by Maggie Finn
Molly tugged at the hem of her skirt, wondering for the dozenth time if she should have worn a different dress. More formal? More businesslike? More pretty? Maybe she could sway Mr. Bower with her winsome charms? Trouble was, she’d already met the bank manager many times – a hunched, serious man with a thinning comb-over – and she doubted whatever she wore would have any effect on him at all. Molly looked up at the grey stone of the bank, the high square windows, the columns either side of the heavy wooden door. Molly supposed the architecture was supposed to make the building look grand and important: solid too, a strong institution worthy of looking after your money. But to Molly, it looked like a prison.
Come on Mol, she thought to herself. You can do this. Just one last push and we’ll get there.
Her mother was from that first wave of post-feminist feminists, the sort who thought action was far more effective than words. Audra Maguire even traveled across to protest the American missiles at Greenham Common in the Eighties, only leaving when she realized she was pregnant with Molly’s brother Tom. So Molly had been raised to believe she could do anything a man could do – part of the reason she had gone to chef in the ultra-competitive macho environment of restaurant kitchens, she supposed – and more importantly, she had been raised to believe that if she worked hard, she would always succeed. ‘Or fail spectacularly,’ her mother had added, ‘And that’s almost as good.’
‘Thanks Mammy’, whispered Molly as she smoothed her skirt and walked up the bank steps with more confidence than she felt.
Mr Bower stood to shake her hand as Molly was shown into his office. Everything about him – the pressed navy suit with striped tie, the trimmed moustache and the rigorously tidy desk – spoke of the bank manager’s love of formality. Everything in its place, every box ticked. Molly was more haphazard, more seat-of-the-pants, spontaneous rather than planned. But she wasn’t about to debate the point with Mr Bower. She needed his help and she knew what he needed to hear.
‘I’ve brought along a business plan,’ she began, pulling a stapled document from her bag. ‘It’s fully updated to this month, with projections for profits over the next financial year.’
That, at least, had been met with a look of approval. Mr. Bower liked things to be written down. She waited as Mr Bower read; it didn’t take long. When he had finished, he squared the paper exactly in the middle of his desk blotter, then leant back in his chair.
‘Profits,’ he said, meeting Molly’s eye.
‘Yes. I think that there’s a very good chance that this quarter will show an upswing in turnover meaning I can reinvest in…’
The manager held up one manicured hand.
‘Sorry Ms Maguire, I have to stop you there.’
Molly was disappointed. She’d spent ages learning all the fancy business-speak; she had plans to drop in the phrases ‘fiscally diverse’ and ‘customer-facing’.
‘It’s a fine business plan,’ said Mr. Bower. ‘Coherent, passionate and ambitious. You’ve obviously put a lot of effort into it. I’m impressed.’
‘Thank you. I really think the café can take off, given the right investment and careful management.’
Mr. Bower laced his fingers together. ‘Let me be frank,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I do have something of an advantage over you, Ms. Maguire. I’ve been the area manager for the county for thirty years and as such, I am privileged to be caretaker to the finances of many business ventures. Most of them, in fact. The bank handles the accounts of the butcher on the high street, the building yard in Ballymanor and most, if not all, the shops in Port Quinn. I’ve seen them grow and I have, with a heavy heart, seen many of them falter. I know the signs.’
‘I know it hasn’t been the best year for the café,’ said Molly quickly, ‘But there has been investment in tourism in the area.’
‘You’re referring to the Suites and Spa in the square?’ said Mr. Bower. ‘The bar run by Connor James?’
‘Well, yes, that’s one. It just shows that Clover Cove is moving with the times.’
The man nodded, but there was a sad look on his face.
‘You see, there we have a fine example of what I’m talking about. I have handled the finances for Connor James and for his father and mother when they ran the pub too. This bank holds the mortgage for the building and, well, some other financial assets it would be remiss of me to detail. The point is I have unique insight into what’s really happening in the area.’
Molly’s eyes opened wider as the implication sank in.
