Chapter 14
On our way to Finnuala’s for lunch, we passed that lovely old house again, the one with the long porch.
There was something beautiful about it, despite its shabbiness.
Finnuala and Sheila kept up a running commentary as we walked along about a crab-apple tree which hung over the path, or a dog who poked his nose through the gate, or the bad parking of a large SUV which was half-up on the sidewalk.
‘Are you two sisters?’ I asked.
‘Best friends,’ said Finnuala. ‘Since before we were born, because our mothers were best friends and we were born a few days apart. We’ve lived next door to each other all our lives.’
‘She’s my son’s godmother,’ said Sheila. ‘He’s in Abbydabby and when he comes home, he always asks after his other mam.’
Finnuala smiled, proudly. ‘Oh, I’m Adam’s biggest fan, I really am. He’s a very special young man, isn’t he, Sheil?’
Sheila nodded. ‘We don’t see enough of him, but he never misses Christmas and my birthday which is August. And sends us both flowers on Mother’s Day.’
We turned down a side street, just across from Mary’s house, to a row of small whitewashed cottages, the doors leading straight onto the street. Finnuala stopped at one with a blue door, a pot of red geraniums on the front step. ‘Here’s me,’ she said.
‘I’m next door,’ said Sheila, gesturing to a matching cottage with a green door.
‘We’ll get the lunch going,’ said Finnuala, as she pushed open the door and we bundled in, their bags of swimming costumes and towels abandoned in the hall. The cottage was tiny and dark, but she led me into a kitchen where glass doors opened onto a flower-filled yard.
‘Tomato soup?’ She picked up a tin of Heinz from the counter. ‘It’s good for you. Full of something or other. It’s why the Italians are all so long-lived.’
‘I don’t know if the Italians eat Heinz tomato soup,’ said Sheila.
‘They would,’ insisted Finnuala, ‘if it was available over there.’ She removed a pile of newspapers and envelopes from a kitchen chair and gestured for me to sit down.
‘This reminds me of my Granny Annie,’ I said. ‘She used to give me and my brother tomato soup when we’d stay with her in the summer vacation.’
‘A woman after our own hearts,’ said Sheila. ‘Anyway, we eat very healthily. Don’t we, Fin?’
‘We’re going to outstay our welcome in the world,’ said Finnuala, nodding. ‘Walk, swim, the odd tipple. We read books and do sudokus, keep the brain agile.’
‘I even used to be a smoker, once upon a time,’ said Sheila. ‘Knocked them on the head when I had Adam. I asked myself, what I was doing, puffing away on these things? Gave them up cold turkey. Finnuala has led a life free of vices, haven’t you, Fin?’
Finnuala nodded. ‘Pure as the driven snow,’ she admitted. ‘I like being alive too much.’ She took out the handmade pottery bowls from the dresser, placing them on the table, along with a loaf of soda bread and butter.
On the wall was a framed poster of a painting of a white yacht, sails billowing, an island in the background which I recognised when I was on the beach yesterday, the words: Sandycove Regatta.
‘It’s the highlight of the village’s year,’ Finnuala said, seeing me gazing at it. ‘Will you still be here for it? It’s this Saturday.’
‘I’m not sure. I mean, this is only a short vacation and I may have to fly home earlier than planned.’
Finnuala poured out the steaming soup, straight from the saucepan. We buttered our bread and blew on the tomato-lava soup and I asked them a little about the knitting club.
‘Well,’ began Finnuala, ‘once upon a time Sandycove was a knitting and fishing town. We’re going back half a century or so when Antoinette DeCourcey began her factory.
She had been working in London for a while and when she came back home to Sandycove, a recent widow, with a small daughter, she was a great believer in positive action for women.
And of course there were some tremendous knitting skills.
And Mrs DeCourcey was an impressive woman. Wasn’t she, Sheila?’
‘Remarkable,’ agreed Sheila. ‘The jumpers would be shipped all over the world. One was worn by Mr JFK himself. Another by Marilyn Monroe. Did you ever see the photographs of her in that big jumper? She suited it, she really did. But then she suited everything, didn’t she?’
