Now he couldn’t imagine his life without her. But did she feel the same?
Moving back into the living room, he returned the sketch to the portfolio and stacked it again with the others lining his bare walls. The house in the Hag’s Glen had a custom-made desk for him to work on, and deep shelving designed to hold papers and plans. Right now, Fury O’Shea would be up there, probably trying to sneak in a splash of colour that wasn’t wanted. But soon, Brian told himself, it would be finished: the final touches added, his possessions, such as they were, moved in, and the last tradesman gone. Living there, he’d be able to work out what he should do about Hanna. They couldn’t go on the way they were, with so much unsaid.
The battered red van was parked outside as Brian drove up to the house. When he approached the door there was a deep growl and a burst of shrill barking, which made him smile. During the months of construction he’d been known to arrive with a bone, or the remains of a steak, and been lured into a secret pact devised by The Divil himself. Whenever Brian arrived accompanied by the smell of last night’s dinner, the small, furry figure would appear without barking, take the offering silently, and vanish till it was consumed. But on foodless occasions he’d be met with snarls and aggression, as The Divil postured as the fierce guardian of the site.
Brian had imagined that Fury hadn’t noticed. But one day, Fury, who’d been on his knees installing wiring, had looked up at him and winked. ‘What was it this time, beef or mutton?’
It had been a ham bone, and The Divil had carried it off into the furze.
‘How did you know?’
‘Ah, I’ve known for months. It wasn’t hard to work out.’
‘Go on, then.’
Fury stretched his arms above his head. ‘God, a man could be destroyed trying to fit bloody sockets in the daft places you want them. I’ve had a crick in me neck all week.’
‘I’ve told you before, get one of the lads to do it.’
‘And I’ve told you that if anyone’s recessing sockets in a timber floor of mine, it’s going to be me.’
‘Fine. Okay. So how did you know about the scraps?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s a sharp man, The Divil. But he doesn’t always think outside the box. I got suspicious when he started to change his habits.’
‘How?’
‘Well, he has a great pair of ears on him, and he’d hear your car when you’d turn to drive up the glen. So, when he’d clock that, he’d dodge in to me and give me the nod in case I’d be having a fag. Then, when you’d pull up outside the house, he’d run out barking, as if he’d just realised you’d arrived.’
Fury stretched again and shrugged. ‘So when you started turning up the odd time without him giving me notice, well, I knew he had to be working to some agenda of his own.’
‘But if that’s the case he can smell food half a mile away.’
‘Looks like it, doesn’t it? Unless he’s got hidden cameras in your flat.’
Brian had felt rather like a guilty schoolboy. ‘Would you prefer me not to feed him?’
‘Not at all, he’s welcome to what he can get. But don’t go telling him I’ve rumbled him, or he won’t know where to put himself. I wouldn’t want us working this close to a river if the poor fella started to brood.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, I won’t say a word.’
He’d been rather proud of contriving to keep his face straight, but Fury had looked at him scornfully. ‘Ah, would you have sense, man. He’s a dog. They don’t understand talking. Just don’t you go behaving differently when you slip him the bit of food.’
Surprisingly, that hadn’t been easy, but today, since Brian was empty-handed, the problem didn’t arise.
He found Fury indoors, giving instructions to a workman who was about to go up on the roof. The airy rooms were now painted, their smooth white surfaces reflecting light exactly as Brian had intended. The kitchen appliances, which were brushed steel, produced the same luminous effect, and the open-plan layout ensured that his workspace would blend seamlessly with his living space.
Fury stood back, looking smug, and, pivoting on his heels to admire his creation, Brian’s eyes came to rest on a large paint tin that was standing on a spotless dust sheet in the centre of the room. There was a decorative swirl on the lid to indicate the colour and the label on the side said ‘COBALT’.
Brian stiffened. ‘What’s that?’
‘It fell off the back of a lorry.’
‘I don’t give a damn where it came from, what’s it doing here?’
‘Well, that’s a bit reprehensible, isn’t it, not caring that it’s nicked? Anyway, it didn’t really fall off the back of a lorry. I got it off a mate.’ Fury removed a roll-up from behind his ear. ‘Mind you, it wasn’t actually free, because I know yer man and he’ll be back looking for a favour. But I’ll absorb that, no bother.’ He struck a match and squinted at Brian over the cigarette. ‘So you’ve got a grand blue wall there at no cost to yourself.’
