The Library at the Edge of the World

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  Then, having seated them in a corner, PJ the bartender returned with nuts and olives and a manner so discreet that Hanna wanted to laugh.

  “A gin and tonic, Miss Casey? Sir?”

  As PJ shimmered off to get the order, Brian caught Hanna’s eye. “You’re not the flibbertigibbet wife of an officer who’s up-country on a tiger shoot? Because if you are, I think you can rely absolutely on PJ’s discretion.”

  Hanna snorted and an olive went down the wrong way. Fending off Brian’s attempts to thump her on the back, she spluttered her way back to coherence and grinned at him.

  “The last time I was here I was reading a Saki short story.”

  “I can see why you would. Was it the stale pale elephants of Cutch Behar one?”

  Charmed to discover that he shared her taste for Edwardian literature, Hanna smiled.

  “How did you guess?”

  “It just seemed suitable for this wonderful white elephant.”

  “Do you like it? The hotel, I mean.”

  “I love it. I don’t just come here because no one else from the office does.”

  “No one from the library does either. God knows why not. I think it’s heavenly. Just as well, though. If they came I probably wouldn’t.”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Hanna wished them unspoken. Brian might share her taste for Saki but that didn’t mean that she wanted to make him a confidant. To her relief, he didn’t pursue what she’d said. Instead, as they waited for their drinks to arrive, he seemed concentrated on the spoof poem in Saki’s short story. Hanna watched him in amusement, prompting him as he tried to remember the words. It was the sort of conversation she hadn’t had for years.

  “Okay, it’s supposed to commemorate the Delhi Durbar, which is why the elephants come from Cutch Behar . . .”

  “. . . because it rhymes . . .”

  “Exactly. So it goes—‘Back to their homes in Himalayan heights, The stale pale elephants of Cutch Behar, Roll like great galleons on a tideless sea . . .’”

  “. . . and then Bertie says that Cutch Behar isn’t anywhere near the Himalayas . . .”

  “. . . and there’s the bit about there being so few poems about Russia in English because you can’t get things to rhyme with names like Minsk and Tobolsk.”

  “And then it goes on to ‘. . . where the coiled cobra in the gloaming gloats . . .’”

  “‘. . . and prowling panthers stalk the wary goats . . .’”

  Brian frowned, trying to remember more. “I think there are other bits in between.”

  “No there aren’t.”

  “Yes there are.”

  Hanna looked at him severely. “When did you last read this story?”

  He grinned at her. “Probably when I was at school.”

  “Well then! I read it last week.”

  “Oh, all right. Maybe I just liked the wary goats so much that I imagined there was more.”

  Hanna’s eyes widened. “Oh Lord, you’ve just reminded me. I haven’t moved my goats.”

  30

  Brian Morton let himself into his flat and went to the fridge for a beer. Then, making his way to the balcony, he leaned on the rail and looked westward. In the distance, beyond the lights of Carrick, the mountains at the end of the peninsula loomed purple in the gloaming. Somewhere down there, presumably, Hanna Casey was moving her goats. Brian took a mouthful of beer and grinned, remembering the line in Saki’s spoof poem about the coiled cobra in the gloaming. How strange to find himself quoting it in the bar of The Royal Victoria, and stranger still to find himself sitting there with the woman who had annoyed him so much the other week.

  But then it had been a strange evening altogether. He had no idea what had prompted him to offer Hanna Casey the shelter of his umbrella or why he’d suggested a drink. True, he had felt vaguely remorseful after snubbing her, but it wasn’t something he’d lost sleep over. In fact, he hadn’t given her a thought since the day she’d walked out of his office with her head up and her dark plait swinging. Yet today, as she’d crossed the parking lot toward him with her shoulders hunched against the rain, he had decided it was incumbent on him to be civil.

