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My first day at the paper was spent getting my bearings and meeting the staff. More like a skeleton staff, I found. It appeared that each of the five or so people who worked at the office in the old Georgian pile at the edge of town wore several hats. My office, a cavernous space that had once been the drawing room, still had the original sash windows, parquet flooring and period fireplace. A huge mahogany desk was placed at the far end with an old leather armchair behind it. Spindly dining-room chairs were scattered on the old Donegal carpet, the once-vivid colours faded by sunlight and time. Not quite the dusty old office I expected, but this town was full of surprises. I wondered how the paper was run.
All was revealed by a pudgy baby-faced young man called Dan O’Meara, who appeared in my office only minutes after I’d arrived.
“Hello, Ms McGee,” he panted, having run up the winding staircase to the first floor. “I’m Dan O’Meara. The reporter, like.” He smoothed his thatch of brown hair and held out a beefy hand.
“Hi, Dan.” I got up from behind the desk and shook his hand. “Please, call me Finola.”
He blushed. “Okay, thanks, er, Finola. I’m a huge fan. I used to read your column every week, like. Finola Reveals was the best part of The Irish Telegraph. ”
“Thank you. That’s very kind. The reporter, you said?”
He nodded. “Yes. I’m the only real reporter, like. Mary does the layout and handles advertising, Fidelma covers sport, country fairs, the local hunt ball and whatever the parishes are up to, like. Both the Protestant and Catholic. Annie does weddings and funerals and runs the family section, and all the rest. And then there’s Sinead on the switchboard.” He drew breath.
“What about you?”
He looked confused for a second. “Me? Oh, well, I do everything else. All the real reporting. Crime, politics, gossip and so on, like. I mean, we’ll do that together. You and me, I mean.”
“I see. Is there a resident photographer?”
“Yes. Me.”
I burst out laughing. “I’ve arrived in the land of multi-tasking.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, well. It works, like.”
“Do you say like at the end of every sentence?” I felt compelled to ask.
He squirmed. “No. Well...only when I’m nervous, li—” He stopped, gulped and laughed. “I’ll try to cut it out.”
“I’d appreciate it. And the paper is published twice a week?” I breezed on.
He nodded. “Yes. On Thursdays and Saturdays, which means Wednesdays and Fridays are our busiest days.”
“They would be. As today is Monday, we’ll be setting up Thursday’s edition. I’ve had a look at last week’s paper, and I feel there’s a lot to be done. Jerry said something about sexing—I mean updating the look of the paper.”
Dan nodded, looking suddenly business-like. “Yes. He told me you would. He was running things since John Keegan left last month, but now you’re here we can implement a few new ideas.”
“New ideas?” I sat down behind the desk and switched on my laptop. “You have any?”
“Uh, yes. One or two.”
“Please, Dan, sit down. You make me nervous standing there like Big Bird.”
He let out another nervous laugh, pulled out one of the antique chairs and lowered his heavy frame onto the silk-covered seat. “Jerry never let me sit. He thought I’d break the chairs.”
“You probably will. I’m going to ask Jerry if we could change the furniture to something more modern. This stuff must have been here for the past two hundred years. It has to be updated.” I ran my hand over the smooth mahogany. “Except the desk. I love this desk.” I propped my chin on my hand. “Anyway, let me have your ideas.”
“Oh, um...well, first of all, I think you have to introduce yourself. To the readers, I mean. A lot of people will be very excited when they learn you’re going to run our paper.”
“Introduce myself? But if they already know who I am. Why do I need to?”
“They might have a lot of preconceived ideas. And some might even think you’re stuck up and snooty because you’re from Dublin. They could even suspect you’re here to make trouble or something—which you’re not, of course.”
“No, certainly not,” I said with feeling. “I’m here to enjoy country life, not sneer at it.”
“Exactly.” Dan was looking a lot more confident. “I thought that if we did something fun, like an interview, you’d have an opportunity to tell everyone why you’re here and what you plan to do and so on.”
“Nah, not an interview. That’s so last year.”
“Okay. How about something like ‘Finola’s Last Reveal’ as a headline, and then it would be Ten Things You Didn’t Know About Finola on page two. Short and snappy.”
