Brian’s flat, high in a modern block on the outskirts of Carrick, was very different from her stone house with its two original rooms and tiny extension, but he and Hanna shared a fastidious sense of privacy, both physical and emotional. It was what had drawn them together in the first place but now, to a certain extent, it was what stood in the way of them taking their relationship to what Jazz called ‘the next level’.
Delighted with the developments in her own life, Jazz had quizzed Hanna about that only the other morning – and received a pretty sharp set-down.
‘Don’t use that foul expression. And mind your own business!’
‘Oh, come on, Mum, he’s lovely. You don’t want to lose him.’
Hanna had ended that phone call with a laugh, which she’d later identified as camouflage. Brian had always wanted to take things faster than she did. But lately, at the back of her mind, she’d acknowledged that she’d hate to lose him. It was extraordinary to find herself able to trust again, after what she’d been through with Malcolm. But that was what had happened. And, as she’d asked herself crossly after her phone call with Jazz, what was ‘the next level’ anyway?
Now, she turned her head, Brian smiled at her.
‘You’re thinking again.’
Hanna laughed. ‘Last time I looked it was legal.’
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘Nothing. Well . . .’ she improvised hastily ‘. . . I was thinking about the psalter exhibition.’
Brian hunkered forward and threw another log on the fire. As County Architect, it was he who’d designed the modern space within the old school hall that housed the psalter exhibition, separating it from the library with a soaring glass wall. ‘It must be getting fewer visitors at this time of year.’
Hanna nodded. ‘Well, you certainly don’t get many tourists. I’d thought we might have more locals coming through in the off-season. But I guess, since I only turn one page a month—’ She stopped suddenly, no longer wanting to put Brian off track, but focusing on the new thought. ‘Actually, that’s a point. Maybe we should do something specifically aimed at local people. Not tied into the tourist thing. Just for us.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Something for the run-up to Christmas?’
Brian sat back, brushing bark off his hands. ‘How about Advent? Turn one page a week for each of the four weeks, and tie it in to the festive excitement. Anticipation. Colour. A countdown-to-Christmas thing.’
‘That’s genius.’
‘I aim to please.’
‘No, seriously, I think I should do it. It’s a lovely idea. We could spread the word on the Edge of the World website. And just via people who’d normally come to the library. Pat Fitz is back teaching her computer class. And I’ve been planning a creative-writing group. People have lots more free time in the winter. And all the coming and going at the Convent Centre means we get more footfall now than we did before.’
‘Well, good. I think you should do it too. Just don’t decide to turn the last page on Christmas Eve, will you? Or, if you do, hand the job over to Conor.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’ve got plans for Christmas Eve.’
‘Have we?’
‘I hope so.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘You know the way kids dream of going to Lapland to see Santa Claus? Well, there’s a sort of architect’s equivalent. The ice hotel in Jukkasjärvi.’
‘An ice hotel?’
‘Right up in the Arctic Circle, in Swedish Lapland.’
‘Literally made of ice?’
‘Literally. It’s bonkers, but I’ve always wanted to stay there. Pure fantasy.’
‘But . . .’
He wriggled his eyebrows at her. ‘You know, I’ve never confessed this to anyone else.’
‘Okay, I’m touched. But what are you saying?’
‘That I want us to go there for Christmas.’
Hanna blinked.
‘Just think of it, Hanna. Everything, including the beds, made of ice.’
She sat back, seeking words and finding none. This was taking it to the next level with a vengeance.
13
Cassie turned left off what everyone seemed to call ‘the motorway’ and meandered through a network of narrow country roads. The motorway, which was actually just a dual carriageway, took you straight to Ballyfin, where all the tourists went. In the other direction it led to Carrick, which Pat had said was Finfarran’s county town. At some point Cassie intended to explore them, too, but right now she was looking for a road less travelled.
