The Transatlantic Book Club

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  When they got home Josie dragged Pat up to her room to talk. She couldn’t believe how relaxed Seán had been. ‘I’ve never seen him that way before! He was all smiles and chat.’ Bouncing onto Pat’s bed, she asked what the story was. ‘Did you kiss him and turn the frog into a prince?’

  ‘You know fine well I did not!’

  ‘You seem to be getting on fierce well with him, though.’

  ‘He’s nice enough.’

  ‘He drives a lovely car, I’ll say that for him.’

  As Pat went to bed she told herself she was glad Mary hadn’t been there. Josie was a bit of a tease but at least she could let a subject drop.

  The following weekend Pat was alone again. Donal had won a couple of seats to a Broadway show in a raffle so he and Josie had gone off to see it and spend the night in the city. It was a stifling hot day and Pat had written her weekly letters home: one to her mother, one to Mary, and one to Ger. She was sitting on her bedroom windowsill, trying to get some air, when Mrs Quinn shouted up the stairs. When Pat went down, Seán was standing waiting for her in the hall. She could tell that the car outside, and the fact he was a Shanahan, had made a big impression on Mrs Quinn.

  He was wearing jeans and a denim jacket, which made him look younger than usual because, though he’d told her he did all his own labouring, he was always very smartly dressed when he came to the Shamrock Club. When he saw her he smiled and asked if she fancied a swim. ‘There’s a lake about an hour’s drive away.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Mrs Quinn had disappeared, leaving them together, a clear endorsement of Seán’s respectability.

  ‘I just thought, it’s a hot day, so if you and Josie wanted to come along . . .’

  ‘Josie’s not here.’ She told him about the Broadway show and he whistled. ‘Wow. That’s some prize.’

  ‘Isn’t it? They’re going to stay the night with some friend of Donal’s. Josie says they’ll probably die of the heat.’

  ‘If you know where to go, it’s always cool and shady at the north lake.’

  ‘And you swim there?’

  ‘Sure. There are beaches.’

  ‘Well – okay. Can you wait till I get my things?’

  There was a swimming costume in the top drawer of Josie’s chest of drawers. Knowing that she wouldn’t mind, Pat grabbed it and ran to her own room. She wrapped the togs in a towel and considered what to wear. In magazines, American girls looked stylish even on beaches, so she pulled on a pair of candy-pink pedal-pushers and a white shirt which, according to Josie, ought to be tied in a knot above her midriff. Deciding that was a bit much, Pat tucked the shirt in at her waist and found her new white sandals. It was the first time she’d worn the outfit, which she and Josie had bought on a trip to the mall. Pushing the towel and her purse into a straw basket she’d also snatched from Josie’s room, she tied her hair in a high ponytail, and perched her sunglasses on the top of her head. The figure that looked back at her from her mirror seemed like a stranger so, with a strange sense of being somebody else, she ran back downstairs.

  Once they got off the highway, the roads were edged with trees and, to Pat’s delight, they drove through towns where the houses had white picket fences, just as she’d imagined before coming to the States. The car roof was down and she sat beside Seán in her sunglasses, with a chiffon scarf tied over her hair and wrapped twice around her neck, exactly like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. When they were halfway there Seán stopped and bought her a Coke from a vending machine. Before she drank it, she held the cold tin to her cheek and rolled it across her forehead, feeling the condensation dry as soon as it touched her skin.

  When they got to the lake she took off her scarf and shoved it into her basket. Seán walked round the car and opened the door for her. The first beaches they’d passed on the way had been crowded but here it was quiet, with only a couple of boats on the lake and some people off in the distance, diving from a rock. Pat got out of the car and looked around. The lake was beautiful. As she followed Seán down to a sandy beach, a flight of birds skimmed above them, making a whistling sound. They had black backs and white undersides. As she pushed up her glasses to look at them, their flight path curved and dipped, and they settled on the water.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Goldeneyes. They’re called Whistlers too.’

  ‘Were they singing?’

  ‘No, that’s the sound of their wings.’

