The Month of Borrowed Dreams

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  Catching his eye, Jazz had smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry. My friend tends to do things at speed.’

  He’d smiled back and said it didn’t matter, and there’d been an awkward pause in which they’d both felt that if Eileen weren’t in the offing they might have begun to chat.

  Now, sitting on the edge of the bed, Jazz pulled her T-shirt over her head. ‘Imagine if we hadn’t met again after that first day in Starbucks.’

  ‘Why? Would you rather we hadn’t?’

  ‘No, of course not! But it was just chance, wasn’t it? And, look at you. Here you are.’ She looked at him, marvelling at how great it was.

  Sam shrugged. ‘Isn’t that a definition of life? You walk through one door, one thing happens. Choose another and it’s something else instead.’

  ‘Definitely chance, not Fate, then?’ Seeing his bewildered expression, she laughed. It had been a daft question anyway. Sam was an inveterate pragmatist and the idea that Fate might intervene in his life would never enter his head.

  Yawning, Jazz rolled off the bed and went into the tiny bathroom. When she came back, Sam had shuffled his work into an untidy pile on the floor and was under the duvet with the light off.

  Snuggling in beside him, Jazz mentally ran through a checklist of all she had to do tomorrow. At least, she thought, it only took five minutes to get to the office. Rental property round Broad Street was as scarce as hen’s teeth but, having found the perfect office space, she’d been determined to avoid having to drive to work. So coming upon an ad that offered ‘a dream studio apartment’ had been a triumph.

  Stretching out under the duvet, she found Sam’s foot and tickled it with her toes. It was wonderful to have someone she loved so much to come home to. Though sometimes she wished they could tunnel through her flimsy walls, like a couple of stripy badgers, and turn her studio apartment into something less like a cell.

  Chapter Four

  Conor reckoned that the best part of his library job was the couple of days a week he spent on the road. He’d taken over the mobile-library run from Miss Casey last winter, when she’d suggested that the hours involved would give him more time on the farm in the mornings. Then, when it turned out to be the perfect arrangement, she’d told him to carry on.

  To give Miss Casey her due, she was good that way. You wouldn’t find her sticking her nose into your business but she was always one to come up with suggestions that helped. When Conor had started at the library, people had called her a dragon. She’d been standoffish and po-faced back then, running the place like clockwork with hardly a civil word. But you couldn’t blame her. Finfarran was a great place for gossip and, having been posh Mrs Turner in England, it must have been hard to come back to Lissbeg with a kid and a broken marriage.

  Sticking his elbow out the open window, Conor continued to ruminate as he bowled towards Ballyfin. According to his mam, Miss Casey had had every reason to fear gossip. By all accounts, the ex-husband had been loaded, but she must have made a pig’s ear of the alimony because she’d hardly been home when she’d had to apply for a job. She’d changed back to her maiden name, too, which suggested a nasty divorce.

  But she’d relaxed a lot in the last few years, especially since she’d got together with your man Brian Morton, the County Architect, who was kind of reserved in his own way but decent enough. Most people liked her now and just called her ‘Hanna’. He’d never got the hang of that himself, though. She was the boss, so Miss Casey seemed more the thing.

  Today his route took him through the northern foothills of Knockinver, the mountain range at the end of the peninsula. Ballyfin, at its most westerly point, was his final stop. He had several other halting places before it, scattered villages where he pulled into a church car park, or by a little post office, where villagers and people from outlying farms stood in groups by the roadside, or sat chatting on walls while they waited for him to arrive. The queues for the van were great places for gossip, and he knew that much of it now was about himself. A double wedding was big news in Finfarran. He didn’t mind, though. The questions he had to keep answering made it all seem properly real.

  He still couldn’t quite take in the idea that next year they’d be married. He and Aideen had been saving for so long with no real timeframe, and whenever they’d sat down to talk about it the future had seemed less clear. It wasn’t just the money. It was the fact that the whole thing had turned into a class of a Gordian knot.

