The Month of Borrowed Dreams

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  It would have been brilliant if the fabric could have been silk, but that would have cost a fortune so they’d chosen unbleached ultra-fine muslin and used silk thread for the flowers.

  When Joe and Eileen had proposed the double wedding Bríd had told Aideen it was a shame that Carol had started work already. ‘Eileen would have paid for whatever fabric you wanted.’

  Aideen was secretly glad that hadn’t happened. The dress was something special that belonged to her and Conor, and Carol had said that the muslin looked great. She’d been thinking of getting Pat Fitz to crochet some heavy lace to use round the hemline, or adding beads, to give it a bit of weight. ‘It was the perfect choice though, I think, and the colour is almost exactly the same as the painting.’

  Whizzing along on her Vespa towards Carol’s cottage, Aideen wondered if all brides-to-be went a bit mad. Look at Eileen, buzzing around like a maniac, and herself, getting obsessed by embroidery and flowers. Suddenly she felt a sense of fellow-feeling for Eileen, which was weird because, up to now, she’d found her a pain. Look at how she never seemed to notice when Jazz, who’d just been dumped by her boyfriend, went awful quiet sometimes when they were all talking weddings.

  Carol’s sewing room, which was next to the kitchen, had a window overlooking the back garden. Outside, there was a lawn studded with daisies and, pinned to a board near Carol’s desk, a piece of paper on which she’d sketched a daisy design for the dress.

  ‘I thought I’d go for silver petals and pale gold centres. They won’t jump out from a distance but they’ll be lovely close to. Just a scattering of the flower heads, no stems or leaves. I’ll do a few golden narcissi as well, like the ones on the dress in the painting.’

  ‘They’ll be gorgeous.’

  The fabric was loosely folded in a dust sheet and, when Carol shook it out, the gillyflowers with their dark stems and wine-red petals seemed to flow across the creamy stuff and shimmer towards the floor. Aideen couldn’t repress a squeak of excitement. ‘It’s stunning!’

  ‘Now, I know you don’t want a wreath of flowers round the neck.’

  ‘Well, it’s lovely in the painting but, like I said, it looks scratchy.’

  ‘So I thought the dress could be Empire line. You know, with the skirt falling from under the bust. In the painting it falls from the big wreath, and there’s more flowers lower down, like real roses twined across the fabric. If we give you a narrow embroidered belt below the bust line, you should get a similar effect. And the neckline can just be a plain scoop with a little edging of flowers.’

  ‘Honestly, Carol, it’s dreamy.’

  ‘I don’t know about bare feet, though.’

  ‘Conor’s all for that, but I think you’re right. I might get sandals, like Venus has in the painting. Totally flat with thin gold straps.’

  ‘And you’re still going for no veil, just a wreath on your hair?’

  ‘Yeah. Fresh flowers. That’s about the one thing Eileen and I agree on. She wants a June wedding, and so do I. Because the right flowers would be out.’

  Carol folded the fabric again and led the way into the kitchen. When they were both sitting at the table with coffee, she gave Aideen a look. ‘Are you and Eileen having problems?’

  ‘Not really. Well, she’s a bit full-on.’

  ‘All weddings are fraught with complications, so double weddings probably make things worse.’

  ‘Joe says she just gets overexcited.’

  ‘Well, if she’s paying the piper she might think she’s a right to go calling the tune.’

  Aideen looked at her doubtfully. ‘I don’t think it’s like that. Well, maybe a bit. The thing is, she’s awfully generous. I won’t let her push me around, though. I’ve told Conor that.’

  ‘It could be that it’s time you told Eileen.’

  Aideen remembered feeling that unexpected flash of empathy. Maybe a chat with Eileen wouldn’t be bad. Biting her lip, she looked across at Carol. ‘We’ve set up this private Facebook group that everyone’s pitching ideas at, but I suppose she and me could always sit down and talk.’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea. You could go off somewhere and have a quiet drink.’

  ‘Better not to phone her, you mean?’

  ‘Phones are grand but nothing beats a proper sit-down chat.’

