Pat poured the tea. ‘That’s right. Moss died a while back and the twins fell in for his construction business. They paid to have the old fittings pulled out and the club kitchen remodelled. Hang on, I have a picture.’ She showed Mary a photo taken on the night of the farewell party.
Mary’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Jesus, that’s some plaque, Pat. And wouldn’t all those steel units take the sight out of your eye!’
‘If you want to see plaques, take a look at this one in the library.’ With a snort of laughter, Pat showed her a shot of the chipped enamelled range. It had iron feet, a polished rail, a rotary damper on the ash-box door, and a large brass plaque above it, looking disturbingly like a coffin plate.
Mary squinted at the plaque. ‘“Brought from Finfarran by Denis Brennan AD 1956.” What’s that all about?’
‘Well, you can see for yourself. “Ancestral range of the Brennans of Crossarra”. Denis was the chairman of the Shamrock Club that summer I was there. Ninety if he was a day and worth a fortune.’
‘I suppose it might have come out of some house belonging to his people.’ Taking another bite of her pastry, Mary flicked a drift of golden flakes from her blouse. ‘Come here to me, though, what’s it doing in the library?’
‘Well, it used to be in the kitchen and they wanted it out when they did the renovation.’
‘So why didn’t they feck it in a skip?’
‘It’d be a brave improvement committee that’d dump the Brennan range. I’d say putting it in the library was a compromise. There’s a rake of Brennans still alive and kicking, and even the Canny crowd wouldn’t cross them.’
‘You’re making it sound like the Wild West!’
‘Ah, it’s just that they’re fierce invested in the Shamrock Club. Emotionally, I mean. It’s their link to home.’
‘But hasn’t Resolve been their home for donkey’s years?’
Pat laughed, but she didn’t reply. Mary, who’d never left Finfarran, couldn’t imagine the strange pull that the homeland had on an emigrant. Or the complex strands of guilt and resentment in the relationships between those who went away and those who didn’t. But she, with two emigrant sons and one who’d remained to build the family business, had an inkling: a knowledge augmented by that long-ago summer in Resolve. There’d been a time when she’d thought she might stay in the States herself and never come home again. But, in the end, she hadn’t been able to do that to poor Ger.
Chapter Four
Because of its remote location beyond the Knockinver Mountains, the tourist board sold Ballyfin as ‘Ireland’s Best-kept Secret’. In fact it was reached by a newly built road, which divided the southern and northern halves of the narrow Finfarran Peninsula and was known locally as ‘the motorway’. To accommodate its last few miles, the foothills of the mountain range had been blasted, and Ballyfin, once a little fishing port, was now a booming resort with jetsetters strolling its narrow streets and a string of fashionable restaurants where champagne and oysters were permanently on ice.
The Spa Hotel in Ballyfin crested a long golden beach, which curved away beyond a little marina. The doors were incised with a swirling pattern of seaweed and, on either side of the entrance, naked flames danced in shells supported by bronze mermaids. Fishiness was the core of the town’s brand image, not because of its maritime history but because of A Long Way to LA, the best-selling book that had turned the resort into a tourist trade phenomenon. It was the autobiography of a Hollywood star, who’d once spent a nervous breakdown angling in Ballyfin. Unaware that the town’s name derived from that of a medieval saint called Finbar, the designer of the book’s iconic cover had produced an image of a dorsal fin slicing through waves. Not to be outdone, the editor, who had written most of the text, had made it the story of the star’s struggle with neurosis and really big fish. This not only gave the book structure but added stature to its subject, who emerged as a kind of Captain Ahab battling with madness and monsters.
In a year unaccountably lacking in celebrity misery memoirs, A Long Way to LA became a global bestseller, helped by the fact that its publication coincided with the star’s marriage to a teenage singer with a huge online fan base. A film shot partly in Finfarran followed, in which the star was played by an actor half his age. The title song, performed by the wife, won an Oscar. And Ballyfin became a happening place. The star had long since faded, the singer had gone into rehab and, these days, Ballyfin had become a place to eat seafood expensively, rather than catch it. But the association with Hollywood, combined with stunning scenery, continued to draw phenomenal numbers of visitors.
