As soon as her day’s work was over Hanna returned to Maggie’s place. It wasn’t exactly an occasion for champagne, but some sort of recognition of her new commitment seemed appropriate. She had left the bungalow that morning with a list of things to do and get for Mary. Going to the dry cleaner’s and buying black pudding in Fitzgerald’s took no more than ten minutes so she dropped in to Lissbeg’s latest deli, to pick up a coffee to go. Champagne mightn’t be in order, but a celebratory cappuccino on the cliff behind the house seemed a good idea.
The girl at the counter smiled when she saw her. “Hi there, Miss Casey!”
She was one of last year’s high school seniors. Hanna remembered her haunting the library after school hours, studying madly up until her final exams. Now, with her hair tied back under a flowered scarf, she was working in the delicatessen. It was good to see her looking cheerful. The shop was bright with paint and flowers and the selection of foods on display looked delicious. There were little rounds of goat’s cheese, which Hanna knew was Jazz’s favorite, so she asked for one to take away with her coffee. The girl tucked the cheese into a brown paper bag, expertly feathered a design in the foam on top of the cappuccino, and offered her a chocolate truffle.
“They’re a new line that Bríd makes herself—and, this week, they’re free with a coffee.”
Hanna shook her head. “Save them for the next person, Aideen. I’d say they’re not cheap to produce.”
“God no, they cost a fortune!” Aideen blushed. “I shouldn’t say that but it’s true. The thing is that we really want quality products. And you have to speculate to accumulate.”
Hanna smiled and took her coffee. “You do, of course, and I’m sure they’re lovely.”
With visions of color charts in her own head, she felt a surge of empathy for the courage and imagination that Bríd and Aideen had invested in their enterprise.
Maggie’s house was approached round a sharp bend so Hanna didn’t see the van by the gate until she was nearly on top of it. It was a battered-looking red Toyota with a roof rack and a tow bar. Hanna swerved to avoid it and pulled in farther down the road. Stamping her feet into her Wellingtons, she walked back to the gate with her coffee, glaring at the van. The colors of the local football club dangled from the rearview mirror. As she approached, an elderly Jack Russell terrier hurled himself from the passenger seat to the dashboard. Glancing up and down the road, Hanna saw no one; probably some farmer had left the van there while he went to check on his cattle. If it happened again she would have to have a word.
She walked round the van and opened the gate, making for the field behind the house. Then, pushing past the overgrown willow trees at the gable end, she froze. Only a few feet away, standing with his back to her, was a tall, stooped figure in a long waxed jacket with torn pockets. He wore nondescript corduroy trousers tucked into heavy work boots and a woolen hat pulled down over straggling gray hair. Before Hanna could pull herself together, he spoke, still standing with his back to her.
“Of course, you’ll want to make a fool of yourself over the slates.”
“What?”
The man nodded at the roof, which was covered in small slates, charmingly uneven and mossy. Hanna had planned to deal with those that were missing or damaged by finding replacements in salvage yards. Now, before she could open her mouth, the man spoke again.
“You won’t find them, you know.” He glanced over his shoulder, revealing a lugubrious, unshaven face with a long nose. “And if you did, they’d see you coming a mile off and God alone knows what they’d charge you.” Without waiting for a response, he turned back to the house, nodding thoughtfully. “I’ll sell that lot off and make you a bob or two. We’ll hang on to the timber, though. Sure, if that’s gone here and there I can cut into it.”
“I’m sorry,” Hanna heard herself sounding outraged, “do you know that you’re trespassing? This is private property.”
“Trespassing? In Maggie Casey’s field?”
The man swung round, and, for a moment, Hanna felt afraid. But he stalked past her without a glance. He was well into his sixties and obviously a local man so she called after him.
“I didn’t mean to be rude but, I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are. Or what you’re talking about.”
“That’s fine, girl, I’ve no problem with that.”
He strode on toward the gate, with his long jacket held tightly around him, stepping through the briars like a stork. Hanna caught up with him by the van. Inside the cab, the terrier broke into a frenzy of barking, his nails clattering on the dashboard.
Hanna raised her voice. “I don’t know if you know who I am, I’m Hanna Casey.”
The man swung himself up into the cab and the dog subsided.
There was a clash of gears and the van pulled away from the gate. As it disappeared around a bend Hanna stared after it in bemusement. Then, shrugging, she returned to her own car. Clearly the man was a lunatic but, somehow, his unsettling presence had spoiled the notion of her quiet, celebratory cappuccino.