The Transatlantic Book Club

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  ‘Great. Uh, fine. How are you?’

  ‘I’m good. This is some crazy idea.’

  ‘Well, yeah . . . I . . . it’s nice that you’re on board.’

  Erin appeared beside him and waved. ‘He couldn’t avoid it. His mom and me kicked his ass.’

  Before Cassie could process this, Jack and Ferdia were fiddling with the cameras, checking that all the seating was in shot. Anticipating a turnout of about a dozen, Cassie and Hanna had laid out three rows of chairs in the reading room. The Shamrock Club must have come to the same conclusion because a similar number of chairs were set in front of the bookcases, with their carved wreaths of shamrocks and gilded donors’ names. On one chair, comfortably curled against a cushion, Pangur the white cat was fast asleep. The domesticity of the club’s library, with the Brennan memorial range standing in the background, contrasted sharply with Lissbeg’s high-tech reading room, but the equipment there was just as good as Ferdia’s, and the crowd beginning to arrive in Resolve was dressed in the height of fashion.

  In Lissbeg, the first arrival was Pat. She was closely followed by Mary, who marched down to the front row and sat dead centre, where Pat joined her. They were both wearing their best coats, and Pat had washed her hair. Even though the evening had turned chilly, the room was filling up, and everyone appeared to have made an effort to look their best. It seemed that, on both sides of the ocean, people were treating this as a special occasion.

  As Cassie slipped into a seat at the back, Mr Maguire strode into the room, with a lordly nod at Hanna. He was carrying a rolled umbrella, which he stood in a corner by the screen, nearly disrupting Ferdia’s snaking cables. Then, obviously annoyed by Mary’s commanding position, he went and sat on a chair by the door, as if expecting some pressing summons to a more important commitment.

  The chairs over in the Shamrock Club were filling well. Like Cassie, Erin was seated towards the back. Jack was invisible, presumably manning the computer. Cassie wondered if Erin had helped him rig the screen and organise the equipment. His mother, a well-dressed, good-looking woman, came in and sat in the same row as Erin. But not next to her. The empty seats between them made Cassie feel better, and now they were claimed by two large men. Seeing them appear on the screen, Mary announced that they must be the Canny twins. Pat shushed her covertly. Minutes later, as Erin’s mom and her gran, Josie, arrived, Pat herself squeaked aloud in happy recognition. The sound refocused Cassie’s thoughts, reminding her of why she was here. Tonight was all about pleasing Pat, and Jack Shanahan’s presence was irrelevant.

  The majority of the seats in both venues were now occupied, and Hanna glanced at the clock. At that moment the door slid open and Darina Kelly edged in holding Gobnit by the hand. The entire room turned at the sound of the sliding door, and the group in Resolve, who had watched it open, craned forward to look at her. Darina froze in the doorway, mouthing regrets at Hanna. ‘Too dreadful, I’m so late and I’m dreadfully sorry, but Gobnit got really difficult so I had to bring her along.’

  Gobnit, who was wearing a Shaun the Sheep onesie, was clutching her mother’s iPhone. Cassie could see people in Resolve asking each other who Darina was. Slipping out of her own chair, she piloted the pair towards a couple of empty seats. Gobnit immediately slumped in her chair and focused her attention on a game she’d been playing on the phone. Darina remained standing. ‘I feel so terrible, honestly, everyone. Do please forgive me. Is this where I should be looking, Ferdia? Is this the camera? Oh, and there you all are, over on the other side of the ocean! So lovely, and here I’ve kept you waiting!’

  Hanna moved to the front and smiled at the faces on the screen. ‘Hello, everyone. I’m Hanna Casey, Lissbeg’s librarian, and it’s a pleasure to be here on this very special occasion. I’m sure you’ll agree that there’s no need for our friend Mrs Kelly to apologise any further. So do sit down, Darina, and we’ll get on with the introductions.’