  Aideen wasn’t certain. There’d been that tense meeting around the farmhouse table, and the weird day at The Royal Vic when Eileen had produced the wedding guy off the telly. But this would just be Eileen and herself.

  Carol got up and went to make more coffee. ‘Why not text her now and see if she’s free today?’

  As soon as Aideen did so, a text pinged back and, almost before she knew it, she’d fixed a meeting for five at the Garden Café.

  Carol set the cafetière on the table and, sitting down again, said she was glad. ‘Your mum would have been so excited about this wedding. I wish she could see how happy you are with Conor.’

  ‘You think she’d like him?’

  ‘I know she would.’

  ‘Did she know before I was born that I was a girl?’ Aideen wasn’t sure why she’d never asked this before.

  ‘She did. She rang me up the day they told her.’

  ‘So she went in for scans and stuff on her own?’

  Carol looked troubled. ‘I would have gone with her myself if she’d only let me. But she didn’t want anyone there. Your gran had got a bit upset when your mum told her she was pregnant.’

  Aideen had gathered that already. Aunt Bridge and Gran had hardly ever mentioned her mum. ‘Who decided that I’d be called Aideen?’

  ‘That was Cathy. Your mum. She told me before she went into the hospital. They were concerned about her blood pressure, so maybe she was apprehensive. Anyway, that was what she said she wanted you called.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  Carol shook her head. ‘I don’t, pet, I’ve no idea. Maybe she just liked it, or read it in a book.’

  Aideen’s face felt kind of stiff, so she held the warm cup against her cheek. ‘It wasn’t a name in my dad’s family?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  You could see Carol looking bothered, which was the last thing Aideen wanted. Putting the cup down, she forced a laugh to clear the air. ‘Well, that’s good, because if it had been, I might have thought of changing it. Taken a new wedding name, like you do at Confirmation.’

  Carol relaxed and laughed back. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Flora, after the Primavera?’

  ‘Or the margarine?’

  ‘Shut up! I was being romantic.’

  ‘If I were you I’d stick with what I’ve got.’

  Later on, weaving in and out of traffic on the Vespa, Aideen found herself smiling about her mother. Like people said, you couldn’t miss what you’d never had, and Aunt Bridge and Carol had always made her feel loved. It was good to know, though, that Mum had chosen her name.

  The tables round the fountain in the nuns’ garden were crowded when she arrived, and Eileen was sitting on the edge of the stone fountain. Aideen crossed the garden and asked if they’d go and sit on a bench. ‘I could nip inside and bring us out something to drink.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve just had coffee.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Will we go and sit down then, and not bother with drinks?’

  They found a bench near the polytunnel and Eileen asked what the story was. Immediately, Aideen found herself starting to babble. ‘You must be wondering what I wanted to say and it wasn’t anything in particular. Just . . . wedding stuff, really. You and me, we haven’t sat down and talked it through on our own. I don’t mean that I want to go micromanaging every bit of it. Though, obviously, that’s not to say that I want to go dumping it all on you.’

  Eileen looked baffled. ‘You’re not dumping anything on anyone. It’s cool.’

  ‘Well, that’s great. But it’s not actually. Not cool.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothi
ng. Well, that’s not true. Take the wedding dress. Dresses. Our wedding dresses.’

  ‘What about them?’

  Aideen could feel her palms getting damp. ‘It’s just that the other day you were talking orange satin sheaths?’

  ‘Yeah, but, you know, I’m not sure I’m going to manage the weight loss. So now what I’m thinking is we stick with the orange, but go for a more traditional kind of shape? Really tight corset bodices, huge veil, and meringue skirt. We could do the veils in silver net with Swarovski crystals. You know what I’m saying? Bling but not over the top?’

  Aideen suddenly realised why Carol had pushed her into arranging this meeting. If no one told Eileen to stop, she’d simply keep going, and probably change her mind right up to the wire. By which stage they’d end up with whatever they’d have to settle for, and the likelihood was that none of them would be pleased. It couldn’t just be the bridesmaids trying to get a grip on things. She needed to step in and do this herself. ‘I’ve already made my mind up about my dress.’

  Eileen looked blank. ‘But you haven’t put any ideas up on the Facebook page.’

