Firefly Summer

  Patrick found the afternoon went very slowly. He didn’t want to call until he was absolutely certain that it had actually happened. Later that evening he would talk to the States, tell Gerry Power that it had been done, and tell Rachel. Already it was a picture in his mind . . .

  He could imagine it. Even before he called Brian Doyle, he could see knots of children coming on to the bank to watch. He hadn’t realised that the rest of the town would come too and that they would drink pints in John and Kate Ryan’s during the day, and cheer when the walls fell. He made Brian tell him every detail. At first Doyle thought he wanted proof that the job had been done properly, and had been full of huffs and shruggings, but when he realised that the man only wanted a description of the day, he became most lyrical.

  Patrick couldn’t believe it when he heard that the people had cheered the walls coming down.

  ‘What did they say . . . did they call for three cheers or what?’

  ‘Well, it was just a big cheer went up,’ Brian said.

  ‘Like what? Did they say “Hurrah”, or “More, more”, or what?’

  Brian was beginning to wish he had never mentioned the cheer. ‘You know, a big shout. No words, just a shout.’

  ‘There have to be words in a shout.’

  ‘No there don’t, Mr O’Neill. It was like, let me say a great Waah! Now do you know what I mean?’ Patrick said he did. He was very pleased.

  ‘Do you know they gave a great cheer when the last walls of Fernscourt went down?’ he said when he called Gerry Power.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Gerry was a man who was quite happy to go back to Ireland some time in the future for St Patrick’s Day and maybe ten days there. He thought Patrick was insane to plough all his fortune into this venture.

  ‘I wonder why they cheered,’ Patrick said.

  ‘So shocked to see a proper day’s work done for once, they couldn’t help cheering, I guess,’ said Gerry.

  He told Rachel that evening. ‘A big cheer, Brian Doyle said. Like a great Waaahh! sound. Oh God, I wish I had been there. I would have given anything to be there, to have heard it.’

  ‘I think you were quite right not to go,’ Rachel said. ‘Your instinct is always right for that sort of thing. Don’t associate yourself with the knocking down, only with the building up. You’ve always done it here.’

  Rachel knew why they had let out a cheer. It was something to do, something to see on a dull morning in a one-horse town. It all meant a bit of work here and there and the promise of more work for the people who stood around, apparently, if the story was to be believed, with great double glasses of beer in their hands in the middle of the morning. No wonder they cheered.

  ‘They cheered because the dream is coming true,’ she said. ‘Because the old house is gone and the new life is about to start.’

  The site had been excavated, the foundations were ready to start. Brian Doyle had already had four major rows with the architects. The Irish architects had refused to work with the American architects unless guarantees were received that there would be no more last-minute interference. The Irish Tourist Board had revised its grant, the situation on charter groups was still not clear from Aer Lingus. Two farmers whose land had not been bought up by Patrick O’Neill tried to get Fergus Slattery to claim they had been victimised. Two small tenant farmers, who had willingly sold him half an acre each a year ago, now felt they hadn’t got enough for it, and wanted Fergus to represent them. Fergus refused to have anything to do with any of them.

  ‘Greed. That’s what this man has brought to Mountfern, inordinate greed. Those men never thought of profits on their miserable bits of land before, they were bloody glad to have it.’

  ‘I don’t think you can go round preaching to them like that, Fergus,’ Kate Ryan said disapprovingly. ‘You should shrug and say that it’s a pity but there isn’t really a case. Pretend to be on their side, be clever.’

  ‘Like Hereford bullock O’Neill,’ Fergus growled.

  Kate laughed. ‘He has got curls but that’s no nickname for him. Yes, like him. He’s great at being tactful. That’s what’s got him so far, I suppose.’

  ‘Or telling downright lies,’ Fergus said.

  ‘He hasn’t really, has he? I know you don’t trust him, and neither do I. I don’t trust him because I think he knows he’ll ruin us if his business ever gets off the ground. I don’t know why you care about him.’

  ‘Because he’s hurting you . . . all of you,’ Fergus said.

  Kate looked up, startled, and Fergus remembered his sister’s drunken slurred accusation . . . he was good for nothing except making sheep’s eyes at the local publican’s wife. Was that so?

