Hanna was halfway across the parking lot when she decided that instead of sitting in the rush-hour traffic she would take herself off for the drink that she’d offered Brian Morton. As she turned she saw Ger Fitz, Pat’s husband, walking toward the door of the council building. Immediately behind him was Joe Furlong, the owner of Ballyfin’s largest hotel. Joe wasn’t exactly a friend but he and Hanna had met frequently, so she waved. Ger, who was ahead of him, had already gone into the building, but to Hanna’s surprise, Joe turned his head, apparently choosing to ignore her. It seemed so unlikely that she waved again, thinking that he hadn’t recognized her. But with one shoulder hunched, as if to make himself less visible, he disappeared through the door without looking back. Perhaps he hadn’t seen her, or maybe he was late for an appointment. Still, it was odd. He knew her well enough to know her reputation for reserve, so he couldn’t have feared that she’d hold him up by rushing across the parking lot demanding a chat.
Puzzled but not particularly bothered, she crossed the road, made her way into the town center, and found herself a corner in the lounge bar of The Royal Victoria Hotel. The bar was cool and dark, with half-drawn blinds and huge brass ceiling fans that were never turned on and could never have been needed, given Carrick’s climate. The hotel had been built in anticipation of a visit to Finfarran by a minor member of the British royal family in the late nineteenth century. Its name was a tribute to the Queen Empress, and its Victorian investors had hoped that, as the gateway to the county’s beautiful peninsula, Carrick might become a regular royal destination, putting the Lakes of Killarney in the shade. But the minor royal had turned up with a head cold, it had rained for the twenty-four hours of his stay, and, instead of experiencing the delights of Finfarran, he had stayed in bed issuing irate complaints about knocks in the hotel’s heating system. The problem with the hot water pipes had been solved a week later, and the sun was splitting the stones an hour after he left, but it was all too late. It was to be more than a hundred years before Ballyfin became the worst-kept secret in the world, and by then most visitors to Carrick preferred modern hotel rooms with en suite power showers. But visitors who did stay at The Royal Victoria found quiet rooms, comfortable beds, and a public area full of mahogany furniture and faded velvet upholstery; so they returned again and again. There was a Ladies’ Lounge with writing tables, embossed notepaper, and brass inkstands; a Gentlemen’s Smoking Room that had become an informal Residents’ Library; a Grill Room much frequented by bank managers; and the bar, which served coffee and sandwiches as well as alcohol. The staff was predominantly middle-aged and the service was excellent. A few of the bartenders were Polish and Romanian students, and, watching the dynamic between them and their coworkers, Hanna reckoned that they’d fallen on their feet; it was obvious that the waitresses mothered them and the head bartender, who had a rigid comb-over and an encyclopedic knowledge of wines and spirits, adored being a professional mentor.
It was the bar that kept The Royal Victoria going. Local businessmen used it for meetings, shoppers popped in for a coffee, and PJ, the bartender, had instituted an efficient lunchtime takeaway service that produced long lines of office workers waiting for freshly made sandwiches. Now, settling into her corner with a gin and tonic, a little dish of almonds and olives, and ribbons of rare beef between thinly cut slices of bread, Hanna congratulated herself on her own decision-making. Not only would she avoid the rush hour around Carrick but, with any luck, Pat Fitz and Mary Casey would have finished their chat by the time she got home to Crossarra. Her parents’ friendship with the Fitzgeralds had always seemed to Hanna to be an unlikely one. Perhaps Pat, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, was a foil for Mary Casey’s brashness, but Ger Fitzgerald was just a creep, with his mimsy mouth, cold eyes, and ghastly false smile behind the counter. Conor’s theory that he was a secret Maeve Binchy reader did nothing to improve the picture, though Hanna was sure that that was nothing but fantasy. All the same, there had been that rasher of bacon in the copy of Circle of Friends. Now sipping her gin and tonic, Hanna leaned back and smiled. It was a reprehensible habit, of course, but people did leave the most interesting things in library books. Strands of wool, holy pictures, blades of grass, even bank notes. And ephemera like that flier for the art exhibition that had changed the course of her own life.
And this was her life now, a square peg in a round hole to which the pleasure of her new home might yet reconcile her. Unaccountably, or perhaps because he, too, had seemed out of place in this context, her mind flitted back to Brian Morton. She was sorry to have snubbed him when he’d been so kind, but had he needed to be so touchy? Surely he was too senior to worry about accusations of leaving work early? Come to think of it, surely he was too senior for the level at which he worked? His easy, authoritative manner when he was giving her advice had suggested a departmental head rather than what Conor called a pen pusher. Not that it mattered or that Hanna cared. She had appreciated his help though, and now, looking back, she remembered his advice. He had listened to her rant about irresponsible rogue builders who acted unilaterally, waited till she ran out of breath, and then raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“Would we be talking about Fury O’Shea?”
Hanna’s disconcertion must have been evident; she hadn’t intended to bad-mouth Fury to a stranger, let alone to an official. But Brian had smiled.
“Fury may be a law unto himself but you couldn’t have a better builder.”
“So everyone tells me. Still, he’d try the patience of a saint.”
“I’ll tell you what might help, though you won’t thank me for it.”
“Go on, then.”
“Fury belongs to the old school. As far as he’s concerned, once he starts to work on it, your house isn’t yours, it’s his. You’ll get it back when he signs the job off and no sooner. Not that Fury ever signs anything. But that’s another story. No one in this office has ever been able to tell whether he’s illiterate or just canny.”
Seeing Hanna’s face, he laughed. “I said you wouldn’t thank me for it, but it’s the truth. And if you’ll accept it I’d say you’ll have an easier time.”
Hanna hadn’t thanked him, and the idea of handing over control of her only asset to an irresponsible illiterate was patently absurd. But, since she appeared to be stuck with Fury, it was good to know that someone other than the seniors at the day-care center rated him as a builder.
“But if he’s illiterate, how on earth does he cope with the system?”
“In my view, it’s up to the system to cope with him. Not that many of my colleagues would agree with me.”
He had seemed irritated so perhaps that was it. Maybe Brian Morton was seen by his department as a maverick who was unsuitable for promotion. Maverick behavior had no place in the ethos of Finfarran’s county council, where most people were in the business of securing a job for life. All the same, Hanna had a strong suspicion that that wasn’t the whole story. Though she told herself she was unlikely to discover the rest of it, given how they’d parted.
Now, as PJ the bartender appeared with more nuts and olives, she glanced at her watch.
“Another gin and tonic, Miss Casey?”
“No thanks, PJ, I’m driving.”
“Maybe a coffee, then?”
It had only been a small gin and tonic but, mindful of her own repeated warnings to Jazz, Hanna nodded. Coffee at The Royal Victoria was always perfectly brewed and came in shallow china cups with a finger of shortbread. She had a copy of Saki’s short stories in her handbag, which would read well in the context of this imperial white elephant. And another half hour or so under the silent ceiling fans might ensure that Pat and Mary had finished their chat by the time she got home to the bungalow.