Chapter 13
Maureen again had left a selection of newspapers on the table at breakfast the following morning.
‘Lovely piece about that Paul Mescal in the Sunday Times. He was in college with my nephew. Lovely lad. And an article about Sandycove’s regatta.
I hope you’ll still be around for it. It’s a wonderful day, sailing races, a big marquee with soda-bread-making competitions, best vegetables and all that malarkey.
One year, my little fella, Christy, won best costume in the dog show.
We had him dressed up as Johnny Logan when he won the Eurovision. ’
She was already pouring out my tea from the silver pot, somehow divining my need for caffeine. I’d slept weirdly, that kind of waking up where you are still dreaming. I’d still never dreamed of Caitlin, which both surprised me and relieved me.
‘Now, will you be having the Sandycove breakfast again? The soda bread and jam?’
‘Perfect.’
Reading the papers, I thought how enjoyable it was to have a leisurely breakfast, or any kind of breakfast at all.
This was far better than a coffee and a banana usually consumed while walking to the office from the gym.
And it had been a very long time since I’d read actual physical copies of newspapers as well as being reminded just how delicious home-made bread really was.
When had bread become the enemy when it had actually been our friend all these years?
The article on Sandycove was accompanied by photographs from what looked like the forties and fifties, people with windswept hair and toothy smiles, everyone wearing jumpers.
The overall winner of the sailing competition won the Lolly DeCourcey Memorial Cup, but this year, talks were in place to rename the trophy to the Oliver Richmond Cup.
Discussions at a recent council meeting, featuring members of the committee, became heated last week as William Richmond, representing his father for which the proposed cup is to be named, raised his voice when Matty Moran, a member of the regatta board, expressed his opposition.
Mr Richmond had to be restrained by his elderly father as he expressed his feelings to Mr Moran, saying that his father should be commemorated for the employment his family had created and no one knew who the woman the cup was named after and that they may as well call it the Mickey Mouse Cup or the Man In The Moon Cup.
So, even in Sandycove, people disagreed. It was quite reassuring to know that it wasn’t all harmonious.
The weather was beautiful when I set off for the harbour to meet Finnuala and Sheila.
I was wearing my new jumper, having left my blazer back in the room after spending the whole of the previous day feeling completely overdressed.
The sky was blue with scudding clouds being whipped up by the breeze and today the sea was crystal clear, the colour of Venetian glass.
I could hear voices floating over the sea, as I took the path which curved around the beach, towards the Forty Foot.
There was an old archway with the words Forty Foot above, and beyond was an expanse of flat, smooth rock, leading to the water’s edge.
The sea was high, lapping at the rocks, and people were swimming, stately, their heads proud, arms scooping the water in front of them, others had their heads low, intent on making progress, some floating idly, as though on a lounger.
A large woman in a pink floral one-piece and a swimming cap covered in flowers adjusted her goggles and then teetered for a moment over the edge of the harbour, before swan-diving elegantly into the water.
‘Go on, Finnuala!’ shouted the smaller woman, wrapped in a towel and sitting on a stone pillar, her feet resting on coiled blue rope.
Finnuala surfaced and called back in a foghorny voice, ‘’Tis better than the Caribbean. All I need is one of those cocktails with those little umbrellas.’ She flipped over onto her back and floated, her toes like two shark fins sticking out of the water.
‘Ah, wouldn’t that be nice,’ said the other woman, who had to be Sheila. ‘And a handsome waiter to bring them to us.’
They both looked over as I drew closer.
‘Ah, you must be Kerry-Anne Daly,’ said Sheila, turning to Finnuala. ‘Fin, quit your splashing, we have a visitor.’
‘The Boston business gooroo,’ called out Finnuala, while she was swimming over to the ladder against the wall of the small harbour.
I shook Sheila’s hand and introduced myself. ‘Such a beautiful day,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t expecting it to be sunny here.’
‘Really? What were you expecting? Have you been here before?’
‘A while ago now.’
Finnuala had now emerged from the sea and grabbed my hand with her wet one. ‘Thank you for meeting us in our office.’ She began to cackle and Sheila joined in.
‘Take a seat, Ms Daly.’ Sheila gestured to the granite bollard, making Finnuala laugh even more.
‘Coffee?’ Finnuala had tied a giant towel around her and was now pouring out coffee into the small cup on the top of her flask.
I sat on the wooden bench against the wall, next to their bags. ‘Are you daily swimmers?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ said Finnuala. ‘Since before we can remember, aren’t we, Sheil?’
‘Sometimes we’re in the Forty Foot and sometimes we come here.’
