Pat could remember the sand sliding back under her feet as she climbed the dunes. They were so steep that she’d had to hold the hem of her skirt in her teeth, so she wouldn’t walk on it. She’d pulled herself up by grabbing tufts of marram grass, and a sharp blade of it had slashed a cut right across the palm of her hand. She’d had to dab it with a paper hankie to stop the blood getting on her new frock.
The stars went kind of hazy through the smoke that rose from the bonfire, and the four of them sat there, passing the bottle round. After a while, Mary and Tom started acting the maggot. She’d take a mouthful of wine and then she’d kiss Tom, and pass it on to him that way. Ger and Pat were sitting on the opposite side of the fire, across from them, the two of them feeling a bit awkward as Tom and Mary started to snog. It didn’t matter, of course, because the other two didn’t notice them.
A bit after that, Mary had grabbed Tom’s hand and run with him off into the dunes. They’d grabbed his coat and taken the bottle with them, so Pat and Ger just sat by the fire, looking up at the stars. Pat could hear the sea and smell the tarry smell of the burning timber. And Ger had said, without looking at her, ‘Will we get married, so?’
28
The last thing Cassie had been looking for when she came to Ireland was a relationship. But now she was beginning to wonder if she’d found one.
Shay Doyle had been drinking at the bar when she’d first met him in the nightclub. She’d noticed him the moment she went in, partly because of his good looks and partly because, unlike most of the guys there, he carried an air of authority. And when she went to buy herself a drink, he hadn’t tried any of the usual guy-at-a-bar-on-his-own pick-up lines. In fact, she hadn’t realised that he was on his own: she’d assumed that his date must have gone to the washroom.
As she’d set off alone for her night out, the others at number eight had looked doubtful. It was quite sweet, actually – as if, like Pat, they belonged to another generation. In response, Cassie had twitted Aideen about rural Ireland not having caught up with gender equality, half joking but half meaning it. And immediately Bríd had got aggressive.
‘We’re not bog-trotters, you know. But you’re going to look pretty sad if you wander into a nightclub on your own.’
‘Well, I guess anyone who thinks so won’t bother to say hi.’
‘Or else every weird loner in the place will assume you’re looking for company.’
Aideen had leapt in at that point, eager to keep the peace. ‘We could all go along for the craic, you know, why wouldn’t we?’
Cassie could see Conor, who’d arrived saying he was knackered after a long day on the farm, gamely getting ready to leave the sofa. She shook her head firmly. ‘Because you’ve got your own plans for the evening. And, besides, I’m perfectly happy being a sad loner. In my world it’s called getting out and seeing life.’
Bríd snorted. ‘Well, if hanging round Fly-By-Night in Carrick is your idea of seeing life, I’m sorry for you.’
Cassie had just laughed and swung her knapsack onto her shoulder. But when she’d picked her way past a couple of rough sleepers and clattered down the iron stairway to a basement entrance in a grubby side-street, she’d wondered if Bríd might be right. The website had promised ‘a relaxed, sophisticated environment, great music, and a convivial vibe in the heart of downtown Carrick’. The reality hadn’t quite come up to the spiel.
Having got there, though, she’d decided to stay and have a drink. All that was really wrong with the place was the weird lighting. And the sound system. And the clientele, which seemed largely comprised of stag parties and stagettes.
After edging round the room, looking for a seat that wasn’t directly under a speaker, she’d settled at a corner table. The atmosphere reminded her of entertainment nights on cruise ships when everyone was determined to get their money’s worth and have fun. About ten minutes later, Shay had come over and smiled at her. ‘I’m about to order another drink. May I get one for you as well?’
He was sober, personable, and no date had emerged from the washroom, so Cassie smiled back. ‘Sure. I’ll have another of these.’
When he returned with the drinks, he waited till she invited him to sit down. They didn’t talk much. In fact, they hardly got beyond clarifying that, in Ireland, ‘bog-trotter’ meant neither a resident of New Brunswick nor someone who loved cake. As soon as Cassie had raised the subject, she wished she hadn’t bothered. The music was so deafening that Shay had had to lean in and shout at her. ‘What’s the New Brunswick thing?’
