by Maggie Finn
‘I don’t feel selfless coming here,’ he said. ‘I do it to make myself feel less guilty.’
‘Tell me about it,’ chuckled Declan, pointing to his dog-collar. ‘We’re all playing catch-up here. But that doesn’t mean those acts of kindness have less impact. Your mam smiled when you knocked on her door, right?’
‘I guess.’
‘Sure. And you think she was faking? No Sean, she loved you coming out here. And yes, you’re motivated by guilt and duty and being able to tell your dad you came, but your mum doesn’t care about any of that. Her son was here, that’s what she remembers.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Okay, so perhaps the disease will rob her of the memory. But it matters to your dad and he’ll remember. You’re being strong for him.’
‘I’ll be honest, Father, it doesn’t feel that way. And…’
‘And you don’t want to go to London.’
Sean gaped at the priest, but Declan laughed.
‘It’s Kiln County, Sean. World capital of gossip. Your dad is proud of you, he likes to tell people. And he’s been telling everyone about his wonderful son holding up the business single-handedly.’
Sean frowned. The priest must have misheard. Caroline was the figurehead, the boss. Either way, he’d hit the nail on the head.
‘Is it wrong to want to make your own life, Father? To want a simple life here surrounded by nature and family?’
‘Not at all, if that’s really what you want.’
‘You think I should go to London? You’re taking my dad’s side?’
He shook his head.
‘One of the blessings – and sometimes the curse – of this job is that you don’t get to take sides. Believe me, in my checkered past, I experienced the flipside of that. Being gung-ho, believing you are one hundred per cent in the right. That’s actually much easier. Doubt is tricky.’
‘But you’re doubting I want this? That I want to stay here?’
‘I can’t tell you that, Sean. And anything I’d say at this point would sound lame, like an American chat show. ‘Be true to yourself’, all that guff. But I think deep down, everyone knows what they want and there’s no shame in admitting it. In fact, you won’t be happy until you do.’
Sean pulled a face.
‘No offence, but it’s not great advice, I’ll be honest.’
Declan shrugged.
‘Who ever said priests give good advice? But I will say this: ‘God helps those who help themselves’. That one is true. God likes us to be honest and proactive. But he’s even more pumped if we try to help other too.’
Sean gave a wry smile.
‘God gets “pumped”?’
‘I’ve been watching a lot of American teen movies. Did I get it wrong?’
‘No, actually I think that is what they say.’
Sean pushed himself up from the bench.
‘Thanks father,’ he said.
‘I helped?’ said the priest in surprise.
‘Really,’ said Sean. ‘I think I know what to do now.’
Father Dec chuckled.
‘Then God really does work in mysterious ways.’
Chapter Thirteen
The cake was good, but the icing. Oh my! Molly scooped up a little more on her pinkie and felt her taste buds flutter as she dabbed it on her tongue. She’d beaten the icing twice until it was as light and fluffy as meringue, but the secret was using raw vanilla pods in the flavoring. A pestle and mortar and a bit of elbow grease made all the difference.
She looked down at the bowl, resisting the urge to lick it clean. Being the chef meant you never had to feel bad about tasting food, but sometimes it tested the limits of your willpower. Still, it was basic logic: if you eat the cake, there’s no cake to sell. And selling cake was what was important right now, especially with the Clover Cove Feast almost upon her. Raff had gone into overdrive with his flyers and posters. Every telegraph pole, every fence, every bus shelter in a ten-mile radius had been plastered. They weren’t slick and there were some eccentric spellings, admittedly, but there can’t have been anyone in Kiln County who wasn’t now aware of the upcoming shebeen at Molly’s Café. Down in Port Quinn that morning, there had been a real buzz about it, with people shouting out greetings and requests for the now-famous ‘free sandwiches’. Molly had actually allowed herself to believe that it might actually come off. Ryan James had been right of course; it was short-term, papering over the cracks, just limping to the next payment or crisis, but even Ryan had pitched in, helping his brother to hang a banner from a bridge – ‘Eat Molly’s Cakes’ – over the main road to Kilmara. Who knew if it would work, but Molly appreciated the effort.
