The Transatlantic Book Club

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  ‘I thought The Lord of the Rings.’

  In fact it was Brad, not she, who’d brought up Tolkien, but Cassie had had the sense not to mention him again. Having nothing to offer but a kids’ book she hadn’t finished, she hadn’t mentioned Elidor either. But apparently Stephen King’s Dark Tower series had been influenced by Tolkien so she’d sat back and listened while Jack talked. Charmed by his enthusiasm, Cassie realised that everything she encountered in Finfarran seemed to be linked to other things in ways she’d never had any reason to think about. She could never have imagined she’d find herself part of a library book club. Or that she’d meet a guy in Ballyfin who’d remind her of just how much she loved her footloose, adventurous life. Or that she’d sit propped up on a bed in Pat’s guest room describing the glory of Finfarran’s landscape to a guy she’d met on the other side of the world. When she’d got a word in edgeways, she’d returned to that. ‘Mullafrack’s incredible. Really windswept.’

  ‘And no village?’

  ‘No sign of one. Just windswept and empty and stunning. Nothing to see but the mountain and the tower.’

  ‘Wow. Imagine going back and building a house there.’

  ‘Do you think you might?’

  ‘Me? I dunno. My grandpa used to talk about it. He’d never been to Ireland either, though.’

  ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘Pretty well. He owned a landscape gardening firm. Started out with a big old electric mower, cutting lawns.’

  ‘The American Dream.’

  ‘I guess. Back in high school I used to work for him on weekends. Driving round in a pickup getting my hands into the dirt. We’d go fishing together, too, up at North Lake, and birdwatching. He talked a lot about Finfarran. His dad was in construction but the guy who came over in eighteen eighty-something had been a farmer. My grandpa said the yen to work on the land came down from him.’

  ‘I think that’s a thing. Stuff skipping generations. I mean, my dad doesn’t seem to feel any need to come back here, but I’ve felt drawn to Ireland ever since I was a kid.’

  ‘Someday I’ll do what you did. Drop everything and come over.’

  ‘For good?’

  ‘No. Just to take a look.’

  ‘Well, you could find yourself wanting to stay here and put down roots.’

  ‘In a cottage by the ocean? Hey, if I won a fortune in a lottery I could buy the dark tower.’

  Their eyes had met on the screen and Cassie had felt her whole body tingle but, after that, things had gone wrong again. They’d talked on about Mullafrack and, increasingly, she’d found herself struggling to avoid saying Brad’s name. It was as if he kept appearing out of nowhere, just as she’d come upon him when she’d walked around the tower. The effort not to mention him made her edgy, and Jack had stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m keeping you far too long.’

  ‘No, really, no. I’m enjoying myself.’

  But she knew she’d sounded false and that her body language was strained, so she must have given the impression that she was longing to get away. He’d ended the call abruptly with no suggestion that they’d talk again, leaving her feeling as if they’d had a row and he’d walked out.

  And tonight she had a date with Bradley Miller. Well, not a date because he hadn’t asked her for one. But they’d be drifting on the waves together, watching a golden sunset, and his presence was going to make the whole thing odd. Theoretically, this was just going to be a group of friends hanging out together. She and Margot and Paul were mates by now, and she never felt like a wallflower when she was with them. But the wine would be chilled and Margot had said that Paul had been given oysters by a guy at the marina. So, with all that and a blazing sky, how could it not feel like a double date?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Mary Casey sat on her garden bench with The Case of the Late Pig, observing with disapproval that the book’s cover had changed. The copy Tom had borrowed from Carrick Library for his aunt Maggie had been a green Penguin paperback, with the intriguing words ‘Murder follows the funeral’ on the front. This book had a lilac-coloured cover. Not that it didn’t look intriguing, with its two menacing birds flapping in the foreground, but if she’d glimpsed it on a shelf, she wouldn’t have recognised it. Which was upsetting. Once an object or a subject entered her awareness, she liked to keep a firm grip on it. Changes like this one, Hanna’s divorce, and her own widowed state, unnerved her.

