The Month of Borrowed Dreams

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  Hanna and Louisa watched her stride off towards the entrance to the convent centre. Then, with one accord, they made their way across the garden, skirting the fountain and finding a secluded bench. Hanna folded her arms across her chest. ‘I don’t think she had any idea this was going to happen.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ Louisa sighed. ‘Men can be dreadfully callous.’

  There was an awkward pause in which the spectre of Malcolm’s perfidy hung in the air between them. Then Hanna broke the silence. ‘I suppose it could just be a tiff.’

  ‘Well, if he’s moved out, it does sound serious. Poor child! I doubt if we’ll hear many details. She’s not going to confide in her grandmother.’

  ‘And she certainly won’t tell me.’ Hanna pulled a face. ‘These things happen, but I so wish it hadn’t. I hate to see her upset.’

  ‘Of course you do, dear. But she’s young. Youth is resilient. It’s when we get older we’re less able to cope. I hope she won’t make this a reason to throw herself into more work. She does too much already, and she won’t be told.’

  Hanna laughed. ‘Well, she comes from stubborn stock! Look at my mother.’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps. But she gets it from both sides, you know.’ Louisa plucked a sprig of mint from the herb bed beside them. ‘Over in London I was so annoyed by Malcolm. He refuses to believe I know what I’m doing with the business. And he won’t accept that it’s none of his concern.’ Crushing the mint in her hand, Louisa breathed in the sharp scent and dropped the bruised leaves into the herb bed. ‘The fact is that he hasn’t considered what he intends to do next. There’s only so much consultancy that’s going to be required of him – particularly at the fee he charges – and so many after-dinner speeches he’ll be invited to give. You’ve heard of his plans to sell the house?’

  Hanna nodded. Louisa shot her a glance and looked away.

  ‘It was always yours more than his, wasn’t it? In terms of involvement?’

  ‘Yes, but a long time ago. Water under the bridge.’

  ‘Is that really how you feel? I mean about the sale?’

  Hanna wondered if Louisa might be thinking about money. When she and Malcolm had broken up she’d rejected his offer of alimony and, though in hindsight she’d recognised how daft that was, she didn’t regret her decision. Telling him where he could stick his wealth had given her a degree of confidence at a time when she’d badly needed it.

  Mary Casey, of course, had been outraged. In her view, a cheating husband ought to be taken for every cent he had. But, for Hanna, all that had mattered then was that Jazz should be looked after and, to be fair to Malcolm, he had never failed to do that.

  She looked at Louisa. ‘Jazz seems to be fine about him selling and, at this stage, it has nothing to do with me. How about you? After all, it’s been your London pied-à-terre.’

  ‘Yes, but no more than that. I shall be quite happy in a hotel or staying with friends when I go over. Now that my own house is sold, and the business is up and running, I really feel that Ireland is my home. Having you and Jazz living so close to me is wonderful, and the flat in the bungalow suits me down to the ground.’

  Remarkably, Louisa really did seem contented at Mary Casey’s. She was a great people-watcher, and nothing that Mary said or did seemed to faze her. Hanna’s own childhood relationship with Mary had been difficult, and forced proximity as an adult had done nothing to improve it. She’d emerged from a lifetime of hectoring determined to avoid inflicting the same thing on Jazz. Yet at times she harboured a sense of fellow-feeling for her mother. It was hard not to wade in with solutions when you saw your child in trouble.

  Now, as if she’d read Hanna’s mind, Louisa gave her a smile. ‘It’s not just mothers and daughters who have their moments. I mean, Malcolm’s in his fifties, and here am I fretting as if he were going off to school. He’s never been any good socially when thrown on his own resources. And, while he’s in his element in a courtroom, I’m not sure he knows how to buy himself a dish mop or set up a broadband account. So Heaven alone knows how he’ll cope with this move.’

  Remembering her marriage, Hanna thought Louisa was probably right. When Tessa had finally left him a few years ago, Malcolm had installed a series of youthful girlfriends, who’d presumably acted as social secretary and housekeeper as well as mistress. Hanna hadn’t kept count of them. Given his charm and his money, she’d assumed that Malcolm would continue to attract companionship. But, apparently, he was now living alone.

