The Mistletoe Matchmaker

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  ‘No, but the wind is freezing. It’s lovely to see your fire.’

  ‘Come and sit down.’ She hung the coat up and drew Jazz over to a chair. ‘I’m burning driftwood. Brian and I picked up a sackful down on the beach last week.’ She had left it to dry in the shed before bringing it indoors, and now grains of sea salt embedded in the wood were throwing up blue flames among the leaping gold.

  Jazz sank into the fireside chair, stretching luxuriously. ‘Do you remember the cottage in Norfolk in winter? I think this is twice as nice.’

  Hanna laughed. ‘Well, it’s about five times smaller. Maybe more.’

  ‘I don’t know why we called it a cottage. It was more like a mansion.’

  ‘It’s an English thing, I suppose. At least, it is in your dad’s world. A country retreat is always a cottage, regardless of size.’

  ‘And you’ve always called this place a house.’

  ‘That’s what Maggie called it. And how I think of it. Practical and fit for purpose. Spuds out in the field and no roses round the door.’

  ‘Heaven, though, compared to a shoebox in Lissbeg.’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, aren’t you comfortable?’ Hanna looked troubled. ‘I’ve worried that I haven’t a spare room for you.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Mum, I’m perfectly comfortable! It’s a bog-standard studio apartment with everything I need. And, more to the point, it’s a spit away from work.’ Jazz laughed at her. ‘Anyway, you should know more than anyone that living in your mum’s spare room is a bad move.’

  ‘There’s a slight difference between me and your nan!’

  Jazz giggled. ‘You know, it’s amazing how she and Granny Lou are getting on.’

  ‘She can be charming when she wants to.’

  ‘Louisa?’

  ‘No, idiot. Mary.’

  ‘Well, it looks like they’ve achieved the perfect arrangement in terms of living space. I’m not sure Nan’s all that happy about Edge of the World Essentials, though.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, just because she’s not the one who’s running it! Or even involved.’ Jazz pulled off her ankle boots and wriggled her toes in front of the fire. ‘I reckon she thinks we swan around all day, having power lunches. Actually, it’s more like endless hard slog.’

  ‘Aren’t you enjoying it?’

  ‘I totally love it! It’s all coming together so fast, and Saira Khan’s R and D work is amazing. We made the perfect choice for our managers. And Louisa’s there in the middle, like a rock. Everything’s good!’

  You could see that Jazz meant it: though she looked tired, her animation was real. Still, Hanna found herself worrying again about Christmas. It was clear that Louisa and Jazz had formed a unit and Mary was feeling left out. So it was likely that Christmas dinner would be served with a barrage of barbed remarks. Mary Casey’s tongue was sharp anywhere, but on her own territory, where she was in charge, it could be lethal. Was it fair to leave Jazz and Louisa to put up with her alone?

  Nervously plaiting the fringe of the shawl that she’d drawn around her shoulders, Hanna remembered that the festive season was notorious for family squabbles. What if Jazz were to have a wretched Christmas? What if, only months after Louisa had moved in, she and Mary were to quarrel?

  ‘I found biscuits, is that okay?’ Jazz pulled out the low box that served both as a table and a footstool, and set down a tray before going back for the teapot. As she placed the pot on the hearth she noticed Hanna’s face. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing at all. Let’s have tea.’

  Sitting back on her heels, Jazz looked at her ruefully. ‘Oh, Mum! Have you any idea how annoying it is that I can’t say a word without you starting to panic?’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Yes, you are. I mentioned that Nan was being huffy and now you’re sitting there imagining World War Three.’

  ‘Well – I’ve been wondering about Christmas.’

  Jazz eyed her severely. ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. Only that it’s just as well that I’ll be there at the bungalow, if Mary’s building up to one of her strops.’

  Having poured two cups of tea, Jazz milked and sugared them deliberately. She handed one to Hanna, then went and resumed her own seat. ‘You were planning something else, weren’t you? You were going to go somewhere and spend Christmas with Brian.’

  ‘Well, we did think about it. But—’

  ‘And now you’re thinking of backing out because of me.’