  Brian was well aware that his reputation for coldness kept his neighbors and colleagues at bay; that was exactly why he cultivated it. But having sensed the same kind of reserve in Hanna, it struck him after she left his office that he had indulged his own neurosis at her expense. So this evening it had seemed right to make amends. All the same, he thought, taking another swig of beer, he hadn’t intended to do it quite so thoroughly; one minute he was holding up his umbrella while she searched for her keys, the next minute he was offering her a drink. And then the drive to the hotel had been so awkward that he’d wished he’d kept his mouth shut. It had taken a shared interest in a book to break the tension and even so, there had been moments when they might well have been tongue-tied again. Leaning on the balcony rail, Brian winced at the memory. Clearly neither of them was used to casual drinks in hotels. Or maybe it was a case of their both being out of practice.

  Within half an hour, though, they had moved to the Grill Room. By then they’d relaxed in the corner of the comfortable bar, it was still raining outside, and a couple of steaks had seemed like a good idea. The Grill Room at The Royal Victoria was paneled in dark oak and had long windows hung with deep crimson blinds. There was a great deal of polished brass and silver plate, a profusion of potted ferns, and a wonderful smell emerging from the kitchen. Hanna hadn’t eaten there before.

  “Really?”

  “Really. I don’t know why. Well, yes I do, it’s never felt particularly welcoming to a woman on her own.” As soon as she’d said that she frowned. “My God, that’s outrageous! It must be the subtle effect of PJ and The Raj.”

  Brian leaned back against buttoned leather. “Whereas it’s the perfect place for a chap to treat as his club.”

  “Do you?”

  He grinned. “No. But it is great for a steak. So long as you’re hungry.”

  “Bring it on!” Hanna shook out her napkin. “You wouldn’t believe how hungry you get after hours in a parked van in Ballyfin.”

  As she looked at the menu Brian had studied her face. Just as he’d liked her straight back and unadorned hands last week, he admired her eyebrows as she bent her head and tilted the menu to the light. They were dark like her hair. Her skin was fair and slightly freckled, and, while her broad forehead was almost unwrinkled, there were deep clefts above the bridge of her nose where her brows drew together in thought. Even the Grill Room menu, it seemed, was cause for careful consideration. Suddenly struck by misgiving, Brian had said that the meal was his treat. Her gray eyes flicked up at him.

  “Nonsense, we’ll halve the bill.”

  “How do you know that I’m not going to consume huge vats of vintage port?”

  “All right then, we’ll split the bill appropriately. Otherwise we’ll end up in a perpetual loop of indebtedness.”

  Was she making sure that she wouldn’t have to see him again? Brian was amused to find himself slightly piqued. Misinterpreting his smile, she had scowled.

  “I’m perfectly capable of paying for my own dinner.”

  “Of course. That’s what we’ll do, then. Each to his own.”

  She had given her order to the waitress with authority. “I’d like my steak rare, please, and I do mean rare. And I’d rather it came without onion.”

  The waitress made a note and turned to Brian.

  “Oh, I’ll just have it medium, I’m a wimp.”

  She had laughed and bustled off to the kitchen and in the silence that followed, it had seemed for a moment that they were lost again for words. Then Hanna looked around the room.

  “Strange to think of those Victorian investors spending so much money on the off chance of royal favor.”

  “Indeed. Not a case of ‘if you build it, they will come.’”

  “Can’t you imagine that poor prince upstairs snuffling into his handkerchie
f? And then going home and telling the Queen Empress to stick to the Lakes of Killarney?”

  “Well, that’s the tourism industry for you. Ninety percent word of mouth.”

  “Is that a real statistic or did you just make it up?”

  Brian laughed. “I made it up. But it is a high percentage. And a notoriously volatile market. Look at Ballyfin.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, it’s booming now but, personally, I wouldn’t invest there.”

  “Wouldn’t you? Why not?”

  “Well, it seems to me to be teetering on the verge of saturation. And, if you ask me, this new budget allocation is just daft.”

  Hanna buttered herself a piece of bread. “What new budget allocation?”

  Brian grinned. “God, it’s refreshing to spend time with someone who doesn’t work here in Carrick!”

