‘I suppose that’s right.’ Pat looked at her mildly. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Nothing. Well, nothing much. It’s just . . . people here seem to have gone away a lot. And there always seem to be quarrels about land.’
‘Plenty of land was hard got, Cassie, and if a farm couldn’t feed a whole family, people had to emigrate.’
‘Fury didn’t want to go. Well, I don’t think so. He just couldn’t bear to see what would happen to the forest. In the end it got sold off. Was his brother an alcoholic?’
‘You’d find plenty who’d say he was. Plenty of others who’d say he was just a man who couldn’t cope with what life threw at him.’
‘But how come he didn’t get help?’
Pat pointed to an upcoming junction. ‘Here we are. If you take this turn, we can pull in and look around.’
Cassie turned, bumped along obediently for several hundred yards, and pulled in where she was told, by a slender hazel growing out of the ditch. This was nothing more than a rutted cart-track running between small fields. Pat, who had also worn wellington boots, climbed out of the passenger seat and made her way to Cassie’s side through a patch of young nettles. Their first furry grey-green leaves were springing through a tangle of last year’s dead couch grass. ‘There used to be plenty of shamrock down here. We’ll be better walking – the car would only get filthy.’ She set off carefully, picking her way between the muddy ruts.
Cassie crossed to a nearby gate and climbed up a few bars to get the lay of the land. The fields sloped upwards and, in the distance, she could see what she thought was the gable end of the old farmhouse. Catching up with Pat, she asked if she’d been right. ‘Is that the house Ger was born in?’
‘He was born and raised in it, love, and never left till we got married. I remember it in his mam’s day. She kept a lovely home. His granddad bought the butcher’s shop, and the flat above it, way back in the thirties. Well, the upstairs was just storage then, no one lived there. But Ger and I were given the use of it and, later on, Ger got the shop and his brother got the farm. And then, after poor Miyah died, Ger kept the farm going. Even these days, people like to know where their meat comes from. Ger used to say he could name the field that raised every joint in the shop.’
‘What happened to Miyah?’
‘He was never strong. He had a heart attack. Maybe he had the same weakness Ger had, I don’t know. We didn’t have all the scans and things back then.’
‘You didn’t have modern stress and stuff, though, either, did you?’
‘No, but I suppose we had stresses and strains of our own.’
Cassie gestured up the hill. ‘But look at all that amazing gorgeousness! And listen to the birds!’ She turned a slow full circle, the heels of her boots churning up the mud. ‘How could you find a more stunning place to live?’
‘I don’t suppose you could.’
‘Do you still notice it?’
‘Gracious, child, I haven’t lost the use of my senses yet.’
‘That’s not what I meant. I thought that maybe because it was all so familiar you, kind of, wouldn’t see what’s here anymore.’
‘No, I’ve always loved the countryside. I didn’t know you did.’
Cassie wrinkled her nose. ‘I didn’t either. Not before I came to Finfarran. Now I don’t understand how Dad and Uncle Jim could leave.’ As she spoke she realised that, only the previous week when she’d first met Brad, she’d been pining to set off round the world again. Yet now, gazing through drifting mist at these rolling fields, she couldn’t imagine a better place to be.
With a squeak of triumph, Pat pointed to the foot of a gatepost. Squatting down, Cassie peered at the mass of green trefoil. Its branching stems carried clusters of leaves hardly bigger than a fingernail, and each was divided into three further leaflets. She looked up at Pat. ‘Not like the lucky shamrock you see on a greeting card.’
‘No, love, I think some people confuse shamrock with four-leaf clover. It’s an easy mistake to make. Anyway, this is the stuff we call shamrock here. You’d wear a bunch of it on your lapel.’
‘Or in your hat?’
Pat laughed. ‘Not many do these days. Mind you, Ger’s father did. Your great-granddad.’
Cassie stood up with a leaf in her hand. ‘Do you think he picked it here?’
‘I’ve no notion, love. He’d have got it on the farm, though, I do know that.’
