The Transatlantic Book Club

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  As Pat watched, a pair of birds swooped over the horse trough. Curving across Broad Street, they rose, turned, and settled on a wire that stretched from a telephone pole on the street to the end of the library building. It was early for the house martins to turn up again in Lissbeg. These were the first she’d seen this year, and now they were joined by two others. As the newcomers turned in flight towards the wire, the white feathers on their underparts flashed. Then the curved claws fastened round their perch and, as they sat in a row on the wire, all Pat could see were four glossy backs, as black as the birds’ cocked heads, and their long forked tails. Who could believe that these little bundles of bone, muscle, and feathers had flown all the way to Africa and returned to their nests under the convent eaves?

  There was another poem by Hardy she liked, about an old thrush with what was described as a ‘blast-beruffled plume’. It had made Pat think about the house martins’ journey across the windswept ocean, so she’d looked them up in the library to see how far they’d had to fly. The distances were mind-boggling, and it had pleased her to see that practically nothing was known about the life martins lived at the other side of the world. Though the eaves above the stained-glass windows were thick with their mud-built nests, she imagined the birds as jealous of their privacy – members of a community but protective of the secrets of their individual lives.

  As though in response to a signal, the four martins rose from the wire and wheeled across the courtyard and the garden, darting towards the nests that clung to the old convent wall. Turning her head to follow their flight, Pat saw Mary walking down Broad Street with a bunch of shamrock pinned to her lapel. Mary, who was a great one for the Carrick shops, always said she’d rather be out of the world than out of the fashion. She had her good coat on now, the way she always did on St Patrick’s Day, a new tweed three-quarter length with a plum-coloured velvet trim. The sight of her almost made Pat expect to hear Ger take his hat from the peg and go down to meet Tom. Instead she went down to let Mary in, and followed her up the stairs to the flat aware that – whatever you might say about her expanding figure – Mary had always kept her shapely legs. Among the things Pat had bought for her all those years ago was a pair of ten-denier tights to wear with her wedding dress. You wouldn’t have found tights in Ireland in those days, which was why Mary wanted them. When they’d gone to the mall, Josie had had to tell Pat to ask for “pantyhose”. That was Josie, she was one of those people who’d adapted to the States straight away, the kind that wouldn’t always be looking over their shoulder towards home.

  As soon as Mary settled in her chair by the window, she produced a packet of mint chocolate biscuits. Pat shook her head at her. ‘Ah, for God’s sake, you knew I’d have buns made.’

  ‘I did, of course, but what harm? Can’t we open these as well?’

  That was how it was in Finfarran. You wouldn’t want to go into a house with one arm as long as the other, so you’d always bring a bottle or some kind of treat. Still, Pat knew Cassie would be home at some point and make short work of whatever she and Mary didn’t eat. She put the biscuits in a bowl on the windowsill, where their green foil wrapping looked the part. Over in the nuns’ garden the band had begun to play. The parade was due to march down one side of Broad Street and back up the other. According to the programme, the band would join them on their final circuit of the town but, to begin with, it would play in the garden to entertain the crowds.

  Mary gave Pat a poke in the arm. ‘So what did we think of last night?’

  ‘I thought you could’ve kept your beak shut, for one thing.’

  They hadn’t got much further with the book talk last night after choosing The Late Pig. Somehow they’d all got chatting about their St Patrick’s Day celebrations and the fact that the Shamrock Club was planning a do. They were going to have a dance and a big meal in the evening, and Mrs Shanahan’s latest piece would be presented to the club. She’d held it up to the camera, so the group in Lissbeg could see it, and explained that it was a banner for the Lucky Charm bar.

  Picking at green-foil wrapping, Mary remarked that, as banners went, it looked like a lot of work. There was a pause in which they ate biscuits before catching each other’s eye. Then Pat let out a yelp of laughter and smacked Mary on the hand. ‘God forgive the two of us, would you stop it!’

  ‘Ah, be fair now, I kept a straight face last night.’

