Fury cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘I could always slap on another coat, though, if you wanted one.’
Refusing to rise to the bait, Hanna bent down to scratch The Divil’s back and asked if all was going well at Brian’s.
Fury shot her an appreciative glance. ‘Did no one ever tell you builders are like doctors? We never discuss a case.’
Hanna said nothing. Having lived through a project with Fury herself, she wasn’t sure whether he or Brian was more deserving of sympathy. Though, since they were both professionals and she’d been a rank amateur, it could be that they enjoyed their apparently endless running battles.
The integrity of the Hag’s Glen site seemed to be a constant flashpoint and, looking at it objectively, Hanna could see why. Fury took perverse delight in casting Brian as a woolly-minded romantic and himself as a put-upon pragmatist. The truth lay somewhere in the middle. Each was sensitive both to the beauty of the glen and the ruins among which Brian’s house was emerging. But Fury had long ago learned the value of assuming a volatility that gave him the upper hand. In his view, a craftsman’s contribution far exceeded that of the mere employer who paid his wages so, for a job to be done properly, the balance of power needed to be redressed.
According to Brian, a major part of an architect’s skill was understanding the psychology of his builder. ‘Fury was working on sites in London before I was born. You’ve got to respect that, even if he’s slightly behind on the use of contemporary materials.’
‘Slightly?’
‘Okay, completely.’ Brian had grinned. ‘But I can’t diss a lifetime of experience. It might have been a good while back but, you know, he worked on buildings that are London icons. And he catches up on things incredibly fast. You can see the wheels going round like mad behind the supercilious face.’
Leaving The Divil to lap his tea, Hanna looked at Fury. ‘Did you know there’s a book that’s a biography of London? It’s a huge bestseller.’
‘I did not. But I know a daft notion when I hear one. How would you write a biography of a place?’
‘Well, that’s the point. Ackroyd, the guy who wrote it, perceives London as a city full of shadows of people who built it and lived there in the past. He calls it “echoic”.’
‘He does, of course.’ Fury looked round aggressively. ‘Where’s the poor Divil’s custard cream?’
Custard creams had always been available when he’d been working on Maggie’s place, but Hanna knew she had none in the house now. Remembering that her last packet of biscuits had been bought when Jazz was visiting, she asked if The Divil might fancy a Blueberry and Orange Seedy Crunch.
‘Why call it a biography if it’s really a class of a history?’
Hanna crumbled a biscuit into The Divil’s tea. ‘Well, because he goes further . . .’
‘Don’t you know he does?’
‘. . . and sees the city itself as having personality. Well, landscapes holding specific memories that, over time, became the characteristics of each place. Actually, no, it’s more than that. Because what he suggests is that urban landscapes affect people who live in them. And that people respond to landscape according to associations that have been made with particular places in the past.’
Fury’s face assumed precisely the supercilious expression Brian had described.
Hanna pressed on. ‘Okay, look, I’m putting this badly. There’s another guy, Alan Garner. He started as a children’s author. I thought of him when I first saw the Hag’s Glen. He went on to write adult books. There’s one called Thursbitch.’
‘Right. Good title.’
‘He has this thing about “sentient landscape”. That there are places where the land remembers what happened there in the past. And people can feel it.’
‘Well, sure, everyone knows that.’
‘They do?’
‘Isn’t that what haunted houses are about? And uncanny places where locals won’t go at night? And isn’t it the same with sites people call sacred? Say, holy wells. Did you ever notice how Christian churches got built on top of Roman temples?’
‘Well, yes, that’s what Ackroyd writes about . . .’
‘There’s a church now in London, called St Bride’s. I worked on a site near it when I was over there as a lad. That has six earlier churches underneath it, and a Roman temple beneath that again. And the St Bride it’s dedicated to is St Bridget. Well, there you are! Aren’t half the holy wells you’ll find called after St Bridget? And most of them belonged to some pagan goddess long before she came along. But of course you haven’t noticed. Nobody does.’
‘Well, Garner and Ackroyd . . .’
