The Month of Borrowed Dreams

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  ‘Hanna . . .’

  ‘Christ, though it pains me to say it, my mother was right! She said I should have told Jazz the truth when I left you. And I would have, if you hadn’t got in first with your weasel words and your lies!’

  ‘Look . . .’

  ‘And then you had the gall to accuse me of destabilising our daughter! I was the villain for packing my bags and taking her out of that house!’

  ‘Hanna, please. You’re right, I know you are. I’ve said it already. I buggered it up all round.’

  ‘Yes, you did. You absolutely did, Malcolm. So don’t try to justify your actions to me now.’

  ‘I’m not. I can’t, I know that.’ Malcolm stood up and leaned against the chimneypiece. Groping for the shawl on the back of her chair, Hanna pulled it round her. The familiar oily smell of the wool reminded her of Maggie.

  There was silence, broken by the hiss of the fire and the sudden violent cawing of crows from the trees outside the house. Then Malcolm shoved his hands into his pockets and swung round to face her. ‘I’m going to say this because I have to, even though I know how you’ll react. I don’t want to sell the house, Hanna. I want you to come back to it. I haven’t exchanged contracts yet. I could pull out of the sale.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you and Brian. And, you’re right, it’s none of my business. But the house was always yours, Hanna. Yours and mine. It could be that again.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Malcolm!’

  ‘It could. I don’t mean you and I would get back together. Not at once. Of course not. But maybe . . .’ He kept going before she could speak again. ‘Look, the house could be your base over in London. It’s lovely here, but it must be bleak in winter. Isolated too. And I’m not stupid. I know you needed a place in which you could find yourself again after you left me. I do. But you’ve done that now, and isn’t it time to move on? Think about it – you could go to galleries, see old friends. Ma could still use it as her London pied-à-terre. It’s a family house, Hanna. Remember our Christmases there when Jazz was small? And I know you have a job and, of course, you won’t want to leave it. But what about when you retire?’

  Hanna had a disturbing memory of Mary’s text on her phone:

  THINK OF UR OLD AGE IF U DON’T NO ONE ELSEWILL

  ‘This is crazy.’

  ‘Okay. But the offer’s there for the taking. I want you to know that.’

  Chapter Forty

  Eileen almost fell into the room. ‘OMG! You are NOT going to believe this! SERIOUSLY, TOTALLY NOT going to believe it!’ Suddenly she stopped shouting and looked sharply at Jazz. ‘You’re still in your pyjamas.’

  ‘It’s Sunday.’

  ‘And it’s practically lunchtime. For God’s sake, girl, you’d want to get a grip.’ Eileen wrinkled her nose. ‘This is a seriously Bridget Jones vibe you’ve got going on.’

  Jazz removed a yoghurt pot from the unmade bed. ‘No, it’s not. The place is so small that it looks untidy if I leave a thing out of place.’

  ‘There’s untidy and there’s grot, Jazz Turner. You’ve been sitting there wrapped in a duvet watching telly.’

  ‘Look, are you here for a reason?’

  ‘I most certainly am!’ Kicking off her shoes, Eileen bounced onto the bed. ‘Check out what Aideen and Conor have done!’ She held out her phone to Jazz. ‘Only flown to Italy and got married!’

  ‘No!’ Jazz scrambled onto the bed beside her. ‘When? How?’

  ‘They flew over on Friday evening and they’re coming back tonight.’

  ‘But – got married? Over a weekend?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing . . .’

  Eileen swiped through the photos on her phone and revealed a shot of Aideen’s radiant face. Her head was thrown back, caught in a shout of laughter, and there was a wreath of carnations and daisies in her hair. ‘Look at her! Can you believe it? No, but the thing is that she texted me and she’s right, Jazz, a priest doesn’t marry you. Nor does a registrar. They’re only witnesses. People marry each other. That’s the point.’

  ‘No, they don’t. Not legally.’

  ‘Yeah, but the legal stuff is something else again. They’re going to go to a registry office after they get home.’

  Jazz looked at another photo of Aideen, sitting on the back of a Vespa with her arms around Conor’s waist. Her legs and feet were bare and she was wearing what looked like a white satin mini dress, with yards of flower-strewn embroidered fabric falling from her shoulders to the ground. ‘Is that white thing the dress you made all the fuss about?’

