According to Mary Casey, who had thrust it at Hanna as a moving-in present, such bowls, once used for drinking tea, were locally known as basins. Though Mary would never admit it, the gift had been an unspoken apology for her aggression during their claustrophobic years together in the bungalow. Hanna had received it in the same spirit, knowing that acceptance would be recognised as a complementary gesture. Back then, words, no matter how well chosen, might easily have sparked another row.
She had seen similar bowls in Brittany and France, wide enough to require two hands to grasp them and deep enough to allow you to dip a croissant into your coffee. But croissants were weekend fare so, as the coffee filled the kitchen with the rich scent of morning, she pottered about mixing oats with chopped nuts, apple, and a handful of seeds. Having added yoghurt to her plate of muesli, and milk to her bowl of coffee, she took them outside to sit on her doorstep.
When she opened the door to the pale sunlight a triumphant voice was singing in a nearby ash tree, and broken yellow snail shells were scattered on the stone step. A thrush had had breakfast there already. Hanna brushed the shells away with a slippered foot and, carrying her coffee, went to inspect her rockery.
Dew-spangled cobwebs trembled on marjoram and marigolds, and lay like gossamer shawls on the bush where she usually spread her tea towels out to dry. Maggie had called spiders ‘night knitters’, a term Hanna had never heard used by anyone else. She’d mentioned it once to Mary, who’d tossed her head and declared that Maggie Casey had always had notions. The having of notions was the ultimate put-down in Mary’s terms: and, though the old lady had been long dead when they’d talked about the night knitters, it was clear Mary felt that if given an inch she might somehow come back and take an ell.
Hanna was often puzzled by the sense of frustrated entitlement that seemed to possess so many of Mary’s and Maggie’s generations. Yet was it so surprising? Maggie had lived through Ireland’s war of independence and been old enough to be aware of the rebels’ aspirations for a state founded on the principle of equality. Yet she’d been hounded out of her home by a parish priest who’d seen her in the woods with a man. And her brother had accused her of leaving their mother uncared-for, though he himself had joined the rebels without a backwards glance.
Maggie’s seducer had faced no retribution, and her brother, who’d ended his life as a drunk, had been a local hero. Yet her own life had been overturned and she’d died an aggressive recluse. Had she asked herself how Ireland’s dream of equality had dwindled to a reality in which women lacked both power and respect?
And that was the Ireland Mary had been born into – a smug, impoverished, Church-ridden world, which simultaneously treated women as inferior and equated them with the virgin mother of a patriarchal God. Whenever Hanna felt tempted to strangle her mother, she reminded herself of that toxic inheritance. Could you really blame Mary if impotent rage had made her overbearing? How could you expect her to be aware of what she hardly understood?
With her coffee balanced in one hand, she reached out to pull a weed from the rockery. Then she found herself smiling. Plenty of Irishwomen of those generations had risen above their circumstances, so it had to be nature as well as nurture that produced a Mary Casey. That being so, she told herself she’d be well employed keeping a sharp eye on her own behaviour. When Louisa had talked about Jazz’s inherited stubbornness, citing Malcolm and Mary as examples, she might well have pointed out that Hanna had her own share of it too.
* * *
Having eaten, showered, and got ready for work, Hanna was cheerfully putting her bag on the car seat when a buzz announced the arrival of a text.
JOHNNYS DRIVING ME TO SNITCH AND BITCH
Waiting for the next, which she knew would come, Hanna concentrated firmly on the May blossom in the hedgerow. There was another buzz and she looked again at her screen.
STICH NOT SNITCH THESE KEYS ARE 2 SMALL % ULL HAV2 GET ME A NEW ONE
She punched OK CU LATER into the phone, thinking she ought to have it as an automatic reply to all texts from Mary’s number. It would certainly save a hell of a lot of time.
As she left her car at the library car park, Conor cruised past on his Vespa. They met in the courtyard, and as soon as Hanna had opened up, he went to set chairs for the morning’s Knit and Natter session, always referred to by its members as the Stitch and Bitch.
