by Maggie Finn
He repeated her words in his head: ‘When love comes along you’ve got to grab it with both hands’? Was that advice about his Dad or was it a hint towards him? Or was that just wishful thinking on his part, a desire to read something into it that wasn’t there? – he groaned, squeezing his hands into fists. Why am I so bad at all this stuff? In the rest of his life Noah was completely in control, the man they all looked to for stability and guidance. A car crash? Noah could fix that. He could secure the scene, preserve evidence, keep the traffic moving. He could dole out first aid, liaise with the ambulance and the hospital, help out with the insurance claim, whatever was required. Or a stolen wallet, same thing: he’d jump into action. He was even pretty good at sorting out domestic disputes. But his own relationships? Noah was just lost. And then there was his dad. He wanted to support him, to be happy for him, but he… he just couldn’t.
‘How’s yerself Guard?’
He looked up to see the craggy form of Bishop Ray walking down the aisle towards him. The Bishop had been the parish priest here for many years until he was promoted and replaced by Father Dec. Ray had overseen the wedding of Noah’s mother and father and baptized Noah as a baby. He was as much a part of the Cove as the chapel up on the headland.
‘Hello, Bishop. Just admiring the windows there.’
The old man looked up and smiled.
‘Those windows were always one of my favorite things when this was my church. Standing in the pulpit, I’d be looking straight at them. Inspiring, but also such a hard standard to live up to.’
‘Oh? How so?’
‘Ah, Peter’s crew are all scared to death and Jesus is saying, ‘What’s all this? Why didn’t you have faith that I’d protect you?’ The point being that when things are at their toughest, that’s when your faith has to be the strongest.’
Noah gave the priest a sidelong glance. ‘And would you be trying to tell me something there, Bishop?’ he asked.
Ray chuckled. ‘Seen right through me, son. Tell me if it’s none of my business, but I saw you having the words with your Da just before. I was all the way over here, but it looked sticky.’
‘Sticky’s one way of putting it, yes.’
‘And would it be anything to do with your da’s new lady friend?’
‘Something like that.’
The bishop nodded sadly. ‘I thought so.’
He sat down on the edge of a pew with a grunt.
‘I know how much you love him, Noah.’
Noah was about to retort that he did not, that he’d had enough of Niall Moyes riding roughshod over his feelings and the memory of his mother and… but he realized he couldn’t. That was the funny thing: he certainly felt betrayed, but Noah still loved his father with all his heart, just as he had loved him his whole life. None of that had changed. He was angry with him, yes, but Niall Moyes was still a good man.
‘I do, Bishop,’ sighed Noah, sitting down next to the old priest. ‘He’s my Da, you know? It’s just…’
‘Your Ma,’ said Ray, nodding. ‘Sure, and wasn’t the day she died the day when you loved your father the most?’
Noah glanced up at the bishop, amazed. It was something he’d never said to a living soul. At that most tragic moment, when he was most heartbroken, he’d felt his father’s love shine through – and it had been a terrible and wonderful thing at the same time.
‘How did you…?’ asked Noah and Ray tapped a hand on his knee.
‘I know you just see a grumpy old man with lines on his face, but once I had a ma too and once upon a time I was just where you were. I watched my ma fade away and my Da,’ he shook his head. ‘He was a miner down in Tipperary, a hard, hard man, but when Ma passed, he did an amazing thing.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He gathered myself and my brothers together and one by one, he held us close. Just held each of us like that.’ The Bishop held his arms up in front of him. ‘Then he whispered, ‘she’ll always be in you, son. And that’s why I love yous.’
The Bishop shook his head. ‘Like I say, he was a tough cookie. I don’t remember him ever hugging us or ever using the word “love” before or after that. But it was like he’d absorbed love from Ma and was passing it on to us.’
