‘But what can he do?’
‘Retire. Make the place over to Joe. Let Joe do what he likes with it, and let Conor feck off if he wants to.’
‘But he doesn’t want to.’
‘No. What he doesn’t want is to be the person who precipitates the crisis. Look, Conor’s the kind of person who has to fix everything for everyone. But in this instance he can’t. He can’t simultaneously save the farm for his family, gain a career for himself, and carry you over some perfect romantic threshold. It’s not possible. And you shouldn’t let him think that it is.’
Aideen’s face had crumpled. ‘Conor does love the farm. The McCarthys have farmed that land for ages. You’ve never seen him there. You haven’t been to the farmhouse. It’s gorgeous. You haven’t sat in his mam’s kitchen. There’s a big range, and a cat that eats Marmite, and a flower garden outside the window.’
‘A cat that eats Marmite?’
‘Oh, stop it, you’re just being cynical. Yes, there’s a cat. And they’ve got dogs and cattle and hens and sheep, and Conor loves the lot of them. He’s brilliant with animals. And farm machinery. And . . . growing stuff. And he loves his dad too. And Paddy’s not well – he’s on all kinds of medication. And not just for his back, he’s got depression. And you’d have depression, too, if you felt useless. And if you knew that people were sitting round calling you a bad father!’ She’d stormed out at that point, leaving Bríd to do the dishes.
They hadn’t mentioned the row since, but now, as Conor rehearsed alternatives, Bríd saw Aideen glance at her as if she were an unexploded bomb. It seemed unkind to hang around, so she finished her tea and said she’d take a shower. But as she left them deep in anxious conversation, she found herself stabbed by a flash of pity for Conor. Clearly this engagement was about to add to the sum of his life’s complications. Because it was pretty evident that Aideen had visions of wedded bliss in a farmhouse.
7
The Fitzgerald family get-together was held on Pat and Ger’s first weekend in Canada. Cassie watched as everyone arrived full of bonhomie, carrying flowers and eager to show affection. People laughed a lot and exclaimed. Cathleen brought a huge bunch of lilies that shed orange pollen on the back of Gran’s cardigan as she lifted her up in a bear hug; Norah appeared with a monster basket of hyacinths; and the twins were carrying posies to present during the photographs.
There were lots of photographs. As soon as Grandad saw the phones and cameras he retired to drink beer in Dad’s den with Norah’s husband, the motel mogul. Gran posed gamely in front of Vanya’s beautifully laid buffet, smiled for selfies with the cousins, and allowed herself to be enthroned on a satin loveseat for a full family portrait. When Grandad refused to appear, she laughed it off. ‘Isn’t he far happier inside there, chatting over a beer? I’ve never known a Fitzgerald man that wasn’t!’
Everyone joined in the laughter, and the hired photographer sat the twins on either side of Gran, holding their posies. Cassie saw Dad exchanging glances with Uncle Jim, who shrugged and pulled a face.
Shortly afterwards, when the professional photographer had left, Grandad emerged from the den and stood at the back of a group shot lined up by Cassie, who reckoned he’d needed the couple of beers to give him the courage to come and face the lens. She smiled at him encouragingly but he dived back into the den as soon as she’d taken the shot.
The twins, meanwhile, were sticking to Gran like glue. Even at the buffet they stood on either side of her, holding her skirt. Then, when Cassie offered to carry her plate to a table in the corner, they trotted across the room with her and squatted on the floor with their elbows on Gran’s knees. Norah spotted them and bustled over, trying to lure them away. ‘Ice cream! Anyone for icecream? Let’s leave poor Granny to eat her food in peace!’
Immediately the twins crawled under the table, while Gran looked pleadingly at Norah. ‘Let them stay here with me and we’ll make friends.’
But Norah assured her they had to learn obedience. The woman who ran their playgroup had been very clear about that. ‘We establish boundaries and we stick to them. And, Simon and Shona, if you need to speak to me, you can stop that screaming and use your words.’ Then she hauled the protesting twins from under the table, knocking it over in the process.
