Now, rounding the end of a bank of shelving, she discovered an intimate reading party on the floor. Propped up against alphabet blocks, the library’s collection of stuffed toys was sitting in a circle round an open copy of When We Were Very Young. A large, floppy dinosaur dominated the group, in which Piglet and Eeyore sat cheek by jowl with Paddington and Moomintroll. Peter Rabbit was perched on the end of a shelf above them, and bitten-off bits of jelly bean had been placed by each toy’s paw.
In the context of what she’d just been thinking, it looked almost like a setup. Grinning, Hanna told herself that, even for a distracted, guilt-prone mother, sniffling over A. A. Milne was a step too far. Anyway, it was high time to give up on the guilt. Jazz was fine. Mary might be a trial but she’d settled down with Louisa. Brian was happy building his house, and she herself was more than happy in the home Maggie had left her. So, from her family to her love life to her choice of Brooklyn for the film club, everything right now was pretty much perfect.
Chapter Eleven
May was foxglove time of year. Clusters of purple flowers on tall green spires lined the ditches as Aideen sped along, and, though the droning of bees was lost in the sound of her Vespa’s engine, she was aware of their fuzzy gold-and-black bodies and sunlight flashing on bright transparent wings. It was astonishing how clearly, in spite of her speed and her helmet, she could envisage what was happening all around her. Leaning into the curve as she turned a corner, she wondered how intensely memories of the past affected how you saw the present. Once you’d peered into its tubular flowers and felt its fleshy stem, could you ever see a foxglove, even from a distance, without an awareness of how it appeared close to?
That was how it had been when she’d seen the painting in the gallery in Florence. It was on the first holiday she and Conor had taken together, when they’d grabbed a budget deal and flown off, not knowing what to expect but certain it would be great. Neither of them had been to Italy before, though Conor was always talking about it. When he’d started working in the library, Miss Casey had shown him a book of Italian Renaissance paintings, and afterwards he’d typed ‘Images + Italy’ into a search engine and been blown away by the old paintings and cool photos, including guys on Vespas whizzing round squares. That was what had made him get himself a Vespa of his own.
In a way Aideen was sorry that she now had one too. Travelling on the back of Conor’s bike had been really close and romantic, even though the Irish weather made it a bit damp at times. The first night they’d slept together, in a backpackers’ hostel in Florence, Conor had told her that Italy was the land of lovers because it was the most romantic place on earth.
On that trip they’d gone off into the countryside where olive trees really did grow in straight lines on terraces; and the buildings had crinkly tiles on the roofs; and the churches had dim, peeling paintings on plastered walls. They’d wandered round Florence, drinking coffee from little booths in backstreets and avoiding expensive cafés in the tourist spots. Then, having hoarded their money, they went to the Uffizi Gallery, where they found Botticelli’s Primavera and Conor was blown away.
Aideen had been thinking about paintings ever since. The thing was that you had to stand back if you wanted to look at them properly. But then you had to get in close, to see what was actually there. Half the women in the Primavera were basically wearing chiffon and looking as if they could do with some time at the gym. The one who was meant to be the goddess of love had a kind of a sulky face on her. But another one, off to the side, had a truly amazing dress.
It was covered in flowery embroidery and her arms were full of roses, not like the roses you’d buy in a shop but flatter, like the pink ones that grew on the ditches back home. When you moved in to get a closer view, you could see that the flowers looked real. Or, rather, they were flowers embroidered by someone who knew what real flowers looked like. And they’d been painted by someone who knew he was painting embroidery but had real flowers there in his mind as well. You could see what he’d been aiming at. Because, according to the leaflet, this was the goddess Flora, who was the spirit of flowers and fertility imagined as a girl.
Anyway, the dress was a dream, and when Conor had had his brainwave Aideen saw what he meant. You couldn’t do a re-creation that was exactly like the painting. The sleeves were some kind of a scaly fabric she wasn’t sure of at all, and there was a big wreath round the neck that’d scratch your ears. You couldn’t see the back of the dress either, so you’d have to reinvent it in three dimensions. But you could use it as the basis of a really amazing design.
