The Month of Borrowed Dreams

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  Determined not to be caught in the crossfire, Hanna was leaning back in her chair with her coffee. Malcolm’s way of calling his parents ‘Ma’ and ‘Pa’ had always slightly annoyed her. It felt like a habit picked up at his expensive public school.

  Louisa had told her some years ago that the manor in Kent had been bought by Malcolm’s dad, who’d started out as a solicitor and become rich by investing in stocks and shares. ‘We began married life in a rather dull country town.’

  ‘I don’t know why, but I’d always assumed that the family had lived in the manor house for ages.’

  ‘Well, that was the impression George liked to give. He gave up work as soon as we could afford it. He was in his father’s office, you know, and the job bored him stiff.’ Louisa had assured her earnestly that her husband wouldn’t have lied. It was simply that he was happy to have achieved a home that Malcolm could be proud of.

  Hanna, who’d always been fond of her late father-in-law, had smiled. ‘I can imagine that. George was a very sweet man.’

  This information, which had emerged long after the divorce had gone through, had given her another reason to feel that Malcolm had deceived her. But, after all, why should he offer her chapter and verse on his background? She’d never asked for it.

  Louisa’s family must have been better connected than the Turners. Malcolm had been sent to Harrow, where her father had been, not to his own father’s minor public school. When he and Hanna met he was very much the son of the manor, and it was the most hospitable home she’d ever been in: a relaxed, spacious house imbued with Louisa’s good taste and George’s genial charm. Theirs was a civilised, very English world in which the copies of the Mitford books that Jazz remembered had shared shelves with works by Iris Murdoch and Doris Lessing. Sipping her coffee, Hanna reflected wryly that Malcolm could easily have grown up calling his mother ‘Louisa’ and addressing his tall moustachioed father as ‘Fa’.

  And that was the world she’d re-created in their homes in London and Norfolk, the one in which she’d chosen to raise Jazz. Except that Jazz had also had those long summer breaks in Finfarran. She’d played on the seal beach with kids from Lissbeg, and known the joys of new-laid eggs, milk from the cow, and brown soda bread. Her first crush had been on a freckled boy who’d taken her out in a boat to haul lobster pots. Knockinver and the ocean, the green fields and the complex web of Irish small-town relationships were as much a part of her life as Malcolm’s privileged world of professional contacts at the right level and suitable social connections.

  Tuning in again to the others’ conversation, Hanna found Malcolm was still raising Louisa’s hackles.

  ‘Tell me again how you’re sourcing the herbs you’ll use.’

  ‘I’ve told you twice already. You can’t have been listening.’

  ‘Nonsense! I always listen. But I do wonder if you’re taking the right tack.’

  ‘We are. So you mustn’t let it trouble you.’

  ‘Darling, do stop it. I might have something useful to offer.’

  Louisa put down her sandwich and folded her hands on the table. ‘All right. Tell me what I’m doing wrong.’

  ‘Well, those photographs you showed me of your suppliers . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Isn’t it all a bit amateurish? I mean, a gap-toothed yokel and a curly-haired moppet?’

  ‘Those shots are for a marketing drive. Rather a good one put together by your daughter and the team.’

  ‘I grasped that. But I understood that these are your actual growers. Not models?’

  ‘Well, the little girl is the daughter of a couple who’ll be supplying us – we haven’t yet sunk to child labour. And Johnny Hennessy has been growing herbs all his life.’

  ‘On an industrial scale?’

  ‘No. Which is fine. Because that’s not the kind of supplier we employ.’

  Malcolm sat back and joined the tips of his fingers, a gesture Hanna had always told him he’d stolen from Rumpole of the Bailey. ‘And that, Ma dear, is precisely my point. If you start out on an artisan level you’ll see no return for your investment. Not in the long run. You’ll grow to a certain stage – assuming you’re lucky – and simply stagnate.’

  Hanna was about to intervene when Louisa laughed. ‘For heaven’s sake, Malcolm, stop being pompous. You may be able to browbeat a witness, but you’re wasting your time with me. I married a canny businessman, remember? And together we managed our finances rather well.’

  Malcolm threw up his hand in another stagey gesture, this time indicative of good-humoured acquiescence. It struck Hanna that his pomposity had grown with the passage of time. Or perhaps the increasingly juvenile girlfriends meant he could now indulge in it? He wouldn’t have got away with that tone when he was married to her.

