The Transatlantic Book Club

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  ‘Well, lookut, I’ll see what I can do for you on the load.’

  Fury immediately produced a roll of notes. Shaking his head vehemently, Colm poured him more tea. ‘No, no, no, not at all. I’ll see you the next day.’

  ‘Ah, take it now before I change my mind.’

  ‘What do you mean, before you change your mind? Haven’t I just lowered the price?’

  ‘Get away out of that. It was too high to begin with.’ With an air of great reluctance, Fury stuffed the notes back into his pocket. ‘Oh, all right, I’ll see you again.’ Established procedure satisfied, and having settled the money against his rump, he sank back into his chair and indicated the biscuit tin. ‘And go on, then, give yer man another of them things if you must.’

  Twenty minutes later, he and The Divil left the yard. As his battered red van made the turn into Sheep Street, a similar van, with blacked-out rear windows, drew up beside him. The street was now blocked in both directions. Fury and the driver of the other van lowered their windows and leaned out.

  ‘There you are, Fury. What’s the story?’

  ‘Tippin’ along, Terry. Nothing new.’

  ‘The Divil all right?’

  ‘Sound out.’

  A driver attempting to get down Sheep Street honked his horn aggressively. Fury glanced in his mirror, saw it was a man in a suit, and paid no attention. Instead he enquired after Terry’s hens.

  ‘Ah, they’re all right, but I don’t know, I’m not getting many eggs. ’Tis the time of year.’

  ‘Well, that can’t be right. Don’t they lay more in springtime?’

  ‘Maybe I ought to show them a bloody calendar.’

  The man in the suit put his hand on his horn and, this time, didn’t take it off. Fury simply raised his voice and continued speaking to Terry. ‘You wouldn’t have an offcut of carpet to fit a ten-be-twelve room?’

  ‘What kind of colour?’

  ‘Something hard-wearing I’d say she’d want. Maybe brown. Could be patterned.’

  ‘I’d say I’d have a bit of sisal that might do.’

  ‘Ah, Name of God, man, have you nothing better than sisal?’

  ‘You can’t beat the sisal for the wear, Fury. With a rubber back it won’t want lifting for nigh on twenty years.’

  ‘Well, poor Pat Fitz hasn’t twenty years left in her. Could you not come up with a decent bit of twist?’

  ‘I could, of course, if it’s for Mrs Fitz. Would she want it dropped in?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ll come round and collect it.’

  By this stage, they were both shouting above the blaring horn, and several passers-by had stopped to stare. The man in the suit got out of his car and marched towards Fury, who reached for his handbrake. ‘Right so, Terry, ten-be-twelve. I’ll see you, boy.’ To raucous barking from The Divil, the two vans shot off simultaneously, leaving the roadway empty except for the furious man in the suit. He swung round, glared at the sniggering onlookers, and, controlling an impulse to shake his fist, strode back to his car.

  * * *

  The woman from the St Vincent de Paul had said she couldn’t take worn socks or underwear. Having given her so many bags of good clothing, Pat had hoped she’d remove the rest and dispose of it. But instead the woman had told her there was a clothing bank in Carrick, and driven away, leaving her to cope with the rejects. Pat knew Cassie would deal with them for her, but that didn’t seem right. So she’d caught the bus and found when she’d got to Carrick that the bulging bin bag she’d carried wouldn’t fit into the heavy iron chute. The thought of bringing it home was too much for her so, in the end, she’d pulled the pants and vests out in handfuls and thrust them in, along with the socks, despite the large, torn sign that read ‘NO UNBAGGED CLOTHING’.

  Afterwards she’d felt so shaken she’d gone to the Royal Vic to sit down before catching the bus home. PJ, the barman, must have seen the state she was in because he’d asked if she’d like a wee drop of gin. Pat had said no, but the coffee she ordered came on a tray with a little tot of whiskey on the side. It was no more than a tablespoonful, and PJ called it medicinal, so she’d tipped it into the cup and, in fact, it had warmed her up. The last time she’d heard whiskey referred to as medicinal had been in a book-lined bedroom in Resolve.

