This place had all the hallmarks of a hospital, from the inmates’ air of mingled gratitude and resentment, to the bossy kindness of the overworked staff. From the moment Rasher had crossed the threshold he’d hated the smell and feel of it. But whenever he’d been tempted to walk out again he’d remembered the time he’d opened his eyes one morning under the viaduct and seen an old guy who’d never wake up being carted off on a stretcher. Rasher had grabbed his own stuff and the old fella’s – which had turned out to be useless – and dodged away while the paramedics were putting the stretcher in the ambulance. Then he’d faced the fact that if he didn’t do something, he, too, could be out on the streets for life.
Mrs Khan was probably about his mum’s age. When Rasher arrived in the tearoom she was sitting at a table with a notebook. She had a long floaty scarf over her hair and thrown back across her shoulders. He sat down warily, suspecting that the notebook was full of stuff about himself. But she put it away, saying she’d been catching up on some work while she’d been waiting. Rasher stiffened. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think I was late.’
‘You’re not. I was early. I came on the bus from Lissbeg.’
There was a bit of a silence. Then he asked if Lissbeg was where she lived.
‘Yes. For nearly twenty years now. My husband manages an IT support centre. But, of course, we’re not Irish, as you can see.’
Rasher didn’t say anything.
She held out her hand. ‘My name is Saira. It’s nice to meet you, Adam.’
‘I’m called Rasher.’
He’d found out ages ago that being Rasher rather than Adam Rashid could sometimes save him a kicking. Not that anyone stopped to ask your name when you were sitting on a corner begging. If you had dark skin and black hair, you were a feckin’ foreign scrounger and that was that.
‘Would you like some tea?’
He wasn’t particularly thirsty but he never refused a freebie. When she came back with the mugs, she folded her hands on the table and asked if there was anything in particular he’d like to talk about. ‘I expect you already know why you’ve had me assigned to you. Basically, I’m here to answer questions. I can give you practical information, and maybe offer advice.’
He noticed she’d been assigned to him and not the other way round, which seemed to fit in with the way this place did things. Very eager to be client-friendly, probably so’s to tick some funding box. Martin the warden was a big slab of a priest in his mid-forties, who looked like he knew how to handle himself. He’d interviewed Rasher the first day and rattled off a list of rules at him but, according to what you’d hear on the street, he was an okay bloke. Rasher wished to hell he hadn’t dumped this oul one on him, though.
There was another awkward pause before she spoke again. ‘You’re not from Finfarran yourself?’
Rasher said he wasn’t. ‘I was born in Dublin.’
‘Well, if we’re going to get to know each other, perhaps I should tell you how I came to work here. I’m a volunteer, which you already know, I’m sure. I have two daughters, one about your age and one who is younger. And, as I said, I live in Lissbeg.’
‘So why get on a bus to Carrick and come here?’
The question sounded ruder than he’d intended but she didn’t seem upset.
‘Partly because of my girls, I suppose. Ameena, who’s your age, is very bright. She’s gone to university. I like to help people like you who maybe haven’t had the chance to make choices as she has.’
Rasher shrugged. ‘Yeah? Well, I didn’t even get my Junior Cert.’
‘Paper qualifications are not all that count in life.’
Rasher didn’t argue, but this was clearly a waste of time. He was here because of paper stuff, for God’s sake. That was what he needed. A PPS number, so he could work. An address, so he could have a PPS number. Some kind of letter or certificate or diploma that would get him through a door.
Suddenly hopelessness descended on him. When Martin had shaken his hand the other day he’d said, ‘Don’t panic. We’ll get you there. I’ve never had a case through these doors that I couldn’t crack. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.’ That night, in an actual bed in a room with a lock on the door, Rasher had almost believed him, and he’d woken up determined to give it a go. But what kind of help was he going to get from a woman whose kids went to uni and whose husband could afford to let her go off and play at being Mother Teresa?
He swept a sideways look at her and found that she’d caught his glance. Her hands were still folded on the table and she laughed and spread them out. ‘You’re checking out my filthy fingernails!’