  But, though she hadn’t gone in for serial cradle-snatching, she, too, could be accused of moving on to a younger partner. And, in a looking-glass way, she and Malcolm had each succumbed to a form of menopausal vanity. While he’d embraced the role of an archetypal sugar daddy, she’d rejected Brian for months, afraid of being seen as a clichéd divorcée dating a younger man.

  Sometimes she looked back now and gasped at the thought of all she would have lost had Brian given up on her. After what felt like a lifetime of betrayal, it was extraordinary to think she was now loved by a man she could wholly trust.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Slapping a ‘Beef and Gherkin’ sticker on a wrapper, Aideen put a freshly made sandwich on the rack.

  Bríd came up behind her and whipped it off again. ‘For feck’s sake, Aideen, do you not know egg and cress when you see it?’ She peeled the sticker off the cellophane and went to write another, while Aideen leaned on the counter looking contrite. They were alone in the deli in a mid-morning lull before the lunchtime rush.

  There was a shrill ping from Aideen’s bag, on the shelf behind her. Stalking back with the sandwich, Bríd gave her a thump. ‘If you’re going to ignore Conor, will you turn that damn thing off?’

  ‘It mightn’t be Conor.’

  ‘Then answer that text.’

  ‘No. I know it’s from him.’

  Bríd went to serve a couple of backpackers. When they left, she came and glared at Aideen. ‘As soon as he gets a chance he’s going to be round here to find you.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be today. He has the vet coming.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then. Or the next day. He’s going to want to know what the hell you’re playing at, Aideen. So do I.’

  Aideen stuck her chin out. ‘Oh, shut up, will you? Mind your own business.’

  ‘This is my business. I’m your bridesmaid and you’re refusing to talk to your fiancé.’

  ‘I wish you’d both just back off. I need some space.’

  Bríd rolled her eyes and squared her shoulders. At that moment Pat Fitz and Mary Casey came in looking for fairy cakes and, seeing her chance, Aideen grabbed her bag.

  ‘Hi, Pat. Hello, Mary. Isn’t it grand weather altogether? Listen, Bríd, I’ll do that thing now and see you in a couple of hours.’

  ‘What?’

  Aideen dodged past Mary and Pat, who were standing in front of the counter. ‘Bríd made some gorgeous cupcakes this morning, ladies. You’ll love them.’

  For Mary Casey the word ‘cupcake’ was a red rag to a bull. As Aideen had known she would, she turned on Bríd. ‘’Tis far from cupcakes you were reared, Bríd Garvey! When did we lose our native language and start talking like Yanks?’

  Under cover of the lecture, which was moving on to muffins, Aideen slipped out the door. It was a bit mean to have started a row on purpose but, if she didn’t get off on her own somewhere, her head was going to explode.

  At the rear of the deli she took her helmet out of the box on the back of her Vespa, locked her bag into it, and set off with no idea of where she was going. Half an hour later, she found herself on a back road between ditches surmounted by foxgloves and realised that the farm was only a mile or two away.
Slowing down, she stared at a clump of tall spires covered in clustering purple flowers. Some caterpillar or grub had eaten away at the pointed foliage, leaving an intricate pattern of holes, which drooped from the stems like delicate green lace.

  Aideen’s eyes filled with tears. How dare Eileen sneer at the thought of Pat Fitz crocheting lace for her wedding dress? And how could anyone fail to see the beauty of Conor’s idea? Her mum would have loved the thought of Aunt Carol doing the embroidery, and no one would think she was pregnant. No one. Or if they would she didn’t care.

  At the thought of her mum, the tears began to fall. Eileen would have a church full of ghastly, noisy relations, with Maura and old Dawson up at the front, looking smug. Conor and Joe would have crowds of cousins and connections, as well as Orla and Paddy. And they’d all be looking over at Aunt Carol and Uncle Justin, and Bríd’s three little sisters, who’d be the only ones in the place to support her. She’d been so sure that it didn’t matter, but it did. Well, it did if Eileen was right and the whole church would be sitting there saying she’d got herself into trouble.

  Nobody used that awful expression ‘got into trouble’ these days. Though maybe the Dawsons did, with their swanky house and their money. Maybe the telly would be there, or some awful society magazine, and they’d think she was pregnant too. And then her dad’s family would see the pictures and say she was no better than her mum.

