At The Royal Vic, breakfast service began at seven thirty, to accommodate guests who were checking out early. Breakfast for staff on the first shift was at six, and you’d have a half hour’s work done before you’d sit down. You’d get tea or coffee in your hand first thing, though. And you’d have slept in a warm room and gone down to a hot kitchen, so you wouldn’t need to wrap your hands around the heat of the mug.
The other thing Rasher had had to get used to was his bedroom. It wasn’t much bigger than the one in the halfway house but it felt different. He liked the tall window overlooking the yard with the wheelie bins, and the fact that the sheets were washed in a laundry, and appeared in his room in plastic bags. One of the girls who cleaned the guestrooms had told him the staff duvet covers got changed every fortnight. She was friendly enough. When he’d first arrived, the bed had been stripped and looked a bit miserable, but she’d turned up with the bedlinen and, seeing him go at it cack-handed, offered to make it up. It took her about two minutes and the white sheets and pillowcase, and the red check duvet cover, almost made the place like home.
He hadn’t seen that girl again. Chambermaids had their own room to eat in.
To begin with, the kitchen had seemed chaotic. Like Saira Khan had warned him, there was a hell of a lot of roaring and swearing, and a fair bit of passing Anton’s aggression down the line. A few times Rasher had almost asked where the kitchen cat was so he could kick it. The other porters just kept going and said nothing, though. So he’d followed suit.
The two guys he saw most of were Romanian. Petru had a wife and kid here in Carrick, and Bogdan, who was Rasher’s own age, was a student doing hotel work to pay for a holiday in Ireland. Rasher hadn’t had much time to get to know them but they seemed decent enough. There’d been the usual surprise when he’d told them he was Irish. Then they turned it into a joke and started calling him Paddy. Most people in the kitchen were foreign – including Anton, who was Belgian – and you’d hear cursing in all kinds of lingo whenever things got stressed.
Scrubbing pots and spuds was pretty boring, and the huge, clattery space was hot and exhausting, but the buzz was fantastic. And the food Anton came up with was amazing. Back when Rasher’s dad was alive, his mum had been mad for cookery programmes on telly, which was when he’d first got the notion that he might be a chef. The stuff he was dealing with now never got shown on the telly, but doing it made you feel you were part of the team. Bogdan and Petru didn’t appear to see it that way, but Rasher – to his amazement – was having a brilliant time.
The only thing that got to him was the fierce long hours. Saira Khan kept telling him not to worry. ‘You’re not used to the physical exertion. I warned you when you said you were going to take every shift you could get. Good food and a warm bed will help you to build up stamina. Just take your time.’
‘Yeah, but what if they reckon I’m not worth hanging on to?’ If they did, it wouldn’t just be a matter of losing a job he was loving. Without an address he’d be back to square one.
‘They won’t. You’re doing the number of shifts required, aren’t you? Plus a few extra. And they’re lucky to get you. Think about it, Adam, you’re hardworking, honest, committed, and you’re ambitious. It’s going to be worth their while to train and develop you. Martin has told them that, and they’ve agreed.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. So what you must do is work hard and prove that you’re reliable.’
‘Okay.’
‘I promise you, demonstrating reliability is going to be the key to your future.’
It was decent of her to keep an eye on him. When he’d left the house he hadn’t thought he’d ever see her again, but then he’d got a message suggesting they meet for another chat. He’d come away from that meeting feeling determined. He’d be super-reliable at The Royal Vic and he’d go into Carrick Library and get himself a card. The library thing had been Mrs Khan’s suggestion. ‘You have an address and a job now, and the application’s been made for your PPS number. You need to start using the library as more than a place where you can go to keep out of the rain.’
Rasher hadn’t ever asked himself what else he could use it for, but she’d told him he ought to apply for the card and find out. ‘You don’t need me to tell you. And you do need to build up your confidence, otherwise how are you going to build a career? So go into the library and ask about the facilities they offer.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like how to research what you’ll need to know if you want to become a chef. Where to find courses and how much they’ll cost you. How to get help to find yourself a flat.’
