During the summer holidays, she’d risked a row by persuading her father to take her up to Dublin. They’d walked the National Gallery without finding her painting, but when they’d emerged Hanna had a dream. She already knew she was useless with a paintbrush, but people created catalogues, and wrote the signs under the pictures and statues. Maybe she could find work doing that. Later, when she’d discovered that large galleries had libraries, everything had fallen into place. She would train as an art librarian and work in a thrilling gallery. And one day, beyond the confines of Finfarran, she’d find her own version of the life portrayed in her painting, complete with a beautiful home, the perfect husband, and a child who would never, ever feel unloved.
A gush of water in the downpipe outside the window indicated that Cassie was taking a shower. Pat laughed and stood up to make tea to follow the apple tart they’d had for their dessert. ‘She’ll be down now in a minute, all dressed up to the nines. God, wouldn’t you envy her energy? She was awake half the night with her light on, I know that for sure. And do you know what it is, Hanna? I’d say she’s in love!’
If this was true, thought Hanna, it was typical of Pat to be delighted. She’d always had a soft spot for a love affair. Hanna could remember confiding in her the first time her own heart had been broken, by a boy she’d met at a disco. And when she’d come back to Finfarran grieving for a broken marriage, for which she’d thrown up her dream career, Pat had told her roundly that life was complicated. ‘So your husband turned out not to be the man you’d thought you’d married! Sure what matter? Didn’t you give it your best shot, girl? And look at the lovely daughter you’ve come away with!’
Now Hanna smiled at Pat, whose eyes were shining at the thought of Cassie in love. ‘So who is it? Do you know?’
‘Not at all, love. I haven’t a notion. But I haven’t lived this long without knowing the signs.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Having taken the briefest of cat-naps, Cassie found herself dressing as if preparing for a date. The jeans she’d worn to work were clean but, rummaging through her wardrobe, she took out a new pair and an oversized sweater, edgy and urban but also suggestive of the waiflike look she’d always envied in Erin. Not that Erin was competition. Definitely not. That had been established. Having indulged in a scented shower gel, which she’d had unopened since Christmas, Cassie sat down at the mirror and frowned at her hair. This was the moment, she reckoned. She’d add a touch of metallic pomade to the peacock flash in her fringe. Subtly different was the effect to go for. Nothing to elicit comment. Not with an audience looking on from both sides of the Atlantic.
The slightest touch of silver pomade produced a satisfactory background shimmer. Happy with the cut, which she’d trimmed only the other day at the salon, Cassie leaned forward and wondered about her eyes. The catnap hadn’t done much to mitigate her lack of sleep. Hesitating, she wondered whether a haggard look would be interesting or just hag-like. Then she decided not to take the risk. The combination of panda eyes and a huge grey sweater might be more Morticia than Galadriel.
Ten minutes later, discreetly made up, she shimmied into the new jeans and pulled on the sweater. It was fine-knit silk and wool and looked effortlessly cool worn with Doc Martens. As she gave a final twirl in front of the mirror, she remembered another book she’d had as a kid. It had been too full of magic hares and unicorns for her liking, but one line had apparently lodged in her mind. The Victorian heroine, who lived in a village called Silverydew, and had a governess with the twee name of Miss Heliotrope, was described as ‘one of your true aristocrats for whom the perfection of hidden things was even more important than outward show’.
Remembering it, Cassie giggled. By that reckoning, she herself must be seriously aristocratic, since no one in Resolve was likely to see her footwear or smell her expensive bergamot shower gel. But that, she reminded herself, wasn’t the point. Getting dressed up might partly be about Jack but, really, all she wanted was to make herself feel good. Seconds later, catching her eye in the mirror, she knew that it wasn’t. But telling herself it was made her feel better – or, at least, less of a lovesick fool.
Grabbing her bag and the plate on which she’d carried up her sandwich, she clattered downstairs to where Pat and Hanna were still at the kitchen table. Neither of them remarked on her appearance. Unsure whether to be miffed or pleased, Cassie washed the plate and went to make herself a coffee. It was twenty past six and Hanna stood up, saying she ought to get back to the library. Switching off the kettle, Cassie said that she’d go along.
‘No, don’t, stay and have your coffee. You’re not supposed to be working – you’re a club member.’