No amount of ice cream could control the resultant hysterics and, after a while, Norah gave up and said that perhaps they should go. There was a general checking of watches and Uncle Jim’s wife squeaked and said she’d a meeting to go to that evening. She flitted over and kissed Gran, said she wouldn’t disturb Grandad’s beer fest, and made it to the door in time to leave with Norah, the mogul, and the twins.
The party staggered on for another hour before Cathleen, who’d been checking her phone again, suddenly announced that the grandparents must be exhausted. ‘OMG, people, we need to go!’ She thrust her phone into her pocket and went to hug Gran. ‘We’ll have to have lunch next week, or maybe the week after. I’ll fix something really nice and we’ll do it in style. We’ll be ladies who lunch!’
She led the general exodus and, a week or so later, her assistant called to say that she’d booked a restaurant table, and ordered a car to take Gran there and back.
Gran returned from the lunch looking slightly startled and, when Cassie asked, said she’d had mascarpone-filled crackers with a white balsamic reduction. ‘The menu said they were truffled, dear, and I suppose that was what gave them the taste they had. We had a grand table, anyway, right by a big window looking out on a lovely patio. And Cathleen had calamari in a cone.’
That was how it was throughout the rest of the stay. There were other outings with other family members: Mom brought Gran to the theatre, and Uncle Jim and Dad took Grandad off to play golf. But no one ever had quite enough time to spend with them, so a lot of their days were spent in their room, resting up. In fact, Grandad hardly emerged from it at all.
Cassie spent a lot of time catching up with friends in the city, doing a few cover shifts at her old salon and, occasionally, driving Gran to the nearby park or the mall. Whenever they went out together Gran was full of enthusiasm. But she seemed equally happy to hang round at home, watching celebrity-chef shows and Judge Judy.
One afternoon, Cassie knocked on the guest-bedroom door and suggested a cup of coffee. By that stage she’d realised that Grandad didn’t do small talk, but Gran always seemed happy to come downstairs and chat. They settled down on the chesterfield in the family room again, with coffee and cake. Grandad had agreed to go for a beer that night with Dad and Uncle Jim, and Gran told Cassie confidingly that she was hoping to persuade him to wear a new sweater she’d bought him at the mall. ‘It’s a lovely colour, you know, and it really suits him.’
‘Do you think he’s enjoying his stay?’
‘He is, of course, love, only he’s a dreadful man for not showing his feelings. And he never was a talker, so you mustn’t mind that. But look at the lovely place your dad has here, and your uncle Jim’s house. And the lovely healthy families they have. Sure, Ger’s like a dog with two tails, seeing how they’ve got on.’
Suddenly it struck Cassie that, while Gran was a great listener, all she really talked about was shops and programmes on TV. Turning, she looked at her thoughtfully over the rim of her coffee cup. ‘Was it weird raising sons and having them emigrate?’
Gran said nothing for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I suppose, back in those days, that’s what we all did. People used to call it raising them for export. It was a terrible thing to think about, though, when they were growing up. The truth was that you didn’t think about it, really. You’d only go breaking your heart.’
‘But you never came to visit?’
‘Ah, child dear, it’s an awful long way to be coming. Flying’s got cheaper now, but it’s still a big thing.’
It occurred to Cassie that there could have been a family trip to Ireland too. But there never had been.
Gran looked troubled. ‘It wasn’t that we didn’t want to visit. I wa
s dying to see the lads, and so was your grandfather. And I’d always wanted grandkids. Especially girls. I felt really bad not seeing you growing up.’ Putting down her coffee cup, she clasped her hands in her lap. ‘That’s why I was always trying to choose the right presents. Well, I still am. The thing is, though, that I hadn’t realised how fast the time is passing. I don’t know do I send you the right things at all.’
Cassie had a sudden vision of books and games, glanced at and discarded, and hand-knitted sweaters, unwrapped and never worn. She hoped she didn’t look guilty. But Gran didn’t seem to notice. Instead she turned her head and smiled. ‘Do you remember The Turf-Cutter’s Donkey?’