Seeing his worried look, she’d laughed, and smiled at him. ‘This is about the future, Adam. Right now you’re working at The Royal Victoria, which is fine. It’s wonderful. But the future is going to offer you all sorts of choices, and to make choices you need information. So begin now. Discover how to find things out.’
Thinking about it afterwards, he’d known she was right. Before he’d taken the kitchen job, Martin had sat him down and said it wasn’t his only option. He could always give his mum a call and consider going home to Dublin. But Rasher had stuck to his guns and told him that wasn’t going to happen. No way. In which case, he reckoned, Mrs Khan was bang to rights. If he was on his own, it was down to him to work out what might come next.
The County Library was in a square, ugly building with rows of blank windows and an automatic door. As Rasher approached, he saw Gracie’s dog tied to a rail outside. Anyone who knew the streets of Carrick would recognise him instantly as Gracie’s. He was a long-legged mutt, like a cross between an elephant and a sheepdog, with a matted ruff of rust-coloured hair and big yellow teeth. Gracie was an oul one who shuffled about loaded down with carrier bags, reminding Rasher of the rough sleepers he’d seen back home as a child. His mum called them bag ladies. There was one who used to sit on a broken bench outside the hospital and Mum would always slip her a few coins on her way in to work.
Rasher had no idea where Gracie came from. She seldom said much beyond announcing that she was eighty years old, and that no one was going to part her from Gussie, her dog. ‘They’ve offered me nights in hostels, son, but there’s no way I’ll go in there. I’m not leaving poor Gussie out in the cold all on his own.’
Now Rasher hunkered down and scratched Gussie’s muzzle before taking a deep breath and climbing the library steps. Immediately inside the door there was a hallway with a reception desk. Beyond that was the door to the reading room, which had rows of long tables and plastic chairs. When he’d been in before, Rasher had always stuck his head down, avoided the desk, and made straight for the reading room. There was a stand of newspapers and magazines against the far wall and, as long as you looked like you were reading one, you could sit at a table for hours.
This time he approached the desk, smiled at the guy behind it, and said he’d like to register for a card. It was incredibly quick, but the effort of appearing nonchalant was knackering, so he decided he hadn’t the strength to start asking questions and finding things out. He had to be back at The Royal Vic for a shift by four o’clock anyway, and it was one thirty now.
He took his temporary card and the pile of leaflets he’d been given, and went through to the reading room to find himself a seat. Gracie was there, sitting alone at a table by the window, apparently deep in a copy of Ireland’s Own. She was wrapped in several layers of scarves and jackets, and had piled her plastic carrier bags at her feet. A few other people were reading at different tables. None of them close to hers, though, which wasn’t a surprise. Gracie smelt strongly of Gussie, and Gussie smelt strongly of dog.
Flicking through his leaflets, Rasher reckoned it was just as well he hadn’t started a conversation at Reception. If he read this lot carefully, he’d be better placed to ask questions, and it looked like there was masses here that he ought to know more about. There was a biro and a bit of paper left on one of the tables so he leaned over, whipped them, and st
arted taking notes.
Ten minutes later he was disturbed by the sound of high heels on the floorboards and, looking up, saw a tall lady marching out of the room. She returned almost immediately with a young girl in tow. The lady was making some kind of fuss and gesticulating, and the girl was looking flustered, when an older staff member came into the room. Rasher couldn’t hear what the older woman said, but the lady raised her voice.
‘Well, I must say, that’s rather rich, to accuse me of making a disturbance! I’m the one who’s trying to lodge a complaint!’
She waved her hand aggressively towards the window and the girl turned to her colleague, clearly distressed. ‘It’s Gracie but, honestly, Máiréad, she isn’t being any bother. I’ve kept an eye on her since she came in, and she’s grand.’
At this stage, their voices were getting louder and people around Rasher were looking up. Máiréad took the lady’s arm and suggested they move outside. ‘If you’ll come with me, Mrs O’Brien, I’ll find you a place to sit in the main library.’
‘I want to sit here! And are you aware that that woman’s dog is blocking the public entrance?’
