‘I should get cleaned up,’ I say.
‘You should. You look a wreck!’ Michael kids.
I pop him in the arm. ‘Thanks,’ I purr, fluffing a crusty whorl of hair and thrusting a hip out at him.
He takes a step closer to me. ‘What are you at tomorrow?’
‘Besides milking cows and hawking cheese?’ I grin.
‘Besides that.’
‘No idea.’
‘Brilliant. I’ll see you tomorrow so.’ He walks off up the hill, trying to balance his bike with his left hand and the other (slightly mashed one) with his right. I can feel myself smiling after him.
What am I doing?! I’m not supposed to get involved with these people! One off fling with Irish cowboy--that I could’ve managed--but second date? That was venturing perilously close to that awkward territory of ‘I like you more than like’. I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. I put a hand to my eyes and watch him fly up the ridge. He’s a big boy. He has to know that, in a few days, I’m getting on that boat and steaming out of here forever.
I’m just out of the bathroom after an extra long shower when Dermot’s voice--stretched thin with frustration--booms down the hall.
‘It says it right there. Black and white. “German multi-national takes advantage of dairy crisis, purchases milk at cost”,’ Dermot reads aloud.
‘I did read it,’ Clare says.
‘Well then, you must know what it means for us. And for Cormac!’
I slip in through the front door and creep toward the kitchen.
‘They’ve gone and driven the prices so low, we have no choice but to reconsider their offer,’ Dermot goes on.
Clare huffs. ‘I don’t see why you don’t sell. We’d get a nice check every month and wouldn’t have to deal with all this nonsense.’
‘Do you know what they’re going to do with the milk--with OUR milk? Sell it under a store label! Like common muck!’
‘And you’ll be paid for it same as you are here.’
‘They couldn’t pay me enough!’ Dermot hollers.
I hear Clare heave a sigh and clomp out the back door in her wellies.
I had no idea things were this bad.
I pad into the kitchen, where Dermot has a pot of tea waiting for me. The paper’s opened in front of him to the minister’s statement, and he looks to be reading the same five lines over and over, his head viced between his hands.
I sit down beside him and scan over his shoulder. Looks like a Mexican stand off to me.
‘I’m sorry about the co-op,’ I say. The words ring empty in my ears.
Dermot looks up at me, one corner of his mouth curling in a sad smile. ‘All good things, as they say. Only a matter of time, I suppose.’ He droops his head back over the paper, muttering.
An unexpected twinge tugs at my heart. ‘But does it have to end?’
Dermot stares at me sidelong. ‘Sorry, what?’
I bolt out of the chair and grab my laptop off the sideboard. ‘Never mind. I’ve got to go. Be back tonight.’
I leave him gaping after me and make a beeline to St. Enda’s. There isn’t a soul about; all of the windows are black and the doors locked. I toe the mat over and, sure enough, there’s a key there. BINGO! I slip inside and flick on the office lights. If I could get the factory website up and running, I might be able to buy Dermot and the rest of the farmers some time for deliberation. But what’s the angle? Selling piece-meal to tourists wouldn’t make enough of an impact on the local economy; I need something to grab the attention of high end retailers. I pull up my email account. One new message: ‘James “Foie Gras” Ryder.’ Kate has sent the food guru’s details--here’s his email, his office number, and his cell!
I shoot him an email: ‘Cottage Industry Comeback’.
Dear James, blah-de-blah-de-blah. Remember how I put you on the map when you were just some dude with a beard and a couple of rooftop beehives in Queens? Well, I’m calling in a favor. If only I could get Ryder to endorse St. Enda’s to his foodie followers, we might be able to land a major international contract! I jot down a proper email, making sure to drop all the right names, and press SEND.
There! Now to set up the website. Got your stock list here, your contacts here, a nice little blurb on the history of the company in the ‘About Us’ section. All I need now is a slogan. I bite at my thumbnail. St. Enda’s: The Cheesiest of Cheeses. Nah. Too… cheesy. St. Enda’s: Fine Irish Cheeses. A bit too LA-DE-DAH? I spin the chair round and catch Josephine winking down at me.
