Scarlet Feather (6 page)

‘You didn’t over-indulge yourself?’ He had a faint hope that she might also have a hangover, which might tolerate the thought of a Bloody Mary at breakfast.

‘Someone had to keep an eye on things,’ she sniffed.

‘Well, didn’t Cathy do that very well. I heard a lot of praise for—’

‘What do men know of what needs to be done?’

‘She left the place like a new pin.’ He tried to defend his daughter-in-law.

‘Well, at least some of the training I gave her poor mother must have paid off eventually.’

Hannah would say nothing good about Cathy. Jock gave up. Some things weren’t worth fighting over, especially with this hammering in his head.

‘True,’ he said, feeling he had somehow let that hard-working girl down. But Cathy of all people would know how it was easier to take the line of least resistance with Hannah.

‘And then running off at the end because she got some phone call in the middle of the night about premises for this crackpot idea of hers.’

‘I know, ridiculous,’ said Jock Mitchell, getting up to get a painkiller and feeling like Judas.

Geraldine had been up since seven o’clock. She had been alone in the Glenstar swimming pool: usually she would have had the company of half a dozen other Glenstar residents, who loved the amenity of their swimming pool. But New Year’s Eve had taken its toll. Geraldine did her twelve lengths, washed her hair and went through the arrangements again for today’s big charity lunch. She had advised a group to have their function on January the first, since it was often a flat day when people were eager to recover in company. And indeed, the response to the invitation list had been overwhelming. She had been wise to leave that photographer’s party early last night. There had been nobody that interested her to talk to, a lot of them much younger than she was. She had slipped away quietly before midnight. She had seen Tom Feather and his dizzy girlfriend there but couldn’t get to meet them across the room. Cathy and Neil would have been there, but of course Cathy had been catering the Mitchells’ party last night; Geraldine hoped that it had gone well and that there had been a chance to make some useful contacts. Cathy hated that woman so much it was really important that the night had been some kind of success for her in terms of business. Geraldine wished they could find premises soon. She had agreed to back them for the loan when the time came, as had Joe Feather, Tom’s rather elusive elder brother. All they had to do was find the place. And then brave, gutsy Cathy wouldn’t have to nail a smile on her face and work in the kitchen of her mother-in-law’s house, something she hated with a passion. One of the advantages of being single was that there were no mothers-in-law to cope with, Geraldine thought as she poured more coffee.

In a different part of the Glenstar apartments, Shona Burke woke up and thought about the year ahead. Many other women of twenty-six would wake today with a comforting body on the other side of the bed. In fact, she was sick of people asking her when she was going to settle down. It was so intrusive. Shona would not ask people why they didn’t have a baby, or when they were going to have their facial hair seen to. She never queried why people drove a car that was falling to pieces, or stayed with a spouse so obviously less than satisfactory. How dare they speculate openly and to her face about why she hadn’t married?

‘It could be because you look too cool, too successful. Fellows wouldn’t dare chat you up and go home with you,’ a colleague had suggested helpfully.

Last night’s party at Ricky’s would have provided plenty of people who might have chatted her up and come back to the Glenstar apartments with her; in fact, she had had one very definite offer and two suggestions. But these would not have been people who would have stayed. Not anyone she could trust or rely on. And Shona Burke was not one to trust easily. She would get up soon go out to Dun Laoghaire for a brisk walk with a neighbour’s dog, come back and get ready for the charity lunch. Because she was considered the very public face of Haywards, she was often asked to such things. Haywards was
the
store in Dublin. It had survived take-overs, makeovers and the passage of time. And today it would give her the chance to wear the new outfit which she had bought at a discount in Haywards. Ridiculous to have so many nice clothes at twenty-six, and not enough places to wear them.

‘Neil, is it all right to talk?’

‘Not really, father, we’re in the middle of something…’

‘So are we, we’re in the middle of those two children taking the house apart brick by brick.’

‘No, I mean what I’m in is really serious. I can’t talk about Maud and Simon now.’

‘But what are we going to do?’

