The entire book had been digitised for the exhibition and, as well as interactive images of every page that allowed visitors to zoom in on detail, translations of the text in different languages could be accessed via wall-mounted screens. But, for Hanna, the real pleasure lay in these solitary moments when the book lay between her hands like a jewel, its vibrant colours gleaming in the low light.
It had been given to the library by Charles Aukin, an American banker who’d married the last living member of the Anglo-Norman de Lancy family, once landlords of Finfarran. According to family records, they’d acquired the psalter during the Reformation, when the monks who had made it were driven out of their monastery in Carrick.
Charles, who lived alone in his late wife’s slightly dilapidated family castle, had made a stipulation with his bequest: the book was to remain on the peninsula and be housed in Lissbeg Library. And – clearly used to the labyrinthine procedures of rural local authorities – he’d avoided argument by commissioning and paying for its exhibition space himself.
The religious connotations of the psalter meant little to Hanna. By the time she was growing up in the 1970s, the traditional stranglehold that the clergy had held on Irish life had loosened; and, once in England, she had seldom gone to church. All the same, she never approached the psalter without reverence. Whenever she saw the flowing images that had emerged from the scribes’ deft pen strokes, she was shaken by an exuberant sense of their power. Each page was a glorious balance of symmetry and aberration, simultaneously reflecting divine authority, human weirdness, and the bizarre complexity of the natural world.
That the monks had been responding to places she knew and loved added to her pleasure. Wandering the back roads of Finfarran, she too had admired the fall of the cliffs on the southern side of the peninsula, the sunlight filtering through leaves at the margins of the forest, and the shape of Knockinver burning against a winter sky at dusk.
Now, with infinite care, she turned a page and revealed a new illustration. The psalm, on the right-hand page, was numbered thirty-three, and the beginning of each verse was marked by a star in the margin, trailing shining tails made of minuscule dots of paint. The facing picture showed busy figures on a deep blue background. At the top of each page, emerging from a pair of pursed, disembodied lips, were spirals of white, suggestive of wind, and more whirling stars.
The figures, who were little monks in dark habits, were working on a yellow beach where white-topped waves reared above them, streaked and flecked with foam. Two monks, whose robes were girded above their knees, were catching a falling wave in a pottery jar. Others were loading full jars into oxcarts – one cart had tipped over, and a stream of water from a jar’s gaping mouth had knocked a portly monk to the ground with his naked rear in the air.
There was a great sense of energetic organised chaos. In the middle distance, a row of carts was disappearing into a barn, with wide doors and a curved roof. The heaving oxen’s muscles stood out like hawsers, and other monks with girded-up robes were dragging more jars towards the beach on a kind of wooden sleigh.
The picture was framed with a frieze of stars and seaweed, through which the faces of grotesques and animals peered out at the toiling monks.
Hanna bent closer to look at it. Each star was as bright as the day on which it had been painted and the seaweed was rendered as accurately as if in a scientific reference book. She recognised bladderwrack and the kind that her great-aunt Maggie used to call dead men’s bootlaces. And horsetail and what she thought was called beadweed. Then, as she stood upright, the detail was no longer evident and the frieze resolved into glittering abstract scrolls.
Crossing to one of the screens on the wall, she looked up the translation of Psalm Thirty-three. Two verses had been conflated in the illustration, one of which declared that ‘the starry multitude of the skies had been made by the breath of God’s mouth’, and the other that he had ‘gathered the ocean waters into a heap and put the deep seas into jars’. Hanna smiled, imagining the psalmist who’d conjured up those images. What would he have said if he could have seen them realised hundreds of years later by a monk in a cell on a western Atlantic shore?
Locking the case, she went to open the library. Turning the pages of the psalter was a reminder that time was passing and, so far, she still hadn’t been able to make up her mind about Brian’s invitation. Christmas in Sweden was a tempting prospect, but ought she to indulge in it? After all, this was Louisa’s first Christmas with Mary Casey. And how would Jazz deal with Christmas dinner at the bungalow? She might not fancy a day spent solely in the company of her grandmothers, and it wasn’t as if she had anywhere else to go.
