‘Inishmore dairy farmers are today standing in silent protest,’ the blondie reporter drones into the camera, ‘against the terms offered to them by the German mega store, Fressen. The Kilronan Cooperative’s president, Mr. Kieran Coen, has categorically rejected the corporation’s terms as unfair and continues to petition the government to review trade legislation in order to prevent multi-nationals from overwhelming domestic markets. But the outlook,’ she turns to the sorry puddle of milk beside her, ‘from the local contingent, is not good.’
‘I never thought it’d get this bad,’ Michael whispers to me.
‘What are the Germans offering exactly?’ I ask him.
‘Just enough to cover overheads,’ he sighs.
‘Why don’t the farmers petition for a better deal?’
Michael shakes his head woefully. ‘There isn’t time for deliberation. More than half of the farms are on the verge of bankruptcy. They need money now!’ he says.
The television crew packs up, and the farmers begin to filter inside the hall. ‘They’ve called a meeting to vote on the deal, but saying no isn’t really an option.’
Dermot makes his way to the fringes where Michael and I are standing watch.
‘They know they’ve got us backed against a wall,’ he says. ‘And you know what they’ll do. They’ll buy up all of the island’s milk, at cost, and then sell it on at the market price.’
‘And not a care about the local economy,’ Michael adds.
‘You can’t accept the offer,’ I say louder than I mean to.
‘There aren’t many who have a choice,’ Dermot says.
I tally the online orders in my head--over one hundred since this morning. ‘Wait, I’ve got an idea,’ I say. ‘Would it be alright if I came in to the meeting?’
Dermot frowns. ‘The old boys won’t like that.’
‘All the more reason,’ Michael says.
Dermot shrugs. ‘Alright.’
The room is crammed with folding chairs and chipboard tables, all of them lined with grumbling, bleary eyed men at the very end of their patience. Michael and I skirt round to the back of the crowd, and Dermot heads to the front to have a word with Fionn. An uneasy hush hangs just overhead as if we’d taken shelter here and were waiting now for the locomotive roar of the storm. Kieran seems to swim his way to the podium, the air is so thick.
‘I thank you all for coming,’ he says. ‘Today we have to make a choice. For or against, it won’t be an easy one. But, before we go to a vote, I’ve been asked to open the floor. If any of you would like to speak to the issue at hand, please stand.’
A flurry of movement ripples through the crowd. Almost every man is on his feet.
‘Jerry,’ the president nods at a man in the front row.
‘I can’t risk losing the farm,’ the farmer says. ‘You know that. It’s been in my family for five generations. It’s all I have!’
‘I do indeed,’ Kieran says, hand over his heart. ‘Finton.’
‘What I want to know is this. What kind of an example are we setting for our children, selling out to the Germans?’
‘Here!’ a huddle of farmers yell.
Finton turns to face the crowd. ‘I’ll tell ya what sort of example it is. That we don’t look after our own! And--AND,’ he shakes a fist, ‘we work for almost nothing! Well, I won’t have it!’
‘I’m with Finton,’ a third farmer bellows. ‘Inishmore is not for sale!’
The first man cranes round to face him. ‘Is that pride of yours going to pay your bills, Brendan?’ he asks.
‘You’re only a coward, Jer.’
‘Better a coward for one minute than dead the rest of me life!’
An eruption of yowling abuse rips through the crowd.
‘Order. Order!’ Kieran yells, smacking the butt of his hand into the podium. ‘We’ll call the vote. All in favor of accepting Fressen’s offer, raise a hand.’
Slowly, excruciatingly, one after another hand is raised.
‘They can’t do this!’ I hear myself saying. ‘They can’t!’ I break from the back ranks and charge the podium in a blind dash. ‘You can’t accept!’ A murmur runs through the crowd.
‘What are you saying, girl?’ Kieran asks. ‘Dermot, she can’t be here!’
‘Just listen to her, will ya?’ Dermot says.
My eyes meet Michael’s. He watches expectantly as I suck in a breath and take the stand behind the mic. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Julie Quinn. I’m Josephine Tully’s granddaughter.’
‘The one from New York,’ a youngish farmer grumbles.
‘You inherited St. Enda’s, didn’t you?’ another says.
‘Yes, and that’s why I’m here.’
Nervous whispers course through the crowd. ‘What are you going on about?’ Jerry yells. ‘Everyone knows Clare will take over the factory.’
‘Now that’s a peripheral matter,’ Dermot shouts back.
‘I’m here,’ I boom, ‘to order ten thousand liters of milk. At a fair price.’
Michael’s jaw drops. The farmers titter.
‘You really think St. Enda’s have the capacity to handle that kind of volume?’ Kieran asks.
‘We’ll receive daily instalments,’ I explain. ‘The factory is backlogged with export orders. We need milk!’
I can feel each and every man eyeing me suspiciously.
‘That’s fine for this month, but what about the next and the next?’ Finton asks.
‘He has a point, Ms. Quinn,’ Kieran interjects. ‘At the best of times, the factory only receives five per cent of the island’s milk.’
