The office was closed for the weekend. Outside people walked around, minding their own business in the way that people do, going here, there, and everywhere. Hands in pockets and eyes to the ground. A sullen parade of toing and froing.
Inside the office, finishing off the last little bits of paperwork sat a rather large, flabby-necked man in a grey suit. It was Friday, so he was wearing a red tie. This was his custom, a way of letting the staff know that the weekend was soon on them and then they could go out and enjoy themselves, while he, being a fun and happy sort of man, wanted them to see that he too was ready for a lot of fun that never quite happened, indeed, never went above and beyond the red tie he put on every Friday morning. The rest of the staff needed no coloured item of clothing to be fun-filled or exciting. They knew how to really have fun.
Now, it was Friday evening, and the office had closed, and the last few members of staff lingered, finishing those impertinent last-minute jobs that never seemed to respect the clock on the wall, and rather boorishly insisted on being sorted before they punched the card on the way out. The fat man, known to all as Mr Murtagh, was also working on such important work that could not be put away for the weekend and completed on Monday.
Earlier that afternoon, the firm old, and not too unfrightening figure of Mr. Albie Lennox, who had ruled over the village of Carnboy for decades by virtue of being the last remaining member of the Anglo-Irish family who had lived in the demesne upon which the village had been erected, so that the locals had places to live, so long as they either paid rent, or worked for the demesne, and in the manner of all such villages, the locals fawned over their wealthy masters until the war of independence.
At that point in history, the local IRA had gone to burn them all out, but Mr Sugden Lennox, father of Albie Lennox, and known as “the black lord” by virtue of his fierce love of gambling, drinking, whoring, and a fierce temper which led to his fighting, beating and even shooting anyone who dare slight him, stood at the front door and vowed to personally flay anyone who set fire to his home, and since most of the IRA men were locals knew him to be good to his word, they left.
Of course, he was no supporter of the Tans, or even the British government, and began funding the local boys and providing them with weapons and safe places away from the Crown’s forces. So, he became a local legend. His son dined out on that legend, and like many children who have parents with a large reputation, he was not able to live up to it, but would say things like “you don’t want to see the famous Lennox temper, no do you?” Or other such nonsense. Which made little sense, for his father got his temper from his mother and not the Lennox side of the family. The Lennoxes’ temper was always more docile and somewhat dim.
Age had made him look the part that he often played, and as his friends had all died, and as the world he knew faded into memory, replaced by a world that was bright, garish, and with none of the niceties of society that he had known as a youth in the 30s and 40s, he began to become a little less patient and tolerant of others.
He arrived at the offices with much ceremony and pomp.
Mr. Murtagh rushed to the door, getting everyone to line up in the manner you see people lining up at a factory when the King visits them for some PR stunt.
‘Come now, everyone, line up neatly, he’ll be in any minute now.’ He said in a panicked fashion.
They all got into place in terms of seniority and length of service. Mr Murtagh rushed out, making a sandwich boy hold the door open for them. Then in he came, with Mr Murtagh hot on his heels.
He introduced each member of staff, and Mr Lennox shook their hand and greeted them as if this was the best day of their lives. Stopping to talk to the pretty girls who acted as assistants to those who did the real work of the company, he then went into Mr Murtagh’s office and sat down in Mr Murtagh’s large red leather chair, leaving Mr Murtagh with no choice but to sit on the wrong side of the desk.
Nobody else would get away with such a move. In fact, nobody else would do that but Mr Lennox who acted under the assumption that since the village was built on his family’s land, every building in it, and ergo this very office, was his.
‘Well,’ he said as soon as Mr Murtagh sat down. ‘I have been thinking.’
Mr Murtagh took out a pen and notepad, ready to begin writing down his instructions.
‘In my wilder days, when I was a younger man... I fell in love.’
He watched Mr Murtagh’s face to see if he would display any emotion, but Mr Murtagh’s face was a mask of inscrutability.
‘Yes, I fell in love with a girl, who was much younger than I. I was a rowdy 29-year-old, starting out in life and business and she was a typist, in the law firm I worked for... yes, yes... they employed typists then. A pretty girl of 19, who seemed worldly-wise, more so than me in many ways.’
He looked out the window as if it was a portal through time.
‘Oh, she was beautiful, that girl. And did she know how to make a man wild with passion? But, alas, such things were not meant to be. It was 1956, and life was all the harder than despite being easier. You see, everyone had a place and a role and we all knew it. But when you fell for someone who was not from the correct place it was a lot harder to have a proper relationship.’
‘I had to give her up, do you see? My father would not allow it. He would not have it and insisted that I let her go. Of course, it was terribly hard, and while my father thought we were just having fun, and I was sowing my wild oats, then it was all good. But then the daftest thing happened. I fell for her, and she fell for me, and my plan was to marry her. I would have married her.’
Here, he suddenly looked terribly saddened and despite his age, which was nearly 100, it was the first time that he looked truly old and feeble. His lip quivered as he got near to sobbing, and he wiped his face with a large white cloth.