  ‘No. And I’m sorry. But my mind was made up long before this became a double wedding. And, let’s face it, you’ve yet to make up yours.’

  ‘Well, but we’ll have to match.’

  Having felt rather pleased with herself for her firm, definitive statement, Aideen now felt as if she’d been hit on the head with a brick. Of course they had to match somehow. And obviously they couldn’t both turn up dressed as the goddess Flora. Anyway, that was her design and she didn’t want it robbed. Staring at Eileen, she realised that she should have said all this sooner, but Eileen had bounced and talked so much that she hadn’t had time to think.

  Though that was a pretty weak excuse, now she came to consider it. Feeling horribly guilty, she pulled out her phone. ‘Look, I’ll show you the picture . . . well, the sort of inspiration.’

  The painting was her screensaver, so it came up at a touch. For once, Eileen seemed lost for words. Aideen tapped through to another image and pulled in on the dress, saying Carol was helping with the design. She could hear herself saying the fabric was unbleached muslin, and explaining the medieval language of flowers: carnations were emblems of love and fidelity, while narcissi stood for prosperity and good fortune. ‘Daisies are for love too. They symbolise innocence. Carol’s been at the embroidery for months. It’s nearly done. I’m going to have a plain underskirt. Pat Fitz is crocheting the lace.’

  She’d talked herself to a standstill and Eileen, who was holding the phone, was still sitting there staring.

  Aideen twisted her fingers together in anguish. ‘I know you won’t want the same dress. And, anyway, it represents Conor’s and my story, and you and Joe have a story of your own. But maybe we could use my colours as a basis for our theme?’

  When Eileen spoke it was like the voice of doom. ‘Pat Fitz is crocheting the lace?’

  ‘Well, probably.’ Aideen swallowed nervously. ‘Or I might have pendant beads.’

  Handing back the phone, Eileen took a deep breath. ‘I don’t quite know how to say this, but have you actually looked at that painting?’

  ‘Well, of course I have.’

  ‘And you haven’t noticed that your one, Flora, is pregnant?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mind you, so’s Venus. Ready to drop.’

  ‘What? They’re not!’ Aideen looked at the picture again, her eyes out on stalks. Her voice faltered. ‘Well, I know what you mean, but they’re symbols of fertility.’ Her lip trembled and she bit it painfully. ‘My dress is going to be Empire line.’

  ‘It’s up to you, of course, how you want to present yourself. But I’m telling you, you’re taking a big risk.’

  There was a long moment in which Aideen looked at her aghast. Her face must have shown what she was thinking, because Eileen grabbed her hand. ‘Ah, Jaysus, Aideen, I didn’t mean anything about your mother! I was just saying the associations are dodgy. Like you said yourself, a wedding dress tells a story. You don’t want to walk down the aisle looking as if you’re already knocked up!’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  No birds were singing as Brian got out of the car. Instead he could hear the repeated clack of a stone hammer and, walking round to the back of the house, he found the source of the sound. A week or so ago, he’d given instructions for one of the old dwellings to be rebuilt to make a garage. The original stonework stood to a height of several feet in places and now, while the rest of the lads had cleared up and gone home, the indefatigable Fury was working on a wall.

  ‘For God’s sake, Fury, what’re you at?’

  ‘What does it look like?’

  The Divil, who had advanced on Brian, barking shrilly, now looked darkly at Fury and pattered off to the van.

  Brian turned back to Fury. ‘Even The Divil knows when it’s time to down tools.’

  Squinting at the string he’d rigged to provide a straight horizontal, Fury grunted dismissively and laid his next stone. ‘You said you wanted this made up.’

  ‘I didn’t say I wanted a stonemason’s job.’

  ‘Well, a botch might be fine for you, but it won’t do me. These walls were properly built the first time, and I’m not going to insult them now by making them up in blocks.’ He jerked his thumb at the length of broken wall he hadn’t yet got to. ‘Look at that. Tidy work, the like of which you’d go far to find, these days. Why would I waste blocks, and go knocking up sand and cement, when I’ve stone to hand and masses of good subsoil? God, if you’re not bankrupt by the time this job’s finished, you damn well should be!’