“Hmm.” I leaned back in the creaking leather chair and put my hands behind my head, staring out the window while I thought.
Dan squirmed. “But if that’s not a good idea, I could just draw up a bio and put it on the second page.”
I turned back to him. “You know what, Dan?”
He nibbled at a fingernail. “Yes?”
“That’s an excellent idea.”
His face went pink. “Gee. Thanks.”
I gazed at him for a moment. “Just out of interest, do you know why Johnny Keegan left?”
Dan looked at his hands. “Um, no, not really. I think he’d just had enough of the job. Or something,” he ended.
“Something, huh?” I said. But I didn’t press him on the matter. I had an odd feeling about the whole thing, but it was better not to dig around too much. Sleeping dogs and all that.
***
A woman with a cheery voice called later that day. “Hi, Finola,” she said. “My name’s Miranda. I’m Jerry’s wife.”
I put down my mug of tea. “Hi, Miranda. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing,” she laughed. “Except to come to dinner tonight. I know it’s short notice and all that, but I’m dying to meet you.”
“Well, my social calendar is a complete blank, so yes, I’d love to.”
“Great. I’ve invited a few of the local hunks who’ll want to ogle you up close.”
“Sounds scary.”
“Don’t worry. They’re pretty civilised. We live in the old house next door to the Protestant church. Used to be the rectory. Seven okay?”
“Perfect.”
“Great. It’s casual. No need to dress up. See you then.” Miranda hung up.
No need to dress up? I couldn’t if my life depended on it. My current wardrobe consisted of three pairs of jeans in various states of repair, the newest being the dress-up pair. Shoes? Boots, runners and furry slippers. Tops? A black polo neck, a cream ditto, two blue shirts, a long-sleeved tee shirt and two woolly sweaters for cold days. A rain mac and a navy trouser suit I wore for posher affairs like press conferences and the odd reception had made their way into my suitcase as well. The rest of my clothes were in two boxes in Sharon’s spare room.
As there was a chill in the air after heavy rain, I opted for the black polo neck, the dress-up pair of jeans and my boots that were fairly new and would look good with a polish. I buffed them up with a little spit on a piece of toilet paper. Unused to make-up, I still applied the foundation, mascara and blusher they’d handed out as a free sample at the spa. I brushed my hair that was still quite short and stepped back, looking at myself in the spotty mirror in my bedroom at the B and B. Not bad, I decided. In fact, I looked unusually clean and tidy with just a dash of glamour.
I giggled to myself, wondering what Shannon would think of the transformation of Finola McGee and picked up my phone to take my first ever selfie. Wherever she was, I’d swish this over to her by email. She and Paul could have a good laugh, lying in a hammock under a palm tree in Tahiti—or wherever they were on their round-the-world trip. I suddenly missed Shannon and the fun we had sleuthing together, hot on the trail of those cheating politicians. Those sure were the days.
But that was then and this was now. I was starting a brand new career as the editor of a country newspaper. Not an easy transformation but something I wanted to do and do well. I had come a long way since Seamus hauled me out of the sofa. I was ready for the next challenge.
I picked up my bag and headed out the door. Local hunks had better watch out.
***
Miranda Murphy looked exactly like a woman called Miranda should—dark ringlets, huge brown eyes, rings on her fingers and, possibly, bells on her toes. Dressed in a floor-length multi-coloured kaftan and a multitude of beads, she was gorgeous, weird and utterly loveable. The only mystery was why this beautiful creature had married a man like Jerry.
She flung the door open before I had a chance to ring the bell.
“Finola!” she panted and pulled me into a dim hall with a stone-flagged floor and mahogany wall panelling. When she hugged me tight, I breathed in spices and exotic flowers before she pulled back and stared at me.
“You’re pretty. No, you’re...handsome.” She nodded. “Yes. That’s what you are. A handsome woman.”
“Um, thanks. And thanks for inviting me.” I handed her my offering—a box of Roses chocolates I picked up at a petrol station on the way to the house. “Sorry. This was all I could find.”