  As the waitress reappeared with a pitcher of water, he explained that next year was supposed to see the rollout of a new investment plan for the county. “They’ve been fiddling with it for months and having endless internal feedback sessions and, frankly, I think the whole thing’s crazy.”

  “Did you say so?”

  “It’s not people at my level that get asked.”

  Now, leaning on the balcony rail with his bottle of beer, Brian remembered that moment when he’d spoken without thinking, and the moment that followed it, charged with the possibility of interest in his life and career that would have to be deflected. But, in a single, direct glance, Hanna seemed to see how he had felt. Instead of asking questions, she’d picked up her bag and produced a cardboard tube.

  “Is that what this poster’s about?”

  She unfurled it on the table between them and Brian nodded.

  “That’s it. They’ve done all the internal stuff and the feasibility studies. Now they’re coming to the public. And then the county councillors’ vote.”

  “Yes, but what’s the actual proposal? This says consultation meeting but it looks like a presentation.”

  “By which you mean a fait accompli.”

  “I don’t know what I mean. You’re the one in the know.”

  “Well, it’s not a state secret. Someone got inspired by what they call targeted budgeting. Basically, if there isn’t enough money to begin with, you don’t spread it thin. Instead, you target your projects to produce maximum yield.”

  “And in this instance . . . ?”

  “In this instance Ballyfin is promising tens of thousands of extra tourists annually if the council builds it a marina to accommodate cruise ships. Not massive ones, obviously. But it means the old pier would have to go.”

  “And that’s the plan? To put the whole county budget into Ballyfin?”

  “And Carrick.”

  “What’s happening in Carrick?”

  “Well, that’s why the council loves the proposal. Ballyfin gets the marina and Carrick gets a brand-new, all-singing, all-dancing council complex, with everything under one roof. Offices, leisure center, social amenities, community care provision . . .” Brian had interrupted himself to beam as the waitress arrived with the steaks. “Thank you, that’s wonderful, it looks great.”

  It struck him now that without that interruption he might have gone on to ask Hanna’s opinion of the plan to incorporate the County Library in the new complex. But the waitress set the steaks on the table with a manner so suggestive of cozy intimacy that he’d been distracted, fearing that Hanna might bristle. Instead she’d just smiled and said the food looked delicious. And then, when they returned to their conversation, she’d asked about the HoHo app.

  “Is it tied in to the council’s proposal?”

  “Not directly. But if you’re into targeted budgeting, the app is bang on message. And all roads ultimately lead to Rome.”

  “You mean Dublin?”

  “Well, of course. The government thinks that targeted budgets are great.”

  Hanna laughed. “And Teresa O’Donnell has her sights on a government job.”

  Brian grinned. “It’s surprising how driven some people get when it comes to enhancing their status. But will she triumph?” Brian mimed a dramatic drum roll. “She might find herself stuck in Finfarran for a good while yet.”

  For a moment he’d regretted the joke, wondering if his image of Finfarran as a rural backwater might lack tact. After all, Hanna had chosen to come back to the peninsula herself when, presumably, she could have stayed in London. But she’d laughed with him, and soon they were talking books again, trying to remember the origin of “if you build it, they will come.”

  “It’s Field of Dreams, isn’t it? The movie?”

  Hanna shook her head. “No, it’s not. And it’s ‘he will come,’ actually. It’s from the book the movie was based on, Shoeless Joe.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  She grinned. “I’m a librarian.”

  “Is that what you do all day, then? Read your stock?”

  “Not at all. Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time in a field of dreams of my own.”

  It had been that kind of dinner, full of shared interests and references that had added to the pleasure of her company. Now, leaning on his balcony, Brian smiled. To some degree they’d been showing off to each other like a couple of giddy teenagers. But it was fun. And he suspected that it had been a good while since either of them had felt so relaxed.

  31

  As Brian Morton stood on his balcony in Carrick, Hanna sat in the gloaming on a pile of fallen stones. The goats were grazing on either side of her and the exposed rafters above the stone walls that enclosed her future were like bared teeth against the sky. A single star winked and was lost in drifting cloud. Then the clouds lifted and a curtain of stars appeared above the ocean. It was clear that, despite what he’d said, Fury had been to the house in the last week. Much of the half-buried rubbish had disappeared and the goats were grazing on new patches in the scrubby, rutted field.