  No, in truth, hand on heart, it wasn’t just Kate, it was the whole household. That stupid dog with the terrified eyes trying to shake hands with you by raising its twisted back paw. That John Ryan scribbling his poetry in a child’s exercise book and thinking that Patrick O’Neill was a great fellow. Those two small lads with a face on each of them that spelled out divilment. Those dark handsome twins, entirely self-contained, speaking half a sentence each, suntanned and energetic as wild monkeys; he used to see them scrambling in those brambled hills on the other side of the Fern . . . There was something about the whole family that touched him in a way it was hard to understand. Truthfully, it was not the handsome mother with her quick wit. No, eunuch or no eunuch, he was making no sheep’s eyes at her.

  Fergus made a series of promises to himself there and then. He resolved that he would go off for a long weekend to a seaside town and have a sexual adventure of great passion with a young attractive woman. That he would close the office when President Kennedy arrived and drive as many of the Ryans as wanted to come with him to Dublin to see the parade. He would speak in less eccentric tones to local farmers who were, after all, only anxious to get a bit of whatever was going. And lastly, he would watch Patrick O’Neill like a hawk. Never in his life had he known a feeling so strong and convincing as this one. That O’Neill and his family were going to destroy the Ryans.

  The O’Neills were back. Everyone knew it half an hour after they had driven down Bridge Street. Judy Byrne knew because she was polishing her brasses. She hated being caught doing anything so domestic. She preferred Patrick to think of her as a woman in an important medical role.

  Sheila knew because she heard someone in the post office calling out that their car was parking. Sheila gathered her telegrams and messages quietly, and put them in a big anonymous-looking envelope to have them ready.

  Maggie Daly knew and was delighted.

  Grace and Kerry came into the shop. They were buying cream cakes and bacon and eggs for their tea. Miss Hayes hadn’t expected them, so they were getting supplies. Maggie’s smile nearly split her face in half when Grace raced over to hug her. Kitty, who was filling the shelves in a very bad humour, was equally delighted when Kerry came over to her without any prompting at all.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, ‘did you miss me?’

  ‘Were you away?’ Kitty asked with spirit.

  Kerry liked it. He had his elbow leaning on the shelf.

  ‘Yes, we were, and I bet you knew it,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry.’ Kitty was triumphant now. ‘I don’t really keep up with all the comings and goings of people I hardly know. I’m much too busy.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to get to know you better, so that you will notice when I’m not around,’ Kerry said, with a smile that would melt all the ice in the deep freeze.

  Tommy Leonard knew they were back because he saw their car, and his father said he hoped there would be no racing out on the road and abandoning his post. Tommy fumed behind the counter, but the O’Neills came in to buy papers and postcards. They were going to send a card to all the hotels where they had stayed, to say thank you. To show them what Mountfern looked like. In a few years they would all know only too well where it was and what it looked like.

  Kerry asked Tommy about the fishing, and wondered had they been swimming i
n the river. He said that, after all the beaches they had seen around the country, he was dying to go for a swim.

  ‘Not until after the shop closes,’ Tommy’s father said firmly.

  Tommy wished his father wouldn’t. Not in front of Kerry O’Neill, who was a grown person, and who seemed to be treating Tommy as equally grown.

  ‘Workers of the world,’ Kerry said sympathetically.

  ‘We close at six,’ Tommy said rapidly. ‘It would be lovely then.’

  ‘Tea at six,’ said Mr Leonard.

  ‘Seven, then?’ Kerry suggested.

  ‘Right oh.’ Tommy was thrilled.

  ‘At the bridge?’

  ‘It’s a bit crowded and noisy there.’ What Tommy meant was that he and his friends were considered too young for the gang on the bridge.

  ‘The footbridge, then?’

  ‘That’s it.’ Tommy started patting the papers and magazines, proudly happy.

  ‘See you then, Tommy.’

  Grace looked gorgeous. Very suntanned, in a blue and white stripy dress.

  ‘See you, Grace,’ Tommy beamed.

  ‘My God, when I think of the time you children have today,’ said Tommy’s father, a sour displeasure coming over his face.