15
Bríd scowled and flopped onto the sofa. Aideen was being infuriating, and Conor had no bloody business to be putting his oar in at all.
It was seven forty-five and the argument had been going on for an hour. Aideen, who was sitting opposite Bríd, clasped her hands round her knee. She looked as if she was trying to stop herself throwing something. Except that Aideen was never violent – only, as Bríd had just told her, really, really sneaky.
‘I am not sneaky! How can you say that?’
‘Oh, please! Making plans behind my back and not even bothering to consult me!’
‘I didn’t make them behind your back. And I’m talking to you now.’
‘Five minutes before it’s a fait accompli!’ Seeing Aideen’s reaction, Bríd rushed on to safer ground. ‘Okay, all right, so you told me in the deli this morning, with half the town in the queue so I couldn’t say anything. And you’ve been soft-soaping me ever since we got home. But the bottom line is you dreamed up a plan – and went and discussed it with Conor! – when it’s my life and my home that are going to be affected.’
Conor, who was sitting on the arm of Aideen’s chair, reached down and took her hand. ‘It wasn’t Aideen’s idea, it was mine.’
‘Oh, this just gets better and better! You came up with a plan for what should happen in our house?’
Aideen glared at her. ‘Don’t you dare start on Conor! Yes, it was his idea. And, yes, I discussed it with him. Why wouldn’t I? I’ll talk to anyone I want, Bríd, about anything I like. And, in case you’ve forgotten, the house is mine, not ours.’
There was a pause in which they all absorbed the fact that Aideen had just said the unsayable. Then Conor charged into the breach. ‘I’m sorry, Bríd. Honest. And nothing’s actually been fixed. It just seemed like a good plan, since Aideen and I are desperate to up our savings. But if it doesn’t work for the both of you, that’s no problem at all.’
Aideen shook her head vehemently. ‘It’s not us who need to apologise. I’m sorry too, Bríd, if we’ve upset you, but we haven’t done anything wrong. And I’ve told you already that Cassie’s only coming for a chat. We mightn’t like her at all, or she might hate the place.’
Bríd opened her mouth to speak but Aideen went on regardless: ‘And if you’ve made up your mind to dislike her without even seeing her, then you’re the one who’s being sneaky. And plain mean!’
Sitting on the sofa, which was lower than the chair, felt wrong so Bríd stood up abruptly. The whole notion of turning the dining room into a bedroom and renting it out to some girl that Conor had met in the library was daft. Okay, they didn’t need the dining room to eat in, but they did use it as a store room. Was this stranger supposed to sleep on a pile of boxes? She snapped the question at Aideen, who shrugged her shoulders.
‘We’d move the boxes out of there. Naturally. And don’t start fussing, I’ve worked out where they’d go. There’s plenty of room at the Garden Café, and they’d be far better there anyway. Much easier for deliveries, and far more convenient with the deli across the road.’
The trouble was that she was right about that. When they’d set up the deli, the Old Convent Centre hadn’t been opened. But now, as well as running HabberDashery, they provided food for the café in the nuns’ garden, so Phil could hardly object if they stored stuf
f there. Actually, it was an efficiency that Bríd should have thought of herself.
There was no point in asking about furniture either. That was all sorted. According to Aideen, Conor’s mum had a single bed, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers going begging, and Conor could give them a fresh coat of paint. They’d have to buy a new mattress, but the blanket box on the landing was full of linen and a spare duvet, still faintly scented with lavender sachets made by Aunt Bridge. ‘I’ll pay for the mattress and we’ll do all the shifting. You won’t have to be involved, though if you had any bit of decency you’d help.’
Bríd glanced at her watch and saw that this Cassie person was due in a couple of minutes. She glared at Aideen. ‘Three people in the bathroom in the mornings? Someone else sitting here at night? What if Dan’s round and he and I just want to hang out? I mean, we’re not like you and Conor, always disappearing up to the bedroom.’
As soon as she’d said it, she wished she hadn’t. Aideen looked like a stricken deer and, anyway, it was nonsense. Dan hardly ever came round, and when he did they always disappeared upstairs themselves.