  Cassie saw Erin giggle. The rest of the group in Resolve was leaning forward, smiling, and Josie raised her hand and waved at the camera. ‘Hi, Hanna. Hi, everyone. Hello, Pat! This is such a great idea and we’re so pleased to be part of it. We don’t have a librarian so I’ve been elected facilitator on this side. But we all love reading and, most of all, we’re excited to see old friends and neighbours. I don’t think I know Mrs Kelly . . .’ Darina attempted to get to her feet to say she was only a blow-in, but a woman beside her pinned her down with her elbow. Josie kept going. ‘. . . but I do see lots of familiar faces. Should we go round the two groups and say who we all are? Some of us may have gotten so old that we’re almost unrecognisable!’

  There was a burst of laughter and for the next few minutes Cassie’s attention was half on the screen and half on the group around her. It was taking a while for people to grasp that they needed to raise a hand before speaking, and several tended to talk simultaneously. But everyone was good-humoured and Josie and Hanna were quick to work out ways of keeping control.

  The introductions involved a great deal of exclamation and explaining, and extraordinary amounts of genealogical knowledge. With detailed references to townlands and villages, people’s relations were identified and traced back through generations. Ann Flood from the Lissbeg pharmacy was revealed to have a third cousin who worked in Resolve’s uptown branch of Walmart. Those who’d been to the States and returned to live at home recalled names and asked about old acquaintances, and various people recited the dates and reasons for their departure from Finfarran.

  It was a good half-hour before Hanna raised a hand and caught Josie’s attention. ‘Do you think we should turn to the books we plan to read?’

  Josie glanced round at her companions. ‘Well, we’ve had some discussion over here but I’m not sure we’ve reached a consensus. And, of course, it depends on you guys as well.’

  ‘Should we make it a recent novel? Maybe from a popular US author?’

  One of the Canny twins rose to his feet and raised his voice. ‘The committee suggested we might begin with A Long Way to LA.’

  Cassie could feel the people around her telling themselves to remember that they were on camera. A Long Way to LA, which had drawn tourists to Ballyfin at the expense of the rest of the peninsula, wasn’t a wholly popular book in Finfarran, but her visit to Resolve had taught her that the Shamrock Club’s older members seemed to love it. Its descriptions of Finfarran’s beauty, and the central image of the heroic fisherman, fed into their nostalgia for the land they’d left behind.

  There was an awkward pause in which Hanna sought a diplomatic response. Then Mrs Shanahan looked up from a patch she was tacking. ‘Well, the books in the case right here behind me were given to the club by my late husband. I must say it’d be very nice if we were to choose one of them.’ Several women who’d been introduced as members of the quilting guild agreed, and Mrs Shanahan turned to Josie. ‘It’s a mix of authors from both sides of the Atlantic. Agatha Christie, Margery Allingham, Rex Stout. All classics. He was a lifelong collector of crime stories – I think he began with the Hardy Boys and the Nancy Drew books.’

  Hanna looked at the camera. ‘Well, that sounds like a good idea. What do you think over there?’

  It was evident that the Canny twins weren’t happy, but most of the other faces on the screen were enthusiastic. It wasn’t quite clear to Cassie how Hanna clinched the deal but, all at once, everyone seemed to be in complete agreement.

  Hanna spoke directly to Josie. ‘Why don’t you go through the books before our next meeting? Choose a few titles we could vote on?’

  ‘Sure. I can do that.’

  Despite Josie’s smile, she looked slightly uncertain. Assuming she was concerned about ways and means, Hanna pressed on: ‘Once we’ve made our choice, if it’s something I haven’t already got in stock, I’ll order copies for readers over here. Will you be okay to source copies at your end?’

  Josie nodded and said there’d be no problem. Amid the cheerful babble that followed, Mr Maguire stood up and
cleared his throat. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me, but I need to be getting along.’ He strode to the front of the room to retrieve his umbrella, approaching the camera at such speed that the group in Resolve saw him looming at them like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Then, having achieved the commanding position he’d been thwarted of, he tapped the umbrella on a chair and addressed the assembled group. ‘Before I leave, I’d like to offer a hearty vote of thanks to our facilitators. Well done, Hannah and Josie! Let’s give them a big clap.’