‘Father, we’re going to look after them, it’s as simple as that. We’ll help you, Cathy and I, but now, if you’ll excuse me…’

‘But Neil…’

I have to go.’

Jock Mitchell hung up wearily. The twins had unpacked all the desserts Cathy had left in the fridge and eaten them for breakfast. Simon had been sick. On the carpet.

In a garden flat in Rathgar, James Byrne was up and at his desk. Ever since he had retired six months ago he had continued the routine and habits of working life. Breakfast of a boiled egg, tea and toast, ten minutes’ minimal tidying his three-room apartment, and then a second cup of tea and twenty minutes at his desk. It had been such a useful thing to do when he worked in the big accountancy firm. Cleared his head, sorted his priorities before he got into the office. Now of course there
were
no priorities. He didn’t have to decide whether or not to oppose some tax scheme on the grounds that it was evasion. Other, younger people made those decisions. There was less and less to do, but he could always find something. He might renew a magazine subscription, or send for a catalogue. To his surprise the telephone rang. Very few people telephoned James Byrne at any time, and he certainly hadn’t expected a call at ten o’clock in the morning on New Year’s Day. It was a girl.

‘Mr Byrne? Is it too early to talk?’

‘No, no. How can I help you?’

The voice was young and very excited. ‘It’s about the premises, Mr Byrne, we’re so interested, more than you’d believe. Is there any chance we could see them today?’

‘Premises?’ James Byrne was confused. ‘What premises?’

He listened as she explained. It was the Maguires’ old place, the printing works they hadn’t even entered since the accident. He knew that they had been listless and depressed. They had been unwilling to listen to any advice. But now, apparently, they had disappeared, leaving a For Sale sign on their gate and James Byrne’s phone number. In years of business James had learned that he must never transmit any of his own anxiety or confusion to a client.

‘Let me see if I can find them, Miss Scarlet,’ James said. ‘I’ll call you back within the hour.’

Cathy put the phone down carefully and looked around her in Tom’s apartment, where the little group had been following every word of the conversation. Tom leaning forward, like her father always did to a radio when he wanted to hear who was winning a race. Marcella in an old pink shirt of Tom’s and black jeans, her dark eyes and clouds of black hair making her look more and more like the top model she yearned to be. Geraldine, crisp and elegant, dressed for her smart lunch but still giving time to be present for the great phone call and what it might deliver.

‘He’s not an estate agent, he’s an accountant, he knows the people who own it and he’ll ring us back in an hour,’ she said, eyes shining. They could hardly take it in.

It felt like three hours, but Geraldine told them it was only thirty-six minutes. Then the call came. This time Tom took it. James Byrne, ex-accountant, had been in touch with his friends in England. They reported they really did intend to sell. They had made their decision over Christmas, and had gone away to England yesterday now that it had been made. James Byrne had been asked to set it all in train. And as quickly as possible. Cathy looked at Tom in disbelief. It really was going to happen,
exactly
the kind of place they wanted. And they were the first potential buyers, they were in there with a chance. Tom was thinking the same thing.

‘We are very lucky that you made this enquiry for us, Mr Byrne, and now if you would like us to let you know—’

The voice interrupted him. ‘Of course you will understand that my first loyalty lies with the Maguires who own the premises. They will have to be represented by a lawyer, an auctioneer, and I will have to try and get them the best price possible.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Tom sounded deflated.

‘But I am very grateful to you, Mr Feather, for bringing this to my notice, otherwise it might have been some days…’

Geraldine was scribbling something on the back of an envelope and showing it to him.

Is there any chance you could show us inside the place, do you think?’ Tom asked.

There was a pause. ‘Certainly,’ the man said. ‘That would be no problem. In fact, the Maguires were anxious to know what kind of people had discovered the notice so quickly; they only put it up yesterday before they went to the airport.’

‘Yesterday?’ Tom was astounded. ‘But it looks as if the place has been abandoned for a long time.’

It has; the family had a lot of trouble.’

‘I’m sorry. Are you a friend of theirs?’

