The Month of Borrowed Dreams

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  As she drove up to the Hag’s Glen with the car window open, Hanna marvelled again at the beauty of Brian’s chosen site. While Maggie’s place was a fortress against the power of the Atlantic, this glen, several miles inland, seemed to hold all the mellow warmth of the sun. The soil might be no better than it was in the stony field Maggie had dressed with seaweed, but the surroundings suggested a tranquillity that the clifftop never knew.

  Pulling up in front of the house, Hanna was conscious of the constant song of the river, very different from the sound of the waves at the foot of her own cliff. At the head of the glen the waterfall fell between clumps of golden furze that clung to the rock face. And, now that the scaffolding had been removed, Brian’s house seemed no more than another outcrop of rock and green growth on the valley floor.

  He came out to meet her, kissing her and swinging the picnic basket out of the back seat of the car. ‘Shall we go for a climb or eat down by the river?’

  ‘The river, I think. But let me see the house first.’

  ‘I haven’t moved anything in yet. Fury’s fitted the kitchen, though. And I’ve managed to stop him painting everything blue.’

  ‘Why blue?’

  ‘Don’t start me! He has a tin of paint.’

  Hanna laughed. ‘Can we go up on the roof?’

  ‘Sure. It hasn’t reached anything like its promised glory. That’ll take years.’

  ‘You can show me the view.’

  ‘It’s pretty knockout.’

  She had to agree. You could see the forest from the green roof, and the effect of the wind in the distant treetops echoed the moving light on the river here in the quiet glen. Hanna raised her hand and pointed south. Out beyond the forest was a glimpse of the blue ocean.

  Brian laughed. ‘I told you you’d still see it.’

  ‘It seems so remote.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Just part of a wider picture.’ He turned, as if about to say something.

  Hanna looked up at him. ‘What?’

  He hesitated, then shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘Nothing at all, sweetheart. Just that it’s lovely to see you here.’

  Down by the river she unpacked the picnic, tearing the cake of bread into pieces and opening a bottle of wine. Brian took the lid off a pot of olives. ‘These are perfect, where did you get them?’

  ‘HabberDashery. They’re doing amazing business. Aideen must have been in the back making sandwiches because Bríd was behind the counter, rushed off her feet.’

  ‘Fair play to them. It takes a lot of guts at that age to set up a business partnership.’

  Hanna supposed he was thinking about his own architectural practice, which had hardly been up on its feet when Sandra, his wife, had got cancer. No one could have anticipated her illness, or that the shock of her death would have such an impact on his work. Hanna had often wondered if Brian had ever been back in touch with his business partner. Wouldn’t the amends he’d tried to make have compensated for the loss of that all-important contract? After all, he’d sold his own home and stuffed the proceeds into his partner’s letterbox. She knew they’d been friends before they’d set up in practice and, in such circumstances, it seemed unlikely that a friend would hold a grudge.

  But even if his partner had put it behind him, she knew Brian hadn’t. His memories of what had happened back then were still as raw as ever. Having once told her his story he’d never talked about it, and the thought of raising it herself felt aggressive, like ripping a piece of Elastoplast off someone else’s wound. Perhaps it might promote the process of healing, but whether and when to inflict that pain should surely be his choice, not hers.

  She poured a glass of wine and held it out to him. ‘This won’t be up to what Malcolm gives us tonight.’

  Brian took it without answering and gazed out across the river. Then he spoke without taking his eyes off the water. ‘The other day Fury and I were building a wall, and it got me thinking. You lift those stones and you remember all the men who were here before you. Generations of them, passing down stories and secrets from father to son. Yet, despite all that masculine presence, it’s called after the hag.’

  ‘Famine memories are powerful.’

  ‘Yes, but it could be the name is older than that. You get it in other parts of the country too. That’s what struck me. In folklore a hag can be a witch, but she can also be a goddess. Maybe this place has always had a female presence. Maybe it’s what it needs.’

