The Library at the Edge of the World

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  He loved the smell of the books in the panelled room. Most of them were fairly new but some belonged to a collection that had been there when the room was the old school hall. They had leather covers and thick pages with torn edges, and the leather and the paper smelled wonderful. He wasn’t sure he’d want to read them, mind, with their tiny print and dark pictures and diagrams, but he loved the feel of them in his hand. Some of the bindings had tooled edges and rubbed gilt decoration and the endpapers had feathery patterns on them like you’d get on a cream slice. There were masses of them, including O’Neill’s big music collection, The Dance Music of Ireland, Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, and a Talbot Press edition of selections from Maria Edgeworth’s works. Miss Casey kept them in the old bookcase with glass doors at the end of the room and nobody really noticed them. The novels and reference books and all the other sections were displayed on modern metal shelves. Each was covered in a transparent plastic jacket and whenever a book was returned the jacket was cleaned with a solution of dish detergent kept in a spray bottle. And before anything was put back on the shelves it had to be checked for bookmarks. People left the most unlikely things in books. Once Conor had discovered a rasher of bacon in a Maeve Binchy novel and Miss Casey had hit the roof. She drafted a stern email saying the book would have to be replaced at once and an official invoice would follow. Conor loved the idea of old Fitzgerald the butcher, a tetchy little man with a face like a hen’s bottom, being a closet Maeve Binchy reader. The book had been taken out by Fitzgerald’s wife—it was almost always women who came into the library—but there was no doubt that the rasher had come from the butcher’s shop.

  So Conor and Miss Casey didn’t have much in common. Except the books. Having said that, there were times when you’d think Miss Casey didn’t like books at all, the way she wouldn’t want to chat about them. But, then, other times, she’d show him things like that big book about Canaletto that had amazing paintings of Italy. Afterwards, Conor had typed “Images + Italy” into a search engine and been blown away by a mixture of really old paintings and really cool photographs, including guys on Vespas whizzing round cathedral squares. That was what had made him determined to find himself a Vespa of his own.

  Today, as soon as he’d checked the computers, Conor went down to make himself a coffee. Miss Casey was at the desk looking a bit grim so he didn’t disturb her. Not that her moods upset him; he was used to them and, anyway, as his mam said, you’d have a right to be moody if you lived with old Mary Casey. While he was waiting in the little kitchen for the kettle to boil, he gave the sink a bit of a scrub. You might as well get on with other stuff since you didn’t get many borrowers this early in the morning. Though young mums with strollers would sometimes use the library as a meeting place, which was another thing that annoyed Miss Casey. Conor suspected that, if she had her way, she’d have an old-fashioned sign up saying SILENCE. She despised what she called gossip, and the sight of a bunch of girls with their heads together in the corner drove her wild. Conor thought they livened up the place.

  The trouble with Lissbeg was that there were few enough places for people to meet. It seemed like every year someone would get the notion of opening a coffee shop or a deli where you could sit round and chat. They’d borrow money, paint a place up, and put out plants and stuff to attract attention. Sometimes there’d be a bit about it on the local radio or they’d take an ad in the free newspaper that was delivered to the hotels and B&Bs up and down the peninsula. But most tourists drove by Lissbeg without stopping and people like Conor’s mum weren’t up for expensive organic pine nuts or mozzarella wraps. So, sooner or later, handwritten signs advertising full Irish breakfasts for a few euro would get stuck up in the new coffee shop windows and then you’d see tea and maybe toast thrown in for free. In the end the money would run out, the business would collapse, and yet another window in the town would be full of lists of kitchenware and shop fittings for sale.

