The Mistletoe Matchmaker

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  Conor sometimes thought that half his dad’s depression came from a sense of guilt. If he’d used better judgement, the accident wouldn’t have happened, and if he’d paid for proper cover then at least the bills would be paid. And, in a way, poor Joe was in the same state as his father. If he hadn’t been drinking the night before, and slow to move when the cow lost it, the chances were that they’d both have got out with no trouble at all.

  The trouble now was that no one would talk about it. And, God knew, that was a family trait. If Conor had a bit of sense himself he’d be talking to Aideen, because the more he thought about it, the more it seemed that he’d have to give up the farm. The place would be his and Joe’s eventually but, if they kept going the way they were, they’d have run it into the ground before Paddy died.

  For the millionth time, Conor told himself there had to be another option. If the family sat down with a lawyer, the chances were they’d come up with some way forward that made sense and was fair. He could step back with a lump sum and go off and do the library thing, leaving Joe to take over the farm.

  Or, if giving him a lump sum now would be daft, they could set it up so he knew he’d get it in the future. One way or another, if he had a game plan, he could talk to Miss Casey about getting his qualifications.

  But, then, Aideen had all these romantic visions about settling down in a farmhouse. How would she feel about marrying someone with years of exams ahead, and a student loan to pay off?

  The fields on either side of him still had a few cows grazing, but mostly the grass had melted away. The whole peninsula changed colour in winter, when the light was different and the growth died back, so you saw the grey stone walls. Every wall that surrounded the fields at home had been built by his father’s people, and by the families of women who’d married in, bringing dowries of parcels of land. Orla, his mam, was like Aideen: she was born and raised in a town. But for generations McCarthy women had extended the family holding, and worked on it with their men.

  Conor could remember his gran saying that her own mam had come with the grass of ten cows. She’d been a great poultry woman, too, and kept geese as well as hens. According to his gran, the eggs had paid for boots for the whole family. And turkeys raised by Gran herself had made the price of the old separator that used to be out in the milking parlour.

  When Paddy had his health and his strength they’d been doing fine. You’d get up on a spring morning and the place would be full of life. Lambs calling, and calves needing tags, and stupid amounts of work to be done in the fields. As a young lad, Conor’s favourite thing had been walking the fields with Paddy at the start of the spring. You’d be surprised by the number of years you’d find bite in the grass as early as March. They’d walk the bounds of the farm on St John’s Eve, too, and Paddy would always find an excuse for lighting a bonfire. He hated being told he was superstitious, but his own dad and his dad’s dad before him had never failed to light a fire on St John’s Eve. It brought luck to the land.

  Conor had never admitted it to Joe, but he’d done the same thing himself above on the hill last June. He’d lit it in the lee of the wall between the Broad Acre and the Lamb Field and he’d stood looking up at the stars with the flames roaring in a circle of stones that was blackened by previous bonfires. You wouldn’t want to be the one who’d let the tradition go.

  Up ahead he could see the pub where he planned to have a sandwich. When Miss Casey drove this route she usually stopped and ate in Knockmore. There was a drop-in centre in the church hall there, where oul ones went for their dinner, and they were always mad for a bit of diversion and chat. Miss Casey had smiled at Conor when she told him, and said she suspected he wouldn’t fancy it. He didn’t either, so he’d taken to grabbing a bite to eat in the pub.

  There was a jeep parked outside that he recognised as Dan Cafferky’s, and, when he went in, Dan and his podgy mate Dekko were sitting with a couple of pints. Dan was on his feet at once, offering to buy him a drink, but Conor said no. ‘God, Dan, I’m not just driving, I’m working.’

  He ordered a fizzy drink and a cheese and pickle sandwich and joined them at the table. Apparently they were waiting for Fury O’Shea who’d found Dan a load of wood to extend his shed on Couneen pier. He’d got it off the back of some building job in Carrick, so Dan was going to get it at a decent price.

  ‘What’s the extension for?’

  ‘Just a bit of extra storage space. And I could use a ticket office for the tours.’

  ‘I thought most of your booking happened online.’

