The Mistletoe Matchmaker

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  When he went downstairs, and the stew was started, Pat thought she’d better look at the work they’d been given to do for the group. At the end of the last session you could see Hanna deciding to put smacht on them. You wouldn’t blame her either, they needed a bit of control, with Darina Kelly wandering off onto the internet, and Mr Maguire boring them all to death. So they’d been given a task that, according to Hanna, was supposed to take them out of themselves.

  Everyone was to close their eyes and reach into the library’s lost-and-found box, and whatever object they pulled out would inspire the next thing they wrote. It was to be no more than a paragraph. ‘Something that would work as the opening of a novel. It needs to be gripping, evocative, and suggestive of the genre of the book.’ Hanna had gone round the circle with the box, and everyone had stuck a hand in and taken something out. Pat, who was second from last, had pulled out an old pair of specs. She hadn’t had a clue at the time what you could write about them, and she hadn’t come up with a single idea since.

  Now, putting them on the table, it struck her that they looked like a pair worn by Ger’s mam the year before she died. They were a purply-pink colour, too, the same as his mam’s vase was, and the frames curled up like its curly feet. That wasn’t a shape people wore at all nowadays. They must have been lying for ages in the lost-and-found. They might have been there since before Hanna took over. They could date back to the time when the library used to be the school hall.

  Lifting them up, Pat squinted through them at her notebook. God, they were a fierce strong prescription, not reading glasses at all. Whoever lost them would’ve been half blind without them. Imagine walking out of a library when you couldn’t see where you were going. If you knew you’d left your specs behind, why wouldn’t you turn back?

  She laid them down on the table and put on her own glasses. At the top of the page she’d jotted down Hanna’s instructions.

  Instead of looking inside yourself, you were supposed to be looking out.

  You were to consider your object and use your imagination, and allow your paragraph to be informed by the images they provoked.

  Pat frowned and wrote down ‘purple specs’. God alone knew what else you could say about them.

  Ever since coming home from Canada she’d had the feeling that, for years, she’d been walking round half blind herself. Taking up her biro, she drew curly harlequin frames round the words ‘purple specs’.

  Truth be told, life was easier when you didn’t have to look at things. But the fact was that something had happened to Ger. He might have been looking fine today, holding out the bit of lamb, done up in its white wrapping paper, and wearing his blue jumper that she’d bought for him at the mall. But she’d known him all his life and she could tell when he was hiding something. She couldn’t close her eyes to it but she didn’t know what to do.

  30

  When Dan came into Phil’s office, Fury O’Shea was leaning against the wall. Dan had been halfway to Carrick when a three-word text had arrived, summoning him to Lissbeg. And, as usual, when he’d tried to call back, Fury hadn’t picked up.

  The Divil was lying under the desk, with his paws crossed and his nose in a box of leaflets. Phil was buzzing around like a fly on speed, simultaneously talking on her phone, going through lists with Bríd, and flinging orders at Ferdia. Fury, who was perfectly at ease, had his skinny shoulders propped against a flow chart.

  ‘You took your time, boy, didn’t you?’

  Dan was in the doorway when Fury spoke, and they all stopped talking and stared at him. It was bloody irritating, considering he’d turned the jeep round the moment he’d seen the text. But getting pissed off with Fury was a waste of time, so Dan didn’t bother. ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘Phil here has a job for you.’

  Phil looked a bit startled, something that frequently happened to people when Fury arrived in their offices. Unusually for Phil, though, she said nothing.

  ‘She’s after giving me a shout about making stalls for this Winter Fest. Apparently, the committee have decided to take their theme from the Carrick Psalter.’

  Two committee members, who were standing by the desk, looked indignant, and Phil leapt in at once. ‘The psalter exhibition has been so attractive to tourists that I think we agreed that a medieval theme is truly emblematic of Lissbeg. And nothing says Christmas like Gothic arches and shining stained-glass windows. Warmth! Welcome! Firelight! Carol singers!’ Phil planted her hands on the desk, producing a growl from The Divil. ‘So what I suggested – and the committee endorsed – was a castellated front for each stall.’

