved. It was to be their place too. Too long the walls of Fernscourt had kept them out. For nearly a hundred and fifty years the real Irish people of the parish had been refused access to places that rightly belonged to them. That wouldn’t be the way any more.
‘I don’t think people were refused access,’ Marian said. ‘It’s been a ruin for years. It belonged to the Land Commission, didn’t it? We used to go there on picnics when I was a girl.’
‘No, I mean before that, when the Ferns were there, barring everyone from their door.’
Marian was cheerfully vague about that side of things. ‘Did they? How stupid of them. They were gone long before my time, of course, but I think my father remembers them. He used to play bridge with someone called Fern. But it mightn’t have been them, the people from the house. It could have been a cousin or something.’
Patrick was slightly irritated by this affectionate view. He thought that perhaps Marian had been overprotected and didn’t really know the story of the big house. After all, the Johnsons were Catholics, Patrick had seen the Infant of Prague in the hall and there was a picture of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour in the bedroom where he had laid his case. Suddenly the tiredness of last night began to reach him. His eyes felt heavy.
‘Do you think it’s a possibility . . . our getting together over some aspects of the tourist trade?’ he asked Marian.
‘I see unlimited possibilities,’ said Marian, running her tongue lightly across her lower lip and thinking that life was looking up.
4
Now that he was here they all claimed to have been the first to meet him and the one who knew him best. Those who had been telling stories only hours ago about the certainty of the nuns or the agricultural research institute were now eager to tell how they had known all along that it was going to be a hotel. The possibilities of a big tourist undertaking were legion. Patrick O’Neill was said to have told people that this was going to be his home, and his home would be open three hundred and sixty-five days a year, no closing down in the winter leaving the boys and girls to find some other jobs for the long harsh wet months from September to Easter.
Judy Byrne was peeved to note that he had been spotted riding horses with Marian Johnson in the morning light. That was
‘I bought it. It’s mine,’ he said quickly.
‘Of
course
, they said you’d be here soon. How stupid of me not to recognise it must have been you, I thought you were another tourist. Well, well, what a beautiful place you’ve got for yourself, Mr O’Neill, and will you be making a home of it, or what?’
‘I’m going to be the opposition, Miss Johnson,’ he said simply. ‘I’m going to build a hotel. I don’t know whether we will be exactly in competition or not; I feel sure that we will be going for different markets. But what I was hoping was that we might be able to cooperate . . . If you wanted to expand your riding school say, and incorporate some of the guests from Fernscourt . . . ?’ He looked at her openly and eagerly.
It was very honest of him to come right out and say it straight, she thought. Another man might have sniffed around her hotel to steal a few ideas before declaring his hand.
‘Do you know anything about the hotel business?’ she asked.
‘I have one small motel in New Jersey. I bought it really for tax purposes, so I’m not what you’d call experienced. But I have bars and restaurants, so I guess you could say I know something about what the public wants. Only the New York public mind you, but New York is pretty cosmopolitan, and it might be a good sample of what all kinds of people want.’ He wasn’t only after the Americanpackage-tour business, he explained, he wanted local people to feel involved. It was to be their place too. Too long the walls of Fernscourt had kept them out. For nearly a hundred and fifty years the real Irish people of the parish had been refused access to places that rightly belonged to them. That wouldn’t be the way any more.
‘I don’t think people were refused access,’ Marian said. ‘It’s been a ruin for years. It belonged to the Land Commission, didn’t it? We used to go there on picnics when I was a girl.’
‘No, I mean before that, when the Ferns were there, barring everyone from their door.’
Marian was cheerfully vague about that side of things. ‘Did they? How stupid of them. They were gone long before my time, of course, but I think my father remembers them. He used to play bridge with someone called Fern. But it mightn’t have been them, the people from the house. It could have been a cousin or something.’
Patrick was slightly irritated by this affectionate view. He thought that perhaps Marian had been overprotected and didn’t really know the story of the big house. After all, the Johnsons were Catholics, Patrick had seen the Infant of Prague in the hall and there was a picture of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour in the bedroom where he had laid his case. Suddenly the tiredness of last night began to reach him. His eyes felt heavy.
‘Do you think it’s a possibility . . . our getting together over some aspects of the tourist trade?’ he asked Marian.
‘I see unlimited possibilities,’ said Marian, running her tongue lightly across her lower lip and thinking that life was looking up.
4
Now that he was here they all claimed to have been the first to meet him and the one who knew him best. Those who had been telling stories only hours ago about the certainty of the nuns or the agricultural research institute were now eager to tell how they had known all along that it was going to be a hotel. The possibilities of a big tourist undertaking were legion. Patrick O’Neill was said to have told people that this was going to be his home, and his home would be open three hundred and sixty-five days a year, no closing down in the winter leaving the boys and girls to find some other jobs for the long harsh wet months from September to Easter.
Judy Byrne was peeved to note that he had been spotted riding horses with Marian Johnson in the morning light. That was
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