Chapter 23
23
In the function room, although it was only ten past seven, a healthy number of townsfolk were already drinking tea and eating biscuits. They greeted me eagerly.
“We’re looking forward to a bit of argy-bargy,” Moyna said.
It would certainly be a sure-fire way to identify “rogue elements.” But to my disappointment, it looked like the mass crowd from the previous day had been transplanted whole. Obviously, sabotage could lurk in the hearts of the most harmless-looking pensioners, but I sensed that the flingers of red paint had not yet arrived.
Was it too much to hope that a band of anti-capitalism brigands burst into the room chanting and waving placards? That would have made it all so much easier.
Another seven or eight pensioners flooded in, fluttering and calling greetings to their pals. Apparently they’d come “in the van” and were “making a night of it.”
They crowded around the tea station, making startled noises at the availability of coffee. “At this hour!”
I embedded myself in their midst. One of them thanked me for “The night out,” which triggered an outbreak of gratitude. But happy as I was to liven up a quiet Monday evening in March for these blameless souls, anxiety had me in its grip.
When Courtney came to replenish the custard creams, I grabbed her. “No one’s coming.”
“Calm down,” she said. “The real players will arrive ten minutes late. Ah, here’s the go-boy.” She studied Joey. “Wearing, if I’m not mistaken, brand-new ultra-stretch straight-cut jeans from Dunnes Stores. My eyes, as they say.”
“Anna’s idea,” Joey said. “To make me relatable.”
“That’s one word.”
Suspiciously he watched her. “How are you so knowledgeable about men’s jeans?”
“My useless other half has the same pair. I heard you were sniffing around Micah’s earlier. Be glad he was closed. If he’d been open, you’d look—and I know you’ll find this hard to credit—even worse than you do now.”
Half-heartedly, Joey punched the air. “Winning, as my six-year-old says.”
“Joey,” I asked, “can you be my assistant while I’m up on the dais? Could you take contacts? Set up meetings?”
“Yeah. Grand.”
Ziryan came in, then Ralph and Ferne. Who looked like an item. They all waved and descended on the refreshments.
“I’d better open another crate of biscuits,” Courtney said. “Now that Ralph McIntyre has arriv—” She stiffened. “What the hell’s he doing here?”
I followed her gaze. In the doorway stood a guard, the same one I’d had words with earlier, in full uniform and cap, his navy vest festooned with walkie-talkies and spiral cables. As he surveyed the room, Courtney whipped over and engaged him in low, jerky conversation.
I wanted to keep the law out of this. Assuming an attitude of calm authority, I approached your man. “Officer, we met earlier. I’m Anna Walsh, ‘the woman down from Dublin.’ Ahaha.”
“Sergeant Burke.”
With a glare in his direction, Courtney left us.
“What’s going on here?” Sergeant Burke asked, doing a bit of swiveling and swaggering.
“I’m sure you’re fully aware.” My smile was pleasant. “A small amount of damage took place on private property. The proprietors want to listen to any concerns which may have triggered the…ah…vandalism.”
“You can’t go taking the law into your own hands.”
“Of course not. We want to build bridges. But your presence here might deter the…aaah…mischief-makers from coming in tonight.”
“You want me to leave?”
“I’d be grateful.”
Suddenly Courtney was back. “Get out,” she said to him. “ Now .”
Astonishingly, instead of him arresting her for insubordination, they locked eyes. Impossible to tell who would prevail. Then Sergeant Burke turned on his heel and stalked away.
“Thank yo—” I began. But Courtney was distracted afresh as a gang of lads tumbled in. Wait now, one of them was the little feck who’d yelled “Not in my name” outside the church yesterday.
Tonight he was with four others, all bristling with unchanneled energy. I actually had some sympathy: they were teenage boys trying to endure the boredom of a small town, with precious few fast cars to steal and the spotty Wi-Fi interrupting their prepper playacting.