  This morning she’d woken feeling relieved to know that task at least was behind her. The next job she had to face was clearing Ger’s desk before his office room could be done over. Frankie was coming to deal with the desk shortly, and Fury, who’d offered to do the decorating, had just rung to say he’d be round to drop off a grand piece of carpet. Stupidly, Pat had found her eyes full of tears. People called Fury cross-grained and a hard man to pin down, but here he was, coming round on a Saturday, saving her trouble just as he’d done before.

  Having found the right key on Ger’s ring, she unlocked the roll-top desk and pushed back the lid. The desk had stood in the parlour of her own childhood home. Its writing slope was of worn leather and the bank of small drawers at the back had handles of turned ebony. It felt strange to be opening them. They were full of dockets and cheque stubs with rubber bands around them, so she supposed the business files were kept in the big drawers below, and in the filing cabinets. To the left of the pen tray was a square box, which had come from Ger’s family farmhouse. It had Chinese designs carved into the top, which was lacquered, and back at the farm it had stood on a shelf by the range. Ger’s mam had used it as a tea caddy, and the squat silver spoon that was once kept inside it was now in Pat’s own cutlery drawer. Opening the box, she found it contained a few business cards and the end of a pencil Ger must have picked up at some agricultural show.

  She had just put the lid back on the box when she heard Frankie on the stairs. She hadn’t heard his key turning in the door below, so, though the sound of his tread was familiar, it made her jump. He stumped onto the landing, his Burberry flapping open and a waxed hat, like a fisherman’s, pulled down on his head. When he reached the door to Ger’s room he asked if she had any cardboard boxes, explaining that he’d need to carry stuff down to the car. Pat put the tea caddy back on the desk and said she’d ask Des. There were likely to be some boxes in the sheds.

  When she got downstairs Fury and The Divil strolled into the shop. Fury was carrying a roll of carpet on his shoulder and Pat’s first thought was that the timing was unfortunate. Still, after the last time, she felt pretty sure that Frankie would behave. He’d been civil enough to Fury once he’d got a slice of cake down him, and he’d even given a bit of a laugh when The Divil stuck his whiskers into the milk jug. All the same, she thought she’d better mention that Frankie was here. Fury didn’t seem bothered. ‘Will I take this straight up, so? It’s a nice bit of brown patterned twist I got from Tintawn Terry.’

  Des asked if she’d mind the shop while he went out to the shed to look for the boxes, explaining to Fury that they were wanted upstairs. Fury propped the carpet in a corner. ‘I tell you what we’ll do, Mrs Fitz. The Divil and I will go out and get your boxes. Then you can go on back upstairs and Des needn’t leave the shop.’ He winked at Des. ‘I take it the bould Mr Frankie wouldn’t know how to carry a box.’

  Des made no comment and Pat felt embarrassed. Why didn’t Frankie come down for the boxes himself? What right did they have to be treating poor Des as an errand boy? Never mind about getting things done in the flat, what she ought to do, she told herself, was concentrate on finding a lad for the shop. It wasn’t fair to have Des trying to run it alone. She’d half thought that she and Frankie might talk that through together, but perhaps he’d been right to get the desk sorted first. And it was she who’d been eager to move on and get the room decorated so, really, he wasn’t to blame. But, between The Divil, the twist, and Des, she felt flustered, and with Frankie waiting, and Fury here with the carpet, now was the wrong time to be trying to think the whole thing out.

  When she got back upstairs the floor was covered with piles of Manila folders. Frankie had used Ger’s keys to open
the desk and the cabinets, and the little drawers with the ebony knobs had been pulled out and left askew. Instinctively, Pat reached for the keyring, knowing Ger never let it out of his sight. But the impulse seemed silly, so she left the ring where it was on top of the desk. Frankie had taken his coat off and was kneeling on the floor, going through the files. He looked up and asked where the boxes were.

  ‘They’re coming. You know, I’ve been thinking, I’ll need to get a lad for the shop.’

  ‘That’s another salary.’

  ‘I know it is, Frank, I’m not a fool, but we can’t have Des down there on his own, turning the sign on the door whenever he needs to step out the back.’

  ‘I’ll see what I think when I’ve been through these files.’

  Pat felt herself going pink. She looked at him kneeling there on the floor with the waxed hat pushed back on his head and the hairs on the backs of his hands wiry and black. He had just the same look he’d worn as a boy when she’d tell him to do one thing and he wanted to do another. Back then, he’d slip down and ask Ger to overrule her. And Ger always would. From the day she’d brought Frankie home as a baby, Ger had been a fool for his eldest son.

