Hours later, she woke to the sound of a car door slamming and, going to her window, saw Cassie emerge from the shed in the yard below. Pat watched as the foreshortened figure crossed the moonlit cobbles. A little later she heard the sound of feet passing on the landing, and the creak of the attic stairs as Cassie made her way up to her room. It was late for her to be coming in, and tomorrow, Pat knew, she’d have to be up to drive the mobile library. But that was the thing about youth. You were never tired.
Sure enough, when she got up the following morning Cassie had gone to work. As Pat was finishing a leisurely breakfast there was a knock on the door. When she opened it, Fran was standing on the threshold in a jacket that had featured in the previous weekend’s Gloss magazine. Her large, cowlike eyes were rimmed with eyeliner and her dark hair was carefully arranged in a pile on the top of her head. She ought to have looked a picture of sophisticated assurance, but instead she seemed uncomfortable, as if she feared she’d come to the wrong place.
Pat stood back and smiled at her. ‘Well, this is unexpected! You’re very welcome. Come and sit down.’
Fran stood where she was, looking at a loss. Then she came into the kitchen. She was wearing orange leather gloves and carried a tiny handbag with a miniature gilt padlock on the zip. Pat helped her out of her coat and offered her an easy chair by the range. ‘It’s mild enough this morning, but it’s still nice to sit in the warm.’
Fran sank into the chair and looked around the kitchen. ‘It’s a lovely room.’
‘It’s grand and cosy anyway.’ Pat sat down opposite her, wondering why Fran was here. Having settled herself against the cushions, Fran said nothing more, so Pat filled the silence. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, I won’t, thanks. I had one before I came out.’ There was a long pause and then Fran shook herself suddenly, like a cow someone had poked with a sharp stick. She blinked at Pat and said she hoped she was well.
‘I’m grand, thanks, love. It’s kind of you to enquire.’
‘Because Frankie thought, well, we thought, I wondered how you were doing. If you were feeling okay.’
Pat hadn’t seen or heard from Frankie since last Wednesday, when she’d shown him the door after he’d turned on Cassie. Evidently he’d realised how badly he’d behaved and now, afraid to face her himself, he’d sent his wife around to clear the air. That was the height of him. He wouldn’t come in till the ground was tested, for fear of what he’d probably call unpleasantness. Frankie had always avoided anything hard.
She was about to begin to smooth things over, when she saw a look of resolution flit across Fran’s face. The wide brown eyes seemed almost to glaze over, and when Fran spoke, it was clear that what she said had been rehearsed. ‘It’s a real worry for me and Frankie. Knowing you’re here on your own. Things might happen. You could fall. At your age people start forgetting things. You might be in here wanting help and nobody would know.’ Pat looked at her thoughtfully and said nothing. Frowning in concentration, Fran went on: ‘Cassie’s very sweet, of course, but she’ll be gone soon, won’t she? So, the thing is that Frank’s really worried. About not having access. In case something was wrong.’
It was as if the door had swung open and a chill wind had swept through the room. Although they were sitting by the range, Pat’s hands felt cold. Obviously relieved to have finished her speech without forgetting her lines, Fran relaxed. Then she bent forward and opened her mouth again. This time Pat forestalled her. ‘He’s sent you here for the key to the Chubb lock.’
The words seemed to drop from her lips like icicles but, oblivious to the tone of her voice, Fran nodded. ‘That’s it. That’s what he wants. Because he’s worried.’
Grasping the arms of her chair, Pat stood up. ‘Could you do something for me, dear? Would you take a message to him?’
Fran stood up, too, looking confused. ‘Well, but what I have to do is bring him the key.’
‘I know. Will you tell him I’m not going to give him one? Say you asked me, just as he told you to, and that I said no.’
‘I think he’ll be cross.’
‘I suppose he will. But don’t let him bully you. Tell him that I won’t like it if he does.’
Meekly, Fran put her orange gloves on. As she did so, her eye was caught by the vase that stood on Pat’s mantelpiece, which now held a bunch of golden forsythia. Her vacant face lit up. ‘That’s a lovely vase.’
‘Do you like it? It belonged to Frankie’s grandmother.’