They descended on the refreshments and made loud fun of the urn of tea. Then they began throwing custard creams at each other, upsetting the elderly mass-goers. I had to do something.
Once again Courtney was ahead of me. She’d taken a firm hold of the main lad’s wrist and was leading him towards the exit. “Ow.” His voice was a whispered howl. “Let fucking go .”
With a sharp summons from Courtney, the rest were also dispatched. Was there nothing this woman couldn’t do?
Joey had been following the drama with quiet alarm. “It’s nearly twenty to eight. Should we start?”
“Right.” Pray for me.
That was when Ike Blakely and his merry band of tree surgeons arrived. Some of his crew sat down but Ike lounged against the back wall, his eyes on me. More people, all of them men, flooded in, in groups of two and three, in dark, functional clothing—overalls, cargo pants—Tipper Mahon and his brother Hal among them. These latecomers had none of the levity of the earlier arrivals. Courtney had, once again, been right.
Slipping my mic over my ears, I stood on the steps of the dais. “If we could all take a seat,” I said, smiling as if I were the most confident person alive, “we’ll get going.”
“ You’re doing the talk?” one of the pensioners asked, with naked disbelief. “I thought you were just a girleen giving out flyers. What about—?” Her head whipped round to Joey, who was at the door. “—him?”
Just because he was a man. Joey might have done okay—he had a good voice, deep and just working-class enough. And he had presence. But he was never not on guard. What was needed here was friendliness, openness—and I could deliver it.
Perched on the dais, beaming fit to burst, I waited while my audience sat down, stood up, removed their coats, coughed, tinkled their spoon inside their cup, stage-whispered Pass me another biscuit , coughed again, stood up once more and slurped their tea.
About twenty men, most sporting beards, were still clustered in small, defiant knots near the door. “Plenty of chairs going.” I gestured at the empty seats dotted about the room. Nobody budged.
“Okay! You’d prefer to stand…” and glower. Each to their own. I asked the universe for the right words and began. “Thank you all for coming here this evening.”
At this point a woman came in. Definitely not one of the pensioners, she was maybe in her early forties. She carried a bursting briefcase, wore a crumpled skirt suit and had hair like an off-center wig: obviously the result of an overambitious home blow-dry.
Despite her dishevelment, she seemed both busy and capable—and well known to tonight’s crowd, judging by all the discreet waving and mouthing hello that was taking place.
I carried on with my spiel. “My name is Anna Walsh, I’m a friend of Brigit’s and I’m here because Brigit and Colm can’t be.” I outlined Queenie’s condition and shocked gasps echoed around the room even though the entire town already knew every detail. Every word I said, every gesture I made, I was aware of Ike Blakely’s focus, watching my performance with a quarter-smile.
“The proposed retreat on Kearney’s Farm will bring employment and opportunities to this community, but change, even the positive type, is always disruptive,” I said. “I can imagine that many people here tonight have worries, concerns and questions. If there’s anything at all on your mind, I’d be grateful if you let me know. That way it can be addressed and fixed.”
A sea of extremely silent faces presented themselves. Every mouth from here to Ballinasloe clamped itself shut.
Quickly I said, “If you’re not comfortable saying it out here tonight, I don’t blame you.” I made myself laugh. “I’m dying of nerves up here!”
A healthy amount of sympathetic laughter followed this. Even one or two of the Beardy Glarers at the back cracked a smile. Automatically I took a look at Ike. Nope. Nothing.
Ms Lopsided Wig stepped forward. “Olivia French, proud to represent the people of Connemara Central on the Galway county council.” Lovely confident delivery. You just had to admire her. “There’s been talk you intend to only employ outsiders once the place opens.”
…Hold on, was she IrishPatriot? Not a chance, I quickly realized. Why would she level anonymous accusations when she was confident enough to air her thoughts in a roomful of people?
“The plan is and always was to employ local people.”
“We heard about some yoga teacher coming from Nepal?”
