Firefly Summer (60 page)

He left, thanking the boy and getting no response, and walked down the hill. There was a scurry at one stage when he passed the big clump of trees, as if he had disturbed a courting couple. He smiled to himself, thinking how stony and uncomfortable the ground must be.

For half a moment he wondered whether it was Michael and Grace he saw disappearing into the bushes. But he dismissed the notion. For heaven’s sake, it was the middle of the afternoon.

What would they be doing up here? And anyway they were
far
too young for that sort of thing.

Mary Donnelly was glaring at an inoffensive couple of farmers who took no notice of her whatsoever.

‘This is a great pub, Mary,’ John said as he came in.

The farmers looked up, amused.

‘If you can’t say it who can?’ one of them laughed.

‘Have you been drinking?’ Mary asked suspiciously.

‘You’re right, Mary. God, it would need to be a sharp man to fox you. I was up having a pint in the Grange, as it happens.’

‘And it wasn’t to your liking?’

‘It was not. There was no warm service with a smile like you get when you come in this door. Oh boy no. There was only glares and surly shrugs. What human would
want a pint in a place like that? People want to be made welcome in a place, that’s what running a pub or a hotel is about, it’s not just about pouring alcohol down their throats.’

The farmers looked at each other and grinned conspiratorially.

Mary flushed a dark red. ‘If you’re saying that I . . .’

‘I’m saying that it’s lovely to be back in a friendly atmosphere,’ he said firmly. ‘That’s all, and if we’re going to keep any custom from going over to O’Neill’s Thatch Bar we’ll have to let them know that they’re welcome here, and really welcome too.’

He banged out of the bar and into the house.

Mary was open-mouthed. That was the first time John had ever admitted publicly that there was a threat from O’Neill, and imagine admitting it in front of two customers. He must be really upset.

Kate was sitting by the open French window, wearing her gardening gloves and tidying up one of those high urns that Rachel Fine had cleverly positioned, one on each side of the door. These were Kate’s alone, she grew herbs and heathers in them, they were easy to reach and made her feel she was really gardening.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ John said.

He pulled off her gloves and held her hands.

‘So have I. When I read your poem and realised what it’s like for you, not wanting to upset me, and not knowing how to talk to me, I felt I could have put the power into my body and run after you. I woke up and read it and I could feel such energy surging through me, I was sure I’d have the strength to stand.’

Her eyes were wild with trying to explain, she was like a child straining to have more movement than she had.

‘Gently, Kate. Gently,’ he soothed her.

She would not be calmed. She thought as she had so often thought about that summer’s day when he had wanted to make love and she said no, it was ridiculous in the middle of the afternoon, and that she had felt restless. Restless indeed! If she had stayed with him as he had wanted she would never have wandered into Fernscourt and into this life in a chair.

‘You
do
have great strength,’ he told her. ‘Aren’t you the strongest woman in this county? I mean it.’

‘But tell me that you
know
I’d be nothing without you. The children will grow up and go away, and the pub may win or lose but the only thing I want is for us to be together. In so far as we can ever be together because of this bloody chair.’ She hit the arms of the wheelchair in frustration.

‘But you’re only saying what I know. I know you love me.’ He was smiling a huge smile of pleasure.

‘I can give you nothing. Nothing a wife can give.’

‘Stop, stop.’

‘I’ve been so selfish, I never sort of helped you or anything.’

She was talking about some of her earlier attempts to give John pleasure. They had both been embarrassed and Kate had cried at not being able to do it properly. John had been embarrassed at something so obviously selfish that could not be shared. They had attempted it less and less.

‘I’m all right, look at what you have to bear, for God’s
sake. It doesn’t seem all that important to me that we can’t make love as we used to.’

‘But I was thinking we could.’ Kate’s eyes were definitely excited, her colour was high.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Draw the curtains,’ she said.

He closed the glass doors and pulled the soft green and white curtains.

‘Come here,’ she whispered.

‘Wait till I lock the door. It would be the one time we’d have Leopold, Mary, Carrie, the children and half the bar arriving in on top of us.’

She laughed like a teenager.

‘Get me out of this bloody chair, John Ryan, and love me.’

