Conor was beginning to look forward to his two days a week out driving. The thing about the mobile library van was that it raised you almost as high off the road as if you were in a tractor. Well, higher than the Vespa, anyway, or his old Ford. You could bowl along with a great view over the ditches and fences, from Carrick all the way down to Ballyfin. And once you were on the back roads you could see into every field.
It was daft the number of people who were still spreading slurry in December – you could get a wild heavy fine for that or even end up in jail. Conor could remember sneaky bits of late spreading at home, back in the past. When his dad had been fit and working, some of the rules like that weren’t stuck to so carefully. But now that Paddy was fit for nothing but paperwork, everything had to be done according to the book.
That was kind of understandable. Paddy’s own state was the direct result of taking stupid risks. His accident had happened when he and Joe were inside in a pen with a cow that was in labour, and she’d turned on Joe, who was only half awake. Nine times out of ten, Paddy would have jumped the rail and been grand. But that day he’d tried to head her off while Joe got out first. Then, when he’d rolled over the rail himself, he’d landed on his back, and the insurance lads had just laughed at him when he tried to claim for the medical bills; it turned out that the cover he’d taken wasn’t nearly enough.
Conor sometimes thought that half his dad’s depression came from a sense of guilt. If he’d used better judgement, the accident wouldn’t have happened, and if he’d paid for proper cover then at least the bills would be paid. And, in a way, poor Joe was in the same state as his father. If he hadn’t been drinking the night before, and slow to move when the cow lost it, the chances were that they’d both have got out with no trouble at all.
The trouble now was that no one would talk about it. And, God knew, that was a family trait. If Conor had a bit of sense himself he’d be talking to Aideen, because the more he thought about it, the more it seemed that he’d have to give up the farm. The place would be his and Joe’s eventually but, if they kept going the way they were, they’d have run it into the ground before Paddy died.
For the millionth time, Conor told himself there had to be another option. If the family sat down with a lawyer, the chances were they’d come up with some way forward that made sense and was fair. He could step back with a lump sum and go off and do the library thing, leaving Joe to take over the farm.
Or, if giving him a lump sum now would be daft, they could set it up so he knew he’d get it in the future. One way or another, if he had a game plan, he could talk to Miss Casey about getting his qualifications.
But, then, Aideen had all these romantic visions about settling down in a farmhouse. How would she feel about marrying someone with years of exams ahead, and a student loan to pay off?
The fields on either side of him still had a few cows grazing, but mostly the grass had melted away. The whole peninsula changed colour in winter, when the light was different and the growth died back, so you saw the grey stone walls. Every wall that surrounded the fields at home had been built by his father’s people, and by the families of women who’d married in, bringing dowries of parcels of land. Orla, his mam, was like Aideen: she was born and raised in a town. But for generations McCarthy women had extended the family holding, and worked on it with their men.
Conor could remember his gran saying that her own mam had come with the grass of ten cows. She’d been a great poultry woman, too, and kept geese as well as hens. According to his gran, the eggs had paid for boots for the whole family. And turkeys raised by Gran herself had made the price of the old separator that used to be out in the milking parlour.
When Paddy had his health and his strength they’d been doing fine. You’d get up on a spring morning and the place would be full of life. Lambs calling, and calves needing tags, and stupid amounts of work to be done in the fields. As a young lad, Conor’s favourite thing had been walking the fields with Paddy at the start of the spring. You’d be surprised by the number of years you’d find bite in the grass as early as March. They’d walk the bounds of the farm on St John’s Eve, too, and Paddy would always find an excuse for lighting a bonfire. He hated being told he was superstitious, but his own dad and his dad’s dad before him had never failed to light a fire on St John’s Eve. It brought luck to the land.
Conor had never admitted it to Joe, but he’d done the same thing himself above on the hill last June. He’d lit it in the lee of the wall between the Broad Acre and the Lamb Field and he’d stood looking up at the stars with the flames roaring in a circle of stones that was blackened by previous bonfires. You wouldn’t want to be the one who’d let the tradition go.
Up ahead he could see the pub where he planned to have a sandwich. When Miss Casey drove this route she usually stopped and ate in Knockmore. There was a drop-in centre in the church hall there, where oul ones went for their dinner, and they were always mad for a bit of diversion and chat. Miss Casey had smiled at Conor when she told him, and said she suspected he wouldn’t fancy it. He didn’t either, so he’d taken to grabbing a bite to eat in the pub.
There was a jeep parked outside that he recognised as Dan Cafferky’s, and, when he went in, Dan and his podgy mate Dekko were sitting with a couple of pints. Dan was on his feet at once, offering to buy him a drink, but Conor said no. ‘God, Dan, I’m not just driving, I’m working.’