‘Yeah, but I’m happy to help.’
‘There’s really nothing to do. Ferdia’s going to set things up.’
‘I can put out the seating.’
‘Well, okay, if you’re sure you want to.’
Pat stood up decisively. ‘Let’s all go over now. I can help too.’
Cassie felt guilty. Her best chance of seeing Jack was during the set-up, but was it fair to drag Pat across the road so early, and to allow her to carry stacks of library chairs? Anyway, what could possibly happen if and when she saw Jack? She couldn’t expect a chat in the midst of the technical stuff. About to say that she’d stay put and come over with Pat later, she saw that her grandmother had already gone to fetch her coat. Hanna, whose coat was on a nearby chair, was clearing the kitchen table. Unsure of what to do for the best, Cassie helped her. Then Pat came back, wearing a yellow anorak, and the three of them made for the door.
They paused on the landing as Pat turned the key in the new Chubb lock. It had come with two keys, which Fury had formally placed on the kitchen table saying that, when a workman fitted a lock, half the world complained that they’d never seen sight nor light of their spare key. ‘And then,’ he’d declared bitterly, ‘they’re up and down the town announcing you’ve probably sold it off to a gang of thieves!’
Pat had given the spare to Cassie, watching her fit it onto her keyring with the Yale key to the flat door, and the other which gave access to the shop. Now she checked that Cassie had the keyring.
‘Yup. It’s right here in my purse. Don’t worry.’
‘Because I turn this key when I go to bed now, you know that.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘And you might want to go gallivanting after the book club.’
‘Well, I might. But I think I’m far more likely to want to come home with you and crash.’
As they descended the stairs to the shadowy shop, Cassie wondered where Pat had thought she might go gallivanting. With the exceptions of her visit to Frankie and Fran and the fish and chips she’d had with Pat after last week’s book club, she hadn’t been out at night since they’d returned from Resolve. In fact, she’d never mentioned her visit to Frankie’s – she wasn’t sure why, but she’d felt she still needed to process it. Perhaps the bottom line was just that she didn’t like her uncle much. He’d been weird again last weekend when they’d gone for tea after finding the shamrock. Fran had given them a great welcome, hugging and kissing them both and summoning scones and plates of cake. She’d ushered them into a living room full of over-stuffed armchairs, and fussed about bringing Pat a side table for her cup. But Frankie had simply sat and stared disconcertingly at Cassie, who’d hardly been able to wait to get away.
Cassie set out the chairs for the book club while Ferdia fiddled with the computer and Pat and Hanna chatted with Mary Casey, whom they’d met as they came across the road from the flat. Darina arrived ridiculously early with Gobnit still in tow. The little girl was hunched over a game on her mother’s iPhone. Sitting down, Darina rolled her eyes at Cassie. ‘Isn’t it dreadful? She won’t give me the phone so now I have to take her wherever I go!’
Cassie decided that Gobnit’s presence was Hanna’s problem, not hers. Anyway, the child’s iPhone fixation was keeping her quiet. With the chairs arranged, she went through to t
he library and found Pat asking which books the group in Resolve had chosen. Hanna said she didn’t know. ‘Josie and I exchanged email addresses, but I’ve heard no more.’
Mary swung her bag onto Hanna’s desk and gave a derisive snort. ‘Wouldn’t you think Josie would get her ducks in a row!’
Cassie saw Hanna’s flash of irritation before Pat leaned in to give Mary a push. ‘Ah, for God’s sake, she’s not running a boot camp! They’re probably still discussing it and haven’t been able to choose.’
‘Well, I’ve never known what anyone sees in that Josie Fenton. From all I’ve heard she’s about as much use to the world as a chocolate teapot.’
Hanna intervened: ‘Pat’s right, Mam, and there’s no hurry. It takes time for a club to get on its feet.’
Seeing Mary’s eyebrows rise in massive disapproval, Cassie edged away from the desk and went back to join Ferdia. As she’d hoped, he’d just established the link with the Shamrock Club. When she entered the reading room she heard Jack’s voice and realised, with a sense of shock, that she’d know it anywhere. Yet they’d spent so short a time together that evening in Resolve and had hardly exchanged more than a sentence since.
