The Library at the Edge of the World

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  Fury turned the carving in his hand, blowing away the curls of chiselled wood. He knew that years ago, Ger Fitzgerald had picked up a site on the outskirts of Ballyfin large enough to take a massive hotel. It was just above the site of the proposed marina, which would allow cruise ships to schedule stopovers in Ballyfin. If Ger and Joe were to get together on a scheme for a new hotel they could make a killing if the marina got built. Fury reckoned it was as simple as that. Nothing that was actually dodgy. No one breaking the law. Just a tidy stitch-up that, once again, put money into very large pockets while keeping it out of small ones.

  36

  Mary Casey slammed the frying pan onto the stove, whipped a brown paper package out of the fridge, and reached for the rasher scissors. It never ceased to amaze Hanna that Mary, who ate processed cheese and synthetic cakes, was a purist when it came to rashers. She demanded what she called ‘proper hairy ones,’ cut before her eyes to the right thickness, with rind that she snipped in a series of cuts before laying them in the frying pan. The snipping ensured that the rashers wouldn’t curl as they fried and the ‘hairy’ rinds were cut off before each perfectly cooked piece of bacon made it to the plate. The only man Mary would buy rashers from was Ger Fitzgerald. Ger, she claimed, sold proper meat; whereas the pale, plastic-wrapped stuff sold in Carrick was nothing but water and air. For as long as Hanna could remember, rashers had arrived in the Casey household wrapped in greaseproof paper and encased in brown paper bags. The greaseproof paper was so thick that the bags remained pristine, and piles of them, neatly folded and laid away for later use, erupted from every drawer in Mary’s kitchen.

  Now, with a sniff for Hanna’s plate of yogurt and muesli, Mary Casey laid three rashers in the frying pan and shook it vigorously. Then, turning them at the optimum moment, she reached for her black-handled knife and began to cut slices from a loaf of white soda bread.

  “I suppose there’s no chance that you’ll take a decent breakfast instead of going off out to work on a spoonful of chicken feed?”

  Hanna ignored the question and opened her phone. Transferring the rashers to a plate in the oven to keep them warm, Mary broke an egg into the frying pan. As soon as it was cooked she would move it to one side of the pan and use squares of soda bread to take up the last of the bacon fat, keeping them over the flame until each was crispy and golden brown on the outside while the inside stayed meltingly soft.

  “Anything from Jazz?”

  There was a text to say that Jazz had fixed a flight to London and arranged to have dinner with Malcolm when she arrived. Mary Casey tossed her head when Hanna read it out to her.

  “Well, we all know that’s no subject for this breakfast table. If that child knew what kind of a scruffy pup her father is, she’d be telling him what she thought of him, not eating his pâté de foie gras!”

  Hanna held her tongue. After all, she told herself, it wouldn’t be long before she’d be having breakfast in her own house. By the fire. Sitting on the doorstep with the birds overhead. Or perched on the wall above the high cliff, listening to the sound of the waves. For the last few weeks she’d hardly dared to indulge her fantasies. But after the event in the library the other night Fury had sidled up and suggested an on-site meeting to schedule the restoration. Apparently he now had a time slot for the work. So perhaps when Jazz was next in Crossarra, the house would be taking shape; maybe she and Jazz could go online or take a trip together, to look at kitchen cupboards and consider paints. In light of such a prospect, it shouldn’t be too hard to smile and be civil to Mary. So, pushing the sugar bowl across the table, she asked what she’d planned for her day.

  Mary Casey twitched her shoulders restlessly. “Ah, nothing at all but the bit of cleaning.”

  “Would you like me to run you in to Lissbeg to see Pat?”

  But apparently Pat was off to Carrick to buy presents for her grandkids.

  “Well, would you not go with her yourself, just to look at the shops? I could take you with me to Lissbeg now if Ger’s going to be driving her into Carrick. And I could pick you up this evening when I’m leaving work.”

  Mary looked mulish. If Pat wanted her company she would have asked for it, she said. Besides, Pat was stone mad about those kids and no company at all when she was shopping for them.

