NOVELIST FISHER'S FACES in A GREEN ISLAND IN A BLACK SEA (Amazon's Kindle Library, 2013) PART TWO

NOVELIST FISHER’S FACES in

A GREEN ISLAND IN A BLACK SEA (Amazon’s Kindle, 2013)

PART TWO

James R. Fisher, Jr., Ph.D.

© August 22, 2014

Devlin’s Irish immigrant grandparents

Maria Elizabeth Coyne, 28, and Fletcher Francis O’Farrell, 29, both single, came to the United States on January 3, 1903 from the fishing village of Ballhaonon in Dingle Bay on the western coast of Ireland outside the six counties of Northern Ireland. 

They were passengers on board The Emerald Sea, and became acquainted while making the seventeen-day Atlantic Sea crossing.  Totally on a whim, they decided while being processed on Ellis Island in New York City to face the new world together.

Maria had been a seamstress making fine garments for the affluent ladies of Donegal; Fletcher had worked on the railroad; both their parents were dead, having died of old age a little early from the hardships of the fisherman’s life, not from the infamous potato famine of mid-nineteenth century Ireland.

With no special skills, they conceded to a common destiny, as it was not exceptional for people of their class to be single at an advanced age, or if married to represent a pragmatic solution to a shared plight.

Fletcher Francis O’Farrell

Fletcher was big boned and tall with chiseled features on a ruddy complexion, a pug nose as if he once had been a boxer, carrying 224 pounds on his six-two frame giving him the appearance of a much thinner man.  He had hands the size of catcher mitts, wore a size thirteen shoe and a 16 ½ inch collar and 38 inch sleeve length with an extra-long 46 size jacket and pants 34x36.  He was considered a big man for his time, and especially so for an Irishman.

His disposition was quiet and unassuming, a listener more than a talker, again atypical for an Irishman of his class.  His overt zeal was to come to America and have a family; his covert passion was for his Roman Catholic faith.  Privacy defined him.  He never swore, never raised his voice, not even when he was disturbed, but would simply retire into himself.  

He was an Irishman who had no trouble with prohibition as he didn’t drink, not even wine.  He feared if he drank and ever got drunk his demons would come out and cause him certain trouble and that of any man who got in his way.  His only vice was cigarettes, which was a costly habit smoking sometimes three packs of American Camel cigarettes a day.

Maria Elizabeth Coyne

Maria was a slip of a woman, only four-ten and less than 100 pounds.  It was strange to see her with Fletcher for while he looked like a tower of granite she resembled a delicate bird of plaster Paris ready to crumble into dust.  Appearances can be deceiving.  

It was Maria who was strong, determined, resolute and unyielding, ready to take on the world on her terms with no apologies, whereas it was Fletcher who was tentative and circumspect.  She was hardened with resolve to accept life’s ups and downs, as she had had much experience with them, being disposed to embrace rather than retreat from them.  

Moreover, as Fletcher was given to melancholy and depression, she found them luxuries she could not afford.  He liked order that always seemed beyond his grasp while she considered herself like a pig in shit in chaos choosing to make the most of it.

Despite these differences, perhaps because of them, they were finding inchoate happiness in the warmth of each other’s personalities. 

She, like Fletcher, was a practicing Catholic, but not with the same blind fervor.  Nor was she so set on principles or the disciplinarian ways that seemed to rule him.  

She was for fun and sensed that Fletcher wouldn’t recognize it if it fell into his lap.  It was clear he was hard on himself, which she imagined could find him unduly strict, but she was sure you’d never doubt where he stood or on what basis.  He was boring but she could use a little of that in her life. 

The way she pranced about and the vigor with which she did so might suggest she was a woman of the world.  Maria had never been with a man and Fletcher had never been with a woman.  They were in virgin territory in more ways than one.  

They would marry and have one daughter, Cecilia Marie Farrell, born on “All Saints Day,” December 2, 1920, at a time when her mother had given up the idea of children at the age of forty-five.  When Cecilia was twelve, at the age of 57, Maria would die leaving Fletcher to raise his daughter.

