This wasn’t a conversation Hanna had planned to have in public. It wasn’t even one she was ready for. Though, of course, she should have been. Turkeys and hams were always ordered in good time in Lissbeg. A last-minute drive to a supermarket wasn’t an option – at least, not for the likes of Mary Casey, who always declared that plastic-wrapped hams were only water and air.
Fortunately, Mary didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Ger said he’d pick out a nice ham and set it aside for me. And some rashers, of course, because there’s no other way to keep your breast from being burned. You’ll be wanting a fair-size turkey yourself this year, Pat, if you’re cooking for Cassie. Or are you all going over to Frankie’s for the dinner?’
Out of the corner of her eye, Hanna could see Pat looking reticent. Perhaps Cassie was planning to spend Christmas with the boyfriend. Aware of her own situation, she found her lips twitching. The last thing she’d expected at this time of her life was a stab of fellow-feeling for a twenty-year-old. Though, actually, it was more like a stab of envy. If Cassie with her feathery blue fringe missed Christmas dinner, the chances were that Pat would be sweetly forgiving. But God alone knew what Mary would do if her middle-aged daughter not only failed to turn up at the festive table but disappeared with the only available man.
A few hours later, when the creative-writing group assembled in the library, Cassie was absent. And, once again, Darina Kelly arrived ten minutes late. She eased herself into a seat beside Hanna, indicated that no one should be distracted by her, and immediately dropped her handbag on the floor. Among the objects that fell out was a man’s tweed peaked cap.
As the others were scrabbling for things that had rolled under chairs, Hanna picked up the cap and handed it back to her. Darina responded with a shrill snort of laughter. ‘Oh, goodness me, you don’t think it’s mine, do you? It’s what I picked out of the box!’
Darina dressed so eccentrically that Hanna had thought just that. Or, rather, she hadn’t been thinking at all because her mind was still on the question of where she’d spend Christmas.
Suddenly Darina pounced on a green notebook. ‘There now! No need to search for what I’ve written, it’s thrown itself at my feet! Will I read first, Hanna? Do you mind? Otherwise I’ll probably lose it again.’
There didn’t seem to be any reason why she shouldn’t, so Hanna said that would be great.
Opening her notebook, Darina cleared her throat and said that, the moment she’d seen the cap, she’d thought of John McGahern. ‘Such an amazing writer, isn’t he? So dark, and unafraid of the rich, sexual nature of rural life. I just looked at this greasy tweed cap and I realised where it was leading me. Into truly visceral places. That’s what I felt. But, in my case, one’s dealing with a woman’s sensibility. So I couldn’t think what to do. And then I realised that I needed to unsex myself! I needed to reject the boundaries of my own sense of gender and explore the possibilities of a penis!’
Mercifully, she’d stuck to the rules and the paragraph was short.
In the stunned silence that followed, Mr Maguire stood up and produced a tube of glue. It was still in a paper bag from the local hardware store and must have been lost by someone who’d come to the library via the shops.
Hanna gave him an encouraging smile and asked how he’d got on. This was a mistake. Apparently the exercise she’d given them wasn’t one to which Mr Maguire could relate.
‘Actually, Miss Casey, with all due respect, I’m not sure that it was appropriate. I mean, I’m not sure it was likely to produce the results for which you hoped.’
Repressing a desire to agree with him, Hanna suggested that he read his own paragraph.
‘Oh, no, I refrained.’ He gave her a disconcertingly roguish smile and announced that if he’d written about a tube of glue he’d have bored his listeners rigid. ‘And no one’s ever accused me of doing that!’
Fortunately, Saira Khan had produced a quirky paragraph about a pencil case, which, she explained, she’d imagined might be the opening of a detective story. ‘Probably more Alexander McCall Smith than P.D. James.’
Ferdia, inevitably, had stuck to sci-fi, but his image of a Pooh Bear toy as host for an alien presence was effective. Saira, who’d never read sci-fi, wanted to know what distinguished it from horror stories. This produced a forensic response from Ferdia in which he explained that the answer lay not in the content but in the author’s intended impact on the reader. ‘The trouble is that mainstream publishers have drawn three genres together and confused the reading public. Horror is intended specifically to instil fear. And for me, in sci-fi, fear is just a side-effect. What I’m about is using science-oriented speculation to explore the ramifications of ideas.’