Mr Murtagh looked away, not wanting to embarrass his illustrious client. He felt uncomfortable with tears as a rule, of course, but when the person crying had the power to ruin his business, he was more than awkward about it. He waited in silence, looking at his hand while he waited for Mr Lennox to gather himself.
‘I would have married her, but it was not to be. My father reminded me that I had a job, as the oldest surviving son of his, to our family, its name, honour and reputation. Oh, it was perfectly fine, to boff some silly little girl for a bit of sport. But to marry her and bring her blood into our lineage like we were some kind of racehorse... it was all daft. But you didn’t say no to Daddy. Daddy didn’t like to be defied so, well I... I broomed her.’
He looked ashamed.
Mr Murtagh remained blank.
‘Yes, and it turned out she had a child.’
He blew his nose again and sighed.
‘A boy, that’s what she had. I didn’t know what happened. I was told by my father to move to another law firm, he had a friend in Cork, so I moved to Cork for a long time, and, well she fell through the cracks. I had no idea as to what became of her only that she left and had a boy.’
‘He would have been 67 years old, the poor boy. But, well I didn’t know. I didn’t know about her until recently. I investigated the whole thing once the good Mrs. Lennox passed away, and then I learned all about her sad life, my poor Milly. She is dead, her son Lenny, named after my own family, gave by her own wisdom a name that he should have born. But he died, having lived a wild life, no doubt from the lack of care from a father, but there we go. Daddy was not to be denied.’
‘I am very sorry,’ said Mr Murtagh, feeling that now was the right time to speak.
‘Yes, well. Nothing to be gained from being sorry. It won’t undo anything now, will it?’
‘No sir, I am afraid it won’t.’
‘’No,’ he said stroking his chin with long fingers that reminded Mr. Murtagh of worms. ‘I guess not, I guess the only thing one can do is fix the present. Is that not so?’
He looked at his plump solicitor, smiling.
‘I have an idea, to fix things now. My family are waiting for me to pop my clogs, they have these ideas about my giving them all the money. But I want to make sure that my oldest boy is well looked after too. You understand me, Murtagh?’
‘I think I do sir, but as you know, in our line of work it is best that we spell things out, just to be clear. So that no mistakes.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Mr Lennox said as he nodded with pleasure. He had said that because he wanted to test out and see if Mr Murtagh would just fob him off. It was one of many ways that he liked to test him out. He scratched his nose and nodded once more.
‘’Yes, indeed. So here is the deal, I would like to organise a stipend for my grandson. You see, it appears that my son had a son... I have a grandson, do you see? So, I would like to set up a stipend for him. He is in his 40s, and by all accounts, his life has been one of toil and sorrow. I would like to ease his life somewhat if I could. It is very important for me to do this.’
‘Yes sir, a stipend,’ he began writing in a notepad.
‘I would like to lay aside £3000 a month for him.’
Mr Murtagh felt a pang of envy, such an amount was truly generous.
‘His name is Alan Tyndale. I want you to keep my name out of all of this. He must never know how this money came to be his. It is to go to him for the rest of his life, even after I am gone. The family must never know what this is for either. You see, I am terribly ashamed of my behaviour. I wish I had never left her the way I did. If had stood up to my father and insisted on marrying her then she would not have lived in destitution and poverty, and my son would not have drunk himself to death.’
Once again, the grand old man looked feeble as he trembled with remorse and sorrow. Mr Murtagh could not help but look at him this time, knowing that such sacrilege could have been severely punished but he could not help but look and longed to comfort the old man. But he knew better than that, and so, he comforted himself by staring at the sheet of paper that rested on his lap.
The room rested in silence. Neither man spoke a word.
Outside Mr Murtagh could hear his staff chatting, some of them said goodbye as they clocked out. The noise seemed to shock the old man too. He looked around and smiled.
‘Can you do that?’
‘Set up a stipend for Mr Alan Tyndale, for the duration of his life, to the sum of £3000 per month... would that be everything?’
Mr Lennox pushed a small sheet of paper across the table.
‘This is his details. He must not know who it is that is giving him this fee. Nor must my family. I am not ashamed of him, you understand. I am ashamed of myself, and the fact I left it this long to ensure they lived in comfort. I am terribly ashamed.’
‘I will do as you say,’
‘Very good,’ Mr Lennox said smiling sadly.
He stood up shakily, and walked around the desk, shaking Mr Murtagh’s hand, as he passed him. Mr Murtagh rose quickly and ran to open the door of the office and escorted the old man from the office. As he left, Mr Lennox expressed the usual parting pleasantries expected by polite society and got into his car which had sat out the front by the door the whole time.
Mr Murtagh watched as the car drove away and then returned to his office where he began working on the paperwork that ensured the stipend would go through. That was the work that had kept him in the office, sitting and waiting for his weekend plans to begin. And yet, it was funny, despite his red tie, and the joviality of the few remaining members of staff, finishing off their work too, he did not much feel like partying and having fun anymore.
© Vincent S. Coster 2023