Cecilia Marie Farrell

Thanks to his frugality, Fletcher was able to send Cecilia to St. Mary’s Academy in Davenport, Iowa, the most prestigious private Catholic girls’ high school on Iowa’s east coast, which was only 38 miles from Crescent City.  

Neither Fletcher nor Maria had gone beyond grammar school in Ireland.

In a daring outing, Cecilia’s senior year, along with two girlfriends, two weeks before graduation, they crashed a speakeasy in Chicago.  There she met Duncan Devlin, a hard drinking, fast talking, funny, fun loving, good looking, sharp dressing dandy, who swept her off her feet.  

She stayed in Chicago with him over the weekend, while her girlfriends went back to Crescent City for the weekend.

Duncan Devlin

Cecilia returned to Crescent City with Duncan while he boarded with his Aunt Annie O’Dea, and Cecilia went home as if coming from the academy.  

Once home, she played the devoted daughter while her father prepared to go on the road, inviting Duncan to her bed once he was on the road. 

It was considered decadent to behave as lovers, but they threw caution to the wind, Cecilia however tossing Duncan out of bed before morning light, as neighbors never knew.  Cecilia found this deception delicious and much fun, while Duncan had never known a girl of her class, deciding to enjoy her until she tired of him.

At Thanksgiving 1937, she told Duncan she was four months pregnant, and that she had to tell her father.  He was delighted with the idea of being a father as he had had a bad case of the mumps when he was thirteen, and thought himself sterile.  Meeting Cecilia’s father was quite another matter.

Fletcher Francis Farrell

When told of her condition, Fletcher’s immediate reaction was joy and sadness, joy at being a grandfather, and sadness with being saddled to a shanty Irishman.  

“I thought I was rid of these cock ups when I left Ireland,” he said in defeat.  “Here I find one on my doorstep.”  Then turning towards his daughter whom he worshiped, “One thing I know for sure he’s not for you.  He'll be gone before you know it.  He’d be dangerous if he had half a brain.”

Fletcher was confident his intelligent daughter, and excellent student, would see Duncan Devlin for what he was.  He didn’t know Devlin at all, and had no idea that he had grown up in Crescent City, lived with his maternal grandmother, gone to school at St. Patrick’s, a drop out in the seventh grade, having lost his mother when he was born in Cook County Hospital in Chicago, with his father taking off never to be seen again.

Parentless though he be, even if Fletcher knew this, he would still see him as another Irish American wastrel that gave the Irish a bad name.  What most people thought of the Irish made him sad.  He did everything to change that opinion, then it all goes up in smoke with the arrival of Duncan Devlin.  Mother of God, he moaned, what am I to do?

Duncan Devlin

Duncan loved Chicago, the city of his birth, and hated Crescent City with a passion.  Life was great, uncomplicated until Cecilia came into the club, looked at him on the other side of the room, smoking a cigarette coquettishly, and winked at him.  

She was blond and beautiful, petite and bouncy with hair the color of Iowa corn, and eyes as blue as a summer’s sky.  He rushed across the room, then hesitated for some reason, deciding to let her control the moment.  She did.  

She introduced herself and her girlfriends, and said, “My girlfriends think you’re cute.  I haven’t decided,” and then giggled like a child.  He grew weak in the knees and knew he was out of his depth, his league, but clearly she was inviting him to join it.

Was Cecilia’s father right, was he a shiftless dandy?  Hell yes, why not?  You live only once.  He made no attempt to charm her father, as she ruled the roost.  

All he had to do to keep her interested was to stay dangerously unpredictable, and that had never been a problem.  He was everything her father wasn’t and it was clear she worshiped him.  That made his head hurt.  He hoped he was around when the baby was born.

Alexander Carter in Johannesburg, South Africa

Known as “Alex,” was from Pretoria and in Johannesburg for a day of shopping.  She completed the day by visiting her best friend, Heather Matthews.  

In the warmth of the Matthews’ sitting room with matching glasses of absinthe in hand, Alex indulged her favorite sport, gossip.

The lady from Pretoria had no children, was recently divorced with a multimillion Rand settlement from her lawyer husband with men, as always, on her mind.  She presently had time on her hands, no steady boyfriend, and was poised to catch up on the chinwag on Heather’s Americans.

