by Maggie Finn
‘A wedding?’ asked Danny with interest.
‘Christening,’ she said, ‘and they’re wanting flowers in the pub too.’
Disapproval, plain as day. Danny’s mother had a very rigid worldview and pubs – and the drinking and singing and general merriment that they represented – were very much in the ‘bad’ category. Which was strange in a woman who had such an enthusiasm for literature, given the great Irish poets and playwrights tended to be fond of a drink, but Danny had long ago stopped trying to unknot the contradictions in his mother.
‘Listen, if you see Connor, would you let him know I need to speak to him?’ he knew he shouldn’t have said it the moment it passed his lips: not only did Diana agree with Bishop Ray, the local cleric who had an unbending stance against strong drink, she also agreed with the Bishop regarding his dislike of Connor James, the pub’s landlord. Although she had clearly agreed to work for him. It wasn’t necessarily logical, but not much in Clover Cove was.
‘And I’m your messenger now?’ said his mother, but then stopped. ‘Would you be putting an announcement in the paper then?’
Danny took his hand off the brake, his reporter’s instinct tingling.
‘Announcement?’
‘You know, Connor and that Ross woman. Is there to be a wedding?’
Danny smiled. Connor James had recently begun a relationship with an American woman, Kate O’Riordan. Such things were always the subject of much discussion and speculation in Clover Cove and in this case the gossip was intensified by the fact that the lady in question was – or had been – a representative of Ross Oil, the conglomerate that had recently tried to site an energy-generating project in the village.
‘No, no announcement just yet. And I should think you’d be the first to know about a wedding, Ma. You keep me informed, okay? But right now, I’ve got to fly.’
Danny released the handbrake and shot right onto the main road, aware that he’d lost precious minutes in his main mission to catch the train, but he could hardly have ignored his mother. Not if he wanted to stay attached to his ears.
‘A wedding, hmm?’ he mused, gunning the engine as he swept down onto the coast road. A wedding would certainly make a grand story. He pictured it: two strangers meet and fall head over heels in love. The readers loved that sort of thing, and the Ross Oil story was the biggest thing to happen to Clover Cove – and the entire county – in decades. More importantly, it was the biggest thing to happen to Danny’s career. After two years of covering bake sales and writing up the results of the local hurling league, Danny had finally been promoted to the front page.
‘Oil Giant to Wreck Beauty Spot’,
‘US Firm Promises 1000 Jobs’
‘A Village Divided: Cove Fights American Invasion’
And his personal favorite: ‘Church Scuppers Yank Oil Plan’
That last headline had been his proudest, a scoop about how Bishop Ray had unearthed an ancient document hidden in Clover Cove’s chapel which had literally stopped Ross Oil in their tracks. In fact, over the past couple of months, Daniel T Brennan’s photo by-line had been printed next to big water-cooler stories on five occasions, which was five times more than any time since he’d joined the Examiner. And right now, Danny could feel that things were changing for him – he’d had enquiries from the nationals and even a couple of the papers in London. Maybe he could finally escape those reports on swimming galas. Perhaps he might even begin to impress his mother.
He sighed, flipping down his visor to shield his eyes from the morning sun. Diana Brennan hadn’t always been this way. Danny remembered his childhood being happy, carefree – endless snapshots of climbing trees and building dams and laughing with Ma and Da and Freya. The Game of Life! He thought suddenly, smiling. Monopoly, Buckaroo! It seemed to him that they’d played those stupid board games every night until…well, until…
‘Oh no!’
Danny turned into the station car park just as the train was pulling in.
‘Wait, wait, wait!’ he shouted, grabbing his bag and pip-pipping the car locked as he ran, waving to old Tommy who manned the gate.
‘Hold it for me, Tom!’
He saw the old fella’s smile as Danny dashed through the barrier and onto the train just as the doors slammed shut.