‘Like J.K. Rowling?’ Darina, who’d put on the tweed cap, cocked her head when she asked the question and fixed her gaze earnestly on Ferdia.
‘No. Not like J.K. Rowling. Fantasy deals in magic-oriented speculation.’
‘Yes, but it’s the same sort of thing, isn’t it?’
‘No, it isn’t. To begin with, fantasy’s usually intended to provide a moral commentary on society.’
‘Well, you could say that of all literature, couldn’t you?’
‘Would you say it of Dostoevsky?’
Dostoevsky turned out to be still on Darina’s bucket list. Still, by the end of the hour they’d had a lively discussion about different genres, and scene-setting – marred only by a short lecture from Mr Maguire on the opening of The Diary of a Nobody – and Hanna felt that the exercise hadn’t been as lame as she’d feared.
And, apparently, she wasn’t alone because, though Mr Maguire clearly hadn’t changed his opinion of it, the rest of the group asked enthusiastically what they were going to do next.
She raised her voice over the bustle of departure. ‘Okay. So, what I’d like you to do for our next session is to observe an animal. Just spend some time looking at movement and colour and texture, see if you can get a sense of personality – or, anyway, of something innate to the species you’ve chosen. Set yourself the task of describing it. Pure description. No reaction. Just write down what you’ve seen.’
Then, leaving them stacking their chairs and putting their coats on, she went in pursuit of Pat, who’d already left. When she caught up with her in the library doorway, Pat eyed her nervously, like a delinquent child. ‘I know. I know what you’re going to say, and I’m really sorry, Hanna.’ Just as had happened at the last session, each time she’d been asked to read, she’d ducked her head and said no. ‘Let the rest of them go ahead and you can come back to me.’ And, in the end, she’d said that, in fact, she hadn’t got anything down.
Now, the look on her face made Hanna feel dreadful. ‘Oh, Pat! There’s no need to apologise. I’m just sorry you’re not having a better time, and getting more out of the group.’
‘It’s not the group, love, it’s me. Honestly. I don’t know how it is, but I think I’ve got no imagination. Or powers of analysis, or something, I don’t know what. Do you know what it is, I’d say I looked at those purple specs for a good half hour. And, to tell the truth, I don’t think my mind led me anywhere at all.’
32
Half the conversation in number eight, these days, was about how Phil was hustling things past the committee without getting proper approval. Still, you had to admit that the woman got results.
Each time Dan went in to work on the stalls in the Old Convent Centre, there were more lists and announcements up on a board in Phil’s office, and more updates and instructions being churned out. The latest thing she’d been on about was ‘kerb appeal’, and the next one, according to Ferdia, was going to be ‘subliminal flow’.
As far as Dan could tell, this meant fairy lights. The council already had the town’s Christmas tree set up by the horse trough in Broad Street, but Phil had managed to get sponsorship for a red carpet flanked by lanterns, and little lights in all the trees around the nuns’ garden. The plan was to have food and drink stalls out by the fountain,
and the craft and gift stalls and other stuff inside.
The stalls were basically just trestle tables with cut-out painted castle bits screwed to the front. Bríd said they were going to look like rows of Punch and Judy theatres, but Dan reckoned she was wrong. Of course, at the moment they were just bits of MDF with a stone effect painted on them, but with glittery patches sprayed on, and holly and ivy draped round the castellation, they’d look the part. He had only a few more to finish, so it was pretty late for Phil to be presenting designs to the committee. But even if they kicked off, it made no difference. He was getting paid anyway. And, actually, it might be a bit of a laugh to see Phil under fire.
The main thing was that Bríd had said she was up for a drink afterwards. Well, she hadn’t exactly said so, but she was going to be at the meeting, so there was a good chance that that was how it would pan out. There were times when Dan wished he and Bríd could be more like Conor and Aideen. Having a laidback relationship was great, but it did have its drawbacks. For one thing, you never quite knew where you stood.