‘Yes, Ms. Maguire. I actually know how all of the businesses in the area are doing. I see their monthly statements, I see where money is going out and in some cases, we actually count the Euros by hand as they come in. So it’s hard to pull the wool over my eyes. You buy fish from O’Grady’s at the harbor on Port Quinn, yes?’
Molly nodded.
‘I can tell you exactly how much of your money has gone into their coffers over the past year.’
‘But that’s not the only…’
‘Eight hundred and fifty-seven euro,’ said Mr. Bower.
Molly gaped at him. That much? The man bent over his desk, reading from a list.
‘You spent nine hundred and seven at the butchers, three hundred and seventeen in the greengrocers and, surprisingly, only forty-nine euro at the dairy.’
‘Carla insisted I run a tab. I’ll have to settle at the end of the month.’
‘Yes, you also have credit at three farms and a supplier of dry goods. You’re very well thought of in the area, which is of course a positive in business.’ He held up a finger. ‘But not everything.’
‘The bottom line, Ms. Maguire, is that even with the goodwill of local suppliers, you are out of cash.’
Molly could only nod.
‘And without more money, your café will fail.’
‘Don’t look so crestfallen, it’s no reflection on you. Some entrepreneurs are driven by a passion and pay no attention to the finances. You on the other hand, have been exemplary in that regard. You have kept records, counted every receipt in and out. It’s good. And you didn’t resort to bringing in pastries to try and sway me.’
Molly closed her bag, hoping he couldn’t smell what was inside.
‘But there comes a time when no amount of skill will save you.’
‘I just need a little more time.’
‘My problem is that Clover Cove itself is running out of time. The village itself could be buying your cakes, but you would still need tourism to keep you afloat and, well, you can see the facts here.’
He turned the monitor of his computer around to face her. There was a colorful graph with, in the middle, a jagged line plunging downwards. ‘This is from the a survey the council run – you know those wires they run across the road to count cars? – it shows how many people are actually visiting Clover Cove. And as you can see, it is less and less. Since the bypass, it drops off dramatically.’
‘But what about Ross Oil?’
‘Ah, well if that happens, you would be in great position. But it’s not happening, is it?’
‘What about a loan?’
Mr. Bower almost smiled.
‘As I said, I admire your ambition. But the bank is in the business of, well, business. You wouldn’t expect us to invest in a farm with no cows, would you? You are a café with no customers. And unless something changes, that’s the way it will stay.’
‘But my bread is good.’
‘I heard that.’
‘What can I do?’
He turned to her CV.
‘You have skills. You are a fine chef. Perhaps you need to have a rethink. Have you considered looking for a job at one of the restaurants in the area? The Watch House or The Line?’
Molly thought of the hot kitchens, the shouting, the pressure. And she thought of the calm oasis that was Molly’s Café at daybreak, the smell of bread coming up from the kitchen. It couldn’t be the end.
‘I will, Mr. Bower, I’ll look at all the options.’<
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‘Oh no, I think you misunderstand me,’ said the bank manager. ‘I’m not suggesting seeking employment as a possible future option, Ms. Maguire. I’m saying it’s, well, your only option.’
Molly tried to swallow and found she couldn’t.
‘What… what do you mean?’
‘I mean, Ms. Maguire, that your line of credit with the bank is at an end. Your credit cards are, I believe the term is, ‘maxed out’, your overdraft is overdrawn and you have no collateral.’
‘I have the café. Couldn’t I raise a loan on that?’
‘A building of which the bank owns the majority and, given the state of Clover Cove’s desirability as a destination, is quite likely unsaleable. So no, Ms. Maguire, I doubt even the loan sharks would lend you money on the café.’
Molly pressed her lips together. Another of her mother’s maxims: never cry in front of a man.
Mr Bower, formal though he was, seemed to sense it and nudged a box of tissues toward her. Molly eyed them, but didn’t take one. She still had her pride.
‘Is… is it really that bad?’ she managed.