‘Depending on the tide and the mood we’re in,’ said Sheila. ‘Here is calmer.’ She smiled at me. ‘The Forty Foot is a bathing place. Rocks, lagoons, open sea. Some like to swim out to the buoy. Do you partake, Kerry-Anne?’
‘Not very often. But I used to love it when I was young. My grandmother brought us to the beach every summer and my brother and I would spend all day in the sea.’
‘Hardens you up, those kinds of holidays,’ said Finnuala. ‘We had the same when we’d go to Castlegregory where my mother’s people are from. Cold sea, tides, currents, waves, jellyfish, the lot. No namby-pambyness for us.’
‘Or us,’ said Sheila, drinking her coffee. ‘We would go to Donegal to stay with my grandparents and I do believe I once saw an Arctic iceberg floating nearby. Honestly, once I was so numb that my brother hit me over the head and I didn’t feel a thing.’
I laughed. ‘Same. I recognise those kinds of vacations.’
‘And how is this iteration going?’ asked Finnuala.
‘Oh, it’s not a proper vacation,’ I said. ‘More of a getaway, really.’
‘Getaway from what?’
‘Just daily life.’ I hoped they wouldn’t keep asking questions because what was the point of a getaway if you kept talking about what you’ve tried to get away from?
‘You know something?’ Sheila leaned forwards, her head at an angle so her words might travel more quickly. ‘That’s what everyone needs. A break from daily life.’
‘But when does a break from daily life become daily life?’ asked Finnuala.
‘Socrates, Plato, Finnuala Fahy,’ said Sheila. ‘Our great philosophers.’
Finnuala smiled at me. ‘If you do the good things every day, then add them to all the other good things, then the bad things don’t have room,’ she went on.
‘Ave Marcus Aurelius,’ said Sheila.
‘Ignore my friend,’ said Finnuala. ‘She does love to prattle. Now…’ She looked at me. ‘Mary told us you have a proposal. Or is it us with a proposal for you? A meeting of minds, that’s what we need. Your brains and our brawn.’
‘Mary said you wanted ideas of how to start an online business.’
‘Well, it’s more than that,’ said Finnuala. ‘We want to restart the knitting circle.’
‘I’m not a knitting expert,’ I began.
‘Of course you’re not,’ said Sheila. ‘We didn’t think you would be. But you’re the Boston business gooroo.’
Finnuala laughed again. ‘We should explain, perhaps,’ she said.
‘We have a knitting group. There’s a few of us in it, some excellent knitters, like Mary Dunne, I mean, Mary Campbell, who you have met, and Betty Donnelly who you haven’t.
They are superb. And we have others, who are producing world-class jumpers and cardigans and tank tops and all of that.
But the problem is, they are running out of grandchildren to knit for. ’
‘The jumpers last forever, you see, and there are only so many you can have,’ went on Sheila.
‘And then Mary had her success with Hollywood,’ said Finnuala. ‘They were in raptures over her knitwear.’
‘There used to be a knitting circle in the village where the local women would gather and knit together, and then all the jumpers and the waistcoats and whatever it was, would all be sent off to London. They were sold in Liberty. Exquisite they were. All our mothers and grandmothers were involved and we’ve been talking for a while about bringing it back.
We think it’s the perfect thing for us all to be involved with.
Those who don’t knit can man the phones or emails or whatever.
Someone else can take orders or send them out.
We think we need a little enterprise, one run by Sandycove’s wisest citizens. ’
‘Right… And from me?’ I was at a loss to know exactly how I could help. Normally, with clients, I worked with them for months, on product development, pitching investors, finding retailers. ‘So you just want to restart a business model that existed before?’
‘Yes,’ said Finnuala. ‘The knitting circle in the modern world, computers and all that. And we want to make a bit of money. But the most important part of it is priceless.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Well, if you don’t know, you’ll have to find out.’ She smiled at me. ‘We’re going home for lunch,’ said Finnuala. ‘Come with us. I’m a very good cook…’
Sheila cackled again.
‘I’ll be doing my special,’ went on Finnuala.
Sheila laughed. ‘It’s certainly special.’
‘Let’s have a discussion and get this show on the road,’ said Finnuala. ‘We’ll get Mary and Betty to pop in too. And this afternoon, I need to pick up my book from the library.’
‘Which book?’ said Sheila.
‘Blitz Being the Boss,’ Finnuala said. ‘Remember? I was telling you about it. It’s how to run a business.’
‘That’ll be the thirtieth business book you’ve read this year.’
‘Thirty-fifth,’ said Finnuala. She smiled at me. ‘Rule one of business. Find your gooroo. And look, here she is!’