  And each time Conor attended a farewell party for another of his friends who had given up on making their living in Lissbeg, he thanked his lucky stars for his own job in the library. It might only be three days a week, but it was steady work and it meant that the family farm hadn’t had to be sold. Conor’s dad, Paddy McCarthy, had injured his back several years ago: he could still get about but the heavy work was more than Conor’s brother Joe could do on his own, and the farm didn’t yield a decent wage for the three of them. If it hadn’t been for the library, Conor would have been on the emigrant boat and the land the McCarthys had farmed for generations would have been sold off to strangers. It was great to know that they could stagger on, at least for the time being. And maybe later on, if things changed at home, he could train for a proper qualification and find himself a full-time library job. Nothing was certain these days, though. And, like his dad always said when he had a black mood on him, it only took a stroke of some pen pusher’s pen to turn everyone’s dreams upside down.

  3

  Three days later, in an airport departure lounge, Hanna sat with her bag at her feet glaring at Malcolm’s letter. Her wretched mother had been right about that, too; sent from his office, it had indeed been full of old lawyer’s guff. And the reply to her request was unequivocal: Hanna had made her position plain when the divorce settlement was being reached and there was no question of the matter being reopened.

  Hanna set her jaw firmly. All right, yes, it was she who had walked out on Malcolm, but it was he who had driven her to it with his cheating and lies. And unlike Mary Casey, who would have taken him for every penny he had, she wasn’t looking for revenge. All she wanted was a house to live in. Malcolm could afford it. And she was owed it. They’d met in London in their early twenties, when she still had her sights on a job as an art librarian. Malcolm was well on his way up his own career ladder, boosted by an expensive education and his parents’ impeccable background. But however much he wanted to ignore the fact now, they had forged his success together. The house she had found for them was a tall, narrow building in a shabby London square in an area that had come down in the world, though anyone with half an eye could see it was due to come up again. It was late Georgian, with a stucco front, a narrow hall, and a graceful staircase leading to the first-floor reception rooms. Hanna had found an architect and a builder who stripped it back to its original glory, removing layers of paper and paint, knocking out partitions, and restoring lost cornices. She installed an oil-fired range in the basement kitchen and added a conservatory opening onto the back garden, planting espaliered pear trees against the high brick walls. For months she scoured architectural salvage yards for cast-iron baths and fire grates, a deep butler’s sink, and cut-glass doorknobs. The bedrooms were hung with hand-printed paper and the curving mahogany banister was sanded and polished with beeswax. It took nearly a year for the house to be ready and by the time they moved in she was in love with it. On their first evening there, she and Malcolm had wandered hand in hand through the rooms till they came to the master bedroom, where Hanna had chosen fabrics in shades of gray to complement the sage-green walls. When she opened the door she found a bottle of champagne on the bedside table, standing in a silver, Georgian wine cooler. Malcolm had laughed at her astonishment.

  “Doesn’t it fit in? It’s supposed to be exactly the right period.”

  It was, and it was perfect. As he poured the champagne he told her again how much he loved her. That night, curled up in the bed in which she later found him with Tessa, Hanna had told herself she had never been happier. Years afterward, putting two and two together, she realized that his affair with the woman who had been their family friend must already have begun in the month when she herself was choosing bedroom fabrics.

  As the gate number for her flight appeared on the digital display, Hanna glanced down again at the letter. The address of Malcolm’s barristers’ chambers proclaimed his firm’s wealth and standing and the position of his name on the letterhead indicated the level of seniority that he’d worked and
schemed for in the years when they were married. Stuffing the envelope into her bag, she stood up and made for the departure gate. Malcolm might think that the case was closed, but the time had come to reopen it.

  Inspiration had struck her when she’d first read his letter, sitting on the wall above the ocean. She should have known that writing to Malcolm was just playing into his hands. The letter she’d sent him had dented her pride and sapped her diminished confidence, while his reply had cost him nothing. And if she were to write again things would just get worse. Hadn’t she spent years listening to him pontificate about the joys of a war of attrition? “Grind the other fellow down,” he’d said, winking at her over the polished silverware and the expensive lobster or venison, sent by some grateful client. “Make him feel a fool and you’ll make him act like a loser.” It was what he and his overpaid colleagues called strategy. So, high on her clifftop, staring out across silver waves and drifting seagulls, Hanna had made up her mind. What was required was a little stratagem of her own. Taking out her phone, she’d dialed the familiar number of Malcolm’s office and spoken briskly to his secretary.