That was a concept she liked. Ages ago, her mom had been lent a book by a woman who worked for her. It was called The Road Less Travelled. Cassie had picked it up one day, thinking it would be about going on safari, but it turned out to be a religious self-help thing so she hadn’t read it. It was a good title, though, so it had stuck in her mind.
This side of the peninsula seemed less populated than the countryside round Lissbeg. She drove between a patchwork of small fields separated by low stone walls, where groups of grey-black, squawking crows rose up at the sight of the car. Miles away to the west there was a mountain range. Not exactly huge if you compared it to the Rockies, but pretty impressive all the same. Probably because the scale of everything here was smaller than in Canada. The fields were mostly pasture, and sombre-looking cattle looked up as she approached, turning their heavy heads to watch as she passed.
The car was on loan from Pat. It was the one she’d talked about in Toronto, a gift from Uncle Frankie that Pat didn’t use any more. Yesterday Ger had driven Pat and Cassie to collect it from Uncle Frankie’s place, where it had been garaged. He’d needed to pick up something at the farm, so he’d dropped them off at the house for tea and announced that Cassie could drive them back.
The tea party had explained a lot that Cassie hadn’t quite understood. Having grown up with the idea that Ger had a big retail business, it had been weird to find that he and Pat lived over a little shop. The flat was really poky, too, and had fairly shabby furniture. And on the first night, when Pat had filled a hot-water bottle for Cassie’s bed, she’d been led up a narrow staircase to a room that was basically a garret. It would have been nice for her to sleep in her dad and uncle Jim’s old room, Pat said, but it was full of Ger’s filing cabinets, with a desk in the corner where, these days, he did his accounts.
The garret, which had once been Uncle Frankie’s room, was actually quite lovely. It had a sloping ceiling and a roof-light, and a comfortable bed with a patchwork quilt, under which Cassie found a hi-tog duvet and four feather pillows. Pat explained that she’d made the quilt herself.
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Well, it’s nice, and it’s a grand bit of colour. And I had a new mattress put on the bed when I painted and put the new carpet down to make it a spare room.’
On the way over to Uncle Frankie’s place, Cassie had gathered that his house was built on a site on the family farm. The old farmhouse was lived in by a manager, employed to look after the land. Pat had explained that Ger had bought more fields since his dad died. And, as Ger drove west through rich farmland, Cassie had begun to realise that what was involved was a serious amount of real estate.
Uncle Frankie’s house was a revelation too. It was built on a height, set back from the road, and surrounded by a wide concrete plinth and green lawns. Ger swung the car through an entrance between concrete gateposts topped with plaster pineapples, and up a curved gravel drive to a double door topped by a fancy portico.
Uncle Frankie and his wife, Fran, were on the step to meet them. He was a short guy, older than Dad and Uncle Jim but easily recognisable as their brother. Fran kissed Pat, hugged Cassie, and led them into a big, comfortable living room with a view of the garden, while Uncle Frankie and Ger went off to talk to the farm manager.
Over tea it became increasingly clear that the family on this side of the ocean were empire-builders too. The f
arm didn’t just supply Ger’s shop: stock was bought and sold all the time, and meat provided to retail outlets across the county. And the Lissbeg Fitzgeralds seemed to have branched out into commercial property.
But, despite Uncle Frankie’s grandiose house and the fact that he seemed to be central in running the business, it seemed that Ger still had hold of the reins. Later, Cassie had asked Pat why they’d never moved out of the flat over the shop. ‘Ger never wanted to, love’ was all she’d got for an answer.
The peaks of the mountains up ahead were lost in mist while, lower down, the wintry light picked out the curves of valleys and the courses of streams, where bronze bracken was dying back between outcrops of grey rock. On Cassie’s left, the road began to run alongside woodland – tall deciduous trees that she couldn’t name. Oak, probably, and other trees, with silver trunks, that might be ash or elm.