  Hanna found herself losing patience. What was the point in trying to help someone who refused to be helped? Taking a last gulp of coffee, she stood up, forced a smile, and said she must go. But Mary Casey refused to meet her eye. Instead she speared a morsel of rasher to a square of fried soda bread and conveyed it to her mouth with an air of injured reproach. Clearly this was the start of a massive sulk that could well go on for days.

  Later, driving to Lissbeg, Hanna asked herself if she might have handled things differently but, for the life of her, she couldn’t see how. It was as if, lacking any other form of entertainment, Mary was now turning sulking into a hobby; and Hanna had never had her father’s knack for coaxing her back into cheerfulness. Nor, she told herself honestly, had she much inclination to find it. All she really wanted was to swap the stormy atmosphere in the bungalow for the joys of a house of her own.

  It was coming up to closing time that afternoon when she looked up from her computer and saw Tim Slattery in the doorway. The after-school influx of parents and kids was over, Conor was tidying up in Children’s Corner, and Oliver the dog man was working his way through Cookery, even though Hanna had assured him that most publishers chose images of food, not dogs, for the covers of cookbooks.

  But Oliver had a method. “I begin at the beginning, Miss Casey, go on till I come to the end, and then I stop. That’s the way I like to approach my given tasks in life.”

  Since he was clearly a Lewis Carroll fan, Hanna had been tempted to offer him The Hunting of the Snark as light relief from his quest. But, crushing the impulse, she’d nodded and let him get on with it. Oliver was squat, shortsighted, and middle-aged so, to help him reach the top shelves, Conor had found him a step stool. He’d also tried to help by checking the publishers’ websites and once, at the beginning of the week, it had briefly seemed that he’d found the elusive book. But the black Labrador on the cover of Richard Adams’s The Plague Dogs had the wrong-shaped ears. So the search continued.

  Now, Hanna stood up to welcome Tim. He was sprucely dressed in one of his three-piece suits and wearing a watch chain that appeared to be purely decorative; on his wrist was a severely minimalist watch consisting of an elastic band and a Perspex face. The acid-green band reminded Hanna of the hair ties she used to buy when ponytails were all the rage in Jazz’s playground. Tim strode briskly across the room and shook her hand. He was just passing, he said, and had dropped in for a word. She pulled out a chair to let him sit down but, glancing at Conor, he asked if they could speak privately. Hanna concealed a smile. It was typical of Tim to turn a chat about acquisitions and computer systems into a high-level, closed-door session.

  “Of course. Let me get you a coffee.”

  Ushering him into the kitchen and filling the kettle to make his coffee, she told herself that she had a lot to thank Tim for. True, his air of eccentric pomposity could be irritating, but since her return to the peninsula he’d been one of the few people she felt she could call her friend. Minutes later, as the kettle boiled unheeded in the background, she wondered how on earth she could have been so wrong.

  37

  “Hang on, are you trying to threaten me?” Hanna glanced over her shoulder to check that the kitchen door was shut. Whatever response Tim Slattery might make to her question, this was a conversation that she didn’t want overheard. Tim leaned back against the work surface and ran a well-kept hand through his stiff brush of hair.

  “Come now, Hanna, you know that’s ridiculous.”

  “It is. Totally ridiculous. It’s also the implication of what you just said.”

  “I simply said that you’d be wise to be careful.”

  Hanna drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “R
ight, let’s get one thing clear. Are you suggesting that I have no authority to organize an event in my own library?”

  “It’s not as if you’d organized a book club or a lecture. This was a protest meeting.”

  “Nonsense!” Hanna looked at him sharply. “Who says so?”

  “You must understand that we can’t have staff standing up in a branch of the County Library accusing hardworking county councillors of taking bribes.”

  “Look, I organized and attended that event. It was chaired by Conor, who works directly for me. The content was discussed and agreed between us in advance and everything that he and I said was perfectly appropriate. There was a certain amount of comment from a single individual on the floor, to which Conor responded promptly, politely, and exactly as he should. Had he done otherwise or appeared to be out of his depth I would have intervened. But he didn’t. So I didn’t.”

  Tim shrugged. “Be that as it may . . .”