  The twins didn’t know they were home because the twins were in the tunnel. Kate Ryan said they were out. She didn’t know where. Hadn’t they been down on the bridge? No? Well, they’d be back for their tea at six. Had Kerry and Grace enjoyed the tour? Were they impressed with Ireland? What did they think of the land over the river there without the ruins? It took a bit of getting used to. Wasn’t it a pity they had missed it all? Kate chattered on cheerfully to the two blond children who stood in the crowded bar as easily and confidently as they stood in any other place in Mountfern. Their father was getting a drink for a group that was busy describing in detail the moment when the old ivy-covered masonry toppled down.

  The twins would be very sorry to miss Grace. No, she had no idea where they were; they always came back at teatime covered in dust and dirt. Like they did every day.

  Going swimming at seven o’clock, yes that was a great idea. Not right in front of the pub, if they didn’t mind. People liked the idea of a quiet stroll down River Road in the evenings, not to get into the middle of a screaming mob of children splashing. A bit further along. No, not exactly opposite the Rosemarie hair salon either, that mightn’t be such a great idea; just on the bend. Sure, she would send any stragglers up that way, and tell Dara and Michael.

  ‘Aren’t you marvellous the way you can talk and work, Mrs Ryan,’ Grace said admiringly. Kate was pleased.

  ‘Ah, it’s a knack, like riding a bicycle. You find yourself pulling pints and washing glasses almost automatically. I don’t even notice myself doing it, like those people who can knit and look at television. You’ll find it yourself if you work in the bar over beyond. Or will you work in the hotel, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Ryan. Isn’t that funny? We never seem to talk about what it’s going to be like when it’s a working hotel. Just getting it built seems to be as far as we go.’

  She smiled almost apologetically, and Kate realised, with a sudden stab, the power of such beauty. A man would do anything for a face like Grace O’Neill’s, anything to keep those blue eyes laughing and happy.

  Patrick asked the children to telephone Miss Hayes and let her know they were on their way. Brian Doyle had a litany of complaints that had to be heard. Jimbo Doyle had backed a lorry-load of tree branches into the presbytery and broken the front windows, and had to spend two days replacing them with new glass.

  Father Hogan had been very droll about it, and said that the canon and himself had been very relieved that it was only Jimbo and a lorry-load of timber. They had been afraid it was something serious like Eddie Ryan about to dismantle the place on them.

  Teresa Meagher had hitch-hiked to Dublin and sent a message through the post office that she was never going to come back to Mountfern as long as she lived. Mrs Meagher was going to sell the jeweller’s. Brian Doyle wondered did Mr O’Neill want to buy it.

  ‘What do I want with a souvenir shop like that?’

  ‘It might be a useful property on Bridge Street. She’d be glad of a few thousand now; you’ll always need an office or some kind of base in the town.’ Brian was a businessman.

  ‘That’s the kind of thing I’d expect from Jack Coyne, not from you, Doyle. I have no intention of buying a woman’s only property when she’s in a state of distress. What will she feel in six months? Conned and resentful.’

  ‘You’re a smart man, all right,’ Brian said grudgingly.

  Papers Flynn was at the back door asking to speak to the lady of the house; he had some lovely little bantam eggs for her.

  Declan asked, could he bring a ladder round to the front of the house. Eddie was stuck in the chimney.

  ‘Mother of God! What is Eddie doing in the chimney? Is he all right?’ Kate was very alarmed.

  ‘He’s all right, it’s just that he can’t get out.’

  ‘Which chimney did he go up?’ Kate’s eyes were wild.

  ‘He didn’t go up any. He went down one.’

  ‘He couldn’t have! He wouldn’t fit.’

  ‘Only his arm,’ Declan said.

  ‘Oh God, what are we going to do with him?’ She ran out and was relieved to see Eddie perfectly safe but with his arm wedged in a chimney pot.

  ‘Don’t move,’ she shouted up at him. ‘I’ll send someone up to you, though by rights I should leave you there for the night.’

  ‘I’ll explain it all when I get down.’

  ‘Indeed you will,’ said Kate.

  She turned to Declan. ‘I don’t suppose you could throw any light on what possessed him to start climbing into the chimney, could you?’

  ‘It was going to be his new career, I think.’ Declan sounded doubtful.

  ‘Terrific,’ Kate said. She went back into the pub and looked around to see who might go and rescue him. Who would be the best person to disturb? Her eye lit on the tall figure of Kerry. She explained the problem and told him where the ladder was kept. Kerry said he had always fancied himself as a knight doing brave deeds for beautiful ladies.

