Pat put down her own mug of tea and grasped Cassie’s hand tightly. ‘Oh, Holy God, love, aren’t women awful eejits? The way we can’t see what’s there in front of our eyes!’
Surprised by her vehemence, Cassie had tried to play things down. ‘Well, it’s not like my life was invested in the guy. I’ll be far happier here with you and Ger. We’ll have a proper family Christmas, and raise our glasses to real relationships.’
Pat nodded emphatically. But her lips had trembled and, for a moment, she’d looked so old and frail that Cassie cursed herself mentally for having upset her.
Now, driving through the snowy landscape, she told herself that at least she’d had the sense not to demand reassurance of her forgiveness. Instead she’d taken The Turf-Cutter’s Donkey to the press, and placed it on the shelf beside the lustre vase, saying she’d save it to read beside the range on Christmas Day.
There were access trails from the road into the forest. Conor had told her that, a few years ago, lads from Carrick used to come in vans to strip the trees and sell the holly, but Fury and The Divil had caught them and seen them off. It sounded like Fury still took a proprietary interest in the forest, even though his family no longer owned it. According to Conor, it belonged to some guy who now lived abroad.
Gingerly navigating the packed snow, Cassie turned off the tarmac road, and bumped down a trail. The surface here was hard as iron and ice crystals sparkled in the ruts. As you went farther into the forest, the pointed firs and pines gave way to oaks, interspersed with smaller deciduous trees. Every so often a jay or a starling would swoop past with its feathers puffed out against the cold.
Before long, peering between the frosted trunks and branches by the trail, Cassie saw a flash of scarlet. There was a group of three branching holly trees, close together in a little clearing, where the light had encouraged their growth. Two were laden with berries, and the third had only gleaming spiny leaves. She had brought a long-handled hedge-cutter, found for her by Aideen in the shed at number eight, and a large plastic tarpaulin, which she hefted onto her shoulder when she got out of the car.
It wasn’t far to wade through the undergrowth to the hollies and, hanging from the branches of another tree nearby, she saw long tendrils of ivy. Some were almost as fine as yarn, and others had clusters of black berries among their green, gold-tipped leaves. Spreading out the tarpaulin, she set to work methodically, piling bright-berried holly branches onto the plastic, and adding the longest trails of ivy she could reach. When it seemed she had as much as she could carry, she made a bag by turning the four corners of the tarpaulin to the centre, wincing as the sharp leaves pricked her wrists.
She was about to heave the load onto her back when a small, short-haired terrier shot into the clearing, barking and showing its teeth. Before she could react, a fallen branch cracked like a pistol-shot and Fury O’Shea appeared from behind a tree. He clicked his teeth as he strode towards her, but the dog had already rolled over at her feet.
‘He’s been known to bite intruders.’ Fury looked down in disgust at The Divil’s ingratiating wriggling.
Cassie scratched The Divil’s chest with the toe of her boot. ‘Maybe he thinks I’m intruding in a good cause.’
‘Are you?’
‘I’m not sure, actually.’ She hoisted the bulging tarpaulin onto her back. ‘This lot’s for the Winter Fest.’
Fury put his gloved hand under the load to secure it, and together they made their way back to her car.
Once the load was in the trunk, Cassie realised that her own hands were freezing. Blowing on them ineffectually, she said she’d better get on. Fury clicked his fingers at The Divil, who was conscientiously peeing on all four wheels of the car. ‘Would you say that a cup of tea would help restore the circulation?’
She looked around, wondering if he meant they were near a tea shop, and Fury chortled. ‘What’s happened to your bump for locality? My place is over there beyond the trees.’
Leaving the car parked by the trail, Cassie followed his unerring path through the wintry forest, treading in his footsteps, as if she were St Wenceslas’s page. Behind them, The Divil bounced like a rubber ball, avoiding ruts and roots and clinging briars, and sneezing in outrage when his muzzle dipped in the snow.
The big room was as she remembered it, with the addition of a blazing log fire on the hearth. Fury removed the fireguard and hung his socks on the fender, shuffling into an old pair of carpet slippers and going to make the tea.
Cassie hung her coat on the back of a chair and asked if his boots were leaking.