Like every small town, Lissbeg had its share of serial joiners. Usually they were interested, interesting people with time on their hands, but among them were prima donnas of all genders seeking a captive audience. Occasionally, Hanna had her work cut out to woo newcomers to the library’s groups while making sure that her stalwarts didn’t feel threatened by their arrival. The serial joiners could be infuriating but they also tended to be indefatigable volunteer workers, without whom the Stitch and Bitch or the weekly Children’s Storytime just wouldn’t happen.
As always, the first-comer was Darina Kelly, who’d started the group earlier in the year on the basis of a cross-stitch kit she’d received as a Christmas present. It was a lovely thing to get, she’d informed Hanna, and once it was done she’d have a gorgeous footstool. But there was an awful lot of work in it and you got bored on your own. ‘Mind you, I have the kids round my feet, so it’s not like I’m lonely! And I do have a vibrant inner life, which I’m constantly tapping into. But I love your creative writing group and I long for each film club meeting. So, I said to myself why not Stitch and Bitch? It’s so fun and people can bring whatever they’re working on. Or we could all get together and make quilt squares for Africa. Or – wait for it – do knitted knockers!’
Hanna had recognised yet another excuse for Darina to leave her undisciplined, noisy kids with the au pair. But she knew of similar groups making items for sales of work, and knitting cotton breast prosthetics for cancer survivors, so she’d happily agreed. Now, months later, Darina was still stabbing doggedly at her cross-stitch, but several other members of the group had combined to knit and sew for charity. Their fortnightly sessions in the library often continued as convivial lunches in the Garden Café and, now and then, there was even some chat about books.
Mary Casey attended only sporadically, and Hanna was continually torn between welcoming the fact that she’d made the effort and finding her presence irritating. She arrived today on Darina’s heels, armed with a large knitting bag and demanding to know when Hanna would take her to Carrick to buy a new phone. Luckily, the rest of the group turned up promptly and before long they’d assembled in a circle.
Hanna watched from her desk as they jockeyed to sit near friends and avoid sparring partners, fished crochet cushion covers and babies’ booties out of bags, and looked round distractedly for their glasses. Some were getting organised quicker than others. Two young mums with infants beside them in buggies were already hard at work knitting knockers. Pat Fitz was crocheting a blanket. Darina was still struggling to erect the adjustable stand that had come with her cross-stitch kit. Beside her, Carol Garvey, who was Aideen’s aunt, was setting a section of fabric into a workmanlike embroidery hoop, with yards more of it carefully folded on a neatly placed sheet at her feet.
As Conor got on with shelving returns, Hanna turned her attention to her computer screen. Scrolling through a series of forms sent by the council’s health and safety office, she could hear voices from the circle rising and falling.
Darina’s, as ever, was the loudest. She’d been watching an episode of Downton Abbey the previous night. ‘And do you know what occurred to me? That really Downton is just Jane Austen with sex and different bonnets.’
One of the knocker knitters looked up in surprise. ‘But Jane Austen’s massively sexy. I mean Colin Firth’s a bit long in the tooth, these days, but he’s seriously fit in that thing Pride and Prejudice. It was on telly again a while ago and I watched every episode.’
‘Yes, but that’s the adaptation. Not the book.’
‘It’s the same character, though, isn’t it? Or wasn’t M
r Darcy in the book?’
‘Well, of course he was, but that’s not the point I’m making. Jane Austen doesn’t have him rising out of a lake as if he’s in a wet T-shirt contest.’
Carol Garvey drew a silk thread through her fabric. ‘You’re right, though. Her books are basically family sagas, aren’t they? Same as Downton. Just without the Upstairs, Downstairs bits.’
Several older women in the group agreed that Upstairs, Downstairs had been proper television, and a parallel discussion began between them about Mrs Bridges’ wig. Carol ignored it. ‘The costumes in Downton are brilliant. It’s a better period to design for.’
‘No! How can you say that? Think of Emma Thompson in those chip hats and the lovely Empire line dresses.’