  The banner had featured a huge four-leafed clover, which Mrs Shanahan, who’d designed it, had called ‘the sweet little emblem of Ireland’. With admirable politeness, the group in Lissbeg had said it was great.

  Pat regained her composure. ‘Ah, God help her, Mary, it’s a lovely piece of work.’

  ‘I never said it wasn’t. But wouldn’t you think that Josie would have put the poor woman straight? I mean, a four-leafed clover, Pat! “The sweet little emblem of Ireland”!’

  ‘Josie’s not in the quilting guild. And Mrs Shanahan’s the chairlady.’

  ‘I’d have said something if I’d been there, to stop her making a fool of herself.’

  ‘Maybe she wouldn’t have wanted you interfering.’

  ‘Ay, well, you’ll always stand up for Josie, we all know that.’

  ‘Haven’t I just said it’s nothing to do with Josie?’

  ‘Well, what call have you to stand up for that Mrs Shanahan, then?’ Sniffing, Mary turned her attention to the window. The front of the parade had appeared at the far end of Broad Street. Swinging along at a great pace, school kids were marching to the beat of a drummer, in front of whom strode Mr Maguire, resplendent as St Patrick with a cardboard crozier and mitre. He was wearing green poplin robes with a sheepskin round his shoulders and a pair of hide boots. Some steps behind him was Darina, arrayed in sacking and more sheepskin. She was flanked by Gobnit, clutching the iPhone and wearing green face paint, and her hair was flying in green and orange dreadlocks. The previous night Darina had announced at the club that modern scholars believed St Patrick had a wife whose name was Sheelah. This had been met with blank stares on both sides of the Atlantic and, judging by his expression today and the speed at which he was moving, it wasn’t a theory Mr Maguire endorsed. Behind the school kids, two abreast, came balloon-festooned tractors, and a van from which employees of the AgriCoOp were throwing handfuls of sweets. Behind them, more musicians were followed by the local fire engine in which crew members were wearing flashing shamrocks on their helmets.

  Leaning forward, Pat spotted Cassie. There was a young man with her and they were walking along behind the spectators, trying to find a clear space on the pavement. Pat put her head out of the window and waved them up. For a minute Cassie seemed to hesitate. Then she nodded and spoke to her companion, who looked up at the window and waved back at Pat.

  When they came into the flat Cassie seemed in great form. ‘This is Bradley Miller. He’s from the States.’

  Mary turned round appraisingly and asked if he had relations in Lissbeg.

  ‘I come from good German stock on both sides, I’m afraid. Not a single drop of Irish blood in my veins.’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s compulsory.’

  Pat intervened: ‘Indeed she’s not. She’s just being nosy. You’re very welcome, Bradley. Are you here for the parade?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m scoping out the area for work. I arrange tours.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Mary, who’d continued to stare at him, raised her eyebrows. ‘And how did you two meet, if it’s not too nosy a question to ask?’

  Pat nearly kicked her but the young man didn’t seem bothered and neither did Cassie. Instead, they sat at the table eating buns and Cassie explained that they’d met in Ballyfin when she’d cut his hair. ‘He works for a cruise line.’

  Pat said that sounded glamorous. Mary nodded judicially. ‘And that’s why you got chatting?’

  ‘I suppose you could say so, yes.’

  You couldn’t go staring at the poor lad the way Mary was, but Pat took a look at him while she was making the t
ea. He was wearing what Josie would call smart-casual clothing and had a great tan and a wide American smile. She wondered if Cassie had met him today by appointment, or if they’d just happened to meet in the street. As she poured milk into a jug, she decided to wait and see if that would come out in conversation. But Mary waded in with both feet. ‘Tell me this now, Cassie, are you out on a date or how did you meet up today?’

  Pat nearly dropped a cup, but Cassie just laughed. Bradley got up to carry the tray and said he’d come into town for the parade. ‘And, next thing I know, there’s Cassie. It wasn’t too surprising. She’d told me she’s staying here in Lissbeg with her gran.’

  ‘You’ll have to forgive me now, Bradley, but turning up where you know she lives sounds a bit opportune.’