  The garden had really been Tom’s. After he’d died, she couldn’t be doing with all the work it involved, so she’d asked Johnny Hennessy to lay the centre to lawn, but she’d kept the shrubs Tom had planted in beds along the fence, and the pots of night-scented stocks he’d had on the patio. They’d always sat there of an evening, she with her little martini and he with his glass of Guinness, before she’d go indoors to dish up the dinner. When they’d been working they’d never had dinner at night, but Tom had agreed that retirement was all about making changes for the better. Not being tied to the kitchen in the mornings gave you great freedom . . . though, on the other hand, the days could be very long.

  When Hanna was growing up Tom had had notions of grandchildren living nearby and running in to play in the flower-filled garden. That dream had been knocked on the head when Hanna had upped and gone off to London to be a librarian, and then married that smooth-talking pup Malcolm, who’d turned out to be faithless. And shameless. Mary’s face still burned whenever she thought of the woman he’d been sleeping with. A so-called friend of Hanna’s, if you please, and Jazz’s godmother! And the affair going on for over twenty years!

  Having fallen into mental exclamation points, she calmed herself with a sip of strong tea. The fact that Hanna had been betrayed disturbed her. It was common sense that a woman should always know where her husband was, and shocking that she should fail to sense when a friend was keeping secrets. These were basic skills, and the thought that a child she’d raised should lack them felt almost shameful. When Hanna had returned to Lissbeg, Mary had stoutly defended her in public, but at home she’d given free rein to her outrage. What else could you do when your own daughter, having been made a fool of, was declaring she wouldn’t accept a cent from the cheating hound she’d married? Hanna had insisted she wanted a life untainted by the past, a stance Mary had seen as idiotic. She’d never liked Malcolm Turner, for all that he came from a thoroughly decent family, and in her opinion he ought to have been cleaned out. She tolerated him now because, as Pat kept pointing out, he’d set up a generous trust fund for Jazz, but she still felt personally cheated by Hanna’s adamance. When one man was permitted to get away with base treachery, the knock-on effect on womankind as a whole could only be bad. And, anyway, as soon as Hanna came home, Mary had seen how badly she’d been hurting. God knew they’d never been close but, even when she’d been telling her what a fool she was, she’d longed to reach out and give the poor girl a hug.

  She looked again at The Case of the Late Pig. As far as she could remember she hadn’t finished it last time, and she didn’t think she’d bother to do so now. It was like every other book Tom had brought from the library for Maggie, set in an English village full of women wearing pearls and men in monocles. Mary sniffed. She’d only suggested it the previous week at the book club because she’d wanted to get things moving. Admittedly, she’d also been pleased to get the better of that Josie. The fuss made over people who’d gone to live in Resolve was annoying. If you’d never been farther than Dublin or Cork you were left at a disadvantage. Not a real one, of course, because why should it matter? But if that was how people looked at you, you were hard put to gainsay it.

  Pat hadn’t liked the way she’d stepped in and organised things at the book club. But then she herself hadn’t liked having to listen to all that stuff about Josie after that summer Pat had spent in Resolve. Josie’s clothes were wonderful, and she drove a car, and her hair was so great, and she and Pat had gone off down the mall drinking sodas. You’d be sick to death of the sto
ries. You’d nearly think she’d had no interest in her best friend’s wedding album, or in the honeymoon Mary and Tom had spent in Cork.

  When she’d finished her cup of tea, Mary went indoors to dress for the book club, reminding herself that Hanna was due to pick her up at six. Thoughtfully, she looked at herself in the mirror. She’d had her hair set the day before and a gold rinse put through it and, though she said so herself, her skin was still looking good. So was the little jacket and skirt she’d bought at the Carrick Couturier. Last week the crowd in Resolve had been all dolled up in green, and Josie had said they were wearing it in honour of St Patrick’s Day. Which was way too early and only made them look daft. The Lissbeg members had cheered and said it was great, though, and someone had rushed away and come back with the string of shamrock bunting Hanna had over her desk in the library. Then Darina had got on her hind legs and started spouting something about St Patrick having a wife. That had produced all kinds of chat and laughter.

  Afterwards, as Hanna drove her home, she’d asked if Mary had enjoyed herself. Mary had said nothing. There was no point. When Tom was alive she’d had no need to go out at night looking for entertainment and the question had had the effect of rubbing salt into a wound. Because of it, she’d half thought of giving tonight a miss but, with a final glance in the mirror, she told herself that the thing that mattered was getting Pat through these first few months without Ger.