‘I’m sorry, but yes. It is. Unless you can turn the café’s fortunes around in…’ he consulted his computer ‘…well, a month, I fear you will default on your mortgage and if that happens, it will be out of my hands. The irony is that when hard times come, banks tend to get more hardline. If you miss a payment, head office will automatically send the bailiffs to shutter the café. And…’
He seemed a little embarrassed.
‘What? It’s worse than that?’
Mr. Bower grimaced. ‘Well, I’m afraid it’s likely they will come after you personally to recover any debts. Savings, bonds, assets. Cars, machinery, that sort of thing.’
For some reason, Molly thought of the shiny coffee machine she had used to make a hot chocolate for the handsome surfer that morning.
‘Do you have any property?’
‘Only the flat.’
‘Well I suppose the up-side is that they won’t seek to take your home.’
‘Apart from my home is the café.’
‘Ah yes, quite so. All rather unpleasant.’
‘So you’re telling me that in a month, I could be unemployed and homeless?’
‘It’s the economy, I’m afraid.’
He did look genuinely regretful.
Molly forced herself to stand. She thrust out a hand.
‘Thank you for being so frank, Mr. Bower.’
He nodded. Molly supposed this wasn’t the first time he had run through this particular script. It couldn’t be his favorite part of the job.
‘Best of luck, Ms. Maguire.’
She walked out and down the street. There were rules, a code to follow. She couldn’t weep in front of a man or out in the open – that would upset passers-by. She waited until she was safely inside Miguel, then she burst into tears.
Chapter Four
Sean hadn’t needed to set his alarm that morning. Some internal body clock had woken him just before dawn and he was up, things thrown into the van – a sky blue VW camper that was more rust than paint – and headed for the cove just as the pink-grey light was seeping over the hilltops. Not that Sean had really been sleeping. Strange dreams of boats lost at sea had alternated with long periods staring at the ceiling, mainly thinking about Caroline’s words: ‘What do you want from life, Sean?’
He knew it was meant as a rebuke, a way of telling him that he was a day-dreamer and that he needed to knuckle down and commit to his career, but Sean’s mind had evidently decided to take it literally. What did he want?
He down-shifted, using his whining clutch-box to slow the van for a sharp bend; there was nothing on the roads at this time, even the farmers were mostly still asleep, but he didn’t want to plunge headfirst into some jagged bay. Sean loved the sea, but not that much.
‘What do I want?’ he asked himself.
Well, he wanted more of this, that was for sure. More of the open air, more of the waves, more of the dark green headlands rising from the water like ancient giants. Sean was tired, grumpy and his eyes were as dry as the pot plants in his flat, but that was when Sean was happiest: driving to some left-hand point break with high surf and no one but the seagulls for company. The waves were often disappointing – Ireland had its share of swells, but it wasn’t Hawaii – but that wasn’t the point. Much of the fun was in the anticipation; the same beach could look a dozen different ways from slate grey in rain to hot pink at sunset and when you were sitting astride your board waiting for that perfect wave, the way it moved beneath you, well, it was something you felt in your bones, in your soul. It was primordial. No wonder so many surfers became all mumbly and quasi-mystical. The feeling you got from being one with the water was hard to describe without sounding like you were reading a horoscope.
But. Caroline was right about one thing: it was hard to make a living from splashing about in the water. A few lithe Aussies traveled the world sponsored by surfboard makers, winning prize money in competitions and advertising suntan cream, but Sean neither had the skills nor the inclination. It was here, right here, on the drizzly Irish coast that he wanted to be. Palm trees and pretty girls in bikinis were nice, but if you were always surrounded by beauty 24/7, how could you tell it was beautiful? It was the fact that the Emerald Island was so fickle – you never knew whether you were going to get a blizzard in June – that made the sunny hours so sweet.
Sean turned off the road and parked the van in a layby, quickly unstrapping his board and reaching for his wet-suit. This part of the day gave Sean a pang of sadness because always saw Caroline’s suit, still hanging on a peg behind the driver’s seat, neglected and unloved. Would she ever use it again? Would the old Caroline, the one who used to whoop when she hit a wave, would she ever come back?