Noah swallowed. He found it hard to even think back to that terrible time. The echo of the empty hospital corridors, the harsh light as they sat there in the waiting room, the squeak of the doctor’s footsteps on the polished floors, coming to deliver their verdict. All those Latin spells, all those wires coming out of her – and none of them could hold her together. So Dad had taken her home and taken care of her himself, patiently feeding her, cleaning her, lifting her in and out of bed, her body getting lighter and lighter until finally… well, finally she had just floated away.
And once Ma had gone, Niall had held onto Noah with all his might, held him until the crying had stopped, until he could feel the ground under his feet again. And he had loved his father for what he had done. How could he not love his father? Da was all that was left of her. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t find fault in him, it didn’t mean he had to accept the way he’d forgotten his ma.
‘It’s a tricky old puzzle being a father, Noah,’ said Ray. ‘There’s no guidebook, no instruction manual. You do your best and hope for the best.’
‘And what if your best isn’t good enough?’
The bishop smiled softly.
‘Then we forgive.’
Noah left the old man still sitting in the pew and walked around the back of the church, following the old stone path into St. Augustine’s churchyard. He ducked under the old hawthorn tree, the branches at this time of year covered with mistletoe. He stopped, one hand on the trunk of the tree, looking up at the white berries.
Mistletoe. It made Noah think of Eliza. Always back to her.
And he’d messed up royally, hadn’t he? By being stubborn and selfish. And by being an idiot. Sure, so the trip to the lighthouse hadn’t been a date, not really, but there had definitely been something between them. But now? Eliza Carlisle was in Clover Cove to have a holiday, not to get involved in his family nonsense: he was perfectly sure she could do without his drama.
And yes, Noah knew how it sounded. He knew he sounded petty and narrow-minded when he tried to explain why he disapproved of his dad’s new relationship. But Eliza hadn’t known Nancy Moyes. She hadn’t known Ma, so she couldn’t possibly understand, couldn’t grasp how Linda had betrayed his mom. Linda and Nancy had been best friends, and then the moment she was cold in her grave, Linda had seen her chance and she sank her talons into Niall.
He left the tree and followed the path that skirted the churchyard. His ma was buried over by the far side nearest the sea.
Nancy Moyes
Beloved wife and mother
Noah touched the headstone with his fingertips.
‘Hey Ma, how are you?’ he said. ‘Grand, I’ll bet.’
Noah had always imagined that when his mother had passed over, she would go straight to heaven where she would have a pretty little cottage and be surrounded by all the dogs she had loved and lost throughout her life. That’s how he pictured it: happy souls reincarnated – Ma and the hounds both. Noah knew it was a simplistic, almost child-like vision, but otherwise what was heaven for? If you didn’t believe in something like that, if you didn’t believe in happiness for those closest to you, then why bother believing in anything? Of course, there were people who’d say that you made heaven – or hell – here on earth. Well, that was grand too. Differences of opinion: that’s what made the world go around. But for Noah, it was a straight choice between believing in magic and love and sunshine, or believing that everything just turns to dust. And he couldn’t think of someone as bright and as full of life as his mother being dust.
‘So I just saw Dad,’ he continued, looking down at the stone. ‘I don’t think I handled it very well, if I’m honest. I introduced him to my friend Eliza – I think Da thought she was my girlfriend.’
Why are you telling her this? He thought. Because you want it to be true, dummy. And because he had to tell someone – even if he couldn’t quite say it to Eliza herself. It was only then that Noah noticed there were fresh flowers in the vase at the foot of his mother’s grave, a little posy of snowdrops, heather and a sprig of holly. He pressed the flat of his hand against his mouth. So that was why his dad had been here: he had come to visit her too. For a moment, the anger flared again. How dare he come and visit? But Noah immediately stopped himself. That was ridiculous. Da missed her too, of course he did. Whatever was happening elsewhere, with Linda or anyone else, Noah never doubted that. But could you love two people at the same time?