  When they reached the library Cassie was sitting on the step. Hanna unlocked the door and went in and, as she and Cassie began to set up the reading room, Mary wandered about running her fingers along shelves. Pat arrived shortly afterwards, saying she’d left Fury stripping wallpaper in the flat. Mary approved. She had always rated Fury highly. He was a sly fox and, at times, he’d give you a look that went right through you, but he always knew his own mind, the way she did herself. She said this to Pat, who gave her a shove. ‘The difference is that Fury can keep his mouth shut.’

  Mary shoved her back and asked how Cassie was.

  ‘She’s grand. I’d say she’s excited about tonight.’

  Whatever she might be excited about, it was evident that the child had taken care to look her best. Mary wasn’t impressed by the blue fringe with sparkles on it, but she could see the effort that had gone into Cassie’s eye makeup and recognised the care with which a corner of her jumper had been tucked up to reveal her belt buckle. It was hard to believe all this had been done to impress the members of the book club, whose average age was probably sixty-five. Mary wondered if Bradley Miller might be coming but, glancing round, she could see no sign of him. Grasping Pat by the elbow, she suggested they sit at the back.

  Pat threw her a look. ‘I thought you were all for the front row and getting a good view.’

  ‘Well, a change is as good as a rest. Let’s sit in here.’

  From the back row she could see the seats filling, Hanna taking her usual place, and Ferdia at the computer. Cassie was beside him, looking over his shoulder. Darina Kelly had just come in, dragging Gobnit, who’d not yet been persuaded to release her mother’s phone. The child, who was dressed in Superman pyjamas, was still wearing the smudged remains of her St Patrick’s Day face paint. Shaking her head in disapproval, Mary turned her attention to the screen, where Josie, leaning on her walker, was carefully lowering herself onto a chair.

  Peering between the backs of the heads in front of her, Mary thought Cassie’s face seemed strained. It was only a couple of minutes to seven so if Bradley Miller was going to turn up he was surely cutting it fine. Ferdia’s attention was on the computer. Briefly Mary wondered if that could be the problem. If Pat was right and the child was in love, had she gone and fallen for Ferdia? Surely someone of Cassie’s age would have no trouble knowing he was gay. His own mother had said she’d known when he was six. And didn’t all young people these days have what they called gaydars, ways of spotting if people were gay or straight? Rather pleased with herself for knowing the jargon, Mary reflected that Ferdia was a nice lad. If he’d seen Cassie taking an interest, he’d have found a way to set her right so she wouldn’t go making a show of herself. Mentally, Mary dismissed him as a suspect. The evidence didn’t stack up.

  At exactly seven o’clock Hanna walked to the front and addressed the room. ‘You’re all very welcome again and it’s great to see such a crowd. Please give a big wave to our transatlantic friends.’

  Everyone waved with varying degrees of enthusiasm, ranging from Darina’s thrashing hands and clanking bangles, to Mr Maguire’s two fingers raised at chest level, which made him look like the pope blessing his flock. As soon as the response from Resolve had calmed down, Josie leaned forward. ‘Hi, Hanna. I’d like to introduce our new technician. This is Ashlee Braun-Mulcahy, who owns the florist shop here in town. Jack’s taken a rain check tonight so Ashlee’s going to make sure we stay in touch.’

  Ashlee was fat and middle-aged with an air of discreet professionalism, suggestive of equal efficiency at celebrations and funerals. She seemed to have set things up exactly as they’d been before, though Mary noted that, unlike the Shanahan lad who’d asked her to test the sound last week, she didn’t expect you to move around shouting from different seats. Hanna said she hoped Jack wasn’t unwell, and Josie laughed. ‘No, I think he’s just fine. Isn’t that right, Mrs Shanahan?’

  Mrs Shanahan confirmed that Jack was fine. ‘Apparently he had “a thing” tonight. Lord knows what that means but he said he wasn’t free.’