Cassie ran up the shallow steps between the bronze mermaids. It would be a couple of months before the tourist season began in earnest, and most of the peninsula’s B-and-Bs and guesthouses were still closed, but the Spa Hotel was open all year round. Margot Ryan, who ran the hair salon, met Cassie at the lift and led her up to the rooftop spa. The reception area was floored in yards of highly polished parquet. Wall mirrors framed by gauze curtains reflected the light from the ocean, and a mirrored desk faced the gilded lift, which opened onto a terrace with a pool overlooking the beach. According to Margot, the vast sliding glass doors had been designed to bring the outdoors inside. ‘But there’s a hell of an onshore wind blowing, so they’re staying shut today. Come through to the office and we’ll have a look at the roster.’
They entered a room so small that it made the space outside seem even more like the set of a Hollywood musical. Margot lifted a pile of cushions off a chair. ‘Sit down. Sorry about the mess. We’re desperate to finish a makeover before the season kicks in, but all the work has to be done when we’re closed, so it drags on.’ She frowned at the cushions, which were cerise velvet trimmed with gold tassels. ‘What d’you think of these? They’re samples for the banquettes.’
Cassie accepted the seat. ‘I suppose it kind of depends on your overall theme.’
‘Which, let’s face it, is The Great Gatsby, not Gone with the Wind. You’re right. They’re awful.’
‘I didn’t say—’
‘I know you didn’t. But they are. They’ll have to go back.’ Margot wriggled behind the desk and sat down. She was blonde and efficient, and her smart knee-length uniform fitted her like a glove. Cassie had been rather pleased when she’d first seen the spa staff’s uniforms. The short sleeved button-through dress with its narrow white belt and collar was more Grease than The Great Gatsby, but the styling and fabric were lovely. Back when she’d had her interview, Margot had asked if she’d like to wear green or black. ‘We can choose. Mind you, they’re both buggers in a hair salon. Dark colours always are. You can wear a coverall when you’re cutting, though – they’re nylon so the hair shakes off. The uniforms are more about matching the rest of the staff. We all wear the same – masseuses, beauticians, us lot. Makes for a joined-up ambience, I’m told. And the colour choice avoids the suggestion of guards in an upmarket prison.’
Cassie had opted for black and decided she liked Margot. Part-time work in a salon was very different from spending weeks cooped up on a ship, but it was good to have a boss with a glint in her eye, which suggested she might be fun. She was about ten years older than Cassie and had worked abroad before coming home to Ballyfin. Today she was chatty and more relaxed than she’d been at the formal interview. Among the clutter on her desk was a framed photo of her fiancé, sitting at the prow of a yacht wearing oilskins and a big smile. He was a solid, dependable-looking guy, the manager of the marina, and, according to Margot, they were saving up to get married. ‘Well, for a deposit on a house. Property prices are mad here in Ballyfin. That’s the downside of the booming tourist trade. Still, you can’t have it both ways, and aren’t we lucky to have jobs that allow us to save? Paul got a raise a while back, and the tips I’d get here in summer would almost double my pay.’
Cassie could believe it. She’d checked the hotel’s room rates on the internet before applying for the job, and seen charges as high as those in London or Biarritz.
The recently extended marina had brought a new level of wealth to an already thriving resort, and the Spa Hotel provided what the wealthy wanted.
Margot consulted the roster on her computer screen. ‘You’re still okay to start next week?’
‘No problem. I’m in Lissbeg Library on Tuesdays and out with the mobile Wednesdays and Fridays. So, like I said, I’ll take any shifts you’ve got on Mondays and Thursdays.’
‘That works perfectly. But I might give you a shout at short notice. Would that be okay?’
‘In principle, absolutely. My time’s my own.’
‘No boyfriend?’ Margot checked herself hastily. ‘Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to be nosy. And I’m not suggesting it’s relevant . . .’
Cassie laughed. ‘No boyfriend. I’m staying with my gran in Lissbeg, though, and my granddad died after Christmas so she’s kind of my priority.’
