Now she put her elbows on the desk. ‘What with opening up here and then driving to Carrick, I never pick the van up before half eleven. So that’d be your shift on mobile days – eleven thirty to five.’
‘You’d be cutting down my hours?’
‘Look, it’s only a change of schedule. It wouldn’t affect your pay. And if it doesn’t suit you, there’s no problem. But this way, on those two days, you’d have more daylight hours on the farm.’
As the logic began to dawn on him, Conor felt his toes uncurl. It’d make a hell of a difference to his workload at home if, two days a week, his work for the library didn’t begin at nine. ‘Are you sure that’s okay? I mean, shifting the schedule.’
‘You’ll be doing me a favour. Driving the back roads of Finfarran in winter isn’t always a picnic. There’ll be plenty of days when I’ll be here in a nice warm library and you’ll be battling with storms.’
That was only her being nice. But Conor decided not to argue. If you wasted time, she tended to get impatient, and he wasn’t going to risk having the offer revoked. ‘Right so. Right, that’s what we’ll do then.’
It was brilliant and, come lunchtime, he’d nip over to the deli and tell Aideen. Meanwhile, he climbed onto a chair and stuck up the poster, his mind reorganising his workload for the winter weeks ahead.
At about ten to one Pat Fitz came in, full of her Canadian holiday. There was a girl with her that Conor hadn’t seen before. She was short, with a wide mouth and a snub nose and a peacock-blue fringe, like a feather, falling over one eye. Pat dragged her up to the desk like she’d won her on the Lotto. ‘Now, this is Cassandra! I want her to meet the two of you.’
It turned out that the girl, who was Pat’s granddaughter, had heard about the nuns’ herb book.
‘I told her she’d see it if she came in. Go on back with Conor, love, and he’ll show it to you.’
Conor led the way to the end of the room and opened the glass-fronted bookcase where the nuns’ books were kept. ‘These aren’t part of the library’s collection. They were here when this was a school hall, so Miss Casey left them in their case.’ He opened it and took out the herb book. ‘Are you interested in herbs?’
The girl wrinkled her nose. ‘Nope, not in the least. And I’m not much of a library freak either. I mean, I don’t read much.’ She leaned against the wall and took the book from Conor. ‘But I suppose, with the garden outside, having this in here is kind of interesting.’ She flipped through the book’s pages and handed it back to him. ‘On the other hand, maybe not.’ Then she saw his expression. ‘Oh, shit, was that totally rude?’
Conor laughed and put the book back in the bookcase. ‘Are you really called Cassandra?’
‘I really am. And I swore Pat to secrecy about it but that hasn’t done much good.’ The girl dug her hands into her pockets and looked around her. ‘This is a nice room, though. And it is a lovely garden. I think I’m going to like Lissbeg.’
‘Are you here for long?’
‘Everyone keeps asking me that! I’m not sure. I need to find a place to stay. And don’t ask if I couldn’t stay with my grandparents. I could. I just don’t think it would work.’ What she wanted, she said, was somewhere small and fairly basic, where she could come and go as she pleased. She asked Conor if he lived in Lissbeg.
‘Nope. I just work here. Part-time.’
‘So you’re a bookworm?’
‘Actually I don’t get a lot of time for reading. But, yeah, I like books. And libraries.’ One thing he loved was the feel of old books in his hands. Their bindings had tooled edges and rubbed gilt decoration and the endpapers had feathery patterns on them, like you’d get on a cream slice. He didn’t fancy telling her that, but she was looking kind of disparaging so he felt he had to say something. ‘There’s masses more to libraries than borrowing books. We have a computer class and a quilting group and an art club, and we lend films and CDs. And you can get help filling in forms and stuff, and free online database access. And adult literacy and kids’ storytelling. It’s a real focus for the community, and there’s a mobile service as well.’ He stopped, realising he was sounding like a mad evangelist.
The girl raised an eyebrow at him and shook back her peacock-blue fringe. ‘I’m called Cassie, by the way. Thanks for showing me the herb book.’
‘Which doesn’t interest you.’
‘No, but the fact that I’ve seen it has pleased Pat.’ She shook his hand cheerfully and went back to join her gran at the desk.