He hadn’t expected Cassie to be at the meeting. Nor, by the look of her, had Bríd, who was sitting by Phil when Dan arrived. Most people had taken their seats by the time Cassie came in with Nell Reily. The old biddies were all mouthing compliments about Nell’s hair, which was looking different. Cassie, who had a mug of coffee in her hand, slipped into a seat and gave a big wave.
Dan could see it going down seriously badly with Bríd. He’d never quite worked out what her problem was with Cassie, and the only time he’d mentioned it she’d given him the evil eye. It was probably just female stuff anyway, and he had enough problems of his own without getting into all of that.
Phil tapped her pen against her water glass, and called the meeting to order. ‘Once again, it’s wonderful to see a full table! The energy and commitment that’s going into this project is remarkable. And I know that the whole town will see dividends when we get our hands on that trophy. Now, as is customary, we’ll begin with my Chair’s Report.’ She took off her zebra specs and looked round the table. ‘You’ll see from your agenda that we have several reports this evening. The ladies from the raffle working party. Dan Cafferky, who’ll tell us about the designs for our themed stalls. And Cassie Fitzgerald, who’s generously offered to provide an addition to our programme. We’ll also hear from Ann Flood – not about over-the-counter cures for our winter coughs and colds, but on behalf of the Lissbeg Choristers, who’ll be joining us at the Winter Fest, as medieval carollers.’
People turned and looked at Ann Flood, who was sitting with Dan on a bench at the side of the room. Dan’s attention was still on Bríd. He hadn’t told her he’d be at the meeting and he wondered now if he should have done. She was always going on about keeping private space in her life.
‘However . . .’ Phil beamed round the table ‘. . . we won’t keep any non-committee members beyond their agenda item. And, as you see, the reports have all been grouped together at the top.’
She nodded across at Cassie and put her specs back on. ‘As far as my own report is concerned, I’ve pretty much said what I need to. So I’ll call on Cassie Fitzgerald to start us off.’
There was a round of applause, led by a couple of pensioners, and Cassie got up looking totally relaxed. ‘You only clap because you’re scared of what I might do with my tongs if you didn’t!’
Everyone laughed, except Bríd.
Cassie smiled round the table. ‘Look, it’s no big deal. I just suggested that the Winter Fest could make use of the room set up for my hairdressing. There’s a chair and a mirror, so why not do face-painting for kids? It’ll feel grown-up and exciting, like taking a trip to a beauty parlour. We can call it “Santa’s Salon”.’
Phil tapped for attention again. ‘Cassie, very kindly, has offered to man it. And, as she’s trained as a beautician, I think we’re fortunate indeed.’
‘Well, I’m a hairdresser, not a beautician. Or a makeup artist. But, hey, it can’t be that hard to make a kid look like a cat. Anyway, if you think it’s a good idea, I’m happy to do it.’ Then she swung her bag onto her shoulder and said she’d leave them to it.
By the time the door closed behind her, Phil was asking Bríd to minute the committee’s thanks to Cassandra Fitzgerald. Bríd looked round, as if she was waiting for more comments or objections, but everyone was nodding, so she made the note.
Riding on the wave of approval, Phil tapped on her glass again. ‘Now I’d like to ask Dan Cafferky to speak to his progress with the stalls. You’ll see the drawings there among your papers and, before Dan speaks, I think we should give him a well-deserved round of applause.’
You could tell that half of the crowd round the table hadn’t even looked at the papers. And now they were stuck deciding whether they should have a quick shufti at the designs or do the polite thing and applaud. Not wanting to look either ill-prepared or unsupportive, most of them clapped.
The main thing in Dan’s mind was that he shouldn’t go mentioning Fury. ‘Least said, soonest mended’ had always been Fury’s motto, and he wouldn’t want his name turning up in the minutes of a meeting.
Anyway, Phil cut in before he’d said much. She did right, too, because a couple of people were squinting at the drawings, and you knew that, if they started talking, they’d have the whole lot redesigned. ‘I must say that the involvement of so many young people is impressive. Could we make sure that our thanks appear in the record?’