‘We have a very good chance to grow the business,’ I say. ‘For the first time in twenty years, we’re exporting! If you sell to the Germans now, the factory will have to close.’ I look to the crowd, search their faces. ‘I’m just asking for a bit of time.’
‘What do you mean, exactly?’ Kieran asks.
‘My order will allow you to pay off your most urgent debts. It’ll give you time to negotiate a better deal with the Germans,’ I say.
Brendan and Finton nod up at me.
‘Will we put it to a vote?’ Kieran says. ‘Who’s in favor?’ A wall of hands shoots up. Even Jerry, who’s been scowling at me since I took the floor, joins in.
‘Ms. Quinn, you have yourself a deal,’ he says and shakes my hand.
‘Thank you. Thank you all.’
Dermot beams up at me, chest puffed out with pride.
Michael helps me down, a bewildered look in his eyes. ‘Fair play, missus,’ he says. ‘You said you had an idea. I thought--I don’t know what I thought, but jayzus.’
We step outside, all eyes very much on us, the sun full and warm on our faces. My legs are still quaking beneath me. I feel strange and substantial, my skin tingly, as if I was somehow bigger inside than out. Michael squeezes my shoulder the way I’d seen him squeeze Dermot’s.
‘You must be a pure genius on the books, finding a spare four grand like that.’
And now I’m shrinking.
‘Oh yeah. Pure genius,’ I say and crack a feeble smile.
Michael takes a step closer to me. ‘Brilliant timing,’ he says, nodding at the co-op building.
‘Yeah. Hey, you mind if we take a rain check on our… um… date?’
Oh, so we’re calling it a date now.
‘I need to get back to the factory. Get things rolling,’ I stammer.
He locks his golden green eyes on mine. ‘I’ll walk with you.’
‘NO. I mean, you should stay here. See if Dermot needs a hand.’
Michael raises an eyebrow. ‘Okay.’
‘Bye,’ I wave him back inside and take off into the village. The bank--the only bank--is just beside the Kilronan Arms. ‘Please tell me they’re still open!’ I try the door, and it gives easily. ‘Thank God for that!’ I scramble to the teller booth. The old woman perched there looks down her nose at me.
‘Hi. I need to cash a check,’ I say and ju
mble through my bag.
‘Are you a customer here?’ the woman asks.
‘Em. No.’
‘Well, I can’t do that. This is a local branch.’ She speaks very slowly as if I were soft in the head.
‘Oh. Well.’ I push the check under the glass window. ‘It’s a local check.’
The woman takes off her glasses and squints at the signature. ‘Clare O’Mahony. Oh well, that’s different!’
Is it uhm?
‘I’ll have to give it to you in large notes, if you don’t mind.’ She counts out a stack of dun colored bills and hands them off to me. ‘Now.’
‘Thank you very much.’ I wad up the bills, fingers shaking, and press them into the very bottom of my bag. Good God, I’ve really done it now! Jeez, I don’t even recognize myself.
I trek through a side street on my way to St. Enda’s. I have to give the girls a heads up. We’d have barrels of milk shipping in tomorrow morning! I hang a left on a back street and run smack into the village market. Clare sits haughtily behind her booth, tatting a piece of lace. She hasn’t seen me. I duck behind the baker’s stall.
The women on either side of Clare, a potter and a fisherwoman, lean back in their foldout chairs, their arms crossed on their stomachs.
‘Clare’s gone and bought St. Enda’s,’ I hear the first say.
‘Now,’ the other answers. Clare works her jaw and takes up a piece of knitting.
‘What do you reckon she wants with the old place?’ the potter asks.
‘You wouldn’t know.’
Clare plunks down her knitting. ‘Would you ever mind your own business!’ she barks. The ladies smirk at one another.
‘Why is it, do you think, Josephine left it to her granddaughter?’ the potter muses.
‘Never even met her,’ the fisherwoman adds.
‘She was sick!’ Clare erupts. ‘Who knows what she was thinking!’
The fisherwoman clucks her tongue. ‘Ah now, she was sharp as a pin till the end.’
‘Never did a thing what there wasn’t a purpose to it,’ the potter nods along.
Clare puffs up. ‘Get all your clucking out now, ladies. She’s signed it over to me. In a few weeks you’ll have nothing to prattle on about.’
A ginger haired woman sidles over from her vegetable stall. ‘I don’t know, Clare. I heard she’s been four times to the factory. And John says she was at the co-op meeting this morning! Strange for someone bent on selling.’
Clare swats at the air in front of her. ‘You’re all mad,’ she says and pokes fiercely at her knitting.
I am selling. My little detour into agriculture would be just the thing to rocket Quinn & Foster to the top. My stomach flops. The deposit! I should have wired it to Kate, and now it’s sitting in a big guilty wad at the bottom of my bag.
‘Were ya going to buy that or just paw at it?’ the baker frowns at me.
‘Yeah. That and a cookie.’
‘Biscuit?’
‘Whatever.’
I slog up the road to the factory, my heart heavy. What am I going to tell Kate? Sorry, but I blew my half of the deposit on milk? I can’t tell her that. I fish out my phone, switch it off, and stride into St Enda’s.