He ordered a fizzy drink and a cheese and pickle sandwich and joined them at the table. Apparently they were waiting for Fury O’Shea who’d found Dan a load of wood to extend his shed on Couneen pier. He’d got it off the back of some building job in Carrick, so Dan was going to get it at a decent price.
‘What’s the extension for?’
‘Just a bit of extra storage space. And I could use a ticket office for the tours.’
‘I thought most of your booking happened online.’
‘You’d get a bit of passing trade, too, though. In summer, like.’
There was a violent scratching at the pub door, which swung open to reveal Fury and his little Jack Russell terrier, known as The Divil. Dan got to his feet again but Fury waved him back to his seat and strolled to the bar.
‘Hold your hour, we’ll order first and fight about who’s paying later.’
With his drink in his hand, he came back and joined them, and The Divil subsided on the floor.
Conor, who knew Fury well, gave him a nod. Dan introduced Dekko. ‘Dekko’s from Dublin, but we don’t hold it against him.’
‘Well, if that’s all there’s to be said against him, I suppose he’s doing all right.’
Conor glanced at Dekko, to see if he’d taken it badly. Fury was an eccentric old bugger and, if you didn’t know him, you might think he was choosing to wind you up. Dekko didn’t seem bothered. He winked and said he’d heard Fury was a great man to do business with.
‘Ah, you wouldn’t want to believe all they tell you round here.’
For as long as Conor could remember, Fury O’Shea had been the same laconic, scarecrow figure, driving round in a battered red van, with The Divil beside him on the passenger seat, barking at anything that moved. Fury was known as the best builder on the peninsula, though he didn’t do estimates, let alone quotes, and he never stuck to a schedule. You wouldn’t know where to find him either, because that was the way he was. He turned up when he wanted to, and he always shut off his phone and ignored messages. All the same, he wasn’t called Fury for nothing. When he had his teeth in a job there was no holding him, and he wouldn’t stop till it was done.
God alone knew how he coped with the state or the taxman but, whatever way he handled money, Conor had never heard anyone call him a cheat. One time he’d heard somebody call him illiterate but that was just show. It suited him when it came to filling up forms and reading regulations, and it meant he could play the gawm when he did a deal.
Now he cocked his eye at Dan and said he had the timber for him. ‘I’ll dump it down on the pier sometime this week.’
Dan knew better than to talk about the cost of it: it could be he’d end up paying in kind, but Fury would see him right. Dan had laboured for him in the past more than a few times, and Fury looked after his own.
Under the table, The Divil stood up and shook himself. Fury looked at Dekko and said he fancied a packet of crisps. ‘Salt and vinegar. They’re the ones he likes.’
Dekko looked a bit shocked and asked if he meant that the dog wanted them.
‘That’s the man. Don’t go getting streaky bacon, now. He can’t be doing with them.’
For a minute Conor wondered again if Dekko might take it badly. Instead he got up and said he’d shout for a round. ‘Another pint, Dan, is it? And another 7UP, Conor? Is that a Jameson’s there, Mr O’Shea?’
‘It is, boy, but I’ve never been one to take drink from strangers. Throw The Divil his packet of crisps and that’ll do fine.’
There was a queer kind of tension between them, but that was just Fury messing.
Dekko came back from the bar with the round and bent down to throw the crisps under the table. There was a sudden snarl as the little dog’s hackles rose and he showed his teeth. Startled, Dekko jerked back, banging his head on the table. Conor had his glass in his hand by then, and Dan saved his pint, but Dekko’s pint tipped sideways, nearly splashing his expensive leather jacket.
Fury, who was sitting back with his glass, cocked his eyebrow. ‘Maybe I’m not the only one wary of strangers.’ He lounged over to the bar and got Dekko another pint. Under the table, The Divil snorted and ripped open the packet, releasing a stink of vinegar along with a shower of crisps.
When Conor left, they were still sitting there, Dekko and Dan drinking pints, and Fury swirling the last of his whiskey round and round in his glass. Dekko had put a good face on things, and was telling some long story. But Conor reckoned he felt the old man had rightly set him up.
Driving on to Knockmore, you could see the winter sun slanting sideways through the hedgerows. Miss Casey had talked to him a while back about the way she felt herself when she drove the van. For ages, she’d said, written words had carried dreams and ideas over seas and beyond mountains, which made her part of a process that stretched across distance and time. Conor kind of liked the way she’d put it.
The whole library-book thing was actually pretty amazing – like she’d said, all these novels and celebrity cookbooks were links to ancient handwritten texts from Egypt and Mesopotamia. It was a thought that made being a librarian seriously cool. Library work was about organising stuff, too, and he was fierce good at that. The thing was, though, that he’d hate to leave the farming. Basically, he was stuck between a rock and a bloody hard place.