It wasn’t just the James boys either. Kate had been hitting the phones, cold-calling every newspaper and TV station from Cork to Belfast to drum up interest, Tessa was using her ‘posh English voice’ – her words, not Molly’s – to persuade suppliers to send samples and freebies. As she’d put it, ‘we aren’t paying for those free sandwiches’ and everything from road-signs to flower arrangements needed to come from somewhere. Molly suspected that the rest of the village were throwing themselves into it for similar reasons to her; chances were it would fall flat, but they all recognized they had to do something, and bringing more people into the village benefited everyone. ‘That’s if anyone comes,’ said Molly to herself.
She was just smoothing the last of the icing onto the sides of the cake and considering if she could lick whatever was left in the bowl when there was a sudden banging on the front door.
Molly looked up at the clock. 7am. That was early, but maybe it was the kids up at Hayley’s campsite. The early dawn light often drove them out of their sleeping bags in search of bacon sandwiches.
‘We’re not open until eight!’ she called, adding ‘Sorry!’ as an after-thought.
The banging returned, even louder this time, along with a deep voice shouting something.
Molly frowned. Hadn’t they heard her?
‘We’re closed!’ she called, stepping toward the door.
BANGBANGBANG!
Molly flinched. This time she heard something in the muffled shouting: ‘financial services’?
Oh no.
She tip-toed up the stairs and over to the bedroom window – the creeping was stupid really, as she’d already let them know she was inside – and peeked out. There were two burly men in dark jackets, one tall, one short. Neither looked very friendly. The shorter man had a clipboard and was reading from it. ‘Molly Maguire,’ he said loudly, ‘Please open the door.’
Molly let the window open a notch.
‘No, I don’t think I will,’ she said. ‘Not until you tell me who you are and what you want?’
‘We are operating in accordance with a directive from Griffin Mutual Bank who are seeking to recover the arrears from an overdue loan.’
‘I spoke to Mr Bower at the bank last week. I haven’t missed a payment yet.’
The man consulted his clipboard.
‘Not the information I have here. Please open the door, Ms. Maguire.’
The other man began hammering again.
‘Stop that! I’m calling the police!’ shouted Molly.
‘Be our guest,’ smiled the shorter man. ‘Just makes it easier for us. They’ll make you open the door.’
Molly closed the window, seized by a sick feeling that the man might be right. And even if he wasn’t, that door wouldn’t take much more battering. She was suddenly terrified that they’d grab her coffee machine. She loved that coffee machine. But what could she do? Molly saw her phone and snatched it up. ‘Who do I call?’
For some reason, she immediately thought of Sean: he was smart and calm in a crisis, but right now he’d either be surfing or on his way to work and anyway, why would he come charging to her rescue when all she ever did was push him away? Think!
‘Connor,’ she said, quickly dialling the number of the pub from memory. Even if Con was out, someone there would know what to do.
<
br /> ‘Connor’s suites and spa.’
‘Connor, it’s Molly,’ she said without preamble. ‘There are some bailiffs here and I don’t know what to do.’
There was a micro-second pause, then Connor spoke quickly and decisively.
‘Sit tight,’ he said, ‘And don’t sign anything.’
The line went dead. She looked down at her phone, imagining him running around the pub, whipping up a posse, lighting flaming torches and charging down the cobbled lane armed with pitchforks – not that anyone had pitchforks any more.
She edged back toward the window. To her surprise, the two men had gone. Oh no, she thought, the back! It hadn’t crossed her mind they’d circle around the rear. She bolted for the stairs, practically leaping down, trying to remember whether she had closed the back door when she had unloaded the groceries that morning. Her eyes widened: Miguel! They could seize the van!
Reaching the back door, she wrenched it open and sprinted outside, straight into the arms of the tall man. He leered down at her as Molly wriggled away.
‘You leave Miguel alone!’ she shouted.
As she had guessed, the short man was leaning over the van, peering in through the driver’s side.
‘Miguel?’ said the man, looking down at his clipboard. ‘Who’s Miguel?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Is there someone else inside?’