‘No. I wasn’t.’ Though now that he came to look at them they did look kind of rough.
She leaned forward. ‘Let me tell you something about myself, Adam. I’ve always had a home, so I’ve been lucky. I’ve always felt safe and protected. But sometimes that can cut you off from life, and that isn’t good. And one thing I’ve learned from coming here is that living on the street can chew up your self-confidence. You eat and sleep and walk among throngs of people, but you feel completely alone. It’s as if you’re living behind a wall of glass. Well, that’s exactly how I used to feel in my own home. I know it sounds strange, but it’s true. My spoken English wasn’t great when I came to Ireland so I made no friends. My husband worked hard and I stayed at home and looked after the children. And, as time went by, I hardly ever went out. My whole life was about being a housewife and taking care of my kids.’
She stopped talking. Rasher wondered if she thought he hadn’t been listening so, to be polite, he nodded, trying to look involved. She didn’t seem very convinced, but she smiled and went on.
‘Here is the point. I had no qualifications. Nothing that would allow me to take a job. Then my daughter took me to a public garden in Lissbeg. It’s part of The Old Convent Centre – do you know it?’
He shook his head. He hadn’t been to Lissbeg, which, he knew, was way smaller than Carrick. You never got much hanging round in a place that had no fast-food shops, and no supermarkets where people would spend a fortune and then feel guilty and chuck you a handful of change.
‘Well, it used to be the nuns’ herb garden. And now it’s run by volunteers.’ Mrs Khan held up her hands. ‘And growing herbs is something I do know about.’ She laughed and looked at her nails. ‘It takes a serious moisturiser to cope with the wear and tear.’
Rasher wondered if she imagined that rough sleepers sat around cheerful campfires exchanging tips on cosmetics. He knocked back his tea in one slug so she wouldn’t see scorn in his eyes.
‘So I took the first step. And it was terrifying.’
Looking up, Rasher saw that she’d pressed her fingers to her lips.
‘I’m sorry. It still makes me emotional. Because it was a hard thing to do. But I did it. I volunteered to work in the garden.’
‘For free?’
‘Yes. I volunteered.’
‘So it wasn’t a job, then?’
‘No. And a job is what you want, I know that.’
‘It takes money to pay rent.’
‘I know. And I was lucky. How to pay rent was not one of my problems. But finding friends was. Discovering that I could talk to people. Realising that I had something to offer. I’d always thought I had nothing. Maybe I thought that everybody knew all about herbs.’
‘You went to work in a garden for free and made friends.’
‘I did. And I found I was good at something that other people valued. And eventually someone offered me a job.’
‘Paid?’
‘Yes. And, at the moment, part time. But it’s a proper job, with a proper title. I’m a research-and-development officer for a cosmetics company in Lissbeg.’
Rasher frowned. ‘So why are you still doing volunteer stuff?’ He couldn’t work out what she thought she was going to get by hanging round a halfway house.
‘It’s not a matter of one thing or the other, or of doing something just to get something back. Or n
ot for me. Of course, not everyone views things the same way. People make choices. But you have to get to a point at which there are choices for you to make.’ She stood up and asked if he’d like another tea. As she walked away to the counter Rasher watched her thoughtfully. He wasn’t a fool and he kind of saw what she meant.
Chapter Ten
Five of the six copies of Brooklyn Hanna had ordered through the central system had been borrowed. The sixth, and two of the three on her own shelves, awaited collection. This was a pretty impressive number of loans, amounting to nearly half the film club audience, and as members often arrived to borrow the book at the last moment, more applications were likely. Mr Maguire, of course, probably had his own first edition.
It was pensioners’ computer-class day in the library and Pat Fitz, who taught it, was chatting to Hanna. Pat, who was Mary Casey’s best friend, was a pensioner herself. As she rested her oilcloth bag on the desk, her brow was furrowed. ‘Do you know what it is, Hanna? I’m halfway through Brooklyn and one thing keeps leaping off the pages.’