  There was a shrill bark and, looking round, she saw The Divil. Fury was climbing the stairs behind him, the boxes balanced on his head. Frankie’s chin went up when he saw Fury on the landing but he gave a grunt of thanks and began filling the boxes with files. Fury lounged against the wall, watching. Pat could see that Frankie didn’t like him there but, as the boxes filled, she was encouraged to hope that nothing unpleasant would happen. Then, when Frankie stood up, Fury offered to give him a hand taking them down to the car. ‘You can put your shoulder under a roll of carpet for me when we’re done.’

  That didn’t go down too well, but the boxes were full to overflowing so, eventually, Frankie nodded. Pat hoped that he hadn’t noticed the glint in Fury’s eye. Everyone knew Frankie had notions about his own importance, so getting him to carry the carpet upstairs was something Des would enjoy and probably share with half the town. Though the joke was mild and Frankie deserved it, Pat felt a twinge of sympathy, and as she did so her eye fell on the tea caddy. Laying her hand on Frankie’s arm, she asked him if he wanted it. ‘I’d say your dad was fond of it, son, and it belonged to his mam. Maybe Fran would like it, to hold knickknacks?’

  Frankie, who had hefted a box and thrust it at Fury, shook his head. ‘That wouldn’t be the class of thing Fran would go for.’

  ‘Well, you might like it yourself? You could have it on your desk, like he did.’

  ‘Lookut, I said no, Mam. Thanks all the same.’

  The thanks were so dismissive that Pat bit her lip. First he wouldn’t take his father’s pullover, and now this. After Frankie and Fury had left, with The Divil under Fury’s jacket, she went upstairs, and put the keyring into the tea caddy, along with the odds and ends that Ger had left there. Then she carried the box downstairs and stood it on a shelf above the range. She was glad that only Fury and The Divil had heard what Frankie had said. Fury might joke about getting him to carry a roll of carpet, but he knew the respect due to the dead and he’d never been one to gossip. He wouldn’t go shaming Ger’s memory by telling the world that Frankie Fitz had turned down a memento of his father from his mam.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The makeover in the salon was progressing. Aquamarine gauze drapes now hung at the doors and the velvet cushions with the gold tassels were gone. In their place, black and white satin bolsters graced the banquettes and the colour of the drapes was echoed in ruched curtains in the beauty parlour. Margot looked thoughtfully at the ruching. ‘Definitely more Grease than The Great Gatsby. I dunno what the designer thinks he’s doing.’

  Cassie considered the balcony doors. ‘Well, that’s pretty Gatsby, isn’t it? Fluttering drapes and a pool with a view of the ocean?’

  ‘Did Gatsby’s pool have an ocean view?’

  ‘Didn’t it? I only saw the film on late-night TV.’

  Margot giggled. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Sounds like we ought to sign up for a Brad Miller cultural cruise.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘That first client I had here when I started. His name’s Bradley Miller and he fixes cultural cruises. Literature, and wine tasting, and medieval castles.’

  ‘Oh, right. Personally, when I get a holiday I prefer to lie on a beach.’ Margot stopped inspecting the curtains and concentrated on Cassie. ‘So how come you know so much about him?’

  ‘I met him the other day and we got talking.’

  ‘And when you say “met”, do you mean “met by appointment”?’

  ‘No, I don’t. We bumped into each other. He’s looking for suitable places to take tour groups.’ Aware that she was sounding aggressive, Cassie laughed. ‘Actually, it happened twice. Once when I was out for a walk and again at the Patrick’s Day parade in Lissbeg. Though, as Pat said, the world and his wife were there, so it wasn’t surprising. I don’t suppose I’ll ever see him again.’

  ‘You will, you know. Very soon.’

  ‘What are you? A fortune-teller?’

  ‘No, but I’ve seen the appointment book. You’re giving him a trim at twelve fifteen.’

  * * *

  When Brad sat down he winked at Cassie in the mirror. ‘Don’t scalp me.’

  ‘I’m not sure how to avoid it.’ She ran her fingers through his hair, which had hardly grown at all since she’d last trimmed it. ‘Let’s get it washed first.’

  ‘Do you do head massage?’

  ‘Kate does.’

  ‘But you don’t?’