  Hanna’s eyes narrowed. “But that’s not the point, is it? The point is that you’ve just walked into my library and told me to watch my step.”

  “Hardly that.”

  “Precisely that. In so many words. And I want an explanation.”

  But she didn’t need one. It was evident that Liam Ryan must have gossiped to other council employees about the lad who had harped on about brown envelopes and that an impression had been transmitted to Carrick that she’d organized some kind of protest meeting. Which was ironic given that the occasion had only arisen because poor Conor, who was usually so responsible, had gone out and got drunk.

  This was not ground on which Hanna would have chosen to do battle, and, to her horror, tears formed in her eyes. How dare Tim believe such nonsense? And, even if he did believe it, how could he fail to stand up for her, as a colleague and a friend? She had stood by Conor even though the event had been idiotic. And she had no intention of doing otherwise now.

  As she groped for words, Tim raised his eyebrows. Surely, he said, he didn’t have to spell things out? The council’s proposed investment plan involved a complete restructuring of the county’s library facilities. In the future the entire collection would be housed in the new complex in Carrick. And inevitably, with a single premises and increased technology, there would need to be redundancies. Shrugging, he extended his hands like some cheap crook in a Dashiell Hammett novel. What he meant, he said, was that her wisest course would be to discourage silly gossip and support the council’s plan.

  Hanna stared at him in blank disbelief. Only a few weeks ago he had assured her that Lissbeg Library wouldn’t be closed. He must remember that as well as she did. He had actually used the expression “over my dead body.” And she, like a fool, had apologized for her fears.

  A thousand questions and recriminations whirled through her mind. But self-preservation kept her silent; she needed to think, not to rail at him. If the council’s proposal involved restructuring the library system, then Tim must have been involved in the planning of it. And part of the plan was to close her library down. So he’d lied to her for fear that she’d resist it. And now, apparently, he’d assumed she’d found out and had started some kind of protest. Whereas, actually, she’d been far too stupid to doubt his word.

  Wrenching her mind away from this new sense of humiliation, she realized that Tim had poured them each a mug of coffee. And he was asking a question. How were things going with her computer? Was she still finding the library’s IT system a bit too complex to understand? This was a ploy so crude that Hanna could hardly control herself. The library appointments in the new complex would, of course, be down to Tim and anyone with a reputation for Luddism would be unlikely even to rate an interview. So no one would be surprised if poor Luddite Hanna didn’t appear on the list. For a moment she considered chucking her mug of coffee at him. But common sense told her that to lose her temper would be to play into his hands; poor old Miss Casey, hardworking enough in her way, but at her time of life women often found things difficult. They got volatile. Over-excitable. When it came to matters of judgment, hormones could intervene. She’d have no grounds for a discrimination case because nothing would be said in public. But the slander would circulate and be accepted all the same.

  Forcing herself to relax, she managed to eyeball him. It wasn’t going to be enough to keep calm; she needed to hit him back.

  “Oh come on, Tim, there’s nothing complex about the computer system. The hard part is finding and keeping competent tech support. Not easy for someone with your narrow range of connections, but I’m sure you do your best.”

  Her voice when she spoke was as cool as she could have hoped and she was rewarded by a flicker of fear in Tim’s eyes. But the effect was short-lived. The bottom line was that her library was threatened with closure and her future prospects were bleak. If the council’s plan went through she’d be on the scrap heap, with no income, no future, an uninhabitable house, and an unpaid loan. Maybe, she told herself, the plan would be voted down. But maybe it wouldn’t. Why should she assume that Finfarran’s county councillors were more honest than its county librarian?

  When Tim left there was an hour before closing time. Hanna returned to her desk. At the far end of the room Oliver the dog man was still trawling bookshelves. Conor finished tidying up in Children’s Corner and asked Hanna what to do next. Afraid that her face would reveal her state of mind, Hanna kept her head down and told him to clear up the kitchen.

  “Okay.” Conor turned to go and then glanced back at her. “What did Tim Slattery have to say?”

  “Nothing that concerns you. Can you just get on, please?”

