In fact, if you could believe the gossips, he’d enough banked now to buy and sell half of Finfarran.
Pat herself wasn’t sure that she did believe them, because Ger was a great one to puff himself up and look canny. Half the time you couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t just striking attitudes. But plenty of money went into the till, and she and the lads were always taken proper care of. It was one thing to have a reputation for being a close man, but another to let yourself down in front of the neighbours. Ger wouldn’t do that. And if he wasn’t quite as rich as people said, sure it made him feel good to act like it. He’d always been a little short fella, with a kind of a wizened face on him, and even at school he’d been bullied.
With the fire aflame, Pat closed the range door and glanced round the kitchen. It was strange how big it seemed now, with the flat empty except for the two of them. When she’d married she’d thought it a poor poky place to be rearing children, but the shop and the flat were what they’d been left with and Ger’s brother Miyah had fallen in for the farm. A while back, after Miyah had died, Frankie had built himself a fine new place next to the farmhouse. He and his wife had never had kids, though. And Jim and Sonny were away off in Toronto.
It was Ger who made that happen. He hadn’t worked all his life, he’d said, to see a grand, growing business broken up by his sons. So he’d sent Jim and Sonny to college in Cork and then, with nothing for them at home, they’d gone off as soon as they’d graduated. And, what with work and commitments and the price of fares, neither of them had been back.
Of course, it was easier to keep in touch these days, with Skype and emails. And there was a Fitzgerald Family Facebook page, set up by one of the grandkids over in Canada. But each time Pat posted a photo on that she told herself that the damage was done: her sons were gone and she might never meet her grandkids or Sonny’s daughter’s dotey little twins.
Then she’d take heart again and keep trying. She took photos round the town, or if she went walking, and found out how to get them from her phone onto Facebook. And she tried to put up things that would interest the grandchildren. But sometimes they’d be up there for weeks and nothing would happen. And there were nights when she’d dream that the lads had come home and wake up in tears because they hadn’t.
Now, though, as she put on her coat, she could hardly breathe for excitement. Descending the stairs, she passed through the shop, where Ger was selling rashers to Ann Flood from the pharmacy. There were plenty of tourists walking the pavements of Broad Street in spite of the rain. Plenty of hire cars, too, and the odd tour bus, though in a week or so you’d see few enough of them.
Pat waited for a gap in the traffic and crossed to where the old horse trough now stood on an island of grey flagstones, flanked by council benches and planted with scarlet geraniums. Then she ventured into the next stream of traffic and reached the far pavement. She’d already checked her flight details three times this morning, once on her phone and twice on her laptop. Both the phone and the laptop had said exactly the same thing: Patricia Concepta and John Gerard Fitzgerald were checked in on a flight to Toronto next Tuesday. Still, God alone knew what kind of viruses a yoke might have when you’d got it in a place called PhoneMart. Lissbeg Library’s computers were proper, official desktops, installed by the county council. So she’d just drop in there kind of casually, log onto the airline’s website, and take another look at her booking.
3
LOUISAS HERE IVE SET JAZZ A PLACE2 U GET SAGE4 LIVER
In the midst of checking out a pile of books, Hanna Casey’s eyes flicked sideways to her phone. It was possible that one day her mother might issue an invitation without following it up with an endless stream of texts, but it didn’t seem likely. So if Hanna had any sense, she told herself crossly, she’d have paid attention to her own neatly printed notices and kept her mobile turned off in the library.
Mary Casey, who was well into her seventies, was born giving orders. The peremptory commands that in Hanna’s childhood were bawled up the stairs or hurled across the kitchen now appeared in a series of gnomic texts, always in uppercase and seldom, if ever, punctuated. And Hanna wasn’t the only recipient. Having lost a loving and attentive husband, Mary now transmitted her demands and requirements at random, expecting the instant reactions that she’d had from her beloved Tom.
Hanna squinted sideways again, aware that the young man in front of her was beginning to look aggrieved. Originally she’d been invited to drop over for supper, but now it seemed that her daughter, Jazz, was going to be there as well. And with the appearance of the signature liver casserole, and the addition of Louisa, her ex-mother-in-law, to the invitation list, the casual supper was obviously turning into a family party.
