‘You see!’ Clare cries out, pointing a crooked finger. ‘She doesn’t know the first thing about it!’
‘Will you ever calm down, Clare?’ Dermot says, putting a hand on her shoulder.
‘I will not!’ she hollers. ‘Oh Lord Jesus, I think I’m going to be sick!’ she wails and clutches at her stomach. Dermot steers her into the kitchen and closes the door behind them.
‘I’m very sorry about all that,’ Cathal says. ‘She’s a bit delicate since your grandmother passed.’ He spreads open a binder. ‘Anyway, St. Enda’s,’ he says and gestures for me to look. ‘It’s something of an institution here on the island, a real cottage industry. Your grandmother started the creamery in this very house.’ He nods toward the kitchen.
I can hear Dermot on the other side of the door, his voice low and placating. There’s a sharp scraping and then Clare’s voice pierces through.
‘I can’t take it, I tell you! Do you not remember what Maeve did to us!’
My heart swells. What did she do?!
Someone turns on the tap, and Cathal lets out an uneasy cough.
‘My, em, my father sold her the factory warehouse in the sixties,’ he continues. ‘Shame, but now it’s the only artisanal creamery left on the islands.’
I stare at the draftsman’s prints of the warehouse and frown. What in God’s name am I supposed to do with a cheese factory?
‘It’s gorgeous cheese,’ Cathal says encouragingly. I try to smile but can feel my face stuck. There’s a muffled crash behind the kitchen door, then Clare’s high squeal. Was she laughing or crying?
‘I don’t eat dairy,’ I say to Cathal.
He gapes at me. ‘Ah you do! St. Enda’s, I’ll tell ya, is a national treasure. You’ll only love taking it over.’
Now I feel like I might be sick. ‘Oh no no, I don’t want to keep it!’ I yip at Cathal, and he frowns at me as if I’d just insulted his mother. ‘There’s no way! I mean, I live in New York, and a factory! I don’t know what to do with a factory!’
‘In fairness, neither did your grandmother. At first.’
‘Yeah, she was something else,’ I snipe, my shock giving way to frustration. ‘And I’m sure it’s a nice factory, but I have no intention of taking it on. I can’t stay here!’ I gulp down the tea Cathal has poured for me. ‘I’ll sell it. Can I do that?’
‘Well, yes. If that’s what you’d like to do. I can put you in touch with a couple of gentlemen who’d be happy to--’
Clare bursts in from the kitchen, a long finger trained on me. ‘This is madness! She doesn’t even want St. Enda’s!’
‘Now, Mrs. O’Mahony,’ Cathal says, rising to placate Clare. ‘We must honor your mother’s will.’ Clare shoos him away, her face purple with rage. Dermot comes round behind her and puts a hand on her waist. She lists slightly into him like an anxious child, then draws her head back regally and sits back down, this time opposite me.
‘Aunt Clare.’ I smile at her weakly.
‘Clare will do just fine,’ she says.
Okay.
I take a deep breath and start again. ‘You must know the last thing I want to do is cause you trouble. I’m sure my grandmother had some end in mind--what, I don’t know--but you’re right. I don’t know the first thing about St…’
‘Enda’s,’ Clare snarls.
‘Listen,’ I say gently but firmly. ‘I just want to sell the factory and go back home.’
‘Fitzy would be keen on it,’ Dermot says from the doorway. ‘The Colemans, maybe. Just let me--’
‘I’ll buy it!’ Clare cries out.
‘You what?’ Dermot sputters.
‘You heard me,’ she says, a tad coy.
‘Ah now, you’ve never had a moment’s interest in the place. What’s with the--’
Clare shushes him. ‘How’s twenty thousand strike you?’ she asks me. ‘I can have half to you by the end of the week, the other half when you sign.’
Well, that was unexpected!
‘That’s great!’ I extend a hand to Clare. She ignores me and turns to Cathal.
‘How long will all this take?’ she asks him.
‘No more than two weeks.’
‘Two weeks?’ Clare and I yelp.
‘The title must be signed over in the presence of the notary, Mr.. Ryan, and he’s on holiday,’ Cathal says.