  Hanna realised that, once again, most of her attention had drifted to the potential disasters of the coming evening. Giving herself a mental shake, she tried to focus on Brian’s train of thought. ‘So, you’re saying Fury’s famine story is nonsense.’

  When he turned to her she wondered if he was feeling tense about the evening as well. But the impression passed when he smiled.

  ‘I’m saying that seeking a definitive version of any story is pointless. Look at you and your film club. Which is the real story? The one in the book or the one in the film?’

  ‘Well, according to Mr Maguire, the one that comes first.’

  ‘But the function of art is to observe life from different angles, and no one angle is more valid than another.’ Brian took a sip of wine. ‘Anyway, everything that happens emerges from things that have happened already. That’s the nature of life.’

  Hanna grinned. ‘Saira Khan told Mr Maguire that it’s good to challenge one’s assumptions by looking at things from new angles.’

  ‘Good God! And she’s still standing?’

  ‘She’s not troubled by the rural Irish tendency to fawn on retired teachers. Actually, I think she said “in different lights”. But the principle’s the same.’

  ‘Precisely.’ Brian turned his head and smiled at her. ‘You, for example, are looking particularly beautiful in this light.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to know. May I stay at the flat this evening?’

  ‘I was hoping you would.’

  * * *

  When they met again, six hours later, it was in a candlelit room in The Royal Vic. Malcolm had booked what the management called ‘a salon’. The table, set for six, stood in an anteroom, beyond swagged velvet curtains. Armchairs and sofas were scattered about between the open window of the salon and a large fireplace, where a small fire was burning for purely cosmetic purposes. There was a high marble mantelpiece, low polished tables, and a vast arrangement of hothouse flowers.

  Mary and Louisa, who’d arrived before Hanna, were sitting by the window sipping champagne. Malcolm was being charming, and Hanna was wondering what had become of Jazz.

  Having shaken hands with the others, Brian crossed the room with a glass in his hand. ‘You’re looking troubled.’

  ‘It’s just that Jazz is late.’

  ‘She’ll turn up.’

  ‘Well, I hope so, because my mother’s getting ratty.’

  ‘Inferior champagne?’

  Hanna stifled a snort. ‘She’s got it into her head that Malcolm’s doing me out of a fortune. I told you he’s selling the London house? Well, Mam’s convinced that I’m owed a cut of the proceeds.’

  ‘Right. Well, tonight should be entertaining.’

  ‘I just hope Jazz gets here soon, and we move on to dinner. Maybe a plate of food will distract Mam.’

  ‘She’s responding well to PJ the barman.’

  Knowing that Brian was trying to relax her, Hanna threw him a smile. Then, looking across at the group by the window, she saw he was right. PJ, resplendent in his tartan bow tie and short white jacket, was bowing as he topped up Mary’s glass. With her ankles crossed in imitation of Louisa, Mary was perched on the edge of her chair attired in what Hanna recognised as a brand-new dress. Inclining her head majestically, she dismissed PJ with all the condescension of a queen. Watching her, Hanna felt an unlooked-for spasm of affection. Infuriating though her mother was, the decision to share her home with Louisa had been brave. The bungalow had been Mary’s pa
lace, built to her exact demands by an adoring husband. Choosing to remodel it and move on hadn’t been an easy call.

  The phone in Hanna’s hand buzzed and she saw it was a text from Jazz. ‘Oh, damn!’

  Malcolm, who’d seen her look at the phone, strolled across the room. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘No. Just Jazz’s car. The exhaust’s misbehaving.’

  ‘Tell her to take a taxi.’

  ‘She won’t find one in Lissbeg on a Saturday evening.’ Hanna looked at the phone, which had just buzzed again. ‘She’s called a friend and he’s giving her a lift.’

  ‘No problem, we can wait. Do ask him to come and join us for dinner.’

  Strolling away again, Malcolm summoned PJ with a finger. Hanna obediently sent the text and pulled a face at Brian. ‘They’re well on their way, so it shouldn’t be too long now.’

  At that moment, over at the window, Mary raised her voice. ‘Do you know what it is, Malcolm, you must be doing fine for the money!’