“There will be times when a specialist in a certain discipline will visit, whether it’s a yoga teacher or a…” What else had Rachel told me about Brigit’s ambitions? Past-life regression? Ayahuasca ceremonies? Very bad idea to mention them, I sensed. In this febrile atmosphere, it wouldn’t take much for rumors of Satanism to start. Suddenly the word “herbalist” was in my mouth. Saved by my brain! “…or yes, a herbalist! But only if there were no locals to fill that unique position.”
“The main reason planning permission was granted was to bring employment to the area.”
“Which is exactly what we intend to do.” I was very firm. “I guarantee it.”
A warm wave of approval for Olivia French moved through the room. Holy mackerel, politicians . Taking credit for solving a problem which had literally never existed.
“I’m already aware of several of your concerns,” I said. “I’ve good news.” I told them the truth about the proposed demolition of the famine memorial, the interruption to the right of way, the danger to dolphins, etc. This caused an outbreak of chatter.
“Has anyone else a question?”
A shout came from the thick of the men at the back, almost certainly from Hal Mahon. “When are you coming for a drink with me?”
Dear God . But I had to laugh lightly and behave as if I could be amenable. Pressing on I said, “If I don’t know the answer to your concern, I’ll pass it to the most appropriate person. And I’ll keep you informed every step of the way.”
“Okay, I’ll go.” It was one of the chair refuseniks. He gestured to the three men with him. “We’re tilers, between us we’ve thirty-five years’ experience. Half the kitchens in town have been tiled by us. But that wasn’t good enough for the powers that be, below.”
“Thank you,” I exclaimed. “I was hoping to get to speak with you. Could we have a more detailed chat perhaps tomorrow? Would you mind giving your details to my assistant, Joseph.” I pointed at Joey, tilted against the door frame, his arms folded.
I could literally hear the surprise in the room. An almost inaudible squeak. Honestly! But fair play, Joey was reaching for his phone.
Several more questions followed, every single one from disgruntled workmen. Joey gathered their details.
Eventually it began to peter out so I resumed my exhausting beaming. “Thank you all for your time. If you’ve still got concerns please email me or leave something in the suggestion box at reception. I’ll be here until Saturday, if you’d like to speak in person. Your identity can be kept anonymous, if you’d be more comfortable with that.”
I descended from the dais to applause. Even some of the glaring men were clapping while continuing to glare. Through a sea of departing elderlies, Joey made his way up the aisle.
“I take it all back.” He actually laughed. “You’re still sweet.” He seemed delighted. “You were great up there. Really great.”
“Well… good .” I was happy too. Happy that it had gone well, happy to be worthy of Brigit’s trust, happy that Joey was pleased.
Oh Lord! Hal Mahon was shouldering his way towards me. What if he’d been serious about us going for a drink? But hang on! Yet another man was swimming against the tide of pensioners: Ike Blakely, all bulk and attitude. In no time Hal was outpaced. He gave me a “Shucks, some guys have all the luck” eye-roll and conceded victory to Ike.
Who greeted me with, “You owe me a drink. When you finish up here I’ll be in McMunn’s.”
I didn’t like him giving me orders, but this might be useful. “Okay. Another fifteen minutes or so.”
Appearing shocked, Joey had followed the exchange. The moment Ike was gone, he asked, “Who’s the goon?”
“Ike Blakely. I told you about him.”
“You’re not actually going?”
“Of course I am. He might tell me something.”
“But we have this under control.”
“Steady, Joey. We don’t know that at all.”
“Have you your phone?”
“It’s upstairs, in my drawer, turned off.” Then, “Who do you think I am, Joey? My mum? Of course I’ve my phone.”
“Grand.” His tone was flat. “I’ll call you in an hour.”
“I’m a grown woman,” I said. “ Don’t call me.”
He took a moment. “Let me know when you’re back.”
“I might not come back.” Then I got a grip. I was hardly going to spend the night with Ike Blakely. “I’m joking, you eejit. I’ll let you know.”