The twenty-eight year old former model had flaxen hair curled around her sharp-features and seashell ears, and had an exaggerated bust line that was loosely contained in an open pink shirt with a lavishly wrought platinum necklace complemented by a knee length black skirt that showed off her legs in black lace stockings in a filigree pattern.   

The ensemble was completed with her feet encased in stylish high heel black shoes with platinum buckles.  Her lips were painted chalk white, while her dark blue eyes were framed in blue eye shadow and enhanced with dark blue eyelashes, giving her a haunting come hither look.

Heather forgave Alex these rococo excesses as her girlfriend was always on the make.

Sir Williams Trenchard in Johannesburg, South Africa

The South African home of Sir William of the English Lord was located in Regency Park in northeastern Johannesburg.  

The occasion was the celebration of his and Lady Anne’s launching of their new play, “John Donne Resurrected,” which was to appear on the London stage in November.  

The Devlin’s and Matthews’ were invited to this dinner, along with diplomats, bankers, investors, academics, the British South African aristocracy and captains of South Africa industry.  There were no Afrikaners.

Sir Williams resembled, to Devlin’s mind, a Bengal tiger with features on a grand scale in a medium sized frame.  

He had a handsome face with the stiffness of military command that Devlin sensed was once his charge in India.  

His eyes were laser beams of passion that seemed to take in everything and were tinged with green, and sparkled with radiance as he greeted each of his chosen dinner guests. 

A Swahili, Devlin’s size, was the greeter, announcing them as they handed him their invitation:

 “Mr. Seamus Devlin and his wife Sarah, Mr. Martin Matthews and his wife, Heather.  

Devlin knew Sarah was eating this up like a thousand calorie dessert, while Heather seemed to be taking it all in stride.

Dabney Marshall at Sir Williams

Devlin noticed lights flooding down the curving staircase as he climbed to the dining room, being silhouetted by a figure in evening attire that was slowly descending to meet them.  

He was a tall, loose-limb young man not much older than Devlin with dark tousled unkempt hair, bruised cheekbones, bloodshot eyes, ruddy cheeks, and a well lived in face with contours of edgy wrinkles.  Too much sun, too many cigarettes, or too much booze, Devlin reflected.  

He was smoking a cigarette now and made no attempt to remove it from his wide full-lipped face as he smoke like an American gangster from films.

“I’m Dabney Marshall," he proclaimed, "got here early to avoid the rush, only other American, I take it.”   Devlin looked at him startled, wondering what that was supposed to mean. 

Then noting Devlin’s mystifying look added, “I’m with ITI, Lucky Williams boss.”  Em, Lucky had mentioned the Devlin's to his boss.  Pity Lucky, Devlin thought, working for this man..

Norton William James at Sir Williams

Across the room, Devlin was mesmerized by a man entering the formal dining room.  He was darkly handsome, bearded, but not severely so, in full evening attire, tie-pin and watch chain glistening, the thumb of one white kid-glove hand resting on his cummerbund, while the other swung a cane in slow hypnotic silent arcs beside him.  

Devlin was frozen at attention to his every move as a private smile sliced across the man’s patrician lips, as he acknowledged Devlin to his embarrassment.  

It was as if the embodiment of Empire was personified and on display in all its decadence.  

The man stopped, looked Devlin in the eye, bowed, and tipped his cane.  Devlin felt like a peeping tom discovered as a voyeur. 

Shortly thereafter, Devlin felt a disturbing shock as he felt a hand resting gently on his shoulder.  

“I’m Norton James of ICI’s London’s digs, and you are, I take it, the young American who is going to make us all very rich.”

“Pardon?” Devlin shuddered as he rose to shake the man’s hand, only to feel the man's hand again on his shoulder gently having him remain seated.  He took little comfort in this Brit looming over him.

“They tell me it is you who is putting this clambake together, our horribly incompetent affiliate, the Stone Age specialty chemical division of African Explosives, and your pristine exquisite subsidiary.  I don’t even know your name, but the description of you is so accurate that I knew who you were as soon as I saw you.”