  Pat found a rock where she could sit with her feet dangling in the water. She could hear the shouts of the distant divers and the sound of the wind in the trees that edged the lake. ‘What did you say this place is called?’

  ‘People just call it North Lake or North White Lake. It’s proper name is Kauneonga.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s Native American. Means “two wings” or “lake with two wings” or something.’

  Overhead another flight of birds was wheeling towards the water. ‘What are they called?’

  ‘Hey, I’m no ornithologist.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just all so new.’

  Seán hunkered down beside the rock and watched the little birds descend on the lake. ‘Actually, I do know those. They’re called Butterballs. Or, hang on, maybe it’s Buffleheads.’

  ‘Do they migrate?’

  ‘Sure. Dunno where they go, but they always come back.’

  ‘I can see why.’

  ‘Me too. Once you find someplace like this I guess you find it hard to forget.’

  That was the way things were the whole afternoon. Easy and funny, and beautifully cool after the heat of town. Seán lay on his back on the white sandy beach and smoked a cigarette and, after a while, Pat went into the bushes and put on her swimsuit. She was glad it fitted because she hadn’t tried it on before snatching it from Josie’s drawer. When she came out of the bushes Seán was already in the water. You could tell by the muscles in his shoulders that he was used to lifting and digging. He rolled over on his back when he saw her, and gesticulated, urging her to come in. Then, in case she’d be hesitant, he swam back and waded towards her, the water streaming down his chest and legs. He was built like Tom, straight-legged and slender-hipped. His shoulders and arms were tanned and freckled, like his face, but the rest of his body reminded Pat of a poem she’d read about someone who looked as if he was made of white marble. There was a cedar tree by the lakeside casting shadows on the water. She waded out into the cool, dappled ripples and, seeing that she was confident, Seán turned and struck out again to where you could see a current dragging the lake into little waves.

  After their swim they lay side by side on a couple of towels on the beach. Later, as they were driving home, she realised that she’d talked herself almost hoarse, telling him about her life at home and how she and Ger and Mary and Tom were planning a double wedding in the autumn.

  ‘Here it’s the fall.’

  ‘I know. It’s a much better word.’

  ‘Shame you won’t be around to see the colours.’

  ‘Is it beautiful?’

  ‘It’s spectacular.’

  ‘Autumn’s a kind of misty time in Finfarran. There’s a sort of “everything’s over” softness about it.’

  ‘Here it’s an explosion of gold and crimson and scarlet and bronze. You can’t imagine how vivid. Not like the end of something at all. Like the start of something really exciting and new.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  A new cruise ship had berthed in Ballyfin. The passengers were having a night ashore in the Spa Hotel, and Cassie, Margot, and the hotel’s beauty therapists were inundated with bookings. Cassie, who’d been due to do a morning shift, was asked by an apologetic Margot to work through lunchtime. ‘Actually, if you could hang on till four I’ll call it a double shift. And I’ll order a sandwich from the café, so you won’t die of hunger.’

  ‘No problem. I was going to buy a roll and eat it on the beach but something expensive from the café
will do just fine.’ The hotel’s café went in for smoked salmon and rare beef, whereas the little place Cassie had intended to go to produced less sophisticated fare. But, in the event, she hardly had time to appreciate her expensive sandwich because she and Margot worked straight through from ten a.m. till three. The sandwich was snatched in the few minutes she’d grabbed to take a loo break, and the pot of delicious coffee, which came with it, was left to go cold on the tray.

  When the worst of the rush was over, Cassie saw Sharon signalling from the desk. Leaving Kate to sweep round her chair, she went to see what was up. Sharon waved a piece of paper at her. ‘That American guy Bradley Miller? He wanted to speak to you. I offered to pass on a message but he said just to tell you he’d rung and you’d know what it was about.’

  Cassie wrinkled her nose. ‘Would you call his room and say I could see him in Lissbeg later?’ She explained that Brad had asked her for an introduction to Hanna. ‘I guess he wants to fix a time. The library closes at five thirty, so I’ll call Hanna and see if I can bring him in around then.’