Then, up ahead and to the right, the pale sky was suddenly full of seagulls. She turned a corner and found herself driving along a clifftop road between the forest and the ocean. The gulls were wheeling and tossing in shrieking flocks, their white wings and pale gold beaks glinting in the low sunlight. Pulling in, Cassie went to lean on the hood of the car, her camera in her hand. She tried to focus on a single seagull. It was no use, though. The birds were moving at speed, lifted and tossed by gusts of wind from the ocean and, anyway, the light wasn’t right for photography.
After a few botched shots, she gave herself up to the spectacle, and the counterpoint between the gulls’ cries and the deep notes of the waves sounding in the distance. There was a low stone wall between the road and the fields beyond it that appeared to slope down to the edge of the cliff. Sheep were grazing in the field nearest to the point where she’d pulled the car in; at times the swooping seagulls’ claws seemed to rake their woolly backs.
Back in the car, she travelled on, aware that the clouds that had hung on the mountains were drifting down to creep through the forest beside her. Tiny droplets formed on her windshield and the mist began to obscure the road ahead.
Cassie switched on her headlights and slowed down to read a signpost. Apparently there was a village not far ahead, so she idled along till she came to it: a couple of houses and a shop with woodland behind them, and a fingerpost, on the seaward side, indicating a steep slope that led down to a pier. She parked in front of the shop, which had a table and benches outside it, and a sign saying it was also an internet café.
Once inside, she could see it was a general grocery with three tables just inside the door and shelves of supplies and the shop counter beyond them. Cassie smiled at the middle-aged woman behind it. ‘Hi. Could I get a coffee?’
‘You can, of course.’ The woman, who had dark curls and a broad smile, nodded at the tables. ‘Sit down there and I’ll go through and make it for you. Were you looking for something to eat as well?’
‘Maybe a sandwich?’
‘No problem. Or a scone? I wouldn’t have a full menu this time of the year, but I made some scones this morning.’
Cassie sat at a table by the window, decided on a tuna sandwich and said she’d have a scone as well. On Pat’s recommendation, she’d eaten a homemade scone with black currant jam at the Garden Café in Lissbeg, and the basketful she could see on the counter promised to be just as good.
‘Are you on holiday yourself?’
Cassie had learned that it was easier to offer information than to have it extracted bit by bit. ‘I’m Pat and Ger Fitzgerald’s granddaughter. I’m staying in Lissbeg.’
‘No! Are you really? I knew they’d come back from Canada but I didn’t know they’d brought a granddaughter with them. Are you Sonny’s youngest or Jim’s eldest?’
Obligingly, Cassie gave her the whole story, ending with her decision to visit Finfarran because she’d never been there before.
‘And isn’t it great to have the freedom to take the time off like that when you want to? I suppose the hairdressing’s a wonderful thing. You can come and go as you please and, so long as you have your scissors, you can work anywhere.’
It was never worthwhile trying to explain the freelance life, so Cassie didn’t argue.
The woman held out her hand and said that her name was Fidelma Cafferky. ‘And look at me, standing here when I should be making your coffee! I won’t be a minute. Would you like cream with your scone?’
Cassie said she would, and took out her phone. Fidelma looked over her shoulder as she went to go through to the kitchen. ‘You’ll need a password for the Wi-Fi. It’s dantheman1. All one word and lower case for the letters, then the number one. No fear of me forgetting it – it’s my son’s nickname.’
Cassie keyed in the password and checked her messages. When talking to Fidelma she hadn’t mentioned that she was looking for lodgings in Lissbeg. In the last week she’d found that produced one of two reactions – either slight disapproval, as if she were disparaging Pat’s hospitality, or lengthy assurances that she’d never find a place that was half as good. Now, as she scrolled through her inbox, she found a message headed ‘Room’ that made her eyes light up. Triumphantly, she hit Reply and shot off a response arranging an appointment in Lissbeg at eight p.m. Then, for the next half hour, as the mist swirled by the window, she sat back happily, uploading botched shots of seagulls to Instagram, drinking coffee, and savouring Fidelma’s homemade jam.
