The Month of Borrowed Dreams

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  ‘I bet you’re glad you’re no closer to the salt spray. In winter my windows are practically opaque.’

  ‘Whereas I shall be sitting in my glass veranda admiring a gorgeous view.’

  ‘Not a sea view, though.’

  ‘True. Not from the veranda. But I have my own river. And this.’

  They had reached the granite lip from which the narrow torrent spilled over into the valley. Fearful of slipping, Hanna knelt gingerly and reached down to dip her fingers in the amber-coloured water. Brian sat on a rock and smiled at her. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  ‘I can see why you’d want to live here.’

  ‘Can you? Why?’

  ‘Well, it’s not just beautiful. There’s an austerity about it. No, I don’t mean that. Something that’s essentially remote.’

  ‘And you associate that with me? Personally?’

  ‘I’m not complaining.’

  Brian frowned. ‘Am I remote? It’s not intentional.’

  ‘Actually, it’s rather attractive.’

  He burst out laughing and Hanna made a face at him. ‘Oh, shut up! Maybe I should have said reticence. I admire it as a quality, that’s all.’

  ‘Even after what you went through with Malcolm?’

  ‘Malcolm wasn’t reticent, he was a liar.’ Hanna reached up and touched his cheek. ‘You have no idea what it means to have found someone I can trust. I never dreamed I would. And then there was you.’

  Brian grasped her hand so tightly she almost yelped in protest. He opened his mouth for a moment, as if about to speak. Then he relaxed his grip and looked down at the valley. ‘It’s not particularly remote physically. Well, I suppose that depends on where you measure from. I don’t view Carrick as the centre of my universe. People lived and thrived here for hundreds of years before the poor hag and the Famine. Maybe even thousands.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We found a sluice box. It emerged when Fury was digging my foundations.’

  ‘But what is it?’

  ‘Basically a box that lets water through. It’s filled with material to catch gold deposits washed down from the mountain. Gold is dense, so you can trap it when lighter stuff flushes through.’

  She scrambled up beside him on the rock. ‘Seriously? Actual gold?’

  ‘Sure. There was lots of gold prospecting in ancient Ireland. They found a huge sluice box, thousands of years old, in Woodenbridge, up in Wicklow. There was a kind of gold rush there in the eighteenth century. I remember getting all fired up when I heard the story as a kid. I went scouring riverbanks for nuggets.’

  ‘But the box you found here, is that ancient?’

  ‘It’s not always easy to be sure. The designs hardly change, so you need to carbon date them if they’re early. But, no, I should think this one was made in the nineteenth century. Maybe the hag stayed behind because of the gold.’

  Hanna rested her chin on her knees, envisaging the valley filled with noise and bustle, and the sweet smell of turf smoke. When you realised that a million people had died, and a million more emigrated, during the potato famine, it was easy to understand why emigration had become such a towering image in the Irish imagination. Even now, the poignant emigrant themes of aspiration, loss, and yearning tapped into something visceral for those left behind.

  Brian, who had been ruminating, too, leaned back on his elbows. ‘Actually, if there was a memory of gold being washed down in the river, the poor bastards faced with famine might have made a desperate attempt to catch some. There probably wasn’t much to be had by that stage. Well-known sources often got worked out.’ He looked up at Hanna. ‘You know the story of Jason and the Golden Fleece?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, Jason sets out to find the fleece of this mythical golden ram.’ He sat up and put his arm round her. ‘It hangs in a sacred grove, defended by bulls with brass hooves.’

  ‘And a fearsome dragon.’

  ‘Exactly. So our hero yokes the bulls, defeats the dragon, and ends up with the fabulous golden fleece.’

  ‘Is there a reason you’re telling me this? Because I did do tales from Greece at school.’

  ‘Yes, there is a reason, so shut up and wait for it. That story may have been inspired by the practice of trapping gold by stuffing sheepskins into sluice boxes.’ Keeping his arm round her waist, Brian gesticulated at the valley. ‘Imagine an ancient community down there on my doorstep, lifting glittering fleece out of a river running with gold.’

  Hanna drew in her breath. ‘That’s extraordinary. This really is a pretty magical place.’

  ‘Do you think so? Because . . .’

  ‘Gosh, you know what? I nearly forgot to tell you . . .’

