The Transatlantic Book Club

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  Darina was standing by a trestle table, sadly watching Gobnit use her iPhone as a plate. Looking up, she remarked that the cake had been named for Princess Victoria, not the queen. ‘She married Louis of Battenberg in 1884. I don’t know how I know that, but I expect I must have seen it on Wikipedia. I do a lot of surfing, you know. At least, I did before Gobnit took the phone.’

  Mary sniffed loudly. ‘If that child were mine, I’d have that phone out of her hands double quick.’

  ‘You may be right, but I do think children need to establish their own sense of parameters. And she does let me have it for emergencies, don’t you, petal?’ Darina looked hopefully at Gobnit, who ignored her. ‘Well, I’m sure she would, if one arose. And we have talked about it. Talking things through with little ones is important, don’t you think?’

  Aware that Mary was about to tell her exactly what she thought, Hanna intervened: ‘The cake is lovely, Mam, you were good to make it.’

  Mary inclined her head graciously. ‘I like to do my bit.’

  ‘It looks delicious. Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘Well, I would.’

  Having steered her towards Cassie, who was serving coffee, Hanna went to welcome a photographer, whose annual spread in the Inquirer tended to increase the final sum raised for the hospice. He was a middle-aged man known for his sweet tooth, so a cake was regularly slipped to him on leaving, with the result that his photos of the library event were far better than most of the shots on the paper’s What’s Happening? page. This year’s cake had been made by a cheerful woman who, when Hanna approached her, had laughed. ‘No problem at all, love. My daughter says the amount of sugar I put in my lemon drizzle cake would melt every last tooth in your head.’

  Having shaken hands with the photographer, Hanna was cornered by an elderly farmer holding a slice of seed cake, which he presented for her inspection. ‘Tell me this and tell me no more, what do you think of that?’

  It looked boring but innocuous, so Hanna said that caraway seeds weren’t everybody’s favourite. The farmer’s expression became so grim that she feared he might have made the cake himself, so she hastily added that the hospice was always delighted by people’s generosity. Then, longing for a mug of coffee, she tried to move away. He immediately took a step sideways, cornering her again. ‘Talk about crimes crying to Heaven for justice! Isn’t this just the same as the case of the pig?’

  Feeling at a loss, Hanna tried to place him. He was wearing an ancient cloth cap and a very new jacket, as if his wife had smartened him before he’d driven her into town. Apparently reading her mind, he gestured at the crowd. ‘There’s my wife over there. She makes a lovely flan.’

  ‘Does she? How nice of her to bring one.’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Two flans. Plum compôte and apple snow. Pure butter in the mix, mind, and a jug of whipped cream on her knee all the way into town.’

  ‘How lovely.’

  ‘Lovely, is it?’ His voice rose in outrage. ‘It’s the case of the pig! Am I right?’

  Guessing that he must be a member of the Transatlantic Book Club, Hanna reminded herself that she generally sat at the front of the room. Perhaps he’d been at the back, where she hadn’t noticed him. Tentatively, she asked if he’d enjoyed reading the book.

  His shaggy eyebrows drew together aggressively. ‘What book?’

  ‘The Margery Allingham.’

  ‘Ah, would you not be trying to change the subject! I’ve read no book!’ He flourished the cake so angrily that she took a step back. ‘What I’m talking to you about is a crime.’

  Hanna looked for, and failed to find, an escape. As she hesitated, a small woman came elbowing through the crowd. ‘Ah, Weeshie, would you mind your good tweed when you’re eating!’ She tucked a paper napkin into his collar and, turning to Hanna, rolled her eyes in mock resignation. ‘If husbands had to do their own laundry, we’d see a difference then! But, sure, there’s no consideration for the women.’

  Her husband turned on her fiercely. ‘Amn’t I just saying that my poor mother was heart-scalded like you are? Six months of every year she was up morning and evening, boiling pots of scraps for whatever pig we were rearing out the back. Every kind of delicacy she’d feed to them creatures, and each year the result would be the same. When the time came, we’d kill a grand, fat, likely animal, and half the parish round would be sent a big plate of meat. As a compliment. That’s how it was. And what were we left with ourselves? Feck all!’