Miranda grabbed the box. “Aw, you shouldn’t have. I love these. Full of sugar and crap but the best with a cup of tea around eleven a.m.”
I relaxed. Miranda had a self-contained non-threatening quality that was very soothing.
“I love them too,” I said. “Belgian chocolates and all that, but give me a box of Roses on a dull day and I’ll scoff the lot.”
Miranda let out a laugh like silver bells. “Me too.” She hung up my leather jacket and put her arm through mine. “Let’s go and have a chat before everyone arrives.”
I checked my watch. “Am I early? Thought you said seven.”
“I did. But nobody arrives on time around here. I always say seven, knowing everyone will be here around eight. But don’t worry. Dinner won’t be ruined. Moroccan lamb stew. It’s been in the Aga all day, so it should survive another half hour.”
“Aga,” I said, nearly tasting the stew. “I love the way all houses have these stoves around here.”
“I couldn’t live without mine. It’s the great, big, throbbing heart of the house.” Miranda walked ahead into a big room. Two big sofas upholstered in green velvet flanked the fireplace, where blazing logs mixed with sods of turf cast a cosy glow on the oak floor covered in colourful rugs. She turned to me. “Sit down. I’ll get you a drink. What would you like? Paddy’s or wine?”
“Oh, er...” I replied, thinking that as it was neither Saturday nor Sunday. I shouldn’t have been drinking anything alcoholic. “Maybe just some water?”
Miranda peered at me. “Water? You’re not a Protestant, are you?”
I laughed and sank down into the soft velvet cushions. “With a name like McGee?”
“I thought not. I have nothing against Protestants. After all, I am one myself. It’s just that they can be so fecking puritanical. You’re a teetotaller, then?”
“No, it’s just a...well...I’m kind of trying to cut down. No drinking during the working week. That kind of thing.”
Miranda looked relieved. “Oh. I see. But it’s a party. I mean...would you not relax your rules just once in a while?”
I hesitated. Why be a party pooper? I wasn’t driving, and a ten-minute walk would get me back to the B and B. “Well...now that you put it that way, why not? I’ll have a glass of red, then.”
“Brilliant. I’ll go and get the wine, and Jerry. He was getting the kids organised with their homework upstairs, but he should have finished by now.” She padded out of the room, yelling, “Jerry! Finola’s here. Get yer arse downstairs!”
I couldn’t help laughing at the sudden switch from sweet and gentle. Miranda was a hoot. I sat there staring into the fire enjoying the calm before what might be a storm, when Jerry walked into the room.
He held out his hand. “Hi, Finola. Thank you for coming so early.”
I struggled from the soft embrace of the sofa and shook his hand. “Hi, Jerry. Thanks for inviting me. I didn’t know I was early. But being on time is probably a city thing.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it is. Here, we’re lucky if anyone arrives before midnight. How about a drink? Or are you still on the dry?”
“No. Miranda’s getting me some wine.”
“Oh, great.” He walked to the drinks trolley and poured himself a whiskey. In a soft blue sweater and jeans, he looked more relaxed and a lot younger than during that job interview at the pub.
“How many children do you have?” I asked.
“Three. All boys. Quite a handful, but Miranda’s the one who cracks the whip. They’re scared shitless of her and think I’m real pushover. Which is true. I find it hard to lay down the law, especially with our eldest. He’s fourteen and getting into that monosyllabic grumpy stage.” Jerry sighed. “We have tough times ahead.”
“Tough times?” Miranda said as she came in carrying a tray with two bottles and glasses. “Here, Jerry, put these on the table and pour Finola and me a glass of red. Then we can say cheers and thank you for saving us from disaster.”
“Disaster?” I took the glass from Jerry.
Miranda waved her glass of red in the air. “Yes. When Johnny left so suddenly without a word, Jerry had to step in and run the paper while all hell broke loose here, and the publishing business was in danger of going down the toilet. Plus two of the kids came down with chickenpox, and I had to put everything with the farm on hold to help out.”
“Publishing? I asked, confused. “You mean Jerry publishes books as well as the newspaper? And a farm?”
Miranda sank down on the sofa and patted a cushion. “Come here and sit. I’ll tell you all about it...us.”
