The day after the match he was hanging round the horse trough in Broad Street, with a crowd of other fellows from the Brothers. Pat didn’t want to cross the road in case they’d be seen by Benny, who was always up at the convent window, snooping. But Mary didn’t give a hoot for Sister Benignus. There was no harm in talking to a fellow bang in the middle of town in the full light of day. Ger had been there, too, though by then he’d left school. He’d been put into the butcher’s shop the day he’d turned fifteen.
Mary was amazed when she discovered that Ger was Tom’s best friend. Their friendship had begun in their first year at the Brothers’ school when Tom was already a football hero and Ger was a scrawny runt. Brother Hugh had nicknamed them The Warrior and The Weasel. The name had stuck because Brother Hugh kept egging the kids on to use it and, according to Tom, Ger had no way to fight back. So, being Tom, he’d stuck up for Ger in the yard. That was Tom. He was different to the other fellows, the way he’d be quiet and gentle. He was always off doing jobs for his aunt Maggie – setting her spuds, fetching her shopping, and sitting keeping her company by the fire. Her ramshackle house in its sloping field gave Mary the shivers in those days, and Maggie was a sour old besom. But Tom said she needed him and, apparently, that was that. He was a fool to himself but, in the big picture, that had never mattered to Mary. And he’d fallen for her just as she’d fallen for him.
A spatter of rain against the window caused Mary to cast a complacent look at the washing she hadn’t hung out. It hadn’t taken long for Nuala Devane to get the message. Indeed, if you wanted Mary’s opinion, Tom and Nuala hadn’t really been dating at all. Not properly. And if Nuala had really wanted him, she could have got out from behind the hatch when he came into the dancehall, and worn something decent when she went to watch a match. She could have kicked, too, when Mary moved in on him, instead of going round with a puss on her. Still, none of it mattered to Mary, then or now. She and Tom were made for each other and that was the end of that.
Except that Tom could never turn his back on a lame duck. One day, when they were all still at school, Ger was messing about over at the horse trough. It was full of water then, not planted with flowers like the council had it now. Ger was walking the edge of it, like a tightrope walker. He was a stringy little sliver of nothing, with a mean, wizened face on him, and you could see he was only doing it for attention, and no one had even glanced at him till another lad shoved him in. The crowd was laughing and jeering, and calling Ger a wet weasel, when Tom appeared from nowhere and grabbed the bully by the neck. He had twice his strength and he held the boy’s head underwater till he was choking, and then he heaved him out and left him sprawling on the road. No one ever shouted ‘Weasel’ after that happened and, from that day on, Ger had clung to Tom like grim death. Which was fair enough when he was still at school, with Brother Hugh being a bastard, but not by the time Mary and Tom got engaged. If you asked Mary, that was taking liberties. Ger was just another Maggie Casey, needing care and demanding Tom’s time.
Having said that, she’d loved the way Tom had always been popular. People didn’t just envy her because of how he looked, or how he treated her: he was a good man, and everyone knew it, and Mary was proud to know she’d been his choice. Neither a day nor a night went past now when she didn’t find herself missing him.
But sitting here remembering did no good. Crossly, Mary stood up and shook out her newly washed dress – you wouldn’t want to hang it out all crumpled and half dry. She was glad Pat was home again and the evenings were drawing out. After Tom died she’d divided up the bungalow and taken Louisa as a lodger. But she was away seeing her own family in England. That was how it was with Louisa: she’d skite off if she fancied it. Still, whatever you might think of the way her rat of a son had treated Hanna, she was a decent woman, and company in the evenings, so you’d miss her. And however good Hanna herself might be, the fact was that she and Mary had never got along. Tom had been stone mad about the child and, by then, Mary had realised that he needed careful handling. The first time she’d complained about the hours he spent at Maggie’s place, she’d thought she’d have him toeing the line at once. It had been the shock of her life when she’d found that, for all he was gentle, he could be stubborn. But, having lost a battle, she’d known better than to start a war. Instead, when Hanna got old enough, she’d fixed for her to go round after school each day to give Maggie a hand. It wasn’t until the dark nights after he died that she’d confessed to herself how much she’d resented the time Tom spent with Hanna, and that sending her round to Maggie’s place had killed two birds with one stone.