‘Why?’
‘Well, because you’re drying your socks.’
‘Holy God, woman, if you must be inquisitive, you might avoid jumping to conclusions. I’m warming them, not drying them. Is that all right with you?’
‘But don’t your feet get cold with no socks on?’
‘They do not.’ He nodded at the table, at which The Divil was already seated, looking expectant. ‘What do you think of the finished article?’
The crib figures were set out in rows on the newspaper. Each had been completed and, apparently, buffed with a piece of rag dipped in oil. The buffing had brought out the grain and the colours of the various woods, and the Infant now lay in a manger on which wisps of hay, spilling over the sides, had been carved in intricate detail.
When Cassie picked it up, Fury jerked his head at it. ‘That’s holly wood. Beautiful to work.’
Cassie looked at the figure of St Joseph: it was a young man, squatting with his forehead on his crossed arms, which rested on his raised knees. The carved Virgin was lying on her side with a blanket drawn over her body, one elbow bent and her head propped on her hand. The folds of the blanket and her dishevelled hair were as delicately carved as the hay spilling out of the manger, but you could see that the fabric was rough, like the blanket that swaddled the Infant. ‘Aren’t these two usually shown kneeling, worshipping the child?’
Fury placed a saucer of tea in front of The Divil. ‘Ay, well, you’d be pretty knackered if you’d been wandering the streets for hours with a pregnant wife, looking for shelter. And you probably wouldn’t be kneeling in adoration if you’d just given birth.’
Cassie set the two figures on either side of the Infant in the manger. The red oak ox and the dark dog were ranged behind them, along with the sheep, the ass and the shepherds, and the wise men in their flowing robes, with a sleigh piled with gifts and furs. Accepting a mug of tea from Fury, she looked up at him. ‘You know when you were away in England? Why didn’t you want to come home?’
He leaned forward to pour milk into The Divil’s tea. ‘I take it you’ve been hearing stories about your own family?’
‘No, I haven’t, that’s the point. My dad and my uncle Jim went away and they haven’t come home to visit. Ever. I never thought about it till I got here myself, but it’s weird.’
‘Ay, well, maybe it’s their business, not yours.’
Cassie wrinkled her nose, feeling repressed again. She turned back to the crib figures, thinking that, in a shop, they’d cost a fortune. Then she had an idea. ‘Are you going to use these as a Christmas decoration?’
Fury snorted again. ‘Not at all, girl. Stick ’em at the back of the shed, probably. I only did them for pastime when there was nothing on TV.’
‘Can I have them?’
She blushed as he raised an eyebrow at her.
‘Sorry. I don’t mean to be pushy. And it’s not for myself. It’s just the Lissbeg lot haven’t found a prize for their raffle. And the old dears are really upset. I mean, the pensioners . . .’ She stopped, realising that Fury must be a pensioner himself. He didn’t seem offended, though, so she hurried on. ‘. . . and the raffle’s in aid of a homeless shelter, so this would be kind of appropriate. You know, people wandering the streets with nowhere to stay.’
By way of reply, he went and took a pile of old newspapers from a box beside the hearth. ‘Wrap them up properly, mind, and you might as well ta
ke the rag with you, and give them a buff up when you set them out.’
As she stood up and walked to the door, he took her by the elbow. ‘My dad left everything to my brother, Paudie, because Paudie was the eldest. I don’t suppose I thought he’d made the right choice. Well, I knew he hadn’t, because Paudie was a bloody wastrel. My mother, who might have talked a bit of sense into my father, was dead, and he was a man who talked to no one, so the way it was left only emerged when he died.’
He paused for a moment and shrugged before going on. ‘I don’t think I blamed Paudie but it took a long time for me to forgive my father, who hadn’t the guts to question the stupid rules he’d grown up with. It’s an old story, and I’d say it’s messed up many a family the world over.’
The Divil, who’d insinuated his nose between Fury and the doorjamb, tried to wriggle past into the snow. Fury hooked a foot under his belly and scooped him back into the house. Then he let go of Cassie’s elbow. ‘I’ll tell you two things I’ve learned, girl, since I came back to Finfarran. First, that you do best to make your peace with the past while the people you left are still in the land of the living. And, secondly, that it’s never too late to come home.’