Seeing that they all had their backs to him, Conor dodged into the Biography section and risked a quick call to Aideen. Then, as the phone rang, he found himself having a eureka moment. It was like he was in a cartoon and a lightbulb had flashed above his head.
But when Aideen answered she sounded kind of flustered. ‘Conor? What’s the story? We’ve got a queue out the door for lunch.’
‘Sorry, I know, but I’ve had a proposition from Miss Casey.’
‘Miss Casey’s propositioned you?’
‘What? No. Of course not. She’s told me she’s changing the schedule.’
‘Okay. Well, can you fill me in later? I’ve got six salad boxes to do, and the coffee machine’s playing up.’
‘Yeah. But listen, there’s more, I’ve had an idea.’
‘Good for you. But I’ve really got to go.’
The phone went dead and Conor leaned back against the shelving. Okay, that might have been a classic case of bad timing. But when Aideen heard his brilliant idea she was going to be over the moon.
11
The Royal Victoria Hotel in Carrick had a bar where you could sit and get a proper sandwich at lunchtime. None of your guacamole and alfalfa sprouts. Just a decent slice of ham or chicken in white bread spread with real butter, and Colman’s mustard served in a pot. Neither Pat nor Mary could be doing with mustard in a sachet. Or mayonnaise, for that matter. You couldn’t open it, to begin with, and then it got all over the cuff of your blouse.
The Royal Vic was an institution. It had a ladies’ lounge with writing tables, embossed notepaper and brass inkstands; loos with real towels; a grill room much frequented by bank managers; and the bar, where Pat and Mary had a favourite table in the corner. And PJ, the head barman, who had worked there for donkey’s years, always wore a spotless white jacket and a tartan bow tie.
Pat ordered a sandwich and tea, which came in an EPNS pot with a bit of weight to it, not a flimsy bit of tin that would flood the saucer when you tried to pour a cup. Mary, who’d arrived before her, had already told PJ that she’d have her usual chicken without any lettuce. And a latte with a chocolate stirrer. Because, as she said to Pat, why wouldn’t she? At their age, they deserved a bit of a treat.
It was the first time they’d met since Pat had come home from Canada. Mary tucked her shopping bags under the leather banquette and inspected her. ‘You’re looking well, I’ll give you that. Were the lads good to you? God knows they owed you some attention, so I hope they shaped up.’
Pat was about to say that it wasn’t the lads’ fault that they’d left home in the first place. But that would be handing out ammunition. She knew well that Tom’s devotion to Hanna had often had Mary spitting with jealousy, but it always appeared in conversation as proof of his superior virtue. So any talk about why Sonny and Jim had gone to Canada would only produce a sniff about Ger’s failings as a father.
Besides, PJ was arriving with the sandwiches, which looked lovely, and it was grand to be sitting chatting with Mary again. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages and I hear you’ve had great work done in the bungalow.’
‘We have and I’m delighted with it. You’ll have to come round and see.’ Mary nodded at Pat’s handbag. ‘Come on, then. Show me your photos.’
Pat produced her phone and swiped through shots of the house in Toronto, the big family party on the first weekend, and the mall and the park where Cassie had taken her shopping and walking.
Mary peered at the screen and demanded to k
now who she was looking at. ‘Is that Sonny’s wife? My God, there isn’t a pick on her. Doesn’t she have great taste in clothes, though? I’d say that suit is Chanel.’ She reached over to the phone and enlarged a photo. ‘Is it Norah has the twins? Isn’t she fierce like Ger’s mother? And tell me this, is the husband foreign?’
Pat explained that Norah’s husband was French Canadian.
‘Would he have English?’
‘He would, of course.’
‘Well, fair dos now, Pat, they laid out a great spread for you. Who’s the girl behind the table?’
‘That’s Vanya. She helps in the house.’ Vanya was a dote, she said, and so obliging. ‘I told her we liked liquorice and she’d always bring us a packet when we ran out.’
Mary looked at her sharply. ‘Wouldn’t you think your own flesh and blood would do that, and not leave it to the maid?’ She swiped through a few more shots and sat back, stirring her latte. ‘I thought Canada was a great place for mountains and lovely scenery.’
‘Well, it is. But Toronto’s a city.’