  They’d started to speak simultaneously. Hanna laughed. ‘Sorry, go on.’

  Brian, who had taken a deep breath, let it out. ‘No, you first.’

  ‘Okay, but it’s irrelevant, it’s just about Malcolm.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘It’s nothing. Well, actually it is, it’s something Louisa said the other day. She thinks he’s planning to come over, and I bet she’s right. Apparently, he’s all alone again. The latest girlfriend is gone.’

  Brian took his arm from her waist and, bending down, plucked a sprig of heather. ‘It’s amazing to think what poor soil some things run riot on.’ Stripping the tough, wiry stem, he allowed the purple bells to drop from his hand. ‘When does he arrive?’

  ‘Oh, Heaven alone knows. That’s Malcolm. He’s a law unto himself.’

  Hanna was still looking down at the quiet glen beneath them. Fury’s van was parked by a fallen outhouse and the steady clink of a hammer on stone was the only sound to be heard. She reached out without looking at Brian and laid a hand on his knee. ‘Awful to think of those famished emigrants setting off for America. How could they be sure that leaving home was the right choice to make? Still, even if they feared they’d made the wrong one, I guess there was no going back.’

  Brian nodded. ‘I wonder how many bought into the dream that streets could be paved with gold.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Without anyone being conscious of the exact moment of change, The Royal Victoria in Carrick had gone from a place where you took your granny for tea to a cool, happening hangout.

  It was an imposing hotel, faced in granite, set in a Victorian terrace off Main Street. A broad flight of curved steps led to mahogany double doors with brass fittings and etched-glass panels. Everything in The Royal Vic was well polished, from the massive, carved furniture in the reception area to the gleaming rows of glasses hanging above the bar in the lounge. It had a ladies’ coffee room with writing tables, embossed notepaper, and brass inkstands; loos with real towels; and a grill room much frequented by accountants and bank officials. The front-of-house staff wore dark suits with crisp cotton shirts and gilt name-badges. And PJ, the head barman, wore a spotless white jacket and a tartan bow tie.

  Eileen had fixed to meet Jazz in the lounge bar at three thirty. Jazz had taken the call on a crackling phone line. ‘Sorry, Eileen, my reception’s crap and I’m on my way to a meeting. Did you say tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, The Royal Vic’s heaving on a Sunday, these days. All those brunches in the bar they do now, and the cream tea deal. Saturday’s nearly as bad, but PJ’s promised to keep us a quiet table.’

  ‘It’s a bit short notice . . .’

  ‘Stop being a bore. You’re just trying to avoid me.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Yes, you are. I want to hear what’s happened. The word is that Sam’s gone.’

  Jazz groaned. ‘Okay, yes, he has. And I’m busy, Eileen. I’m not sure I can make it tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, that’s tough, because the table’s booked and I’ve told Aideen. And I’ve messaged Owen that we’ll all be there at four.’

  ‘Who will?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Jazz, keep up! You, me, and Aideen. So Owen can get a sense of where we’re at. But you and
me to begin with. To get me up to speed on you and Sam.’

  ‘Hang on, is this Owen the wedding planner?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. I told you I’d been in touch with him.’

  ‘You also said you’d back off till Aideen was on board.’

  ‘How do you know she’s not?’

  ‘Because I know you. Did you talk to her before you fixed this meeting?’

  ‘It’s not a meeting. Just a get-together.’

  ‘That’s a no, then. You haven’t talked to her. Not properly. Does she even know you’ve invited Owen along?’

  ‘Look, this is a foul connection and I’m in a rush. See you tomorrow, and don’t be late. We’ll have a quiet drink before the others descend on us. I’m your best mate and I need to know what’s happening in your life.’

  She had rung off before Jazz could protest any further and, feeling there was no help for it, Jazz had come along. For once, Eileen had arrived early. She was sitting on a cushioned banquette at a window table and PJ was standing beside her with a polished tray in his hand. Jazz approached, feeling confident that, though she looked tired, she wasn’t the red-eyed, swollen-faced wretch she’d been a few days before.

  As she joined Eileen at the table, PJ bowed from the waist, revealing an age-spotted scalp under a brilliantly greased comb-over. He was as much an institution in Carrick as The Royal Vic itself and, with its new lease of life as a happening venue, had even appeared in a magazine feature, posed behind the bar with a cocktail shaker and a Noël Coward air.