  His wife looked puzzled. ‘But didn’t the neighbours send some of their kill round to you?’

  ‘Isn’t that what I’m saying? They did, of course! Wasn’t that the way of it? You’d each kill the pig you were after rearing, and then you’d give half your meat away to the neighbours, and have to say thanks for the “compliments” they sent you in return! Bloody great plates and pans of meat carried round and round the parish, and nobody getting the good of what he’d fattened for himself.’

  ‘But wasn’t that the custom? And wasn’t it sociable? And why are you talking to Hanna about it now?’

  ‘Because it’s the same thing that’s happening here, woman! And it’s just as daft now as it was then. The scrawny old scraps that used to get sent round to us by the neighbours! You wouldn’t credit them! And our grand fat pig carried out the door! And look at this!’ He thrust the plate of cake at his wife, practically spitting with anger. ‘You after pouring butter and eggs into them lovely flans of yours, and I after getting handed out a slice of seedy cake!’

  * * *

  Pat arrived twenty minutes later bearing a sumptuous pavlova on a tray. Hanna was about to join her for a coffee when, as usual, something more pressing caught her attention. This time it was a young man who was standing in the library, glaring at a display labelled ‘Readers’ Favourites’. His expression was so dejected that she thought she should see what was wrong.

  ‘Hello, I’m Hanna Casey, the librarian. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before?’

  ‘I don’t go to libraries.’

  It sounded as if he’d been passing and seen the poster for the event. More than one of Hanna’s regulars had first been drawn to the library by Wi-Fi access or a chamber-music concert and returned to become a card-carrying bookworm. Here, she thought, was another possible convert. He was still looking at the books, so she asked what he liked to read.

  He sighed lugubriously. ‘It’s sad, isn’t it? Really, really sad.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The way you can’t get books by men anymore.’

  Hanna looked at the shelf which, admittedly, featured Marian Keyes, Louise O’Neill, and the new Aisling book, as well as an acclaimed collection of women’s poetry. The young man hunched his shoulders and told her that men all over the world were downtrodden. ‘It’s a well-known fact that our voices are systematically being suppressed.’

  ‘But lots of books are written by men. Overall, I’d say it’s the majority.’

  ‘Yeah, but they were written back in the day, weren’t they? People like Charles Dickens and Isaac Asimov.’

  ‘Quite a few men have been published since Dickens.’

  ‘That’s just quotas, though, isn’t it? Lip service. No one wants to come out and admit that men have been deemed irrelevant. Surplus to requirements. No one will just say it out loud. It’s no wonder we can’t express our sense of society’s inequalities.’

  Controlling an impulse to introduce him to the man with the seedy cake, Hanna attempted to formulate an acceptable response. Before she could find one Mary appeared, scrubbing her hands with a wet wipe. ‘That little Gobnit’s been using whipped cream to create an art installation.’

  Hanna’s mind leaped into overdrive. ‘Oh, God, no! Where?’

  ‘Ah, you needn’t worry about your books, she spooned it into Darina’s snakeskin handbag. An installation was what Darina called it. If you ask me, what that child needs is a firm hand.’ Having delivered her
self of her verdict, Mary scrutinised the young man. ‘I don’t know you, do I?’

  ‘I’m from Limerick.’

  ‘Well, if you want a bit of Battenberg, you’d better get your skates on. It’s going fast.’ Dropping the wet wipe into a bin, she turned to Hanna. ‘I’ll say this now, and it’s not because you’re my daughter. You’ve put on a good do here today.’

  Astonished by the unaccustomed praise, Hanna smiled. ‘Thanks, Mam, that’s really nice. But it’s all down to people like you taking time to contribute. I just provide the venue.’

  Mary pursed her lips. ‘Ay, now you’ve said it, I suppose that’s true enough.’

  As Hanna struggled to keep a straight face, Pat emerged from the reading room, carrying the tray on which she’d brought her pavlova. It was now piled with rock cakes, which, she explained in an undertone, hadn’t been going down well.

  Mary snorted loudly. ‘Weren’t they made by a Finch from Crossarra? None of that lot can bake.’

