32

With his eyes still closed, Conor groped under the bed, found his phone, and snoozed the alarm. Then, sticking his head under the pillow, he tried to go back to sleep. Five minutes later his mum tapped on the door and looked into the room.

“Are you getting up, Conor? Your dad’s fussing.”

Conor groaned. He recognized that nervous note in his mum’s voice. It meant that his dad had had a bad night and the day was going to be complicated. Now that his mobility was limited, Paddy McCarthy knew how lucky he was to have two sons prepared to get to grips with the work on the farm. But he still found it hard to accept his physical state, and the painkillers he relied on made him irritable. Some nights a combination of discomfort and depression meant that he hardly slept at all; and the following days were hard for all the family.

Today Joe and Conor had heavy work ahead of them in the fields while Paddy had plans to sit indoors doing paperwork. In fact there was no need for him to wade through the stacks of forms, receipts, and invoices that he hated, because Joe had transferred most things to paperless transactions; but without some level of involvement Paddy felt useless, and he had never got the hang of the computer. So, though nothing was actually said, a certain amount of paperwork had been retained to keep him busy. Conor was never sure that that was a good idea. They all knew it was a sham, and, at the end of the day, it meant a less-than-efficient business. Which worried everyone.

Conor’s mum looked apologetic. “He wants you to go to Lissbeg on the Vespa before you go up the field.”

“What for?”

“Ah, he was in there playing cards with Johnny Hennessy last night and he left his glasses after him.”

This was a disaster. Without his glasses Paddy couldn’t get on with his hated paperwork, and the fact that he couldn’t drive to Lissbeg to retrieve them himself would be driving him mad. Conor rolled out of bed and said he’d be down in a second.

“Thanks, pet. You know how it is . . .” Orla McCarthy’s voice faltered and Conor cursed inwardly. They all knew how it was and none of them wanted to blame his dad, but there were times when you’d almost want to throttle him. All the same, it must be hell to be so dependent when not all that long ago you’d have made nothing of lifting a mountain. These days if the poor man only wanted a night in Moran’s pub in Lissbeg, he’d have to be driven there in Johnny Hennessy’s car and helped in and out like he was ninety.

When Conor came into the kitchen Paddy was seething.

“What time did you stop drinking last night that you’re still in bed this time of the morning?”

Paddy was still thrown by the doctor’s edict that he was now off alcohol for life. The fact that lots of people drank coffee or stuck to soft drinks in the pubs these days didn’t matter to him; a hand of cards in Moran’s made no sense at all if he didn’t have a pint at his elbow. In fact, it took all the combined efforts of his family and Johnny Hennessy, who’d always lend anyone a helping hand, to get him out of the house of an evening: last night had been his first time in Lissbeg for weeks.

Now he looked at Conor sheepishly, aware that he was being unfair. Conor ignored his question and asked where he’d left the glasses.

“It was the back bar in Moran’s. I must have put them down on that ledge near the door.”

“No problem.” Conor downed his tea and nodded at the clock. “I won’t be long gone.”

As he wove his way through the morning traffic to Lissbeg, Conor told himself that he had indeed come home pretty late last night. It wasn’t usual. Late nights didn’t make sense if you had to get up early to work on a farm, and going out drinking cost money. But yesterday he had met Dan after work and they’d bumped into Bríd and Aideen. The four of them had ended up in the deli with the blinds down, eating leftover quiche. Then he and Dan had invited the girls for a drink. They went to a place just off Broad Street where the décor was more modern than Moran’s and the pints were just as good. Bríd and Aideen squeezed in behind a corner table and Conor and Dan had gone to get the drinks. When they came back Bríd grabbed a glass and raised it.

“Onwards and upwards!”

She had spent ages filling in forms trying to get grants to help promote the deli, she said, and today she’d had yet another refusal. Dan asked what she was going to do.