‘What would you say?’ I ask her.
St. Enda’s… A Taste of the Auld Sod. Not even close.
There is something else. Is it something Bridie said?
‘That’s it!’
I tap away at the keyboard: St. Enda’s: Made with Love Since 1975.
‘Thank you missus,’ I nod at the portrait. ‘And that’s us online!’ I loll back into the chair and clasp my hands behind my head. The hits counter at the bottom of the webpage glares out at me--a big fat zero.
I minimize the page and pull up The Times. ‘Ninety-two degrees in Manhattan.’ What I wouldn’t give!
There’s a ping from the laptop.
‘A hit!’ I squeal and pull the factory page onto the desktop. The laptop chimes again. And there’s another! I stare wide eyed at the screen. This is really happening! And just think of the difference it could make for Bridie and the girls, Dermot and the co-op!
I can hardly sit still, I’m so excited. Not one of my M&A campaigns had ever given me this kind of heart wound buzz. But am I overstepping? I’m making hard and fast changes. Would the islanders be able to keep up? And, since when do I lead with my heart?! I’m not entirely sure the factory can handle an upswing in output. I glance up at the portrait of my grandmother. Am I doing the right thing?
The web counter pings. Too late to worry about that now. I cross my hands behind my head and close my eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘Julie? Julie, you alright there?’
I jerk upright and the swivel chair rockets very nearly out from underneath me. Did I fall asleep?!
‘I’ve been looking all over for you,’ Dermot smiles at me across the desk. ‘Ya had me worried sick!’
My heart clenches. This big, scruffy man was worried about me?
‘I’m so sorry, Dermot! I was working, and I must’ve nodded off.’
‘Working on a Sunday night? Now,’ he grins.
I click on the St Enda’s website and refresh the log. Five hundred and twenty-six hits!
‘Look at this,’ I beam, spinning the laptop around to face Dermot. He scans the page, eyes getting wider and wider as I click through the icons. ‘And we have orders coming in. Two from Spain, five from the UK, five more from the States!’
‘Be God,’ he breathes.
‘This changes things, right? For the co-op, I mean.’
‘Well,’ he tugs at his chin.
‘It’s a start, anyway,’ I say.
‘Bridie’ll be chuffed!’ Dermot says.
‘Shit!’ Bridie!
‘What? What is it?’ Dermot gapes.
‘There’s a tour coming at eleven!’ I’ve been asleep all night. And I’m a wreck!
‘You’ve loads of time. It’s just gone nine.’
‘Nine?’
Dermot chuckles at me as I tear ahead of him up the hill to the cottage. I take a lightening shower and throw on a fresh pair of jeans and my standard four layers of cami + cami + shirt + sweater.
‘Take these up to the girls,’ Dermot says when I bolt back through the kitchen. He hands me a tin of scones--blueberry, this time.
‘Does she always apologize with baked goods?’ I ask.
He grabs at the sides of his formidable belly. ‘What do you think?’ he laughs.
St. Enda’s is wall to wall when I jog up--a huddle of people out the back and three flat beds parked at the cargo bay. Aoife waves me over.
‘These lads have three cart loads of milk,�
�� she says. ‘They can’t sell ’em in the mart. They wanted to know could we take ’em?’
I scan the truck beds. There must be twenty canisters there.
‘Mart won’t take ’em,’ one of the farmers shrugs. ‘We haven’t been able to shift a thing since the talks fell through.’
The other two shake their heads. ‘That’s right,’ they say. Their jaws work with a quiet determination. I got the feeling this wasn’t the first time they’d been up against a wall.
‘Where’s Bridie?’ the lead man asks.
‘I told you, she’s not in,’ Aoife huffs.
‘Right. C’mon, lads,’ the man says, head hung low.
‘Wait! I can take three barrels off each of you,’ I say, heart knocking in my chest. That should be enough to cover the excess orders.