  Eileen announced that she’d ordered a gin and tonic. ‘PJ’s special. He’ll do one for you as well. And bring us some olives and snacky things, PJ, will you? They’re gorgeous! All made right here in the kitchen, according to Irish Country Living.’ She leaned over and kissed Jazz, who told PJ she’d like a glass of tonic water.

  ‘Ice and lemon? Or would you prefer lime?’

  ‘Lemon’s fine. Thank you.’

  PJ moved away across the crimson carpet, his shoes creaking slightly.

  ‘So, what’s the story?’

  ‘You’re going to drag it out of me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Crap. You’re dying to talk. What happened? Did you throw Sam out?’

  Jazz suddenly realised that she was indeed dying to talk. No matter how inappropriate Eileen’s advice might be, there’d be no doubt about whose side she’d be on. In her world, mates supported each other and women stood shoulder to shoulder against the iniquities of men. There were times when Jazz, who prided herself on being egalitarian, resisted the idea of life as an unexamined battle between the sexes. But, right now, what she wanted was sympathy.

  Eileen raised her glass. ‘Here’s to the enemies! Tell me all.’ She was a skilled interrogator. ‘You may as well say what you found him at, or I’ll sit here thinking it was worse.’

  ‘I didn’t find him at anything. It was all my fault.’

  ‘God, Jazz, this is so you! I bet it wasn’t. Even if he didn’t rifle your purse or shag another woman, it’s never one person’s fault when things go wrong.’ Eileen crossed her legs and took a decisive sip of gin and tonic. ‘How did it end?’

  ‘He just disappeared.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, he left a note.’

  ‘A note? He moves in with you. Everything’s grand – this is according to you, mind – and then he fecks off without a word, leaving a note! And it’s all your fault? Ah, would you cop yourself on, girl, you’re well rid of him.’ Eileen rapped on the table. ‘I suppose you have the note by heart? Go on. Spill.’

  She did, in fact, remember every word of it. ‘I’m sorry. Really. But this isn’t going to work. You’re not to blame yourself. We’re in different places in our lives, that’s all. There’s no point in raking stuff over. Love, S.’

  ‘I burned it.’

  ‘Where? In the large, baronial fireplace in your weeshy studio flat?’

  ‘Okay, I didn’t burn it.’

  She had crumpled the note in her hand and tried to stuff it into the kitchen bin along with the expensive dinner, then sat on the floor and cried when the bin was too small.

  ‘I chucked it. He just said things weren’t working. And if I didn’t see that myself, Eileen, then, yes, it was my fault. I’ve been so buried in my job that I haven’t been paying attention.’ To her horror, Jazz found her lip trembling. She took a determined pull at her tonic water and managed a crooked smile. ‘The crap thing is, though, that I’d actually realised that. Well, not how bad things had got, obviously, because I thought I could fix them. I swept into the flat, all got up like a film star. And I’d spent a fortune on food and flowers. It was going to be the first day of the rest of our lives.’

  ‘Ah, Jaysus!’

  ‘Yeah. And instead it was me in my spotless bijou apartment, drinking an entire bottle of New Zealand red.’

  ‘Did you ring him?’

  ‘I’ve tried. He won’t pick up. He’s right too. We’d only be raking over dead coals.’

  Eileen nodded at Jazz’s glass. ‘Would you not have a drop of gin in that?’

  ‘God, no. I still haven’t really recovered from the bottle of red. Between throwing up and roaring all night, the next day was gruesome. I may not face another drink for a month.’

  ‘You’ve got to stop the self-blame, though. If things were going wrong, then at least you tried to fix them. Definitely beats clearing off without even making an effort.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I’m telling you! Oh, wait, hang on, there’s Aideen.’ Eileen stood up and waved vigorously. Jazz shot her a warning look as Aideen walked towards them. She didn’t need to, though. Whatever Eileen might say to her face, she’d never let her down in front of someone else.

  PJ appeared and, eager to make Aideen comfortable, Jazz said she’d join her in a coffee. Aideen gave a distracted nod and looked at Eileen. ‘You said in your text you’d invited someone called Owen?’

  ‘Oh, right. Yes. He should be here soon.’

  ‘But who is he?’