Draping the damp dress across the top of the laundry basket, Mary told herself firmly that things had worked out for the best. Maggie’s will had left Hanna her house and the scrubby clifftop field. And damn glad of it Hanna had been when she’d needed someplace to live after her divorce. She’d stormed out on her cheating husband and turned up on Mary’s doorstop when her poor daughter, Jazz, was only fourteen, and no one could say Mary hadn’t thrown open her door. But, apparently, Maggie’s dump of a place was preferable to life in her mother’s bungalow: Hanna had renovated Maggie’s and moved there as soon as Jazz finished school. People were never grateful, thought Mary. So, when you’d had a hand in the way things worked out, generally it was wisest to say nothing. And life moved on. Hanna’s had and Pat’s would now. The past was dead and gone, and best not thought about.
Nevertheless, with her eye on the rain, Mary kept on thinking. Being alone a lot made you do that.
Long before she and Tom had got engaged she could see how things would be when they were married. Ger would be turning up all the time and Tom would be telling her Ger was lonely and missing his only friend. It had taken a while to think of a way to get shot of him. Then she’d noticed Ger had developed a bit of a yen for her. She hadn’t set out to chat him up. She’d hardly looked at him, really. But she might have strung him along just a bit. Nothing that Tom could have seen, of course, because she wouldn’t have taken the risk.
In the end, it had all worked out as she’d hoped because Ger had married Pat. That wasn’t something Mary had fixed, of course, because how could she? But she’d known Ger would propose to Pat as soon as she herself had accepted Tom. He’d figure he might as well, since there was nothing left to hope for. It was a good thing for all of them, really, she assured herself, because it had meant the foursome remained together. It had crossed her mind that Pat might decide to stay in Resolve, where she was so great with Josie, and not come home at all. She’d even wondered if something might have happened to keep her over there. There’d been a queer look about Pat when she came back, and she’d hardly talked at all about who she’d met there. But she’d settled down quick enough once she and Ger were married and, from Mary’s point of view, it was another case of killing two birds with one stone. You wouldn’t want poor Pat left on the shelf when her best friend married, and if Ger had a wife and a home to go to, there was less chance he’d be hanging around demanding attention from Tom.
Chapter Six
Cassie woke up in the attic room above the butcher’s shop. Once it had been her uncle Frankie’s bedroom, but now it was officially called Pat’s guest room. There was a roof light in the sloping ceiling, and a comfortable bed with a patchwork cover Pat had made at Lissbeg Library’s sewing circle. As Cassie sat up it occurred to her that the sewing circle had been a great source of entertainment for Pat. It was now in abeyance, though Hanna had told her it might be revived later in the year. It was a matter of keeping an ear to the ground and responding to what was required.
Checking her phone, Cassie opened an email attachment from Erin. They’d been Snapchatting late last night, and Erin had promised to send more photos of the party in Resolve. Several shots featured Pat and her cousin Josie, Erin’s gran, deep in conversation. There was one of Erin herself, dancing with a dreamy smile on her face and wearing a feather boa. Rolling out of bed, Cassie crossed the corridor to the littl
e bathroom underneath the eaves. Then, having showered and dressed, she clattered down the attic stairs to the kitchen, where Pat was having breakfast. Cassie kissed her on the head. ‘Morning. What’s the weather forecast?’
‘Mixed, by the sound of it.’ Pat smiled as Cassie sat down with a coffee. ‘At least you’ve only to pop across the road to get to the library.’
Cassie glanced out the window. ‘It’s sunny now, anyway. Do you have plans for the day?’
‘Well, I ought to get on with sorting Ger’s clothes.’
‘Oh, Pat! On a lovely morning like this?’
‘It’s got to be done sometime, love.’
‘But couldn’t you leave it till later? I can help. You go out for a walk or something this morning, and we’ll do the sorting together when I get home.’
‘Well, I suppose we could.’ Pat looked doubtful. ‘Let’s see how I go. I might get a bit done before lunch.’