  Louisa shook herself briskly. ‘I refuse to make it my problem and it certainly isn’t yours. You should know, though, that I think he may be planning to make us a visit.’

  ‘Is he? Why?’

  ‘Well, to see Jazz, of course. Though, if the truth be told, I suspect he’s also feeling rather bored.’ Glancing at her watch, Louisa picked up her handbag. ‘I ought to go into the office. I said I’d go over some figures with Jazz and Don.’

  Though the idea of Malcolm planning a visit was startling, Hanna’s mind was still focused on Jazz. ‘Give me a ring later, will you, and tell me how she seems?’ As soon as she’d made the request she retracted it. ‘No, look, that’s daft. Forget it. You don’t need to. She’ll be fine, I’m sure.’

  Of course Jazz would be fine, she told herself, as they strolled down the gravel path. She was well settled now in Finfarran, with a flat and a job and a loving family around her. This was only a hiccup and she’d sort herself out in time. Then, as she turned to kiss Louisa goodbye, a new thought struck her.

  ‘Oh, poor child! Isn’t she going to be Eileen Dawson’s bridesmaid? That’s not a job you want to do when your love life’s just crashed and burned.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rasher no longer needed to sit on street corners. He had three meals a day now, so he wasn’t hungry and, anyway, if he tried to scrounge a few euros, the guards would be sure to spot him and pass the word back to Martin. Most of the police in Carrick were decent enough, but everyone knew they were hand in glove with the crowd at the halfway house and, having got himself in here, Rasher wasn’t about to take the risk of being thrown out.

  Mind you, there was one guard you’d want to be sure to avoid. A big sergeant, who looked easygoing but was known for every dirty trick in the book, from deliberately waking you up whenever you’d found a corner to sleep in to ‘accidentally’ spilling his coffee on you as he walked by.

  You’d think Dublin would be a bad place to be out on the streets living rough. You’d be right, too, as Rasher knew well. That was why he’d got out of it. He’d been shit scared of the junkies who’d kick your head in for a quid, and terrified that, if things got bad, he might end up on drugs himself. So, the first chance he’d got after he’d left home a year ago, he’d headed down to the country, vaguely thinking that things would be safer there. For a few months he’d lived in a squat in Nenagh, but then a dealer had moved into the house and things had got heavy. Knowing that going back made no sense, Rasher had travelled on. Someone he’d met in a caff on the road had turned out to come from Finfarran and, for the want of anywhere else to go, he’d headed for Carrick.

  It wasn’t as scary as Dublin but it was no bed of roses. Almost as soon as he’d hitched into town, he’d been targeted by the sergeant. Being an outsider made you easy to spot. Though your man, whose name was Nugent, wasn’t above going for locals too. Even old fellas like Tommy Banjo, who was cracked and had lived on the streets of Carrick for ages and was always going round shaking your hand and thanking you when you hadn’t done anything for him.

  No one in the halfway house would kick you, and that was brilliant. Still, it was boring playing snooker all day in a place that stank of disinfectant, and having to toe the line when they called your name. This time, when they gave him a shout, the guy at the desk handed back his passport, trying not to look surprised that somebody called Adam Rashid could be Irish. Rasher said thanks and went to stick it in his locker, giving the door a shake when he’d closed it and shoving the key dow
n his sock.

  After that he decided he couldn’t face going back to the snooker. Outside, it was a windy day with no clouds in the sky. Walking into the centre of town, he found a park bench near a bandstand. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that he’d washed himself in the laundry room, and a pair of new trainers. Some shop had donated a boxful to Martin, probably because no one would buy yokes so startlingly unfashionable and white. In fairness, though, they were comfortable enough. So were the bright white socks he’d been given with them. He’d managed to tone the trainers down by scraping them on the grass, and his jeans were a bit long, because he’d lost weight recently, so they covered the socks, even sitting down.

