The Library at the Edge of the World

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  She glanced at Fury. “You know what I was once told about you?”

  “I don’t.”

  “That the day would come when you’d give me my house back but that until then it’d be yours.”

  Fury leaned back and looked at the sky, his long legs stretching nearly to the edge of the cliff.

  “I put the doors on that dresser for Maggie when I was seventeen. She had the old pot of paint behind in the outhouse and it was like glue. But she hadn’t the price of another, so I went at it with turps. These days you’d use white spirit but it wouldn’t be the same. Anyway, I thinned it out and I put a coat on the dresser and, sure, Maggie was made up. She gave me a currany scone.”

  Hanna remembered Maggie’s scones, sweetened with currants and raised with buttermilk. The green glass in which Maggie had measured her milk would have stood on the dresser back then. Had the teenage Fury lifted it down and stored it in a box in the corner while he was working on the dresser for Maggie, just as he’d done today?

  “And it wasn’t just the scone she gave me, God be good to her. She gave me a passage out of this place to England at a time when I couldn’t bear to stay.”

  Fury hunched his shoulders and glared at Hanna. “She was a grand woman to work for. And I’d say she knew what it felt like to want to get away.”

  Hanna remembered Mary Casey saying that Maggie had left the peninsula and flounced off to Manchester in the 1920s and stayed there for more than ten years.

  “Do you know why she went to England?”

  Fury looked poker-faced. “Well, she didn’t tell me, if that’s what you mean.”

  Hanna could well believe him. The Maggie she remembered from her childhood was as closemouthed as a woman could be; and there was no reason to think that she’d been any different when Fury was in his teens. But, being older than Hanna was, Fury had heard gossip.

  “I suppose you want me to sit here now and pass it on.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “No, well, they say you’ve a terrible fear of gossip yourself.”

  “Do they?” Hanna raised her eyebrows at him. “And do you listen to them?”

  Fury threw back his head and laughed. “Maybe I do! But listening’s one thing. Passing it on is another.”

  Still, he said, Maggie’s story was ancient history. Most people on the peninsula had forgotten all about her by now. And, to tell the truth, half of them had forgotten she existed even when she was still alive. That, he told Hanna tartly, was what came of being a recluse.

  Hanna remembered the lonely funeral, when the coffin had seemed very small under the high roof of the chapel and most of the mourners who attended hadn’t spoken to Maggie for years. As a child, resentfully carrying turf for the fire or happily eating poreens with butter, she’d never wondered why Maggie was so alone. It was how things were and she’d never thought to question them.

  Fury scratched his chin. Apparently there’d been an affair, he said, with a married man from Crossarra. Maggie was only young then, so when he told her they’d run away together she’d believed him. But then the priest beat him back to his wife and Maggie was shamed.

  “They say she went off to England the day that he left her. In the end, she came back home, though she never said why. But sure that was in the 1930s, when she’d have got no quarter in Ireland. So I’d say things must have gone badly wrong for her over there to make her turn round and come back.”

  Fury looked sideways at Hanna. “By that time yer man had taken his wife and gone away from Finfarran. Maggie had the house here in the field that was left to her by her granny, and that’s where she ended up. She was thirty years here on her own, convinced that the neighbors were talking about her. And by the end of her days I’d say most of them never gave her a single thought.”

  53

  The dewy morning had become a sunny day so the workers at the library table suggested that Hanna have lunch with them in the garden. She was astonished by the transformation that had occurred in just a few weeks. When she’d first sought solitude there, everything had been overgrown. Now, with the clearing and heavy digging completed, most of the beds were replanted and the gravel walks between them had been raked and cleared of weeds. All the plastic bags and old bits of newspaper that had blown in and got tangled in the hedges were gone, the shrubs were pruned, and the fallen roses in the railed graveyard were tied back. The grass under the trees had been cut, and, where the four paths met at the statue of St. Francis, tables and chairs had been set up around the old fountain, where water now flowed again from the stone flowers at the saint’s feet.