  ‘You’d get a bit of passing trade, too, though. In summer, like.’

  There was a violent scratching at the pub door, which swung open to reveal Fury and his little Jack Russell terrier, known as The Divil. Dan got to his feet again but Fury waved him back to his seat and strolled to the bar.

  ‘Hold your hour, we’ll order first and fight about who’s paying later.’

  With his drink in his hand, he came back and joined them, and The Divil subsided on the floor.

  Conor, who knew Fury well, gave him a nod. Dan introduced Dekko. ‘Dekko’s from Dublin, but we don’t hold it against him.’

  ‘Well, if that’s all there’s to be said against him, I suppose he’s doing all right.’

  Conor glanced at Dekko, to see if he’d taken it badly. Fury was an eccentric old bugger and, if you didn’t know him, you might think he was choosing to wind you up. Dekko didn’t seem bothered. He winked and said he’d heard Fury was a great man to do business with.

  ‘Ah, you wouldn’t want to believe all they tell you round here.’

  For as long as Conor could remember, Fury O’Shea had been the same laconic, scarecrow figure, driving round in a battered red van, with The Divil beside him on the passenger seat, barking at anything that moved. Fury was known as the best builder on the peninsula, though he didn’t do estimates, let alone quotes, and he never stuck to a schedule. You wouldn’t know where to find him either, because that was the way he was. He turned up when he wanted to, and he always shut off his phone and ignored messages. All the same, he wasn’t called Fury for nothing. When he had his teeth in a job there was no holding him, and he wouldn’t stop till it was done.

  God alone knew how he coped with the state or the taxman but, whatever way he handled money, Conor had never heard anyone call him a cheat. One time he’d heard somebody call him illiterate but that was just show. It suited him when it came to filling up forms and reading regulations, and it meant he could play the gawm when he did a deal.

  Now he cocked his eye at Dan and said he had the timber for him. ‘I’ll dump it down on the pier sometime this week.’

  Dan knew better than to talk about the cost of it: it could be he’d end up paying in kind, but Fury would see him right. Dan had laboured for him in the past more than a few times, and Fury looked after his own.

  Under the table, The Divil stood up and shook himself. Fury looked at Dekko and said he fancied a packet of crisps. ‘Salt and vinegar. They’re the ones he likes.’

  Dekko looked a bit shocked and asked if he meant that the dog wanted them.

  ‘That’s the man. Don’t go getting streaky bacon, now. He can’t be doing with them.’

  For a minute Conor wondered again if Dekko might take it badly. Instead he got up and said he’d shout for a round. ‘Another pint, Dan, is it? And another 7UP, Conor? Is that a Jameson’s there, Mr O’Shea?’

  ‘It is, boy, but I’ve never been one to take drink from strangers. Throw The Divil his packet of crisps and that’ll do fine.’

  There was a queer kind of tension between them, but that was just Fury messing.

  Dekko came back from the bar with the round and bent down to throw the crisps under the table. There was a sudden snarl as the little dog’s hackles rose and he showed his teeth. Startled, Dekko jerked back, banging his head on the table. Conor had his glass in his hand by then, and Dan saved his pint, but Dekko’s pint tipped sideways, nearly splashing his ex
pensive leather jacket.

  Fury, who was sitting back with his glass, cocked his eyebrow. ‘Maybe I’m not the only one wary of strangers.’ He lounged over to the bar and got Dekko another pint. Under the table, The Divil snorted and ripped open the packet, releasing a stink of vinegar along with a shower of crisps.

  When Conor left, they were still sitting there, Dekko and Dan drinking pints, and Fury swirling the last of his whiskey round and round in his glass. Dekko had put a good face on things, and was telling some long story. But Conor reckoned he felt the old man had rightly set him up.

  Driving on to Knockmore, you could see the winter sun slanting sideways through the hedgerows. Miss Casey had talked to him a while back about the way she felt herself when she drove the van. For ages, she’d said, written words had carried dreams and ideas over seas and beyond mountains, which made her part of a process that stretched across distance and time. Conor kind of liked the way she’d put it.