Tipping more tea into his mug, Fury waved his hand at Maggie’s dresser. ‘You never noticed the hell I went through and I putting down your blasted slate floor.’
Hanna remembered the standoff they’d had when he was installing her kitchen. Maggie’s floor had been of cement laid over the original earth floor of the house. Fury had insisted that Hanna would want timber flooring, because the slate tiles she’d told him she wanted would be far too cold underfoot. In the end, she’d won the battle, and her floor, with its uneven surface and multicoloured patches, was one of the things she now loved most about the house.
Under Fury’s accusing eye, she went to look at the section that ran under Maggie’s dresser. Kneeling down to inspect it closely, she realised that the tiles had been carefully cut to accommodate the dresser, the top of which touched the ceiling, while the feet still stood on Maggie’s cement beneath the stone.
‘You try cutting Chinese slate with that kind of precision. I’ll have you know I nearly burned out the angle grinder, and I totally buggered me disc.’
‘You’re right, I never noticed.’
‘People never do.’
By way of inadequate compensation, Hanna returned to the table and offered him milk. The Divil immediately raised his head and she hastily took the teapot to his saucer. As she was trying to fill it while avoiding the little dog’s quivering whiskers, she frowned and looked up at Fury. ‘But how come you didn’t take the feet off the dresser? If you had, it wouldn’t have been too tall, and you could have just stood it on the slate.’
‘Holy God, woman, would you look at the size of it? How did you expect me to lift it out or, for that matter, get it back? Or deal with the fact that the ceiling would probably come down if I moved it at all?’ Having vented his usual outrage, Fury shrugged defensively. ‘Anyway, like yer men say, places carry stories. Don’t you feel Maggie here yourself sometimes? The same thing will happen when you move on and make way for the next person. And whatever poor bastard comes to change that floor or shift that dresser will be able to tell that, in my time, I was here too.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
The table in Jazz’s office was scattered with paperwork, the residue of a long and successful meeting. Don, in charge of production, had given a presentation that had managed to be exciting as well as detailed; Saira had talked about plans for a follow-up to the range of rosemary hair products; and Jazz herself had shared rough layouts of the new advertising material that incorporated photos of local suppliers. As usual, Louisa, who’d sat in on the meeting, hadn’t said much but as the door closed behind Don and his assistant, she pushed back her chair and smiled at Jazz. ‘You know, I really am pleased with how we’re progressing. Don was a real find!’
Jazz had met Don almost by accident when she was checking out local markets nearly a year ago. He’d been running his own small business selling herbal products and, after a chat, he’d seemed to her to be a perfect fit for Edge of the World Essentials. When Louisa had met him, she’d liked him, too, and, instead of advertising the place that needed filling, had gone with her gut instinct and employed him. Having been used to running a one-man band, the job had been a step up for Don in terms of scale and admin, but he’d risen to the challenge.
Jazz shuffled the layouts together. ‘These are good, too, don’t you think?’
‘I thi
nk they’re charming.’
‘Well, they’re not down to me. It was Saira’s idea.’
‘Don’t worry, you made that clear at the meeting. And that’s the point, isn’t it? We’re building a team of individuals. I’m glad you were open to her input.’
Jazz held up a photo of an elderly man beaming into the camera with his arms full of marigolds. ‘Doesn’t Johnny Hennessy look like a star?’
Johnny, who was Mary Casey’s neighbour, spent most of his time growing herbs and vegetables in his garden, and in the three big polytunnels he’d built behind his house. Jazz could remember him from childhood holidays at the bungalow, when she and her granddad would amble round in the evenings for a chat by Johnny’s back door. He had wide-set, brilliant blue eyes in a deeply seamed face, and a tweed cap worn at a rakish angle. Following instructions, the photographer had posed him in the garden and, judging by Johnny’s huge, gap-toothed smile, had known just how to relax him in front of a camera.
Louisa picked up a stack of shots of a little girl with a snub nose and cheeky smile. ‘I think this “meet our growers” idea is splendid.’