They were admiring the leaf when a shout came from the direction of the car. Looking up, Cassie saw Frankie coming towards them. Irritated by the interruption, and concerned not to show it, she waved with more enthusiasm than she felt. Then, as Frankie approached within hearing range, she called out cheerfully, ‘We haven’t been walking the bounds!’ Frankie’s face darkened. Thinking that she’d said something wrong, Cassie hastened to explain. ‘I mean we’re not burying eggs or trying to curse you.’
By now he had joined them, and was looking sharply at Pat. Cassie wondered if speaking of curses was thought to be unlucky. Or maybe it was a male/female thing, like the St Brigid’s celebrations. Something women didn’t discuss with men? Whatever it was, he didn’t seem happy.
Pat smiled. ‘Don’t mind her, son. I was telling her all about old superstitions. We came out to look for the shamrock and there’s great growth this year.’
Cassie saw Frankie’s shoulders relax. He glanced at the shamrock without much interest, and the smile that never quite reached his eyes spread across his face. ‘Fran said someone saw your car passing. She has tea made in the house if you’d like to drop up.’
Pat’s eyes lit up. ‘Well, that’s nice, now. Isn’t it, Cassie? I could do with a cup of tea.’
Cassie sighed inwardly. Whatever else she’d inherited from the Irish side of her family, it didn’t include this endless obsession with tea. Still, if that was what Pat wanted, she couldn’t be churlish. She smiled at Frankie, aware as she did so of a dull, wary mulishness in his eyes. He turned on his heel and, as they followed him, Cassie wondered if he mightn’t be very bright. Had he taken on the farm because Dad and Uncle Jim weren’t interested, or did he end up working for Ger because he wasn’t fit for much else?
Chapter Twenty
Cassie was in bed with her laptop on her knee when a Skype call came through from Erin. Accepting it, she noticed Erin’s avatar had changed. In the new shot the silvery-fair ringlets that had cascaded round her face were combed up into a severe bun. When she appeared on the screen her hair was down and a bit straggly and she was huddled in a large bathrobe.
Cassie waved at her. ‘Hi. What’s up?’
‘Not much. Whatcha doing?’
‘Lying here trying to decide whether to sleep or listen to music. Nice avatar.’
‘Do you think so?’ Erin twisted her hair onto the top of her head, held it there for a moment, and let it fall onto the shoulders of her fluffy pink robe. ‘I changed it to cheer myself up, but I’m not sure I like it.’
‘I think it looks good. How come you needed cheering up?’
‘Oh, just, MEN, is all.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘He dumped me.’
Retaining what she hoped was an unchanged expression, Cassie repositioned her laptop against her knees. ‘Who did?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, keep up! Jeff did. The guy who took me out to dinner?’
Still working hard on her expression, Cassie nodded. ‘Oh, right. Jeff.’
‘That’s him! Jeff-oh-my-God-Erin-you’re-so-gorgeous-you-look-so-fantastic-in-that-dress.’
‘So what happened?’
Erin pulled forlornly at her hair. ‘Do you think I should get this cut?’
‘No, I don’t. Tell me what happened.’
‘We went out again. I thought things were fine. Next day my phone buzzed.’
‘Oh, God. He dumped you by text! I hate when they do that.’
‘I hate him. Men are rats.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, w
ell. It is what it is. You’re absolutely sure I shouldn’t get a haircut?’
‘Totally. I see it all the time. Long-haired woman gets dumped. Comes in demanding a pixie bob. Wakes next morning and regrets it.’
Erin looked doubtful. ‘Okay.’
‘Delete all photos of him. It’s a cheaper option.’
‘I did that as soon as I got the text.’ Erin pushed her nose to one side and pulled down her lower lip. ‘Anyway, he was odd-looking.’
‘There you go! You’re on the mend already.’
‘Sure I am.’
They chatted on, frequently reverting to the awfulness of Jeff. Fortunately, Erin did most of the talking, leaving Cassie to deal with her own thoughts. So, Jack hadn’t been Erin’s date after all. With that established, she realised how much the thought had troubled her, and how huge had been the wave of relief when she’d found it wasn’t so. What she needed now, she thought wryly, was a confidante. But, nice though Erin was, she couldn’t be that. Not when she could easily bump into Jack at the mall or somewhere, and say something that would let the cat out of the bag.