  Before getting together with Aideen he’d had plans to be a librarian, though he hadn’t really been certain because he loved farming as well. Anyway, how could he go off to college? Who’d give him a student loan and how would he pay it back? Besides, he was needed at home. With his dad, Paddy, unable for heavy work after an accident, he and his brother, Joe, were hard pushed to keep things going. And with the farm not yielding a decent income for the lot of them, his library-assistant work made a real difference to the family budget.

  People kept telling Conor they should sell the farm and get shot of it and, okay, selling would release cash. But what would happen then to his mum and dad? That land had been farmed by McCarthys for six generations. Paddy lived with chronic pain and suffered from bouts of depression. What would losing his home do to his health? And being engaged to Aideen had added more complications. How could they afford to get married if he was a student? Where might they have to move to when it came to finding a job?

  And then, out of the blue, Joe had announced his engagement to Eileen Dawson, and with one swipe the Gordian knot had been cut. Admittedly, the solution had scuppered Conor’s notion of being a librarian. But it had saved the farm and kept him on the land. And, best of all, he and Aideen had been able to set a date.

  The idea of the double wedding had come out of the blue as well, and Conor hadn’t known what Aideen would think. It was Joe’s notion but Eileen had leapt on board with all guns blazing, full of plans for cakes and cards and where to hire cars. Aideen seemed fine, though. While she might be quiet, underneath she knew her own mind. That was part of what Conor loved about her. Look at the way she’d decided not to change her name when they got married, which, as far as he was concerned, was game ball. He wouldn’t be up for changing his name, so why should she?

  Eileen, of course, was all set to be Mrs Joseph McCarthy. But that was par for the course. Anyway, the bottom line was that Aideen seemed happy with everything, and so long as she was happy so was Conor.

  The road snaked through a pass that, according to Paddy, had once been a drovers’ way. For hundreds of years it had been used to bring cattle to market, until a new one was built leading directly from Carrick to Ballyfin. People called that ‘the motorway’, though it was really just a dual carriageway. It ran down the centre of the peninsula and round to Ballyfin from the south, where the side of the mountain had been blasted away with a grant from the EU. Some people said it was great because it halved your journey time to Carrick. But God help you if you needed to cross it in a tractor with a trailer full of beasts.

  As his steady climb began to yield glimpses of the ocean, Conor told himself potholes put fierce wear on your tyres. He loved driving the back roads, though. You could take your time and daydream, and from the library van you could look across fields as if you were up in a tractor. Nothing like being in the car or on his Vespa, when you sometimes felt you were whizzing along through tunnels of green leaves. There were no trees at this height, just towering masses of black rock and miles of rough grass and purple heather. People from the farms below grazed sheep here, trusting to dogs to round them up when it came time to go to the mart.

  Lissbeg, to the south of the motorway, was the only sizeable town west of Carrick. There was still a mart there but most years brought rumours of plans to close it, and letters to the Inquirer from people like his dad. According to Paddy, the powers that be had no interest in agriculture. They’d kill farming with neglect if they could, just like they’d sat back and done nothing while the fishing industry died. But, as
Joe said, that was just Paddy grousing. And how could you blame him when he was stuck inside with online forms and paperwork, and dying to be out working in the fields?

  There was a bit of truth in Paddy’s grousing, though. Farming was a precarious way to make a living. But, as he breasted the top of the pass, Conor knew that he’d made the right choice.

  Cruising down the drovers’ way he could see Ballyfin below him. Dazzling light reflected from the ocean around it, and local fishing boats and expensive yachts were bobbing on the waves. The boats were tied up to a stone pier in the old harbour, and the yachts were moored by landing stages jutting out from the marina, where shops sold deck shoes and sunglasses and mugs saying ‘Captain’s Mate’ and ‘Ship’s Cat’.

  He parked in his official spot by the green above the harbour and, seeing that no one was waiting, took out his phone. There was a text saying ‘Done & Dusted!!’ from Aideen, with a photo of two boxes of sandwiches wrapped up in cellophane with ‘HabberDashery’ printed on the labels. She must be having a busy day at the deli.