Ever since, Aideen’s mind had been playing on perception. The important thing about a wedding dress was that it had to work as effectively at a distance as it did close to. You were making a personal, private promise on a big public occasion, and the way you looked needed to be an image of both things at once. If it hadn’t been for that painting she’d never have thought of it that way but, as soon as she’d worked it out, she’d known that that was the crux of the matter. And now, whizzing down the road to the farm, it all fell into place. Her embroidery would be as detailed as her memory of bees and flowers, and to the congregation she’d look like a foxglove growing high on a ditch.
Turning into the farm driveway, she saw Conor and Joe up in the yard in heavy boots and overalls, doing something energetic with shovels, so she took the bike round to the kitchen door. Orla, Conor’s mum, waved her in.
‘Come and give me a hand.’
Aideen loved this kitchen. It was a square room with a flagged floor and two windows. One looked out on the little paved yard outside the back door, and the other overlooked a garden with apple trees and a washing line and steep hills beyond it, where sheep grazed in stone-walled fields. There were masses of worktops and an oven and things on the left-hand side of the kitchen, where the sink stood under a window, and a range and a couple of easy chairs on the right. At the moment the big table in the middle of the room was spread with sheets of newspaper and Orla was shelling peas into a bowl.
Aideen took off her helmet and shook out her hair. ‘It’s a gorgeous day.’
‘Isn’t it? These peas are from the polytunnel but I’ve already got a crop doing well in the garden. I’d say we’ll have a good summer.’
Orla pushed half the pile of pods across the table and Aideen sat down to help her. There were squares of light on the flagstones, made by sunshine pouring through the window above the sink. As Aideen ran her thumb down the inside of a pod, one pea missed the bowl, bounced on the table, and, before she could catch it, rolled onto the floor. Immediately, two ginger kittens leapt from one of the easy chairs and chased it under the range.
Orla raised her eyes to Heaven. ‘I’ll swing for those blessed kittens! You can’t keep them out of anything.’
Having abandoned their attempts to locate the pea, the kittens now appeared to be playing hopscotch on the flagstones, chasing each other’s tails across the grid of shadows and light.
‘Where did they come from?’
‘Ballyfin. Brought by Conor. One of his old library biddies sent them to me as a present. Wouldn’t you think he’d have more sense than to be taken in by a line like that?’
‘But they’re dotes!’ Aideen was on her knees, teasing the kittens with a string from one of the pods. ‘Oh, my God, they’ve got green eyes!’
Orla laughed. ‘I know. They’re cute, aren’t they? As like as two peas. But I don’t need them. And poor old Marmite’s gone on strike and stalked off to the barn.’
‘Doesn’t he get on with them?’
‘Well, that’s his chair they’ve colonised, and at his age he can do without babies trying to play with his whiskers.’ Orla began to roll her empty pea pods up in the newspaper. ‘People are always trying to get rid of kittens and Conor knew fine well that I wouldn’t want them. He just hadn’t the heart to turn them down. Isn’t that him all over? I don’t know where he gets it. It surely wasn’t from me.’
Hiding a smile, Aideen picke
d up the wriggling kittens and settled them back on the chair. Everyone knew that Conor got his sweet nature from Orla who, even though she didn’t want the Ballyfin woman’s surplus kittens, clearly wasn’t going to send them back. He even looked like her – slim and wiry, not huge and heavy like Joe, who took after their dad. Seeing Conor and Joe together you’d hardly think they were brothers, though they shared Paddy’s steady, thoughtful manner. Orla and Paddy were both essentially gentle. Aideen, who’d been terribly shy about meeting them, had been greeted with warmth since the first day she’d visited the farm.