Later, lying in bed with the light off, Cassie decided she needed to get a grip. There was no cat. And no bag. Nothing to tell. Nothing. She repeated this to herself several times before facing the fact that it wasn’t honest. Why hadn’t she asked Erin the name of her date in the first place? And tonight, when she’d heard who it was, why had she felt so tongue-tied? If there was no reason for this horrible, cringey sense of embarrassment, wouldn’t she just have spoken up and laughed with Erin at the joke? But she hadn’t, dammit, and the current state of her mind showed how bad things had got. Turning over, she switched on the light and reached for her laptop. There was no hope of sleep at this point, she told herself crossly. Because now she knew for certain that Jack wasn’t dating Erin, she was anxiously wondering whether or not he was dating somebody else.
* * *
When Cassie arrived at the library the next day, Hanna could see that she hadn’t had a good night. She was listless and pale and had dark circles under her eyes. Judging by her expression, though, she didn’t want to talk about it, so Hanna sent her to set out the cushions in Children’s Corner. ‘There’s a Tots Tell session booked in this morning, but the mum who was going to lead it has had an emergency.’
‘What’s Tots Tell?’
‘Don’t you remember? We went through the children’s activities last week.’
‘Sorry. Yes, I do. It’s toddlers reading aloud. Is that right?’
‘No, because not many toddlers know how to read.’ It was the gentlest of rebukes, lightly spoken, but Cassie looked disconsolate. Hanna smiled. ‘Look, don’t worry, there’s been a lot for you to pick up. The mums choose a suitable book – like Piggies or Wolf in the Snow – and hold it up, and ask the tots what they see in the pictures.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘It’s about socialisation, Cassie, and interaction. And familiarisation with the concept of books. All that stuff we talked about?’
‘Yeah. Sure. I’m sorry. I’ll go put out the cushions.’
‘Do. And you’ll be leading today.’
‘I will?’
‘Yes, because, as I said, the mum who was going to do it has had an emergency. It was Darina Kelly.’
‘Oh, God, of course it was. What happened?’
‘She thinks one of her kids has drunk nettle dye.’
‘You make dye from nettles?’
‘Shades of yellow and green, apparently. Darina was planning to tie-dye some muslin and Setanta assumed she’d been making tea. Which is exactly the same recipe, apparently, so I can’t see what the problem is. Anyway, Darina’s taken him to the clinic.’
‘So what do I have to do?’
‘Just hold up whatever book they select, turn the pages, encourage chat, and try to make sure that no one pees on the cushions.’
‘How?’
Cassie looked so aghast that Hanna laughed. ‘Kids tend to wriggle before it happens. Admittedly, they tend to do the same if they love a picture. But you don’t have to worry. The mums are a great bunch. They’ll keep things on track.’
As Cassie went off to find the cushions, Hanna took her third call of the day enquiring about the Transatlantic Book Club. At this rate, she told herself, she’d need to set out extra chairs this evening. When she finished the call, the door opened and Pat came in, mobile in hand. ‘I’ve just had a text from Mary. She says your phone’s turned off. I’d say the second one there is meant for me, not you.’
Hanna smiled reluctantly as she read the first text.
TELL HANNA JOHNNYS GOING TO GET ME IN THE CLUB TONIGHT
The second, which had been sent moments later, read, TAKE THAT SMIRK OFF YOU%T FACE YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN SEE YOU 7
Evidently Mary had cadged a lift to the book club from her neighbour Johnny Hennessy. Hanna looked at Pat anxiously, acutely aware that Johnny and his wife had a lot to put up with from Mary. ‘Is Johnny going to join us?’
‘Not at all, I’d say he’s just coming into Lissbeg for a pint.’ Pat nudged her. ‘Don’t you go feeling guilty, now. He’ll save you driving out to pick Mary up and bring her in, but the chances are that you’ll still have to take her home.’
‘Actually, I’m glad to see her safe home when she’s there in the house alone.’
‘Ah, she was on her own for a good few years when Tom died and she was fine.’
‘She’s older now, though.’
