22 #2
But as I reach the junction with the shop on the corner, I see Pat, Finbarr, and Gertrude standing in a row, staring up at garish red letters plastered across the gable of Pat’s Plants and Herbs.
Down With Plastic. Screaming scarlet in huge block capitals. All over the side wall that faces the road down to Hazel Cottage and to Oakwood House and Gardens. And visible from the main road into the village too.
Pat looks all of his seventy years, and I catch the shake in his hand as he lights up his rollie.
It’s a cold, grey morning and this bitter wind is threatening to brew up a storm.
He looks fragile for the first time since I’ve known him, and he takes a long drag of his rollie – the only time I’ve ever seen him smoke one – and blows out hard.
‘I may go tell Flynn.’ He tips back his head. ‘It’s my own fault, I thought this damn village could take a joke.’
‘This wasn’t the village, Pat,’ Finbarr says gruffly. ‘I’ve a fair idea who did this but they don’t speak for anybody in this village except themselves.’
‘They most certainly don’t.’ Gertrude lifts the hood of her padded coat to fend off the October chill.
‘Everyone around here knows you ran the most sustainable shop in the county.’ She lays her hand on Pat’s arm.
‘You’re the last person that would sell out to a plastics company.
We’ll get to the bottom of this, don’t you worry. ’
‘Damn right we will,’ I say, and Gertrude looks up as though she’s only just noticed I’m here.
She nods at me. ‘You go with Pat to fetch Flynn, Gracie, and I’ll open the library.
Take as much time as you need and make sure to give this man a strong cup of sweet tea as soon as you get back to the cottage. ’
‘Go on in and put the kettle on, girl. I’ll finish this first.’ Pat leans against the stone wall at the front of Hazel Cottage.
He plucks his half-smoked rollie from behind his ear and sighs.
‘It’s taken ten years to get the lad home, I only hope this doesn’t put him off.
’ Then he shakes his head and gives me a wry smile.
‘Nah, what am I saying. Sure, we both know there’s not enough paint in the world to keep him away this time. ’
Not enough paint, but Natalie dumping her boyfriend and asking to see Flynn again might do the job.
But I won’t mention that now. Pat has more than enough on, between retiring, moving in with a partner for the first time in his life, and selling his beloved shop.
And now this nasty, vindictive vandalism putting a damper on all his plans
I’m glad he has Flynn here to help, at least for a while.
But then that’s what Flynn does. Drops everything to be there for the people who need him most. He did it for his mam, he’s here now for Pat.
And he’s been here for me too, listening, standing up for me, even kissing me when I asked.
It’s time he put himself first and I need to make sure that he does.
But right now, I need to make Pat that pot of tea. And break the bad news.
Flynn’s loading the dishwasher when I open the door. He’s got a tea towel draped over his shoulder and his hair’s tousled from all that tugging while he talked to his mam.
He looks cute, way too cute, so cute I almost forget why I’m here.
‘This is a good surprise.’ His eyes widen as I shrug off my jacket. ‘Did you decide you could make time for that kiss after all?’ He closes the dishwasher and starts walking towards me with that impish smile when Pat coughs, raps the door, and walks in.
‘What’s going on? What happened?’ Flynn stares at his uncle, eyes narrowed, forehead creased with concern. I don’t think Flynn’s ever seen Pat look fragile either.
Pat leans against the doorframe and rubs at his jaw, just like Flynn does when he’s worried or upset. ‘Leave that, Gracie, there’s no need,’ he tells me as I reach for the kettle. ‘Flynn, lad, you’d better come with me. There’s something we need to show you.’
‘Idiots.’ Flynn huffs an exasperated sigh as we stand in the yard at the back of the shop and survey the rest of the damage. ‘What a waste.’
‘At least we have a fair idea who it was.’ I lift the empty paint can out of the mucky black sack that I found stashed behind the mound of smashed-up pumpkins.
There’s bright red paint everywhere, streaking the battered chunks and pulpy seeds, and pooling over the patch of grass by the wall where the pumpkins were piled, ready to be collected for decorating next week.
The mound of turnips at the other end is fully intact and paint-free.
‘Christ,’ Pat grunts. ‘If they’d just bashed them without all that bloody paint I could have used them for compost.’
‘Do want me to give the sergeant in Portville a call?’ Finbarr asks. ‘He can send someone to file a report.’
‘Ah, it’s not worth the hassle.’ Pat shrugs. ‘It’s not like we need an investigation.’ He points to the paint-spattered remains. ‘This has Barty written all over it.’
‘It sure does.’ I hold up the black plastic sack which looks exactly like the sack Barty was carrying the day he deposited his mucky turnips on my desk. It even has the same earthy clumps clinging to the ridge at the bottom.
‘He’s not the brightest.’ Pat rubs at his neck. ‘And him and Moll had a hard life. My mother told me all about it.’
‘Plenty of people had a hard life,’ Finbarr growls. He folds his arms across the thick wool of his long winter coat. ‘But they don’t go around trying to make other people’s lives even harder.’
‘Maybe. But I’m not sure that was all their idea.
’ Pat points to the gable wall. ‘Gracie told me they came into the library waving laminated placards with the same exact words. But they don’t have a car and there’s no way they have a laminator.
The only place around here selling paint was my shop.
And I only sold the eco-friendly stuff for garden furniture and fencing, not that toxic stuff they’ve plastered everywhere.
’ He shakes his head deliberately. ‘Something doesn’t add up. ’
‘Pat’s right.’ Flynn sighs. ‘There’s no point getting the guards involved. What are they going to do? Lock them up for smashing a few pumpkins and throwing a bit of paint around?’ He nudges a battered husk with his boot. ‘I’d rather focus on what we can do to get this place cleaned up.’
‘Well, I’m not letting them off that easily.
’ Finbarr pulls his car keys from his pocket and waves them in his fist. ‘I’m going to go have words with the pair of them and I’ll tell them that I’ve made an executive decision.
They’re barred from our Samhain Fest. There’ll be no Halloween for the Stringers this year. ’
Flynn chuckles, and I have to smile. Only he and Pat would take this so lightly and focus on how to fix things rather than worrying about revenge. I’m not feeling quite so kind.
‘And while you’re at it, Finbarr, tell them I’m proposing a motion at the next village meeting.
If they defy your barring order and turn up at any of our events, the villagers will gather on Samhain’s Eve, and we’ll put the pair of them in stocks and pelt them with turnip mash. Tell them I’ll organise it myself.’
Flynn and Pat both crease forward, shoulders shaking, trying not to laugh.
‘When did you become so tough on crime?’ Flynn grins at me. ‘What happened to the sweet, gentle girl I used to know?’
I hike one shoulder, grin back. ‘Somebody told me I needed to toughen up.’