  ‘That would be the difference between your stylist and the junior who washes your hair.’

  ‘See, these are the technicalities that only professionals know. Let’s skip the wash, then, and do a dry cut.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Adept at dealing with clients’ flirting, Cassie whipped a gown around him, waiting for the inevitable invitation to dinner. The question was, did she want to accept? By the time the cut was finished she’d almost decided she did but, to her chagrin, he just stood up and said thanks. As she shook out the gown, she could see him chatting with Margot at the desk. Then, when he’d gone, Margot bounced over, beaming. ‘Well, your boyfriend’s coming out on the boat tonight!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I asked if he wanted to join us and he said yes.’

  Cassie had arranged to spend the evening with Margot and Paul on Paul’s boat. They’d fixed to take a bottle of wine and watch the sunset. Full of enthusiasm, Margot explained that Brad had just agreed to come along. ‘The poor guy’s lonely.’

  ‘Oh, Margot!’

  ‘What? It’s just a boat trip. I thought you said there’s nothing going on.’

  ‘There isn’t. It’s no big deal.’

  ‘Well, if it’s no big deal, why make a big deal of it?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Look, he’s here on his own and his cruise ship’s sailed so he hasn’t got friends to spend time with.’

  ‘I know. I said. It’s no big deal.’

  ‘And Paul will be glad of another hand on deck.’

  ‘Brad fixes tours. I don’t think he’s a sailor.’

  ‘Actually, he’s done lots of sailing. He told me his dad has a yacht.’

  Cassie shrugged. ‘Well, he didn’t tell me. Man of mystery.’

  Margot looked abashed. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind? Maybe I should have checked with you.’

  ‘God, no! Why should you? I’m glad he’s coming along. It’ll be great.’

  As Margot sent a text to Paul, Cassie called Kate to sweep the floor – though, actually, there was hardly any need to. Brad hadn’t needed a haircut. She could have sworn he’d made the appointment because he’d intended to ask her for a date. So what was going on? Was he playing some complex game? Or had her instinct simply been wrong?

  Lunch in the hotel’s staff canteen was one of the perks of the job, but this morning, be
cause the weather was fine, Cassie had brought two wholemeal scones and some cheese to eat on the beach. She was booked in to work a full day, which was why Margot had arranged the sunset boat trip, so now she took an early lunch break and strolled down to the pier. A steep flight of stone steps and a scramble over rocks brought her to shingle, and she crunched over broken shells and stones till she came to the sand. Though the sun was shining, the sand looked damp, so she retraced her steps, took off her jacket, and spread it on the stones. She was wearing a heavy sweater in anticipation of the evening, and the brisk wind from the ocean was invigorating rather than cold. Unwrapping the scones, she sandwiched each with a lump of red cheddar and, taking an apple from her bag, settled down to enjoy her solitary lunch.

  A fishing boat was moored in the harbour and, above it, the air was thronged with scavenging seabirds. For a while Cassie watched them circle and dive, disappearing behind the pier and swooping back up with entrails in their beaks. The catch now being gutted on the boat would feature on the hotel’s menu that night. Many of the smaller hotels and restaurants used frozen fish brought in by the trawlers, but in the Spa Hotel ‘catch of the day’ meant just that. Cassie knew Brad had his room there courtesy of the management, but now, for the first time, she wondered about his family. If his dad kept a yacht somewhere in California, maybe his clothes, his muscles, and his self-confidence spoke of privilege, just as her own silk sweaters and the rest of her edgy, urban wardrobe did. She’d supported herself since graduating from high school, but her sense of being a citizen of the world came from the hardly acknowledged fact that, if things went wrong, she could always scuttle home.

  Gazing out at the foam-topped waves, she realised she’d come back to the question of where her roots were. Certainly not in the family home in Toronto, from which she knew her mom and dad were planning to downsize soon. She’d moved on from that. But increasingly in the last few weeks she’d wondered if home might be Finfarran. And, although Jack Shanahan had never crossed the Atlantic, it seemed that he felt the same visceral tug. Friday’s conversation hadn’t been a total disaster, or at least it hadn’t ended after she’d made that second gaffe. By reverting to the subject of Mullafrack, they’d re-established common ground. Jack had loved her description of the ruin on the hillside. ‘It sounds awesome. Like Stephen King’s Dark Tower books.’