‘In a way. I did some work for them once. They trusted me.’

It was a sober sort of thing to say. Tom hoped that they could get back to the bit about letting them in. Then Mr Byrne cleared his throat.

‘Suppose we meet there in an hour?’ he suggested.

The city was still partially asleep, but James Byrne was wide awake. Small and rather precise-looking, wearing a navy overcoat and gloves, with a silk scarf tied around his neck, he was a man in his sixties who might have been cast in a film as a worried bank manager or concerned statesman. He introduced himself formally and shook hands with everyone as if they were in an office instead of standing in the bitter cold on the first day of the year outside a falling-down printing business. At first Cathy was pleased to see him take down the ludicrous cardboard notice while tut-tutting at the amateur nature of it all, but then he explained again that the place would of course have to be sold professionally, maybe even at auction. It could still be snatched from them. They sensed somehow that he wasn’t going to tell them anything about the Maguires and what sorrows or confusion there had been in their lives. This was not the time to enquire.

They walked through in wonder. The place that could be Scarlet Feather’s new home. First home.

All this middle section could be the main kitchen; this would be the freezer section, that would be the staff lavatory and washroom, and they would have storage here. And a small room where they could greet clients. It was almost too perfect: everything was what they had hoped. And it was so desperately shabby and run-down; perhaps others might not realise the potential. Cathy was aware that she had clasped her hands and closed her eyes only when she heard James Byrne clear his throat. He seemed to be concerned that she might be too happy about it all, too confident. She knew she must reassure him.

‘It’s all right, James, I do know it’s not ours. This is only the first step of a very long journey,’ she smiled at him warmly.

They had been talking to this man for forty-five minutes, calling him
Mr
Byrne all the while. He was a stranger, twice their age and she had called him James. She felt a slight flush creep up her neck. She knew exactly why she had done this; subconsciously it was part of her wish never to feel inferior, never to crawl and beg. But perhaps she had gone too far this time. Cathy looked hard at him, willing him not to take offence. James Byrne smiled back at her.

It might not be too long a journey, Cathy. The Maguires are very anxious to get all this over; they want a quick sale. It might move much more quickly than you all think.’

Cathy did not go home. She didn’t want to sit alone in the house while her mind was racing – and there were very few other places she wanted to be either. Tom and Marcella would need time to be on their own together. She couldn’t go to St Jarlath’s Crescent and hear a detailed description of their night at the pub when she ached to tell them the excitement in her life. There was no way she would go near Oaklands. In that big house at this very moment, there would be a terrible war raging. Those strange children, with their solemn faces and total disregard for anyone else’s property or feelings might well have wrecked the place by now. She knew very well that sooner or later she and Neil would have to take some part in their care; but for now it would seem the wisest thing to stay away from Oaklands.

Hannah Mitchell would be on the phone to her friends, laughing and groaning or complaining to her husband that their daughter had not telephoned from Canada. She would not yet have discovered the neatly covered plates in her fridge with perfectly labelled chicken, vegetables and desserts. Cathy knew she would never be thanked for these. That wasn’t part of any deal. The best she could hope for was that Hannah Mitchell would leave her alone.

No, that wasn’t true. The very best thing would be if her mother-in-law fell down a manhole. Cathy was restless, she needed to walk, clear her head. She found that she was driving south, out of the city towards Dun Laoghaire and the sea. She parked the car and walked on the long pier, hugging herself against the wind. Many Dubliners with hangovers seemed to have had some similar notion, and were busy working up a lunchtime thirst for themselves. Cathy smiled to herself; she must be the soberest and most abstemious person here, one half-glass of champagne at midnight and nothing else. Even her mother who claimed that she didn’t drink at all would have had three hot whiskeys to see the New Year in. It was probably wiser not to speculate on how many pints her father might have had. But there was nobody else walking this pier on this, the first day of the New Year who was nearly as excited as Cathy Scarlet. She was going to have her own business. She would be self-employed. Joint owner of something that was going to be a huge success. For the very first time since the whole thing had started she realised now that it was not just a dream.