‘Those shots are really just there to indicate possibilities. Like I said at the meeting, her parents will be selling us camomile so, once this year’s crop is established, we could go for an image of the kid surrounded by flowers.’
‘Perfect.’ Louisa stood up and reached for her handbag. ‘I’d say let’s have lunch but I promised I’d drive Mary into Carrick.’
‘Give her my love.’
‘Of course.’
There was a pause before Louisa spoke again. ‘Have you heard from your dad lately?’
‘Dad? No. But I haven’t been expecting to. Why? Is he okay?’
‘I haven’t heard from him myself since I got back from London.’
Jazz frowned. ‘Well, were you expecting to?’
‘No.’ Louisa straightened her shoulders briskly. ‘I wasn’t. Or, at least, I’m rather hoping I won’t.’ Seeing Jazz’s troubled look, she laughed. ‘We haven’t fallen out! Nothing like that. I’m just a little concerned he may be at a loss for occupation. And you know what your father’s like when he gets bored.’
Jazz knew only too well. That was why Mum had found the weekend retreat in Norfolk, where there was sailing and fishing and room for house parties. The Norfolk place had been sold when the divorce went through, and since then, Jazz had assumed, Dad’s weekends had been taken up with whatever his latest girlfriend had demanded. Dining in Biarritz, possibly, or speeding round Paris in his male-menopause car. But, by the sound of things, he was without someone to keep him entertained. ‘He’s not planning to come on a visit, is he?’
‘No.’ Louisa sounded worryingly uncertain. ‘No, I shouldn’t think so.’
Jazz swung her bag onto her shoulder. ‘Because I haven’t got time to entertain him if he does.’
‘Well, neither have I. And nor has your mother.’
‘Oh, damn! He is planning to come, Louisa, isn’t he?’
‘Truly, dear, he didn’t say so. But I do have misgivings.’
‘Well, I hope you’ll ring and tell him we’re all up to our ears. Where would he stay, anyway? Not with you and Mary?’
Louisa laughed. ‘There’s no room at the bungalow. And even if there were I think he knows that he wouldn’t be welcome. Mary’s been remarkably careful in my presence, but I’ve no illusions about her opinion of Malcolm.’
‘Where, then?’
‘Carrick, I suppose. I shouldn’t think he’d settle for anything less than The Royal Vic.’
‘You’re not just having misgivings, are you? You’re pretty sure he’s coming.’
‘Well, if he does, dear, he’ll have to fend for himself.’
As she crossed the garden on her way to the café, Jazz decided that she simply couldn’t be bothered to think about Dad. The meeting had run late and she now had only half an hour for lunch.
It was a warm, windy day and one of the tables outside the café was standing in a suntrap so, leaving her jacket on the back of a chair to claim it, she whisked inside to get a sandwich. Then, as she sat down to eat, she realised she was the only person who seemed to be lunching alone. Briefly, she was stabbed by a dreadful longing for Sam. Everyone around her was either part of a group, one of a couple, or obviously waiting for a friend. The groups were chatting and laughing loudly, each person waiting seemed cheerful and expectant, and all the couples appeared to be holding hands.
For a moment or two Jazz tried to feel like a confident businesswoman, languidly sipping coffee with no need to do anything else. Leaning back in the rattan chair, she extended her legs sideways with her ankles crossed, like a film star, and rested her elbow casually on the table. Then, unable to find a convincing expression, she gave up on nonchalance and groped in her bag for Brooklyn. She was well into it by now, anyway, and fascinated by the differences between the book and the film.
After another few minutes, during which she was distracted by the need to keep avocado off the book’s pristine pages, she finished her sandwich, wiped her fingers, and lost herself in the story, not raising her head again until someone approached the table with a tray. ‘D’you mind if I join you?’
Slightly irritated, Jazz looked up and saw that all the tables around her were occupied. Then she recognised the guy who’d fallen over her feet when she’d been reading on the cliff. ‘Oh, hi. Yes, no, of course . . . sit down. It’s nice to see you again.’
‘But you’re reading.’
‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter. I mean, it’s only because one sometimes feels a fool eating alone.’