Panting, he leant against the window and gave Tom a double thumbs-up. Sinking into a seat – one good thing about living at the far end of a branch line, there were always plenty of seats – he pulled out his laptop. Another advantage: he could catch up on work. He flipped his laptop open and began to write.
Love Comes To Clover Cove
When Kate O’Riordan flew into Knock from Kennedy International in New York, she had one purpose: to persuade the people of tiny fishing village Clover Cove that Ross Oil was their saviour. Little did she suspect she would meet her future husband and lose her job.
His fingers stopped on the keyboard, shaking his head. It was a great story, but his gut told him that the timing was off. First of all, as far as he knew, Connor had yet to propose, let alone name a day. And Danny wasn’t exactly sure if Kate had been fired or had resigned from Ross Oil. One version of the rumor was that it had been Kate, not Bishop Ray, who had discovered the ancient documents proving the Church owned the shoreline, thus stopping Ross Oil in their tracks. If that was true, Danny doubted very much if she would be welcomed back into the Ross Oil skyscraper in Manhattan. But right now, neither the church or Ross Oil were talking to the press – and Lord knew, he’d tried – so Danny had no proof. And that wouldn’t cut any ice with his editor.
He clicked off the document. No, it was a great story, but he needed to do some more digging. But then that was what Danny T Brennan was known for. Or rather, he hoped that would soon be the case. Ever since he could remember, Danny had wanted to be a writer. Not a hack on a local paper, obviously, but a proper writer. Ernest Hemingway or John Steinbeck, Jack Kerouac even. Some lionized literary great with a furrowed brow, hunched over his typewriter, clicky-clacking his way to immortality.
He looked out of the window as the train snaked around a bend, the sea twinkling to the west, always to the west.
He clicked on a file named, with some irony, ‘Unbridled Genius’. The great novel he had been toying with for – heavens – he couldn’t remember how long.
The sky was dark, like a black overcoat thrown carelessly across a chair, read the first line.
He sighed. Maybe one day he could do it for real.
The train was pulling into the town of Kilmara. Shops and offices and cars and people everywhere. He pushed his way into the stream on the platform, becoming part of the crowd. Maybe one day.
Chapter Three
The beach was cold this early. It didn’t matter if it was raining or bathed in sunshine – rare though that occurrence was here on Ireland’s west coast – Clover Cove was beautiful whatever the weather. Tessa walked back across the wet sand shimmering like twisted silk and hefted the bag over her shoulder. She had spent the morning walking along the tideline where the waves huffed and hissed, tossing striped shells and sea glass out onto the beach like rare trinkets. Tessa had carefully walked back and forth, picking up those jewels, along with driftwood, netting and anything else she might be able to use in her artworks.
She dumped the bag by the open shutters of her studio and kicked off her Wellingtons.
‘Morning your majesty,’ she called.
Tessa smiled to herself: was it odd to speak to your own sculptures? Probably, but then, weren’t artists supposed to be a little bit mad? In any case, the sculpture didn’t reply. It just stood there in the middle of the room, a woman with her arms outstretched in the manner of the figureheads that had adorned the prows of the sailing ships which once criss-crossed this very ocean. The sculpture had been created from salvaged wood and shells and the detritus strewn in front of her after a storm; everything from that faraway chisel-carved face to the flowing gown had come from the sea – and from Tessa’s hands.
Tessa looked up at the figurehead and smiled. At least they won’t criticize you, baby, she thought. Tessa had no intention of putting this one in an exhibition. Some things were just for her, exercises or sketches of expression she wanted to play around with, free from the pressure of creating something for an audience. Of course, when you were an internationally renowned artist like Simon Drake, the public would lap up anything and everything you did – a doodle on a napkin could be worth millions, as long as the doodle was scrawled by Picasso – but as a relative unknown like Tessa, you felt like you were walking a tightrope the whole time. Sometimes it was nice to step off.
A miaow at her feet. Tessa smiled and scooped up Ghost, her Siamese cat.