“I dunno. Just keep on keeping on. I wanted to get help to design fliers and someone to look at my business plan. But I suppose we’re on our own.”

As Dan went for some peanuts, Aideen mentioned the council’s consultation meeting. Maybe they should turn up at that and ask questions? Find out what the big plan was and see if they could feed into it? Maybe they could make a case for encouraging tourists to come and visit Lissbeg.

Conor had a feeling that whatever the council’s plan was it was likely to be dumb. As he sipped his pint he told them about the daft evening he’d spent with Miss Casey in Carrick.

“I’m telling you lads, the woman talking that night was scary. According to her, the average visitor to Finfarran falls into three distinct categories, all of which can be characterized as digitally aware and smart-phone savvy.”

“So?”

“God knows. She said it like it was some big deal.”

“But what was she on about?”

“Some app she’s designed to provide the smart-phone savvy tourist with a hands-on holiday experience. And there was a minister down from Dublin, nodding away, delighted with her.”

“Ah, for God’s sake!” Dan ripped open a packet of nuts and tipped them out onto the table. “Half the tourists I get are only dying to ditch the smartphones. Sure, they’re slaves to them at work.”

“Well, according to your one in Carrick, she’s going to replace an outdated, generalized interface with the ultimate in niche marketing.”

“And you believe her?”

“Of course I don’t, and half the room didn’t either. And the other half weren’t interested. The council just wanted the place packed on account of your man down from Dublin.”

Bríd snorted. “God, wouldn’t you think somebody somewhere would just take the time to listen to the likes of us.”

Aideen, who’d been trying to get a word in edgewise, pointed out that the posters for the consultation meeting actually said YOUR COUNCIL IS LISTENING.

Dan looked at her scathingly. “Sure, my dad’s worn out writing letters to the council and they never take a blind bit of notice.”

Before Aideen could answer Bríd thumped the table. “You see? The big guys get heard and the rest of us never get a word in.”

After a few more drinks she was thumping the table even harder.

“Do you know what it is, we should call our own meeting. Say we’re fed up being told what to do and we want a proper consultation process!”

As he approached Moran’s pub on his Vespa, Conor realized that from that point onward, last night had got a bit blurred. Nobody actually got drunk, but there was a great deal of table-thumping and a general sense that something needed to be done. Dan was fed up because he’d had to sideline the eco-tours and go laboring for Fury O’Shea to make ends meet, and Bríd said that half the girls she’d been at school with would have stayed in Lissbeg if they hadn’t been forced to go off somewhere else for employment. At closing time the four of them had said goodbye with a great sense of purpose, though Conor couldn’t quite remember why. Now, pulling the Vespa into the yard beside Moran’s, he peered in the window of the back bar. Mrs. Moran saw him and came to open the door.

“Ah, there you are, Conor, you’re here for your dad’s specs.”

She lifted the glasses case from among the bottles behind the bar and handed it to Conor, who fastened it into his pocket.

“Thanks a million, Mrs. Moran.”

“No bother, son. How’s poor Paddy doing?”

“Well, he’s up and down but he’s grand, Mrs. Moran. I’d better get these yokes back to him.”

Joan Moran, who could talk the hind leg off a donkey, followed him out to the door. “And poor Orla, how’s she doing?”

“Grand. She’s fine. Look, sorry, Mrs. Moran, I ought to let them know I’ve got the glasses.”

He wheeled the Vespa out of Joan Moran’s hearing and sat on it, turning on his phone. A message from Dan Cafferky appeared in his in-box. I’d say we’d get a gud crowd 2nite. There were two other messages, both sent this morning. The first, from Aideen, said: I’ve rung round. The second, from Bríd, said: U want help wit chairs? None of them made any sense to Conor. But a vague memory from the night before began to take hold of his mind. Moments later, it was crystal clear and horrifying. Kick-starting the Vespa, he told himself that his dad’s specs were no longer the priority. He needed to get round to the library double quick and make a confession to Miss Casey.