  ‘How come he wants to meet her?’

  ‘He’s setting up some cultural tour package and he’s interested in the psalter.’

  ‘Okay, so.’ Sharon reached for the phone. ‘He’s quite a looker, isn’t he?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Oh, come on! He’s gorgeous.’

  Cassie grinned. ‘That’s because he got himself a really good haircut.’

  At four forty-five, when she stepped out of the lift into the hotel’s reception area, Brad was waiting by the door. Cassie told herself that he did actually look pretty cool. He also had excellent manners: as they went out, he held the door for her and, when he heard that she’d worked through lunch, he looked concerned. ‘Hey, I’m sorry. I bet you just want to get home now and chill out.’

  ‘No, I’m good. I grabbed a shower in the staff room so I’m re-energised.’

  * * *

  Hanna had already locked the library door and was working at her desk when Cassie texted to say she and Brad were outside. She let them in and shook Brad’s hand when Cassie introduced him. He was pleasant and personable and concerned not to trespass on her time. ‘Your psalter sounds like the perfect focus for one of our cultural tours. I wondered if we could talk about setting up private viewings, maybe with an accompanying talk?’

  Hanna smiled. ‘Obviously it’s a public-access exhibition but I’m sure something could be arranged. I’d have to consult the donor and the county librarian. Now that you’re here, would you like to see the psalter?’

  She led them through to the exhibition space and pressed the switch to illuminate the display in the centre of the room. The book, written on vellum and bound in gilded leather, stood on a carved lectern within a protective glass case. It was about the size of a novel you’d buy in an airport. Since the opening of the exhibition Hanna had turned a new page each month, sometimes revealing dense text with minimal decoration, and sometimes pages on which glowing illustrations spilled into the margins. It was a huge draw in tourist season, but local people loved it, too, and Hanna could still scarcely believe that such a treasure had been placed in her care. She gestured at the wall-mounted screens around them. ‘So, the entire book has been digitised for the exhibition, with interactive images that allow you to zoom in on detail, and translations of the text accessible in six languages.’

  ‘Quite impressive for a little public library.’

  ‘We had a very generous donor.’ Hanna led Brad and Cassie to the case. ‘Obviously, the psalter isn’t handled more than necessary. You can see for yourself that each page is a detailed work of art.’

  They looked at the book, which lay like an open jewel-box, its vibrant colours gleaming in the low light. Though clearly impressed, Brad simply nodded appreciatively, but Cassie bent forward, drawing in her breath. ‘Wow! I haven’t seen these pages!’

  On the left-hand side were lines of text, beautifully written in black on the ivory-coloured vellum, and dominated by an initial letter densely surrounded by dots of red ink. The letter was decorated with red-brown plait-work picked out with touches of blue and gold. Hanna looked at the text over Cassie’s shoulder. ‘That’s part of Psalm Eighteen. The second verse, I think. The Lord is my rock and my fortress. Look at the pictures on the opposite page.’

  The right-hand page had a single line of text enclosed in a painted frame of flowers entwined on a trellis of twigs. All of the rest of the space was taken up by illustration. On each side was a tower on a rock, drawn so the viewer seemed to be looking at them from below. One was rendered entirely in burnished specks of gold and, radiating from its painted stonework, streaks of golden light encircled the building. On the opposite side, the second tower was unrelieved black and surrounded by weeds growing up through the rock. Both towers had narrow windows and crenelated ramparts from which tightly packed armed soldiers peered down. Bending closer, Cassie could see that the dank weeds round the dark tower had crimson and purple flowers and the soldiers on its ramparts had forked tails and goats’ horns on their helmets.