  Unusually, Pat failed to defend the underdog. Instead she looked helplessly at the plate. Mary and Hanna were simultaneously struck by the thought that while, in previous years, Ger would have shared Pat’s purchases, today she’d carry them into an empty flat. Before Hanna could think what to say, Mary took Pat’s elbow, announcing that she’d walk her across the road. ‘But you needn’t try palming me off with one of those rock cakes. Keep them for Cassie. She’s got American teeth.’

  Out of nowhere, the boy from Limerick addressed himself to Hanna. ‘There’s one book I’ve been wanting to read for months.’

  Refocusing on him with difficulty, Hanna asked what it was.

  ‘Robert Galbraith’s Career of Evil.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure I’ve got it in stock but, if it isn’t here, I can order it.’

  ‘Oh, right. Up from the dusty vaults to which it’s been banished.’

  ‘Well, no. There’s an interlibrary loans system—’

  ‘Oh, come on! Why not admit it? It’s a book written by a man so you “haven’t got it in stock”.’

  ‘Er, you do know that Robert Galbraith is a pseudonym?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For J. K. Rowling.’

  ‘Duh! Yes. I’m not stupid.’

  ‘And that J. K. Rowling is a woman?’

  The boy stepped away from her in horror. ‘Jaysus Christ Almighty, you’re sad!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Out you come with the party line regardless of the truth! Or maybe you believe it. Maybe you do. Maybe you’re a zombie. You know what? I’m not going to stand here and take any more of this crap.’

  With an air of great dignity, he marched out of the door. As it slammed behind him, there was a crash from the reading room and a chorus of voices informed Hanna that Gobnit had been sick. Grateful that Mary was dealing with Pat, she went to find a mop and bucket. Even in the face of trouble and bereavement, life with all of its incidental absurdities went on.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The weather in Resolve had been idyllic in the summer of 1962. Looking back, Pat could see herself waking each morning to bright sunlight streaming through Mrs Quinn’s lace curtains. It hadn’t taken long to acclimatise to the heat. Soon she was going to work bare-legged and in sandals, like Josie, wearing big round sunglasses picked up in the drugstore on the corner, and pinning up her hair to cool the back of her neck. She learned to walk on the shady side of the street, although, in fact, people in Resolve didn’t walk much. Buses ran so frequently that they didn’t have to, and lots of the lads had motorbikes or pickups. Josie was taking driving lessons, and one of the girls at Mrs Quinn’s owned a car. It was what she called ‘an old beat-up thing’, passed on to her by her mother. To Pat’s eyes it was luxury. No one had a car like it in Finfarran, long and low with leather seats and a roof that rolled back. The girl, who worked in an office in town, was a bit stuck up when it came to giving lifts, though, so Pat and Josie mostly rode the bus.

  All sorts of things were different in America. You ‘rode’ buses instead of ‘taking’ them, and you ‘called’ people instead of ringing. You had to remember to look to the left before you crossed a road. But you adapted. Although Josie had been gone only a few years from Finfarran, she already sounded like an Irish character in an American film and, after a week or so, Pat got a feeling it wouldn’t be long before she’d be talking the same way herself.

  The first day she walked into the Shamrock Club on her own she must have looked nervous because Seán Shanahan, who’d been sipping a pint at the bar, had called across and asked if she’d like a drink. It surprised her because, up to then, she’d hardly said two words to him, but the Brennans and the Shanahans were the town’s foremost families so she thought that perhaps he thought he ought to make her feel at home. She wasn’t much of a drinker so she’d asked for a lemonade shandy, and he’d carried the drinks to a table in the corner. The Brennans were rich but they’d only been in Resolve for a generation, while the Shanahans had come over back in the 1880s. Pat had discovered that the length of time your family had been in Resolve was seen as important so, to make conversation, she asked Seán about his. He told her his grandfather had been a lad when he’d taken the emigrant boat. ‘He walked all the way to Cork from Finfarran, and they say that a white kitten from home had hidden itself in the bundle on his back.’

  ‘Really? Is that true?’

  Seán laughed. ‘I’ve no idea. He’s supposed to have got it through immigration on Ellis Island tucked in the pocket of his greatcoat. Seems unlikely to me.’