For a moment Cassie thought she was crazy. Then she remembered a book that had come in the mail on her thirteenth birthday. That had been the year that her best birthday gift had been a trip to Niagara Falls. Mom and Dad had invited her three best friends from school and they’d stayed at the Americana Waterpark. ‘Yes, of course I remember it.’
As far as she could recall, she hadn’t even turned the pages. Like everything else that came from Lissbeg, it had looked boring and seemed much too young for her age.
Gran smiled. ‘I hoped you’d like it. That was my copy, you know. I had it at your age. I mean, I got it as a birthday present when I was thirteen. It’s a grand story altogether. I’m glad you liked it.’
Cassie groped for a reply and found inspiration. ‘That was the year you sent us a really cool Christmas card. Do you remember?’
Gran shook her head. Astonished that she’d remembered it herself, Cassie grabbed at the chance to avoid talking about the book. ‘It was a street scene. I think it was Lissbeg – with snow on the houses. A photo that had been made into a card. There was a Christmas greeting inside and writing on the front in glitter, saying “Across the Miles . . .” and there was a kind of glittery bunch of mistletoe hanging over the houses.’
Gran smiled. ‘Do you know what it is, I do remember. I got it at the Christmas Fête. Some fellow on the committee had a lot of them made up and they sold them in packs for charity. I got one for your family and one for Jim’s.’
‘Yeah. Well, I really loved it. I kept it as a bookmark in The Turf-Cutter’s Donkey for years.’
The flush of pleasure on Gran’s face seemed to justify the lie but, later on, as she washed up the coffee cups, Cassie hoped it wouldn’t come back to bite her. The bit about the card was true, though. The street surmounted by its glittery mistletoe really had taken her fancy, and she’d sneaked the Christmas card up to her room when Mom’s back was turned. For ages afterwards she’d fantasised about walking into the picture and being over in Ireland.
But she’d never mentioned the fantasy to Dad. Somehow, Ireland had always been forbidden territory, and conversations about his childhood were out of bounds. Nothing explicit, just a sense that the past was over and done with, and the present was all about making plans for the future.
None of the rest of the family seemed to find that weird, but she did. And now that she’d met Gran it seemed even stranger. Gran was sweet. It was clear that she’d have loved it if they’d all come over to visit. So why, in all these years, had Dad and Uncle Jim never wanted to go home?
Cassie grinned, imagining a family chorus telling her not to be Min the Match. Which was fair enough. The rest of them had their own lives to live, and if Ireland wasn’t important to them, that was their own business. But, as a child, it had always seemed to her to be the perfect destination. A place that was utterly foreign and yet a part of who she was.
Suddenly her eyes widened and the stream of water from the faucet ran unheeded into the sink. Why not just do it? Gran and Grandad were going home to Ireland in a couple of weeks. Why not take the plane with them and go visit Lissbeg?
8
So many things had added to Hanna’s sense of disorientation when she’d left her cheating husband and moved home to Ireland with her daughter. Not the least of them was her decision to revert to her maiden name. Having spent thirty years as Mrs Malcolm Turner, the supportive wife of a successful London barrister, it was strange to be plain Hanna Casey again.
But the name change was only the tip of the iceberg. It felt weird to be working as a local librarian, having spent so long facilitating her husband’s stellar career. And, after years of hosting dinner parties in an elegant London home and weekend jaunts to a stylish Norfolk cottage, living in her mother’s bungalow was bizarre. Not only that, but trying to decide what, and how much, to tell Jazz about Malcolm’s affair had tortured many of her waking hours and invaded her nights’ sleep.
Yet, perversely, the strangest thing of all was the fact that Lissbeg Library was housed in the old convent building where she herself had gone to school. It was unnerving to enter her workplace through a gate in the high, grey wall she remembered from childhood, and to work among trolleys of books and steel shelving in the panelled hall where she’d giggled and whispered through boring school assemblies. And, in the beginning, this strangeness had added to her dislike of a job that she’d applied for simply because she’d had no option.