  Dragging off her helmet, Aideen put her head down on the handlebars and bawled. It wasn’t fair. No one had asked her if she wanted this stupid double wedding. Why hadn’t Conor seen the kind of eejit Eileen was? Why hadn’t Bríd known that everything would go wrong?

  There was a rustling noise above her and, looking up, she saw four cows peering down from the ditch. Their wide pink nostrils quivered with curiosity and their big heads were sticking through garlands of curling briars. Seeing the wide-eyed faces, Aideen choked on a laugh. They seemed so concerned that she stopped crying and gave them a daft thumbs-up. One cow stretched her neck and lowed deeply and the others swung their heavy heads, lipping the leaves and flowers on the briars. Three had white curly polls and black patches, and the other was russet red.

  Having wiped her face with the back of her hand, Aideen began to gather up her own red curls. The four heads above her swung sideways simultaneously, and she realised that, from their vantage point, they’d seen a car approaching round a bend. Turning her back, Aideen concentrated on pulling her hair up into a scrunchie but, instead of going past, the car slowed down.

  ‘How’s it goin’, pet?’ Paddy leaned out of the window and waved. It must be one of his good days, and Aideen was ashamed to find herself wishing fervently that it wasn’t. Normally you wouldn’t see him out driving the roads, but now she’d have to talk to him, and he’d see that she’d been crying. Not only that, but she wouldn’t know what to say.

  Letting her hair down again, she shook it forward. Then she gave him a wave back, trying to look casual. His expression changed, so her face must look dreadful. He didn’t say so, though.

  ‘You’re not at work.’

  ‘No.’ Aideen reached for her helmet. ‘I had to go out for a thing.’

  Paddy nodded, as if she’d made sense. Then he looked at her again and squinted at the cloudless sky. ‘I’d say there could be a shower coming shortly. You wouldn’t fancy a drink till the weather clears? Or a coffee, say? We’d get one below in Feeney’s.’ Without waiting for her to reply, he slipped the car into gear and moved off, shouting back that Feeney’s wasn’t far. Aideen jammed the helmet on and followed him. He was already well down the road, so she hadn’t any choice.

  When they got to Feeney’s he climbed out of the car, using his stick. Aideen got off the Vespa and said she didn’t really fancy going indoors. He didn’t ask why, and together they crossed the road and leaned on a gate. There was something growing in the field so she asked what it was.

  ‘Red clover. You sow it for forage or fertiliser.’

  ‘Oh? Right.’

  ‘They’d undersow it or put it in after a cereal crop. You want to watch out for stem eelworm, though.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Paddy glanced at her. ‘I hear you’ve been off radar the last day or so.’

  ‘Conor didn’t send you out to find me?’

  ‘Christ, no, I’m just driving round trying to get some head space.’

  Aideen rested her elbows on the top bar of the gate. ‘So am I.’

  ‘Is it nerves? Orla was a dreadful mess before our wedding. You’ve a whole year yet, pet. You don’t want to be panicking too soon.’

  She gave him a reluctant smile. ‘I’m not nervous. The actual being married bit is fine.’

  ‘Not the actual wedding bit, though?’

  ‘It’s just . . . we’re not going to have the wedding we dreamed of. No way. It’s not going to happen. Eileen has all these notions . . .’

  ‘I’ve noticed that.’

  ‘And I’m not saying I’m not grateful, honest. She’s awfully kind. So is Joe.’

  ‘Yeah, but we’re talking about your wedding, here, not theirs.’

  ‘Well, that’s just it. Me and Eileen are coming from different places. On every possible level. And I don’t know what to do.’ She turned her head to look at Paddy and found him still staring across the field. After a silent minute or two she asked him what he thought.

  Paddy grimaced. ‘I’m the wrong person to ask, love. I can hardly get my head around my own life at the moment. Mostly I’m living in a big black hole.’

  ‘Is that what it feels like? Depression?’

  ‘It’s not really about feeling. More like just being there. The hole is my home.’

  ‘That’s horrible.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘Like someone came and blotted out all your hopes and dreams.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, pet. I don’t do hope anymore. And I’m not sure I ever believed in dreams.’