‘There’s only one?’ I balk.
‘This is an island,’ Cathal says. ‘And Mrs. Tully stipulated specifically that the transfer be overseen by Mr. Ryan. Then all the forms have to be sent to Dublin. That’ll take some time to turn around, and--’
‘Surely we can finalize the sale via post,’ Clare huffs at him. ‘There’s no reason, is there, for Julie to stay on here?’ Her voice takes on a veil of sweetness.
Cathal flicks through the calendar on his Blackberry. ‘Mr. Ryan will be back later this week--Friday or Saturday, it looks like. I can draft a contract now if you like, but the sale won’t be final until Mr. Ryan can oversee the title transfer. Josephine appointed him specifically, you see. After that, Ms. Quinn can head back to New York. I’ll be able to sort through the final stages with you,’ he tilts his head to me, ‘by post.’
I’m stuck on this rock till Saturday?!
‘Very good,’ Clare says and claps her hands together soundlessly.
‘Right, I’m off so,’ says Cathal. ‘Mrs. O’Mahony, Dermot.’ He nods to them both and tucks his briefcase under his arm. ‘Ms Quinn, it was a pleasure.’ He takes my hand and, for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss it, but he only presses it awkwardly, then turns to the door. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he says and steps out.
‘Well, I think that went exceedingly well,’ Clare says to Dermot as if I’m not in the room. He opens his mouth to say something, then swats the air before him, puts on his hat, and steps out the back door. Clare gets up without a word and disappears into the kitchen.
I dig out my phone. Kate is going to love this.
‘How’s the castle, Jules?’
‘Great. It’s made of cheese.’
I pull up her number and hit send. Still no coverage! Does anything work on this island? I step out into the front garden and lift the phone about my head like a divining rod. In the side yard, Cathal sits in a flash car, driver’s door flung open. He waves me over.
‘You’re from New York, you said?’ he asks. ‘I’ve been to the States. Twice. Chicago.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m a Dub myself. It’s grand. No New York, but sure. Beats the schticks!’ he laughs in a put on country brogue. ‘But seriously, no need to worry at all about the sale. I’ll take care of everything.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You have any plans while you’re here? Seeing any of the sights?’ he smiles at me churlishly.
Honestly, I hadn’t thought of it.
‘I could show you round. If you like.’
‘Yeah.’ And, by ‘yeah’ I mean NO. I look down at my phone. ‘Is there better coverage in town?’
‘No, no there wouldn’t be now,’ Cathal says, picking at his ear. ‘You see that hill there?’ He points over my shoulder. ‘That’s the best job.’
I frown up at the hill.
‘You like a good steak? The Arms do a good steak.’ He looks at my expectantly.
How is this guy a lawyer?! He doesn’t look a day over twenty. And that car! OTT much?
‘You know I’m not, um, I’m not that hungry.’
‘Right, well if you change your mind,’ he nods out the window and peels off in a spurt of gravel.
I give the phone one last try. Dammit! There’s still only one bar, and that’s one too few to spill my guts over four thousand miles. Should I even bother going back inside? It’s obvious Clare doesn’t want me here. Mum used to tell me what a warm, thoughtful woman she was. ‘The best of all of us,’ she used to say.
‘She must’ve outgrown that,’ I mumble.
The door swings open and Dermot leans out. ‘Afraid she’d run you off,
’ he smiles. ‘Come on, so. Dinner’s on.’
I hesitate, then step back onto the stoop. ‘That’s very nice of you, but I couldn’t.’
‘Ah, come on,’ he says. ‘You’re family. And you’re very welcome.’
That’s news to me.
‘Thanks,’ I say and try to look cheerful.
‘Not at all.’
He turns toward the kitchen, and I freeze.
‘You alright there?’ he asks.
A jumble of questions flashes behind my eyes. Why did my grandmother leave the factory to me? She’d never even met me! What am I supposed to do with myself for the next five days? And why does Clare look at me like I’m some sort of ogre? When she looks at me…
‘Yeah. Yeah, sorry, I’m alright,’ I say and follow Dermot into the kitchen. Clare stands sentinel before the hob, the warm, autumnal smell of roast carrots, spuds and crackling chicken skin seeping from the oven.