  “That’s right. Mrs. Turner, his ex-wife. Tell him I’ll meet him in Parsons Hotel in Mayfair on Saturday.”

  She heard the girl catch her breath in surprise, but she went on smoothly.

  “You have that? Thank you. Tell Mr. Turner I’ll expect him at three fifteen.”

  Closing the phone to end the call, she’d winked triumphantly at a seagull. Not only had Malcolm’s secretary had no time to get a word in, but choosing three fifteen had made it sound as if her own time were so important that she measured it in quarter-hour slots.

  Now, as the plane cruised above the world and its problems, a pretty stewardess who could easily be Jazz, but wasn’t, poured Hanna a tea. After a few sips she just held the cup as far away from her as possible until it was taken away. All she needed at this point was to turn up in a five-star hotel milk-stained or scalded.

  The dress she was wearing was a plain shift, cleverly cut in soft, wine-colored wool, with elbow-length sleeves and a high neckline. On the day that she’d left Malcolm and come to Ireland in a fury, she had chucked it into a suitcase without even thinking. In London she had always dressed in the height of fashion and in the Norfolk cottage where she and Malcolm and Jazz used to spend their weekends she had cupboards full of jeans and tops, cashmere sweaters, designer scarves, and deck shoes. Yet she had turned up on Mary Casey’s doorstep with a ridiculous assortment of clothing that made no sense for any occasion, especially not any she was likely to find in Crossarra. Most of what she’d thrown into her suitcase that day was long gone to charity shops in Carrick. But fortunately she’d had enough sense to hold on to one or two plain, good pieces. The dress still looked as stylish as ever; and in the airport, with the help of hairpins and hair spray, she had managed to twist her shoulder-length dark hair into a fairly convincing chignon. Afterward she had considered her appearance in the mirror of the ladies’ restroom. Not exactly Audrey Hepburn but certainly acceptable in a Mayfair hotel. Provided that she took off her chain-store coat before she got there and carried it over her arm.

  It was raining when the plane landed. Hanna took the train into the city and emerged onto a wet London street. Spotting a taxi with its light on, she waved it to a halt. It was vital to remember the big picture. Having decided to splurge on flights and a night in a hotel, the cost of a taxi was just peanuts. And it was going to make a difference. Not only would it keep her hair from springing out of its chignon, turning her from a mature Audrey Hepburn into a mad, frizzy version of Barbra Streisand, but it would encourage the hotel staff to open doors for her. She was perfectly capable of opening doors for herself, but what she was after was an air of authority that would prompt other people to treat her as the self-assured woman she needed to be—or, at least, to feel like—when she met Malcolm. Assuming he turned up. The thought that he mightn’t suddenly twisted Hanna’s stomach into a knot. Then the taxi pulled into the circular drive before the Parsons Hotel and a uniformed attendant darted forward holding a large umbrella. Taking a deep breath, Hanna swung her legs out of the cab and strolled toward the hotel doors.

  4

  It wasn’t often that Conor got time off on the weekends and when he did he mostly hung out at home, tinkering with the Vespa out in the old cowshed or chilling in front of the TV. But this afternoon he’d had a text from his friend Dan Cafferky who was meeting a couple of girls in Lissbeg for coffee. Going into town meant taking a shower and making himself halfway decent but it beat watching some old Harrison Ford movie with his mam, who had got to the sofa first and claimed the remote.

  Bríd Carney had been in school with Dan and Conor and her cousin Aideen had been a couple of classes behind them. Conor hadn’t seen Bríd for ages. She was just back in Lissbeg after doing some class of a cookery science degree and the two girls ran the new delicatessen across the way from the library. They called it HabberDashery, because there used to be an old shop there selling sewing stuff, and, according to Bríd, it was doing all right, though not brilliantly. In fact, when Dan and Conor arrived it was empty, but at least that meant they could sit and have a bit of a chat. When Aideen got iffy about taking payment for the coffees Dan told her she was daft. His own business running marine eco-trips on the north side of the peninsula wasn’t doing too well either, he said, but he could still afford a latte. Just about.