Finishing her coffee with a gulp, Cassie buttered toast with one eye on the clock. ‘I’d better go – I don’t want to be late on my first day.’
She ate the toast hastily and ran back upstairs to brush her teeth. Coming down, she found her uncle Frankie climbing the stairs from the shop.
Pat’s eyes brightened. ‘Now so! Here’s Frankie and he’ll give me a hand, won’t you, son?’
Cassie had spent very little time in her eldest uncle’s company. When she’d been to his home with Ger and Pat shortly before Ger was hospitalised, she’d gathered it stood on a site on the family farm. Pat had explained that a full-time manager lived in the old farmhouse. To begin with, as they’d driven west through rich farmland, Cassie had just been enchanted by the beauty of her surroundings. Then she’d begun to realise that what was involved was a serious amount of real estate. Uncle Frankie’s house had been a revelation too. It was built on a height set back from the road and surrounded by a concrete plinth and green lawns. Ger had swung the car between gateposts topped with pineapples, and up a curved gravel drive to double doors surmounted by a portico. The contrast between this and Pat and Ger’s flat couldn’t have been more extreme.
Uncle Frankie and his wife, Fran, had been on the step to meet them. He was a short guy, older than Cassie’s dad and Uncle Jim, but easily recognisable as their brother. Over tea, she’d realised that the Fitzgeralds’ empire-building wasn’t confined to her family in Canada. The farm didn’t just supply Ger’s little butcher’s shop: stock was bought and sold constantly, and meat provided to retail outlets right across the county. And Ger seemed to be into commercial property-dealing as well. Later, Cassie had asked Pat why she and Ger had never moved out of the flat above the shop. ‘Ger never wanted to, love,’ was all she’d got for an answer.
This morning Frankie seemed surprised to see her. Then he smiled and said he’d thought she’d be at work.
‘I am. Well, I’m just going. It’s my first day at the library.’
‘So I heard.’
It was odd that he didn’t wish her luck, but he’d never struck Cassie as friendly. His smile didn’t seem to reach his eyes. Still, they hadn’t met on particularly smiley occasions: at the tea party he might have known that Ger was concealing an illness from Pat, and the next time Cassie had encountered him had been at the funeral Mass.
Grabbing her bag, she gave Pat a hug. ‘Don’t spend the whole day cooped up in here, will you? See you this evening – I’ll get us dessert from the deli.’ She edged past Frankie, whose bulk nearly filled the doorway, and descended the dark stairwell to the shop.
Pat began to clear the breakfast table. It was good of Frankie to drop by, she thought, and quite a relief not to have to cope with Ger’s clothes on her own. Perhaps Frankie might even like to take a jumper or a scarf. Ger was tight-fisted in many ways but, when he’d spent money, he’d always bought the best. And, though he’d never been much to look at, he’d always dressed smartly, cutting a good figure among his business cronies in Carrick and clapping the backs of the boyos at the mart. Frankie might well like the scarf she’d bought to go with Ger’s tweed overcoat, or the blue pullover she’d got for him on their holiday in Toronto. It was cashmere with a lovely casual V-neck. Not Ger’s usual sort of thing, but she’d bought it to surprise him.
Pat’s eyes filled with tears and she shook herself crossly. It was silly to get sentimental about a pullover, but Ger had worn it on Christmas Eve when he’d first told her he was ill, and, only a week or so later, they’d taken him out of the place on a stretcher and, after that, he’d never come home again. They’d had a dreadful job getting the stretcher down the stairs from the flat and through the shop to the waiting ambulance with herself and Cassie coming down behind.
Blinking away her tears, she offered Frankie a cup of coffee. ‘I made it for Cassie’s breakfast and it’s still hot.’
‘No – well, yes. Thanks, Ma, I’ll have a drop.’
He sat down at the table, shrugging off his Burberry trench coat to hang on the back of the chair. He was a good lad really, Frankie, even though he’d been a bit spoilt. Pat supposed that an eldest son was always the apple of his father’s eye. She poured the coffee, thinking it was nice to see him sitting in Ger’s place at the table. When she’d married she’d thought the flat a poky place to be rearing children, so it was strange how big and empty it felt now.