  He gave her a broad, infectious grin. ‘Not guilty, Mrs Casey. But Cassie’s gorgeous, so, yeah, I do see your point.’

  It was said in such a charming, easy-going way that everybody laughed, and, though Pat shot a quick glance at Cassie, she could read nothing but good humour in her face. Later, when Bradley was gone and Cassie was upstairs in her bedroom, she gave Mary the kick she’d been holding back for hours. ‘Honestly, have you no sense of how to behave?’

  ‘And what have I done now?’

  ‘Questioning Cassie and Bradley like that! I was mortified!’

  ‘God, Pat, you’re a terrible woman for fooling yourself. You weren’t mortified at all! You were dying to hear the answers. Though I’ll tell you this for free, girl, I’m not sure I believe them. If you ask me, that Bradley Miller’s a hard nut to crack.’

  Sticking to the habit of a lifetime, Pat didn’t argue with her. Mary might get hold of the wrong end of the stick on occasion, but she was no fool and, this time, it could be she was right.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mary’s visit extended into the evening. When she left, Pat called Cassie down and they chatted. According to Cassie, Brad was surprised by what he’d seen in Lissbeg. It wasn’t the kind of St Patrick’s Day parade that he’d envisaged, and Cassie, too, had found it different from what she’d expected. ‘I guess I’d imagined the sorts of things you see on TV. Majorettes and police bands and fountains spouting green water.’

  ‘Well, no, love, we wouldn’t go in for that.’

  ‘And the mayor and politicians glad-handing. And multicultural stuff. In Toronto last year we had a dancing green dragon.’

  ‘You’d get the odd politician out here, all right, but there wouldn’t be much call for dragons. I’d say they’d be more St George’s thing than St Patrick’s. Snakes, now. You might get snakes in a Patrick’s Day parade. Did you and Brad not enjoy yourselves?’

  ‘God, no, we loved it. Well, I know I did, and he had a ball.’

  Mary would have been sure to ask if Cassie had plans to see Brad again, but Pat had a feeling the question wouldn’t be welcome. She decided to leave it at that. He’d looked like a decent fellow, very cheerful and charming but, like Mary said, there was something reserved about him. A kind of smoothness that seemed to keep you at bay. Pat wondered if Cassie wasn’t aware of it, or if she simply had no reason to care.

  Later, when Cassie had gone out again, and Pat watched the Dublin parade on the evening news, she told herself she was getting as nosy as Mary. Cassie’s life was her own and she didn’t need her granny sticking her oar in. On the other hand, there were times when she seemed terribly young and vulnerable. She was a girl who’d struck out on her own far too young, perhaps, and had missed having a mother she could talk to. Sonny’s wife, Annette, was nice enough but, like Cassie’s siblings, she was a full-on businesswoman. When the children were young she’d left them to a nanny, descending in a guilty whirl if they were ill or did badly at school, and otherwise being absent or unavailable. Cassie’s career choice had made no sense to her mother, who saw her freewheeling lifestyle as irresponsible. If Cassie were in love, Pat was sure that Annette wouldn’t notice, and if she’d fallen for a lad who worked on cruise ships he wouldn’t be deemed good enough for her upwardly mobile family.

  As she turned off the news before going to bed, Pat reflected that she’d been younger than Cassie was now when she’d spent that summer in Resolve. Ger had proposed to her on the beach where the four of them had gone to celebrate Mary and Tom’s engagement. They’d planned a night at the pictures in Carrick after a drink in the pub, but the news of the engagement had put paid to that. Instead they’d taken a bottle of Blue Nun down to the beach near Lissbeg. It was a night of bright stars. They hung like jewels in an inky sky and their pale light glimmered on the waves. The boys went looking for timber on the shoreline while Mary and Pat went up to the dunes for handfuls of grass and dry seaweed to start a fire. Pat could remember sand sliding beneath her feet as she climbed the dunes. They were so steep 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 across the palm of her hand. The blood had tasted salty when she licked it.