  Mary saw Cassie slip into a seat at the end of the second row. Covertly inspecting her, Mary concluded that she must have given up waiting for Bradley Miller. One thing was certain, and that was that Pat wouldn’t know, or know how to find out. Glancing at the little figure in the seat beside her, Mary decided Pat looked in good form tonight. Then she frowned. She hadn’t expected Ger’s death to release so many memories or that, with the loss of half of the foursome, long-established certainties would start to come adrift, making her view her familiar world from unaccustomed angles, and dragging her into this book club, which she wasn’t sure she liked. Still, there was no doubt that Pat enjoyed it and, whatever you might think of Josie, you’d have to be pleased about that. You could see, too, that Cassie’s love life was helping to take Pat out of herself. With a pleasant surge of righteousness, Mary concluded that, from now on, her duty lay in keeping a close eye on Cassie and Brad. She wouldn’t let Pat know because the chances were that she’d get accused of being nosy or meddling. But the fact was that if you didn’t keep tabs on what went on around you, you could miss your chance of giving things a useful bit of a nudge.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  By the end of its third meeting the Transatlantic Book Club hadn’t yet managed to open The Case of the Late Pig, but it had had lengthy and enjoyable discussions on how to acquire the book. Most Lissbeg members had applied for the copies Hanna had ordered for the library, though a few had found it at home and Darina had discovered it in a Carrick charity shop. At the start of the meeting, she’d launched into a dramatic description of her search, beginning with the statement that she’d had to take the bus ‘because my SUV was in for its NCT’. The group in Resolve had listened and watched in increasing bafflement as the story twisted and turned and the acronyms piled up.

  ‘The St V de P shop in the high street goes in for classic crime. But, for some reason, last week they mainly had MBS – I mean Mind, Body, and Spirit, not that textbook outlet you have over in the States. My nephew studies on your side of the Pond. He’s going to be a surgeon. He’s very against Mind, Body, and Spirit, by the way. He doesn’t believe in anything you can’t cut with a sharp knife. Anyway, I gave up on the V de P and went on to the NCBI. I adore blind dogs, don’t you?’ Here, seeing the bewildered faces in Resolve, Darina offered an aside. ‘The NCBI is a charity for the blind here in Ireland. They have a collection box for assistance dogs in the shop. Anyway, it was no dice there, so I pressed on to IDF – which does wonderful work for the deaf – and wha
t should I find, large as life, sitting on a shelf? The Late Pig!’

  Having waved her tattered paperback, she’d sat down triumphantly, and Hanna had hastily asked Josie how things had gone over there. ‘I don’t suppose you had more than one copy in your collection?’

  ‘No, but we’re fine. Well, we will be. Mrs Shanahan’s reading the one we have here in the library, and most of the rest of us have found it online. Ashlee’s put it on her e-reader. And I got it in a thrift shop, like Darina did.’

  The mention of Ashlee’s choice had produced an impassioned debate about e-books. Pat, who had no opinion of them one way or the other, had spent the time looking at Mrs Shanahan, who was working on another piece of quilting. She was a dark, very pretty woman, with neat, regular features, and Jack’s parents, whom Pat had met in Resolve, were dark too. So Seán Shanahan’s blue eyes, red hair and freckles had skipped a generation and come down to his grandson. It was strange to think of Seán’s copy of The Late Pig being read by his widow for the Transatlantic Book Club. Almost as strange as it had been to see his collection of crime novels in the Shamrock Club’s library.

  Behind the chattering group in Resolve still discussing e-books, Pat could see the glass-fronted bookcase. The enormous plaque above it said ‘Gift of the Shanahan Family, in loving memory of Seán Michael Shanahan of Resolve, 1936–2009’. There were far more books in the case than Pat could remember on Seán’s bedroom shelves, so he must have kept collecting crime stories all his life. When Cassie had suggested the holiday in Resolve, Pat had wondered if Seán had remained there, and whether, if he had, he was still alive. On the night of their arrival Josie had mentioned him casually. ‘He married a good while after you did. His widow is very active in the Shamrock Club.’ That was Josie, quick to know what was needed and always the soul of discretion. She’d gone on to discuss other friends and Pat had been glad, because she hadn’t wanted to talk about Seán. She wouldn’t have minded if she’d never had to think about him again. It had been a shock to see his looks replicated in Jack, though, and to sit in the Shamrock Club’s library on the night of her farewell party and see the date of his death above those shelves of familiar books.