Flustered, she shot back OK, smiled apologetically at the young man, and told him to enjoy his weekend reading. Then she realised that each book she had just swiped out dealt with diseases in fish.
A second text appeared on her phone with a ping:
BRING THAT ARCHITECT AND A DROP OF CREAM 4THETART
Hanna’s teeth clicked together in annoyance, and the young man took his books and left, obviously making mental comments on inattentive librarians. As he opened the door he stood back politely and, looking up as she turned off her phone, Hanna saw Pat Fitzgerald. ‘How’s it going, Pat? All set for your trip?’
‘Well, yes . . . more or less. Just a few last bits and pieces.’ Pat reached into her bag and produced a library book. ‘This is due back before we come home so I thought I’d bring it over.’
‘You shouldn’t have bothered. You could have renewed it online.’
‘Yes, well . . . I was passing anyway.’
‘Anything else I can do for you?’
‘No. Well, yes. Could I have a quick look on a computer?’
‘They’re all booked for the class at ten but you can if it’s just for a minute.’
‘I’ve the laptop packed, you see, and my phone wants charging.’
‘No problem. Work away.’ Hanna smiled. The chances were that Pat’s luggage had been packed for at least a week. The whole town was aware of her upcoming trip, and most people were delighted for her. Everyone knew how she’d missed her sons and wanted to meet her grandkids, and it was clear that if things had been left to Ger, the trip would never have been booked. His reputation for meanness was legendary.
But then there’d been a breakthrough. At sixty-nine, Pat had learned how to use the internet. The idea had been to improve her contact with her family, but in a year or so she was teaching a computer class in the library. And one day, in the midst of a session on search engines, she’d seen an unbeatable deal on flights to Toronto.
Hanna suspected that if Pat had been alone she’d never have made the booking. But her class of pensioners had egged her on, and before she knew it, she’d bought the flights on her credit card. Not only that, but the class knew how little the trip had cost her. So if Ger Fitz had made a fuss, the whole town would have despised him.
Recently, as Pat’s planning for her trip had become more intense, she’d arranged for Hanna’s library assistant to take over her class. Now Pat looked up from the computer and said she hoped it was going smoothly.
‘It’s going grand and you’re not to worry. Conor has them eating out of his hand.’
Pat beamed and said that her own last-minute arrangements were coming together perfectly. ‘I’ve a cousin in Dublin with a house on the north side, where Ger and I can stay on Monday night. So we’re all set at this end, and I heard today that Cassie’s going to meet us in Toronto.’
‘Is she one of the grandchildren?’
‘Sonny’s youngest. Cassandra. She’d be about a year younger than your Jazz. Cassandra Mary Margaret Fitzgerald. Isn’t that a dreadful name to go wishing on some poor baby?’
‘Why did they choose it?’
‘God knows! It won’t have been Sonny’s choice, I know that.’
Hanna’s lips twitched. ‘Maybe his wife enjoys Jane Auste
n.’
‘Didn’t Jane Austen write Emma? We had to read it in school.’
‘Yes, but she also wrote a novel called The Beautifull Cassandra. In her teens, I think. The heroine goes off into the world to find adventure. She’s named after Austen’s elder sister.’
‘Well, that sounds like Cassie. She goes off on cruise ships.’
‘But she’ll be around when you’re over there?’
‘She will, and isn’t it great timing? Because she’s only just come back from somewhere. I’m telling you, Hanna, this trip is blessed. We’re going to have a great time altogether.’
Her pleasure was so palpable that Hanna felt a twinge of anxiety. Pat asked so little from life that to see her disappointed would be awful.
Leaving the eager figure crouched over the computer, Hanna went to the little kitchen at the end of the room. With the door ajar, she could keep an eye on the library, but this was a phone call she wanted to make without being interrupted.
Brian picked up at once. ‘Hi there. How’re you doing?’
‘It’s me. Hanna.’
‘I know. I’ve got caller ID.’