Like every other woman with elderly relatives, Hanna fretted about the future yet tried to live day by day. She’d been relieved when Louisa, her ex-mother-in-law, had taken a flatlet at the bungalow, which had begun to feel too large for Mary on her own. Sharing was the perfect solution for two ageing widows, and Louisa, who regularly went to London, needed no more than a pied-à-terre in Lissbeg. She was a reserved, genteel woman with a shrewd sense of humour and, surprisingly, she and Mary got on well. Hanna suspected this had to do with Louisa’s frequent breaks from her housemate, but the arrangement worked and she was glad of it. Having shared Mary’s home herself in the first years after her marriage break-up, she knew that, whatever changes might have to be made in the future, she and her mother couldn’t live under one roof. Jazz, to whom Mary was indulgent, could laugh at her grandmother’s foibles, just as Pat could find Mary good company yet also call her a cow. But Hanna had watched the corrosive effect of her mother’s jealousy all her life, and her relationship with Mary had always felt far closer to war than love.
Pat put her phone into her bag. ‘Well, you’ll have a break now between your day’s work and the meeting this evening. Will you come up to the flat for a bite to eat?’
‘I’d love to.’
‘I’ll see you later, then.’ Pat turned to go, then jerked her head at Cassie, who was staggering towards Children’s Corner with a basket of cushions. ‘If I were you I’d get a strong coffee into that one. It looks to me like she’s dying to curl up on that lot and go to sleep.’
* * *
In the end, Cassie made it through the day successfully, though she was yawning widely as she and Hanna crossed the road at five thirty. As soon as they got to the flat she said she’d nip upstairs and change. ‘Could I just grab a sandwich, Pat, and take it with me?’
As Cassie disappeared upstairs with her sandwich, Pat gave Hanna a knowing wink. ‘If you ask me she’ll be fast asleep in five minutes. And down here at ten to seven, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’ A delicious smell was rising from a saucepan on the range. Ladling soup into bowls, Pat carried them to the table. She pushed the breadboard towards Hanna, and indicated the butter dish. ‘There you are now, help yourself.’
They chatted as they ate, but most of Hanna’s mind was on the meals she’d eaten in this kitchen as a child. The hours she’d spent round at Maggie’s place had come to an end when the old lady died so, from the age of twelve, Hanna had helped in the Casey family shop after school. It was a grocery on one side and a post off
ice on the other. Kids would sit outside drinking red lemonade, and people who came to post letters would lean on the counter for a chat. If a horn hooted out in the road, Hanna would be called to cut cheese or slice bacon while her dad attended the petrol pumps that stood outside the door. She had quite enjoyed the work and the new closeness to her father. But in the evenings, and on Sundays, when Mary demanded Tom’s undivided attention, it had always been best to slip away, lest her presence provoke a row. There was plenty of entertainment to be had on the beach and exploring the cliffs but, more often than not, she’d find herself here in the kitchen, chatting to Pat.
Time spent with her godmother was nothing like the time she’d spent at Maggie’s place. Here she had never been asked to scrub the floor or peel spuds. Instead, sitting in the warm kitchen, eating drop scones with jam and butter, Pat would talk about the poetry books she borrowed from Carrick Library and kept on the shelf of the dresser among the blue-striped cups. And, between the recitations from old-fashioned poets she never heard of at school, Hanna would talk to Pat about paintings.
As a child, she hadn’t been much of a reader, and when she’d found books it was pictures that mattered at first, not words. What had seized her imagination was a flier from the National Gallery, which she’d found tucked into a school library book. The exhibition was long over by the time she’d borrowed the book, but as soon as she’d seen the flier she’d been entranced. It was a reproduction of a painting of an eighteenth-century manor. In front of the house a young man stood at a horse’s head, wearing a yellow coat and knee breeches with a richly embroidered waistcoat and a tricorn hat. The horse was harnessed to a high-wheeled open carriage in which a young woman in powdered curls and a pink quilted petticoat sat with a laughing toddler on her knee. To fourteen-year-old Hanna the painting had offered heart-stopping possibilities, though at the time she would have been hard put to articulate what they were.
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