  One of the ladies muttered that the practice of giving chairpeople casting votes was pure ridiculous.

  Fury cocked an eyebrow at Dan. ‘So, that’s the plan. I’ll make a couple of calls and source the materials, and you’ll knock up a few welcoming battlements.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because I’m a builder. I don’t do sets for pantomimes.’

  ‘Well, nor do I.’

  ‘And because Phil has money from the council to pay you for knocking up battlements.’

  Phil intervened and said, actually, it was a medieval castle theme.

  Fury quelled her with a look. ‘Ara, for God’s sake, woman, what do you think castellation was for? Giving your archers cover when they were shooting arrows at invaders. The haves up there repelling the poor have-nots.’

  ‘Well, but—’

  ‘Come here to me, don’t be annoying me. I know well what you want. And if you think you’re going to get Disneyland out of MDF and a box of screws you’re kidding yourself. But if you want stalls that won’t fall down, then Dan’s your man.’ He removed his shoulders from the flow chart and clicked his tongue at The Divil. ‘I can even get you some grey paint at a decent price, if you give me a day or two. Spray-on glitter, too, if it takes your fancy.’

  Dan raised his voice. ‘But why me? How come I got mixed up in this?’

  Ignoring him, Fury fixed an eye on Phil as The Divil took his nose from the box of leaflets and pattered out from under the desk. ‘I’ll want cash for the materials, mind, and the same goes for Dan the Man. And don’t go thinking that either of us is going to be generating invoices.’

  ‘No. Well, no, that’s fine. It’ll come out of my own budget for infrastructural works here at the centre. You can just send me a note of what you’ve bought.’

  ‘Name of God, woman, are you deaf, or what are you? We’ve agreed a price, haven’t we? Well, that’s the deal signed and sealed as far as I’m concerned.’

  The next thing Dan knew, he was being marched down the corridor, with The Divil’s claws clattering on the polished lino up ahead. Fury kept going till he had the three of them out in the garden. Then he stopped and took a roll-up from behind his ear. ‘Have you got a light?’

  ‘No, I haven’t got a light. Do you want to tell me what the hell that was all about?’

  Fishing a fluff-covered match from the pocket of his waxed jacket, Fury struck it on the wall. ‘It’s not rocket science. Phil pays me for the gear and you for the work.’

  ‘But I don’t need the work.’

  ‘Maybe not, boy, but you need the money.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got an investor. Putting money into my own business. I don’t need poxy little jobs like this.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, in that case you’ve got money to pay me for the timber I got for your shed.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’ Dan stopped suddenly, feeling stricken. ‘Well – I will have. For God’s sake, Fury, you’ve got no reason to doubt me.’

  There was a pause in which The Divil made a rush at a piece of litter swirling by in the wind.

  Fury exhaled a puff of smoke and looked sideways at Dan. ‘It’s nothing personal, boy, and I don’t doubt you. I just like my money to come from a known source.’

  After that there wasn’t much more to be said, and Dan got away as soon as he could manage it. Because, though the joint account had been opened
all right, the first tranche of Dekko’s money hadn’t yet turned up. And Dekko had disappeared again. He’d sent Dan a text about a week ago, saying he had a family matter to attend to but he’d be back down to Finfarran soon.

  Dan had checked the account every day, hoping that the money might have gone into it. But it hadn’t. Today, before hearing from Fury, he’d almost made up his mind that he ought to call Dekko. Not to put any pressure on him, just to get a sense of timescale. But he still wasn’t sure.

  Now he’d hardly left Fury in the nuns’ garden when his phone rang and his heart rose when he saw the name on the display. ‘Dekko! How’s it going, mate?’

  ‘Not a bother on me. Everything’s grand.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Sitting in the snug in Quinn’s. Can I buy you a pint?’

  Quinn’s was the pub where they’d had lunch with Conor and The Divil had devoured Dekko’s crisps.

  ‘Well – yeah. I didn’t know you were back in Finfarran.’

  ‘Yeah, mate, when I arrived it was kind of late, so I didn’t call.’