‘Oh. Yes, of course you do. Look, I’m sorry to call you at the office.’
‘You haven’t. I’m out on a site visit.’
‘Okay. Well, look, are you free tonight?’
‘Yes, sure. What’s the story?’
‘Well, I’ve just had a text from my mother. Who seems to be throwing a dinner party.’
‘And?’
‘And she says, “Bring that architect.”’
‘No! Really? In capital letters?’
‘Yes, indeed. Also some cream for the tart. With four expressed as a numeral.’
Brian gave a snort of appreciation. ‘Is the second instruction intended for you or for me?’
‘Me, I think.’
‘Right, then. That’s no problem. Tell her I’ll be delighted to accept her kind invitation.’
Through the crack in the door Hanna could see the pensioners gathering for their computer class. Pat was being hugged and kissed as she left the library. ‘I’ve got to get back. But, Brian, listen, are you sure? It could be hell on wheels.’
‘Nonsense, it’ll be brilliant. I just hope the tart is apple.’
‘Don’t you know it is? With six cloves, shop-bought pastry and half a pound of white sugar.’
‘In that case, I sincerely hope that the cream you bring will be squirty.’
4
Mary Casey’s bungalow had been built long before the main road became a class of a motorway. You got a fierce rush of traffic past her front door now, charging from Carrick to Ballyfin. But there was no harm in that. It added interest.
Tom had had the bungalow built to her exact specifications as soon as they retired. By then Mary had had enough of slaving behind the bacon-slicer and pushing stamps and postal orders under a wire grille. Mind you, they’d had a fine little business between them – a village shop always did well on a crossroads, and having the post office there as well meant the world and his wife depended on them.
But Hanna had gone off to London and they’d known she’d no plans to come back. So they’d sold up and made a decent whack, and that was the end of living over a shop, like poor, put-upon Pat Fitzgerald.
There was no poky range in Mary Casey’s kitchen, and no slit of a bathroom with condensation running down the walls. The bungalow had a proper wide hallway. It had a cloakroom, the utility room and a grand big kitchen at the front of it, and bedrooms round the back overlooking the garden. There was a separate loo and a bathroom, and the master had its own ensuite in avocado. No detail was forgotten. All her windows were double-glazed and each room had a storage heater, and a light in the middle of the ceiling that took a proper-strength bulb. There were no dark corners where dirt could gather, and no stairs to be brushed down, or banisters holding dust.
The garden had always been Tom’s province and, as far as Mary was concerned, he could do what he liked with it. But the house was her pride and her palace, from its die-straight roof to its pebble-dashed walls to the stained-glass door of her porch.
After Tom died she’d changed the garden. She couldn’t be doing with all that digging and weeding. There was a plain square of grass out there now and a narrow hedge. Johnny Hennessy, her neighbour, came in with his mower and kept it all cut back. She’d left Tom’s pots of night-scented stocks and evening primroses on the patio, though. They’d always been his favourite and, besides, they smelt nice in the summertime under the bedroom windows. Not that she opened her own window too often. You’d be driven mad with the bees that you’d have to go flicking out with a towel.
Sweeping crumbs from the kitchen table into her cupped hand, Mary told herself she was glad in a way that Tom had been gone by the time things went wrong for Hanna. He was stone mad about that girl, and if he’d known the kind of man her pup of a husband was, he’d have gone over and killed him.
Well, not really, because Tom Casey was the gentlest man in creation. He would have gone over to England, though, and tracked down that Malcolm Turner. And Tom had a way of looking at you when you’d done wrong that would leave you naked and bleeding. He’d never turned that look on Mary herself, but she’d seen grown men crushed by it.
Anyway, Tom was dead by the time Hanna came knocking on the bungalow door with Jazz, who was only a schoolgirl then, and a hastily packed suitcase, saying she’d left yer man in London and needed a place to stay. Twenty years that Malcolm of hers had been off sleeping with a floozie! You could nearly call him a bigamist.