He lifted her on to the bed. Her dress opened easily; she had all her clothes made front-fastening so that she could dress herself with the minimum of fuss.

‘But we can’t . . .’ he stammered.

‘Why not? It’s my body. It won’t hurt, I won’t feel much but I feel above the belt, if you know what I mean. That’s nice.’

‘But can I . . . inside you . . . wouldn’t that be bad for you?’

‘Why would it? It’s just paralysed, it isn’t out of bounds.’ She was high with excitement and was stroking him encouragingly.

‘Kate, I don’t want to do anything that might damage you . . .’

‘It won’t. I checked.’

‘You checked? When did you check?’

‘This afternoon. I rang Dr White.’

‘My God! What did he say?’

‘He said fire ahead, and that he was delighted, he thought we’d never get round to it.’

Fergus Slattery called and was told that Mr and Mrs Ryan were in Mrs Ryan’s room and weren’t to be disturbed.

‘Nothing wrong?’ Fergus enquired.

‘John is like a lighting devil today, perhaps they’re having a row,’ Mary Donnelly said. ‘There isn’t a man in this house that will speak straight to you, I’m afraid.’

She was still smarting from Michael’s cross-questioning. He had been highly alarmed to find that his mother and father were closeted together, and felt sure that the only reason could be that Dad had actually seen him with Grace. The thought was too mortifying even to entertain for a moment.

What
could Dad be telling Mam, and how soon would he be called in and
what
would he say? And why couldn’t that awful Mary stop snarling at him and tell him what
kind
of a peculiar humour had his father been in when he came home?

Michael, white with anxiety, had gone to throw stones from the footbridge, and pray. If God arranged it so that Dad hadn’t seen, then he would . . . what would he do? He couldn’t offer to give up being with Grace because that was what he wanted most in the world. Suppose he offered God a rosary. Not enough. God was known to be particularly against Immodest Touches, and whatever he and Grace were up to it would certainly come into that category. Perhaps if he gave God a promise that he would go to confession soon, and fixed a firm date. Perhaps that might do.

‘Was it important, your message?’ Mary remembered belatedly John’s startling instructions that she was to be high on charm.

‘You could always write it down, Mr Slattery, and I’d see that they got it.’

‘No, I’ll phone them later,’ he said.

‘They’ve taken the phone off the hook,’ Mary explained.

‘God, it must be a terrible row altogether,’ Fergus said.

Rachel looked into the window of Meagher’s. As always she was looking out for the kind of thing that Kate might be able to display in a glass cabinet when they got the café going.

Meagher’s window was not the most inspiring of places, and the woman who ran it seemed to know little or nothing about the odd selection of stock she carried. People had told Rachel that it was the late Mr Frank Meagher who was the one who knew something about the business. The window held the usual collection of musical boxes, travel clocks and some really appalling candlesticks, and there in a box with tissue paper were the two silver salvers that Rachel had bought for Fernscourt. Salvers that had been on Patrick’s sideboard on the only occasion when Rachel had visited the lodge. She had been there once when she knew both children would be far away.

Rachel stared unbelievingly at the two pieces of silver. They were worth everything else in the window three times over. Patrick surely could not have sold them. Surely, surely not. Rachel went in and bought a brooch shaped like an L which she would give to Loretto. She
spoke to Mrs Meagher, a sad-faced, worried-looking woman about the silver salvers, and with shaking hand managed to pay for the brooch. She needed to be in the open air quickly.

In the lodge Olive Hayes had come to a decision. She was going to mention the salvers to Mr O’Neill.

The only question was the matter of approach. Should she ask whether he had in fact taken them elsewhere for safekeeping? Or should she say that she had not been able to find them?

There was nobody she could discuss it with. If only her sister Bernadette were not at the other end of the earth.

She could have talked about it with Sheila Whelan of course. Even if it had been Marian, Sheila would not have told the whole town.

She could even have approached Mrs Ryan in the pub. She would never have thought of it as a slight on her own twins.

Sergeant Sheehan was the kind of man she could speak to quietly, but it wouldn’t have been fair. Once she spoke to him it would have to be official.