  The signal got bad, as it always did, as Dan walked across Broad Street.

  ‘Listen, I’ll jump in the jeep now, and come over, okay?’

  ‘No problem. I’ll get your man to start your pint.’

  On the motorway, Dan put his foot down, the relief still surging through his veins. They’d get some business stuff sorted out now, before everyone got distracted by Christmas parties. And Fury could take that knowing look off his face.

  Actually, though, it wasn’t a bad thing to be doing some work for the Winter Fest. A decent job on the stalls would make them look classy, and Bríd would be pleased. She and Aideen reckoned that if Lissbeg won the competition it would give the deli a lift. They were up in the air about the journalists on Phil’s invitation list. People who wrote about artisan food and country style and stuff. Apparently an interview or a colour piece could work wonders, and you didn’t often get Dublin papers coming out into the sticks. It was a huge deal for Bríd, who never stopped worrying about her business. And Dan could understand that.

  The pint was on the table in the snug when he got there, with a whiskey chaser beside it. ‘Christ, Dekko, that’s pushing the boat out. It isn’t lunchtime yet.’

  Dekko grinned and said they had something to celebrate.

  ‘Really? What?’

  ‘Well, I’d say you were getting a sense that I’ve been having a cash-flow issue.’

  ‘Have you?’ Dan put his pint down, suddenly feeling cold.

  Dekko laughed at him. ‘“Been having”, I said, not “am having”. It’s all sorted.’

  He’d been working with his uncle on an import deal, he said, that got kind of tricky. The red tape in this country would drive you mad. You’d think if artisan producers were trying to earn a decent living, and businesses were willing to buy and sell their goods, then people would help them. You’d think a few laws would get made up there in the Dáil that would give an ordinary man a break. But not at all: the hoops you had to jump through were wojus. And everyone all down the line had to have his cut. The excise man and the feckin’ politicians, and even the bloody guard out on the beat. And there’s poor guys who have goods to sell, and can’t even get them to a marketplace.

  Dan had a vague memory of Bríd saying the same sort of thing about biscuits and cakes. You couldn’t just make them and sell them, these days, you had to put up with all sorts of inspectors coming in, poking round your kitchen.

  ‘Well, there you are! That’s what I’m saying.’ Dekko knocked back his pint. ‘Anyway, there’s a crowd of lads I know over in Spain. Me and me uncle have dealings with them. Nicest men you’d meet in a day’s walk. They make brandy for export. A little family business – grandad passing on the method to the sons, mammy inside in the kitchen doing the books. They’ve been at it for generations, and every bit of traditional knowledge stored away up here.’ He tapped his forehead with his finger and then shook his head sadly. ‘We had them set up with a few lads that would take the product here in Ireland. And it’s decent stuff, you know, Dan. Not the gut-rot you’d get from some of the big corporations.’

  Dan nodded. ‘God, some of the things you’d read on the internet about chemicals put in commercial product would frighten you.’

  ‘That’s it. But tell that to the politicians with their snouts in the corporate trough. They don’t want to know. Or, more to the point, they know damn well, but they don’t care.’

  ‘So what’s going to happen to your lads in Spain? Are they banjaxed?’

  ‘They are not. Because I’m not going to let that happen, mate.’

  Dan looked at him in admiration. Here was a guy with cash-flow issues of his own, who was still out there ready to fight for the little fella. ‘How will you manage it?’

  ‘Done and dusted. Signed, sealed, and delivered. I have the buyers at this end, ready and waiting. The lads in Spain have a cousin who owns a boat. And last night we brought the first consignment of brandy over to Ireland.’

  ‘What – just stuck it in a boat?’

  ‘Loaded it up, brought it over, and to hell with the bloody authorities. It’s safe as houses down in your shed on the pier.’

  31

  PAT HAS DAFT COMPU CLASS 2DAY LUNCH G CAFE I NEVER CU COME @1

  Hanna waited for the next text. It came within seconds.

  GO IN % TELL THEM2 KEEP US A TABLE

  Followed immediately by a third.