  Even though she thought it was far too flowery, it pleased Kate.

  ‘It’s all great fun,’ Grace said wistfully. ‘It’s so quiet at home. It’s like a three-ring circus here.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said Kate resignedly.

  Eddie’s sweeping brush had fallen down the chimney. He had bent down to try to retrieve it, and in the effort his foot had slipped. He was well and truly stuck now, no way of getting his footing on the slippery roof from which three slates had already been dislodged and many more were beginning to shift.

  Kerry climbed up easily and, watched by an admiring Grace and an anxious Declan, walked lithely over to the struggling boy.

  ‘Relax, friend, Superman is here,’ said Kerry.

  ‘This is not as easy as it looks,’ Eddie said firmly.

  ‘It doesn’t even look easy,’ Kerry said. ‘It looks very dangerous indeed.’

  That was the right thing to say. Eddie didn’t have to worry about his dignity any more.

  Kerry manoeuvred Eddie’s feet on to a sure base, then he was able to withdraw his arm from the chimney himself.

  ‘Something very wrong with the flue,’ he said.

  ‘You could be right,’ Kerry said.

  ‘Should have a cowl, in my view.’

  ‘Very possibly.’

  Kerry had no idea what the child was talking about; possibly he was even mentally deficient. He always looked fairly sinister, and was reported to be in constant trouble.

  ‘I’ll be off now,’ Eddie said, sliding down the roof. ‘It was handy you happened to be passing.’

  ‘Yes, one of those coincidences.’

  Eddie slid to the drainpipes and nipped down the ladder, which he was about to take with him.

  ‘Leave the
ladder, you bonehead,’ Kerry shouted.

  ‘I need it for my trade,’ Eddie shouted back. Then thought better of it. ‘But I don’t mind leaving it here for a bit.’

  Shamefacedly he went round the side of the bar and in the back door. Nothing, not even his rescue from the jaws of death in the chimney, would excuse his walking through the pub during opening hours.

  ‘Were you frightened, Eddie?’ Declan asked.

  ‘Oh shut up, Declan, you’re a stupid pudding,’ Eddie said ungratefully to the agent of his rescue.

  Kerry sat on the roof of Ryan’s and looked over the river at the site where the new hotel would rise. How much better it would be to approach it from here, turn the footbridge into a magnificent wide bridge with big lanterns on each end. On the other side of the river he saw Dara and Michael walking along the towpath.

  They were startled to see him sitting on their roof. When they got near enough to shout, they saw Grace. She ran across the footbridge to meet them, and they all stood in a little semi-circle looking up at him.

  ‘What can you be doing up there?’ Dara called.

  ‘If I told you, you’d never believe it, so let’s say I came early for Christmas,’ Kerry laughed.

  He looked so handsome up there with the sun shining on his hair, a white open-necked shirt and a dark suntan. Dara shielded her eyes as if she were looking at an angel.

  ‘Will we all go up there?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t mind, but your folks might object,’ Kerry called.

  ‘It’s six o’clock,’ Michael said. ‘Time for tea anyway.’

  ‘Typical male, thinking of what to eat,’ Dara said scornfully.

  She ran to the ladder and climbed easily up. Kerry reached his hand down from the rooftop to haul her up over the slates. He made room beside himself.

  ‘It’s great up here,’ Dara said excitedly. ‘Look at all you can see.’ River Road below them wound slowly to the bridge. They could see the cars inside Coyne’s Motor Works. Usually you only saw the outer walls. They saw all the empty boxes and crates in the back of Loretto Quinn’s, and further over they could see into the small back gardens of Mr Slattery’s house and of the other houses in his terrace, the back of the Classic Cinema and as far up Bridge Street as into Dr White’s. Companionably they pointed out places to each other. Behind them Coyne’s wood stretched away up towards the Grange and down the river to the other side they could see the banks getting greener and more country-like as they were further from Mountfern and leading on towards the ruined abbey. From here Dara could see very clearly the big bushes of thorn and bramble that hid the entrance to their tunnel at the Fernscourt end. The fairy fort had remained untouched. Her eyes followed what must be the path of the tunnel – a slow incline, easy for rolling barrels or shifting crates or whatever they used to do in years gone by.