Sean shook his head and set about pulling on his suit. Just another of life’s mysteries to ponder. Like, if they can build Jurassic Park, why they can’t make a wetsuit that doesn’t smell like a chemical spill?
Board under arm, he padded down the sandy path and onto the beach of Battleship Bay. It was easier to paddle around the headland into Clover Cove and easier to park – like most fishing villages, the Cove hadn’t been designed with stubby little VW Combis in mind – plus he enjoyed the swim in, he felt like an Olympic freestyler cutting through the water, as long as he could forget he was lying on a fibreglass board, which felt a little like cheating.
And finally there he was again: home. Right in the center of the cove, framed on either side by friendly cliffs. The old stone chapel on one side, the turret of Sleagh Castle just peeking out on the other.
Sean wasn’t sure what it was about Clover Cove that drew him back again and again. There were other bays and inlets along this stretch of coast, many with better breaks, but there was just something about the shape of the hills and cliffs, the smell in the air, the shimmer on the water at this time of day. And there was something else too.
Someone else. Molly Maguire. His heart skipped as he thought of her, his eyes scanning the shore for sign of her. It was almost an ache he felt, the need to see her again. It was ridiculous, really. He’d barely spoken to the girl and yet here he was pining over her; no, he actually felt ill. Was this what lovesick meant? He grinned, the thought of being in love both ludicrous and somehow wonderful at the same time.
But you’re a grown man, he scolded himself. You’re acting like a teenager. Not that Sean had all that much experience of romance. There had been girls of course – he was a good-looking guy and some women just loved a surfer, especially when he came with shaggy blonde hair and laid-back charm. But never anyone that had ever sent him into such a spin.
He looked up toward the café again, hoping to see Molly. The crazy thing was that he’d mistaken her for a postman.
Just after dawn and seen from the sea, Clover Cove was just a mass of tiny cottages clinging to a steep hillside, abstract squares in various shades of grey. Except one. In one bu
ilding right in the middle on the right, a little yellow light would wink on. Then, after a pause, there would be two more lower down and often, a tiny dark figure could be seen moving about and sometimes Sean would see headlights scything across a driveway, heading south and west. But that was all. If the surf was going off – this was a good thing – Sean might stay in the cove long enough to see other lights as the village slowly woke, but mostly it was Sean and the mystery figure.
Paddling closer, he’d spotted the distinctive green of the Irish Post Office van, so he’d assumed logically that this early-riser was out delivering the letters.
Then one day, he’d caught a big swell and wiped out, tumbling down under a wave and swallowing half the Atlantic in the process, so he’d decided it was wise to listen to the sea and emerged onto the beach at Clover Cove, tucking his board under his arm and heading up through the village back to the van. That was when he had first seen Molly’s Café and heard the crash. And that, of course, was when he had seen Molly Maguire for the first time.
Not a postman at all, but an angel fallen from heaven. Sean snorted at the corny-ness of that. The thing was, he’d been having a lot of thoughts like that. Molly was a goddess, a Venus, a Madonna, the perfect embodiment of all that was good in women. Molly was obviously just a girl who ran a café in a small Irish village, she wasn’t supernatural and he’d barely spent five minutes in her company. And yet he was as dizzy as a salmon, heart leaping when he thought of her, mouth going dry, not being able to eat or drink. He was a walking cliche.
And he knew almost nothing about her. He hadn’t seen an engagement or wedding ring – he’d looked – but Molly could be one of those modern women who chose not to wear a ring. Or – his heart sank as a dread thought occurred to him… she was a cook: she might well remove her rings at work to avoid getting pastry and stuff caught in it. Oh no.
He stared up at the village, as if he could see the answer. And even if she wasn’t wed, there was a strong chance that a beautiful girl like Molly would have a long-term boyfriend.
So why don’t you go and ask her? asked a mocking voice in his head. Why are you sitting on this board in the middle of the sea instead of telling her how you feel?
