turn my phone off?’ said Mr Morrissey. ‘I’m expecting a rather urgent call from His Grace.’
‘Not at all,’ said Dervla. ‘Shall we get down to business? Perhaps you’d like to outline my idea to Río, Mr Morrissey?’
‘Certainly’
Mr Morrissey took some papers from his briefcase, and shuffled them importantly. He wore the self-absorbed expression of an actor getting ready for his close-up, and Río couldn’t help thinking of all those Agatha Christie novels where relations gather together to hear the will of some deceased family member. ‘Oh, get on with it!’ she wanted to say. ‘I already know I’ve been cut out of the bastard’s will!’ She felt like reaching for a zapper and fast-forwarding him.
‘As you know, Ríonach,’ began Mr Morrissey, eyeing her over the rims of his glasses, ‘your father left no provision for you in his will. However, your sister is keenly aware of the injustice of this, and is prepared to gift you a portion of the estate.’
Río turned to Dervla. ‘Jesus, Dervla! That’s bloody decent of you.’
Dervla shrugged. I can’t claim that it’s entirely for altruistic reasons. I have a professional reputation to safeguard, and it’s a small town. ‘It wouldn’t do my credibility any good if word got out that I’d shafted my own sister.’
‘You didn’t shaft me. Our father did. Or rather,
your
father did. I take it that Mr Morrissey knows
why
Frank cut me out of his will.’
‘I do,’ said Mr Morrissey. ‘And you may rest assured, Ríonach, that I shall not breathe a word of your–er–paternity to anyone.’
‘That wouldn’t be difficult,’ said Río, ‘since I don’t have a clueabout my paternity myself. How many men called Patrick were living in Lissamore in the early nineteen seventies?’
Dervla shot her a warning look, and Río remembered that Mr Morrissey’s Christian name was Patrick. ‘Oops,’ she said. ‘No disrespect intended, Mr Morrissey I mean, I’m sure–um–you know–um. Sorry.’
Río was stifling an overwhelming impulse to giggle. This afternoon was turning out to be increasingly like something off a daytime soap. Maybe she’d wake up and find herself in the shower, like Bobby Ewing.
‘No apology necessary,’ burbled Mr Morrissey. ‘No, no, no.’ His ears had turned red, which made Río want to laugh even more. ‘I’m sure, Ríonach, that if you were desirous to learn the identity of your real father, it could be done. With DNA testing, nowadays—’
‘D’you know something, Mr Morrissey? At this moment in time–’ (it felt right to be saying ‘at this moment in time’ to Mr Morrissey) ‘I actually
don’t
want to learn his identity. I couldn’t bear to find out that my real father was some salaryman with halitosis.’ Oops. That was a pretty accurate description of Mr Morrissey. She’d better do some backtracking. ‘I mean, I’d really rather think of him as some heroic adventurous type who swept my mother off her feet and then–um–left Lissamore for ever when he realised she was never going to leave my father.
Your
father,’ she amended, turning to Dervla. ‘Hey! I guess this means I can’t call myself Kinsella any more. I’ll have to be just plain old Río.’
‘That could be pretty cool, Ma,’ said Finn. ‘You’d be like those famous one-name dames, like Madonna or Britney or Angelina.’
‘You need have no worries on that account,’ Mr Morrissey assured her. ‘Your surname was always and always will be Kinsella. That you have legally inherited from your–er–stepfather.’
‘Wow. At least he left me something other than destitute.’
‘Let’s get on with the matter in hand,’ said Dervla. ‘I’m sure Mr Morrissey has more pressing concerns.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mr Morrissey, checking his watch. ‘His Grace may phone at any minute.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Your sister, Dervla, Ríonach, is prepared to let you have a third of this house, on condition—’
A
‘Not at all,’ said Dervla. ‘Shall we get down to business? Perhaps you’d like to outline my idea to Río, Mr Morrissey?’
‘Certainly’
Mr Morrissey took some papers from his briefcase, and shuffled them importantly. He wore the self-absorbed expression of an actor getting ready for his close-up, and Río couldn’t help thinking of all those Agatha Christie novels where relations gather together to hear the will of some deceased family member. ‘Oh, get on with it!’ she wanted to say. ‘I already know I’ve been cut out of the bastard’s will!’ She felt like reaching for a zapper and fast-forwarding him.
‘As you know, Ríonach,’ began Mr Morrissey, eyeing her over the rims of his glasses, ‘your father left no provision for you in his will. However, your sister is keenly aware of the injustice of this, and is prepared to gift you a portion of the estate.’
Río turned to Dervla. ‘Jesus, Dervla! That’s bloody decent of you.’
Dervla shrugged. I can’t claim that it’s entirely for altruistic reasons. I have a professional reputation to safeguard, and it’s a small town. ‘It wouldn’t do my credibility any good if word got out that I’d shafted my own sister.’
‘You didn’t shaft me. Our father did. Or rather,
your
father did. I take it that Mr Morrissey knows
why
Frank cut me out of his will.’
‘I do,’ said Mr Morrissey. ‘And you may rest assured, Ríonach, that I shall not breathe a word of your–er–paternity to anyone.’
‘That wouldn’t be difficult,’ said Río, ‘since I don’t have a clueabout my paternity myself. How many men called Patrick were living in Lissamore in the early nineteen seventies?’
Dervla shot her a warning look, and Río remembered that Mr Morrissey’s Christian name was Patrick. ‘Oops,’ she said. ‘No disrespect intended, Mr Morrissey I mean, I’m sure–um–you know–um. Sorry.’
Río was stifling an overwhelming impulse to giggle. This afternoon was turning out to be increasingly like something off a daytime soap. Maybe she’d wake up and find herself in the shower, like Bobby Ewing.
‘No apology necessary,’ burbled Mr Morrissey. ‘No, no, no.’ His ears had turned red, which made Río want to laugh even more. ‘I’m sure, Ríonach, that if you were desirous to learn the identity of your real father, it could be done. With DNA testing, nowadays—’
‘D’you know something, Mr Morrissey? At this moment in time–’ (it felt right to be saying ‘at this moment in time’ to Mr Morrissey) ‘I actually
don’t
want to learn his identity. I couldn’t bear to find out that my real father was some salaryman with halitosis.’ Oops. That was a pretty accurate description of Mr Morrissey. She’d better do some backtracking. ‘I mean, I’d really rather think of him as some heroic adventurous type who swept my mother off her feet and then–um–left Lissamore for ever when he realised she was never going to leave my father.
Your
father,’ she amended, turning to Dervla. ‘Hey! I guess this means I can’t call myself Kinsella any more. I’ll have to be just plain old Río.’
‘That could be pretty cool, Ma,’ said Finn. ‘You’d be like those famous one-name dames, like Madonna or Britney or Angelina.’
‘You need have no worries on that account,’ Mr Morrissey assured her. ‘Your surname was always and always will be Kinsella. That you have legally inherited from your–er–stepfather.’
‘Wow. At least he left me something other than destitute.’
‘Let’s get on with the matter in hand,’ said Dervla. ‘I’m sure Mr Morrissey has more pressing concerns.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mr Morrissey, checking his watch. ‘His Grace may phone at any minute.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Your sister, Dervla, Ríonach, is prepared to let you have a third of this house, on condition—’
A
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