  Spring had been wet and cold this year and, though he’d told himself he’d get the weight back on with a few feeds of McDonald’s, he never had. He was aware of the hard slats of the bench underneath him and wished he had a bit of cardboard to shove under his arse. The weight loss was because of a dose of flu he’d had a while back, which, along with the shock of the old guy who’d died under the arches, had made him see that he’d got to find a way back to ordinary life. The crowd he’d been dossing with at the time had taken him to A & E at the hospital with the flu, and after that he’d spent a week or so in an emergency shelter. He’d got out of that as soon as he could, though, and probably far too soon.

  Sitting on a park bench was a step up from being hunkered down on a pavement, when people around you were reduced to a forest of legs passing by. Rasher had heard it said that people like him were treated as if they were faceless but, the truth was, it worked both ways. They stopped seeing you as people, and you just thought of them as legs. Every so often, though, he’d been sure that he’d seen his mum walking towards him. He knew it was mad because, at this stage, she wouldn’t be wearing the same clothes she’d worn when he was a kid. But he’d see her between the passing legs, crossing the street or hurrying round a corner, her red coat flapping open and her hair looking messy, not up in a neat knot like she’d worn it when he was small. The figure would always turn out to be someone who actually looked nothing like her – an older woman or a schoolgirl who happened to be wearing red and have blonde hair. Whoever it was would pass by, ignoring him, and the tension that had built up inside him would slowly drain away.

  A bunch of schoolkids was crowding onto the bandstand, carrying instruments. Under instructions from a harassed teacher, they opened stools, set up music stands, and started to play tunes from some musical Rasher couldn’t name. Something ancient like Oklahoma! maybe, or Cats. Back before his dad died, his mum had been in the chorus of the R&R. Dad used to call it the Rathmines and Rathgar Mewsical Society, and tease her by saying they sounded like shrieking cats. They’d been pretty good, really, and she was never bothered by Dad, who was only messing. Not like Fergal the bastard boyfriend, who’d picked away at the last shreds of her confidence and sneered at her when she’d try to boost it with drink.

  According to Martin, the plan was to find Rasher a job and a place of his own to move into. He’d leaned across the desk and said they’d have to be pragmatic. ‘Jobs don’t grow on trees, you know, and affordable accommodation is scarce enough in Carrick. What sort of work would you fancy if you had your choice? Which you probably won’t have, so don’t get your hopes up.’

  Rasher had said he didn’t know.

  ‘What did your da do, say?’

  ‘He was a pharmacist. Worked in a hospital.’

  ‘Right. And your mam?’

  ‘She was a nurse.’

  ‘And you’ve no aspirations in that direction yourself?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah, well, let’s think about getting you a wage to start with anyway. It might be a case of a live-in job that would come with a room.’

  Rasher had said nothing because there didn’t seem much to say. He couldn’t imagine what kind of job might be out there for someone like him. Chances were that, whatever it was, it would turn out to be crappy. The thought of a room was good, though, so long as he didn’t end up as some kind of slave in somebody’s house. He’d met a guy on the road, up in the midlands, who’d told him farmers put immigrants in sheds and paid them nothing for their labour, saying the work was the price of the roof they’d been given over their heads. Rasher had been green enough then to protest that he wasn’t an immigrant. He wouldn’t bother now if he met the same fellow again. It wasn’t worth the energy it took you to answer back.

  Martin was so full of energy that he’d almost knock you over. He’d grabbed Rasher round the shoulders as they’d walked to the door of the office, and you could feel the strength of his fingers and the muscles in his arm. He had a thick culchie accent on him, and the story was he’d gone into the priests off a pig farm. Other people said he’d been a navvy over in London, working for British Gas. Rasher reckoned it wouldn’t be wise to ask.

  ‘I know it’s fierce confusing now but, take it from me, Rasher, we’ll get you settled. Just stay out of trouble in the meantime. Have you got that?’