  Hearing the unmistakable voice of a schoolmaster, everyone broke into desultory applause. Mr Maguire paused, as if expecting a reciprocal vote of thanks to himself. Then, as no one rose to the occasion, he removed himself with a deprecatory bow. As he passed into the night, the two groups plunged back into animated discussion while, from the back rows on either side of the Atlantic, Cassie and Erin exchanged a triumphant thumbs-up.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After the meeting Pat found it hard to sleep. When they left the library, Cassie took her arm and insisted on fish and chips. They went to the sit-in chipper on Sheep Street, next to the place where Nuala Devane’s dad had kept the dancehall, and ate smoked cod and chips with mushy peas. When they got home Pat regretted the two cups of strong tea she’d had with them. Climbing into bed, she switched off the light and, after half an hour’s wakefulness, slipped into a shallow sleep.

  In her dreams she was back in Resolve searching for something, but all the familiar landmarks had changed. Struggling to find the factory she’d worked in, she realised that it was long gone. But why was she wearing the dress she’d bought for her wedding trousseau? And here was Josie, coming towards her on a walker, while her own image, reflected in a shop window, was that of the slim girl she’d been at nineteen. Between sleeping and waking, she saw the faces of the book-club members mouthing silently from a huge screen on a high hill. Josie’s eyes were fixed on her, looking troubled. Then she was stumbling upwards in her vinyl Cuban heels, and Mary was barring the way, holding a copy of Dorothy Sayers’s Murder Must Advertise.

  She woke to find herself curled up on Ger’s side of the bed. It was the first time she’d ever lain there, and the shadows thrown by the furniture were unfamiliar. She’d always liked sleeping with the window open but Ger had preferred it closed. He didn’t mind the light from the street outside, though, so the room had always been shadowy rather than dark. Lying on his side of the bed, Pat was aware of the pediment over the wardrobe and how its scrolled shape appeared black on the opposite wall. From her side you’d be more conscious of the way the light through the window made barred patterns over the bed. Feeling chilly, she reached out and found Ger’s blue cashmere pullover, which, in the end, she’d laid aside when she’d bagged up his clothes. There was warmth in the wool when she put it on over her nightdress, and she slid back into his hollow in the mattress, pulling the duvet up around her ears.

  As she drifted back to sleep, she remembered how, all those years ago, Josie had taken her shopping on her first weekend in Resolve. They’d caught a bus to a downtown branch of Macy’s and bought ice-creams at a soda place before starting the search for a dress to wear on her honeymoon. Ger had decided they’d go to Kerry and have a couple of nights in Ballybunion. He wanted to visit some farmer his dad bought cattle from. Pat had heard good things about the strand, so she’d told Josie she fancied a dress that would look smart on a beach. And, though Josie had pooh-poohed Ballybunion, saying the beach near Lissbeg was far better, she’d joined in the search with enthusiasm. In the end they’d found a knee-length blue shift, with a pattern of white daisies round the hem. Pat had promised herself she wouldn’t wear it until the honeymoon. But promises were one thing and what happened was something else.

  * * *

  She was eating breakfast when Mary arrived the following morning and called her a terrible slut to be sitting there in her dressing gown. Sticking out her tongue at her, Pat nodded at the teapot. ‘That’s still hot, have a cup.’

  ‘I will, though I’ve only just had coffee at the deli. I got a lift in with Hanna when she came to work.’

  ‘Was she passing your door?’

  ‘Doesn’t she always pass it?’

  ‘She does if she drives a mile out of her way.’

  Mary drank tea and examined Pat critically. ‘You’re looking rough, girl. Did you sleep last night?’

  ‘I did and I didn’t. You know yourself.’

  ‘I do. But I’ll tell you this, you’ll feel better if you get on with things and get out.’

  ‘I have Ger’s clothes bagged up for the Vincent de Paul, anyway.’

  ‘That’s great. Though, mind you, I’m never sure I trust them. I read they sell most of the good stuff off to China.’

  ‘Holy God Almighty, Mary Casey! Is there anything goes on at all that you don’t find suspicious?’

  Mary spread butter on a piece of toast and looked round for marmalade. ‘Come here to me, though, what did you think of the crowd in the library last night?’

  Pat brightened. ‘I thought it was great, didn’t you?’

  ‘Josie’s as bad as you said she was.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, the walker. And the state of her, Pat, she looks dreadful.’

