The Delaneys had started out in a modest house in Moyross. That was until Davey Delaney, tired of scraping a living on a factory floor, decided feck this and went to try his hand in London.
Old man Delaney had done pretty well there. After a spell as a bookie’s runner, he’d got into scrap dealing. And as soon as the money started to roll in, he’d set up a few sidelines – hijacking goods lorries, operating a couple of illegal gambling dens, and of course running prostitutes.
It hadn’t taken him long to carve out his niche among the London faces. And having established a little pocket of power for himself and his kin in Battersea, he defended it ferociously, coming down hard on anyone who tried to muscle in. He even managed to expand his territory, seizing control of a stretch of dockland across the river in Limehouse.
Life in the teeming dog-eat-dog city suited the brutal aspects of his nature. And the family thrived too. While in London, the wife dropped him some children: Tory first, then Patrick, then the twins – Orla and Redmond – then the baby of the family, Kieron. But they never forgot their roots. The proceeds of gambling, robbery and vice paid for a grand farmhouse a stone’s throw from the Shannon, and his wife was always nipping across, checking on the renovations and furnishing the place.
Eventually the old man admitted to his age, decided it was time to retire, let the boys take over. They leapt at the chance. And all went well, until the apple of his eye – Tory, his eldest, his most beloved son – was cut down in his prime.
Davey was never the same after Tory’s death. He withdrew to the farm, leaving the business to Pat, to Redmond and Orla. Kieron wasn’t interested, he fancied himself an artist. When the family came to visit, Davey would sit staring at the wall, making no attempt to join the conversation. Suspecting a nervous breakdown, his anxious wife steered him to the doctors. Within a year, they came back with a diagnosis: dementia. There was no question of Davey moving into a nursing home; he stayed on at the farm, the dream home declining with each year in fading grandeur, Davey losing his mind, his wife nursing him.
Now, Orla approached the farm. She paused outside to gaze around her. It was exactly as she remembered. Dad had been so proud of the place when he’d bought it, giving out about the thirty acres of land that came with it, and how old the place was.
Orla let her eyes drift over the stonework. It looked tired in places. But the house was still a fine big place, with panoramic views across open country towards the great grey sprawl of the river.