  Sipping the shandy, Pat said she’d heard people had to take off their clothes when they got to Ellis Island.

  ‘Well, they went through medical examinations, so I guess that’s right.’

  ‘The kitten story does sound unlikely, then.’

  ‘Still, there’s always been a white cat at the Shamrock Club.’

  ‘But the club was only built about ten years ago.’

  ‘True. But, before that, people used get together up at the Shanahan house. And when I was growing up our place was overrun with kittens.’

  ‘All white?’

  ‘Each and every one. My gran and my mom were always trying to get rid of them. Even the mailman didn’t get away without a kitten. And the cat that’s here in the club now definitely came from us.’

  Pat couldn’t tell whether or not he was serious, but she’d seen a white cat, which was very handsome, asleep under the range in the club’s kitchen. As soon as she finished her drink she said she ought to go through and order something to eat. ‘Josie’s off gallivanting with her boyfriend, so I’m eating alone tonight.’

  His own drink was still half full, but he raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Would you like company?’

  She blushed, hoping he hadn’t thought she was fishing for a date. But he knew she was engaged, because Josie had told him. Anyway, she was wearing Ger’s ring. So she smiled and said that company would be nice.

  They brought their drinks through to the kitchen and sat at one of the long tables, eating cod in a sauce flavoured with dried parsley and served with a pile of colcannon made with kale. Pat was getting bored by the club’s relentlessly Irish menu, probably because the diner up the street from Quinn’s served delicious burgers and milkshakes, and Josie had introduced her to the delights of Chinese food. She wondered if Seán had his dinner here in the Shamrock Club every night. If he had a growing business, like Josie said, he wouldn’t be worried about the cost of eating out in a proper restaurant. He wasn’t married, though – Josie had said that too – so maybe he was a typical bachelor, having his pint at the bar each evening and eating at the club because it was convenient.

  He was good company, easy to spend time with and not pushy. She asked him about his work and he told her he’d started a landscape-gardening business. ‘Well, right now it’s mostly cutting lawns. I’ve done a couple of yards from scratch, though. Design right through to completion.’

  ‘Who does the labouring?�
��

  ‘That would be me.’

  ‘Sounds like a lot of work.’

  ‘Yeah, but pretty soon I’ll have hordes of employees.’

  ‘And you’ll just sit in an office giving out orders?’

  ‘That’s not too likely. Getting my hands in the dirt is my favourite bit.’

  So he wasn’t as rich as Josie had suggested, though everyone knew you could make money fast in the States. Pat had noticed that in America gardens were ‘yards’ and earth was called ‘dirt’. She liked the way some of the words here were strange. They made you see things from different angles, the way poems did. Rather to her own surprise, she found herself saying so to Seán.

  He took a sip of his pint and gave her a grin. ‘Can’t say I read much poetry.’

  ‘But you do read.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘Because the other night you were sitting in here with a book.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Oh, just a crime thing. Dashiell Hammett. Have you read him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So who’s your favourite poet?’

  ‘Thomas Hardy.’ Pat looked at him sideways. ‘You’ve never heard of him, have you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ His face broke into his lopsided smile. ‘Should we talk about baseball?’

  ‘God, no! I haven’t a clue about that.’

  She was none the wiser a week later after they’d been to a game. Josie and Donal came with them and afterwards they ate in a restaurant a couple of blocks from the ballpark. Seán had a car and he drove them there, with Donal in the passenger seat and Pat and Josie behind them. When Josie called it ‘in back’ Pat kicked her. ‘In the back! What’re you saying? ’Tis far from “in back” you were reared!’

  They were still messing and laughing when Seán pulled into the parking lot and they crowded into the restaurant, which had red-checked tablecloths and menus printed with crossed French flags. The stew they ate was rich with chunks of tender meat and marrowbone, tiny pearl onions, and the taste of garlic and bay leaves. Having fixed that they’d split the bill four ways, Pat decided to get her money’s worth and ordered red wine, which was sweet and dark and came in a painted jug. Afterwards, she had chocolate pudding served in a little pot.