‘And did they never take you out into the countryside on a drive?’
‘Well, they would have, but you know, Mary, they’re awfully busy. The lads took Ger out golfing a few times.’
‘Ah, Holy God, girl, weren’t you gone for weeks?’
‘I know. And we did get out lots of times. Cathleen took me to lunch, and Cassie was always driving me off to the mall.’
‘You must have been eating a quare lot of liquorice in that case, if you couldn’t buy it yourself and you out at the shops.’
Pat bit into her sandwich. There was no point in rising to that remark, so she reclaimed her phone and found a photo of their bedroom. ‘They have a guest suite that they put us in, with a big window overlooking the garden. And a balcony outside.’
Mary looked at the photo. ‘Not much of a balcony.’
‘Well, it was only a little railed place, you wouldn’t go walking round on it. Ger used to step out, though, for a breath of air.’ Feeling she was letting the family down, Pat closed her phone and put it away in her handbag. There was a pause in which she could see Mary’s eyes slanting sideways. It was a look she recognised. Having pushed things just a bit too far, Mary was feeling bad. Now she’d either come up with some gesture to try to make things better, or she’d get in a huff and go into a massive sulk.
As if responding to a cue, PJ the barman shimmered up beside them and, inclining his head at an angle, asked if he could bring them anything else. Pat could see the liver spots on his head between the strands of his heavily oiled comb-over. It occurred to her that the three of them were much the same age. When she and Mary had been sitting in Sister Benignus’s class at the convent in Lissbeg, the chances were that PJ had been keeping his head down at the Brothers’ place here in Carrick. You had to keep your head down in those days if you didn’t want a belt.
She’d never really asked Ger about how bad it was at the Brothers’, but she’d always had a feeling that it was worse for him than for the rest. Well, worse than for Tom Casey, anyway. The big, tall lads who were great on a football field had the best of it. And if you had a bit of a way with you, you probably did better than most.
Ger was always small and kind of gawky-looking, and he’d never had Tom’s charm. If you cornered him he’d go for you, but he’d sooner avoid trouble. That was probably the rock he perished on. By the sound of the Brothers that used to be in Lissbeg, you’d have been targeted like a shot if you looked like a coward.
Mary told PJ they might have a pudding. ‘What would you say, Pat, would we chance a bit of flan?’
It came with flaked almonds on the frangipane topping, and squiggles of chocolate sauce. PJ put the two plates down with a flourish and made a pass over each with a silver sugar sifter. As the white icing sugar settled like snow, Pat told Mary that Norah’s twins had been sweet. ‘Imagine me with great-grandchildren! I only wish I’d had a chance to get to know them better.’
‘Sure, you might go back another time.’
‘I suppose we might. I don’t think so, though. We’re not getting any younger. That’s why it’s great to have Cassie here now. Sure, you know yourself. You must be made up to have Jazz settled down in Lissbeg.’
‘If she does settle! You’re right, though, it’s great to have her.’ Mary took a sip of latte. ‘So Cassie’s not staying with you and Ger?’
‘No. Well, she’s young. They want their own place these days, don’t they? Take your Hanna. Not that she’s just out of her teens but . . . Well, no one likes to feel they’re being looked at judgementally.’
There was another pause in which Pat watched Mary absorb the hit.
They sat in silence for a while, eating the flan. The Royal Vic gave you pastry forks where most places gave you soup spoons – but most places gave you cake in a soup bowl now, so you wouldn’t be that surprised.
Pat described the lunch in Toronto. ‘In fairness now, it’s a lovely place. Your man who owns it has a big show over there on the television, and Ger says, by the look of his steaks, that he’d use only the best. But, glory be to God, I’m telling you, girl, the meal I had was a fright. Calamari in a cone! That’s what Cathleen had. I was expecting it to turn up with a chocolate flake in it. And the money they charged – ah, Mary!’
‘Terrible?’
‘Woeful.’
‘Sure, that’s the way the young ones are these days. More money than sense.’
‘Mind you, Cathleen’s doing well. I’d say they all are.’
‘Did you ever think they’d be eating calamari in a cone?’
Pat snorted with her fork to her lips, and the powdered sugar went up her nose. That set Mary off giggling and the two of them were there like eejits, groping in their bags for tissues and dabbing the tears off their cheeks.