‘What did he say to you, Ma?’ Noah wondered softly. ‘Does he still say…’
Movement caught his eye and Noah looked up, slightly embarrassed to be caught speaking to a headstone. He needn’t have worried, the man was over by the church, too far to hear. He must have come in through the back entrance, over the old stile. Noah watched the man for a moment. He was leaning back, peering up at the church tower. Nothing too remarkable about that: he knew the architecture was considered unusual if you were into that sort of thing. The round tower by a church was unique to Ireland and this example was one of the few actually attached to the church itself. But still, Clover Cove didn’t attract a huge amount of tourists, let alone history buffs. Noah began to move closer. The man was wearing a green jacket and a cap pulled low. It couldn’t be the fella from Theo’s footage – could it?
‘Ahoy there,’ called Noah, raising a hand in greeting. ‘Can I help?’
The man reacted as if stung. He jerked upright, took a wide-eyed glance at Noah, then seeing that Noah was now between him and the main gate, the man stood where he was and tried to offer a smile. It came out as a sickly grimace.
‘Hey, how ya doin’ officer?’ said the man, his eyes fixed on Noah’s uniform. Noah didn’t need to take Theo’s print-out from his pocket: he was sure it was the same man they’d watched on the CCTV footage.
‘Can I ask what your business is here, sir?’
‘Just taking some photos of the church. She sure is pretty.’
‘You’re American?’ asked Noah, surprised.
‘Sure. Is that okay?’
Noah smiled. ‘It is. We’re always glad to welcome our cousins from across the water. Are you on holiday – sorry, vacation?’
‘Kind of mixture of business and pleasure.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Up in Port Quinn. At the Palace Hotel.’
‘Very nice,’ said Noah. ‘And how long have you been there?’
The man’s fixed smile faded a little.
‘What’s this about officer? Have I done something wrong?’
‘No, no, just wondering if I could recommend any places to go – no point if you’ve already been. Have you been out to the lighthouse at Bluff Point?’
Noah was rewarded with a flinch. Bingo, he thought.
‘No,’ said the man. ‘Should I?’
‘Oh yes, right on the headland where the sea meets the sky. There’s a lay-by on the coast road that’s perfect for long-shots. You’re not allowed up to the place itself you see: private property.’
The man didn’t answer.
‘So did you get any good shots?’
He glanced down at his camera. ‘Of the lighthouse? I told you, I haven’t been.’
‘No, I mean the church here,’ said Noah, stepping closer and holding out a hand for the camera. ‘Can I see?’
Reluctantly the man handed it over. ‘Ah, they’re grand,’ said Noah, flicking back through the images.
‘Oh, I only took a few…’ said the American uncomfortably, but Noah was scrolling further, the images zipping past: the square, the pub, the bookshop, Molly’s café.
‘Hey, give that back,’ said the man, reaching for the camera. But he was too slow. There they were: pictures of the lighthouse. Noah turned the camera so he could see the screen.
The man’s shoulders sagged. ‘Okay, so I took a few shots of the lighthouse, is that a crime?’
Noah fixed him with a stern look. ‘No, but climbing the fence is. Trespassing on government property is. And recording details of entrances and security measures could be considered industrial espionage.’
‘Industrial what?’ spluttered the man. Noah didn’t answer, he was busy clicking back through the camera’s memory until he found what he knew would be there: shots of Sleagh Castle. Long shots, just like a tourist might take, but also closer details. And there: from the back, where the break-in had happened.
‘Sir, I’m going to have to ask you where you were two nights ago.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because a crime was committed at this very spot – and not just climbing a fence either.’
The man in the flat cap looked serious.
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘I certainly think you’d better come with me down to the station,’ said Noah.
‘Then you need to speak to my lawyer,’ he said. He pulled out a fancy business card: ‘Kitteridge & Cohen’ it read in raised gold script. ‘New York, Los Angeles’. He’d clearly come prepared.
‘Ross Oil, is it?’ said Noah. ‘Is that who you work for?’
‘Ross Oil?’ the man shook his head. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, officer.’
He handed him another card.
‘This is me.’
Si Sanders, Location Scout, Wener Pictures.