Rasher saw Gracie raise her head from her magazine. Seeing the O’Brien one glaring at her, she pushed back her chair and began to grope for her bags. Furious, Rasher stood up, and went over to give her a hand. She was so intent on her carrier bags that he wasn’t even sure she recognised him.
Everyone was looking up now and, seeing she was getting nowhere with Máiréad, Mrs O’Brien turned and addressed the room. ‘The woman’s a vagrant and the dog appears to be rabid!’
Some people looked away, embarrassed, but Rasher could tell that half of them agreed with her. The next thing he knew, the two staff members were beside him. Máiréad knelt down and smiled at Gracie. ‘It’s all right, Gracie. Let me help you with the bags.’
Gracie ignored her and waved her little fist at Mrs O’Brien. ‘No, he bloody well isn’t rabid, that’s my Gussie!’
‘This is disgraceful!’ Still standing in the doorway, Mrs O’Brien brandished a phone. ‘I’ve already called the guards and, evidently, it wasn’t a moment too soon.’
Máiréad stood up briskly and took Gracie by the arm. ‘Gussie’s fine, Gracie, don’t worry. Maybe it’s time to go now, though, okay? We’ll see you another day.’
If the guards were coming, Rasher reckoned she was right. The young girl was around on Gracie’s other side, stuffing things back in a bag, which had split. At that moment a pint-size guard appeared in the doorway, with a second, taller figure looming behind her.
Gracie grabbed hold of Rasher. ‘Jesus Christ, what have they done with Gussie?’
Mrs O’Brien went all dramatic and turned to the guard. ‘Thank goodness you’ve come, the woman’s getting obstreperous.’
Stepping forward, the guard extended her arms. ‘Could everyone clear the room, please? Just for a minute? We’ll deal with this.’
She moved towards Gracie, and Rasher lost his cool. ‘You can’t arrest Gracie! It was that oul bitch started it.’
‘We’re not arresting anyone, sir. Can you just leave the room?’
‘No, I won’t! I’m not leaving Gracie!’
Gracie suddenly started to wail. The guard reached out a hand to her and Rasher swiped at it angrily. ‘Don’t you touch her! Leave her alone!’
Though he didn’t make contact with the guard’s hand, she jerked away instinctively and, stumbling on the carrier bags, ended up on the floor.
Rasher’s instinct was to bend down to see if she was okay but, as he stooped, a heavy weight struck him on the chest, driving him violently backwards against the metal stand by the wall. For a moment he had no idea what had happened. Then, blinking away tears of pain, he realised that the other guard had launched himself across the room from the doorway. There was a horrible smell of coffee-breath and, as Rasher’s eyes refocused, he recognised the livid face inches from his own. It was Nugent’s.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
TELL PAT FOUR O COCK GARDEN CAFÉ
Mary Casey glared at her phone and shot off a second text.
CLOCK NOT COCK tHIS yOKE LOUisa and me gOT iS wORSE tHAN tHE lSAAST oNE
She stabbed at the screen again and found herself looking at her emails. There was a circulated reminder from Pat about the computer class in the library. Clicking her teeth, Mary tapped out, IVE JUST TOLD HANNA TO TELL YOU IM NOT GOING TO BE TYHER, and hit send. As she took off her glasses, there was another ping from the phone so, putting them on again, she discovered a reply saying that automatically generated emails didn’t require a response.
Mary drew in her breath sharply. She had told Hanna several times that this phone was plain stupid, and here it was acting up again. Moving swiftly, so it couldn’t catch her out, she shut it off and thrust it into her bag. Hanna would pass the message to Pat when she saw her and, anyway, it didn’t matter a damn who turned up or didn’t turn up to the class. After the last one Mary had decided she wasn’t going back. They’d only start trying to teach her about her new phone.
It was two o’clock, so there was plenty of time to clean the kitchen before Johnny Hennessy gave her a lift to Lissbeg. Wrapping herself in an apron, and fetching a mop and bucket, Mary wondered if she might do the windows as well. Louisa had offered to pay for a man to come round with a ladder, but where was the sense in that when you could do them off a chair? That was the beauty of a bungalow. Anyway, cleaning round the place gave you something to do.