‘At least you love me, huh, G?’ she said, giving him a gentle squeeze. He struggled and jumped down with a haughty backwards glance.
‘Not you too,’ she sighed. This is what she was reduced to: being rejected by a cat. How long had it been since she had felt affection from a real live human? Right now, Tessa would have traded the exhibition and the reviews, even sales for a boyfriend.
Sad, she knew, but the fact was she was lonely. She had come to Clover Cove to escape the pressures and expectations of the city, but had barely had a date.
The studio was her dream home, but she had imagined sharing it with some fellow creative, having romantic dinners with the windows wide open.
‘Just me and you then, Ghosty?’
The cat gave a little yowl and jumped out of her arms, padding over to give the new canvas a snooty sniff before turning away, his tail held high.
‘Everyone’s a critic,’ she smiled.
She was just turning back to the sculpture when there was a rattling knock at the door.
Tessa’s heart gave a bump. Couldn’t be a customer – she’d stopped taking commissions months ago, not that there were many of those. And the odd lost tourist wanting to see a ‘genuine Irish artist’ at work never came before lunch. Wiping her hands, she walked over and lifted the latch.
Simon Drake stood there, glaring.
‘Why can I never get your attention?’ Said her father testily. ‘I’ve been knocking for an age.’
‘Morning Dad,’ she said opening the door wider. ‘Lovely to see you too.’
‘I don’t know why you can’t give me a key,’ he said, missing Tessa’s dry tone. ‘I mean, have you got something to hide?’
She watched him walk inside, still looking almost exactly like the portrait on the cover of his book: handsome and dashing, a boho handkerchief knotted around his neck. It was a wonder he hadn’t gone for an actual beret. He flopped down into an armchair, running a hand through his grey hair. He looked like a dissolute Irish poet, which was of course the idea.
‘Tea?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he said distractedly, ‘Tea. And a croissant if you have it. Or perhaps some of that rustic bread you had the last time I was here.’
Tessa sighed. Happily, she was in the habit of popping up to Molly’s Café first thing in the morning, so she always had fresh bread, but she was irritated by the idea that she was expected to provide the great artist with suitable food stuffs. She crossed to the sink and filled the kettle.
‘And what brings you here so early?’
‘I was walking along the cliffs… just thinking,’ said Simon. ‘Reciting Pope in my head. Don’t you find his verse fits so well with the bleakness of that rocky shore?’
Tessa nodded non-committedly. She knew Simon hadn’t walked the five miles from his house at Trew Point for a discussion on poetry and it was certain Daddy hadn’t popped by for a catch-up. He wasn’t that kind of dad.
Simon pushed himself up and walked around the room.
‘So are we ready?’ he said. Straight down to business.
‘I am,’ said Tessa. ‘At least, I have enough canvasses to cover the walls. After that, it’s up to Charles Saatchi.’
She heard Simon snort.
‘Saatchi? That idiot hasn’t bought anything worth having since the nineties.’
She couldn’t help but admire her father’s world view. Why wouldn’t Charles Saatchi or any of the world’s biggest art buyers come to the exhibition in Port Quinn? To Simon Drake, those were the sort of things that could and would happen.
‘Anyway, it’s done,’ said Tessa with a sigh. ‘I’m taking it all down to the gallery tomorrow.’
She saw him trying to look beyond her shoulder into the next room. ‘No previews,’ she said. ‘You’ll get to see them soon enough.’
‘Come on Tess, I just want to…’
‘No!’ she said a little louder than she had meant to. The last thing she needed was a last-minute critique of the exhibition. Like a lot of creative types, Simon Drake insisted on being brutally frank, as if that was some sort of positive personality trait. Right now, any negative comments and she might just make a bonfire on the beach and toss every painting on top. Tessa took a deep breath.
‘Sorry Dad,’ she said more softly, ‘I’m just a little stressed. I’d rather you waited until they’re at the gallery. Get the full effect.’