‘Say nothing, and keep saying it,’ I whisper to myself.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘You did what?’ Aoife squeals when I tell her and the rest of the crew to fire up the standby cooler because we have ten thousand liters on order. ‘We don’t have the capacity for that!’
‘We do, if we work round the clock,’ I say and pop open my laptop. ‘I’ve created a virtual store via the St. Enda’s website.’ The ladies peer over my shoulder. ‘Orders are pouring in!’
‘Christ almighty,’ Orla says.
‘We can do this,’ I say, heart thumping.
‘I don’t know,’ Aoife frowns.
‘It’s your husbands’ farms at stake! And your sons’!’ Bridie says, rallying the huddle.
‘We’ll do it,’ Emer says.
‘Course we will!’ Assumpta clambers.
‘Alright,’ I smile at them, my fingers trembling with nervy excitement.
Three truckloads of milk have already arrived. Bridie and the girls take their places at their stations and, in no time, they’re flat out, all cylinders firing.
‘Kieran rang,’ Orla tells me en route to the curing room. ‘He’ll come round for the money this evening.’
‘Great.’ The sooner it’s out of my hands the better.
I settle in behind the desk, stuff the bills into an envelope, and push it to the far side of the desk. Then I fire up my laptop. James Ryder’s written to say he’s featuring St. Enda’s in his New York Magazine column--‘St. Enda’s: Hidden Treasure of Inishmore’!
‘Dear Julie,’ he writes. ‘Fabulous find! Since when are you a dairy connoisseur? My friend Reynaldo, you remember him, sent me up a few samples. His boyfriend’s just back from Ireland, and he insisted he put St. Enda’s straight into his Soho shop. It’s to die for!’
I link the article to the St. Enda’s webpage and holler for Bridie.
‘Do you know what this is?’ I ask, jumping in my seat. ‘Free publicity!’
‘My God,’ she replies in amazement.
I yank several sheets of paper from the printer. ‘And we have new orders: seven from Spain, one from Holland, another from Belgium. In less than twenty-four hours, the website’s had four thousand hits!’
Bridie claps her hands to her chest, beside herself.
The Skype icon hops onscreen. It’s Kate! I’d forgotten to log myself out!
‘Bridie, I’m sorry. I have to take this.’
She nods and shows herself out.
‘Kate. Heyyyy,’ I smile cheekily into the camera.
‘Hey,’ Kate says, her tone clipped. She’s dressed to kill and slicking on mascara.
‘Hot date after work?’
‘Yep.’ The line buzzes.
Please don’t ask me. Please don’t ask me.
‘So, what’s the deal with the deposit?’
Shit.
‘You knew the deadline was today!’
‘I know, yeah.’ The envelope glares at me. I stuff it into the desk drawer. ‘The bank was closed.’
‘Closed?’ Kate frowns.
‘Yeah. Long weekend,’ I lie.
‘You said you’d go last Friday!’
‘There was a mix up with the transfer. Can’t you ask for an extension?’ I grimace.
Kate huffs. ‘I’ll try.’
‘Do.’
‘Alright. And, in the meantime, you get onto all your M&A clients, and see if they’ll walk.’
Kieran pokes his head in the door. ‘One minute,’ I mouth to him.
‘Hell-O,’ Kate gripes.
‘Sorry, yeah, I’ll work on that.’
Kate squints at me. ‘Jules, are you sure you still want to do this? You’re acting mental.’
‘Of course! Of course. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.’
Kate laughs. ‘Yeah. Grass and more grass. Seriously. Get me the money, and get your ass home!’
‘I will. Promise. Have fun with--what’s his name? Karl?’
‘Steve,’ Kate winks and logs off.
I slump back in the chair.
‘Should I come back?’ Kieran asks.
‘No!’ I wave him in. ‘I have the money here,’ I say and press the envelope into his hand. God, I’m really doing this.
‘You’re very good, Ms. Quinn.’
You have no idea.
‘I’ll be onto the head man at Fressen straight away to see about that new deal.’
‘Very good.’
‘I’ll see you later so,’ he says and ducks out.
Bridie toddles back in, craning a look at Kieran. ‘That money,’ she says, low and reverent. ‘That was your own.’
‘Well--’
‘Be God it was!’ she gasps. ‘What’ll you do if the deal goes tits up?’
‘Tits?’
&
nbsp; ‘Bust.’
Oh, I’ll never get used to this!
‘It’s fine, Bridie. Calculating risk is part of my job.’
‘I see,’ she nods at me slowly, then picks herself up. ‘Don’t you stay too late!’ she says and shakes a finger at me. ‘You’re on holiday!’
Some holiday.
‘You know what I would do?’ she says.
No telling.
‘Give Michael a call. The lads at Connor’s tell me you’re very fine together,’ she beams at me.
‘It’s not like that…’ My face splotches red.
‘Is it not?’ she cocks her head slightly.
‘No. It’s not,’ I stutter.
What is with the stammering?!
‘You have a fella back home?’ Bridie asks.
‘No,’ I say much more snarkily then I’d meant to.
Bridie grins. ‘Soooo….’
Made With Love: I Love You Forever Page 20
