21
Having dropped Mary and Pat at the bungalow, Hanna drove to Carrick with her phone on speaker, trying to call Fury on the way. His number had rung out more than twenty times by the time she drove into the parking lot and twice as she took the elevator up to the council’s Planning Office and now, as she emerged from the elevator, she tried it again, knowing she was wasting her time. There was no response to the bell on the reception desk either. But she had to speak to a planning officer. A glazed door with a STAFF ONLY sign and a key-code entry system separated the empty reception area from the open-plan office beyond it. Hanna peered through the glass and saw that most of the workstations were unoccupied. Seething, she returned to the desk and pushed the bell again. According to the council’s website, it was possible to speak to a planning officer without an appointment provided you arrived before five. It was an understood thing, though, that officers who had late-afternoon site visits might slope off home afterward without returning to their desks. Today, thought Hanna furiously, the receptionist must have sloped off as well.
As she glowered at the door, a man carrying a canvas satchel approached it from the other side, let himself out, and made for the elevator. It was obvious that he hadn’t been summoned by the bell on the reception desk so Hanna tried pushing it again. There was a pinging sound behind her as the elevator doors opened. Then, instead of getting into it, the man turned and spoke to her.
“Can I help at all?”
He was in his mid-forties, tall and reserved-looking, with dark hair pushed back from his forehead. His black jeans and unstructured indigo jacket looked like an unconvincing nod to office wear, and his open-necked shirt was obviously expensive; though, judging by the shirt’s slightly frayed collar, both it and the faded linen jacket must have been bought some time ago. Hitching his satchel onto his shoulder, he nodded at the reception desk.
“You’re not going to raise anyone, I’m afraid. Jo went off sick earlier.”
Hanna rolled her eyes. She couldn’t imagine why this should feel like the last straw but it did. The elevator doors closed and the man raised his eyebrows at Hanna. “Can I do anything?”
“I doubt it.” Thoroughly fed up with the world, Hanna was at her prickliest. “Why on earth isn’t there anyone to cover for your receptionist?”
He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged and turned away.
“Oh, damn!” Hanna took a step toward him. “That was churlish of me, I apologize. It’s just . . . I’ve just driven from Crossarra at breakneck speed hoping to catch a planning officer.”
“That’s unusual.”
“What?”
“Well, usually it’s doctors and lawyers.”
Hanna looked at him blankly and he grimaced. “Sorry, bad joke. I meant that a planning officer isn’t usually seen as a good catch. Mainly it’s doctors and lawyers.”
Hanna smiled reluctantly. “Yes, well, I’ve already tried a lawyer and I can assure you they’re not all that they’re cracked up to be.”
He smiled back and there was an awkward pause in which the elevator doors pinged open again and no one came out. Then he held out his hand. “Didn’t I see you the other night at Teresa O’Donnell’s shindig?”
With no recollection of seeing him before, there or elsewhere, Hanna shook hands with him. His voice was pleasant and she couldn’t quite place his accent.
“I’m Brian Morton.”
“Hanna Casey. I’m the librarian at Lissbeg.”
“Right, shall we start again? I’m a planning officer.”
Half an hour later Hanna stood up from Brian Morton’s desk, gathering together the forms and leaflets he’d found for her.
“So it really ought to be okay?”
“Perfectly. From what you say, the extension is too small to be covered by regulation anyway. And even if that’s not so, we can always deal with it retrospectively.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ve told you. The rules aren’t that draconian. In fact, we’re encouraged to bend over backwards to assist anyone who’s planning work on an old building. As opposed to throwing up a new one.”
“Yes, but in my case nothing seems to be planned, either in your terms or in mine. And God alone knows what’s going to happen next. I want things to be done by the book from the start, not tidied up retroactively.”
“Or even retrospectively.”
“Whatever you call it. Though, if that’s what you do call it, it’s bad grammar.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “You know, doing things to houses can be an emotive experience. I appreciate that you’ve managed projects before . . .”