She saw his mouth turn downwards. She had always hated that expression: disapproval, disappointment. Like she hadn’t got an ‘A’ or had missed out on the hockey team.
‘Fine, fine,’ he said. ‘You’re the boss. I mean, it’s not like I have any experience in these things.’
Tessa bit her tongue. In 1990s London and New York, Simon Drake had been a huge figure in the art world, that much was true. But that was a long time ago and right now, he lived alone on the west coast of Ireland where he was best known as an eccentric recluse. He certainly hadn’t attended an exhibition in years. Simon looked up at Tessa’s figurehead sculpture, wrinkling his nose. More disapproval. It was exhausting.
‘Tess, I really don’t understand why you insist on living in this tiny little fishing shack. There’s barely room to swing a cat.’
Simon’s house was huge, a rambling Georgian mansion perched high on a rocky headland above Port Quinn. Trew Point had been bought during the golden years as a retreat for Tessa’s mother Stella, a renowned poet, as somewhere she could come to think and write away from the clamour and chaos in Chelsea.
‘I like Clover Cove, Daddy,’ said Tessa carefully. ‘The people are friendly and – well, look out the window – it’s beautiful.’
‘Trew Point is beautiful.’
Yes it is, thought Tessa. But Trew Point is yours.
And Trew Point was where Simon Drake had come to hide from the world – a stark contrast to his early years as one of the hottest and edgiest painters in London right at the center of the fashionable art scene. The Drake’s Chelsea home had been filled with writers, intellectuals, designers and bohemians. Tessa had grown up believing that was how everyone lived: famous, exotic people sitting at the kitchen table debating poetry and politics, men with messy hair sleeping on the sofa, frequent door-slamming, constant motion. Until one too many door-slammings – and Stella had left. Silence had descended on her father’s world and he had retreated to Port Quinn, hoping, Tessa supposed, that Stella would return, but she never had.
‘Well I shall be over the day before the show,’ said Tessa, steeling herself. ‘I was wondering if it’d be alright to stay at Trew Point?’
A moment’s pause, Simon’s eyes downcast.
‘You’ll be better off at the Palace,’ he said, ‘It’s only around the
corner from the gallery after all.’
‘But it’s been so long since I stayed at home…’
‘It’s not home,’ snapped Simon. ‘Not without…’
Simon trailed off, his gaze concentrating at a point on the floor, one rigid index finger rubbing a spot in the center of his forehead. Clearly, the subject was closed.
‘Well, will I see you that evening? You are coming to the exhibition this time?’
‘I may.’
Tessa swallowed, tried for a smile. ‘Well I’ll see you at the show.’
‘Do give my regards to Ted. Take care.’
‘Bye then,’ she said. ‘Love you too.’
Ghost looked up and gave a yowl.
‘Oh, don’t you start,’ said Tessa. Her eye was caught by the sculpture. She turned towards the window, then picked up her coat. ‘Ghost, you’re in charge. I’m going to the beach.’
It was, at least, one place she could call home.
Chapter Four
Ciaran O’Neill looked like an editor. Rolled up shirtsleeves, loosely knotted tie, half-moon spectacles he would peer over as if he were examining you. As a younger man, he had played rugby for Cork and had that bull physique: broad shoulders, wide forehead and arms so thick he was constantly asking the time, as no wristwatch would fit him. He also had that scrappy, head-down-into-the-scrum fearlessness that was often a requirement of the job, along with the hair-trigger intolerance for anyone who failed to pull their weight. Danny wanted to be Ciaran O’Neill when he grew up – if he lived that long. And that was never a given when you stepped into the mid-morning editorial conference.
‘Where are the shots from the fire?’ snapped Ciaran, glaring across the boardroom table at Dom Byrne, the Examiner’s unflappable picture editor. ‘I sent Doyle, the stringer,’ he sighed. ‘And he came back with lots of pictures of fire engines. Apparently, the fire was out by the time he got there.’