Conor gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Ah, for God’s sake, Bríd, would you cop on to yourself? I’ve known a few times when Dan and I have been fighting over the bathroom. Not to mention the TV remote. And haven’t we all managed so far with no bones broken? You’re behaving as if Cassie’s the last straw, but the fact is that she’ll only be round for a matter of months. Or maybe weeks. Only till after Christmas, anyway.’
The doorbell rang before Bríd could reply, and Aideen got up to answer it. On her way to the door she shot Bríd a look. Biting her lip, Bríd went and stared pointlessly out of the window. She knew perfectly well that the real issue wasn’t the bathroom. Or the bedroom furniture. It was the fact that Aideen, who’d always deferred to her advice, had moved on and was focused on Conor.
The girl who was ushered in a few minutes later appeared to Bríd to have what Gran always called ‘a great welcome for herself’. She was short and wide-eyed, with blond hair that was razor-cut at the back and a feathery fringe dyed a daft shade of blue. As Conor offered her a chair she slipped out of a puffy metallic coat that looked both rugged and stylish, as if she were about to trek to a party at the North Pole. Bríd noticed a tiny tattoo at the nape of her neck, where the razor-cut ended in a couple of curls of dyed hair, like a duck’s tail.
Aideen introduced her as Cassie Fitzgerald, and Cassie smiled at Bríd. ‘Pat and Ger Fitz from the butcher’s granddaughter. I’m beginning to feel I need to say so each time I meet someone new.’
Bríd had an insane urge to look blank and say that she’d no idea who Pat and Ger Fitz were. Just to wipe the confident look off the snub-nosed face. Instead she escaped to the kitchen, saying she’d put the kettle on.
By the time she came back with the tray the others had shown Cassie the dining room, and Cassie was back in the armchair, all enthusiasm. ‘Really, it couldn’t be better. I’ve practically no luggage, so don’t even bother with the wardrobe. Maybe we could find a rail, or stick a few hooks on the door.’
Aideen asked if she was certain the room would be big enough.
‘Hey, I’ve shared cabins that were smaller – it’s perfect, really. And, just so you know, I’m not saying a word against Pat and Ger’s place. It’s nice and they’re really hospitable. I just don’t want to have to tiptoe past their bedroom each time I come in late at night.’
Bríd heard herself announcing that there wasn’t much nightlife in Lissbeg. Cassie shot her a surprised look. ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting Las Vegas. Still, there must be something to do in Carrick.’ She picked up a coffee mug and smiled at Bríd over the rim. ‘It’s not just about nightlife, anyway. Pat’s sweet, and if I stayed with her she’d feel she had to entertain me. Whereas I’m far happier entertaining myself.’
The mug she’d picked up was the one that Bríd herself always drank from. Irritated by Aideen’s look of concern, and a flicker of amusement from Conor, Bríd held out a plate and announced that the biscuits were Bourbons. Cassie smiled again and took one, saying she’d had a cookie at the Garden Café that Pat had said was made by a girl from the deli.
Aideen beamed. ‘Bríd does all our baking. She’s brilliant at it.’
‘Yes, well, these are from the supermarket, I’m afraid.’
Bríd’s tone was brittle but Cassie didn’t seem to notice. Instead she smiled again and said thanks.
Aware that she’d sounded priggish, Bríd was groping for something to say when Dan’s face suddenly appeared at the window. She went to the door to let him in, as Conor explained to Cassie that this was her boyfriend, Dan Cafferky. ‘His mum and dad keep the shop in Couneen and Dan does eco-tours.’
‘Oh, right.’
As Bríd led Dan into the room and began to introduce him, Cassie interrupted her and gave him a big wink. ‘How’s it going, Sherlock?’
To Bríd’s horror, Dan winked back at her. ‘Never better. How’re you doing yourself?’
Throwing a quick glance at Aideen, Conor turned to Cassie. ‘So you two know each other?’
‘Oh, Dan the Man and I are old friends, aren’t we?’ Cassie bit into her Bourbon. ‘Seems like, since we found each other, we just can’t keep apart.’
16
The mobile library served the north side of the peninsula on Tuesdays and the south side on Thursdays; and the northern route continued westwards round the foothills of Knockinver to Ballyfin. On both days it was a straight run back up the motorway to Carrick once Conor’s work was done.