‘My granny had one in the hall that was just the same.’ She hovered for a moment, evidently feeling that she mustn’t leave without what she’d been sent for.
Pat let her out and watched her make her way down to the shop. Briefly she stood in the door to her flat, looking down the steep, twisted staircase. Then she closed the door and turned the key in the new Chubb lock.
For a long time she sat by the range, thinking things through carefully. She’d been too much of a coward to face the truth. Frankie wasn’t just lazy. Or awkward. Or thoughtless. Or any of the other words she’d used to excuse his bad behaviour since he was small. Ger’s will had been plainly worded: everything he had he’d left to her, as his wife. And Frankie was trying to push her aside and take control. He hadn’t come round that first day to help her sort out Ger’s bits and pieces. He’d had no interest in anything but the files and papers in the desk. He didn’t care how his mother felt, alone in the flat and worried about security. He’d just been afraid she might have been getting advice from Fury O’Shea. And he wasn’t glad that Cassie had chosen to stay and keep her company. He’d assumed that generous, loving Cassie was sneaky and acquisitive, like himself. Dropping her head into her hands, Pat began to shiver.
Then, taking her hands away from her face, she looked at the door and realised why she’d wanted her new Chubb lock. It wasn’t about making her feel safer. It was about keeping Frankie from walking in when she wasn’t at home. Yet why should he want the key to the door, now that he’d taken Ger’s papers? Why bother to come round again if they were all he cared about? The shivering stopped, though she still felt cold all over. She knew what Frankie wanted now, and it wasn’t just access to the flat. It was the ring on which Ger had kept his keys.
With tears in her eyes, she lifted the box from the shelf above the range. A reassuring clunk told her the keys were still inside. She opened it and took out the keyring. It was a plain split ring and the keys were of different sizes. With a sob, Pat recognised a couple of small ones belonging to the suitcase she’d bought for their painful holiday in Toronto. There was another small key, which she didn’t recognise, several large ones, and the Yale key to the flat. Presumably the larger ones were for the shop doors, and the sheds below in the yard and at the old farmhouse. Her sobs got louder and, sitting down, she fumbled for a tissue, telling herself she mustn’t get hysterical. It was too late for that class of thing now.
At the bottom of the box were the pencil stub and the few discarded business cards. Blowing her nose briskly, Pat took them out and leaned forward to throw them into the range. Then she noticed that, while the others were old and grubby, one of the cards appeared to be brand new. The address was a solicitor’s and the name was one she’d never heard Ger mention. Finding her glasses, she put them on to examine the card more closely. The solicitor Ger had dealt with had an office round in Sheep Street. But this firm’s address was in Carrick, not Lissbeg. Frowning, Pat turned the card over and found herself looking at a single word on the back of it, written in pencil. It was her own name and the handwriting was Ger’s.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Pat sat in the cab of Fury O’Shea’s battered van, with Fury driving and The Divil squashed between them on the seat. She had no idea how she’d got there because the last twenty-four hours were a blur. Apparently she’d phoned Fury yesterday after finding the card. Well, she must have done, because ten minutes ago she’d been waiting for him in the alley behind the yard. With Ger’s keys and the busi
ness card in her handbag, she’d gone downstairs, through the shop and out the back door. Des had been dealing with the usual Saturday-morning queue at the counter, so the only eyes observing her had been those of the milkmaid and the shepherd on the painted tiles on the wall. Now, reminded that it was the weekend, she turned to Fury in distress. ‘God, do you think the solicitor’s place will be closed?’
Fury raised his voice over the rattle of tools in the back of the van. ‘No problem. I gave yer man a call before I came to pick you up. He’ll be out on the golf course but he’s sending his daughter. She’s a junior partner in the firm.’
Pat was troubled. She hadn’t wanted to drag some woman into the office on a weekend. The Divil turned and laid his muzzle on her knee. Fury swung the wheel, deftly passing a dawdling tourist coach, and the van sped on along the motorway towards Carrick. When they reached the outskirts of town he cut through a maze of backstreets, emerging at the entrance to the Royal Victoria’s car park.
As they drove into the car park Pat looked alarmed. ‘Is it all right to leave the van here? Might they clamp it or something?’