‘“Bog-trotter” is a Canadian name for people who live there.’
‘Why? Because they’re culchies?’
‘What’s a culchie?’
‘Rough around the EDGES. Not from the city.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘And what’s with the cake?’
‘Matilda.’
‘What?’
‘That Roald Dahl kids’ book. Matilda. There’s a character in it called Bruce Bogtrotter . . .’ Cassie’s voice was beginning to crack ‘. . . who STEALS CAKE.’
And that had been about it, as far as conversation went. So, when she’d said goodbye, and left without another drink, she hadn’t imagined that she’d ever see him again.
Then there he’d been, cruising by in a squad car when she’d been in Carrick with Pat.
A few days after that, when he’d signalled her to stop on the motorway, she hadn’t recognised him. With her driving licence in her hand, and already formulating the explanation that the car belonged to Pat, Cassie had lowered the window and looked up at him. When their eyes met he’d grinned at her and winked. ‘You know what it is, I thought I was never going to find you.’
‘Why would you want to?’
‘Because I haven’t got your phone number.’
‘And that’s why you pulled me over?’
‘Well, if I hadn’t, you’d have just driven on by.’
He was wearing the same faint, agreeable aftershave she’d noticed in the nightclub.
‘Do they actually let you flag people down for social reasons?’
‘Well, they train us to use our initiative.’
In the end she’d laughed and given him her number, and the following day she’d had a text suggesting dinner in Carrick. Deciding not to mention it to the others in the house, Cassie had texted back and told him yes.
Unlike the nightclub, the restaurant really was relaxed and sophisticated, and Shay was good company. He’d never been to Canada but he’d spent time in the States and even taken a cruise ship from Fort Lauderdale to the Bahamas, one of those three-day trips with casinos on board.
Cassie had explained that, for her, travelling the world was about seeing life. ‘That’s why I chose to be a hairdresser. It’s a career that can take you anywhere.’
Shay appeared to have become a guard mainly to please his parents. His dad was a retired superintendent.
‘So it’s not something you wanted to do yourself?’
‘Well, it’s a good job. Opportunities for promotion. Good pension. Good feeling that you’re doing something that makes a real difference out there.’
‘Aren’t you a bit young to be thinking of your pension?’
‘Thank you very much. I’ll take that as a compliment.’
She’d guessed he was in his early thirties. Conor and Dan would look pretty gauche beside him, but not just because he was older than they were. He was city-bred, like Cassie was, and they spoke the same language in subtle ways that she felt, rather than recognised.
When the check came and she’d offered to go halves, he shook his head and raised an eyebrow at the waiter. His credit card was whipped away in a flash. So the next day she’d called him up and suggested another meal. ‘My shout this time. It’s only fair.’
They went to a place in Ballyfin and talked so much that they’d hardly finished eating by closing time. Cassie had half expected him to kiss her when he dropped her home, but he’d just leaned across from
the driving seat and given her a hug.
The next time they met he did kiss her, standing on a wintry beach, where they’d gone for a walk.
It wasn’t like they lived in each other’s pockets. Shay worked long shifts – sometimes right through the weekends – and Cassie’s own days were full. Spending time with Pat was fun, and having the car meant she could go off on her own exploring the peninsula. And because of her afternoons doing pensioners’ hair at the Old Convent Centre, she’d picked up lots of suggestions for where to go.
If it hadn’t been for Maurice, a retired baker who made special-occasion cakes to order for HabberDashery, she’d never have found the little pub in Ballyfin that served sandwiches in floury rolls called blaas. According to Maurice, they were traditionally made in County Waterford but, a couple of generations back, some Waterford baker had met a girl from Finfarran and ‘married in’ to her parents’ pub in Ballyfin. Sitting in the hairdresser’s chair, swathed in a towel, he’d eyed Cassie seriously in the mirror, and told her where to go. ‘It’s the Old Anchor, and don’t go confusing it with that new place, the Anchor and Flag. You want to go round by the tackle shop and down the street beyond the pier.’