  The crowd on the bandstand moved on from musicals to marches. The girls wore awful tartan kilts halfway down to their heels, and green jumpers. The boys had the same jumpers, grey trousers, and school ties. They were probably sixth years doing some kind of cultural project. Actually, there was a board by the bandstand with a poster on it, but Rasher couldn’t be bothered going over for a look. There were a few people sitting round listening to the music, parents maybe, or teachers from the school. Next year, this crowd crucifying ‘The Minstrel Boy’ would be off at uni, like the Khan woman’s daughter. If things hadn’t gone wrong after Dad died, he might be in college himself, with God knew what career ahead of him. Before his dad died he’d had a notion he might be a chef. That wasn’t something he’d mentioned to Martin. It seemed as pathetic now as saying that, as a kid, he’d thought he’d grow up to be an engine driver. Or fly to the moon.

  Looking beyond the bandstand, he tensed up, seeing a familiar figure. Nugent was walking across the park in his direction. Rasher measured the distance between them with his eye, deciding it was safer to stay where he was than to scarper. Better to be in the open than to retreat under the trees where your man could easily corner him. ‘The Minstrel Boy’ finally fell and the band immediately started ‘The Battle of Aughrim’. Getting to his feet, Rasher drifted towards the noticeboard. Nugent had stopped and was leaning against a lamppost, apparently a benign uniformed figure watching a community event. Rasher could feel the cold eyes boring into him. Since he couldn’t stand looking at the poster forever, he moved to sit on another bench by a woman with two small kids.

  ‘Do you mind? It’s nice to be near to the music.’

  She looked a bit nervous but smiled and nodded. Secure in the knowledge that he didn’t smell and was wearing clean clothes and new trainers, he relaxed and smiled back at her, hitching his jeans up at the knees to reassure her with the bright white socks. Over by the lamppost, Nugent’s mouth twisted into a sneer.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A cloud rolled away along the shoulder of the mountain carrying rain eastwards from the peak of Knockinver. Far below it, where sunlight was bright on a wheeling hawk’s wings, Hanna reached up for Brian’s hand. He pulled her up to join him on a massive boulder that projected from the hillside, and together they looked down at the Hag’s Glen.

  Seen from this height Brian’s house, by the river below, seemed part of the landscape. ‘It’s wonderful.’

  An expression she didn’t understand crossed his face. Then he smiled. ‘Thank you. I think it works. The planting on the roof makes a big difference, and it’ll be even more effective once it begins to mature.’

  ‘Are you going to have a garden?’

  ‘At ground level? No, I don’t think so. Not formally.’

  ‘But you’ll have to set a few spuds. Look, you can see where there used to be ridges.’

  When Brian had first shown her around the site the shallow ditches and hummocks had been lost in ground
cover, but from here you could see that there’d once been cultivated plots between the ruined buildings. He nodded. ‘I know. And there were larger fields running back from the village. Most of the evidence got scraped away by the build.’

  The hawk above them began to spiral downwards at an angle and suddenly swooped on some creature in the heather. Hanna looked up and saw it rise with its prey held in its talons, then sheer off towards the rolling clouds. Beneath her feet she could feel the curve of the boulder’s pitted surface, and off to her right, other grey rocks marked the point where the river poured into the valley. ‘How come it’s a valley, but they call it a glen?’

  Brian shrugged. ‘Technically they’re much of a muchness, except that “valley” usually assumes that there’s water running through it. The word “glen” comes from the Irish. I guess that’s what people who lived here in the hag’s time would have spoken.’

  ‘If you believe she existed.’ He had told her Fury’s story about the name, and Hanna, who also knew Fury of old, had been sceptical.

  ‘Yes, but you don’t have to believe in the hag to know that the village actually was abandoned during the Famine. And most of the peninsula would have been Irish-speaking in the mid-nineteenth century.’

  He had hunkered down and was sliding cautiously over the edge of the boulder. Hanna followed, and the conversation lapsed. Each of them had done enough walking on the foothills of Knockinver to be wary of the treacherous roots and ruts beneath the thick vegetation. They were safe on a sheep path that snaked towards the head of the waterfall before Hanna pointed west to where the sun was a flaming ball. ‘You won’t get the sunsets.’

  ‘Nope. But I face south, so I do get the sun for most of the day. Masses of light, and trees swaying down below in the distance. And from the roof I can look out across the forest and catch a glimpse of the ocean.’