Chapter 14
14
Courtney was restocking bottles in the lounge, an expanse of sofas, armchairs and low stools.
“Which way is Ferne O’dowd’s sweater shop?” I asked. “Or the hardware store?”
“You going down the town to talk to people?”
News traveled fast around here. “You know about the damage out at Kearney’s Farm?”
“I do, yes.” There was definitely sympathy in her. “What’s the latest on Queenie?”
“You know she’s been diagnosed with—”
“I do. I do. Terrible news. If you’re talking to Brigit or Colm, tell them I was asking for them. Right, so. The hardware place is straight across the road. And Ferne is just up beyond the monument. Fine Irish Knits is the shop.”
“Grand. Thanks.”
Unexpectedly—because this was a solid town, not a flimsy seaside set-up—the air smelt like waves and water and childhood holidays.
In Hegarty’s Hardware, the man in the blue work coat looked neither young nor talkative. It was unlikely this was Ziryan.
Nevertheless I smiled. “Lovely day.”
Not-Ziryan watched me with curiosity. Obviously I didn’t look like I was there to purchase a spanner.
“Would you be Ziryan?” I asked.
“I’m Ralph. Ziryan will be in on Monday.”
That was too long away. I smiled even harder. “My name is Anna Walsh, I’m a friend of Brigit—”
“I don’t want to get involved.”
“I understand. Of course.” But I kept talking. “Brigit and Colm know they’ve upset people. They’d like to make things right.”
“Personally I’ve nothing against what they’re doing up there.”
“Good. Good.”
“But they’ve gone about it all wrong. It’s not Brigit’s fault, she isn’t from here. But Colm knows how things are done.”
“Is there anything in particular…?”
Ralph gave the far wall a hard considering stare, then swung his gaze back to me. “Look. The Skeretts have leased that three acres of Kearney land going back a good sixty or seventy years. All of a sudden the Yellow Meadow is to be fenced off and Aber Skerett’s sheep will have no place to graze.” For a man who hadn’t wanted to get involved, my new friend had become quite chatty. “For ‘privacy,’ they’re saying. Like any of Aber Skerett’s twenty sheep would be ringing the papers.”
I hadn’t known about this. No wonder people were pissed off. “…Is there more?”
“They want to block the right of way to the beach.”
Oh God, no. “This is news to me, Ralph. Could you fill me in?”
“There’s been a shortcut on the Kearney land from the Galway road to Silver Strand as far back as I can remember, and I’m nearly seventy. But someone said they’re blocking it off.”
Delicately I asked, “Would you be able to tell me who that someone is?” In a rush, I added, “I won’t say it came from you.”
“I can’t remember and I’m being straight with you. How’s Queenie?”
“Do you know she was diagnos—”
“I do. That’s desperate. I’m sorry for them all.” After a pause he said, “Maybe you should talk to Ike Blakely.”
“Who is he? Any idea where I might find him?”
“Often in McMunn’s this time of a Saturday. Big fella. Beard. But once he hears you’re in town asking questions, I’d say he’ll make it his business to find you.”
Well, that didn’t sound alarming at all.
I wanted to know more about this Ike Blakely, but I couldn’t bother Brigit or Colm, so I tried Lenehan.
“Ike Blakely?” I asked. “What’s he like?”
“Just a guy. I don’t know him. I think he’s a tree surgeon. Maybe does stuff with the nature reserve? He’s, ah…yeah, I don’t really know.”
I stifled my frustration. Lenehan was a child, basically 90 percent Adam’s apple. It wasn’t fair to press him. “Okay. Thanks. All fine.”
Why didn’t I just go straight to McMunn’s, wherever that was?
Further along Main Street, it transpired, claiming to be a Lounge Bar and Purveyor of Spirits. I pushed the door open and, in the hazy amber light, everyone looked up. Mortified by the hush, I crossed the swirly carpet to the bar, holding on hard to my manufactured smile. A few solitary older gents were dotted around the room; they had the look of career drinkers. But a gang of younger men was clustered at a circular table. My arrival had interrupted a lively discussion, the ragged edges of it still hanging in the air. One of the men was half a head taller than the others. He and I locked eyes.
The barman’s face was a picture of glee, as if anticipating drama. This was a worry. “What can I get you?” he asked.