Pat Fitz, who’d been contributing to the discussion on Mrs Bridges’ wig, glanced round at Darina. ‘That was Sense and Sensibility.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
‘Yes, it was. And it was a film. Actually, it’s one that Hanna could do for the film club.’
‘Are you sure? I mean, wasn’t Emma Thompson Elizabeth Bennet in the film?’
The second young mum said that she thought they’d said Pride and Prejudice was on telly.
Pat looked at them mildly over her glasses. ‘Yes, it was. And then it was a film, starring Keira Knightley as Elizabeth Bennet, Darina, not Emma Thompson. Though of course there were other films of it before that. I thought Laurence Olivier was a wonderful Mr Darcy.’
Darina frowned and said she must google it.
‘Well, you can if you like, but I know I’m right. Emma Thompson worked on the script of the film of Pride and Prejudice. She wasn’t in it. Then she wrote the whole of the script for the film of Sense and Sensibility. And played Elinor Dashwood.’
Darina stabbed herself with her needle and sucked her finger violently. ‘Damn! I’m always doing that. It’s just as well I chose to make these roses red.’
Pat spread out her blanket on her knee. ‘I wasn’t sure what colour I’d do this. I mean, these days no one cares about pink for a girl and blue for a boy, do they? But would you say orange on a cot might be a bit raucous?’
Everyone assured her they wouldn’t – except Mary, who snorted loudly – and Pat continued serenely with her crocheting. The Mrs Bridges’ wig discussion resumed, with one side of the circle insisting it must have been nylon.
Carol turned to Darina. ‘I think you’re probably right. Jane Austen’s just Downton without the sex. And, okay, don’t shoot me down, anyone. I mean overt sex. Rolling in the hayloft stuff.’
Pat shook her head decisively. ‘Actually, Sense and Sensibility is all about money.’
Darina frowned. ‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Yes, it is. Well, marrying for money. Having it. Losing it. Having a moral right to it. Ending up without it.’
Mary Casey snorted again and pointed a worsted weight knitting needle at Pat. ‘Now, there’s a subject we could all write a book about.’
The Mrs Bridges discussion stopped abruptly. Having gained her audience, Mary placed the needle against her lips. ‘That’s to say, we could if we were let.’
She shot a significant glance in the direction of Hanna, who cursed her inwardly.
‘Oh, yes.’ Mary addressed the Aran sweater held low on her lap. ‘There’s many a fool of a woman who married into money and lost it. Talk about having a moral right and ending up with nothing! But, of course, it’s never talked about. Even when the guilty party decides he’s going to add insult to injury.’
The eyes of the whole group swivelled towards Hanna. At the far end of the room, Conor, who was lifting a book from the trolley, looked round, as if feeling the tension. It was so precisely like a scene from a film that Hanna couldn’t decide whether to laugh or be furious. One thing was certain, though. Either Jazz or Louisa had told Mary that Malcolm was selling the house.
Chapter Nineteen
Jazz was sitting on a high cliff when Mike fell over her. It wasn’t an auspicious way to meet but, on the other hand, it hadn’t been his fault. She was curled in a patch of sunlight reading Brooklyn and he’d rounded a corner, tripped over her feet, and sent the book flying. Brooklyn landed safely on its face a few yards away, but he’d fallen heavily on his hands.
He looked up apologetically. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, did I hurt you?’
‘I’m fine, but are you?’
He had rolled over and, though his left palm was bleeding, was anxiously checking a camera that was slung around his neck. Jazz scrambled to her knees. ‘That looks expensive. Is it okay?’
He wiped the blood off his hand and stood up. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine. I should have looked where I was going.’
Jazz went to fetch the book, which had narrowly missed a muddy patch by a rock. As she smoothed the pages he came and joined her. ‘It’s a library book, isn’t it? I’m so sorry.’
She could tell by his accent that he was English. ‘It’s fine too. Really. How’s your hand?’
‘I’m not going to say fine again. It’s grand. Isn’t that the proper Irish response?’
‘Yes. But I’d stop there if I were you. I mean, I wouldn’t say “top of the morning” or “sure and begorrah”. Just in case you had that in mind.’