‘That’s Pat Fitz, right?’
‘Yep.’
‘Aw – she’s such a dote. Listen, don’t worry, we’ll be grand. I’m happy to get someone with your experience wanting to do part-time work.’
Cassie had already gathered this was the case. The majority of the peninsula’s part-time workers in the tourist trade were foreign students subsidising a holiday in Ireland or saving for their following term’s tuition. Kids born in Finfarran were pretty much ‘raised for export’, an expression she’d heard a lot since she’d been here. There was no longer the steady exodus to Resolve, which had been the norm in Pat’s day. Now people went off to college in Cork or Dublin, then on to work in the cities. But for every one who returned and settled in Finfarran there were six who found posts abroad that they wouldn’t find at home. Margot and her fiancé were exceptions to the rule. Cassie asked if she’d been born in Ballyfin.
‘Yeah. My dad was a fisherman. Well, he still is, but now he mainly does boat tours.’
‘And this is where you always wanted to settle?’
‘That’s it. Went off to college at nineteen. Always knew I’d be back.’ Her fiancé, Paul, was a blow-in, she explained. ‘He started out in the Lifeboat Service. Then he came here to work at the marina. It was a bit of a risk throwing up his job and moving to Finfarran, but we’d fallen in love as soon as we’d met and it’s worked out grand. I’ve told him there’s a site up the mountain with my name on it, and that’s where we’re going to live and raise our kids.’
There was still workable farmland to the north and south of the peninsula, but its tiny mountain farms were now considered unsustainable, and many were being parcelled out as building sites for homes. Margot’s had been left to her by an unmarried uncle. ‘It’s a gorgeous place. I used to go there a lot when I was a kid. Back up on the mountain where it’s quiet, but close enough for work. There’s a great school in Ballyfin, too, for the kids when they come along. This is a fab place to grow up. Sea, sand, freedom. Real food. God, I remember the meals we used to have at my uncle’s. Spuds from the field and fish caught by my dad. Evenings on the front step drinking tea, gazing out at the sunset. That’s my dream.’
Cassie felt a stab of envy. Being footloose and fancy-free was brilliant, but knowing you had a place to put down roots must be good as well. It hadn’t really occurred to her to wonder where she might settle. Toronto had never felt like home, while Finfarran sometimes did, which was weird, since her dad had never brought them to visit Ireland. It seemed like he didn’t feel any pull from the place where he was born. Uncle Jim had never come home either. Maybe the urge had skipped a generation and come to her.
When she left the hotel she wandered down towards the beach. The stone pier was still in use by fishing boats. Beyond it, where the seabed had been dredged, the shining white marina sheltered several large yachts. The beach, which curved away from the pier, was deserted, except for a child walking a puppy. Buffeted by the onshore wind, Cassie crunched over shingle onto sand. The tumbling waves were tipped with foam, and gulls tossed and wheeled, surfing on air currents. The wind brought the smell of salt from the Atlantic and ribbons of crimson and emerald seaweed were fast being buried in hummocks of fine sand.
Down at the shoreline, where the packed sand was easier to walk on, Cassie turned her shoulder to the wind and happily lengthened her stride. As she left the pier and the marina behind, the sound of cables rattling against masts began to fade. Soon she could hear nothing but the cries of the seabirds and the shrill yapping of the puppy. With her cropped hair plastered to her head and her long fringe flying, Cassie turned her back to the ocean and looked up at Ballyfin. Directly above the beach was the esplanade, with its row of modern hotels, including the Spa. Above it, the steep streets of the port climbed to the town centre, where a terraced Victorian square surrounded a green. Beyond that again, above the outskirts of the town, rose the foothills of Knockinver, where Margot’s uncle had farmed.