She’d followed his instructions to the letter, avoiding the shiny new pub on the corner and finding the Old Anchor at the end of a winding cobbled street. There was an open fire in the bar, and a group of elderly fishermen drinking at the counter, and when she told the barman she’d been sent by Maurice, everyone wanted to stand her a blaa or buy her a drink.
The floury roll filled with crabmeat was delicious, and when she exclaimed at the strength of the coffee she had with it, a man at the bar had explained that the Ballyfin fishermen had always favoured coffee, rather than tea. They’d picked up the habit from Frenchmen, who used to come round swapping coffee beans for lobsters. ‘That was back in my granda’s time, before they found we could make good money for lobster! But by then we’d got a taste for the black coffee with plenty of sugar. It’s mighty for keeping the cold out when you’re at sea.’
Another time, old Mrs Reily, whose hair she’d set the previous day, had appeared at a farm gate and waved her in. It turned out that she and her daughter, Nell, were lace-makers and they’d decided Cassie would like to see how it was done. Their home was no longer a working farm, but the big kitchen, with its scrubbed table and easy chairs by the range, was enchanting.
Nell explained that you worked the delicate bobbin lace on a cushion pinned to your lap. She and her mother used to do it just as a pastime. ‘But since the psalter exhibition opened at the library, we’ve started selling lace initials to the exhibition gift shop. We base them on the illuminated letters in the psalter, and a young lad with a studio in the Convent Centre frames them up.’ It was very interesting making a business out of it, she told Cassie, because you’d have to work out deals with the framer and the gift shop, and find out which letters sold well, and how many you’d need. ‘And, of course, we’d still make lace for sales of work and the Christmas Fête. Though I don’t know if they’ll be wanted now that it’s the Winter Fest.’
Cassie had told her that surely they would be. How could such lovely work not sell like hot cakes?
‘I know, dear. And Phil’s offered us a stall. But I don’t know would we want to mix business with the fête.’ Nell had looked worried. ‘Well, I don’t mean the fête, since that’s not what we’ll be having. But you see what I mean. Christmas is about giving, isn’t it? Not promoting yourself, or networking, or whatever we’re doing now.’
It struck Cassie that Phil – whom she’d thought quite reasonable when she’d heard her at the first meeting – had actually been behaving pretty badly. If the Christmas Fête was established long before the Winter Fest was even thought of, wasn’t it a bit crass to come muscling in and upsetting people like Nell?
As the two ladies waved her off, Nell had pressed a little parcel into Cassie’s hand. Later, in the car, she’d unwrapped it to find the initial C, beautifully worked in lace. Smiling, Cassie had folded it back into its pink tissue paper. Like the introduction to the blaas in Ballyfin, and the smiles on the bustling streets of Lissbeg, it was another quiet gesture of approval. And, along with the sense of warmth she felt at the thought of seeing Shay again, it was one more thing that made her feel that maybe she had come home.
29
Pat was worried. When Ger came up to the kitchen of a morning for a cup of tea and a biscuit, he’d generally bring a bit of meat for the dinner or, if they were busy below, and he didn’t come up, he’d leave it on the bottom step of the stairs for her to nip down and collect. Four chops, maybe, or a couple of nice chicken breasts.
They still had their dinner at one o’clock on the days when Ger was home. If he was off somewhere, Pat would just make herself a sandwich, or slip over to the Garden Café for something light. You wouldn’t want as much these days as you did when you were younger. Well, she wouldn’t herself, anyway. Ger had always been a great eater.
That was one reason she was worried. Lately, he was getting fussy about his food. She’d cook the meat he’d chosen, but half the time he wouldn’t want it. He’d peck at a bit of something and then just push it around his plate.
Actually, he’d been in a queer way since they’d got back from Canada. God knew he was never much of a talker, but since they’d come back you’d think he’d been trying to avoid her. It was a busy time of year, of course, so you’d expect him to be preoccupied. But half the time, these days, he was either rushing off somewhere or saying he was tired and going to bed.