  Earlier, she had stood on the threshold of the house looking in at an empty shell. Directly opposite the front door, fresh planks boarded up what used to be the entry to the extension. With the slates and the sagging ceiling removed, the rooms were brighter. And there was a new smell, no longer musty, more like the dankness of a cave. Fury must have removed everything in the house that had been rotting: the door with its shrunken planks and rusty hinges was gone; so were the piled-up boxes of junk and the broken bits of furniture. Only Maggie’s tall wooden dresser remained in its alcove by the fireplace, the cobwebs washed away by rain.

  Crossing the room, Hanna had opened the dresser. Inside, the old cups and glasses were still on the dirty shelves. One glass, with straight sides and a heavy base, had been the measuring cup for the buttermilk that Maggie had used to make soda bread. The rim was uneven and the glass had a green tinge. Hanna lifted it down. It had been more than forty years since she had touched it, yet she remembered its weight in her hand. She had taken it with her when she walked down the field to the goats.

  Now, sitting on the stones with the glass in her hand, she wondered if she’d lost the will to continue to struggle with Fury O’Shea. Maybe Brian Morton was right, and, for the time being, the house belonged to Fury, not to her. And right now she found herself moved by other, older emotions.

  She had been twenty-one when she lost her baby in London. Ridiculous that the memory should come back to her now as she sat on a fallen wall with the stars shining over Maggie’s house and the ocean pounding the cliff so far below. It had happened on a Monday in Malcolm’s flat near Sloane Square, when she had been puttering about in her dressing gown trying to control her morning sickness after a breakfast of toast and weak tea. Joni Mitchell was singing “Chelsea Morning” on the stereo and Malcolm had left for work. The bay windows were open and the door leading out to the balcony was ajar. The long sheer curtains hung motionless, filtering the shafts of sunlight that fell across the wooden floor.

  It had been over a week since Hanna did anything more than putter
or lie on the sofa reading and she had told herself that today she would complete at least one practical task. The dress she had worn on her wedding day was still in the wardrobe in its plastic cover waiting to be taken to the dry cleaner’s. It was a cream shift, gathered into a yoke in front, with seed pearls sewn around the neckline and the scalloped, calf-length hem. Wandering through from the living room to the bedroom, she opened the wardrobe and reached up to lift out the dress. The slight dragging cramp she had woken up with that morning became a sharp, stabbing pain. She dropped the dress and clutched her stomach, hearing herself cry out. Then, terrified by a sudden rush of liquid, she was stumbling across the living room towards the bathroom.

  Now, over thirty years later, Hanna’s fingers clenched on the glass in her hands. She could still see the shafts of sunlight falling across the living-room floor and remember the sound of Joni Mitchell’s voice heard through her own tears as she crouched doubled over on the toilet. The bathroom door was open, and, with her head on her knees, she was aware of the sounds of the city beyond the windows of the flat. Eventually she had made it to the phone, called her doctor’s number, and obeyed the instruction to phone for a cab to take her round to the clinic. After a few brisk questions, the receptionist’s voice on the end of the line had been kind. She was to take her time, there was no rush. If her husband was on his way she could wait till he arrived. But Malcolm was in court and those were the days before cell phones. “Okay. Well, take it easy and get here when you can.” With the telephone in her hand, Hanna had realized what she was being told. It was too late to do anything; her baby was gone.

  Hours later, as she lay in bed in the flat and Malcolm made tea in the kitchen, Hanna had felt nothing. The sun still poured in like butterscotch but everything around her seemed to be a million miles away. Malcolm brought her the tea with tears streaming down his face. The next day he’d phoned Louisa with the news and Hanna phoned home, too. It was Mary who picked up the phone. Longing to speak to her dad but knowing it would be unkind to bypass her mother, Hanna told her curtly what had happened. Mary’s response when she heard the news was immediate.