‘I don’t want a grand blue wall!’
‘That’s not the point, though, is it? Herself will be looking for a splash of colour.’
Brian gritted his teeth. ‘You are building this house for me.’
‘Well, you say that . . .’
‘I do. Repeatedly. And you’d better start listening.’
‘Oh, fair enough.’ Fury sauntered over and picked up the tin of paint. ‘Forty-five euro that’d cost if you laid out cash.’ He tilted the tin displaying the colour on the lid. ‘You’re a fool to yourself, do you know that? What woman could resist the hint of a sun-drenched Greek island?’
Brian gave him a basilisk glare and left the house.
Once outside, he strode down to the river, feeling he’d made a fool of himself and knowing he ought to calm down before getting behind the wheel of his car. It was a misty day and here, where the river was widest, shallow water chattered over stones and larger rocks were visible above the surface. Through the deep amber-coloured water Brian could see green weed shining on the riverbed. Hunkering down, he watched foam-flecked ripples swirling round the obstacles in their path.
The water ran through his fingers like silk. Then he heard splashing and The Divil leapt out from behind a foam-fringed rock. There were droplets on his whiskers and, as he loped out of the shallow water, his wiry coat was wet and his lips drawn back. Brian reached out a hand, offering to scratch him, and The Divil opened his jaws and let something fall on the stones.
Picking it up, Brian felt a smooth surface polished by river water. For a moment he thought it was a pebble he was being asked to throw for The Divil. But it wasn’t. It was a gold wedding ring.
Chapter Twenty-Six
From the moment Joe had suggested it, Conor had felt iffy about this meeting at the farmhouse. He was willing to bet that it hadn’t been Joe’s own idea at all. This was down to Eileen, and Joe should have had the sense to head her off. Instead he’d agreed to the six of them sitting down together – Conor and himself, the girls, and the two chief bridesmaids. To make matters worse, old Dawson and his wife were due to turn up as well.
Conor had seen his mam’s face when Joe broke the news that she and Paddy were expected to be there too. If it turned out to be a bad day for Paddy, most likely the whole thing would go horribly wrong, but Orla couldn’t say so because Joe had made the announcement with Paddy there in the room. Not by chance either, Conor reckoned. By doing it that way he’d avoided any chance of Mam intervening. It was getting clearer day by day that when Eileen told Joe to jump he just asked how high.
Conor didn’t really blame Eileen. Unless you actually lived with somebody suffering from depression, you wouldn’t know how volatile things could get. There were days when Paddy’s anxiety levels meant that he found it hard to cope with what the doctor called social contact. Joe knew that damn well and he shouldn’t have let this happen – or at least he shouldn’t have announced the plan as he had. But since the whole crowd was turning up at three, there was nothi
ng to do now but hope for the best.
Their mam had pulled out all the stops. She’d made a cake and had it in the oven before they’d sat down to breakfast, and it was iced and on the table now, flanked by plates of biscuits and egg sandwiches. Poor old Marmite had been banished to the sheds, and the kitchen was clean as a whistle. Not that it wasn’t always, but Orla had gone round like a fiend this morning, polishing the range and washing the best tea set in the sink.
The sight of her doing that had set Paddy off. He wanted to know why she didn’t just stick the damn ware in the dishwasher.
‘Ah, I’m grand.’
‘You are not. You’re rushed off your feet.’
‘Sure, it’s nearly finished now, Paddy. It’s nothing. And you can’t put fine china in a dishwasher, not when it’s as old as this.’
‘Well, set out mugs, can’t you? Or are the Dawson crowd too high-class for the likes of that?’
Most of the time Paddy was fine about the Dawsons, but every so often he decided they thought Eileen was marrying beneath her. Which was completely daft. Whatever you might say about old Dawson, he wasn’t the least bit snooty. According to Joe, he never shut up about being just a small farmer’s son who’d got lucky. Which was true enough, because his wife’s people owned the machinery business he’d married into and built up. You couldn’t find a decenter man, anywhere. And, according to gossip, you’d be hard put to meet with a nicer woman than his wife.