  As Hanna and the group from the library crossed the grass, Aideen arrived from HabberDashery, carrying coffees and teas. Nell Reily, who was sitting at one of the tables, waved at Hanna. Old Mrs. Reily was perched on the edge of the fountain, chatting to Sister Michael. Hanna joined Nell, who beamed at her.

  “Isn’t the garden a great place for a get-together, Miss Casey, and don’t the girls have lovely coffee there in their shop? Do you know what it is, my mother’s getting fierce fond of a cappuccino.”

  Other Knockmore seniors who were sitting round the table agreed with her. Foamy coffee with feathers on it was great for a change; and wasn’t it grand to see a few faces that weren’t as ancient as themselves?

  Looking around, Hanna saw that most of the other tables were occupied by office workers eating sandwiches from HabberDashery. Aideen was taking orders and bringing takeout round on her bike. It had kind of just happened, according to Nell, and now the girls were planning a Seniors’ Special. A cup of soup and a sandwich would do them fine. It wouldn’t cost more than the big lunch at the Day Care Centre, and wasn’t there eating and drinking to be got out of sitting with friends in the sun? And had Hanna heard about the pedicures? The district nurse who did them in Knockmore twice a month had been offered the use of a room in the convent by Sister Michael. So now she’d be doing them here in Lissbeg as well. She was in and out of the convent all the time, keeping an eye on Sister Consuelo, so it’d be no trouble to her.

  As soon as Hanna had eaten her sandwich, Susan and Gunther’s little daughter, Holly, turned up beside her, insisting that she come and see the herbs. They had all come out of a book, Holly told her, so that was why they all had page numbers. Bewildered, Hanna looked down at the bed to which Holly had dragged her and saw that each cutting planted in it was labelled with a name and a number. Susan came over and joined them, curbing Holly’s attempt to pull up an herb in order to show it to Hanna.

  “Leave them in, pet. They have to put down roots if they’re to thrive.”

  Smiling at Hanna, Susan asked her what she thought of the numbers. They were Holly’s idea, she said, and they referred to the pages in God’s Garden. After all, the idea of restoring the garden did, literally, come out of a book. One of the volunteers was making a notice that would tell the story, explain the reference numbers, and say that the book was kept in the library.

  “So if people like what they see here, they can go over and see what inspired it. And then while they’re in there in the library they can read about the uses of the herbs.”

  Hanna told herself dryly that she hoped visitors to the library would want to read something more interesting than God’s Garden. Still, she did have more on her shelves than one pedestrian text illustrated by amateur photos and, as Sister Michael had said, when they came to making the case for keeping the library open, evidence of increasing visitors would strengthen their argument. Maybe, if she was going to have an influx of readers, she should set up a display of the less borrowed books in the library’s collection? The Collected Poems of Edith Sitwell, say, or The Anatomy of Melancholy. Or even—God help her—a list of titles that people could read in a book group?

  Her lips twitched at the thought, and Susan beamed at her. Wasn’t it weird, she said, how, if everyone pulled together you felt you could take on the world? Feeling a bit ashamed of her own cynicism, Hanna said that it was, and that the pag
e references were brilliant. Then, escaping as soon as she decently could, she went to finish her coffee with Nell. As she took her seat by the fountain she felt a frisson among the seniors. Father McGlynn was approaching them along the gravel path.

  There was a chorus of greeting and an exchange of covert glances. Then, as the parish priest joined them, everyone started to talk. But beneath the general chatter there was a sense of apprehension. Clearly no one had consulted Father McGlynn about the seniors’ jaunts to Lissbeg.

  With a stab of irritation, Hanna watched Father McGlynn accept a seat, refuse a coffee, and proceed to punish his flock. Nothing he did was overt; he just withheld warmth. Within minutes, the seniors were silent and shuffling, like schoolkids confronted by a teacher. And the more they tried to woo the priest, the cooler he became. Then, having got them where he wanted, he stood up with a wintry smile. He’d come to visit Sister Consuelo, he said, so he really ought to get on.