Everything about this tight-knit, rooted family was different from her own. On the one hand, they joked and laughed together, almost as if they belonged to the same generation. But sometimes Conor and Joe behaved as if Orla and Paddy were the ones who needed looking after. This was remarkable to Aideen: in her family grown-ups had been grown-ups, and the thought that they could be inadequate or mistaken was inconceivable. Most of all, the McCarthys shared an unquestioned sense of belonging, both to each other and to the family farm. Even Joe. It was clearly understood that, while he’d be off to live in Cork as soon as he married, he’d retain a share in the business and a site to build a house on if he came home.
It didn’t bother Aideen that, except for Bríd’s lot, she’d no long list of family to ask to the wedding. She’d already told Aunt Carol that, since the rest of her mum’s relations had stayed away till now, they wouldn’t be welcome. And she knew that her dad’s crowd wouldn’t dream of coming.
Conor and Joe, on the other hand, had a rake of cousins and family connections up and down the peninsula, and Eileen had five hefty brothers, three of whom were rearing kids of their own. Sometimes the thought of the lot of them turning up on her wedding day daunted Aideen, but whenever she thought of her future here in the farmhouse she couldn’t stop smiling.
Now, gathering up her own discarded pea pods, she caught Orla’s eye.
‘You’re looking happy.’
‘I was just thinking how much I love the farm.’
‘Well, that’s nice to know. We’re looking forward to having you here.’
Bríd’s response when she’d heard what was planned had been different. ‘Live with your in-laws? Are you stone mad?’
‘I knew you’d say that.’
‘It’s a recipe for disaster.’
‘The trouble with you is you’re way too conventional.’
‘For God’s sake, Aideen, there’s a reason for all those proverbs about the hideous danger of brides sharing a home with their husband’s mum.’
‘What proverbs?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember, but there’s loads of them.’
They’d backed away from the subject then, knowing it would get heated, but later on Bríd had tried again. ‘Honestly, Ade, I only want you to be happy.’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t even think you understand what the farmer’s-wife thing means. It’s not all roses round the door and pet lambs by the Aga.’
‘Ah, for God’s sake, I’m not thick.’
‘How are you going to cope with the broken nights when Conor’s up with a farrowing sow or something?’
‘He doesn’t keep pigs. We might, though. If we went organic the deli could use the bacon. And that’s what I mean. We’ve talked about it. It’s not just all in my head, Bríd. Conor and I have rational discussions.’
‘Okay, I’m sorry. I know you do. Actually, producing for the deli’s a good idea. We should all discuss it. But there’s a difference between that and dealing with all the family stuff. What about his dad’s condition? Depression’s not easy to live with.’
‘I know. We’ve talked about that too. But Paddy’s lovely. And Orla says I really cheer him up.’
It had ended with Bríd wrinkling her nose and saying unconvincingly that no doubt Aideen knew best.
Afterwards, Aideen had lain in bed feeling doubtful. Paddy’s clinical depression wasn’t the same as just being moody. And most brides didn’t fancy moving in with their in-laws. She’d realised that she’d always lived with people who organised her. Aunt Bridge, who’d been brisk and businesslike, and Bríd, who was definitely bossy. Was that why living in the farmhouse seemed such an attractive prospect?
Now, scattering pea pods on the compost heap, she tried to banish the memory of those troublesome midnight doubts. But, whatever Bríd might think of her, she wasn’t completely naive. The fact was that the kitchen, with kittens by the range and the smell of home baking, wasn’t your typical setting for a young married couple. It was the picture-perfect image of a cosy family home. If she weren’t so deeply in love with Conor, she might be wondering if she wanted to marry his parents instead of him.
Chapter Twelve
Brian had known from the outset where his builder had got his nickname. From his first day on the Hag’s Glen site, Fury had gone about the job like a whirlwind, coordinating deliveries, berating and cajoling workmen, and overcoming obstacles with a mixture of bloody-mindedness and inspired lateral thinking.
On several occasions the lateral thinking had caused spats with Brian, who’d turned up to find undiscussed changes to his design. Dealing with a beaky-nosed whirlwind as temperamental as a diva had required all the tact he could muster. Ultimately, however, they’d always emerged with honour intact on both sides.