‘Do you? I don’t.’ He balanced the tray on his knee, then moved his mug and plate onto the round table. His question, which might have sounded arrogant, appeared to be a genuine enquiry so Jazz grinned.
‘Don’t you? God, that’s depressing, maybe it’s a woman thing.’
‘Or it could just be that I’ve got a brass neck.’
Johnny Hennessy, Jazz remembered, always called it ‘a neck like a jockey’s arse’.
Mike didn’t seem to have a brass neck, though. More a steady air of containment, which Jazz continued to find vaguely familiar.
Deftly removing the cellophane from his sandwich, he asked if she was still enjoying Brooklyn.
‘Massively. I keep wanting to talk to the guys who made the film, though. Like, last night I read the bit where Eilis is helping at the Christmas party in New York. You know, the community hall scene, with down-and-outs and knackered builders? Irish-American emigrants with nowhere else to spend Christmas Day?’
‘Yeah. All smoky browns and greys, and guys getting drunk and falling asleep on their plates.’
‘That’s the bit. And in the film you get Iarla Ó Lionáird being a bloke in a cap who stands up and sings “Casadh an tSúgáin”.’
‘Is that what it’s called? I remember something in Gaelic. Very powerful.’
‘You call the language “Irish”, not “Gaelic”, but that’s not the point. In the book Eilis finds herself drawn to the man. She nearly goes up and touches him because he reminds her so vividly of her dead father. And then when he sings he holds her hand.’
‘Doesn’t that happen in the film?’
‘Yeah, you can see she’s really moved but, if you hadn’t read the book, you wouldn’t know she’s thinking of her father. Well, I dunno, I didn’t. It was just sort of intense, distilled emotion.’
‘Brilliant scene, though.’
‘God, yeah. And you can hear the actual song, which is what produces the effect. But I wonder why they didn’t focus on the link with her father. It seems to me that underpins what the book’s all about.’
‘I guess what happens when you’re making a film is you shoot a lot of footage, and in your head you’ve got a narrative. But when you see what you’ve captured, you sometimes find that it’s saying something else. Offering a different story.’
‘You don’t think they stick to a given script?�
��
‘Well, there’s masses of different ways to read a line or shoot a scene.’
‘That’s true.’ Jazz put Brooklyn back in her bag. ‘How’s your own filming going?’
‘My pathetic two-minute clips? Good. Really good, actually. Not pathetic at all. I met your mother this morning.’
‘My mother? Why?’
‘I went to the library to ask if I could do something on the Carrick Psalter. A bit in the exhibition, maybe vox pops with people in the queue. Your mum says there are illustrations in the psalter showing features in the landscape that can still be seen today.’
Jazz nodded. ‘I know. It’s cool. You can see the shape of Knockinver, and some of the coastline. And there’s a huge rock that’s still there in the forest. Some medieval monk working on the psalter must have known it, because he used it on the page that illustrates the Twenty-third Psalm.’
‘Well, I’m thinking of demonstrating that you can visit the exhibition, and then travel round afterwards to places you’ve already seen in the book.’
‘You’d need longer than two minutes to get that across, though?’
‘I could probably do it in seven. Maybe five. It’d be harder to sell than a shorter piece, perhaps. But maybe not. Tourism websites are full of clips of lush-looking scenery. Travel porn, really – well, Bali Ha’i maxed up to the nth degree.’
‘That bit about people longing for another island?’ It was an echo from the song ‘Bali Ha’i’ which had come back to her from nowhere.
‘Exactly. No place in particular. Just somewhere other than where they are now. Someplace offering bigger dreams and more potential.’ He turned to her and his eyes were very bright. ‘I might do this, you know. It could sell. It’d be something specific and unique.’
‘I think it sounds super.’
‘Really?’ Finishing his coffee, Mike stretched his arms above his head. ‘It’d mean I’d have to stay round here a bit longer.’
‘Would that be a problem?’
‘Not at all. My time’s my own, and I guess you could say that I came to Ireland looking for something.’
The Month of Borrowed Dreams Page 14