  The whole library-book thing was actually pretty amazing – like she’d said, all these novels and celebrity cookbooks were links to ancient handwritten texts from Egypt and Mesopotamia. It was a thought that made being a librarian seriously cool. Library work was about organising stuff, too, and he was fierce good at that. The thing was, though, that he’d hate to leave the farming. Basically, he was stuck between a rock and a bloody hard place.

  23

  Pat could remember when the first Christmas lights had appeared across Broad Street. Someone had suggested that all the businesses in the street should chip in and pay for Lissbeg’s decorations, and Ger had put his foot down and said no. The rest of the town might be desperate for customers, he’d said, but no one would refuse to buy a Christmas turkey for lack of a dancing Santy over his door. He’d changed his tune after a year or two, and now he was chair of the town’s decorations committee. It confirmed his status, Pat supposed, and it was a way of keeping his feet under the table at the Chamber. But that first year he’d refused to chip in a penny.

  The lads were well grown then. Frankie had left school and was working behind the counter with Ger, and Sonny and Jim were wanting to go off to discos in Carrick. Pat had never seen any reason why they shouldn’t. It was hardly different to Ger and herself going dancing back in the day. Or Cassie going off to a nightclub.

  Ger had always been a bit ratty about the lads taking off for Carrick, though. The state might be paying for their education, he’d say, leaning on the counter and talking to Tom Casey. But didn’t it all come out of his till in the end, with the weight of his damn taxes? And top marks in school were all very well, but he had still to see where it was leading. Weren’t he and Miyah working on the farm when they were those lads’ ages? Not sitting on their arses with a pile of books, waiting to swan off to college!

  It was only old talk and a chance for Ger to keep Tom there chatting, but Pat knew how much it annoyed the lads.

  Ger and herself hadn’t done that much dancing. It was more a case of tagging along with Mary and Tom. And no one had gone into Carrick for dances in those days till they were well out of school: you wouldn’t be let and, anyhow, it was a long way to cycle.

  Back in those days you’d have no Debs or anything. Still, a lot of the kids were mad for rock ’n’ roll. The place for that was Devane’s dancehall, down at the end of Sheep Street. Devane got all the dance bands, so that’s where you’d want to be going. At school hops you’d be expected to dance sets, like you were at a céilí, and the woeful oul music was cat.

  Tom had a ducktail hairdo in the sixties, and Mary had a poodle-cut perm. Pat wore hers in a high ponytail, and Ger always claimed he had a buzz cut like Elvis Presley’s. It was really just a short back and sides, though, because his father had said he’d have no Teddy Boy louts behind his counter. Pat could remember Ger spitting in the horse trough and saying his dad wouldn’t know a bit of style if he saw it – the man couldn’t even tell the difference between rock ’n’ roll and jazz.

  Pat and Mary had met in the back row at school. Everyone was supposed to look the same, in the one uniform. But the nuns knew well that half the mams couldn’t afford the things you were supposed to get from Tiernan’s shop in Carrick, so they turned a blind eye to the hand-knitted socks and the homemade ties. You were meant to wear shirts from Tiernan’s, too, and a beret, but with the cost of the gym frock and the blazer, and the gabardine in winter, plenty of girls got sent to school in knitted tams and their mams’ cut-down blouses. So long as the colours were right, nothing much was said. Differences were made, of course, but they were subtle. Clean hair and the right tie saved you from many a slap.

  Pat was never short of much, but Mary, who was an only child, had everything. The nuns were always putting her up at the front when the priest came in. For First Communion she had a white handbag, and a veil with pearl beads sewn into it, and white Clark’s sandals that would take the sight out of your eye. When they were all lining up to march into the church, Sister Benignus presented her with a Life of the Little Flower, with a gold cross on the front and a kidskin cover. The class was told it was a prize for piety and effort.

  The next week Mary appeared in the Inquirer’s Communion Special, clasping the book, with her eyes cast up to Heaven. Afterwards she’d told Pat she was expecting Benny to take it back. They only wanted her looking holy with it, she said, so they could send the photo to the bishop. That was always the great thing about Mary. She could see right through flattery, though she lapped it up like milk.