Mary Casey hadn’t hesitated to open her home when they’d turned up on her doorstep. But neither had she hesitated to point out that, if Hanna was planning to stay in Finfarran, she’d better go out and find work. And underlying that purely practical statement was a hint of spiteful triumph. It was Tom, Hanna’s dad, who’d supported her decision to spread her wings and take off to London in the first place. Mary had always resented her ambition, and said it would come to no good. More to the point, she’d always resented Tom and Hanna’s closeness. No one – not even their daughter – was allowed to take Tom’s attention from his wife.
It had never been Hanna’s plan to end up in a local lending library. She’d gone to London with her sights set on becoming an art librarian and building a stellar career of her own. So to find that the man for whom she’d given up her dream had been cheating on her for years had hit her hard. And, having reappeared ignominiously in Finfarran, she’d have done anything to avoid meeting the neighbours with whom she’d grown up and gone to school. But, having refused to accept a penny from Malcolm, she’d had no option but to brush up her only qualifications and apply for the vacant position in Lissbeg. As Mary Casey had repeatedly told her, she was damn lucky the job had happened to come up. So perhaps it was inevitable that her first years back home had been dogged by the fear that her failed marriage had made her a focus of gossip. Looking back, Hanna knew she’d been prickly and standoffish, the sort of petty tyrant you’d find in Wodehouse or an Agatha Christie, with a ramrod back and a sour look on her face.
But that was all behind her now, largely thanks to her relationship with Brian. And in the last year her work had increasingly become a source of pleasure. Now, though you entered the library through the same paved courtyard that had once been the school entrance, the wall had been breached to give access from Broad Street to the former nuns’ garden, while the school and convent buildings, which bounded the garden, had become the Old Convent Centre, accommodating council offices, a pensioners’ day-care facility, and airy, modern studios and workshop spaces for rent.
Best of all, the library had been modernised, extending the original beautifully proportioned panelled hall to include a state-of-the-art exhibition space for the Carrick Psalter, an illuminated medieval manuscript that had been gifted to the county. Knowing herself to be the custodian of such a treasure brought Hanna endless delight, and the new relationships she’d forged with her neighbours were a source of daily pleasure. But, even so, she found herself subject to sudden losses of confidence. It was more than seven years since she’d left Malcolm, five since the divorce, yet she was still in the process of absorbing the fact that she’d never really known her husband.
And now that her relationship with Brian had become established, she was facing new moments of strangeness, generally more comic than painful, but occasionally disconcerting. Like the moment a couple of months ago whe
n they’d first arrived as a couple at Mary’s bright pink bungalow. ‘So – my daughter, my ex-mother-in-law, and my mother’s liver casserole, are you sure you’ll cope?’
Brian had laughed. ‘I love when you do that.’
‘What?’
‘Ask me if I can cope with things when it’s actually you who’s worried.’ Irritated, she’d pulled away, but he’d put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I’ll be fine and you’ll be fine and there’s nothing at all to worry about. So long as you’ve brought the sage and the squirty cream.’
‘You don’t love it at all, do you? You think I’m just being neurotic.’
He’d looked down at her quizzically, pressing the bell on Mary’s hall door with its stained-glass inset of poppies. ‘No, I don’t love it. It’s bloody annoying. But I do love you, so let’s not argue semantics.’
As her mother’s figure loomed down the hall, Hanna had hissed crossly that semantics meant shades of meaning, not contradictions.
‘Now that really is just semantics.’
Torn between annoyance and amusement, she’d introduced him to her mother, who was all benevolent charm.
‘So you’re Hanna’s architect? And isn’t it high time I met you? Come through to the patio, won’t you? We’re out there having a drink.’
In the garden, Louisa and Jazz were sitting with glasses of wine in their hands and a bowl of Tayto on the table between them. You knew the occasion was a formal one when Mary Casey produced her Belleek bowl, which was pale yellow porcelain embossed with wreaths of green shamrock.
In a weird way, the dinner had been successful. Brian, in his crumpled, well-cut linen suit, looked totally unlike Malcolm in his trademark Armani. But beneath his laid-back manner, he had all of Malcolm’s assurance. There was a difference, though. Brian’s attention was on the world around him, while Malcolm’s, despite his brains and charm, was essentially focused on himself.
The Mistletoe Matchmaker Page 4