  ‘Not just you. There’s Louisa—’

  ‘Who is going to be absolutely fine. She likes Nan. I think she’s actually a bit sorry for her. And, unlike you, she’s well able to deal with her being a prat. So am I, incidentally.’ Jazz sat back, the picture of assurance. ‘I’m Dad’s daughter as well as yours, you know. It comes in handy sometimes.’

  Hanna wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Just now, with her narrow face and level eyes – and her suddenly reacquired English accent – Jazz was indeed the image of Malcolm.

  ‘Look, Mum, I adore Nan, you know I do. But I’m not you, and she’s not going to dominate my life. The fact is that she’s a monster, and the more someone gives her, the more she tries to take. Which isn’t good for anyone involved. Even her. And the sad thing is that she knows it but she just can’t help herself. Or maybe she lacks the courage to face what she does. Anyway, the point is that it doesn’t help to encourage her.’

  Jazz’s eyes suddenly danced, and she laughed out loud. ‘Shall I tell you my own plans for Christmas Day? A lazy morning in my perfectly comfortable shoebox. Lunch with Nan and Louisa at the bungalow – which is going to be delicious because Nan’s cooking always is. And then Saira Khan and I are spending the afternoon in Carrick.’

  ‘In Carrick?’

  ‘Volunteering at the homeless centre. We’re bagging up cosmetic products as gifts for the rough sleepers. The twenty-fifth is just an ordinary day for Saira because she’s Muslim but she’s part of an Islamic outreach group in Carrick that helps the homeless. So that’s why she’s going. And, you know why I’m going, Mum? Because I want to.’

  ‘But won’t Louisa feel—’

  ‘Obliged to entertain Nan? No, she won’t. Louisa’s the one that Dad and I got our genes from. I’ve watched her in action at business meetings. I know.’

  Hanna decided the time had come to reassert her own authority. Letting the shawl slip from her shoulders, she picked up her teacup. ‘Well, you’ve certainly organised your own day, but that doesn’t mean you can organise mine.’

  ‘But what about Brian?’

  ‘Brian? Now you’re suggesting I arrange my Christmas round him?’

  Seeing Jazz’s appreciative grin, Hanna smiled back at her. ‘This is only a suggestion, of course, but you might consider that your egoism could well have derived from your nan’s side of the family.’

  ‘And skipped a generation when it came to you?’

  ‘I’ll have you know that I can be just as determined as any Turner if I choose.’

  Jazz shrugged. Then her eyes narrowed as she looked across the hearthstone. ‘Seriously, Mum, this can’t go on all your life.’

  For a moment there was an impasse and then, by tacit agreement, they changed the subject.

  But later, as Hanna helped her into her coat and turned up the furry collar, Jazz hugged her fiercely. ‘Think about what I was saying. Promise? And, honestly, Mum, there’s no need to worry about Louisa. She’ll probably spend Christmas afternoon on Nan’s sofa, drinking martinis and wearing a party hat.’

  The chill that entered the house as Jazz left was sharper than it had been earlier. Hanna closed the door quickly, and stirred the fire to a blaze before doing the washing-up. The room, with its drawn curtains and two-foot-thick walls, was soon warm again and, as she tidied up and prepared for bed, it seemed to her that the house fitted around her as snugly as a snail’s shell.

  In a way it had become a totem, a certain sanctuary: the place where, without e
xactly planning it, she’d imagined she’d live in increasing self-sufficiency and find increasing contentment as time went on. But now, as she slipped off her kimono and curled up under the duvet, she wondered if the snail shell might have become too tight. Was fear of moving forward making her cling to what she’d created?

  Reaching over to turn off the light, she suddenly wondered how Mary had felt before she’d divided the bungalow. Jazz was right when she’d said that Mary lacked the courage for honest introspection. But there were other challenges, equally requiring of courage, that Jazz was far too young to understand.

  The next morning Hanna overslept, having lain awake worrying. As she frowned at the bathroom mirror, reflecting on the great truths contained in Nora Ephron’s I Feel Bad About My Neck, she realised that today was the day of the last psalter page-turn before Christmas. Groaning, she abandoned all thought of breakfast, and settled for coffee instead.