“Yes, I have. Far larger than this one.”
His mouth became a hard line and Hanna cursed herself inwardly. Her stress was her own business and she hadn’t come here for therapy, but neither had she intended to snub him quite so rudely.
Brian pushed his chair back. “Well, if that’s everything . . .”
This was dreadful. “No, look, you were going home and now it’s the middle of rush hour. Would you like . . . I mean, can I buy you a drink?” There was a pause in which Hanna panicked, feeling that she needed to explain herself. “I mean, just, you know, to say thank you. For everything. I mean, for the information.”
“There’s no need.”
“Yes but—”
“Look, I’m the one who should apologize. There ought to have been someone on reception when you arrived. And you’re right, I was leaving early myself, which I certainly shouldn’t have been.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest—”
“No. Anyway, you’ve got the paperwork and, if you need more help, don’t hesitate to ring the office.” He nodded at his desk, which was perfectly tidy. “I should put things away here. There’s a button at the right of the door to reception. That’ll let you out.”
Discomfited, Hanna picked up her paperwork, walked away between the empty desks, and let herself into the reception area. Stepping into the elevator, she found herself grinning wryly. As far as raised hackles went, there had been little difference between the encounter she’d just had with Mr. Morton and The Divil’s first acquaintance with the goat.
22
Hanna was halfway across the parking lot when she decided that instead of sitting in the rush-hour traffic she would take herself off for the drink that she’d offered Brian Morton. As she turned she saw Ger Fitz, Pat’s husband, walking toward the door of the council building. Immediately behind him was Joe Furlong, the owner of Ballyfin’s largest hotel. Joe wasn’t exactly a friend but he and Hanna had met frequently, so she waved. Ger, who was ahead of him, had already gone into the building, but to Hanna’s surprise, Joe turned his head, apparently choosing to ignore her. It seemed so unlikely that she waved again, thinking that he hadn’t recognized her. But with one shoulder hunched, as if to make himself less visible, he disappeared through the door without looking back. Perhaps he hadn’t seen her, or maybe he was late for an appointment. Still, it was odd. He knew her well enough to know her reputation for reserve, so he couldn’t have feared that she’d hold him up by rushing across the parking lot demanding a chat.
Puzzled but not particularly bothered, she crossed the road, made her way into the town center, and found herself a corner in the lounge bar of The Royal Victoria Hotel. The bar was cool and dark, with half-drawn blinds and huge brass ceiling fans that were never turned on and could never have been needed, given Carrick’s climate. The hotel had been built in anticipation of a visit to Finfarran by a minor member of the British royal family in the late nineteenth century. Its name was a tribute to the Queen Empress, and its Victorian investors had hoped that, as the gateway to the county’s beautiful peninsula, Carrick might become a regular royal destination, putting the Lakes of Killarney in the shade. But the minor royal had turned up with a head cold, it had rained for the twenty-four hours of his stay, and, instead of experiencing the delights of Finfarran, he had stayed in bed issuing irate complaints abou
t knocks in the hotel’s heating system. The problem with the hot water pipes had been solved a week later, and the sun was splitting the stones an hour after he left, but it was all too late. It was to be more than a hundred years before Ballyfin became the worst-kept secret in the world, and by then most visitors to Carrick preferred modern hotel rooms with en suite power showers. But visitors who did stay at The Royal Victoria found quiet rooms, comfortable beds, and a public area full of mahogany furniture and faded velvet upholstery; so they returned again and again. There was a Ladies’ Lounge with writing tables, embossed notepaper, and brass inkstands; a Gentlemen’s Smoking Room that had become an informal Residents’ Library; a Grill Room much frequented by bank managers; and the bar, which served coffee and sandwiches as well as alcohol. The staff was predominantly middle-aged and the service was excellent. A few of the bartenders were Polish and Romanian students, and, watching the dynamic between them and their coworkers, Hanna reckoned that they’d fallen on their feet; it was obvious that the waitresses mothered them and the head bartender, who had a rigid comb-over and an encyclopedic knowledge of wines and spirits, adored being a professional mentor.