She didn’t mention that Dan was being paid and nobody asked any questions.
Bríd, who knew what he was getting and where it was going, crossed her eyes at him. It was the kind of look that made Dan think she’d be okay for tonight.
Outside in the hall, he found Cassie talking on her iPhone. She finished the call as he came out, and asked if he fancied a beer. It seemed as good a way as any of passing the time, so Dan sent a text to Bríd to say he’d be round in Moran’s.
They got their drinks and found a table and, for something to say, Dan told Cassie that the face-painting thing sounded good.
‘One of my pensioners thought of it. I’m not really sure that I ought to have gone along.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s all a bit over the top, don’t you think? The competitive element? I just feel sorry for whoever’s in there now, reporting on the raffle.’
Apparently the old biddies that normally rounded up prizes for the raffle had hit a brick wall. Cassie explained that they’d normally squeeze a big prize out of a local business. Two nights at a hotel, say, or a flat-screen TV. ‘And to get that you have to go to Ballyfin or Carrick, right? I mean, there’s no big hotel or anything here in Lissbeg. So they did. And they were told to forget it. Carrick and Ballyfin aren’t going to help this year because they want to win the trophy themselves.’
It made sense to Dan, who shrugged, and took a pull of his pint.
Cassie ran her hand through her fringe. ‘How come winning is such a big deal?’
‘It’s easy seen you’re not from a place that depends so much on tourism.’
‘So – what? You win a trophy and the whole world decides to visit?’
‘Kind of. Well, it gives you the edge, maybe.’
‘I just think it’s crap that the raffle ladies can’t rustle up a decent prize. It’s for a homeless shelter in Carrick, for God’s sake.’
Dan frowned. ‘But won’t all the money that’s made go to the shelter?’
‘You think? The stalls are going to be selling produce by people like Bríd and Aideen. Not buns and baby clothes made by little old dears, who give them for free. If you ask me, the charity shtick is just like your medieval cutouts.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Stuck on to a commercial venture to give it a fuzzy Christmas feel.’ Cassie stood up and edged out from behind the table. ‘Phil’s shifting money around from one budget to another and I’ll lay odds that, when the accounts are done, there won’t be much left to give to the homel
ess. Well, there certainly won’t if it all comes down to the proceeds of a titchy little raffle. That hasn’t even got a decent prize.’
She disappeared off to the loo and Dan sat back with his pint. Gunther, a guy from back his way who made and sold goat’s cheese, had told him he’d been hoping for a great return from the Winter Fest. Bríd had been talking about doing mince pies up in special Christmas packaging and getting decent money for them too. Because, of course, none of the artisan-food crowd could afford to go giving stuff away.
The same went for the arty-crafty lot, renting space in the Convent Centre. They were all just start-up businesses – weavers and potters and people, trying to make ends meet. And, now that he thought about it, Phil’s posters did just say ‘Charity Raffle’. Nothing about the homeless shelter in Carrick getting the full whack. He wondered if he ought to talk to Bríd about it. But the chances were that she’d tell him to butt out. Especially as she knew he was taking cash himself for doing the work on the stalls.
Taking a deep pull of his pint, Dan wished he could talk to Bríd as easily as he could sit down and talk to Cassie. A bit of advice would be useful. Because Dekko had just put another consignment of stuff in his shed on the pier.
33
Peering out of the window, Cassie could see that the sky was slate grey. But the temperature was nowhere near freezing, and last night the forecast had shown what had seemed to her no more than a sprinkling of snow.
Irish people were weird about the weather. This morning Conor, who’d stayed overnight, had left number eight early, to move stock that was grazing on the hills to fields closer to the farmhouse. And when Bríd and Aideen had gone out later, they were bundled up as if they expected a blizzard.
After breakfast Cassie shrugged on her coat, hitched her knapsack over her shoulder, and set out for Ballyfin. It was no fun just shooting down the motorway, so she planned to take the back roads and see if she could skirt the edge of the forest and find her way to the high mountain pass at the southern side of Knockinver.
The Mistletoe Matchmaker Page 17