  Still, she made it to Lissbeg well before she needed to open up the library and, with the outer door secured, she unlocked the psalter’s display case.

  As usual, the wonder of the little book set all her worries aside. Closing her eyes, she opened a page at random, and found herself looking at an illustration that, except for a lozenge of text in the centre of each, filled a double-page spread. Facing each other across the text were four jagged icebergs, their vast size suggested by groups of tiny figures looking amazed. The background was deep indigo, pricked with green stars, and the icebergs, which were pale blue, had been touched with gleaming silver. Filling the outer margins was a flowing design that looked like streams of water cascading down the pages to form a golden lake.

  The gold, silver, and coloured paints were startling in their brilliance. If – as Charles Aukin had imagined – one of the monks who had made the psalter had seen, or heard of, a copy of the Qur’an, whoever had created this illustration must have seen, or heard stories of, glaciers. And even the Northern Lights.

  But why not? One of the most popular books in European libraries in the Middle Ages was the Voyage of the Abbot Brendan, an Irish story which, translated into several languages, had amounted to a medieval bestseller. Some of the adventures it chronicled were obviously fantasy, but Hanna knew that Irish monks really had made long ocean voyages in shallow skin boats, consciously testing their faith and courage by choosing to risk the unknown. Some, she remembered, were said to have reached Newfoundland, and there were ruins of beehive huts they’d constructed on Iceland’s Heimaey Island.

  Each lozenge of text contained a single verse of the psalm. The illustration and her rudimentary knowledge of Latin recalled them to Hanna, dragged out of her memory from a concert she and Malcolm had gone to in London. He sendeth snow like wool. He scatters hoarfrost . . . He casteth forth his ice like morsels . . . Then there was a bit about the wind dispelling the cold. And then . . . He maketh the ice to melt and spring water to flow . . .

  For a moment Hanna stared at the book intently, her mind focused on the beauty of the spreading golden lake. Then she noticed a little image framed in the illuminated capital letter at the beginning of the text. Sitting astride giant snails that were saddled and bridled, like horses, two cats, wearing armour and carrying lances, were locked in a frozen stand-off with their shoulders grotesquely hunched.

  Stepping away from the book, she reached for her phone.

  ‘It’s me, Hanna.’

  ‘I can see that. I’ve still got caller ID.’

  ‘Jazz says we should take our relationship on to the next level.’

  ‘Does she? What a foul expression.’

  ‘I know. Isn’t it? Revolting. But the thing is, Brian, we should.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I think I’ve been scared to death. But that’s just foolish.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Because, actually, being independent means being able to face change.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘So, let’s do this. Let’s spend Christmas together in an ice hotel.’

  After what seemed like an age, he spoke again. ‘Was that an ice hotel or a nice hotel?’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Brian.’

  ‘Right, so.’

  ‘And stop being monosyllabic or I might have to murder you instead.’

  41

  Though she’d never said so, Pat had always thought Mary and Ger were similar. He had the same bullying manner about him that Mary had. And they were both sort of pathetic, the way they could never be content. The difference was that Mary always felt entitled, while Ger felt he wasn’t and it left him angry inside.

  When Mary had made a move on him Pat had known it at once. With anyone else, Mary would have flirted openly but with Ger it had had to be covert. Because, though Tom would have known that she meant nothing by it, he would have been angry if he’d seen Ger hurt.

  Ger had always fancied Mary. Pat knew that from the start. He’d even have risked losing Tom’s friendship if he’d thought he might get her. You’d think Mary herself would have known that if she wasn’t open, like she always was, Ger might have thought she was serious. You’d think she wouldn’t let him tear himself apart when he hadn’t an earthly chance. If you did, you’d be wasting your time, though. What would a cat do but kill a mouse?

  Sometimes Pat wondered how things might have turned out if she’d not married Ger at all, but had got on a train the day Tom was wed and left Lissbeg for good. What would poor Ger have done then, though, with Mary trying to cut him out, and Tom torn between them? And what would she herself have done without Mary as her best friend?