It was the bar that kept The Royal Victoria going. Local businessmen used it for meetings, shoppers popped in for a coffee, and PJ, the bartender, had instituted an efficient lunchtime takeaway service that produced long lines of office workers waiting for freshly made sandwiches. Now, settling into her corner with a gin and tonic, a little dish of almonds and olives, and ribbons of rare beef between thinly cut slices of bread, Hanna congratulated herself on her own decision-making. Not only would she avoid the rush hour around Carrick but, with any luck, Pat Fitz and Mary Casey would have finished their chat by the time she got home to Crossarra. Her parents’ friendship with the Fitzgeralds had always seemed to Hanna to be an unlikely one. Perhaps Pat, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, was a foil for Mary Casey’s brashness, but Ger Fitzgerald was just a creep, with his mimsy mouth, cold eyes, and ghastly false smile behind the counter. Conor’s theory that he was a secret Maeve Binchy reader did nothing to improve the picture, though Hanna was sure that that was nothing but fantasy. All the same, there had been that rasher of bacon in the copy of Circle of Friends. Now sipping her gin and tonic, Hanna leaned back and smiled. It was a reprehensible habit, of course, but people did leave the most interesting things in library books. Strands of wool, holy pictures, blades of grass, even bank notes. And ephemera like that flier for the art exhibition that had changed the course of her own life.
And this was her life now, a square peg in a round hole to which the pleasure of her new home might yet reconcile her. Unaccountably, or perhaps because he, too, had seemed out of place in this context, her mind flitted back to Brian Morton. She was sorry to have snubbed him when he’d been so kind, but had he needed to be so touchy? Surely he was too senior to worry about accusations of leaving work early? Come to think of it, surely he was too senior for the level at which he worked? His easy, authoritative manner when he was giving her advice had suggested a departmental head rather than what Conor called a pen pusher. Not that it mattered or that Hanna cared. She had appreciated his help though, and now, looking back, she remembered his advice. He had listened to her rant about irresponsible rogue builders who acted unilaterally, waited till she ran out of breath, and then raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“Would we be talking about Fury O’Shea?”
Hanna’s disconcertion must have been evident; she hadn’t intended to bad-mouth Fury to a stranger, let alone to an official. But Brian had smiled.
“Fury may be a law unto himself but you couldn’t have a better builder.”
“So everyone tells me. Still, he’d try the patience of a saint.”
“I’ll tell you what might help, though you won’t thank me for it.”
“Go on, then.”
“Fury belongs to the old school. As far as he’s concerned, once he starts to work on it, your house isn’t yours, it’s his. You’ll get it back when he signs the job off and no sooner. Not that Fury ever signs anything. But that’s another story. No one in this office has ever been able to tell whether he’s illiterate or just canny.”
Seeing Hanna’s face, he laughed. “I said you wouldn’t thank me for it, but it’s the truth. And if you’ll accept it I’d say you’ll have an easier time.”
Hanna hadn’t thanked him, and the idea of handing over control of her only asset to an irresponsible illiterate was patently absurd. But, since she appeared to be stuck with Fury, it was good to know that someone other than the seniors at the day-care center rated him as a builder.
“But if he’s illiterate, how on earth does he cope with the system?”
“In my view, it’s up to the system to cope with him. Not that many of my colleagues would agree with me.”
He had seemed irritated so perhaps that was it. Maybe Brian Morton was seen by his department as a maverick who was unsuitable for promotion. Maverick behavior had no place in the ethos of Finfarran’s county council, where most people were in the business of securing a job for life. All the same, Hanna had a strong suspicion that that wasn’t the whole story. Though she told herself she was unlikely to discover the rest of it, given how they’d parted.
Now, as PJ the bartender appeared with more nuts and olives, she glanced at her watch.