Now, with the last of the scaffolding down and the heavy machinery banished, the valley was recovering from the ravages of the work. Where earth had been churned up and re-levelled, grass and furze were beginning to reassert themselves; and the house itself, positioned by the river with its back to the rearing mountain, seemed hardly more present than the low, ruined dwellings that stood around it.
Driving up to view the site one evening after a long day in the office, Brian was greeted by The Divil. The little dog appeared on the doorstep and barked at him shrilly, then retreated inside. It was an evening of pearly skies tinged pink after mist and rain. The waterfall at the head of the valley was a single thread of light and, overhead, swifts wheeled through the air catching insects. Fury’s red van was parked nearby, but it was evident that the other workers had downed tools at their usual time and gone home.
Brian looked at the house with a surge of satisfaction. His design and choice of materials had arisen from an impulse to refer to the past by blending in with what was already here. It was a two-storey structure built of stone laboriously carried from a local quarry and chosen to match the fieldstones that had been used in the old dwellings. Solid and square, with a flat roof, which Brian intended to turf, the building consisted of an open-plan space with a loo and a bathroom on each floor, and a glass veranda running across the front at ground level. Once the green roof was established, and planting inside and out had softened the lines of the veranda, it would be easy, at first glance, to mistake the new building for part of the ruined village. This was exactly the effect that Brian had wanted, and Fury had been scathing at every turn.
The roof had produced the first spasm of outrage. ‘Holy God Almighty, man, could you not use decent slates like anyone else? And don’t give me any old guff about capturing airborne pollutants. You’re halfway up a bloody mountain, not surrounded by dark, satanic mills!’
They’d been sitting in the cab of Fury’s van, with The Divil between them and the specification spread out against the dashboard.
‘Did no one ever teach you that flat roofs are disastrous?’
‘They’re not if they’re properly built.’
‘Do you tell me that? Well, let me tell you I was building sound roofs when you were in nappies. And have you any idea what the wind up here will do to this fancy membrane?’
‘I took that into account. By the way, planting typically extends the life of the membrane by a factor of three.’
‘You believe that, do you?’
‘I do. And, after all, I’m the eejit who’ll have to live with the result.’
Slightly mollified, Fury had folded the pap
ers. ‘You said it, not me. But I’m telling you this. The men who built here in the past didn’t have sod roofs so’s to feel at one with the landscape. They’d have grabbed at slate if they hadda had the money to afford it. They weren’t putting up houses as bloody design statements. They were thinking about keeping the heat in and the wind and the weather out.’
It hadn’t been the right moment to mention water runoff mitigation, so Brian had remarked that green roofs were known for keeping heat in. In the end Fury had gone away and mastered the specification so well that he’d subsequently given Brian a series of lectures on the subject, all of which Brian had endured with good grace.
They’d had similar tussles over the generator; where to sink the well; and whether the house should have double or triple glazing. But, no matter who won the battle – and usually it was Brian – Fury had brought meticulous standards to everything that was done.
Leaving his car parked next to the van, Brian followed The Divil into the house. Inside, Fury was hanging the ground-floor bathroom door.
‘For heaven’s sake, what are you doing? You should have gone home hours ago.’
Fury sniffed and, getting up from his knees, opened and closed the door. Brian stood back and admired it. ‘It’s looking good, but installation was part of the deal when we ordered them.’
‘Ay, well, if you think I’m going to let them lads hang a door in a house of mine you’ve another think coming. The men that crowd sends out are no more than bloody van drivers. Delivery boys!’
Kneeling down again, Fury inspected a hinge. The Divil observed him intently for a moment, then pattered off with an air of great decision. With his head against the doorjamb, Fury reached out and groped on the floor for a screwdriver. Brian was about to hand it to him when The Divil reappeared round a corner, dragging a claw hammer. Arriving at Fury’s side, he dropped the hammer and sat down triumphantly, his head cocked and his pink tongue lolling between his teeth.
The Month of Borrowed Dreams Page 7