With the china on the table and the kettle filled, Orla was taking off her apron when the first knock came on the door. It was Aideen and Bríd with a box of pastries from the deli. They were followed ten minutes later by Jazz Turner carrying a bunch of flowers. Paddy and Joe were eyeing the food when there was barking in the yard and the Dawsons arrived in a snazzy-looking Land Rover.
As Joe went out to meet the car, Conor exchanged a quick glance with his mam. So far, things were okay. Paddy’s eyes had lit up when he’d seen Aideen and, though he hadn’t met Bríd before, she appeared to be a hit as well. He’d looked approving, too, when Jazz had praised the chocolate cake, which was topped with a crumbled Flake bar and little silver balls. Orla had gone all shy and said it wasn’t a patch on the pastries, and the chorus of denial had seemed to cheer Paddy no end.
The Dawsons came into the room in a flurry of chat from Eileen. She rushed into Jazz’s arms and hugged her, and then pecked Orla and Aideen on the cheek. Conor gave her a smile and kept his distance. He’d nothing against her but she wasn’t really his style. The first time he’d met her he’d thought that maybe she was shy, and that all the bouncy stuff was just a cover-up. Since then he’d decided that what you saw was what you got. If you asked him, Bríd hadn’t much time for her either, which probably wasn’t ideal, but there it was.
Mrs Dawson, who said they must all call her Maura, seemed to be taking trouble to be polite. She was a lot quieter than Eileen but, all the same, with eight of them milling round the kitchen, Conor was already feeling he could do with a breather. Except for standing up to shake hands with Mrs Dawson, Paddy was staying put in his easy chair. The girls seemed to be everywhere, giving a hand to Orla, while old Dawson and Joe stood with their arses to the range.
Not quite knowing what to do with himself, Conor sidled across to the door and hooked his foot under one of the ginger kittens, sending it squeaking back into the yard. If Eileen saw it she’d probably go hyper about its cute fuzziness, and already the volume of noise looked to be stressing Paddy out.
‘Come here to me, Joe, isn’t this all gorgeous?’ Eileen bustled over and took Joe by the arm. Then she linked her other arm through her dad’s. ‘D’you know what it is? I’m jealous of Aideen already! Her living in this lovely house and us going to be stuck down in Cork!’
Old Dawson winked across at Conor. ‘How would you like this one for a wife, boy? Signs on it ’tis far from the farm she was reared!’
You could tell he’d only said that to tease Eileen, but Conor spotted Orla shooting an anxious look at Paddy, who might well have taken it as a slight. Maura seemed to see it, too, because she intervened: ‘Aren’t they the lucky pair of brides to get two such handsome husbands? You must be very proud of your boys, Orla, and I’d say they’re great sons to you, Paddy, aren’t they? We’ll have a grand wedding altogether and, with any luck, a double christening as well!’
Conor saw the pair of lucky brides looking boot-faced. The thought of living their lives in perpetual tandem didn’t appeal. Anyway, he and Aideen had already decided they’d wait a few years before trying for a baby; and, according to Joe, Eileen had said she wanted a bit of fun before she tied herself up to a buggy.
Things didn’t get much better over the tea table. Eileen was in full flight almost before they sat down, producing her iPhone and scrolling madly through it. ‘I’d no idea they did such fabulous apps for planning weddings! I mean look at these – Bridal Joy . . . Get Me to the Church . . . My Dream Day . . .’ She held out the phone to Orla. ‘See, literally everything you could want! We could set up a group log-in and get the whole thing organised with hardly another meeting.’
Jazz and Bríd both opened their mouths but Bríd got in first: ‘Well, since we’re all here now, let’s take a step back and look at things in the round. To start with, you’ll need a date.’
Eileen took an egg sandwich and looked round big-eyed. ‘Well, we’ll want June, won’t we? I mean, who doesn’t dream of being a June bride?’
Joe pulled a face. ‘There’s the farm workload to think about. June’s a busy month.’
Eileen laughed at him. ‘Ah, for God’s sake, Joe, what month isn’t busy on a farm? If we’re putting another man in for you, can’t we just hire someone else as well for the few days it’ll take?’