  As he got up he glanced authoritatively at Sister Michael, who came to stand beside him. Hanna found it hard to contain herself. The old nun’s warmth and confidence seemed eclipsed by the priest’s chilly air of authority, yet it was she, not he, who had provided what his parishioners required. She watched the priest’s tall figure precede Sister Michael across the garden, making for the entrance to the convent. The seniors sitting at the table exchanged glances. Hanna could see them wondering whether by failing to consult the priest they had forfeited his protection and support. At the same time, as Aideen arrived from across the road with coffees and éclairs, she could see them making their minds up to worry about it later. Aideen was greeted with laughter and smiles. Old Mrs. Reily got up from her seat by the fountain and moved to Hanna’s table. The priest was vexed, she said in an undertone. But sure by the time he did anything about it they might all be dead in their graves.

  54

  The éclairs had hardly been exclaimed over when something prompted Hanna to get up from the table and follow Sister Michael. Excusing herself to the others, she crossed the garden to the convent building and went in by the side door. She had already learned the quickest way to the self-contained flat where Sister Michael cared for Sister Consuelo. Now she found herself hurrying past the locked doors and the entrance to the huge old kitchens, impelled by a sense of urgency that she couldn’t understand. When Sister Michael had left the garden she had seemed as assured as ever. But the priest’s air of smugness had been more than usually pronounced.

  The interior door to the flat opened from a wide, empty hallway onto a narrow, carpeted corridor. There was a kitchenette and a bathroom between the nuns’ bedrooms and their living room and, at the end of the corridor, a tiled passageway led to the street door. As Hanna approached the living room her feet made no sound on the carpet. Reaching the door, which was half-open, she paused, hearing Sister Michael’s voice. To her dismay, the old nun sounded distressed. This was no moment for squeamishness. Stepping up to the door, she applied her ear to the jamb and listened.

  Inside the room Sister Michael looked at the priest in disbelief. Father McGlynn, who was sitting on the sofa, extended his hands in a show of regret. He was sorry, he said, and he knew that she’d meant well. But the fact remained that neither the convent building nor its grounds was covered by public liability insurance. Offering a room to the nurse to do manicures for the seniors and, indeed, inviting the public into the garden for any reason was unthinkable. He was sure that Sister Michael had intended no harm, but what she had done was to expose the bishop to serious risk of prosecution. And as for permitting a delicatessen to do business on Church property! Shaking his head sadly, the priest rose to his feet. He would speak to the bishop tomorrow, he said, and remind him that Sister Michael was elderly. No doubt he would understand and the matter would go no further. But her inappropriate use of the garden and the convent must certainly cease forthwith.

  His voice was so unctuous that, with nothing in her mind but a desire to show solidarity with Sister Michael, Hanna walked briskly into the room. The priest, who was standing by the mantelpiece, stared at her in surprise. Clearly the idea that someone might enter the nuns’ flat without using the street door was another example of unacceptable laxity. Hanna ignored him and looked at Sister Michael. The stocky little nun was sitting in an armchair, looking forlorn. Her eyes met Hanna’s bleakly. Then the priest stepped forward smoothly and held out his hand. This project in the nuns’ garden had been brought to his attention, he told Hanna, and he’d just informed Sister Michael that he was bringing the matter to the bishop.

  It was then that Hanna was struck by a brilliant idea. Possessed by excitement, she gripped his hand so tightly that he stepped backward and winced. Then, still grasping his hand, she turned to Sister Michael.

  “We knew you’d be delighted, Father, didn’t we, Sister?”

  Ignoring Sister Michael’s startled look, she shook the priest’s hand vigorously.