I’d been planning to go with water. “A gin and tonic.”
“What sort of gin?”
For a moment I almost engaged, then, in the nick of time, checked myself. “Anything. The cheaper the better.”
“We’ve a homemade batch in a tin bath out the back.”
This was probably a joke. “Lovely.”
A man appeared at my side, the tall one, all biceps, bulk and beard. “Visiting for the weekend?”
I made an extra effort with my smile. “My name is Anna. Anna Walsh. I’m a friend of Brigit and Colm’s.”
He shook his head. “That didn’t take long.”
Had Not-Ziryan called ahead? “…Are you…Ike Blakely?”
“Yep.”
“You’ve been expecting me?” My tone was friendly.
He just shrugged. “Small town. News travels fast.”
It was hard to pin down his age. Late thirties? Something in his forties?
Just as confounding was his vibe. He didn’t seem unfriendly. Not exactly friendly, either. Cagey was probably the best word.
He wore workman’s trousers and some sort of utility shirt. His dark brown hair was cut very close to his head.
“So you know what happened out there last night?” I asked.
“I do, yeah.”
A rap on the wooden counter heralded the arrival of my suspect gin and tonic. Ike Blakely was already reaching for it. “I’ve got this.” The knuckles on his right hand were bruised and one of them was cut.
“No—”
He communicated some silent command to the barman, then told me, “I’m buying you a drink.”
“Okay.” I’d been told he was the person to talk to, so I might as well. “I’ll get the next one.”
He steered me to a corner table, equidistant between two of the dedicated solo artists.
“So?” he asked. “You’re here—why?”
The deep crease between his brown eyes made him look as if he was frowning. Or worried, perhaps. He reminded me of a beleaguered teddy bear, one who had seen the worst of human nature.
“Brigit and Colm want to make things right,” I said. “But Queenie is very sick, so I’m here on their behalf.”
He nodded. “She’s a great kid.”
“You know her?”
“I do stuff with the school. Take them on biodiversity trips to the reserve in Derryclare.” His eyes kept flickering towards the scar on my face.
“A bar fight in Guadalajara,” I said.
He looked embarrassed. I wished he’d just asked me about it. If a person couldn’t ignore it—and nobody could—a series of furtive glances created more awkwardness than a straightforward question.
“I’m in town to hear people’s concerns.”
“Look now. No one here objects to anyone making money. But removing ancient rights of way, demolishing a famine memorial—”
“Wait, what ? I didn’t know about that. God.” I pressed my hand to my forehead. “There’s been some breakdown in communication.” Poor Brigit must have lost all interest. “Listen, is there any chance you could spare me your time and fill me in on the issues?”
“I’m no one’s mouthpiece.” He sounded angry. Or perhaps worried?
So why had Hardware Ralph sent me here? Just to get rid of me?
“Ask around if you want to know why people are upset. Then hold an open meeting. Have someone there to listen—you, if you’re all that’s available.”
Oh now! There was no need for that.
“Hold it there, I’m not just Brigit’s friend, I’m—” I stopped. The last thing I should do was boast about my New York glory years.
A public meeting was exactly what I’d promised Brigit when I’d been flinging panicky solutions around—but I’d forgotten. Brain fog, courtesy of my age-related hormone shortage. It frightened me every time it happened. Maybe I could see a doctor here in Maumtully?
First, though, I had to focus on the work. Where would I hold this meeting? And when? However, I’d rather nail my tongue to the table than ask this man. Instead, I’d sound out Courtney, if she was still on duty.
“A public meeting.” I stood up. “Thanks. I’ll do that. Before I go, what can I get you to drink?”
“You’re leaving already?”
“I’ve a meeting to organize.”
“Then you can get me back another time.”
“Will do.” My smile was as tight as a cat’s bum.
“Aren’t you going to ask if I know who did the damage?”
I stared down at him, the smug fucker. “Do you know?”
“Like I said, this is a small place.” He lounged in his chair, his head tilted back, holding my gaze.
Most of the time, it astounded me that I was a woman in her late forties: I felt decades younger. But now and again, all the living I’d done let me know when I was being toyed with. Maybe Ike Blakely knew who’d vandalized Kearney’s Farm. But he wasn’t about to tell me.
Not yet, anyway.
I made for the door, feeling his eyes on me the whole time.