‘They’ll have more sense.’ Fury came round to her side of the cab, opened the door, and helped her climb down. ‘I’m halfway through a tricky repair to the roof above the kitchen. If anyone starts annoying me, they’ll be serving rainwater soup.’ The Divil leaped out of the van and Fury looked at him severely. ‘And you’d better mind your manners, too, d’you hear me? They have fierce posh businesses up at this end of town.’
The solicitor’s office was in an imposing building, set in the same terrace as the hotel. As they climbed the granite steps and Fury raised the lion’s head knocker, the whole thing felt like a dream to Pat. Why on earth would Ger have come here to this solicitor, having always used the man in Lissbeg whom he’d known since he was at school? Almost as soon as Fury knocked, the door was opened by a young woman wearing an expensive tracksuit. She led them through the lofty hall and into a large room, which must once have been a Victorian lady’s parlour. Much of the furniture was polished mahogany but there was a modern desk set across the fireplace, which clearly hadn’t seen a fire for years. There were two armchairs in front of the desk and a swivel one behind it. Having seated Pat and Fury, the woman looked dubiously at The Divil. Ignoring her, he curled himself in a patch of sunlight on the carpet where, placing his paws over his nose, he sighed deeply and appeared to fall asleep.
The woman sat down behind the desk and smiled tightly at Pat. ‘I ought to apologise for my appearance.’
‘No, really. It was good of you to come in.’
With a Sphinx-like glance at Fury, the woman said she’d been delighted. ‘I understand that you’ve come to collect what your late husband left here in my father’s care.’
‘Do you? Did he?’ Pat clasped her hands anxiously. ‘The fact is that I’m not really sure what I’m here for. What did Ger give to your father? And why?’
‘I can’t speak to his motive, Mrs Fitzgerald – he didn’t share it and, of course, we didn’t ask. But I can tell you he left us this, with instructions to hand it over when you came to collect it.’
She reached into the drawer of her desk and produced a small metal box with a lock and a countersunk handle, the kind of thing that a club might buy if it wanted a cashbox in which to keep its raffle money. Pat could remember seeing them in the Euroshop in Lissbeg before Christmas. She looked at the woman blankly. ‘But what is it?’
‘It’s your property, Mrs Fitzgerald. Will you take it and sign a receipt for it? I don’t wish to be rude, but I do have an appointment at the gym.’
‘Oh, of course you do. I’m sorry.’ Flustered, Pat looked around for a pen. ‘I’ll sign for it now, if you’re really sure it was left for me. But, honestly, I don’t know what Ger was at.’
A pen was placed in her hand and she signed her name on a form. The Divil gave a loud sneeze and lifted his paws from his nose. Fury stood up and put his hand under Pat’s elbow. ‘Right, so, we won’t keep poor Jacinta any longer.’
Pat stood up, rather glad of the strength of his bony hand. It struck her that they must make an odd group standing there in the woman’s impressive office, she clutching her Euroshop box, Fury in his torn waxed jacket, and The Divil standing in the sunlight with his wiry hair sticking up.
Fury winked at Jacinta. ‘Tell your dad I’ll be round sometime next week to have a look at his boiler. I’ve told him before that he wants to chuck it out before it blows up. But he didn’t build a high-class business by letting the moths out of his Gucci wallet.’ He clicked his fingers at The Divil, then turned back to Jacinta. ‘I take it, by the way, that Mrs Fitz won’t be getting a bill for this?’
Jacinta gave him a level glance and said that Mr Fitzgerald had settled everything in advance.
‘Right so. Well, I hope there won’t be any clerical errors. I’ve known lawyers who’ve sent the same invoice twice.’
On that lofty note, he swept Pat into the hallway. The Divil pattered after them, his claws sounding loud on the parquet after the carpet. Too confused even to thank Jacinta, who shut the door smartly, Pat stood on the steps feeling bewildered. Then Fury’s hand was under her elbow again and, the next thing she knew, she was back in the van with The Divil breathing hotly on her hand and the box open on her knee.
Still holding Ger’s keys, she looked across at Fury. ‘It’s a letter.’
‘So I see.’
‘Addressed to me.’
‘Is that his writing?’
‘Yes.’
It was the schoolboy script they’d beaten into Ger back at the Brothers’.