The best school in Toronto, a luxurious home, and expensive, exclusive summer camps seemed nothing compared to the freedom of life here in this lovely place. Margot had described fishing trips when she and her dad would spend whole days on the ocean, and nights lying on the beach with friends, counting stars. She’d helped on the farm, milking cows and feeding chickens, and carried bundles of straw for the thatcher, who’d come in a rickety car to patch a shed roof. Her uncle had refused to abandon thatch for corrugated iron, saying there were years left in the roof if it was properly repaired. So Shamie had arrived with straw in the back of the car, and an armful of scallops, narrow pliable hazel wands sharpened at either end, to secure it to the roof. Cassie had loved Margot’s description of the old man’s deft patching and the bottle of milky tea he’d kept in his pocket, wrapped in a sock.
The house planned by Margot and Paul was modern, but Cassie could tell that Margot would capture all the charm of the farmhouse she’d loved as a child; the old house and its tumbledown barn and sheds were long gone, but the new home on the mountain would contain warm memories of the past. Swinging round to face the ocean, Cassie found herself longing to do the same. Not now, of course, when there was still so much of the world to see and explore. But sometime in the future when, like Margot, she’d be ready to settle down. Then, as the wind hit her again, she realised ruefully that one vital ingredient was missing. Margot had Paul, that solid, dependable guy in the photo. Footloose Cassie Fitzgerald had no one special with whom to share her dreams.
Chapter Five
Mary Casey frowned as she stood at her kitchen window. At this time of year you could never tell whether or not it was safe to hang out your washing and, despite a lifetime of coping with Finfarran’s changeable weather, the lack of certainty always put her on edge. Tea towels and that class of thing didn’t matter, but a good dress could get ruined if the wind caught it and twisted it round the line. Pat was always telling her she made mountains out of molehills but, whatever Pat might say, appearances mattered. To Mary’s mind, you were what you wore.
She could remember exactly what she’d had on when she and Pat had met Ger and Tom. It was at a match. Tom was playing and Ger had been in the crowd. The nuns were never happy about girls going to watch football but, since most of the lads on the local team had sisters and cousins who went to school at the convent, they couldn’t ban matches outright. But the girls were expected to wear school uniform, presumably in the hope that lace-up shoes and lumpy brown gym frocks would prevent lustful advances on the sidelines.
Mary hadn’t cared. You couldn’t expect sixth years to do the likes of that, and the bishop was her mam’s uncle so who gave a damn for the nuns? Pat had been doubtful but, as Mary had told her sharply, she could afford to be. When your figure went straight up and down, like a ruler, you didn’t have to keep hitching your gym frock down over your bust. The tunics had three pleats front and back and buttoned on the shoulders so, if you had any kind of shape at all, they hung four inches shorter fore than aft. There was a knitted sash too. The nuns called it a girdle, which always made people giggle because you’d see ads in papers for spandex gir
dles designed to hold you in. Though wearing one under a gym frock would have made no difference: with the pleats and the stringy sash, whatever you did you looked like a sack tied with twine.
Peering out of the window, Mary considered the dress she’d carefully washed on a delicate cycle. If she sat at the kitchen table she could keep an eye on the weather and, if need be, whip it onto the line. Pat had worn some class of a dress to the football match, but she’d lost her nerve and added her school raincoat. Mary had sported a wine corduroy skirt and a ribbed pink polo neck. Neither had deigned to wear the school beret, and they’d both worn nylon stockings and shoes with heels – which they’d regretted when they’d got to the muddy field.
Tom played centre forward. Mary had seen him before in Crossarra, where a bad-tempered old cousin of his had kept the village post office, but he used not to be round Lissbeg that much. Nuala Devane was on the sideline, wearing her gym frock and beret. She and Tom were dating at the time. Nuala’s dad had the dancehall in Sheep Street, and her mam sold tickets at the door. You’d see Nuala herself there, selling Tayto and red lemonade through a hatch, and Tom would hang round chatting to her until she was free to come out. He had loads of friends. There were the lads in the GAA, and the crowd at the Brothers, and everyone seemed to know him from the post office, where he helped out. Mary, who was an only child, had never needed to work when she was at school. She’d thought about going to England to train as a nurse after doing her Leaving Cert. But that hadn’t happened. Because, from the day she’d seen him shoot the winning goal, she’d known she’d marry Tom.
The Transatlantic Book Club Page 3