The truth was that the trip to Canada might have been a mistake. And if it was, Pat told herself sadly, it was her fault entirely. She’d been so focused on the excitement of seeing the grandkids and the lads that maybe she hadn’t realised that she could have been making bad worse. Somewhere in her mind she’d known that Sonny and Jim hadn’t stayed away just because they were busy. But in some other part of her head, she supposed, she’d thought that things might be different if they all got together. On neutral ground, you might say. And that if the lads saw that she and Ger were getting old, they’d decide to let bygones be bygones.
But maybe, before going off to Toronto, she should have made Ger sit down and talk about a will. You could see that Sonny and Jim had done well for themselves, but the fact remained that the two of them had built themselves up over there from nothing, while Frankie had just fallen in for his house and the business over here.
Pat had always assumed that, when she and Ger went, Frankie would be done right by, but the other lads would get their share as well. But perhaps that was something that should have been stated years ago. Something she should have dealt with instead of knitting hats and sending cards.
When they came back from Canada, she’d mentioned the will to Ger, casual-like, and the way he’d looked at her, you’d think she’d hit him in the face. But that was how he’d always been about money. The one thing he was good at in life was making it, and if you questioned him, he’d think you didn’t trust him to know what he was at.
Somewhere else in her mind she’d thought he might talk about the future to the lads when he was over there. Supping pints in Sonny’s golf club, say. Or maybe one day over dinner, if they were all sat down. But that was only fooling herself. The fact was that Ger had always been tongue-tied. The only person he’d ever talked to was Tom.
It had begun when their desks were side by side at school in their first year at the Brothers’. Tom was already a football hero and Ger was a scrawny runt. So Brother Hugh nicknamed them The Warrior and The Weasel. That was the kind of thing teachers did in those days, and they got away with it because no one would ever question the power of the Church. You were supposed to feel grateful that they’d give you an education. And you had to keep on the right side of them. Many a one would’ve had no chance at all of secondary schooling if it wasn’t for a parish priest ringing the Brothers and putting in a good word.
At twelve years old, Ger
was utterly defenceless, and he had no way to fight back. The name stuck because Brother Hugh kept egging the kids on to use it. Then, one day, when Pat and Mary were talking by the convent wall, they’d seen Ger messing about, over at the horse trough. It was still full of water then, not planted up with flowers like the council had it now. Ger was prancing along the edge of the trough, like a tightrope walker. And Nat Hughes shoved him in.
The crowd was laughing and jeering, and calling Ger a wet weasel, when Tom appeared from nowhere and grabbed Nat by the neck. Mary always said afterwards that she’d had to pull Tom off Nat before he drowned him, but that was just Mary building the story up. What really happened was that Tom held Nat’s head in the trough till he had him kicking and choking, and then he hoicked him out and left him sprawling in the road.
That was Tom. There was something in him that made him want to protect people. Pat had known just how he’d felt when he’d thrown his arm round Ger’s wet shoulders afterwards. Kind of daring the world to mess with him again. No one ever shouted ‘Weasel’ once Nat Hughes was dealt with, and from that day on, it was like Ger would trust nobody but Tom.
Pat doubted if anyone now remembered what had happened. She’d heard that Brother Hugh had died of drink, and she was glad of it. Mind you, there were still some people in town that called Ger ‘Weezy Fitz’. But they meant nothing by it. It was just a name, like they called Paddy Donovan ‘Horse’.
Now Ger came up from the shop with a nice cut of stewing lamb. He seemed in good enough form today, and made a bit of a joke about not wanting garlic, which was something that Pat had never fed him in his life. He was looking well, too, in the blue jumper she’d bought him in the shopping mall in Toronto.
She made the tea and they sat at the table and drank it. Ger had to go to Cork next week, he told her, so she hoped the roads would be good. You’d never know, this time of year, and you wouldn’t want him driving through flood water. She had the creative-writing group to go to herself that same afternoon, though, so she was just as well pleased not to have to cook dinner before she slipped over the road.
The Mistletoe Matchmaker Page 15