‘But we can’t afford that!’ Aoife screeches. ‘We’re stretched as it is.’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ I say, my voice easy and firm. All I have to do is shuffle some money around from my savings. Would that be enough? There’s always Clare’s check. I can cash that in.
Wait. What am I doing?! Bridie said mind the tourists, and here I am getting personally involved in corporate politics! But what am I supposed to do? These men came to St Enda’s to offload perishable stock. I know the factory’s capacity. We can manage a bit of overflow.
‘Aoife, tell Orla to open up the cooler, will you?’
‘I will.’ She ducks inside.
The farmers extend a hand to me in turn. ‘Thank you, Julie,’ the lead man says.
‘You know my name?’ That’s…weird.
He squeezes my hand. ‘Sure, we all do.’
Oh!
I breeze through the eleven o’clock tour on an unexpected high. ‘That’s ten more to add to the mailing list,’ I tell the girls as I share around Clare’s scones.
‘Imagine!’ Assumpta beams. ‘We haven’t had a foreign order in five years!’
‘Ten,’ Orla says.
Emer nibbles away at one of the scones. ‘My God, but that woman can cook,’ she says, cheeks bulging.
‘Celebrating St Enda’s feast day early are we?’
It’s Bridie! Everyone’s on their feet, Aoife and Orla hugging at her neck.
‘How you now, missus?’ Orla clambers.
‘Did you give ya the old rubber glove?’ Aoife winks.
‘Will ye stop!’ Bridie says and bats them away. ‘I’m grand sure.’ She squeezes me to her. ‘Thank you, Julie, for all of your help. And fair play taking charge with the lads. I met Tomas on the road there.’
‘Was that the right thing to do? I wasn’t sure.’
‘You sounded pretty sure to me,’ Aoife laughs.
‘And flying it on the tour this morning,’ Teresa chimes in.
I flush.
‘I tell ya, we’ll miss you when you go back to New York,’ Bridie says.
New York. I realize with a start that I haven’t thought on it all day!
‘When is it you’re going back?’ Aoife asks.
I look from one pair of glassy eyes to the next. ‘I really don’t know.’ I’d have to call Cathal to see if he has any news regarding our missing notary!
The girls scatter back to their workstations, and Bridie shuffles feebly to the office. I follow her inside and pull the sheaf of letters slowly, carefully, from my briefcase.
‘I found Mum’s letters.’
Bridie claps her hands to her cheeks, her eyes smiling wrly. ‘Of course you did.’
Wait? Did she know about them?
I flick through the stack and level my eyes at her. ‘Josephine never wrote back. Did she?’ I ask, my heart racing.
Bridie sighs and takes a step closer to me. ‘Your grandmother was a fierce strong woman, as solid a rock as this island. Not once did I see that woman cry, not when your granddad died, or when she watched the ferry, the one your mother took all those years ago, disappear in the fog. But there wasn’t a day that went by she wasn’t thinking on Maeve. And you,’ Bridie says. ‘She sat just there, heart in hand, every morning, waiting for the postman.’
‘Then why didn’t she write? Or come to see us?’ My voice trembles and breaks.
Bridie’s mouth falls inward. She clenches at her throat absently. ‘Things, sometimes, are more complicated then they seem,’ she says in an odd, vaguely religious tone.
‘It wasn’t just Mum’s leaving, was it? Something happened, something horrible, but no one will tell me what it was.’ Bridie looks away, kneading at her hands. ‘Will you?’
Bridie looks into my eyes and smiles weakly. ‘It’s not for me to tell, love.’
I know what that means. ‘I can’t ask Clare. She can hardly stand to be in the same room with me.’
‘She’s not so hard hearted as she seems, believe me,’ Bridie says. ‘She was a lovely child. In her own way. Funny. And uncannily practical. She did all the cooking and the housekeeping for your mother and grandmother when Mr. Tully died, and she was only twelve at the time!’
‘I had no idea,’ I say, my voice almost a whisper.