  Across the top of the page a chain of dancing animals pranced along on their hind legs, accompanied by a band of birds playing pipes and drums. There were hares in hoods and jerkins, with leather boots on their feet. Cats were dressed as fine ladies with long, streaming veils. Six hedgehogs stood on each other’s heads, to be tall enough to join in the dance. There was a lumbering bear and something that looked like an elephant, and hounds in hats, with bows and arrows slung across their backs. Tumbling down each margin, on either side of the towers, was a series of little pictures enclosed, like the central text, in a flowering trellis. Birds’ beaks and glittering eyes poked out between the twigs. The flowers, outlined with dots of gold leaf, combined the four seasons of the year. Marsh marigolds jostled with mistletoe, and irises with rose hips, and the pictures they framed appeared to be random vignettes. One showed a monk working at a high lectern with a white cat curled around his feet.

  Cassie turned to Hanna. ‘Isn’t there a picture like that in one of the kids’ books in the library?’

  ‘You’re thinking of The White Cat and the Monk. That story’s based on a marginal poem in another medieval manuscript. I expect that most monasteries with libraries had cats to keep down the mice.’

  The thought of children’s books had produced another connection. Staring at the two towers, Cassie asked if Hanna knew a book called Elidor.

  ‘Well, yes. It’s a children’s classic.’

  ‘And doesn’t it have a dark tower in it, and a tower of light?’ She looked at Brad. ‘You said the tower at Mullafrack made you think of The Lord of the Rings. But when we met, I’d been thinking of Elidor. I had it when I was a kid, but I didn’t read it properly.’

  Hanna nodded. ‘Well, the names of the towers in Elidor originate in early Irish storytelling. And Tolkien said The Lord of the Rings has some of the same influences.’

  ‘Jack said The Lord of the Rings influenced Stephen King’s Dark Tower series.’

  ‘That’s the way storytelling works. Ideas and images influence and modify each other.’

  ‘But where do these towers in the psalter fit in?’

  ‘Well, the monks who made it may have known the early Irish stories about the Tuatha Dé Danann. They were a mythological race who carried treasures to Ireland from four magical fortresses, one of which, called Findias, radiated light. But, obviously, those stories were pagan. For the monks, the tower of light would have signified the Christian Heaven, and the dark tower full of devils would have been Hell. Ultimately, in both traditions, they’re symbols of good and evil.’

  ‘Is that how they work in the other books as well? Modern ones, I mean.’

  Hanna laughed. ‘You’ll have to read them and make up your own mind. Symbols can be fluid, and different people see things differently. Anyway, life’s too subtly shaded to be summed up as black and white. Even the Christian monks knew that: for all their orthodox s
ymbolism, nuances creep in. There’s nothing pious about those dancing animals – or the way the cat appears in another picture down in the corner, holding an open book in one paw and turning a screaming mouse on a spit with the other.’

  Brad had walked away from the book to inspect the screens on the walls. ‘I hadn’t realised the text was in Latin. But you said there’s access to translation, right?’

  Hanna went over to demonstrate the interactive processes, leaving Cassie still bent over the book. She called across to Hanna, ‘Is this the kind of writing that used to be used for the Irish language? Pat said she was taught it in school.’

  Hanna shook her head. ‘Not exactly. But what they call Gaelic script is descended from the script you’re looking at. That’s called insular majuscule. It was developed here around the time that the monks created the psalter, and you’ll find it in manuscripts all across Europe.’

  Brad looked interested. ‘You mean it was developed right here in Finfarran?’

  ‘No, of course not. I meant here in Ireland. But this is quite an early example.’

  ‘And there’s no proof that it wasn’t developed in Finfarran?’

  Hanna raised her eyebrows at him. ‘No. And no proof that it was. I hope the material promoting your tours wouldn’t suggest otherwise.’

  Brad grinned. ‘Cassie said you were a stickler for accuracy.’

  Finding a balance between promoting the psalter as a tourist attraction and preserving its integrity hadn’t been easy, and Hanna had had more than one tussle with the tourism board’s marketing teams, which, at one stage, had proposed the slogan Feast your eyes on Finfarran’s Feisty Friars. She’d once mentioned it to Cassie over coffee, and it seemed that the depth of her outrage had been passed on to Brad. Now she could see Cassie looking anxious, so she gave Brad a reassuring smile. ‘Cassie’s perfectly right. But facilitating tours like yours is part of my job description, so I do hope we can get something off the ground.’