  Pat offered marmalade and said nothing. Mary had taken a dislike to Josie years ago, when Pat had talked too much about her after spending the summer in Resolve. It was never wise to praise someone to Mary. She was like a child, the way she needed attention. It hadn’t helped that, before Pat went home, it was Josie who’d persuaded the machine-room manager to give her a box of pearl buttons and a pattern for a wedding dress that, for style and modernity, had beaten Mary’s cream-puff creation bought in Cork. Though, having held her peace for all these years, Pat wasn’t going to open that can of worms now. Instead she remarked that Hanna had been a very good facilitator.

  Mary dipped toast in her tea and brushed aside the comment. ‘The place was exactly the way you described it. Though did you see the cat? I wouldn’t let a cat up on a cushion. He’d shed hairs. Still, they’d have great attachments on their hoovers over there.’

  ‘They call them vacuums.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t doubt you. They’d always have to be different. All the same, they make great gadgets in the States. One of those quilting-guild ladies had a mother a cousin of mine who used to send presents over at Christmas. There was a great yoke for taking stones out of olives. Another was a wire thing you’d use to slice hard-boiled eggs.’

  Pat remembered gadgets like those in Resolve in the 1960s. The rooming house to which Josie had introduced her had had a shared kitchen, and she’d hardly been able to credit all the things that were in the drawers. There was a big fridge-freezer, too, like you’d never have seen in Finfarran. It made crushed ice that clattered like an avalanche into your glass, scattering bits that melted on the floor. And there was a salad crisper, though most of the salads she ate there were tasteless enough. They put celery salt and paprika on them to give them a bit of a lift, and a honey-mustard dressing that she’d ended up addicted to. Salad Cream on hard-boiled eggs was never the same again.

  Mary kicked her under the table. ‘What did you think of your woman in charge of the ladies’ quilting crowd?’

  ‘Mrs Shanahan?’

  ‘Very genteel. Is she English, Pat?’

  ‘I think someone said she was old money from Boston.’

  ‘Would that be English originally, so?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘And she married a Shanahan. Would they be the crowd from Mullafrack?’

  ‘So she said.’ Pat reached out and smacked Mary’s hand as she dunked more toast in her tea. ‘Stop sticking marmalade in the teacup!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s fierce bad manners.’

  ‘Tis far from fancy manners we were reared. Anyway, isn’t it only the two of us? Nobody’ll see me.’

  ‘Well, I’m the one that’ll have
to wash the cup.’ Pat stood up and went to boil the kettle. ‘You’ll have another drop, now you’re here.’

  Mary took her cup to the sink and made a big show of washing it. Back at the table, they poured more tea and Mary asked if Pat had plans for the day.

  ‘The Vincent de Paul woman’s coming round for the bags.’

  ‘But, sure, that’ll take no time. She only has to get them downstairs.’

  ‘There’s a fierce lot more to be cleared out, though, Mary. All Ger’s bits and pieces. And his papers. Well, they’ll be fine, because Frankie’s going to do them.’

  ‘Is he now? And did he help with the clothes?’

  ‘Well, no. He had things to do himself, so he had to get on.’

  Mary pursed her lips but, for once, said nothing. Pat was glad. She didn’t feel up to defending Frankie this morning. But that was the thing about Mary: she’d be kindness itself if she saw you were feeling weak. She’d back off now and probably offer to scrub out the whole flat. Or go home, make a pot of soup, and force one of the neighbours to drive it round in their car. Pushing the last of the toast across the table, Pat asked what Mary had thought when your man mentioned A Long Way to LA.

  ‘God, Pat, I nearly rose up and threw a chair at him! Was that Moss Canny’s son?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Weren’t there plenty there who could open their beaks that know far more than he does about Finfarran? Sure Moss hardly came home at all after he left in disgrace.’

  ‘Well, the twins are on the committee.’

  ‘And don’t you know as well as I do the kind that get themselves onto committees? Aren’t they only there for what they can rake back?’ Mary put her elbows on the table. ‘I tell you what, though. I haven’t read a detective story for years. All those Golden Age books by people like Agatha Christie. I’d say I went through the whole lot back in the day.’