  Paddy turned round and put his back against the gate. Aideen kept looking at the clover. There were bees hovering over the field, which was bounded by posts and wire. Paddy spoke again, staring at the road. ‘I sure as hell don’t believe in them now.’

  Aideen realised she’d entered unknown territory. One thing she did know was that she shouldn’t get all positive and bracing. According to Conor, people with depression could get overcome by self-loathing and trying to argue them out of it only made things worse. Anyway, Paddy himself changed tack. ‘Sure you’re not having second thoughts about coming to live at the farm? I told Conor we didn’t have to accept this notion of Joe’s unless you’re happy with it.’

  ‘I know. And I am.’

  ‘You don’t think this double wedding is part of the deal with Dawson, and that he won’t help with the farm unless you and Conor play ball with Eileen?’

  ‘No, of course not! He’s not like that. Nor is Eileen.’

  Paddy shrugged. ‘No, I don’t think they are.’ He turned and looked at her. ‘But it beats me why you’d want to marry into our family. Not when it means moving onto the farm.’

  ‘Because I love Conor. And because the farm is where I want to be. Truly.’

  ‘Things can get pretty grim living round me.’

  ‘Will you stop it? You and Orla are great. I’ve even thought I might be marrying Conor because of his parents.’

  ‘God, the inside of your head must be almost as weird as mine.’ He pushed himself away from the gate and stood leaning on his stick. ‘Well, at least you’re not still crying your eyes out.’

  Aideen frowned for a minute, trying to get things to make sense. Talking to Paddy had somehow brought them into sharper focus. ‘Eileen’s all about chasing dreams, isn’t she? Mad, makey-uppy stuff that isn’t even real. Conor and me want a dream wedding, but not one like that.’

  Paddy shook his head. ‘Now you’ve lost me.’

  ‘Well, there’s a difference, isn’t there? Between real dreams and ones you’ve just borrowed. Y
ou know, from stuff on the telly and things in celebrity mags.’

  ‘Or a Renaissance painting?’

  Aideen blushed. ‘Okay, I see what you’re saying.’ Then she frowned and shook her head. ‘But the point is that the painting’s an inspiration, not an aspiration. Conor and I don’t want to buy into some package. We want to make our own dreams.’

  ‘I suppose that makes sense.’

  ‘And talking to you is what’s made me think it through.’ Aideen grabbed Paddy’s arm and hugged it. ‘Listen, do you mind if I go? I’ve got to see Conor. I’m sorry, I know that’s awfully rude, but there’s something I’ve got to do.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The family dinner at The Royal Vic was to be held in a private room booked by Malcolm. Having no desire to spend a perfectly good Saturday dreading the coming evening, Hanna had arranged to drive up to the Hag’s Glen for a picnic lunch with Brian. Sitting in her kitchen in her dressing gown, she gave him a call to confirm. ‘I’ll bring a loaf of bread and a salad. Malcolm will probably regale us with steak tartare and foie gras.’

  ‘Do you reckon he’d mind if I asked for a tin of spaghetti hoops instead?’

  As she ended the call, Hanna told herself things would be just fine. It had been daft to wish Brian wasn’t coming, when the chances were that he would make the whole thing work. Despite his solitary habits, he was never fazed by social occasions. He got on well with Jazz and, like Louisa, was always more amused than annoyed by Mary. And Mary herself frequently announced that, in finding him, Hanna had landed on her feet.

  Having assembled a bowl and utensils, and fetched a bag of flour, Hanna reached for the tumbler in which she always measured her buttermilk. It occurred to her as she went to the fridge that she’d first known the weight of that glass in her hand when she was a child. It had still been standing on a shelf in Maggie’s dresser when she’d rediscovered the derelict house more than forty years later.

  In her childhood home bread had come ready-sliced and shrouded in plastic bags. But here in this room, all those years ago, Maggie had taken a tin bowl from under the kitchen table and swirled in flour and soda with her hand, adding salt and a brimming glassful of sharp-scented buttermilk. The rim of the thick tumbler was uneven, and the glass had a green tinge. The milk was the residue of an elderly neighbour’s butter-making, passed on for a few coins a pail. Maggie had baked bread every day, sometimes adding fistfuls of oats or currants, and she and Hanna would eat it hot from the oven, hunkered on the doorstep or sitting over the fire.