  Capitulating, Brian bent down, hefted a stone, and passed it to him. Having given it a sharp glance to demonstrate that he wouldn’t proceed until suited, Fury set the stone on the mortar. For the next ten minutes they worked together, shifting their weight to the weight of the stones, as rhythmically as dancers.

  Though it was ages since Brian had built a wall, the mesmeric quality of the task returned to him at once. The swing of his body with his legs braced, the precise clack of Fury’s hammer, and the wet thump as each chosen stone was bedded in the mortar. The old dwelling had been solidly built, parallel walls infilled with rubble to repel winter storms. Fury was right. The subsoil thrown up for the foundations of the new house was perfect for the mortar and infill needed to raise these old stones.

  As each stone passed from his hands to Fury’s, Brian knew it had already passed through many other hands. Whoever had first built this little structure had bent his back and reached out, choosing his stones by eye, and knowing each choice would affect the next. It wasn’t enough to build straight, you had to have foresight.

  The skill of the man doing Brian’s job lay in the eye and the hand’s choices, and the mind reaching ahead in the knowledge of what was yet to be done. The skill of the mason with the hammer lay in knowing how to strike a sharp edge or smooth an imperfection, and where to place a stone. Each must be set at the correct angle, to shed water, and each must lock with the next bedded beside it.

  Reaching up with another stone, Brian glanced at the sky. Every man who had built walls in this valley had kept an eye on the clouds and tested the wind. Sudden rain or even a change in humidity during construction could affect the strength of a wall, and had to be allowed for. Bronze Age builders had used the same lime mortar that he and Fury were working with today. Its strength lay in its binding property when mixed with liquid and, traditionally, the secret of the perfect mix was passed from craftsman to apprentice across generations. From time immemorial, the tried and tested liquids added were organic. As late as the nineteenth century, horse or bull’s blood or animal urine had been chosen, while builders of Fury’s generation had still used their own piss.

  When they came to the end of a lift, Fury stopped. Reaching for the pinched-out cigarette he kept behind his ear, he hunkered down and settled his back against a firm bit of wall. Brian joined him.

  ‘Y
ou’re not going to want to put thatch on my garage, are you?’

  ‘If you think I’m going to spend weeks doing extras, forget it. You can roof it yerself and, if I was you, I’d shove up a sheet of corrugated. I might find you some Kingspan but it’ll cost you.’

  It wasn’t a comment requiring response, so Brian ignored it. Rooting in the limy rubble beside him, he picked out a pebble and lobbed it towards the river. It fell short of the water and disappeared into a mass of silt and windblown grasses. High above, a swallow who’d been spooked by the sound of the hammer swooped past, catching evening insects.

  Reaching into his pocket, Brian found the gold ring and held it out on the palm of his hand. ‘The Divil gave me this. He took it from the river.’

  ‘Well, that’s a fair return for a few bones.’

  ‘Not old, I think. Maybe nineteenth century? No mark, so you can’t tell.’

  Fury stretched his legs to dig in his own trouser pocket. ‘You’ll be into the house next month, I’d say.’

  Brian, who hadn’t smoked for years, accepted the offer of a roll-up. ‘You know that kind of lethargy you get when something you’ve planned for months is suddenly imminent?’

  ‘Would we be talking about the house or something else?’

  ‘Part of me wants to walk away and pretend this place hasn’t happened.’

  Fury shrugged. ‘I’ve known fellows build themselves houses and never move into them.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Why do you think property papers talk about dream homes? It’s all fantasy, these days. No wonder people are scared to move in. The dream might turn out to be a nightmare.’ He bent sideways and cupped his hands round a match to give Brian a light. ‘That’s not you, though, is it?’

  ‘Nope, I don’t do dreams. I know too much about sewage systems.’

  ‘So we’re not talking about the house.’

  Inhaling deeply, Brian picked a shred of tobacco from his lip. They smoked in silence until he spoke again. ‘When did you go over to England?’

  ‘Nineteen forty-five. Just after the war. Plenty of work back then, building up fallen walls.’