‘So we have this tremendous talent in our midst,’ said Finnuala.
‘We have the history. We have us, two retired best friends who want to harness all this talent. These women should be making money. This talent is going to waste. You should see the Aran knitting, the intricacy, they should be in a gallery…’
‘If they were of the male persuasion, they would be,’ said Sheila.
We spent the next two hours coming up with some kind of plan, from what needed to be done and the first steps such as planning investment, looking for grants, realistic sales projections and premises.
Could it be done from home? On this, Finnuala was adamant.
‘No, not at all. We need a space to gather. To commune. This is the whole point!’
‘Slow down! Slow down! I’ve a touch of arthritis,’ said Sheila, who was writing everything down and, soon, she had a long to-do list.
‘I’m only here for a few days,’ I said.
‘Well, look what God achieved in a week. We can do the same,’ said Finnuala, confidently.
‘And Rome was built in a day,’ said Sheila. ‘Those Romans could do anything.’
There was a knock on the front door. ‘It’s open!
’ bellowed Finnuala, and then there was Mary, Lucy’s grandmother, and another woman who was wearing a flowery dress and almost comedy-sized blue-rimmed spectacles.
Finnuala stood up. ‘Ladies, this is Kerry-Anne, our gooroo. Mary, obviously you are already acquainted, but, Kerry-Anne, this is Betty Boyle, she and Mary are our lynchpin talents, the power behind the knitting-circle throne.’
Betty grabbed my hand. ‘I’ve never met a guru before. This is an honour.’ She smiled at me.
‘Betty and Mary made jumpers for that film, the one about the man with the teeth and that pig. You know, got all the awards. The Oscars and all that.’
‘Those jumpers were awesome,’ I said, remembering the film which I’d seen on TV late one night.
‘We made thirty of them,’ said Betty. ‘Didn’t we, Mary? Knitted day and night for months. My hands nearly fell off.’
‘My grandson, Henry, bought me a hand massager,’ said Mary. ‘And he brought me these lovely oils to rub in.’
‘But there are other knitters in Sandycove,’ said Betty. ‘It’s not just us.’
‘We’ll need more than just two if it is to be a viable business,’ I said.
‘Exactly,’ said Finnuala. ‘It’s a co-operative.
A gathering of the elderly of Sandycove!
There’s brains and hands going to waste.
This will give us all a focus. While you’re here, Kerry-Anne, being a gooroo and all that, you can get us off the ground.
Like the Wright Brothers and their propellor plane.
We just need to get a bit of wind between us and we’ll be flying. ’
Betty nodded. ‘The village is full of retired women only desperate to get working…’
‘And men,’ said Mary. ‘My brother Eddie has volunteered and he’ll bring Matty as well.’
‘All hands to the deck,’ said Finnuala. ‘We’re not done yet, us oldies, are we?
Diana Duffy has an MBA and worked for Unilever Bros for decades.
Ethel Barry was a research scientist and Philomena Hogan was a manager at the Richmond Laundry.
’ She paused, pursing her lips disapprovingly.
‘The Richmonds were lucky to have her, that’s all I will say about that particular family. ’
‘A job’s a job,’ said Betty. ‘Sometimes working for the devil is necessary.’
‘You’ve heard about the cup, no doubt,’ said Betty.
‘We have indeed,’ said Finnuala.
‘They’re fighting it,’ said Sheila, placing a tray of cups and tea on the table. ‘Matty was telling me that there’s fierce opposition. But then the Richmonds are powerful. They have friends in high places.’
‘You know the Richmonds,’ said Mary. ‘They get what they want.’
‘They get away with murder,’ said Finnuala, darkly, ‘they really do. Betty, Mary,’ Finnuala ordered, ‘show Kerry-Anne examples of your work.’ She then turned to me, smiling. ‘I think you will find they are magnificent.’
The two women unpacked their bags and pulled out their beautiful, timeless, stylish creations inside.