  So, Aideen hadn’t a clue. Furious, Jazz glared at Eileen across the table. Ignoring her, Eileen stood up again and gesticulated at PJ, who obediently went to welcome a guy who had just appeared at the entrance to the bar. He was stocky and tanned, with an air of relaxed assurance, and when PJ ushered him to the table, Eileen was all gush.

  ‘Now, isn’t this great? How good of you to join us! I saw you had a roadshow in Carrick this weekend and, when I realised you were staying at the Vic, I thought I’d just ping you a text.’

  She fussed him into a seat, introducing him as Owen, then turned to Aideen with a laugh. ‘But what am I saying, who doesn’t know Owen Dunphy? Sure, we’ve all seen him on the television and listened to his advice!’

  Jazz suspected that, like herself, Aideen hadn’t. Though it would have been hard not to see Owen’s face on the cover of celebrity magazines. He accepted the offer of a coffee and sat back, apparently assessing the situation. Presumably he was used to dealing with people like Eileen, who, having greeted him as a superstar, was now subtly suggesting he was being interviewed for a job.

  ‘There’s nearly a year before the wedding date, so Aideen and I are still dipping our toes in the water. But, as I said when I talked to you a while back, I really admire your work.’

  Aideen’s bafflement had changed to consternation. Reaching under the table, Jazz hacked Eileen on the ankle. Then she turned to Owen, ignoring Eileen’s subdued yelp. ‘Of course, they’re not even sure it’s the kind of event that will need a wedding planner. I’m Eileen’s bridesmaid and, to be honest, I haven’t begun to engage my brain yet. Bríd’s going to be your bridesmaid, isn’t she, Aideen? I suppose she and I will need to sit down together sometime.’

  Owen indicated the gleaming mahogany bar. ‘This place is amazing. Like a film set. Is it going to be your venue?’

  ‘It’s charming, I know, but I’d say we’d do better in Cork. I mean, there’s hotels there that are really set
up for a proper big wedding.’ Eileen looked sharply at Owen. ‘But do you think that by next year the Vic could be a go-to venue? If we used it, might your programme show my video?’

  Owen smiled, revealing dazzling teeth. ‘The TV stuff is down to the people at the station. You’d never know, though. It’s not inconceivable. It’d be a matter of separate arrangements, of course. One with me and one with them. And, naturally, neither would depend on the other.’

  Obviously he was Eileen’s equal when it came to negotiation, and just as accustomed to keeping his options open.

  Aideen put down her coffee cup and spoke directly to Eileen. ‘Conor will want to be part of any decisions.’

  For a moment Eileen looked taken aback. Then she laughed. ‘Ah, come on, Aideen, what red-blooded man wants to ponce around making wedding plans?’

  There was a shattering silence in which Jazz watched Owen trying to keep a straight face.

  Eileen went scarlet. ‘I didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t suggesting . . .’

  ‘Of course you weren’t. That’s just what comes of starting on the gin too early!’

  Leaning across the table, Owen gave Eileen a charming smile and patted her on the arm. It was all that was needed to defuse the situation but, to Jazz’s dismay, Eileen continued to burble. ‘No, but . . . honestly . . . I wouldn’t dream . . .’

  He smiled. ‘It’s fine. Truly. Don’t apologise. But, look, I really must get back.’

  There was a subtle creak of shoe leather and PJ appeared beside them. Before Eileen could move, Owen reached across the table and signed the tab.

  Eileen’s colour mounted again. ‘No, please, you mustn’t! I invited you.’

  ‘It was my pleasure. If you need to get in touch about the wedding, just give my people a call.’ Standing up, Owen shook hands with Aideen. Then, as he turned to go, he winked at Jazz. ‘You know, that’s a hell of a responsibility you’ve taken on. Saving your bride from herself can be two-thirds of the job.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  The weather was getting warmer by the day and Hanna had taken to setting her alarm early so she could eat breakfast in the garden. Muesli and coffee were twice as good consumed sitting in sunshine with your face raised to a wide expanse of sky. Her coffee was made from freshly ground beans and, while it brewed, she lifted a bowl from the painted wooden dresser, one of the few pieces of Maggie’s furniture that remained in the house. The biscuit-coloured pottery bowl, the size of a large cappuccino cup, had a pattern of yellow flowers glowing beneath its worn glaze. Like the shawl she kept on the back of her fireside chair, it had belonged to her great-grandmother.