44
It was hardly a week since Joe had dropped his bombshell, and Conor couldn’t believe how fast things had moved.
Joe had gone home that night and talked to Paddy, and the next evening the four of them had sat down together in the kitchen and a five-year plan had got mapped out. You’d think, by the way Paddy responded, that he’d been dying for the chance to start the conversation, and for the first while, Conor had felt kind of miffed. How well Joe had kept his heels dug in when he’d no reason of his own to get things moving. Now that it was his wedding, not Conor’s, in the balance, he was moving at the speed of light.
It was all good, though. Conor could see that. And, judging by his mam’s face, it was a big relief to her. In fairness, though, her first instinct was to turn round to him. ‘You’ve no doubts now, Conor, have you? This has to work for you as well. It’s not all about Joe.’
Joe hadn’t liked that much but Orla wasn’t going to let him make the running at Conor’s expense. Paddy was the same, fair dos to him. Though, when he asked the same question, it was perfectly clear what answer he wanted. ‘You’re sure, boy? Because we can’t start out half cocked.’
Orla had put a hand on his arm. ‘There’s Aideen to think of too.’
Paddy looked aggrieved. ‘Nobody’s saying she can’t have whatever damn wedding she likes.’
‘Ah, it’s not just the wedding, Paddy, and you know it. If Conor decides to commit to the farm it’ll make a difference to Aideen, as well as to him.’
You could see that one not computing with Paddy, who stuck his jaw out, not liking to be crossed. But Conor wasn’t worried because, if he knew nothing else, he knew that Aideen would be all for Joe’s plan.
The family spent ages talking that night, looking at ways and means and getting out maps of the farm. They’d been to a solicitor since then, and discussed how to organise deeds and settle money, and how to be cost-effective when it came to tax. A couple of times Orla had asked if he’d talked yet to Aideen, but Conor had decided to hold back until he was sure of his ground. Because of his depression, Paddy had been known to get bullish, and you’d want to be sure he was really okay with all the solicitor said. And there was Orla herself to be thought about too. She might well have her own ideas about Aideen moving in.
He cornered Orla one evening when she was shutting in the hens. Bid, the sheepdog, was circling round behind her, as if the hens weren’t well used to putting themselves to bed at dusk. Conor shot the bolt on the shed door, and clicked his fingers to bring the dog to heel. His mam put her back against the wall and smiled at him. ‘Well, what is it?’
You could never fool Orla, even though she didn’t say much. Conor put his own shoulders against the wall beside her. ‘I was only wondering – how are you going to feel with Aideen in the house? I mean, she can get a bit carried away. She’s not used to a farm.’
Orla bumped him with her shoulder. ‘Well, there won’t be blood on the hearthstone, if that’s what you’re worried about! Aideen’s a dote, Conor. And I know what you mean. But it won’t be a problem. We’ll get on fine. And won’t she have her own business to go out to every day?’
‘Well, I don’t know . . .’
‘No. And you won’t know till you talk to her. I understand why you’ve held back, but you do need to sit down with her. She ought to be part of this planning process, if things are going to work.’
So today Conor had decided that that was what he would do. As soon as he’d got the cows fed, and himself cleaned up, he’d fix to meet Aideen and talk the whole thing through.
The snow was still white on the top fields but lower down, where the cattle were, it was just a patchy slick. Heaving the last bale of silage off the tractor, Conor slit the plastic with his knife. The freezing ground around the galvanised-iron feeder was already churned into muck, through which the eager cows pushed their way to the food.
Sloshing through mud to the icy trough, Conor wriggled the frozen rubber pipe to release the flow of water from the well in the field above. You had to be up and down to the cows all the time in this weather – if it wasn’t feeding them, it was making sure they had water: and, if you didn’t keep a hawk’s eye on the pipes they’d be backing up or bursting, and the council would be out complaining about the roads getting covered in ice.
The farm work done, he decided to take the Vespa to Lissbeg, rather than the car, which would have been the warmer option. With only three days to Christmas, the motorway was crowded with people off to do their shopping in Carrick, so being able to weave in and out through the traffic would save him a good half-hour.