‘A part of her went quiet then. I can remember Maeve, all the time picking daisies for her. Ronan, you see, was not your mother’s first love. Before him--in some ways beyond him--it was always Clare,’ Bridie sighs.
My throat knots with an almost unbearable pain. Part of me wants Bridie to stop talking--it’s too much--but another part of me wants to hear every last thing she might say. I take a shallow breath and swallow my tears.
‘What was Mum like? When she lived here,’ I stammer.
‘She was an absolute vision of a girl. And so strong. She’d be up first thing to help your grandmother with the milking. All of the boys vied for her, but it was only your father who could turn her head.’ She hoists herself up. ‘We best be getting back to work, me to mine and you to yours,’ she says, gesturing to the extra canisters in the store room and my laptop. ‘You must be very keen to get home.’
The question catches me off guard. Of course I’m keen to get home. Aren’t I?
‘It’s strange,’ I say after a moment’s hesitation. ‘New York is home to me, but I have no roots there. Sometimes I feel like a satellite. Here on the island I have a family and a history, but I feel like a stranger. The way everyone looks at me, the way my aunt looks at me…’ I try to go on, but my voice chokes with tears.
Bridie hugs me at my shoulder. ‘Would you believe I was once the very same?’ she says. ‘I wasn’t born on Inishmore, you see.’ I let out a little gasp, and Bridie smiles. ‘I grew up in Galway. My sisters married and moved away, and then my mother died. Da didn’t know what to do with me. In those days, you married or off you went to the nuns, and I wasn’t having either. I took the ferry and moved over, got a bit of work in a shop. People were nice enough, same as now, but I thought I’d die from the homesickness. And I didn’t like home that much!’ she laughs. ‘I had the ticket bought to go back to Galway, and then I met your grandmother. She came into the shop wanting boiled sweets for the girls, and I’d got the last pack for the trip. I gave them to her, of course, and didn’t she ask me to dinner, and she kept asking me every Tuesday after that! One of the days, anyway, it hit me. I wasn’t homesick anymore.’ Bridie takes up my hand and gives it a squeeze. ‘I realized that home is not a place. It’s someone you feel you belong to.’
‘Thank you, Bridie.’ I nod at Mum’s letters. ‘For everything.’
‘You’re very welcome.’ She turns toward the factory floor.
‘Wait.’ I grab at her arm. ‘There’s one more thing.’
‘What is it?’
‘I set up a website for St Enda’s to see if we could boost sales. I know my uncle and the rest of the co-op could use the added revenue.’
She clasps my hands gratefully. ‘You’re a Godsend, Julie.’
‘I don’t know about all that,’ I say, flushing pink.
There’s a clamor at the side door and Michael trundles in.
‘Hey,’ I smil
e up at him.
‘Heya,’ he nods at me. ‘Bridie, I was hoping I’d catch you,’ he says. ‘How you feeling?’
‘Arrah, will ye stop! I’m fine,’ she laughs. ‘Will ya have a cup of tea?’
‘I couldn’t,’ Michael says. ‘Got to get up to the co-op. Listen, you mind yourself!’
‘The co-op?’ I ask. ‘What’s going on?’
‘They’re staging a protest.’
‘Protest?’ The negotiations with Fressen must have reached a head. ‘Can I come with you?’ I spurt.
Michael blinks at me, shocked. ‘It’s not exactly allowed.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Julie,’ Bridie harps. She snugs a flat cap onto my head. ‘There. Now you look the part.’
I glance over at Michael. ‘You make a very dashing dairyman,’ he laughs.
‘Go on!’ Bridie says, shooing us out the door. ‘I’ll meet you there.’
We leg it up to the co-op headquarters, my breath catching in my throat at the sight of the television cameras and the mob of dairy men that spills onto the road. There’s a skin puckering stillness which hangs over the scene, the only sound the fluttering snap of the banner tagged high to the co-op door. ‘Aran Milk in Death Throes’ it reads. Dermot comes forward and three others step forward and pour pitchers of milk over the ground, their faces ashen and solemn.
Made With Love: I Love You Forever Page 19