Each stitch, to my untrained eye, was perfect.
But the perfection took on a different kind of meaning, it was more than perfect, like you couldn’t believe that a human had made this.
The wool was soft, not scratchy, and it was so strange but just holding it you were aware of the journey it had made, from sheep to wool to the hands of the knitter and now to here.
It was like holding something sacred. No machine had been involved, just an ancient craft which had been passed down from mother to daughter for generations.
Thinking about it, it was almost overwhelming.
I felt something again stir within me. I hadn’t felt like this for years and years.
‘I really want to be involved,’ I said.
‘Naturally,’ said Finnuala.
‘You need a website,’ I said. ‘Along with an inventory of what we have to sell now. List of potential buyers. Shops. Work out business model, do we knit to order? Are there other knitters who want to join the co-operative?’
Sheila was busy delegating tasks, writing names next to her to-do list. ‘Betty, you’re on gathering the troops. Get Diana on board, she’s a great networker. Finnuala, you’re on finding a premises. Get onto the council. Betty, you’re going to ask your son for a computer to do the accounts.’
There was much bustling about as the garments were folded and put away and tea was poured, cups handed out, milk added, tart sliced and served with a cumulus of cream.
‘Why do you want to bring back the knitting circle?’ I asked, as we ate and drank. ‘Is it to make money?’ This was always one of my first questions with new clients, to try to discover their motivation.
‘Well…’ Finnuala looked at Sheila, and then Betty and Mary. ‘Partly. It’s a skill to be able to knit like that, all those Aran stitches, handed down from generation to generation. Each stitch has a meaning, where you’re from, your family and all that. Isn’t that right?’
Betty and Mary nodded. ‘My grandparents emigrated from an island off the west coast back in the sixties, looking for work, but they brought the tradition with them. She taught me, just as she was taught, before her.’
‘It’s in memory of the old knitting circle where Mrs DeCourcey had the idea of formalising the skills more than half a century ago.’
‘But is it to make money or something else?’ I pressed.
‘Well…’ They looked at each other.
‘It’s worth more than money. What we want is actually priceless.’
But just as I was about to ask her what she meant, it was time for everyone to leave, as Betty had to pick up her grandchildren from a party, and Sheila had forgotten to tape a soap opera she was devoted to, and we stood at the door to say goodbye.
‘Slán, Kerry-Anne.’
‘What’s Slán?’
‘The Irish for goodbye,’ explained Finnuala.
‘Slán,’ I said back to them.
‘Slán abhaile means safe home,’ said Sheila. ‘Thank you for coming, Kerry-Anne.’
‘Will you be at the harbour tomorrow?’ said Finnuala.
‘Come for a swim. We can swim and talk and then we get going. There is no time to waste if we only have the Boston gooroo for the week. We need to crack on.’ She handed me her phone.
‘We need to swap numbers, now you’re on board.
Put yours in,’ she ordered. ‘It defeats me, this phone. But I’ll text you if I have any news.
’ She then spotted someone over my shoulder.
‘Well, hello, Henry, this is a nice surprise.’
I turned to see Henry and Patch coming towards us. He smiled at us. ‘Well, hello, Kerry-Anne…’
‘Would you look at that,’ said Finnuala. ‘Kerry-Anne already knows everyone in the village.’
‘What are you all doing together?’ he went on.
‘Finnuala wants to bring back the old knitting circle,’ said Mary.
‘Remember, I told you?’ She put her hand on my arm.
‘Henry will escort you back to the village.’ She turned to her grandson.
‘Henry, take Kerry-Anne home or for a lemonade, if she would like one. It’s Sunday evening, after all.
’ She reached into her bag and pulled out a huge purse and rummaged around.
‘Take this…’ She pressed something in Henry’s hand. ‘For the lemonade…’
He laughed and put it back in her pocket. ‘Stop that, Gran,’ he said. ‘Now, come on, Kerry-Anne, ready for a lemonade?’ And he winked, which made me laugh too. And I was only too happy to accompany him back to Sandycove, with little Patch at our heels.