  ‘No. It’s a slip she bought in a lingerie shop at the airport! Isn’t it stunning? She packed all that fabric her aunt Carol embroidered, and came up with different looks when she and Conor got over there.’

  The series of pics looked like a magazine photo shoot. Conor sitting on the Vespa, holding a glass of wine and wearing a crown of vine leaves. Aideen with the embroidered muslin worn like a toga, and a huge bunch of wildflowers in her arms. There was a close-up of her feet, poised like a dancer’s on emerald green grass starred with creamy, brown-tipped clover; and another of a kiss, with the fabric in the background, thrown over the branch of a tree.

  Eileen sighed. ‘Don’t they look stunning? When she texted she was all apologetic, but how could she think I’d mind?’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘Of course not. Look at their faces! And look at this.’ Turning to her phone, she touched the screen to run a piece of video. It had been taken at sunset on a gorgeous evening in what she explained was ‘a trattoria up the hill from the Piazzale Michelangiolo’. You could see that it stood on a hillside with a stunning view over the city below. The front of the restaurant was smothered with vines growing over beams that formed a battered loggia, with three sides open to the air and a kitchen at the back.

  ‘Conor took this on his mobile. They made their vows up the hill in a grove of cypress, and Aideen says they just stumbled on this little place as they came back down.’

  There was a long table with benches round it on the loggia, where a crowd of locals and a few backpackers were sitting drinking wine. As the camera panned along the smiling faces, a woman bustled into shot and began clattering bowls of food onto the wooden table.

  Eileen squeaked. ‘Look! Ribollita and crostini di fegato! And tripe!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Trippa alla fiorentina! It’s really authentic, Jazz. Proper regional food.’

  Evidently, Eileen had spent the morning googling Florence and its culture.

  A little boy joined the woman, carrying a basket of bread. As he placed a series of round loaves at intervals along the table, people raised their glasses and gave a cheer.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Jazz’s eyes widened in amazement as the camera pulled in on Aideen’s foot stamping on the wooden table top. Her toes were grubby and there was a chain of blue cornflowers round her ankle.

  Conor must have stepped back at that point to take in the full view because, amid cheerful whistles and noisy pounding glasses, Aideen could be seen dancing along the table. She was stepping deftly between plates of crostini and painted bowls of pasta, and the flying toga was now kilted up above her knees. Whirling round, she scattered daisies from a fold in the flower-strewn fabric and, as a man produced an accordion, people began to sing.

  The video ended and, instinctively, both Eileen and Jazz punched the air.

  ‘Go, Aideen!’

  ‘I know! Isn’t it magic?’ Eileen turned round, her eyes narrowed in excitement. ‘God, Jazz, Joe and I are so going to do that!’

  ‘Dance on tables?’

  ‘No, eejit! Fly off on a whim to somewhere wildly romantic. Bali . . . No, the Eiffel Tower . . . No, I tell you what, the Maldives!’

  ‘I don’t think it counts as a whim if you’re going to sit here and plan it.’

  ‘Stop being so literal.’

  ‘And I’m not sure I’m equipped to organise a roman
tic overseas do.’

  ‘Ah, well, yes . . . That’s the other thing.’ Eileen gave her a guilty glance and bit her lip. ‘It wouldn’t feel spontaneous if I had a gaggle of bridesmaids.’

  ‘I see. Or even one?’

  ‘You wouldn’t get all upset if I stood you down?’

  Jazz responded with a deadpan look, just to teach her a lesson. Then she burst out laughing and rolled off the bed. ‘Of course I wouldn’t, you dork. It’s your wedding! And, if you want the truth . . .’

  ‘You’re actually over the moon?’

  ‘Well, you have been a bit like the Bride from Hell.’

  ‘That is so not true!’

  ‘Look, really, if that’s what you want, then I’m delighted. And I haven’t seen Aideen looking so happy for weeks.’

  ‘She does look like a million dollars, bless her.’ Eileen swiped through the photos again and enlarged one, looking thoughtful. ‘I wonder if I could get that effect with designer silk flowers?’