I sat down beside her. She was halfway through telling me about Jerry’s publishing house in nearby Cashel and her own small organic vegetable and fruit farm, when Jerry interrupted her.
He sat down beside me, nursing his drink. “I think we need to tell Finola about the real disaster we’re facing.”
Miranda nodded. “Yes. I was building up to that.”
I looked from one to the other. “What real disaster?”
“The paper’s in trouble.” Jerry downed his shot of whiskey in one go. “The bank’s threatening to foreclose on the big loan we took out five years ago. It’s been a struggle to meet the repayments. Then Johnny left, and even if we miss him, it gave us an opportunity to get someone—you—to breathe some life into the paper and help us increase our circulation.”
“Oh my God,” I stammered. “I had no idea.”
“Sorry to spring this on you like that. We need to double our circulation. At least.”
I stared at him. “That’s a pretty tall order.”
“But you did it with The Irish Telegraph,” Miranda argued.
I nodded. “Yes, but that was because of all the scandals and my column. I can’t do that here.”
“Maybe you can do something else?” Jerry suggested. “Rejig the layout, report more news. Interview some of the important people who live around here, like the racehorse trainers, and get them to talk a bit about their private lives or something.”
“How about a health-and-fitness section?” Miranda cut in. “And some kind of fun column by Finola about a city slicker dealing with country life, maybe?”
“Fashion,” Jerry said. “Music, movies, we never did any of those things.”
“I thought you told me to keep my head down and run the paper the traditional way,” I remarked, my head spinning.
Jerry squirmed. “I know. But I’ve changed my mind. We have to shake things up or we’ll die.”
Miranda put her hand on my arm. “Finola, you’re our only hope.”
I closed my eyes for a second. This was heavy. Jerry and Miranda were facing ruin if I didn’t pull out all the stops and more than doubled the circulation of The Knockmealdown News.
I opened my eyes and took a deep breath. “You know, guys, that’s a very tough professional challenge you’ve thrown me. But...”
“But—?” Jerry and Miranda said in unison.
I beamed at them. “But what the hell, I’ll give it my best shot.”
Jerry let out a long sigh as if he’d been holding his breath for about half an hour. “Thank God for that.”
I gave him a stern look. “But no breathing down my neck, okay? I don’t want you to butt in on what I’m going to do.”
Jerry held up his hand in a scout’s-honour salute. “Absolutely. I officially give you a free hand. Do whatever you want to make the paper the talk of the town.”
I grinned. “You might be sorry you said that.” I lifted my glass. “Here’s to The Knockmealdown News and the new look.”
Miranda clinked her glass against mine. “Cheers to that.”
Then the door burst open, and three men arrived pulling her out of the sofa and covering her with kisses. “Miranda!” they shouted. “Gorgeous Miranda!”
More people arrived, and suddenly the room was a cacophony of voices and laughter. The party was in full swing. I was pulled forward and introduced to a Mick and a Pat and a Siobhan and other assorted people who kept pouring in the door. I can’t say all of them greeted me with enthusiasm. I got some limp handshakes and a polite “Hello, how are ya?” here and there, but that was all.
“They’re a little bit nervous about meeting such a celebrity,” Miranda whispered in my ear. “But let’s get them some booze and they’ll relax. We’ll sit down in a minute, anyway, as soon as Rory arrives.”
“Rory?”
“That’s the farmer I rent my fields from. Rory Quirke. He’s been over the hill with a mare today, so he said he might be late.”
“Over the hill with a—?” I asked, when a tall man walked in.
He went straight over to Miranda and kissed her on the cheek. “Sorry, sweetheart. I just managed to unload the mare and change. That bastard, Con, went to the pub and didn’t bother to wait for me.” He turned to me. “Hello. You must be Finola. I’m Rory Quirke. Welcome to this part of the world. I hope the natives have been friendly.”
“Hi, Rory.” My hand disappeared in his big fist while I looked into his grey eyes and, to my annoyance, blushed. I never blush. But this man had a strange effect on me. Not film-star handsome, but nevertheless, he oozed sex appeal and self-confidence. I also knew who he was and my heart sank. One of them.