Two of Pat’s sons had made their homes in Canada so when Hanna had chosen Tóibín’s novel for the film club she’d imagined Pat would relate to its central themes of loss and emigration. Now she hoped her choice hadn’t stirred up painful memories. People so often projected their own dilemmas and dreams onto books they borrowed from the library that sometimes she felt librarians ought to have specialist training in counselling.
Pat’s forehead creased again and she looked earnestly at Hanna. ‘Did you ever wonder if writers know that repeated words have a real effect on a reader? Well, what am I saying? Of course they do. Isn’t that a writer’s trade? I don’t know how they do it, though I’ve been reading all my life.’ She paused and cocked her head, like a robin ready to pounce on a worm. ‘No, but the thing is that in a novel – say, like Brooklyn – you’d get drawn in by particular words that would conjure up the experience of a whole generation.’
Hanna nodded sympathetically. Pat’s sons had been out of touch for years, and the family had only grown close again in the few months before her husband had died. Now the wasted decades must be preying on Pat’s mind.
‘Like cardigans.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Cardigans. The word “cardigan”. Did you notice the way it’s repeated a lot in Brooklyn?’
‘No, I don’t think I did.’
‘Well, now, that’s because you and I are different generations. My poor mother set great store by a cardigan. She’d have a new one for Christmas or for a wedding, say, and a black one with jet buttons for funerals. The good coat would be enough for most funerals in those days, but with close friends or relations, my mother was one who liked to mourn to the skin.’ Pat nodded emphatically. ‘And, do you know what it is, the cardigan thing went through to the 1960s. Myself and your mam, now, were always buying knitting patterns. When the angora wool came in, sure you couldn’t hold us back. There was a shop in Carrick used to get it in lovely pastel colours. It cost the earth, so maybe you’d do your cardi in merino, and use the angora just for your collar and your cuffs.’
Hanna said that the film’s costumes had certainly featured cardigans.
‘I know. Weren’t they lovely? I think it’s a great book.’ With a decisive nod, Pat went off to prepare for her session and, as Hanna returned to her search for a missing email, the members of the computer class began to trickle in. The Old Convent Centre included a day-care facility to which pensioners from outlying villages came on a subsidised minibus. For some, it was just a chance to have a cup of tea in pleasant company but others were eager to brush up on their skills.
Among them was Mary Casey, rigid with disapproval at the thought of being classed as a pensioner but determined not to miss the chance of a free lift into town. Unwilling to spend her afternoons with what she called ‘a crowd of old bores eating Bakewells’ she’d signed up for the computer class, but as she seldom listened she hadn’t learned much.
Scrolling rapidly through her inbox, Hanna gave her mother a wave. Mary immediately adjusted her course and sailed majestically towards her. With a sigh, Hanna asked if something was wrong.
‘You may be sure it is! Did you not get the text I sent you?’
‘You know I don’t keep my phone on here in the library. And I hope you’ve turned yours off, now you’re here.’
‘I have not, and I’ll tell you why. Because it’s my lifeline. A poor widow living alone with no one to keep an eye on her! What if I fell and nobody knew?’
Hanna closed her eyes and prayed for strength. At Mary’s own suggestion, her home had been remodelled to include a flat for Louisa, who’d wanted a pied-à-terre close to Lissbeg. It was the perfect arrangement for two elderly widows, but Mary’s clutch on martyrdom was tenacious.
‘You don’t live alone, you live with Louisa.’
‘Louisa skites off to London whenever the mood takes her.’
‘And when she’s away Johnny Hennessy always looks in on you.’
‘What if I took a queer turn on a bus?’
‘Well, unless you’ve taken to driving one, you wouldn’t be on it alone.’
Mary snorted. ‘Ay, it’s easy seen you’ve got your health and your strength.’
‘I’m sorry I missed your text. Was it important?’ Feeling guilty, she opened her phone and saw the text at once. Mary only used capital letters and never stooped to punctuation.