  They sat round one of the tables, with Bríd poised to nip back round the counter and Dan talked about whale watching. You got masses of tourists these days who were mad for ecology. But the problem in his area was the lack of decent roads that would bring them to you. Bríd said the real problem was that damn road running straight through from Carrick to Ballyfin; the crazy speed limit meant that tourists never slowed down and found the great places on either side of it. Since neither the farm nor the library depended on the tourists, Conor sat back and listened while the others talked. He’d had a notion that Dan had fancied Bríd back at school but maybe they’d moved on since then. There was nothing lovey-dovey about their talk anyway; it was all about profit margins and ways to get by. Aideen was full of determination to make a go of the girls’ business in Lissbeg.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to travel, mind. I just want to have the choice. And in the end it’s here I’d like to live.”

  Dan tipped a packet of sugar into his latte. “You see, that’s what I think. I was a year in Australia but I want to settle in my own place. But look at my poor mum and dad there, trying to make a go of their shop. They’ve got the post office as well and the Internet café out the back. I mean, that’s three businesses in one and they’re only just treading water. And here’s me, trying to sell whale-watching to tourists that can hardly find their way to me. And half the time I’ve got to go laboring to make ends meet, so I’m not available when they do come.”

  “Maybe you need some kind of website or online presence.”

  “Maybe you could ask the council or the tourist board to give you a hand.”

  “Sure, the only ones they’ll give a hand to are the crowd back in Ballyfin.”

  It was an old complaint but Bríd shook her head and called it a self-fulfilling prophecy. “Listen, we’re all paying taxes. And I’ll tell you something else. If you don’t ask you don’t get.”

  Dan interrupted her. “Yeah, but I’ll tell you what gets up my nose. Nobody’s interested in our opinion. The people who actually live here. Nobody comes to us and says ‘this is what we’re planning to do, come and tell us what you think of it.’”

  Bríd and Conor were nodding when Aideen interrupted. Actually, she said, that wasn’t true. There were posters up in Carrick about some council consultation meeting that would affect next year’s budget for the whole peninsula. Or maybe it was a plan they were rolling out over the next five years. Anyway, they were going to have a public meeting in a few weeks and present their ideas. Dan gave a big laugh out of him as if Aideen w
as just stupid. The whole thing would be a setup because that was always the way of it. Brown envelopes in back rooms. That’s what his dad said anyway. Aideen turned red and retreated behind the counter. Watching her fiddle awkwardly with some dishes in the sink, Conor felt sorry for her. After all, it was Dan who’d mentioned consultation in the first place. It crossed Conor’s mind to give him a hack on the shin but it was too late, and, anyway, Aideen probably wouldn’t thank him for it. She was kind of shy and the chances were that she wouldn’t want him making a fuss.

  Later, as he zoomed home on his Vespa, Conor told himself that Dan Cafferky was right about one thing anyway. Every tourist penny in Finfarran seemed to get spent in Ballyfin. Once a little fishing port, it was now a booming tourist resort, with jet-setters and movie stars hanging out in its narrow streets and a string of fashionable restaurants by the beach, where champagne was always on ice. Because of Ballyfin’s remote location at the western end of the peninsula beyond the Knockinver Mountains, it had been sold internationally to tourists as the best-kept secret in Ireland. Everyone on the rest of the peninsula called it the worst-kept secret in the world. But Aideen was right. Well-signed and expensively maintained, the wide road from Carrick led directly to Ballyfin and the country roads that led off it were seldom traveled by tourists. Which wasn’t all that surprising because most of them were hard enough going in a tractor. In fact, the really well-kept secret on the Finfarran Peninsula was its farmland and forest and the cliffs to the south and north, areas that were full of outlying farms and scattered villages. Those were the communities Miss Casey served in the library van. And, as far as Conor could see, the pen pushers hardly knew they were there at all.

  5