Chapter Twelve
The country was gorgeous, if a little hilly. Make that very hilly, thought Eliza, gripping her seat as the van plunged down another narrow lane. Eliza had been to San Francisco and taken a trolley car ride up those famous slopes – she’d thought those roads were steep, but this part of Ireland seemed to have been built on the vertical. Not that she was complaining. For all the sudden drops, it was still knock-out gorgeous, especially on a crisp clear morning like this. Inland, embraced by hedges and embankments, protected from the fog and the sea spray, the clouds could actually part and let the sun shine through – or at least they had today. At the top of a rise, the van paused, Moira struggling with the old van’s sticky gears, and Eliza was suddenly gifted a clear view of the country. They were in the midst of a clutch of hills undulating away in all directions like the green backs of serpents stranded miles from the sea. Wind-twisted trees, naked of leaves, punctuated the blue sky while sheep huddled in clumps scattered across the fields, themselves shimmering silver with frost.
Eliza was glad to have something else on her mind than Noah the guard. Since her strange confrontation with him in the square, she had thought of little else and she couldn’t really say why it so bothered her. It was none of her business after all if the local cop had a problem with his family. Why should she care? Why indeed? The problem was, Eliza knew, that she did. This strange, wonderful little corner of the world – and the quirky but warm, welcoming people she’d met here – had affected her more than she could ever have imagined. And one in particular had somehow gotten hold of her in a way she couldn’t explain.
‘Nearly there,’ said Moira, cutting into her thoughts. The van was moving again and Moira was pointing straight ahead.
‘You see the smoke above the woods?’ she said. ‘That’s Corrigale. Not so much a village as three houses and a farm, but…’ There was a loud crunch as she shifted down again and Eliza grabbed the door handle as the van tipped dangerously to the left.
‘Whoops,’ grinned Moira, ‘Hang onto yer hat there ‘liza. Some of these turns are a little tricky: the roads weren’t built for a library truck yesee?’
‘What were they built for?’
‘Oh. Carts, droving cattle, that sorta thing. Before motors anyway. But we’ve got to work with what we’ve got, don’t we?’
There was another sharp turn, the side of the van being raked by the branches of an oak, then they bumped up over an embankment. Moira seemed to take
that as her cue to stop.
‘So, this is the place,’ said Moira, yanking on the handbrake and beeping the horn three times. ‘That’ll get ’em running. Like an ice cream van, huh?’
‘Gosh, ice cream trucks!’ said Eliza. ‘I remember them from when I was a kid: whenever we heard them playing “Camptown Races”, we’d run out into the streets. Drove my mom nuts.’
She was babbling again, always a sign of nerves with Eliza. She had agreed to accompany Moira on a library run partly because it was an opportunity to see part of Ireland she would never otherwise visit, but also because she was intrigued – and inspired – by the idea of taking books out to the people rather than waiting for them to visit a store. Secretly she wondered whether it could be re-purposed in some of the more remote parts of California, but she still didn’t know what to expect from Moira’s customers, and not everyone appreciated Americans abroad.
‘Here they come, all hands to the pumps,’ called Moira cheerfully, ducking back inside the van and unbolting the rear doors. Eliza watched as disparate group wandered up the road towards them: an old lady pushing a walking frame in front of her, a middle-aged man in muddy wellingtons and a young woman with three children and a fourth clinging to her hip like a Koala.
‘Hello, hello all,’ called Moira, swinging down a set of steps so the visitors could access the inside of the van. It was lined with narrow shelves clustered into sections: romance, thrillers, sport, biographies, it was a mini-version of The Font book store. The difference was that these books were all secondhand and were all free: the readers could bring them back – the farmer-type gent had a bulging carrier bag which he handed to Moira – or pass them on to other bookworms.
What they couldn’t do was burn them, which apparently had been a problem when the van service had started: with so many households using wood and coal, it was tempting to use the torn-out pages as tinder. A well-worn sign hanging over the door read ‘Let books fire your light, not light your fire.’