Molly pushed her chin out defiantly. ‘Yes, my boyfriend, Sean. So don’t try any funny business.’
‘Sean, is it?’ said Shorty, smiling, ‘Well sure, and isn’t he the lucky one?’
Molly began to back toward the café, but found her way blocked by the Tall Guy.
‘Now then Ms. Maguire – or can I call you Molly?’ said Shorty, sidling up, a sickly smile pasted on his pinched face. ‘I want to make one thing clear to you. Our employers want you out of here.’
‘But Mr Bower said…’
Shorty grinned and shook his head slowly.
‘Not Mr Bower?’ said Molly, suddenly feeling cold. ‘Who do you work for then?’
The short man made a big show of shrugging, both hands upward. ‘Who can say? The important thing here is that you understand that we will take this property and everything inside unless you leave by the end of the week.’
‘Or what?’
Molly hoped her voice didn’t sound as frightened as she felt inside.
‘Or you may just find that you come home one morning and find…’
WHOOP!
The short man stopped as they all looked toward the noise. A white police car was idling by the kerb. Guard Noah. Molly felt a sudden urge to whoop herself.
WHOOP-WHOOP!
Noah pressed his siren again and the two men reluctantly backed away.
‘We’ll be back, Molly,’ said the short guy. ‘You can be sure of that. I’d start packing if I were you.’
Skirting around Noah’s car, the men jumped into a black Range Rover and backed around the bend. When they had gone, the policeman opened his door and walked over.
‘Noah, you have no idea how glad I am to see you,’ she said, resisting the urge to hug him.
‘Bailiffs?’ asked the Guard.
Molly nodded.
‘They said they were going to take everything. They would have done, too if…’ she looked at him quizzically. ‘Why are you here anyway?’
‘I was in the area,’ he said casually. ‘I thought I’d come by to see if you had fixed your headlight. I’m glad to see that you have.’
Molly shrugged. Davy at the garage had sorted it out after he’d towed Sean’s VW off the embankment.
‘Plus I wanted to ask about your – ah – notice on the bridge near Kilmara. You are aware that it is illegal to distract drivers with billboards or advertisements?’
‘What notice?’ asked Molly innocently.
‘The one with the misspelled advert for a summer feast at Molly’s Café.’
‘I’m not aware of that, Guard,’ said Molly. ‘Although some people in the village have been helping out. I’m sorry if someone’s been over-zealous.’
‘Come on Molly, do you expect me to believe you knew nothing about…’
The policeman trailed off as footsteps sounded behind them. Connor James was walking along the lane, a heavy black stick casually slung over one shoulder. He didn’t flinch when he saw Noah, just kept walking.
‘Noah,’ he said, nodding at the Guard. ‘Molly.’
Noah stepped out into the lane, blocking his way.
‘Can I help you, Connor?’
‘No, no, just out for a stroll, taking the morning air and so on.’
Noah eyed Connor’s stick.
‘And what’s that you have there, Con?’
Connor looked down, as if it was the first time he’d seen it. ‘This? Oh, just my da’s old walking stick.’
‘Walking stick eh?’ said Noah sceptically. ‘Looks like a shillelagh to me.’
‘You think?’ he said innocently. ‘You’d have to ask my da about that. I just like to take it when I’m walking over uneven ground. My knees aren’t what they were.’
They all looked at the gnarled stick. It was at least two inches thick, with rough studs all down the shaft and a polished knob at the top. Even to Molly, it looked far more like a weapon than a mobility aid – and she was on Connor’s side.
‘And you wouldn’t have been thinking of using it to “walk over” those two bailiffs I just sent away would you now Connor?’
‘Me? I’m too old for fisticuffs, Guard. And anyway, what bailiffs?’
Noah let out a sigh and looked at Molly.
‘A couple of thugs, Con,’ said Molly. ‘They said they had paperwork to repossess Molly’s Café.’
‘Did they now?’ growled Connor, thunking his stick down on the cobbles and blowing his image as an innocent rambler. Noah began to speak, but Molly stepped forward.