  UD FREEZE BY THAT DOOR

  Hanna had already bought herself a sandwich and planned to have lunch in the library. She’d seen her mother twice in the past two weeks, on one occasion obeying an instruction to invite Brian along ‘so there’d be a bit of decent conversation’. Furthermore, as Mary knew perfectly well, the Garden Café didn’t take reservations.

  But there was no point in fighting the inevitable. Exhaling rather louder than was necessary, Hanna tapped OK into her phone, and glared at the thumbs up emoji that pinged back. Then, with a groan, she rang the café.

  ‘I know I can’t actually reserve a table, but if you could keep an eye on one. I mean, I know that’s a bit daft, but . . . we’ll be in at one o’clock, anyway. Three of us. Thanks. Thanks a million. Thanks.’

  At five to one she left Conor in charge and crossed the nuns’ garden to the café. This morning she’d woken to a sparkling dawn, and a crunch of frost underfoot. Now the herb beds and the fountain were washed with pale sunlight, but between the piles of crimson leaves that had drifted down from the creeper on the wall and gathered under the conifers, patches of frost still glittered on the dark earth.

  Inside, the café glittered with Christmas decorations, and the wintry presence of the garden beyond the big windows made the warmth and the savoury smells more welcome than ever. Pat was there already, ensconced in a corner well away from the door. Hanna threaded her way between crowded tables, gave her a hug, and sat down. ‘You got us a great table!’

  Pat smiled. ‘Ah, well, I came over a bit early. I had a text from Mary.’

  Deciding not to go there, Hanna asked how Pat was doing. ‘You’re coming to the creative-writing group this afternoon, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ll be there, love, yes. Ger’s off in Cork today, so I’m fancy free. Mary thinks I’m a fool to be tied by things like making his dinner but, sure, there it is. Anyway, I’ll be along, but I don’t think Cassie will.’ Leaning across the table, Pat lowered her voice confidentially. ‘You’d hate to have people talking about you when you’re a young one but, do you know what it is, I’d say she’s found herself a boyfriend.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice.’

  ‘It is, and I’m delighted for her. The young ones have a great time, these days, don’t they? They’d go everywhere.’

  ‘It was good of you to lend her your car.’

  ‘Ah, I don’t mean that. I mean the way they see life, like Cassie says. God, Hanna, when your mam and I were her age we’d never have thought we
could get ourselves jobs that’d take us around the world.’

  ‘Would you have liked to?’

  ‘D’ you know what it is, I might. I don’t know about Mary, though. Look at the way she was dead set against your going to London.’

  Hanna laughed. ‘Well, she always said it would be a disaster – and she was proved right.’

  ‘Not at all, child dear, it depends on how you look at it. You may be divorced, but you have a lovely daughter. And didn’t you see and do all sorts of things you’d never have found in Lissbeg? And aren’t you back home again now, anyway, making a new life?’

  For a moment Hanna stiffened, anticipating enquiries about how things were going with Brian. But Pat had never been like that. She just smiled affectionately and, indicating a tinsel-draped blackboard, said she was thinking of having a turkey melt.

  Mary arrived in a whirl of scarves and an extra cardigan that had to be taken off before she’d sit down. ‘Not that I’m complaining, because it’s lovely and warm in here, isn’t it? But wouldn’t you think they’d know that we’d all be well wrapped up on a day like this?’ Settling herself beside Pat, she inspected the menu. ‘I could never be doing with leek and potato soup. It costs half nothing to throw that stuff together, and they throw it into a mug, with a bit of brown bread, and charge you six ninety-five!’ Dismissing the menu with a sniff, she craned up at the specials on the blackboard. ‘And you won’t find me eating turkey three weeks before Christmas! Won’t we all be sick to death of it soon enough?’

  Aware that she’d told Conor she’d be back within the hour, Hanna stood up and offered to place their orders. When she returned to the table, Mary was asking Pat about Christmas hams. ‘I hope, now, that Ger remembers I need one to serve four. Louisa, myself, Jazz, and Hanna. Though, come here to me, Hanna, would you think of bringing Brian? Four women round a Christmas table won’t be a barrel of laughs.’