The shop and the flat had been left to Ger by his father. His brother, Miyah, had fallen in for the farm. When Miyah died, everything came to Ger, so life got easier, and by the time Frankie and the lads were in their teens he’d trebled the size of the holding. He’d bought sites, too, that developers came round later from Carrick and paid him a fortune for. In fact, if you could believe the gossips, he’d banked enough to buy and sell half of Finfarran. Pat had never been certain that she did believe the gossips, because Ger was a great one to puff himself up. You could never be sure that he wasn’t just striking attitudes. Still, plenty of money went into the till, and she and his growing sons were well taken care of. As a matter of pride, he’d made sure that Pat had a new coat each winter, even though, in the early days, they’d been hard put to make the shop pay. It was one thing to have a reputation for being a close man, but another to let yourself down in front of the neighbours. Ger wouldn’t do that. And if he wasn’t quite as rich as people said, sure it made him feel good to act like it.
It had been a bit of a shock to find Ger had left her everything. But, of course, the will had been drawn up years ago, before the children were born. Anyway, it made no difference because they’d agreed that the lads would end up with equal shares. She’d thought he’d have added that to the will, or made a new one, but the end had come so quickly that perhaps he hadn’t had time. He’d have known anyway that she’d see things right.
It was because of Ger that Sonny and Jim had taken off for Toronto. He’d announced that he hadn’t worked his arse off to see a grand, growing business broken up between his sons. So, as soon as Frankie had left school he’d been put in charge of the farm and, when the time came, Ger had paid for Sonny and Jim to go to university. Then, with nothing for them at home, they’d gone abroad as soon as they’d graduated. Their impressive qualifications had ensured that they’d prospered, just as Ger had said they would. But Pat had missed them terribly. And they’d never come back. Still, as Ger had pointed out to her, they had their own families and businesses to think about, and they’d done well and had their health and strength.
The thing was that Pat hadn’t known if Sonny and Jim had resented Frankie’s cushy life at home. And there was no denying it was cushy. The manager ran the farm and Ger had kept his hands on the reins when it came to the shop, so Frankie, with his big house and car, did little enough. There was no harm in him, Pat told herself, but you had to admit he was lazy. Yet maybe that wasn’t fair. Here he was, on her second day back, dropping round first thing to give her a hand. It was nice of Cassie to offer, but somehow it seemed more fitting that his son would help take Ger’s jackets, slacks, and suits off thei
r hangers, sort through those pathetic piles of shirts and socks and underwear, and bag them up for the St Vincent de Paul.
Sitting at the table, Pat watched Frankie drink coffee. Ger had been such a little fella compared to this heavy-set man with his broad shoulders. You’d hardly believe they were father and son, except for the look Frankie had when he was crossed. He was the spit of Ger then, with his mutinous face on. Pat knew little enough of Ger’s business, but she was well aware of how badly he’d needed to get the best of a deal. She’d often wondered if that went back to the time when Brother Hugh had encouraged the bullies. The lads who’d seen Ger’s humiliation at school had grown up to become the men he did business with, and it seemed to Pat that doing them down had always meant more to Ger than the money he’d made at their expense.
Smiling at Frankie, she mentioned the blue pullover. ‘And if there’s anything else you’d like of his, you know you’ve only to say.’
Frankie stood up and put on his coat. ‘I’ll need to be getting on now, Ma. I only dropped in to say I’ll be round shortly to clear Dad’s desk.’
‘Well, yes, no, of course, there’s that to be done.’ Pat touched his sleeve. ‘But there’s all his clothes and personal things, Frankie. I’d like to make a start on those first.’
‘You can get someone in to help you, surely. Or Cassie will give you a hand.’
‘She would – I mean, she’s offered. But I’d prefer if it was you, son.’
Pat could see that he wasn’t really listening. Instead, he frowned and gave her a sharp glance. ‘How long is Cassie going to be here, anyway? I thought she was only supposed to stay for Christmas.’
The Transatlantic Book Club Page 4