It had started long before Jazz was born, and Hanna had only hit on the truth when she’d found them there in her own bedroom. The thought of it still made Mary want to spit. At the time she’d berated Hanna for not digging her heels in and making him pay. Any wife with a tither of sense would have stayed put and taken him to the cleaners. Especially since Malcolm was loaded. All the same, Mary had had a sneaking sense of pride in Hanna’s reaction. It must have felt great to tell the pup where to stick his money.
And wasn’t it funny the way things had worked out eventually? Look at the lot of them now. Jazz, who’d been born and raised in London, had moved into a bedsit, put down roots, and was planning to stay in Finfarran. Hanna had found a new man, her own house, and the job in Lissbeg Library. God alone knew what the man would turn out like, and as for the house, there was no knowing why Hanna would want to live there. It was nothing but a little place out in the wilds of nowhere – two rooms that you couldn’t swing a cat in, and one of them just a kitchen you walked into from a muddy field. But apparently Hanna was happier living there than with her own mother.
Pushing open the window, Mary threw out the handful of crumbs for the birds. The truth was that she and Hanna had never got on great anyway and, with Jazz off in a place of her own, they’d been at each other’s throats till Hanna had flounced off, announcing that she wanted her independence. Mary had her pride, too, and she’d be beholden to no one, not even family. But the fact was that, with Jazz and Hanna gone, the bungalow felt fierce lonely. So here she was about to share her home with Malcolm ‘The Rat-fink’ Turner’s widowed mother.
No one was more surprised than she was herself when she’d had the idea. When you thought it through, though, it wasn’t that daft. Malcolm might be a low-down cheat but the fact remained that Louisa was Jazz’s granny. Not only that, but she was a quiet woman who knew how to keep a spotless kitchen.
After Hanna had left, when Louisa used to be to and fro to visit Jazz, Mary had put her up. At first, of course, she’d worried a bit about breakfast. What would an Englishwoman know about frying rashers? But it turned out that Louisa knew lots about pigs. She’d had a neighbour near her house in Kent who bred Gloucestershire Old Spots. As soon as Mary had heard that she’d slipped into Lissbeg for Ger Fitz’s opinion, and he’d told her the Old Spots were mighty. According to him, a woman who appreciated them lads could be trusted with anyone’s rashers. Ger w
as a damn good butcher, so Mary took notice. Besides, Louisa had a great way with the frying pan and she’d baste you a lovely egg. Mind you, she hadn’t had a clue when it came to the black and white pudding. But she picked things up quickly and was happy enough to be told.
It had taken them a while to get used to each other. At first they’d eaten breakfast at the kitchen table, but one morning Mary came down to find it set on the patio. That was the class of thing Hanna had wanted when she and Jazz lived in the bungalow, and, back then, Mary had put her foot down. But Louisa had cushions on the chairs and the table laid properly and, with the sun shining, it all looked very nice.
And, with Louisa around, the meal could go on for ages. They’d be sitting there in their dressing gowns, popping in to make more tea, and even reading the papers. Mary hadn’t read a paper over breakfast for years – and why would she with no one there to discuss the bit of news? But Louisa was always interested if you offered a remark or an opinion, or if she wasn’t, she never let on. And, of course, they’d be properly dressed in time to wave at the postman. Showered and decent, too, which was only right.
So, after that, the thought of ending up living alone had been kind of bleak. Then Louisa had dropped a bombshell. She was selling up her home in Kent and investing in a business in Finfarran. Jazz was going to be working with her, doing some class of marketing. And, while Louisa would keep a foothold in England, she’d need a local base. Somewhere small and quiet that would be a home from home.
That was when Mary had come up with the notion of the two of them sharing the bungalow. And now, only a few weeks later, the plans were drawn up and work was about to begin. The changes might feel strange to start with, but Mary was certain that things would work out. She’d agonised over them in bed for many a night before making her offer to Louisa, and more than once she’d turned to her wedding photo and asked Tom what to do. But the photo in its silver frame told her nothing. Tom just stood there laughing in the sun, with his head thrown back in triumph and his arm around her waist. She had no one to hold her firm now, or to pet and reassure her. So she’d turned the bedside light off and made her mind up for herself.
The Mistletoe Matchmaker Page 2