  “How good of you to offer to speak to the bishop! And isn’t it great to think that at last there’s a chance to get this old place off his hands?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Hanna saw Sister Michael’s eyes narrow. Father McGlynn just looked blank. Dropping his hand, Hanna sat down and smiled at them both. No doubt, she said, Sister Michael had told him about their planned submission to the council. And wasn’t it daft to think of all that money being wasted on a huge new complex in Carrick when here was a grand big premises that the Church would be willing to sell?

  She could see light beginning to dawn on Father McGlynn. Pressing her advantage, she smiled at him again.

  “We’ve been intending to get in touch with you, Father. Because, of course, it’s you who ought to present the idea to the bishop. I mean, it never would have occurred to us without all your work in Knockmore.”

  Sister Michael lowered her eyes and nodded. If the truth be told, she murmured, the idea was really the priest’s. And what a relief it would be to the bishop if their submission should be accepted. Raising her own eyes to the priest’s, Hanna registered innocent delight.

  “And isn’t it wonderful the way the garden project has brought everyone together? We’ll have no lack of support with all the goodwill we’ve already generated.”

  Then, struck by a new inspiration, she added that the submission hadn’t yet been mentioned publically because, of course, the bishop must be told about it first.

  “You know yourself, Father, we couldn’t have people coming up with daft notions of their own. But with the bishop’s imprimatur for your idea, you may be sure they’ll all fall into line.”

  She wondered if she’d gone too far. Surely he couldn’t be so arrogant as to accept an idea that she’d just come up with as something he’d invented himself. But his suave smile and the look in his eye told her that it didn’t matter. Whatever he believed, the bait she had offered was far too big to reject. Here was his chance to win brownie points from the bishop, and it was clear that he could hardly wait to claim them.

  It was Hanna who took Father McGlynn to the street door and waved him goodbye. When she returned to the living room Sister Michael was still sitting in the armchair with her hands in her lap. The faded blue eyes in her wrinkled face were gleaming. Hanna crossed briskly to the sideboard and poured them each a sherry.

  Sister Michael took her glass. “Here’s to you, Hanna Casey, girl, that was sheer genius.”

  “It’s the last piece of the jigsaw, isn’t it? Instead of building a new complex in Carrick and a marina in Ballyfin, the council buys the convent and develops it as a new center for social amenities. That way we can build on the work we’ve already begun, Lissbeg Library stays open, and there’s still money to improve things for the peninsula as a whole—roads, broadband, you name it.”

  “And when did you work this out?”

  Hanna grinned. “It never occurred to me till I opened my mouth. And it wouldn’t have if that little man hadn’t turned up throwing his weight around.”

  Sister Michael l
ifted her glass for a toast. It was a true thing, she told Hanna, that you can prepare the ground and set the seed, but you can’t rush the harvest.

  Buzzing with excitement, Hanna reached for her own glass. “So this is it, then? We call a meeting and go public?”

  “This is it.”

  Together they raised a toast to the optimum moment.

  55

  They held the meeting in the library and it was packed. Hanna began by describing the council’s plan for the peninsula. It was one option, she explained, but it involved investing Finfarran’s entire development budget in Carrick and Ballyfin.

  “I heard nothing to suggest that this would benefit the peninsula as a whole, and I know that Conor and Sister Michael felt the same. In our view, the questions we put at the meeting we attended weren’t adequately answered. So we were glad to be reminded that members of the public are encouraged to submit questions and suggestions online in advance of the final decision.”

  Inevitably Dan stood up in the audience and said that the submission process was all a con. Heads nodded around the room. What difference would it make if a couple of people objected? Damn the bit of difference at all when it came to the councillors’ vote.

  Hanna waited till the voices died down. This was the point, she said. Individual comments might well be ineffective. And raising objections wasn’t the way to go. What was needed was a different proposal. A better way forward: worked out, costed, and demonstrably better for everyone. And, crucially, it had to be endorsed by the community as a whole.