He took out a cigarette from a silver case and offered one to Devlin.  He shook his head.  Then the man smiled blandly, as he lit his cigarette with his Ronson lighter.  “Some of your admirers call you ‘angel face.’  I see what they mean.”

Devlin ignored this assessment, but instead introduced himself, offering his hand, “I’m Dirk Devlin, everyone calls me Devlin.”

James reached down, removing his glove, and took his hand, and held it.  “How odd, don’t you think, to go by your surname?”  

Devlin made an attempt to remove this strange man's hand, when James touched his cane to his chest.  

“I’ve a terrible confession to make.  You’ll think me so terribly uncouth.  I know your name, knew you preferred Devlin, and right now you must think me horribly wicked.  Can you forgive me?”

When Devlin failed to respond, James raised his cane hand to his bearded chin, and appraised Devlin.  

“My informants missed you completely.  They missed your adamant spirit, your no nonsense approach.  They also missed that steel in your eyes."

 

James took an elegant drag on his cigarette, and blew the smoke away from Devlin.  

“I can see how that could happen.  You’re neither into small talk nor of looking people in the eye.  You don’t go for all that folderol, do you?  

"Some might take that as weakness, but you don’t care how they take it or what they think.  See how busy my agents have been?  

"Now be honest, aren’t you a bit squeamish about all this clandestine attention?”

Devlin did not answer.  How could he?  The man was like a book speaking to him from this house’s august library.

“Yes,” James continued, tapping another cigarette out of his silver case, and depositing the butt in a small silver container, which disappeared into his coat pocket.  Devlin noticed the initials on the cigarette case, N.W.J.  

Reading Devlin’s expression, he said, “It was a gift from my mother.  She is a history don at Oxford in Cambridge, and an authority on William the Conqueror, need I say more?”  He waited.  

Devlin finally moved to speak but James resumed filling the void.  

“I suppose she hoped I might conquer something before bloody old England expired.” 

The man’s public school voice was akin to Martin’s, making him aware of how crude American English sounded against this elocution.  

Close up James appeared more a contemporary of HB than of him and Martin, but James wore his confidence on his sleeve, HB in his head.  Yet, he felt naked before the man.

Reading Devlin’s unease, James added, “Sorry, old sport, to upset you with this intelligence report.”  

What gives him that idea, or that sense of power over him, Devlin thought, masking his anger, as always, in silence.

“In any case, you’ll be happy to know I’m not MI-5.”  He registered a dramatic pause, hoping to render a chuckle from Devlin, when none came, he resumed haughtily, 

“I said we had not met before, which of course is true, but my man Cavendish has met you, described you to the pence, but missed your steel.  I suspect he will pay for that slight.”

“You’re over BAF?”  Devlin waxed innocent, deciding two could play this game.

“That’s right, out ICI’s London digs as I said.  I’m Cavendish’s minder.  I feel for him in this assignment now that I’ve met you.  

"He’s ambitious to the tens, but doesn’t care much for homework.”  He paused to take another puff on his cigarette, then added, “I suspect you are all about homework, am I right?”

“If you mean doing the job I’m paid to do, the answer is yes.”

He laughed.  “I don’t suspect Cavendish will be a member of your inner sanctum.”  

He extinguished his cigarette, and repeated the ritual of stamping out the butt, and depositing it in the silver container, and then resumed his soliloquy.  “Don’t you agree?”

Devlin answered in silence.  Silence was his secret weapon, and he had come to use it with the skill of a surgeon.  

Norton James seemed oblivious to the fact that he failed to respond to a single one of his questions.  James was pomp and circumstance without the music shrouded in atavism and anachronism.  Devlin hoped he couldn't read this in his silence.    

“Pity,” James continued.  “We Brits are an obvious ruin willingly being exploited by our American cousins without rancor or fanfare.  My Cavendish is into resurrecting British honor and glory without seeing the lay of the land I should wonder.”

 

To Devlin’s relief, Sir Williams tapped a glass to get their attention, inviting everyone to go to their designated places for dinner.  With that James waved his cane in departure.  “I enjoyed our seminar, and plan on taking your advice.”

“But Norton I didn’t give you any advice.”

“Sure you did.  Your silence spoke volumes.”

*     *     *