By the time she was back on the road, the worst of the mist had lifted. Fidelma had waved her off, saying that if she kept going she’d find her way back to the main road. ‘You don’t want to be retracing your tracks and there’s grand views of the coastline for the next few miles if you just keep going. Any road to the right will get you to the motorway eventually, but the one you want is about five miles on, by a field with a five-barred gate. It’s not signed but you can’t miss it.’
After twenty minutes Cassie knew that she’d missed it. The twists and turns of the road kept revealing new dramatic cliffs and headlands and, with her attention constantly drawn to the unfolding panorama on her left, it had been hard to look for an unmarked turn on the right.
She was about to reverse when a four-wheel drive appeared up ahead, driven at speed. Pulling in, Cassie opened her window and leaned out, waving.
The guy who slowed down and stopped beside her was about her own age. He was dark and tanned, in a not very Irish way, but his accent sounded local. As he leaned out of his own window Cassie could see another guy beyond him, in the passenger seat. The same age, or maybe a year or so older, he was short and stocky and wearing a khaki parka. The driver wore a thick polo-neck sweater under a quilted body warmer. He grinned at her. ‘You okay?’
‘Fine. But I think I’ve missed my turn. If I keep going can I make a right up ahead and get back onto the motorway?’
‘The motorway? And you’ve a Finfarran number plate. But you’re not from round here, are you?’
‘No, Sherlock, I’m not. Are you going to answer my question?’
He laughed. ‘Well, that’s me put back in me box. Yeah, if you drive on you can turn right but you could get lost if you try it. Better to turn back and drive for a couple of miles, till you see a—’
‘Five-barred gate. I know. I shouldn’t have missed it. I just wasn’t looking.’
‘Mind you, half the farm gates round here have five bars to them. The one you want has a pallet in the ditch beside it.’
‘Oh, that’s helpful. What’s a pallet?’
‘Tell you what. Do a U-turn and follow me. I’ll stick my hand out and wave when we get to the turning.’
Cassie smiled, said thanks, and they set off in convoy. The four-wheel drive, which was a bit battered, had a tow-bar at the back and a workmanlike roof rack on top. When they came to the turn, the driver slowed and gesticulated and, leaning out of the window, pointed to a wooden frame filled in with planks that was stuck in a gap beside the galvanised gate.
‘That’s a pallet! And there’s your turn.’
She opened her own window and sho
uted, ‘Thanks, Sherlock!’ before turning onto the side road. It was narrow and even more winding and, in some places, the trees that lined the fields on either side almost met overhead.
As she negotiated the potholes, Cassie tried to remember where she’d seen the guy who’d been sitting beside the driver. She couldn’t think where she might have encountered him, and she was sure that they’d never spoken to each other, but somehow she knew the set of his short, stocky body. It wasn’t until she reached the main road that she finally managed to place him. He was the impatient guy who’d honked his horn when the van driver with the little dog beside him had stopped the traffic on Broad Street to allow Pat and herself to cross.
14
Hanna opened the glass case and looked down at the psalter. The little book that stood open on its stand was hardly bigger than the paperback she’d been reading in bed last night. The double-page spread it was opened at was largely taken up with text: clean strokes of black ink on soft creamy-yellow goatskin, with an illuminated capital letter on the left-hand page, where the margin was decorated with a flourish of cross-looking rabbits playing hand bells, running along a gilded flowering branch.
Since the opening of the exhibition Hanna had turned over a new page each month, sometimes revealing dense text with minimal decoration, and sometimes pages on which glowing illustrations took up most of the space. But now, as Brian had suggested, she planned to turn a new page for each of the four weeks of Advent.
The idea, which had been flagged on the Edge of The World website, had become a talking point in the town. As Conor said, it felt kind of Christmassy. And today, as she’d arrived at the library gate, a couple of women on their way to the shops had stopped and told her it was great. You’d hardly get a chance to see the psalter in summer with all the tourists. But you’d like to come by in your own time and take a proper look.
The Mistletoe Matchmaker Page 7