‘I’ll make a note.’ He held out his right hand and smiled at her. ‘My name’s Mike.’
‘I’m Jazz.’ She could see his attention straying back to the camera. ‘Are you a photographer?’
‘Yeah. Well, a video journalist. But sort of at the start of my über-sensational career.’
‘Would that be the point before it actually becomes sensational?’
‘Got it in one.’
His handshake was firm and he was tall and fair, probably the same age as she was. Far slighter than Sam and with long, floppy hair.
Jazz gestured at the deserted cliff. ‘Not much round here for a journalist.’
‘Not if you’re chasing news, perhaps. But I’m doing a travel series.’
‘Like for National Geographic?’
‘Oh, God, everyone asks me that! No, not National Geographic. I wish, though.’ His eyes strayed again, this time to the horizon where an island wreathed in mist appeared to be floating on polished silver.
Jazz could see he was dying to lift the camera. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and shoot it? You know you want to.’
He laughed and, choosing a springy clump of heather, sat down. ‘No, I don’t. Anyway, I’ve got enough for today. If I’m not careful I’ll end up with a six-hour series, and the most I’m going to sell is some pathetic two-minute clips.’
‘Of Finfarran?’
‘I’m travelling along the west coast. Cashing in on the Wild Atlantic Way.’ Nodding at Brooklyn, he asked if she was a student.
‘Nope. I’m in marketing. The book’s relaxation.’
‘And you’re from here?’
‘Mm. Well, I live in Lissbeg.’ Jazz sat down beside him. ‘I was born and raised in London, though. My mum’s from here. You’re a Londoner, aren’t you?’
‘Middlesex. I grew up in Petersham.’
‘Still counts as London. I mean it’s within a spit of a District Line station.’
‘That sounds like nostalgia.’
Turning the book over, she straightened its plastic cover. ‘I guess I’m a bit like the girl in this novel. Have you read it?’
Mike squinted at the title. ‘No. I’m not a reader. More a marathon man. I’ve seen the movie, though.’
‘Yeah, so have I. That’s why I’m reading it. My mum’s the librarian in Lissbeg. She runs a film club.’
Mike looked at the cover. ‘So how does the book compare with the film?’
‘Well, I haven’t finished it.’
Actually, she’d only read a few chapters.
When Mum and Louisa had heard about Sam’s departure, Mum’s reaction had been to back off, registering that she didn’t want to pry. Louisa’s had been different. She’d turned up and cornered Jazz in her office.
‘I don’t want to see you responding to this breakup by taking on extra work and becoming overstressed and unwell.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Because marketing a start-up business is a formidable task.’
‘I know.’
‘And you can’t be useful in a creative capacity if you never raise your head from your computer screen.’ She must have seen Jazz’s expression because she laughed. ‘You don’t have to be a business mogul to know that, dear. When you’re as old as I am you gain a modicum of sense.’
Jazz knew the admonishment had contained as much concern for herself as for Edge of the World Essentials so, feeling chastened, she’d gone to the library that lunchtime and borrowed a copy of Brooklyn. She had no inclination to attend the next meeting of the film club, but maybe in a few weeks’ time she’d be more disposed to. Anyway, escaping with a book to some private corner had once been her favourite pastime and now, with Sam gone and weekend work forbidden, there was far too much time to be passed. She’d done a lot more daydreaming than reading since borrowing the book, though. Idiotic dreams in which Sam kept coming back.
Mike, who had picked up Brooklyn, was inspecting the cover illustration. ‘So who do you think you’re like? Saoirse Ronan?’
Did he think she was looking for compliments on her appearance? ‘No. Well, yes. Her character. Eilis.’
‘Why?’
‘I suppose because I’m caught between two countries.’
‘Not two men?’
For a moment Jazz wondered if this was a come-on. Then she realised there was nothing flirtatious about how he’d asked the question. He simply wanted to know. ‘No, nothing like that. It’s just that sometimes I wonder if this is where I want to be.’
The Month of Borrowed Dreams Page 11