  HabberDashery, which Aideen and her cousin Bríd had set up in partnership, was just beginning to show a return for all their hard work. It did corporate deliveries as well as takeaway, and made sandwiches for the Garden Café, too. Conor took a thumbs-up selfie and pinged it back to Aideen. This time next year, he told himself happily, they’d be an old married couple, working together. Already she had plans for sourcing ingredients for the deli from the farm. She had notions of the place going organic, too, though he wasn’t sure how that would go down with Joe and Paddy or his mam.

  Everything in life seemed to be changing, the way the peaks of Knockinver turned from white to black and green in spring. It was all good. You had to get your head round it, though. Like when old Dawson offered to upgrade the farm machinery, airily calling it a wedding present. Neither Conor nor Paddy had liked that, but it was kindly meant and the gear was badly needed so, in the end, they’d accepted the offer as a loan. Eileen had laughed and said they were pure daft. The thought that you might not like to be beholden wouldn’t occur to the likes of Eileen, who’d never had a day’s worry about money in her life.

  Conor had been a bit shocked when Joe had backed her up, saying the gift would work as a tax write-off for old Dawson. No doubt it would but that wasn’t the point. Taking a labourer’s wage from Joe made sense because he was family and, in the end, when Paddy was gone, he’d come in for his share of the farm. But taking gifts from Dawson was something different.

  There was a knock on the side of the library van and Chris Ford from the bank stuck his head through the window. ‘How’s it goin’, Conor?’

  ‘Sound out, Chris. How’s life?’

  ‘Tipping along, you know yourself. Waiting for the bulk of the tourists.’

  Ballyfin advertised itself as ‘Ireland’s best kept secret’, which was a laugh. Its smart hotels and miles of beaches brought hordes of tourists each summer, including celebrities pretending to be incognito who always ended up on the front of Hello! and OK! magazines.

  ‘How’re the wedding plans going?’

  Conor shrugged. ‘I just sit back and leave the women at it.’

  That, in fact, was a massive, whopping lie. Still, Chris would probably die laughing if he heard Aideen was basing her dress on a picture they’d seen in a gallery, so it seemed best to come out with the standard line. Especially since the design of the dress had been Conor’s own idea. They’d found Botticelli’s Primavera on a weekend they’d spent in Florence and, while you mightn’t want your bridesmaids going round in see-through outfits, one girl in the painting, in a proper, flowery dress, was the spit and image of Aideen. Right down to her gorgeous eyes and wavy hair. Aideen had shaken her head when Conor had pointed out the resemblance, but she was well up for the notion of re-creating the dress.

  Chris thumped the van again and said he’d better get going: he was due for a drink down in the Marina Hotel. ‘Now, there’s a great place for a wedding. Though you’d want to get your women moving because it gets booked up months ahead. Give me a shout, though, if you’re pushed, because I’m good mates with the manager.’

  With a strong memory of Aideen saying she’d rather be dead in a ditch than have a reception at the Marina, Conor said he’d be sure to give him a call. Actually, he agreed with Aideen a hundred percent. The Marina was full of plastic lobsters and seahorses and, for all the fancy cocktails they served, they couldn’t pull a decent pint. Fortunately a kid turned up at that moment, carrying a pile of returns, and as Conor jumped out to help her, Chris strode away.

  The next hour passed in a flash, what with loans and returns, and the inevitable tourists who took the van for an information point, and a woman who insisted on presenting Conor with a box containing two kittens. They were a present for his mam, who Conor knew wouldn’t want them. Still, he hadn’t the heart to turn them down so he said they were great altogether.

  The woman was dying to hear what the girls would be wearing at the wedding. ‘I’d say it’s a secret, though, is it? Sure, whatever they wear, don’t you know they’ll both look lovely?’

  Conor smiled back at her. ‘They will of course, aren’t the two of them only gorgeous?’

  That was a fat lie, though. Deep in his mind he was certain that nothing worn by Eileen could match the beauty of Aideen in a dress embroidered with flowers, with bare feet and a wreath of carnations and daisies in her hair.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Have you just sold the last chocolate brownie?’ Aideen lifted the Perspex cover and called across to Bríd, who was lowering the blind on the door.