No, it would have to be Mr O’Neill himself, without the luxury of asking advice from others.

Patrick came in, his face weary.

She decided to give him a while to settle down.

But he had read her face. ‘What is it, Miss Hayes?’

‘How did you know there was anything, sir?’

‘I haven’t worked with people since I was fourteen years of age without learning something. What is it?’

‘It’s the silver salvers, sir, for the hotel, that used to be on the sideboard.’

‘It’s all right, Miss Hayes.’ He looked very weary.

‘I only noticed today they aren’t there.’

‘It was a misunderstanding. They’ll be back.’

‘Oh, that’s all right then.’ She moved away, about to go back to her kitchen.

Patrick realised that she was not going to launch into a line of questions or explanations.

‘Miss Hayes.’

‘Sir?’

‘I value you more than you’ll ever know.’

Her face became brick red with pleasure. ‘Thank you very much indeed, Mr O’Neill. It’s a pleasure working here. You are all very appreciative people.’

‘I meant what I said about coming to the hotel with us. I think we’ll need you.’

‘Oh, we’ll discuss that nearer the time, Mr O’Neill.’

‘How sensible you are. I’m afraid those nuns in your sister’s place will snap you into the convent and you’ll never be heard of again.’

She went away smiling. But she looked back at him before she got to the kitchen and saw that the smile had fallen away and under the genial affable face that he presented to the world Patrick O’Neill was angrier than she had ever seen anyone in her life.

Brian Doyle had handed him a note. It was all sealed with sticky paper.

‘Mrs Fine said you were to open this on your own over a desk or something. It’s got something very fine in it that might fall out.’ Brian was uncaring, but keen to deliver the message exactly as Rachel had instructed.

‘All right.’

He had opened it in his car. Alone.

Patrick,

I am writing this because there is no way you and I could discuss it usefully.

In Meagher’s the jewellers on Bridge Street you will find the two silver salvers. Mrs Meagher bought them from Kerry three days ago for a fraction of their worth. Mrs Meagher is not to be blamed for trying to cheat him, she is also selling them at an equally impossible price.

I have no idea, nor do I want to know what happened. For all I know you may be party to this, but I think not and I wanted to forewarn you. Naturally I said nothing at all to Mrs Meagher that would indicate I knew anything about the pieces.

For your own information Mrs Meagher is a gossipy, unstable person who is unhappy here in Mountfern and has been considering leaving. Her problem is that she has little capital and even less get up and go.

I leave it with you. Obviously I will be happy to do anything to help but I feel this is something you will want to handle on your own.

I told Brian Doyle a rigmarole about this letter needing to be opened carefully, I thought that way you would be sure to read it on your own. I feared if I said it was very urgent and private he would have had every kettle on the building site at work on it. But perhaps I misjudge him.

Love always, Rachel.

‘Mrs Meagher, how are you this fine day?’

‘Dragging the divil by the tail as usual, Mr O’Neill. How is it that you are always so cheerful?’

‘It’s in my nature, I expect.’ Patrick smiled broadly.

He pulled up the small rickety chair close to the counter. ‘About those salvers that my son brought in, the ones that are in the window.’

‘He said he had full authority . . .’

‘Oh yes, no problem like that at all . . .’

‘And if you want them back, Mr O’Neill . . . I did think that maybe it wasn’t a good enough price but your lad seemed very pleased . . .’

‘Not at all, nothing like that . . . no, no.’ Patrick’s voice was soothing.

‘So I hope I didn’t do anything out of turn . . .’

‘You know the way children are, Mrs Meagher, you do your best and then you wonder
what
was the right thing to do . . .’

Mrs Meagher sat down on the other side of the counter and leaned across to Patrick.

‘Mr O’Neill, you don’t know the truth you’re saying . . .’

Patrick O’Neill drove himself slowly back to the lodge to wait for his son. In his briefcase he carried the two silver salvers.

‘I’ll give them a little polish, will I?’ Olive Hayes had suggested.

‘That would be lovely, Miss Hayes.’

The evening shadows lengthened, he sat alone looking in front of him. He had telephoned Loretto Quinn’s. No,
there was no sign of Rachel and she had not said where she would be.