‘Do you want to open it now or will I take you home?’
‘I don’t want to open it.’
Fury gave her a shrewd look and started the engine. ‘Right so, buckle up and I’ll take you back to Lissbeg.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The queue in the shop had cleared when Pat came in, but Des was sweeping up behind the counter so he didn’t see her face. She climbed the stairs slowly, stopping at the bend and turning to lean against the wall. She hadn’t slept the previous night and that, she supposed, must be why she was feeling so tired. When she reached the flat and went inside she turned the key in the Chubb lock and hung her coat on a chair. Cassie was out for the day but the fire had been stoked and damped down.
Pat stirred up the flames and left the door of the range open so she could see them. She badly wanted a cup of tea but didn’t have the strength to fill the kettle. Sitting by the fire, she opened her bag and took out the letter, handling it carefully, as if it, too, might burst into flame.
She recalled the 1960s, when Saturday night was céilí night in the Shamrock Club. You couldn’t be turning up wearing the same thing week after week so, even though she’d bought it to wear on her honeymoon, she’d undone the tissue paper that wrapped it and taken out the blue dress with the daisies round the hem. When she’d walked into the club she’d felt like a million dollars wearing the dress and Josie’s pearl necklace. The place was crowded, like it always was at the weekends, even though it was only five p.m. The bar was jam-packed with fellows drinking pints and girls having sherries, and there was a queue for the pay phone where people were making their weekly call home. The phone calls were the reason everything started so early at weekends because, with the time difference, you couldn’t be ringing too late.
Up on the platform in the dancehall, the Rambling Paddies were belting out jigs and reels. Back in Lissbeg, in Devane’s place in Sheep Street, you’d dance to pop tunes and Brendan Bowyer covers, with maybe a half-hearted Walls of Limerick if the parish priest came by. In Resolve it was all sets and waltzes but, as Josie said, it was great craic and kept you from putting on weight. Pat had fixed to phone home at five thirty, so she stood in the queue and watched the dancers through the half-open door. You wouldn’t get more than a few words before the next person was poking you, but that didn’t matter because calls cost so much that you cou
ldn’t afford to talk long. When hers went through, Pat could tell that something had happened. Not a death or anything awful like that, but her mother’s voice was clipped. ‘Look here to me, pet, there’s something I have to tell you. And God alone knows why I agreed to break the news.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Mary. She came in the other day and said she’s changing the date of the wedding.’
‘But how? What do you mean?’
‘I mean she’s taken a notion that she wants a summer do. So you and Ger will be on your own in September.’
‘But wait. What does Ger say? And why didn’t she let me know herself?’
‘Ah, for God’s sake, Pat, this is Mary we’re talking about. When did she ever do anything she could get somebody else to do for her?’
Pat could tell that her mam was raging at having been used as a cat’s paw. But there was hardly time for anything except the bald information, and when she handed the receiver to the next person waiting, she hadn’t really taken in what she’d heard. Then, as she walked away from the phone, she realised she was feeling kind of faint. There was a bench in the passage outside the dancehall and she sat on it with a bump just as her knees gave way. Only a minute or so later, Seán came out of the hall. He smiled when he saw her. Then, hunkering down beside her, he asked if she was okay.
‘Yeah. I’m fine. I just felt a bit dizzy.’
‘You’re white as a sheet. Have you eaten?’
‘I have. I’m grand.’
He sat down beside her and looked at her as if she were a specimen in a case. ‘You could probably do with a bit of fresh air. Will I take you outside?’
Pat felt it might be better if she were to ask him to find Josie, but her voice didn’t seem to be working, so she nodded and let him pilot her through the bar and onto the steps. As soon as they got there, she realised it was the worst place she could be. People who knew them kept walking past, saying hi or just looking curious, and now, to her horror, she’d found she’d started to cry. Seán seemed horrified too. He sort of edged round to hide her but that made people stare. To Pat’s relief, he took her by the arm and led her down the steps and round the corner, to where he’d parked his car. As soon as they got in she lost control and bawled for what felt like hours and, by the time she reached the stage of hiccuping, her face was swollen and the eyeliner Josie had lent her was smudged and streaked.
The Transatlantic Book Club Page 24