Pausing just inside the doorway, she could see him on the screen. As he walked away from the camera on his side of the ocean, she realised he was taller and more muscular than she’d remembered. ‘Rangy’ was the word she’d used to describe him in Resolve, and it still seemed to fit. He moved with a grace that reminded her of Pangur, the white cat, and now, watching the steady way he went about his work, she wondered if the comfortable quality she’d dismissed as boring was actually effortless assurance. As he came back to adjust his camera he cracked a joke with Ferdia, his eyes gleaming like slivers of blue glass. Feeling she was acting like a stalker, Cassie moved abruptly from the door and walked towards Ferdia’s camera. To her delight, Jack’s face broke into its lopsided smile. ‘Hey, you! Good to see you!’
But did he mean it? Or, more to the point, what exactly did he mean?
She stopped at what she hoped was a flattering distance from the camera. Last week, delighted by the sight of a woman she’d known at school, someone had rushed forward and bent down with her nose almost pressed to the camera in Resolve. The effect on the screen in Lissbeg was grotesque, and what ought to have been touching had provoked a roar of laughter.
Unsure whether to wave or not, Cassie tried to stick her thumbs into her belt loops and couldn’t locate one through the folds of her sweater. Desperately, she clasped her hands behind her, then panicked because it might look as if she’d deliberately stuck out her boobs. It seemed an awfully long time since Jack had spoken so she raised her voice and called out, ‘Hi.’ Jack blinked and took a step back and, seeing his reaction, Ferdia frowned and reached for the volume control. Cassie wanted to crawl away and die. Obviously, she’d sounded like a foghorn, as weird and inappropriate as the lady who’d looked so grotesque last week.
But the guys didn’t seem to be bothered. Each was fiddling with his volume settings, trying to establish balance, and when Jack looked up he just asked her to say something else. ‘Could you speak again at the same pitch, Cassie? And move about, like you did last week?’
‘Sure thing.’
Just as she’d done previously, Cassie moved from chair to chair, speaking from different positions. But last week had been different. Now she felt all arms and legs, and everything she said sounded stupid. Jack’s encouraging attitude made matters worse. ‘Don’t worry, just keep talking. I need to get a level.’
Cassie promptly froze and couldn’t say anything at all. Groping for words, she found Gobnit’s eyes fixed on her, filled with scorn. At that moment Mary Casey surged into the room. ‘What’s the story here? It’s nearly seven. Are you not ready yet?’
In fact, there were ten minutes to go, and even Resolve’s punctual readers had only begun to trickle into the Shamrock Club’s library. Jack’s face on the screen broke into a smile. ‘Oh, hi, there. Mrs Casey, isn’t it? We’re testing for sound. Could you sit down somewhere and say a few words? Maybe move around?’
‘I’ll sit where I’m going to sit, young man, and that’ll have to do you.’
She ensconced herself in the front row and was joined by Pat, who was followed by a chattering group of others. Feeling relieved, Cassie edged out of camera range and went and found Hanna. ‘Would you like me to stay at the door and let latecomers in?’
‘That’d be great. I’ll go through to Ferdia now, and see what’s happening.’
‘I think they’re pretty much all set up.’
Alone at the desk, Cassie pulled herself together and, when the last latecomers had been sent through, slipped back into the reading room and found the club discussing its choice of book. As Hanna had guessed, the group in Resolve had been unable to agree. Josie was holding two books up to the camera, Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None and The Moving Target by Ross Macdonald. ‘So it came to a toss-up between these two, or at least . . .’ Josie looked round nervously ‘. . . most of us accepted that it did.’
A hand shot up a couple of rows behind her, and Ned, one of the Canny twins, stood up. ‘Actually, if you’ll forgive me, Josie, that’s not exactly the case. A number of us feel, Hanna, that an Irish author would be more appropriate. And many of us are still of the opinion that A Long Way to LA would be best of all.’
A large woman sitting by Josie turned and looked over her shoulder. Whatever she said to Ned was lost, because her back was to the microphone, but, judging by the faces behind her, it wasn’t anything good.