  She watched him disappear down the room obediently. Then she returned to the circular litany of outrage that had possessed her since Tim had gone. How could he have turned out to be so two-faced? How could her own judgment have been so flawed? How dare he walk in and threaten her like some small-time bully? And—worse than all the rest—how many people had known that her job was in danger while she had been blissfully unaware? Suddenly, her fists clenched and her eyes widened. So that was why Joe Furlong had avoided her in the council parking lot in Carrick. He must have known, and known that she didn’t know and he couldn’t look her in the face.

  When Conor finished in the kitchen she told him to go home. “There’s not much to do. And anyway you’ve been in and out a lot lately when it hasn’t been your day.”

  “There’s plenty to do really.” Conor looked worried. “You’re not . . . you’re not going to cut my hours, are you?”

  This was an aspect of the situation that hadn’t occurred to Hanna. It wasn’t just her job that was threatened. The McCarthys depended on Lissbeg Library as well. Although Conor had never said so, she knew that his part-time job had been factored into his family’s carefully balanced budget, and losing it would add to the stress at home. Now she made herself smile at him, determined to say nothing while she was still in a state of shock.

  “Of course not. I’m telling you to knock off early and get home before the rush hour. So go on before I change my mind.”

  “Thanks, Miss Casey.” Conor hovered for a moment, deciding whether or not to say more. Then, going scarlet, he made up his mind. “It’s not just the money. The whole books thing is really a big deal for me. I love Lissbeg Library. And learning from you is just great.”

  Going home on the Vespa he wondered if that had been a bit mawkish. But he’d been wanting to say it for ages, and it was true.

  38

  What Hanna now desperately needed was to think. But inevitably, two women turned up in the last ten minutes of opening time and stood in a corner discussing the relative merits of Barbara Cartland and Barbara Pym. Hanna covered the computers, pulled down the blind on the door, and announced that the library was closing. But the women took no notice. Eventually she had to chivvy them over the threshold, receiving the same outraged clucks and beady-eyed looks that she’d got as a child from the intrusive hens in Maggie Casey’s kitchen. As soon as they were gone, s
he set the security alarm, locked up, and crossed the courtyard, wondering where to go to find peace and quiet.

  It had been a glorious summer’s day and as she approached the parking lot she was acutely aware of sunlight in the garden beyond it. When a corner had been carved out of the convent garden to provide parking, the boundary had been established with a low brick wall. The neglected garden beyond it now retained little sense of the gravel walks and well-kept beds between which generations of nuns had walked in quiet seclusion. All the box hedges were overgrown, the trees were unpruned, and the statue of the Virgin in the railed area that was once the nuns’ graveyard was lost among rambling roses.

  Now, with her keys in her hand, Hanna hesitated by her car, listening to the birds singing in the nuns’ garden. She didn’t want to go home to the bungalow. But where else could she go? She couldn’t drive over to Maggie’s house. For all she knew, Fury might be there. And even if he wasn’t, how could she sit in a place she had come to love and contemplate the ruin of her plans for it? The house with its sloping clifftop field was to have been a sanctuary where she would face an unknown future with renewed confidence. To sit on the stones above the shining ocean with nothing in prospect but debt and unemployment seemed unbearable.

  As she hesitated, she heard footsteps behind her. In a moment someone would turn a corner and see her. And having to stand and make small talk seemed the worst option of all. Almost without thinking, she stepped over the low wall and slipped between two ash trees into the nuns’ garden.

  It was nothing like Maggie’s field where the tops of the rough grasses had been crisped by the wind from the ocean. Here the untended grass grew lush and green under tall elder and alder trees and frilled mushrooms glowed in the leaf mold under the oaks. The little railed graveyard was set against the wall of the convent building, with the headstones facing the stained-glass windows that had once lit the nuns’ refectory. The rest of the garden was laid out in a series of gravel paths and formal beds. Generations of weeds had sprouted in the unraked paths and straggling plants now grew among briars. Where four paths met, a statue of St. Francis with arms extended stood on a plinth in a wide granite basin. Water had once flowed from lead pipes concealed among the stone flowers around the statue’s feet. Now the basin was dry.