Turning the kitchen chairs onto the table, she ran the brush round the floor before setting to with the mop. Louisa was great company and she was glad to have her, but the fact remained that it wasn’t Louisa’s house. Not in any real sense – though of course they’d made an arrangement when they’d divided it into flats. Louisa had paid for doing up her own rooms, and for the new French doors that opened out from her bedroom into the garden, and they’d gone fair shares on the cost of the rest of the work. Their arrangement to share the kitchen had worked out grand too. It was nice to have someone to notice when you’d given the place a scrub. And, fair do’s, Louisa was very appreciative. Whatever way her son had turned out, she was a lady herself.
With the floor done, Mary rinsed the mop and took it out to the garden to hang on the line. Casting a critical eye on the windows, she decided they’d do as they were for another week. She’d slip into her bedroom now, and get showered and changed. The world and his wife met in the Garden Café for afternoon coffee, and you wouldn’t want to cut a shabby figure in front of the whole town.
She emerged from her front gate at exactly three forty. Johnny was reversing out of his drive and she sat in beside him, tucking her skirt away from the door. Jazz had told her that Johnny was going to have his photo on some billboard advertising face cream. You wouldn’t know what the world was coming to these days, and that was a fact.
The sun was splitting the heavens when she got to the Garden Café. They did a lovely plate of shortbread with their afternoon cappuccino special, so she ordered that and took her tray out to a table by the fountain. You wouldn’t find her drinking chai latte at four in the afternoon. Or eating churros either, for all they might be made by Bríd over in HabberDashery. You’d end up with hands like a couple of sugary oil slicks, and chai latte was only builders’ tea with bits of twigs.
She’d only begun to drink her coffee, at a table beyond the fountain, when Pat came towards her, carrying a pot of tea and a scone on a tray. Before she could start blathering about computers, Mary hitched out a chair for her and asked if Hanna had passed on the message.
‘She did, of course. Amn’t I here?’
‘I had a lot to do at home, so I couldn’t make the class.’
‘Ah, for God’s sake, Mary, would you stop coming out with excuses? There’s no pressure at all on you to come.’
‘Well, I’ve never said I don’t enjoy them, so don’t you go putting words in my mouth.’
Pat poured herself a cup of tea and took a b
ite of her scone. ‘I love the way they serve you these with the butter on them. It saves so much trouble.’
‘Ah, would you have a bit of sense, girl? They do it to save the expense.’ Mary leaned over and sniffed at the scone contemptuously. ‘That’s not a scone and butter at all, it’s a scone with a scrape!’
Pat ignored her and asked if Bríd was planning to make the cake for Aideen’s wedding.
Mary sniffed again. ‘Not judging by what I’ve heard from Jazz. By the sound of things, Eileen Dawson won’t settle for anyone less than Elton John!’
Pat looked puzzled. ‘Singing?’
‘Baking.’
‘But . . .’
Mary waved a hand dismissively. ‘You know what I mean – someone famous. Bruce Forsyth, say, or Mary Berry.’
‘Isn’t poor Bruce Forsyth dead?’
‘God, Pat Fitz, you’re a fierce annoying woman!’
Pat poured milk into her tea. ‘How is Jazz anyway?’
‘Grand, I’d say. Fallen out with the boyfriend.’
‘Sure, we all did that.’
Glancing over her shoulder, Mary leaned in conspiratorially. ‘But d’you know how it is? I’m fierce worried about Hanna. Wait till I tell you what Louisa told me last night.’ She pointed a teaspoon at Pat, who looked expectant. ‘That pup Malcolm Turner’s coming over.’
Pat’s eyes rounded. ‘Over here?’
‘Now so! And a grand welcome for himself! Bold as you please, after the way he treated my Hanna. And there’s worse.’
‘No!’
‘He’s selling the house in London.’
‘The marital home?’
‘That’s it. The house Hanna found for them when it was dripping damp and needed all sorts doing. Holy God, Pat, the months she spent getting it halfway decent! And the years of keeping it up and putting in all class of improvements! She had it like a palace by the end.’
The Month of Borrowed Dreams Page 18