  She knew what she wanted, too, and nothing and no one had ever stopped her getting it. If there was a chicken on the table, come hell or high water Mary got the wishbone; and at Hallowe’en she always found the ring hidden in the brack. There was something restful about that, if you were a friend of hers. Things were always straightforward, and you didn’t have to fight. Pat had never been one for making a fuss. And, most of the time, what Mary wanted didn’t interest her anyway.

  Pat’s seat at the kitchen window was right beside a string of Christmas lights. For the last week, from dusk until midnight, they’d flashed on and off rhythmically, swinging in the wind between the shop’s façade and the old convent’s gable end. Now, looking down at the copybook in her lap, she imagined the words she’d written turning scarlet and gold, like pulsing points of light. Strung across the page, they looked ridiculous, so she scribbled them out with firm strokes of her pen. Cassie was due any minute to take her to Carrick anyway. The story was they were going in for some shopping, but Pat had a notion they might bang into that guard.

  When Cassie suggested the trip she’d had a look about her Pat knew well. A kind of casual hopefulness that would almost scald your heart. Still, that was the child’s business and nobody else’s. Kids these days travelled the world, and picked up their own ways of dealing with life. The guard had looked decent enough the time Pat had glimpsed him. A small bit pleased with himself, maybe, but that was probably the circumstances. After all, if Cassie hadn’t known what job he did, he’d have been pleased to go sailing past her in a squad car, looking smart.

  And they’d seen each other since. According to Cassie, he’d taken her out to dinner in Carrick a few times, and they’d been back to the nightclub where the music was so loud people didn’t talk.

  Putting the copybook into her bag, Pat found herself smiling. Loud music could do wonders when you were courting. A bit of noise to cover the awkward pauses in conversation, and a chance to show off your dance moves, if you had them.

  Tom had been a good dancer. She used to watch him and Mary swinging round the floor at Devane’s, when she’d be sitting on a bench at the side with the bottle of red lemonade that Ger always bought her. Mary and Tom used go out round the back and be swigging from a naggin. Ger was a Pioneer, though, and he only went round the back to be smoking cigarettes.

  There was a rap on the door and Cassie came in, swinging her little rucksack. ‘Wow, this is so cosy. I so love the range!’

  ‘Will we have a cup of t
ea before we go?’

  Cassie slipped off her coat and hung it on the back of the chair. ‘I guess we shouldn’t break with tradition.’

  She had an easy way in the kitchen that Pat liked. There were scones in the tin that had come out of the oven an hour ago, and Cassie found them with no fuss and put them on a couple of plates. Pat put on the kettle and poured some milk into a jug. She was looking round for the tea cosy when Cassie took out her phone. ‘You know what? I’m going to call Dad and show him what’s happening.’

  Pat wasn’t sure what she meant.

  ‘You know! The flat, and the range, and Christmas lights outside. And you and me.’

  ‘But he might be working.’

  ‘He’ll most likely be having breakfast. It’s eight a.m. in Toronto.’

  She was tapping away and the next thing Pat knew, Sonny’s voice was answering. Cassie held the phone up and started to walk round the room. ‘Hi, Dad. Guess where I am?’ She brought the phone really close to the dresser. ‘Recognise these teacups? And the plates?’ Then, swinging round, she swooped in close to the scones on the table. ‘And these scones? Bet you sneaked a few like these when you did your homework at this table!’ She moved away, tapped the phone again, and pulled Pat in beside her. ‘Look at us! We’re here in Gran’s kitchen, cosying up by the range!’

  Pat could see Sonny’s face in a little box on the screen. He was looking kind of blank. She stepped away instinctively, but Cassie grabbed her hand. ‘Say hi, guys!’

  Pat said hello, and Sonny’s face smiled. Cassie moved the phone so he could see the range behind them. ‘We should totally get one of these, Dad. They’re fantastic! How come you never told us that a kitchen could be so snug?’

  Sonny glanced at his watch, then looked back at the screen. Pat could tell from his face he was feeling relieved. ‘Sweetheart, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to run. I promised I’d grab a coffee with Uncle Jim on my way to the office.’