Everyone sitting round Cassie was agog, some of them clearly hoping to witness a fight. Then Hanna cleared her throat. ‘Can we all remember to raise our hands if we’re going to speak, please? It makes things easier. And I do see what you mean about reading an Irish author, Ned, but I can’t imagine you found many in your collection, did you, Josie? Vintage detective fiction isn’t really an Irish genre.’ Josie said, no, she hadn’t, and Hanna went on briskly, ignoring the red herring of A Long Way to LA. ‘Christie or The Moving Target look like great choices. And, after all, this is just the beginning. We might branch out into other genres later.’
Ned Canny looked unappeased but, before he could respond, Mary raised her voice: ‘If you ask me, you can’t beat Margery Allingham.’ Everyone in Resolve leaned forward to see who had spoken and Mary waved her hand imperiously, summoning Josie’s attention. ‘Would you have The Case of the Late Pig, Josie?’
Josie said they had.
‘Well, there you are, then. Why don’t we go for a compromise?’
Having clearly worked hard to establish the options, Josie looked flustered. But Mary was now on a roll. ‘I’d say that’s the best way forward, wouldn’t you, Hanna? We’ll settle for The Late Pig.’
From the back of the room, Cassie saw Hanna stiffen, but such was the force of Mary’s self-confidence that, on both sides of the Atlantic, heads were beginning to nod. Looking a little bewildered and having taken the mood of her meeting, Josie smiled. ‘Well, I guess it looks like we’re all in agreement. Thanks, Mary.’
In the scatter of applause that followed, the sideways look that Cassie saw Mary throw at Pat spoke volumes. Whatever had been the outcome of their earlier spat about Josie, she had now triumphantly demonstrated how to get all your ducks in a row.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mary and Pat had a time-honoured tradition of watching Lissbeg’s St Patrick’s Day parade from the window of Pat’s kitchen. The clock above the seed merchant’s a few doors down from Fitzgerald’s sported tricolour ribbons, while the deli had decked its shelves with rainbow colours and filled its window with pottery bowls overflowing with green and gold confetti. All along the parade route, volunteers were rattling boxes, collecting for the mountain-rescue team, the lifeboat service, and other local charities. The shop window displays made a festive background for the marching groups with their streamers, the tractors pulling trailers crowded with musici
ans, and the floats carrying school kids in green hats and nylon beards.
Ger always used to stay open for late-night shopping on the sixteenth, and leave the blind up the following day to display his decorations. Pat had told Des to do the same this year. When Tom and Ger were alive they used to saunter round the town together, leaving the grandstand view from the kitchen to Mary and Pat. So she didn’t miss him in the flat today, though she’d felt lonely earlier, seeing the wolfhound and his round tower with the crêpe-paper-covered pots of shamrock at his feet.
Pulling a couple of chairs from the table to the window, she settled herself to await Mary’s arrival. Across the street a marching band had assembled in the old nuns’ garden. Along Broad Street, and over at the horse trough, people were claiming viewing points. Back in the day they’d all have been to Mass first thing in the morning and sat down to their dinner at one o’clock. Now the parade was held at noon because most people had their big meal in the evening and, though some made an exception for Patrick’s Day, like they did for Christmas and Easter, not many households went to Mass these days. Neither did Pat. She’d had enough of the nuns’ old guff at school, and the way the Brothers had treated Ger had put her off the lot of them for life. Besides, the clergy’s abuse of kids all over the world made her sick, and the fact that they wouldn’t admit to it made things worse. Since the revelations, she’d noticed plenty of her generation staying away from the sermons and sacraments they’d grown up with. They might drop into the church all right but not if the priest was there. She couldn’t tell if that made her sad or plain angry – because why should they have to do that at their time of life? But she didn’t dwell on it. You lived out your time the best way you could and tried to do right by your neighbours, and if that didn’t make you a good person, the belt of some bishop’s crozier never would.
It was a grand day for the parade. The sun was glinting on the old convent building’s stained-glass windows and striking light from the silver flutes and fifes in the kids’ hands. The band wore white tops and black tracksuit bottoms and the colours made Pat think back to the past. When she was at school no one had been allowed in the nuns’ private domain, but when she’d married and moved to the flat she could look down and see black-robed figures moving between the herb beds, their heads bent within their veils, which had starched white lining. That was before the school closed and the council bought the buildings and the garden.
The Transatlantic Book Club Page 14