  Half an hour later Jazz sauntered down Broad Street. It was weird how much better she felt without Eileen’s daft wedding looming ahead. Now, showered and dressed, and with a pristine flat to come home to, she swung her handbag cheerfully on the way to find coffee and a Sunday paper. She’d finished reading Brooklyn in time for the film club on Tuesday, and now it was time to get back in touch with the real-life world.

  HabberDashery was still open for the morning-coffee trade. Jazz went inside and grinned at Bríd. ‘I take it you’ve heard?’

  ‘Aideen sent me a text. They’re stone mad!’

  ‘She does look happy, though.’

  ‘They both do. And they’re dead right, really. I mean, you and I know what kind of disaster lay ahead.’

  ‘You’re not kidding!’

  Bríd expertly feathered the top of a takeaway cappuccino. ‘It wouldn’t be my choice for a wedding, mind. I wouldn’t be as mad as Eileen, but I would want a proper do.’

  ‘Orange blossom and a veil?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that. Or a church and a nice traditional reception. But, listen, good luck to them. I was afraid my mum might be bothered but she thinks it’s the best thing out.’

  ‘I think I’ll have an almond Danish with that coffee.’

  ‘No problem.’ Bríd furled the pastry in a napkin and slipped it deftly into a paper bag. ‘I suppose you’re still on the hook with Eileen’s wedding, though, aren’t you?’

  ‘Nope. I’ve been stood down. Her latest dream wedding doesn’t require the presence of a bridesmaid.’

  ‘God, if I were you I’d flee the country before she changes her mind!’

  As Jazz carried her coffee out of the deli, Broad Street was wearing its usual weekend air of relaxed bustle. The sun was shining on the council’s scarlet geraniums in the horse trough, and the benches on either side of it looked inviting. Crossing the road between idling Sunday traffic, she sat down and took the pastry out of its bag.

  As she bit through its buttery flakes to the almond paste at the centre, it occurred to her that for months she’d been in thrall to Eileen’s endless demands on her time. And now, at one stroke, she’d been proved to be dispensable. So why should she think that her being here was so important to her family and her work? Maybe Granny Lou and the rest of the team would be fine without her as well. Nan would be grand, and Mum would be happy to lose the burden of a daughter who’d never managed to find the right man.

  Suddenly Jazz felt energised and empowered. Bríd’s remark had just been a joke, but perhaps it contained the answer. Why not give in to that secret urge to escape from here and be done with it, to get on a plane to somewhere else and find new roots and new love?

  Chapter Forty-One

  Hanna had hardly slept the night before. Between Malcolm’s unexpected offer and the discovery that Brian was Mike’s father, she felt as if her life had been turned upside down. When she opened the library on Monday morning, it was all she could do to smile and exclaim on hearing Conor’s news.

  He was glowing with excitement and eager to show her all his Italian photos. ‘Because the whole Italy thing was down to you.’

  Startled, Hanna looked up from his phone. ‘Was it?’

  ‘I don’t mean getting married there – that was Aideen’s idea. But we’d never have found Italy in the first place if you hadn’t shown me that art book. Remember?’

  Hanna considered this in amazement. He was right. When she’d ended up back in Lissbeg running a local library, she’d thought she’d followed her dream of being an art librarian for nothing, and that her training in London had been a waste of time. Yet, without it, she’d probably never have had the urge to share her pleasure in that antiquated art book. And Conor’s life had fundamentally changed as a result.

  Mine too, she thought wryly. Had she never gone to London, she’d never have met Malcolm and dumped her dream to become a stay-at-home wife.

  Conor revealed yet another photo. ‘You wouldn’t believe how amazing people were when they saw Aideen’s dress. Like, we just stopped in that trattoria for a drink and they laid on a huge feast. And more people kept turning up with instruments and, in the end, we were all dancing under the vines.’

  Hanna laughed. ‘It looks like you had a wonderful weekend.’

  ‘It was the best wedding you can imagine, Miss Casey. Like Aideen said, you don’t need all the official stuff. It’s about two people making a choice, that’s all.’

  They’d get round to the registry office, too, he assured her earnestly, and to having a party for the family, but that, and getting the work done at the farm so that he and Aideen could move in there, would have to wait until after the harvest was done.

  ‘Jazz tells me Eileen and Joe are still thinking of a June wedding next year. But I hear you’ve made Eileen reconsider how big it’s going to be.’