AM COMING TO PATS YOKE THOUG% GOD ALONE KNOWS IF THE BUS WILL TURN UP ON TIME
There was a pause in which Hanna raised her eyebrows and Mary placed her hands on her ample hips. ‘I could have been in extremis!’
‘Well, you’re perfectly safe for the next hour, Mam, so please turn off your phone.’
As Pat gathered her flock to lead them away, Mary opened her mouth, determined to have the final word. Pat took her firmly by the elbow. ‘Ah, Mary girl, would you give it a rest and not be tormenting Hanna? Let’s go through and see if you can follow a few instructions on a screen. Though, since you can’t find Shift on a keyboard, I wouldn’t hold out much hope.’
Amid winks and nudges from the rest of the class, who never failed to be entertained by Mary, Pat and her pensioners disappeared into the reading room. Torn between amusement and mild resentment, Hanna tried and failed to refocus her mind on her work. Dealing with Mary was taking increasing amounts of time and energy. And, of course, Hanna reminded herself, there was nothing unique in that. The world was full of people trying to juggle lives and jobs with the need to cater to the growing demands of elderly parents.
Though she’d never admit it, Mary had secretly been in her element when Hanna and Jazz had arrived unannounced on her doorstep. The need to cosset her troubled granddaughter, and to castigate Hanna, had given her what had amounted to a new lease on life. After those unexpected years of renewed purpose, Mary had been unsettled by Jazz’s departure and Hanna’s move to Maggie’s place so, when Louisa had decided to set up her business and share the remodelled bungalow, Hanna had hoped that the company, and the new source of interest, would fill a void. To a degree, it had, and even Mary wouldn’t deny it. But the bottom line was that she lacked the inner resources to cope well with moving on in life.
Hanna always tried hard not to make comparisons, but they were evident. Louisa had faced the loss of Malcolm’s dad with quiet courage; and Pat, Mary’s best friend, always turned every obstacle into a challenge. Even Pat’s computer literacy came from a determination not to lose touch with her emigrant children, and the class now gave focus to a life that had grown even lonelier since her husband, Ger’s, death. But, besides being infuriating, Mary’s acerbic martyrdom impeded every attempt Hanna made to help her. Still, Hanna knew there was no changing her now. You had to take her as you found her; and, however annoying she might be, she was a shrewd judge of character, and a rock of strength in times of crisis, ready to take on all comers in defence of her family or a friend.
With the pensioners gathered
in the reading room and no one else in the library, Hanna completed the work at her desk and went over to Children’s Corner. There had been a group of toddlers there earlier and, despite their mothers’ efforts to tidy up after them, picture books were buried under beanbags and the toy basket on the bottom shelf was looking suspiciously empty. As Hanna gathered up the books and pursued pieces of Lego, she remembered visits to her local library in London when Jazz was small.
They’d always walked there, usually chatting so intently that it seemed to take no time. Then, on their return with their arms full of books, they’d stop to feed birds in the park. At home there was an armchair in the conservatory, next to the window, where they’d sit together and read. Even when Jazz had graduated from picture books to classics like Alice and Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes, they’d sometimes squash into the chair together and read aloud to each other. It was a ritual that became the bedrock of the underlying sense of togetherness that had sustained them through the troubled years ahead.
Picking up a copy of The Story of Babar, Hanna made a mental note to order a new one. The damage was evidence of fervour, not destructiveness – it was remarkable how much fervour the average kids’ book could take. A tattered copy of Goldilocks, which she’d loved for its illustrations, had survived her own parents’ move from her childhood home to the bungalow and become a part of the holidays that she’d spent there when Jazz was little. And Jazz had had a copy of Where’s Spot?, which she’d loved to disintegration. Unbidden memories like that one could still bring a lump to Hanna’s throat. Though Where’s Spot? had probably gone to a jumble sale long beforehand, she often feared it might have been lost in the turmoil of the divorce. She’d never returned to the London house since she’d found Malcolm with Tessa, but she knew that all the familiar clutter of Jazz’s childhood was gone.
The Month of Borrowed Dreams Page 6