“Another gin and tonic, Miss Casey?”
“No thanks, PJ, I’m driving.”
“Maybe a coffee, then?”
It had only been a small gin and tonic but, mindful of her own repeated warnings to Jazz, Hanna nodded. Coffee at The Royal Victoria was always perfectly brewed and came in shallow china cups with a finger of shortbread. She had a copy of Saki’s short stories in her handbag, which would read well in the context of this imperial white elephant. And another half hour or so under the silent ceiling fans might ensure that Pat and Mary had finished their chat by the time she got home to the bungalow.
23
Ger Fitzgerald had fixed to pick Pat up from Mary Casey’s bungalow at six thirty but Pat knew better than to expect him on time. Not that it mattered, she told herself, but sometimes it would annoy you. She had given up her own car last year, so now she was no better off than poor Mary, who had never learned to drive. There was many another would have stayed on the road despite arthritic hands and failing eyesight, but Pat wasn’t one to take chances. And, unlike Mary who was always firing off texts to the neighbors, she could never bring herself to go round demanding lifts. To be fair, though, Mary lived out in the country, while she was in Lissbeg with all she could ask for around her. Ger had never liked the way she used to gad off in her own car, which was a gift from their eldest son, Frankie. Even these days he wasn’t too happy when she had a day out, though dropping over to Mary’s was an exception. Ger had always been fond of poor Tom, and, if truth be told, he’d once had an eye for Mary. It was strange in a way that he and Tom hadn’t fallen out over her, back when the four of them were at the nuns and the brothers together and ate crisps after school by the horse trough on Broad Street. The trough had still been full of water then, and one day when Ger had been prancing along the edge of it like a tightrope walker another lad shoved him in. Mary and Pat had pulled him out while Tom got hold of the other fellow by the neck and stuck his head under the water. That was the way it was with Tom and Ger, they always had each other’s backs. So in the heel of the hunt the four of them had remained good friends, and when Mary married into the post office in Crossarra, Pat had married into the butcher’s in Lissbeg. To be fair to Ger, she’d been lucky to get him, despite his persnickety ways. Tom had thrown all his money at Mary Casey’s whims, but Ger was a close man who by this stage could buy and sell half the peninsula. So, in a way, Pat had no regrets, having made the better bargain.
One thing she did regret, though, was the loss of her two younger boys, who were both off in Canada. Ger had never made any secret of how he was leaving his money. No more than his father before him, he said, he hadn�
��t worked all his life to see the business broken up by his sons. So while Frankie, the eldest, had taken over in Lissbeg, Jim and Sonny were sent to college; and as soon as they’d graduated they’d gone off to Canada, just as Ger had intended. Then, after a few years, they’d settled down and married in Toronto. As a result, despite phone calls, presents, and the occasional trip over to Canada for a First Communion or a Confirmation, Pat’s grandchildren had grown up half a world away. It was easier to keep in touch these days, with Skype and email, but each time she posted a photo on the Fitzgerald Family Facebook page set up for her by Sonny, Pat told herself that the damage was done and there was no going back on it. She tried hard to post things that would interest the grandchildren, but sometimes the photos would be up there for weeks with no comments. And then a smiley face or a comment like ‘Love you, Mom’ followed by three exclamation marks would appear under them beside a little picture of Sonny. Which only made Pat feel worse. The Fitzgeralds had never gone around saying that they loved each other, and none of Pat’s children had ever called her Mom. If she didn’t know better, she’d suspect that Sonny never looked at the Facebook page any more than his children did and that it was his Canadian wife who stuck the smiles and the comments up, out of pity. Her other son Jim’s children, who were now at college, apparently thought Facebook was “lame,” so they ignored the page completely. But at least they sent letters to thank Pat for their birthday book tokens, even if she was never sure that they got the warm scarves and jumpers that she knitted for them. It was fierce cold in Canada, she knew that, and you couldn’t beat wool for warmth.
The Library at the Edge of the World Page 11