  Conor rolled his eyes. ‘I’d say she’ll have her mind changed twenty times before then. Wouldn’t you think people would know what they wanted, Miss Casey? I mean, honestly, how can they not?’ Whistling under his breath, he trundled a trolley of weekend returns towards the shelving.

  Hanna sat down, wishing devoutly that she knew what she wanted herself. Throughout the night her mind had leapt from one conclusion to another, always coming back to the thought that she couldn’t face Brian. Not now. Maybe not ever. What could she possibly say to him, given that he hadn’t told her the truth?

  At least, though, she could rely on his sensitivity. Having seen that she was ignoring his calls, he wouldn’t just turn up and demand to be heard.

  At that moment the door opened and Brian strode into the library. Grabbing the sides of her desk, Hanna looked at him in dismay. ‘You can’t come in here. Please, not now when I’m working.’ She glanced covertly at Conor, who was only a few feet away. ‘Brian, really. Please.’

  Instead of moving, he waved at Conor. ‘I’m going to steal her for a minute, Conor. We’ll be through in the exhibition.’

  Conor gave him a thumbs-up and moved on, replacing books on the shelves.

  Glaring at him, Hanna got up and preceded Brian through the lobby and into the exhibition space. No visitors had arrived yet and the guide on duty was out of earshot, chatting to the girl in the gift shop.

  Pausing by the glass case that housed the psalter, she spoke in a fierce undertone: ‘Why the hell are you here?’

  ‘You know why I’m here. I have to talk to you.’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘No more so than you refusing to pick up your phone.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Hanna, I know you’re upset but you’re making far too much of this.’

  Hanna felt herself swept by a wave of fury. Gritting her teeth, she took a step forward, forcing him to step back. ‘Don’t you dare tell me how I should think or what I should feel! I trusted you and you lied to me.’

  ‘I didn’t! I never lied.’

  ‘Oh, stop quibbling like a schoolboy! You didn’t tell me the truth!’r />
  ‘Hanna, you’ve got to be reasonable.’

  ‘I don’t have to be anything. Go away.’

  He took another step back, and the anguished look on his face nearly made her cry out. Beyond his shoulder, she could see a tourist peering round the lobby door.

  ‘Is the exhibition open?’

  Just as Hanna was about to go and deal with this, the guide came through from the gift shop. With her impulse to move inhibited, she dithered. Brian grasped her by the elbow. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. I can’t tell you how to feel. But you mustn’t call me a liar.’

  ‘All right. I apologise. But that’s not the point, is it? I thought I knew you and now I find I don’t.’

  ‘That’s not true either. You do know me. What you didn’t know was that I had a son.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Brian, don’t you see? I spent twenty years married to a man who thought it was fine not to mention the fact that he had a mistress. And when I found them together he gave me every excuse in the book. He hadn’t wanted to hurt me. He’d intended to tell me. Their relationship had nothing to do with us.’

  ‘But there’s no comparison.’

  ‘There is! There is because I feel there is. There is because God alone knows what else you’ve kept from me. Why didn’t you tell me about Mike?’

  ‘Look, I didn’t know he was here in Finfarran.’

  ‘That’s not the point – that’s not the point! Why didn’t you tell me he existed?’

  ‘Oh, Hanna . . .’

  At the other side of the room the guide was reciting dates and facts about the psalter. Turning away to avoid Brian’s eyes, Hanna found herself looking down at the book. No bigger than a large paperback novel, it stood open on a carved, gilded stand in its state-of-the-art case. The text appeared as a narrow block on each of two facing pages, and the broad illustrated margins were lavishly embellished, so that the vellum glowed beneath the glass.

  It was a book of psalms dating from the eighth century, when Finfarran had been home to a powerful monastic settlement. The principal house of the order had been in Carrick, close to the Anglo-Norman Castle Lancy, which now overlooked the bypass. In the background, Hanna could hear the guide telling the tourist that the de Lancys, who were once lords of Finfarran, had acquired the psalter at the dissolution of the monasteries. ‘Under Henry the Eighth, religious foundations in the British Isles were closed down. All the artefacts were sold off, and the buildings were granted to noblemen who supported Henry’s divorce and his right to marry Anne Boleyn.’