‘That’s the thing Con, I don’t think they did,’ said Molly, looking back and forth between the two men. ‘The short one said they weren’t from the bank. And even if they had been, they were two weeks too early.’
Noah nodded.
‘It’s one of the tricks they use to catch their marks off guard. People assume these guys are official, court-appointed and they expect them to play by the rules. But if they find an open door, they’ll take anything not nailed down, change the locks, collect their fee and let the lawyers argue the small print.’
Connor harumphed.
‘Well, I might have had something to say about that.’
‘No, Connor, you would not,’ said Noah. ‘And neither would I, come to that. By the time it’s gone legal, waving a big stick does no good at all, even for the police.’
Connor shrugged, conceding the point.
Noah turned to Molly. ‘Anyway, I doubt they’ll be back again any time soon, but I wouldn’t leave any windows ajar just in case. And Molly, when that date comes around, there won’t be a thing any of us can do about the bank taking your place. You do understand that?’
Molly nodded. ‘I do. And thank you Guard.’
Noah looked meaningfully at Connor. ‘Just keeping the peace. Which is my job. Understand?’
‘Got it,’ said Connor.
Noah raised his eyebrows sceptically, then climbed back into his car and backed away from the café.
When he was out of sight, Molly slumped against Connor, letting out a long breath.
‘Oh Con, what am I going to do?’
Connor hesitated, then put down his stick and pulled her into a hug.
‘You do what the Irish have always done, Molly Maguire. You fight.’
Molly looked up at him. She didn’t feel like fighting. She felt like rolling herself into a little ball and giving up.
‘I don’t want to storm some castle, Connor. I want to pay my mortgage.’
‘Well that’s the other thing the Irish are good at. Crafty thinking. Let’s go and see Kate. Because if anyone’s good at crafty thinking it’s women.’
Molly
stepped back and put hand on each hip. ‘You do realize it’s the twenty-first century, don’t you Connor?’
‘Alright, strategic thinking. Women are good at strategic thinking.’
‘Better,’ smiled Molly. ‘Alright, grab your big stick and I’ll be back in a minute.’ She turned to go back into the café.
‘You going to lock the windows?’ asked Connor.
‘No,’ said Molly, over her shoulder. ‘I’m going to get a couple of cakes. Nothing helps plotting better than cake.’
Chapter Fourteen
Kevin Judd looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes and his shirt didn’t look like it had been ironed. The Ross Oil man shifted in his seat and grunted impatiently. Perhaps working for Ross Oil was harder than it looked or perhaps it was the lack of light in Caroline’s office. The WestTec business was run out of a converted fish-canning warehouse and their Dad had told him that this office had once been the dispatch room: ledgers and dockets and clerks bent over wooden desks lit by lamp. The only real light coming in was through a modern skylight and, as the forecast was for storms, it was grey. Or maybe Judd was ill, thought Sean with a start – visitors often found the temperamental Irish climate a shock to the system. Sean sincerely hoped it wasn’t the latter, as he was about to show Kevin Judd a glossy advert for the lush beauty of the Emerald Isle. That wasn’t going to go down well if his client had recently been soaked to the skin in a downpour.
‘So here it is,’ said Sean, as brightly as he could, ‘The West Coast campaign. We put it together in record time, but I think…’ – Sean crossed his fingers behind his back – ‘…you’ll be pleased with what you see.’
Judd grunted again and made a rolling motion with his finger. Get on with it.
Sean dimmed the lights and clicked play, holding his breath as the big video screen on the wall blinked into life.
‘Clover Cove, Ireland,’ read the caption over time-lapse footage of a sunrise over the chapel. Sean glanced at the American slumped in his chair, but he just looked… bored. Too late now, anyway. He turned back to the screen as the sunrise cut away, replaced by a sweeping shot of the beach and up onto the dark green headland. Sean hadn’t been exaggerating: the thirty-second advert had been shot at breakneck speed over the last week. Judd had been very clear on the deadlines: he wanted the ad to be played in cineplexes before the latest Marvel flick, which was due out at the end of the month.