Conor blinked. ‘The few days?’
‘Well, it’s going to take three, at least, isn’t it? Especially if we have it in Cork.’ Eileen reached out helpfully and took the teapot from Orla. ‘Here, don’t disturb yourself. I’ll give us another drop.’ She filled her mother’s cup and got up to give more tea to Paddy. Conor saw Aideen turn and look at Bríd. It hadn’t occurred to him that they might go off to Cork for the wedding and, clearly, Aideen hadn’t thought of it either. Before anyone else could speak, Eileen waved the teapot at Joe.
‘Three days at least, Joe, I’m telling you.’ Returning to her seat, she counted the days on her fingers. ‘Driving down, settling in, dinner the night before. The day itself, with the ceremony and the gala dinner with speeches. Then breakfast or a buffet lunch next day, afternoon tea, some kind of do, and a barbecue in the evening. And that’s without counting rehearsal days, so we could be talking more.’
No one said anything. Then Orla asked what kind of do she had in mind.
‘Well, there’s dozens of options, aren’t there? Depending on the venue. Paintball for the lads, say, or a falconry class. Maybe spa treatments for the girls, or a foraged food trail – or some kind of installation.’
‘What the hell is an installation?’
‘Ah, God, Joe, have you never been to a wedding? I saw a thing in a magazine where everyone wrote a wish for the bride on a seashell, and then an artist created an image of a mermaid out on the hotel lawn. Afterwards all the guests got a personal video.’
‘Of the ceremony?’
‘No, eejit, of the mermaid emerging in slo-mo, with a soundtrack made up of all the wishes spoken by whispering voices. Now that’s romantic.’
Eileen’s mam looked doubtful. ‘Whispering voices? Would you not say that’s a bit creepy?’
‘Well, it needn’t be that exactly. Tell you what, it could be a dove release.’ Eileen turned enthusiastically to Aideen. ‘Wouldn’t that be great? Say, one cage full of orange doves, and one of white. Or silver.’
This time Jazz got in before Bríd, while Aideen sat there gobsmacked. ‘That would depend on the colour scheme for the whole wedding, wouldn’t it? Which has yet to be agreed.’
Eileen nodded cheerfully. ‘Orange i
s going to be next year’s colour. Peach is already passé. Touches of white and silver never go out of fashion. But monochrome bouquets are going to be huge.’
There was a pause in which Conor was pretty certain Jazz gave Eileen a kick under the table. Then Jazz spoke again. ‘Right, well, getting back to the big picture, I suppose the date is the important thing if you want to book a venue. And, broadly speaking, what kind of event you’d both like to plan.’ She gave Eileen a gimlet look and turned to the rest of the table. ‘In terms of size, say.’
Everyone looked at Aideen, who looked at Conor. Taking a gulp of tea, Conor cleared his throat. ‘I reckon Joe and Paddy and me would want to get a grip on the implications. When to have it, like, and how taking the time off might play out in terms of the farm. And I guess me and Aideen need to talk about scale, like Jazz says.’
Aideen threw him a grateful look and Orla turned to Eileen. ‘A big wedding like that would cost an awful lot of money.’
‘No, but you mustn’t think about cost, that’s down to us.’
Old Dawson nodded. ‘It is, of course, pet, and you’re not to worry, Orla. I’ve always said I’ll pick up the tab.’
You could see Orla working out that a three-day wedding meant three different outfits.
Conor glared at Joe. ‘I’d say we’ll want to talk colour schemes, too, won’t we, Aideen?’
The flowers on the Primavera dress weren’t orange, and Carol had already embroidered yards of stuff from which they’d planned she’d make it up.
Eileen scrolled through her phone again and found a photo. ‘See? Donatella! I’m not going to ask Dad to fork out for Versace, obviously. We’ll get something in Dublin. But that’s the shape to be bang on trend next year.’
The model in the photo was wearing a strapless, skintight sheath of satin that exploded from the knees into a series of spangled net flounces.
Eileen, who’d handed the phone to Aideen, took it back and showed it to her mother. ‘I’ll have to lose a few pounds, of course, but haven’t I time enough? Aideen’s good to go, though. She was made for that dress.’
The Month of Borrowed Dreams Page 16