‘Sit down there and I’ll get you a cuppa,’ Dermot says and pulls out a chair for me. Clare shoos him away from the kettle and pours me a cup a tea.
‘Now,’ she says, and sets it down in front of me.
‘Thank you,’ I say and smile up at her. She sets her jaw and turns back to the hob.
‘I tell ya, you’re the spit of your mother,’ Dermot says, pulling up a chair. ‘Isn’t she just, Clare?’
Clare grunts into the oven and pokes at the chicken.
‘You wouldn’t know of a place I could stay in town? A B&B maybe?’ I ask.
‘You’ll stay here, of course!’ Dermot says.
I almost spit my tea across the table.
‘I couldn’t.’
I really couldn’t.
‘You will! Cormac’ll be home any minute--your cousin. He’s mad to see you!’
‘Right, but…’ Awkward family reunion? So not my thing.
‘If she doesn’t want to stay, she doesn’t want to stay,’ Clare says as she dishes up the plates. ‘Girl from the city, sure, she doesn’t want to stay out here!’ She sets the first one, heaping, in front of me and sits down heavily. I stare at the steaming plate, and my stomach flops.
‘Thank you very much, Clare, but I’m not very hungry.’
‘Go on,’ she says matter-of-factly.
‘She’ll stay in Maeve’s room,’ Dermot says as he peels the skin off his spuds with a butter knife. ‘Would that be alright?’ he asks me.
My mother’s room?! ‘Well--’
‘You’ll stay, so,’ Clare says into her plate.
‘Thank you, I--’
‘We don’t do things like you all over there. Putting people up in strange houses,’ she says. ‘It’s no wonder you’re all the time shooting at each other.’
‘Arrah, will you stop!’ Dermot clucks at her.
This is going to be a long weekend. Like high school meets root canal meets blind date long. I’ve made a complete ass of myself on the ferry, inherited a factory that cooks up big vats of bacteria, and now I have to stay with my ice queen of an aunt until I’m rid of it! I try to picture what twenty thousand euros would look like in neat stacks of fifties, and then I try to picture what I could cash that into. Four months’ rent on the office? Brand spanking new computers and furniture? I lean back in my chair to have a secret gloat.
The kitchen door flies open and in lopes a spindly kid, hair salty wet, massive earphones stuck to his head.
‘Off,’ Clare says and pulls out a chair for him. He rolls his eyes discreetly and sets the headphones aside, then reaches across the table for a chicken leg, head bobbing to a soundless tune.
He looks up at her, sees me, and flinches.
‘Hi,’ I almost laugh.
‘Janey mack! You’re here!’ He half stands out of his seat.
‘This is Cormac,’ Dermot says to me.
‘Heya,’ Cormac waves as if star struck. ‘You’re from New York. Dad said you’re from New York. Like Manhattan? Or the Bronxxxx?’ he draws the word out as if it were a cymbal beat.
‘Brooklyn.’
‘Savage. My friend, Rory, he’s been there and California. He says California’s the business, but I’m NYC all the way. All the best jazz men come from New York.’
‘You’re into jazz?’ Totally had him pegged as a Snoop Dogg-o-file.
Dermot groans.
‘Marsalis is defo my fave,’ replies Cormac. ‘Then Thelonius Monk. Then Armstrong. Do you want, I can get my sax?!’
‘NO, no, no,’ Dermot says and spoons Cormac another boiled spud. ‘She’s only just in the door, for Christ’s sake.’
‘What do you do? In New York?’ Cormac asks.
‘Leave her be, Cormac,’ Clare sighs.
‘I’m in advertising.’
‘Savage. I’d say you know a rake of famous people! Like Beyoncé. Do you know Beyoncé? Or Bill Clinton!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Cormac,’ Clare huffs.
‘Wha?’ Cormac says, his cheeks stuffed with mash.
‘I met Robert De Niro once at an art show,’ I say.
Cormac’s mouth flops open. ‘Deadly,’ he breathes.
