Page 44 of The Secret Bookshop in Ireland

‘Oh?’ Ciara tried to remember. ‘Sounds familiar but I can’t quite place it.’

‘It went like this,’ Oisín said and leaned forward to sing softly in Ciara’s ear.

‘In good King Charles’ golden time, when loyalty no harm meant,

A zealous high churchman was I, and so I gained preferment.

To teach my flock, I never missed: Kings are by God appointed

And damned are those who dare resist or touch the Lord’s anointed.

And this be law, that I’ll maintain until my dying day, sir

That whatsoever king may reign, Still I’ll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

When royal James possessed the crown, and popery came in fashion,

The penal laws I hooted down, and read the Declaration.

The Church of Rome, I found, did fit full well my constitution

And I had been a Jesuit, but for the Revolution.’

Oisín drew breath and sat up, while Ciara laughed at both the lyrics and the way he had sung them. ‘Very witty,’ she said.

Oisín nodded. ‘Yes, and very apt, even though it was written in the eighteenth century. It was all about a vicar in England, really, and the Bray mentioned in the song was not the one up the coast in Wicklow. But you get the idea.’

Ciara nodded. ‘Yes. That hasn’t changed with time. There are still some of those around.’

‘Oh yes,’ Oisín said. ‘Anyway, the poor old vicar of Cherrywood is long gone, but his merry widow is still around.’

‘Giving tea parties in her old home,’ Ciara filled in.

‘That’s right,’ Oisín said. ‘She was only in her twenties when they were married, and now she’s in her fifties. They had to move when the church and the vicarage closed down about twenty years ago because of lack of funds and the fact that the congregation consisted of only eight people. They moved to Wicklow town after that and kept the vicarage as a summer place after they bought it from the Church of Ireland. Olivia used to hold court in the house and host the Sunday tea parties quite regularly. They only invited the well-off in the area and behaved as if they were the lord and lady of the manor. Then Rufus Wilson, the former vicar, died suddenly of a heart attack about ten years ago. Olivia only spent two months in mourning and then her Sunday tea parties were in full swing again.’

‘Maybe she was lonely?’ Ciara suggested. ‘Did they have children?’

‘Two daughters,’ Oisín replied. ‘Both married and living nearby. Nice girls who were very supportive of their mother. Soshe wasn’t short of family who cared. I don’t think it’s loneliness that drives her to hold these posh little tea parties. She just fancies herself as the society hostess. She hasn’t done them for a while but now that spring is here, she’s back, apparently.’

‘I wonder who’ll be there,’ Ciara said, amused by the tale and the singing. ‘Maybe not the kind of people who’d buy books from an old bookshop.’

‘No idea,’ Oisín said and shrugged. ‘But hey, you should go and shake hands and announce the opening of the bookshop. Don’t know who’ll be there, could be the local glitterati, whoever they are. I’ve never had the honour anyway. But we O’Tooles were seen as rebels and probably always will be. Or…’ Oisín hesitated. ‘Could be that the legacy of our great-uncle Jarlath is making us untouchable – or uninvitable, in any case,’ he said with a wink.

‘Your great-uncle?’ Ciara asked. ‘I’ve heard about him. A bit of a rascal, wasn’t he?’

‘That’s for sure. Here’s Róisín with our food and drinks, though, so we’d better dig in.’

‘Here you go, lads,’ Róisín said and started to unload her tray that was crammed with two plates of crab claws with Marie Rose sauce and two glasses of white wine. ‘I’ll get your Guinness in a minute, and the fish and chips will be ready when you’ve finished the crab claws.’

‘Wonderful,’ Ciara said, her mouth watering at the sight of the succulent crab claws. She cracked one open and dipped it in the sauce and then popped it into her mouth, savouring the sweet, salty taste. ‘Lovely,’ she muttered.

‘Yes, they are the best this time of year,’ Oisín agreed, having devoured two of them.

‘So your great-uncle,’ Ciara said when she had had a second crab claw and drunk some of the crisp white wine. ‘What was his name again?’

‘Great Uncle Jarlath,’ Oisín said, wiping his fingers on a paper napkin. ‘The infamous uncle, the black sheep in the family.’

‘Liz mentioned him, actually. So he was the black sheep? I suppose most families have them,’ Ciara said.