He left the bike in the car park on Broad Street and nipped through the library courtyard, which was the quickest way to the café. Today was the last day before Miss Casey’s Christmas break, and he hoped she wouldn’t grab him with more instructions for keeping the place from burning down, blowing up, or being broken into. He’d borne them cheerfully enough yesterday, but he didn’t want a second session now, with Aideen waiting for him. No voice summoned him, though, so he went through to the nuns’ garden, where a couple of guys from the council were manhandling Christmas trees, planted in barrels, onto the walks.
Phil had decided at the last moment that the garden didn’t look festive enough and, at the rate she was going, it looked to Conor like she’d soon add a bouncy castle and neon penguins. Yesterday she’d rushed into the library saying it’d be awfully medieval to have the carols round the psalter when the judges came through. When Miss Casey asked what carols she had in mind, she’d said it’d have to be whatever they’d already practised, but, since ‘Feliz Navidad’ was in Latin, it ought to be fine.
Afterwards Miss Casey had gone round in conniptions for hours because, apparently, ‘Feliz Navidad’ had been written in Spanish in 1970.
The Garden Café now had a plywood arch surmounting its doorway with ‘Cakes and Ale’ painted on a scroll held by two cartoon monks. When Conor got inside, Aideen was sitting at a corner table. As usual, his heart lurched when he saw her. She was wearing a wine-coloured Puffa jacket that looked great with her red hair.
When he sat down at the table, she seemed anxious. ‘How come you’re texting me at eleven in the morning? Is everything okay?’
‘Everything’s grand. I just wanted us to talk.’
He was taking a deep breath when Aideen nodded and started to gabble. ‘I’ve been thinking that too. And I keep trying to find the right moment. But it isn’t easy. Cassie and Bríd keep telling me that I ought to say it out straight. Well, Cassie does . . . Well, no, she doesn’t, actually, because she says I have to be really sure in my own mind first . . .’ She leaned forward, looking intense. ‘But I am sure, Conor. I’ve thought it all through, and I know it’s the right thing. For both of us. In the long run. And it’s
not you. Honestly. It’s me.’
Conor’s jaw dropped. You didn’t have to spend your life reading chick-lit to know what ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ meant. Here he was, full of plans for the future. And here was Aideen, dumping him. In the middle of the Garden Café.
He could hear his voice going funny. He could hear her interrupting him, too, but the big thing was to keep going and not to let her finish. Because, if once she said it out loud, then it would be said.
‘Listen to me, Aideen, no, shut up, I just want to tell you—’
‘Look, I really want to say this—’
‘No, but the thing is—’
‘—I know I’ve been really selfish, not coming out straight.’
‘I could have said this a week ago, but I was holding back to make sure things were perfect—’
‘I just want you to follow your heart and go and become a librarian.’
‘I want to chuck the librarian thing and really commit to the farm.’
They both stopped, having spoken in chorus. Then Conor’s phone suddenly buzzed and he nearly hit the roof. ‘Holy shit!’ Dragging the phone from his back pocket, he glared at a text from Joe: Is she up4 the dbl wedding?
At the far side of the table, Aideen’s eyes were out on stalks. ‘Did you just say you want to commit to the farm?’
‘Did you just say you want me to be a librarian?’
‘Yes. But I don’t.’
‘Then why, in the name of God?’
Aideen’s blue eyes filled with tears. ‘Conor, I just want us to be happy.’
‘Right. Hold that thought.’
Sticking his phone back in his pocket, Conor shot over to the counter and came back with two cups of tea. The thing to do was to start again, and go at this methodically. If Bríd wanted Aideen back at the deli, she could damn well wait for her. And if Joe wanted answers, he could bloody well join the queue.
Half an hour later he was back on the Vespa, in a state of bliss. It had snowed while he was indoors and the roads, which, earlier, had been grey with freezing slush, had a new layer of sparkling white on them, like icing on a cake. A few feather-light snowflakes still whirled down on the icy wind, but the sun hung in the sky like a pale gold disc.
The Mistletoe Matchmaker Page 24