Then, as soon as they’d calmed down, Mary set them off again. ‘Ah, Holy God, Pat – Jasmine and Cassandra! ’Tis far from that my Hanna and your poor Sonny were reared!’
12
A gust of wind snatched Hanna’s hat and bowled it along the clifftop. As Brian loped after it, Hanna struggled with her hair: the wind had tugged it from the loose plait into which she’d braided it, and the long tendrils were whipping across her cheeks.
Brian returned with the hat thrust into the pocket of his anorak. Turning her back to the wind, Hanna managed to bundle her hair up under it, pulling the knitted band down over her ears. Already blinded by flying spray, she now felt deafened as well. With his legs straddled, and his feet braced in the short clifftop grass, Brian leaned in to speak to her. ‘Shall we keep going? Or call it a day?’
It wasn’t an easy decision. Though the weather was shaping up for a proper Atlantic gale, the sun was shining and the air on the clifftop was like wine. They’d started their walk from the field behind Hanna’s house, climbing the stile that took them over her boundary wall and onto the broad ledge with its narrow path fifty feet above the churning ocean. Tonight, heavy rain and gusts of salt spray would batter her seaward windows and, having seen the forecast, Hanna knew that the next few days wouldn’t bring walking weather. So to turn back now would be a shame.
The cliff path, curving westwards towards the dunes and beaches on the outskirts of Lissbeg, was a constant delight to her so, having driven home from her Saturday morning’s work at the library, she’d called Brian and suggested he come over. ‘I’ll do dinner for the two of us, and we can work up an appetite with a walk.’
An hour later his car had pulled up at her gate, and she’d heard his footsteps as he’d appeared round the gable end, swinging a carrier bag from HabberDashery. He’d nipped into Lissbeg and bought pudding, he said, leaning on the half door and looking into the kitchen. Two slices of Bríd Carney’s super-sinful chocolate cake.
‘When did you start calling food sinful? It’s fuel, that’s what it is, and by the time we’re back from our walk, I promise you we’ll be needing it.’
‘Don’t start on me!
I was quoting the label.’
‘Maybe people are prepared to pay more if they reckon it’s sinful.’
‘It certainly costs a fortune, but it’s well worth it.’
As they’d climbed the stile, she’d asked him if the price of the cake had gone up.
‘I don’t think so. Why?’
‘Well, Conor and Aideen have been worrying about money.’
Standing on the step on the cliff side, Brian had laughed up at her. ‘And now you’ve decided to do their worrying for them!’
‘I haven’t. It just occurred to me.’
As she jumped down beside him he threw an arm round her shoulders. ‘Everyone their age worries about money. They’re planning a wedding, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, and that’s another thing. They’re going to have problems . . .’
‘Which are theirs, not yours. Now, are we going for a walk or aren’t we?’
Striding along against the wind, Hanna had told herself he was right. Jazz was in her element in her new job and her mother seemed to be getting on fine with Louisa. Finding a new reason to fret was just ridiculous. Now she smiled and suggested they keep walking. Another half hour against the wind would be exhilarating, and when they turned round it would be at their backs, blowing them home.
Later, in the kitchen, she lit the fire while Brian went down the field to dig some potatoes. He returned with a bucket of Kerr’s Pinks, his hands black and muddy. Hanna could remember trudging up the garden herself as a child, carrying spuds in a copper milk pan with a broken handle. The house had belonged to her great-aunt Maggie then, and no receptacle, however damaged, was ever thrown out if Maggie could still find a use for it.
One of Hanna’s most vivid childhood memories was of sitting at Maggie’s kitchen table sharing a meal of boiled potatoes, dipped in salt and served with yellow, home-made butter. Her own table was in the same place now, under the kitchen window, and Maggie’s dresser still stood by the fire, with its shelves of crockery and dim green glasses.
Having eaten dinner, they savoured their cake by the fire, listening to the storm outside and the occasional black spot sizzling on the hearth as raindrops blew down the chimney. Their relationship had passed the stage of wondering whether or not he’d stay the night, though they both still meticulously avoided leaving belongings in each other’s territory.
The Mistletoe Matchmaker Page 6