‘Imagine rubbing elbows with him,’ Dermot whistles. He turns to Clare, face lit up. ‘We should take a holiday,
the three of us. See the city.’
‘Yeah!’ Cormac yips.
‘And be shot at? I don’t think so,’ Clare grumbles.
‘Sure Julie’s lived there all her life,’ Dermot laughs.
‘And I’m sure it suits her,’ Clare says.
What was that supposed to mean? That I’m some kind of gangster?! Alright, Auntie Clare. Two can play at that game.
‘You know, you’re right,’ I say, smiling at her sweetly. ‘You’d want a certain sort of sophistication to really appreciate,’ I drag the word out, ‘the city.’
She smiles right back at me. ‘Like the lad who plays the guitar in his jocks?’
‘The naked cowboy, yeah!’ Cormac cracks up.
Okay, I did not see that coming. My ears are burning red.
‘Could I borrow your phone?’ I ask Dermot, desperate to break away.
‘Sure. Just in the back there.’
I excuse myself and carry the cordless outside.
My God, that woman’s a tough nut!
I need a cigarette. I fumble around in my jacket pockets. Where the hell are my cigarettes?! A perfect snap of my Brooklyn apartment flicks into my head. There they are. Right there on the coffee table!
DAMNIT.
I punch Kate’s number into the phone, only to hear it ring through to voicemail. The air is still, and the cold smell of the sea is almost lost to the sweet musk of wet grass. I let loose a monstrous yawn. What a nightmare of a day. If I wasn’t so tired, I’d see about getting a place in town. I do not belong here, no matter what Dermot says.
I can hear dishes rattling from the kitchen and straighten up subconsciously. I should go back in, clear my place at least, but it feels tremendous just sitting here, not flying or floating or inheriting cheese factories, but just sitting. By myself.
‘How long is she staying? Maam? MAAM?’ Cormac’s voice wafts out of the open kitchen windows.
‘Not long,’ Clare gripes.
‘How long’s that?’
‘Get a shower, will ya, before you catch your death.’
A door screaks open, then snaps shut again.
Dermot sighs mightily. ‘Janey mac, Clare, she’s your sister’s only child.’
‘She is that.’
‘Well, you might want to get to know her.’
‘That’s exactly why I don’t want to,’ Clare snipes. There’s a heavy pause. The kettle roars to a boil. Someone flicks it off. ‘I can’t forget what she did to us…to me,’ she says, whispering now.
‘What went on between you and Maeve,’ Dermot says, ‘it’s nothing to do with her.’
‘I don’t care if it is or it isn’t.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘I won’t be made to suffer again, not for Maeve
, not for Mammy--certainly not for this girl!’
‘Ah now.’
I hold my breath, not daring to move.
‘It was me that looked after Mammy. From the day she took sick! The day! And her still giving everything--everything--to Maeve!’
What had my grandmother ever given to Mum?! She hadn’t so much as spoken to her in over thirty years!
Dermot grunts and plods out of the kitchen. I can hear him in the sitting room, throwing another sod on the fire. Should I go? I could grab my bag out of the front room. It’d be the best thing. The door opens and Dermot peers out at me.
‘There you are! Any luck?’
I blink at him. I’d forgotten the phone.
‘No.’ I try to smile.
‘Well, get in here. It’s gone cold!’
He gestures for me to follow him into the back of the cottage, where three small bedrooms face out to the sea.
‘Just here,’ he says, nodding me up a flight of stairs and into a pitchy-ceilinged attic loft. ‘This was Maeve’s room.’
I step inside, heart racing. My eyes are drawn to the photographs, dozens of them, stuck in little clusters on the bowed stone walls. There’s one of my mother in an Easter dress. And Clare. Is she riding a donkey?! They’re together in this one, dancing maybe, their eyes squinched shut with laughter. School rosettes are tucked into the corner of the wall mirror and draped over the bed posts--one for the fifty meters, another for French. Mum spoke French? A pair of Mary Janes sits under the desk. One of them has toppled over.
Made With Love: I Love You Forever Page 9