  When the fire was lit the four of them had sat there, passing the bottle round. After a while, Mary and Tom had started messing around. She’d take a mouthful of wine and kiss him, and pass it on to him that way, mouth to mouth. Pretty soon they forgot the wine and started to snog. Pat and Ger were sitting across from them, feeling awkward and watching through the flames. It didn’t matter, of course, because the other two didn’t notice.

  A bit after that, Mary had grabbed Tom’s hand and run with him into the dunes. They’d 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. She could sense the ocean stretching away for thousands of fathomless miles, black under the moonlight on one side of the world and sparkling under sunshine on the other. And Ger had said, without looking at her, ‘Will we get married, so?’ Pat had said yes at once because she’d known the question was coming. She’d known that Tom would ask Mary too, but she’d kind of been holding her breath in case he wouldn’t. She’d told herself life was strange and that you never knew what might happen. But as soon as she’d seen Tom’s face that night she’d known what he had done.

  In those days Resolve had felt like a different world altogether. Looking back, Pat could see herself struggling with the door of the railway carriage, stepping onto the platform and seeing Josie standing there in a little shift dress and a pillbox hat. The hat was made of white petals, her hair was styled, and her makeup looked great. Back then, women in the States never seemed to go out unless they were all dolled up – that was the first thing Pat had noticed when she’d got off the boat in New York. In Lissbeg you might run out to the shops with an apron over your frock, and you only got your hair done for special occasions. Most of the girls made their own clothes and no one had their legs waxed or their nails done in a beauty shop, like Josie did. That was for millionaires. Yet Josie just worked in the office at the factory, and lived in the rooming house nearby with lots of other girls.

  The woman who owned the house lived in the basement and Josie said it was great the way she never interfered. ‘There’s places where the landladies act like some class of mother superior, walking in and out of your room and telling you what to do.’

  ‘But this Mrs Quinn doesn’t do that?’

  ‘Not at all. Mrs Quinn’s sound. So long as you pay your rent on the nail, and don’t be bringing in lads, she leaves you alone.’

  They’d caught a bus to the house, which was on the outskirts of town, only a few stops away from the factory. Pat’s face must have changed when she saw it because Josie asked if she’d been expecting a white picket fence. Pat said no but they both knew she was lying. What else would you expect if all you knew of America was what you’d seen at the pictures? She’d imagined something out of a Deanna Durbin musical or, idiotically, a wooden house like the ones they’d have on the main street in a cowboy film. Instead it was a brick-built, three-stor
ey place with an attic. Josie said Pat was lucky not to have ended up under the roof. ‘There’s no air-con up there and it’s fierce hot in summer. But someone’s moved out of the second floor back, and I’ve got her to give you that.’

  The second floor back was bigger than Pat’s bedroom in Finfarran. You couldn’t fault the bed and there was a table where you could sit to write letters. Josie warned her not to think she could eat there. ‘Mrs Quinn’s afraid of mice, but you can bring a cup of tea up. There’s a dining room off the kitchen downstairs, where we have our meals.’

  The girls in the house worked different shifts, so you never knew who’d be home. Pat soon got used to making her breakfast in the kitchen and sitting down with whoever else happened to be around. There was a lunch room in the factory where you could get a hot meal any time, and if she and Josie didn’t eat at the Shamrock Club in the evenings, she’d have a snack at the house and take a cup of tea up to her room. A few of the girls kept biscuits hidden in their wardrobes but Pat didn’t risk it. Josie had introduced her to Quinn’s so she didn’t want to bring mice and get the poor girl into trouble. To begin with, she was often too tired to eat anyway: her work as a sewing machinist was exhausting and she wasn’t used to the long hours or the heat.

  Other things were different too. Accustomed to Mary’s overbearing manner, Pat had been amazed at how easy Josie was to get along with. Her room on the first floor was always full of chatter and laughter, as people ran in and out, sharing gossip and swapping clothes. She was happy to lend hats, shoes, and even her best jewellery, including the little string of pearls she’d had from her boyfriend on her birthday. Pat had been amazed, but Josie just shrugged. ‘Sure, nobody’s going to take off a necklace and lose it!’