  Because, underneath all the flounce and flightiness, Mary was a rock. Pat remembered the night she’d been in labour with Frankie. Mary had marched up to the flat and told Ger not to bother with the midwife. They’d need an ambulance fast and he wasn’t to wait. Later on, the doctor told Pat that, if she hadn’t been got to the hospital, she could have lost the baby. All Mary said was that any bloody fool could see that she needed help.

  It was the same way after Jim was born, when Pat had gone into depression. They’d told her she couldn’t have another baby because they’d had to do a hysterectomy. She’d signed the paper beforehand, of course, but they hadn’t asked her to read it, and she’d never thought they’d do that to her while she was asleep.

  Afterwards, everyone kept saying she was lucky to have three grand lads. It was Mary who’d known how much she’d wanted a daughter. Pat had never said a word but Mary knew. She’d arrived next day with a box of chocolates, and tipped them out all over the hospital bed. Then she’d forced Pat to eat all the orange creams.

  ‘Don’t tell me you hate them, because I know you do. But you can get them down without gagging, girl, which is more than I can. Here, I’ll have the strawberry ones, and they’re just as bad. Then, when that lot’s out of the way, we’ll eat the decent ones.’

  ‘Why can’t we just leave the soft centres?’

  ‘Holy God, Pat Fitz, have you not seen that sour-faced sister? Sitting there waiting for leavings, with the tongue hanging out of her mouth. Sure, I wouldn’t leave that one the wrapping papers.’

  ‘Well, can’t you take the orange ones home?’

  ‘What do you think I am? A bloody packhorse? Get that lot down, and don’t argue. Come here to me, now, we’ll have a race.’

  Forcing down chocolate creams under the sister’s frosty stare had got Pat giggling. It was like being back at school, acting the eejit in the back row. Then, when they’d moved on to the rest of the chocolates, Mary had taken an envelope out of her bag. ‘Hanna’s after drawing you a picture.’ Hanna had only been six or so, but the colouring-in was lovely. As soon as Mary saw the tears in Pat’s eyes, she handed her a hazelnut whirl. ‘She’s a lucky girl, you know, to have you for her godmother. Because, God knows, I’m no hand at the mothering job meself.’

  They just kept eating after that, and didn’t talk much. But when Mary discovered that the nurses had told Pat she couldn’t breastfeed, she hit the roof. Pat had
a perfect right to turn herself into a cow if she wanted to, and no hospital Hitler could go round telling her what to do. It was exhausting to lie there in bed with Mary raging and calling for the registrar. But, afterwards, when the nurses helped Pat to breastfeed Jim, she was glad.

  Later that night, when the lights were down, she’d opened a package that Mary had left on the locker. It was a knitting pattern for a little girl’s jacket, and some needles and pink wool. In one way, that was Mary Casey, who could never knit, getting a job done for her. And if she’d thought that Pat was going to be sitting up knitting any time soon, she’d missed her mark. But, actually, the fooling round, and feeding Jim, and remembering Hanna had made a difference. And no one but Mary could have known how they would.

  So wasn’t it a terrible thing that she couldn’t talk to Mary now, when she needed her most?

  Ger had disappeared off somewhere again, and now Pat was really worried. She’d closed her eyes to the signs for weeks. She’d told herself there was no reason he shouldn’t go to Cork wearing his new blue jumper. It had a V-neck and striped cuffs, too, which weren’t his style at all.

  The bottom line was that she couldn’t keep fooling herself. It wasn’t just the jumper. Normally he’d only go down to a mart in Cork once a month. Now and again he might have a meeting there, too, but never this time of year. He’d always be below in the shop. There was no end to the work in the week before Christmas, and only the other night, he’d come up the stairs and he looking dead tired. Yet he’d disappeared off again today, and said he’d be back late.

  He’d been losing weight too. Pat had noticed it. And she’d seen him checking his appearance in the glass. And then, of course, there was the bed thing. He was still spending the nights in Sonny and Jim’s old room.

  She was sitting at the kitchen table when the truth suddenly struck her. Ger must have met a young one down in Cork.

  No sooner had she worked it out than she was dying to talk to Mary. There wasn’t anyone else to talk to, for starters. But, more than that, Mary would keep her calm. You couldn’t trust her not to make a drama out of nothing, yet if something was really wrong, she’d always talk sense.