  ‘Yep, to Mary Casey.’

  Bríd came back to the counter, struggling with a difficult knot in her apron strings. She took it off and hung it on the storeroom door. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Nothing. Just that Eileen’s a great one for brownies.’

  ‘Well, she’ll have to whistle for them, won’t she? Give her a huge slice of Death by Chocolate. That might shut her up.’

  Bríd went round to brew fresh coffee as Aideen took off her own dark green apron, with ‘HabberDashery’ embroidered across the bib. The logo was part of their newly designed branding, a signal to the world – or at least to Lissbeg – that their business had taken off. She glanced at Bríd, who was looking a bit ratty. They had a full evening ahead of them, checking orders and paying invoices, so Eileen’s impending arrival wasn’t convenient. The trouble was, she’d rung up and kind of invited herself.

  Rattling three mugs onto a table, Bríd shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s better to cope with her now than invite her to the house.’

  ‘Well, yeah. I thought so. I mean, she just wants to take a photo to stick up on Instagram. I couldn’t say no.’

  ‘Is that what she’s into now? Instagram?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s set up a new account. I think it’s specifically for wedding stuff.’

  ‘Holy God, she’s starting a bit early.’

  ‘Well, you know Eileen.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘So, what kind of a photo?’

  ‘I dunno. “Here’s me with Aideen and her bridesmaid.” Smiley face, smiley face, huge big heart.’

  ‘Well, she’ll bore people rigid if she gives them months of that.’

  ‘Yeah, but next month it’s sure to be something else. She gets notions, and the easiest thing is just to play along.’

  ‘This is your wedding too, though, remember? Don’t let Eileen tell you what to do.’

  There was a pause in which Aideen grinned at her and Bríd looked sheepish. Then she gave Aideen a slap. ‘Okay, I know what you’re thinking. But I’m different. And you know I’m right.’

  Aideen laughed and went to cut the cake. Bríd, one of a large family of cheerful, competent siblings, had always behaved to her more like a sister than a cousin. Aideen, whose unmarried mother had died giving birth to her, was an only child brought up by their gran and their elderly aunt Bridge. Gran had passed away
after years of being bedridden, and Aunt Bridge had died when Aideen was just finishing school.

  Her dad’s people didn’t come into the picture. He’d been a married man with a wife and kids who’d wanted nothing to do with her and, except for Bríd’s family, the relations on her mum’s side took much the same view. Though it hadn’t happened often, Aideen had had enough schoolyard questions about her parents to make her sensitive, and Bríd’s continuing bossiness arose from an instinct to protect her.

  When Aunt Bridge died, Aideen had moved in with Bríd’s family for a while. It had all felt a bit noisy and strange after what she’d been used to, but Aunt Carol and Uncle Justin were kind, though Aideen had wished Bríd herself had been there to help her cope with the weirdness. Bríd had been off doing a culinary-science course by then, and when she came back to Lissbeg six months later, they’d joined forces and opened the deli. By then the formal stuff to do with Aunt Bridge’s will had all been completed, and Aideen had found she’d been left the house she’d grown up in. The decision to live there with Bríd had been a no-brainer. They got on well and could share the household expenses, and the idea now was that, after the wedding, Bríd would stay and they’d put a lodger in Aideen’s old room.

  There was a tap on the door and Eileen arrived in a wave of expensive perfume. Having kissed Aideen and hugged Bríd, she accepted a coffee and took her phone out of her bag. ‘Okay, here’s the thing. I’ve got this app for shooting black-and-white photos. Really edgy, you know, like film noir? And I thought I’d do a series on Instagram as a big wedding buildup.’

  Bríd sat down at the table. ‘But isn’t film noir about pessimism and menace?’

  ‘Well, yeah, okay, not film noir exactly, but that’s not the point. The point is that the app can pick out certain features in colour.’ Eileen rounded her wide eyes and pointed at them. ‘Look at me. Brown eyes. Right?’ She held out her phone triumphantly. ‘And look at this!’