  To Hanna’s annoyance, Malcolm’s look of amusement was reflected on Brian’s face.

  ‘Take this champagne. Now, that cost a pretty penny! Still, I suppose we should all be glad you invited Hanna along to share it. God knows, it’s the least that she deserves.’

  The door to the salon opened to reveal a waiter with a trolley, and PJ shimmered over to escort him through to the alcove. Hanna recognised the boy as the teenage son of one of the greatest gossips in Lissbeg. Abandoning an attempt to remain detached, she hastened towards the window, as Mary tapped Louisa smartly on the arm. ‘Not that I’d insult your son, Louisa, and I eating his dinner. Or I will be if our Jazz ever gets here at all.’

  Arriving at Malcolm’s side, Hanna beamed at Mary fiercely. ‘She’s going to be here any minute, Mam. She’s getting a lift from Mike.’

  Louisa smiled peaceably and remarked that Mike must be a nice lad.

  Mary tossed her head. ‘Ay, well, that may be but God knows where he came from! I don’t know what it is with Hanna and Jazz that they want to go picking up with all these foreigners.’

  ‘Mam . . .’

  ‘No offence in the world now, and I’ve never been a racist, but when it comes to finding a man, a girl does best to stick with her own. Signs on it when things go wrong and she’s left without a penny. And now there’s Jazz and this Mike. I hope to God we’re not going to have the same story over again.’

  Hanna could see the waiter’s ears flapping. She glanced across to where Brian was leaning against the doorjamb. Because, of course, there was no point in his getting involved. There was no point in her intervening either but, to her own dismay, she found herself turning to Malcolm. ‘It’s only a few weeks since Jazz broke up with her boyfriend. Mike’s a friend, that’s all. We mustn’t embarrass them by suggesting they’re a couple.’

  She glowered at Mary and, inanely, turned back to Louisa. ‘He does seem a nice lad, doesn’t he? Apparently he comes from the end of the District Line.’

  At that moment, her phone buzzed and, looking at it, she felt a rush of relief. ‘That’s them! They’re here. They’re downstairs now!’

  Brian crossed the room and placed his glass on a table. Putting his arm around Hanna, he gave her shoulders a squeeze. ‘Well, that’s good news, I’m looking forward to dinner in that really magnificent room. You’ve chosen a lovely setting, Malcolm. It’s good of you to ask me along.’

  With Brian’s arm around her, Hanna relaxed. Hopefully Mary would shut her gob as soon as they got her to the table, and a genuine outsider would leaven the Turner–Casey family mix. She could feel the warmth of Brian’s grip and the reassuring solidity of his long body pressed against her side.

  The door swung open, and Jazz, looking pretty and dishevelled, rushed in followed by Mike. In the flurry of introductions, Hanna felt Brian’s hand tighten painfully on her bare shoulder. Glancing up in protest, she saw an indefinable expression cross his face. Then Jazz was beside them, laughing and presenting Mike.

  ‘I’m so sorry for the hold-up, Mum, but I’m here at last and Mike’s going to join us! You guys have already met, of course – and, Mike, this is Mum’s partner, Brian.’

  Hanna expected Brian to release her shoulder to acknowledge the introduction. But instead of offering to shake Mike’s hand, his whole body tensed.

  Mike beamed. ‘Well, talk about happenstance! I had no idea you’d be here.’ To Hanna’s amazement, he leaned in and punched Brian lightly on the chest. ‘This is so great! I was planning to call you tomorrow. How’s tricks, Dad?’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Life on the streets hadn’t involved much talking. Mostly it had been about keeping warm and finding the next meal. Rasher had often spent days, and even weeks, when all he’d said to anyone was ‘Spare a bit of change, please?’, ‘Thanks, missus’, or ‘Cheers for that, mate.’

  Bogdan and Petru, the other kitchen porters, had turned out to be nice enough. Work in the kitchen didn’t involve much chat, though. There wasn’t time, for one thing, and the noise level didn’t give you a chance of it. Between shifts, everyone seemed to go their separate ways. So, when Rasher wasn’t peeling veg and scrubbing surfaces, he spent a lot of free time sleeping or just sitting in his room. Which was fine by him. It was brilliant to be able to close a door and know you were safe.