Miss Casey had given him strict instructions about where to park, and how he wasn’t supposed to pull in anywhere other than his designated halting places. Then she’d relaxed and said some of the people who lived along the route were devils for standing by their gates, waving books at you. It was okay to stop if they looked a bit flustered or were elderly. But you’d have to take a view. ‘People like Darina Kelly just try it on, so you can ignore her. She’s only down the way from Couneen and she’s perfectly capable of getting there just like anyone else. There’s a few more like her as well, but you’ll get used to them. You just want to make sure that no one takes advantage of your good nature. Trying to flag you down is only the half of it – you’ll have to start as you mean to go on.’
The pull-in at Couneen was in front of Cafferky’s shop. When Conor got there, Mrs Kelly was among the little group of locals sitting in the window drinking coffee and waiting for the van. Dan’s mum waved at Conor from the doorway, and the group came out and lined up while he opened up the van. Finfarran wasn’t part of the new national libraries management system yet, so if a book wasn’t available in the county you still needed to order it by inter-library loan. Most people were happy to stick to the system they knew, anyway – there were even some who refused to renew a book online, preferring to pay a fine if they couldn’t return it on time.
But now Darina Kelly, who dressed like some class of a hippie and was forty-five if she was a day, was suddenly getting ratty. The new management system was brilliant, she said, so why couldn’t she use it?
‘I’m afraid it hasn’t been rolled out to Finfarran yet.’
Conor could see the rest of the queue getting cross about being kept waiting. It was dry enough today, after several days of rain, but the wind was chilly and everyone’s coffee was cooling inside on the tables. No one was actually complaining, but he could feel them thinking that, when it came to the library, Miss Casey was the real engine driver, and he was no more than the oily rag.
Deciding he had about a minute and a half to get things under control, he took a deep breath and asked Mrs Kelly if she’d put in an online request.
‘No. I mean, what’s the point? You’ve just said that Finfarran isn’t part of the new scheme.’
‘The old system’s not quite as quick as the new one, but we can still order a book for you from any library in the country.’ He paused, playing to the queue and registering world-weary patience. �
��And if you’d done an online request a week ago I could have had it here today.’ Sensing the queue’s approval, he moved in for the kill. ‘Unless you find using the online facilities difficult?’ The suggestion that she was computer-challenged freaked Mrs Kelly, as he’d known it would. Her face went red and she hitched her Afghan coat up around her ears.
Then, before she could open her beak again, Conor turned to the man who was standing behind her. Without your woman noticing, they gave each other a wink. ‘How’re you doing, Jack? Did you like the read?’
The man fished in a supermarket carrier bag and produced a copy of Sebastian Faulks’s James Bond novel, Devil May Care. ‘Do you know what it is, Conor? I kind of liked it. Faulks is no Ian Fleming, mind, and you’d notice the quirks in his style. Only now and then, of course, but I’m an aficionado. I’d have Fleming’s nuances in my ear.’
He handed the book to Conor, who, aware of the queue’s eyes on him, reached round and produced William Boyd’s Solo. ‘Well, see what you think of that.’
Jack took it and shook his head thoughtfully. ‘I thought I’d give it a go but, you know, I’m not all that sure about these “continuations”. But I’ve started so I’ll finish, as the fella said.’ He tapped Mrs Kelly on the shoulder. ‘All the way from Kilkenny, Darina, and only a click or two to get it. You can’t beat ordering books online.’
Darina began to gobble like a prize turkey. ‘I’m perfectly well acquainted with online ordering! What I was complaining about was the fact that the service isn’t cutting-edge.’
Jack shook his head again, this time in mock interest. ‘Is that so? Well, you’ve come a long way on a cold day to stand and complain about that.’
By this point the whole queue was hiding smirks and giggles. Conor felt a pang of remorse as Darina Kelly stepped away with a huge show of dignity, and crossed the road to get into her Deux Chevaux. On the other hand, though, he knew he’d laid down a marker. When it came to the mobile library route, Miss Casey would always be the engine driver, but after today, no one would say that he was the oily rag.
The Mistletoe Matchmaker Page 8