  At his last session with Saira she’d asked if he’d done any more research in the library.

  ‘Nah. I will. I’ll get round to it.’ Actually, he didn’t fancy going there again. If Gracie was round she might get noisy, and if the O’Brien one appeared she’d probably tell them to kick him out. But he couldn’t say that to Saira in case he seemed wimpy or ungrateful.

  ‘You saw that having a library card gives you access to all sorts of online services and courses? You just need a PIN to log on.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to access them from the library in Carrick. There’s another branch in Lissbeg.’

  ‘Is there? Well, I don’t know about courses.’

  ‘You could choose just to watch video tutorials. No homework or assessments. It’s up to you how you use what’s there on offer.’

  He’d stuck his head down and said nothing and she’d smiled.

  ‘Maybe it would be best to leave the library for the moment. Making friends and spending time out of doors might be better.’

  Rasher had been tempted to say he’d spent quite enough time out of doors already. He wasn’t sure he’d liked the idea of being told to make friends either. It felt like being chivvied about when you were a kid. Yet here he was, on a Sunday morning, sitting in a bus to Lissbeg. Saira had suggested they meet in the nuns’ garden, and he hadn’t been able to think of a way to say no without sounding rude.

  Lissbeg was much smaller than Carrick. The bus stopped on a wide street with benches and a trough full of flowers on a traffic island in the middle. There were shops on one side, and across the road was what must be The Old Convent Centre. You could see where the wall had been levelled to make an entrance to the garden, which had a café and a fountain, and there was a pedestrian gateway to a courtyard with a sign saying ‘LIBRARY’.

  Obeying Saira’s instructions, Rasher crossed the road. She’d said she’d be working on the herb beds or in the polytunnel, so he walked across the garden, hoping he wouldn’t have to ask someone where to find her. He was always forgetting that people didn’t turn away now when he spoke to them.

  As soon as he’d walked round the fountain, he spotted Saira fairly quickly. She was sitting on a bench chatting to an oul one. When she saw him, she stood up and waved. ‘Adam! Come and join us.’

  Feeling like an eejit, he went and sat down and shook hands with the oul one, who told him her name was Pat Fitz.

  ‘Well, it’s Fitzgerald really, of course, but my late husband was always known as Weazy Fitz.’

  Rasher hunched his shoulders. ‘Was he? Right.’

  Pat turned to Saira. ‘Though, having said that, I�
��m not sure how many people remembered it by the time poor Ger died. It was a nickname he had at school. Not a very kind one at the time, you know, but people forgot that after. It was one of the Brothers calling him a weasel that started it. Then for years he was just Weazy Fitz, and no one remembered why. And by the end, sure, the name itself was half forgotten. Time heals all wounds, as they say.’

  Rasher wondered if Saira had decided he needed a garrulous oul one for a friend. Maybe Martin had told her he’d seemed to get on well with Gracie? Then he saw an amused look in her eye. ‘Pat was just passing, Adam. She lives across the road.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m in the flat above the butcher’s. My son has the shop below now poor Ger’s gone. Mind you, Frankie has a manager in – he wouldn’t go cutting up carcasses himself. But it’s still the family shop.’ She smiled at Rasher, her watery blue eyes looking earnest. ‘Isn’t Adam a lovely name. Is it in your family?’

  ‘I dunno. I think my mum just liked it. Most people call me Rasher.’

  ‘Would you look at that! A nickname. Just like Weazy Fitz.’

  Saira pulled off the pair of gardening gloves she was wearing. ‘I’ve told Adam about the garden. How it’s manned by volunteers.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that great altogether? Are you coming to join them, Rasher? It’s great work they do here, you know. Some of the herbs get sold to Edge of the World Essentials and the money’s put back into the garden.’

  ‘And the volunteers get nothing?’

  ‘Well, no, love. Like I said, they’re volunteers.’