Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
‘What’s the matter?’ Ciara asked.
‘I read Martha’s letter to you again and realised that she never actually said that Jarlath O’Toole was the father of Madge’s child. It was hinted at but never confirmed. In fact, I have a feeling that Madge never told her sister who the father was.’
‘Oh.’ Ciara thought for a moment. ‘I see. You might be right. Martha never said in so many words that Jarlath was Madge’s lover. So it could have been someone else.’
‘I’m glad we didn’t say anything to Oisín and Liz,’ Maureen remarked. ‘He must have been talking about another girl that was involved with Jarlath.’
‘Or it really was him, but Madge didn’t want anyone to know,’ Ciara cut in.
‘We don’t know that either,’ Maureen argued. ‘It could have been anyone.’
‘I don’t think it really matters,’ Ciara said after a moment’s reflection. ‘Not to me anyway. I’m glad I found out that Madge was my grandmother. She seems to have been such a strong woman. But that’s enough for me.’
‘Me too,’ Maureen declared. ‘So now we can move on and get the bookshop ready to launch. I’ve already contacted my friend at Revenue and got ourselves a VAT number and registered the company in your name. I hope you don’t mind me doing it without asking you first.’
‘Of course not,’ Ciara said, smiling at her mother. ‘I’m happy not to have to deal with all the paperwork.’
‘I’ve also spoken to a print firm so we can make flyers to hand out at the tea party in a few weeks. The one at the vicarage, I mean.’
‘I’d forgotten about that,’ Ciara said. ‘Good idea, Ma. We’ll put some images together. And you know what? I’ve thought of a name for the bookshop. We can call it the Brian Boru Bookshop and have an Irish wolfhound as our logo. What do you think?’
Maureen nodded. ‘Excellent idea. Very catchy and intriguing. Better than the old name, I think.’
‘Yes, the Book Nook was a bit old-fashioned.’ Ciara got up. ‘I’d better go and get that dinner I promised you before they close. I’ll unload the van when I get back.’
‘Thank you,’ Maureen said, leaning back. ‘I’ll just sit here for a bit and enjoy the birdsong. It’s so peaceful here when the workmen have left.’
‘Okay. See you later. Brian, you stay here and keep Ma company,’ she said to the dog, who lifted his head and then lay back again, his eyes closed. Ciara laughed. ‘He knows he’s come home,’ she said. ‘Bye for now.’
‘Bye,’ Maureen mumbled, looking as if she was about to nod off.
Ciara left, feeling for the first time content at being settled at last and knowing she didn’t have to go anywhere if she didn’t want to.
Strange, she thought as she drove down the road, Cherrywood really feels like home now.
Maybe this is where I was meant to be all along.
Two weeks later, they were getting ready to go to the tea party at the vicarage.
The bookshop was nearly ready to open, all the paperwork done, the shop painted and a large supply of books ordered.
There were only a few things to get done before they could open, like a new stove in the reading corner and the garden furniture to be put in place.
They had, with Oisín’s help, designed the flyers and also ordered a new sign to put up above the shop window.
Ciara had calculated that they could open at the end of the following month.
She hadn’t heard from Ronan since that fateful day at Powerscourt, but she had tried to put her feelings for him out of her mind and concentrate on the shop and her new home.
No use getting upset about a relationship that was doomed from the start, she told herself.
‘How do I look?’ Maureen asked, coming into Ciara’s room.
Ciara smiled at her mother, who looked so youthful and slim in her jacket and skirt, her greying dark hair perfect, her make-up discreet. ‘You look lovely, Ma. I’m so proud of you.’
‘And I’m just as proud of my darling daughter,’ Maureen said fondly. ‘So let’s go and spread the word about our new adventure.’
‘You’re such a trooper,’ Ciara said, smiling at her mother, still so feisty and energetic.
‘What other option do we have in life?’ Maureen asked as she led the way down the stairs when they had settled Brian on his cushion in the living room.
‘We can’t give up when the chips are down.
Not that they are right now, but I’ve been there.
I found Martha’s letter very moving. She seems to have been a very strong woman, someone who was good at counting her blessings.
So we should honour her memory and do her proud. ’
‘Yes, Ma,’ Ciara said as they stepped into the sunlit street.
‘We should.’ She linked arms with Maureen and they walked up the village street towards the vicarage, each in their own thoughts but united in their goal.
And now they would face the people in this village that seemed so quiet but hid so many different life stories behind the crumbling facades.
Olivia Wilson looked like the epitome of the well-groomed member of the horsey set.
Dressed in a tailored blue dress, shoes with sturdy heels, her dark red hair in a tight knot, she was like a polished version of Queen Elizabeth in younger days.
Seconds after they rang the bell, she flung open the front door and looked at them for a moment before she spoke.
‘Hello,’ she said and smiled politely. ‘You must be Ciara and Maureen Doyle.’
‘We are,’ Maureen agreed, staring at the woman before them.
‘Wonderful.’ Olivia stepped back. ‘I’m Olivia. You’re very welcome. But please come in. Everyone is already here.’
‘Thank you,’ Maureen said as they stepped into a hall with dark wood panelling and a tiled floor. The room smelled musty, as if the house had only been opened recently after the cold winter.
‘You’d better hurry into the drawing room if you want sausage rolls or cucumber sandwiches.
Nobody seems to have seen food for a week,’ Olivia said in an exaggerated Anglo-Irish accent.
‘Follow me,’ she continued and proceeded to march across the hall to an open door in the far wall through which could be heard a murmur of many voices.
When they entered the drawing room, furnished with antiques that had seen better days, they were met by a group of around thirty people who all stopped their conversations and turned around to stare at the newcomers.
‘Mrs Maureen Doyle and her daughter, Ciara,’ Olivia announced in a loud voice, as if she was starring in an episode of Downton Abbey.
Some of the guests smiled and came forward to say hello, while others turned back to their fellow guests and resumed talking.
Mr and Mrs Lincoln greeted them enthusiastically and then introduced them to some of their neighbours, one of whom turned out to be Paul Murray, the man who had been so rude to Maureen when he called into the bookshop.
But today he was all smiles and charm, shaking Maureen and Ciara’s hands in turn.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘We meet again. Welcome to the vicarage. Isn’t it a handsome house?’
‘Lovely,’ Maureen said and moved away to shake hands with a grey-haired woman who looked to be about the same age.
‘How do you do?’ the woman said. ‘I’m Siobhan Murphy. I live a few houses down from you, in the pink house with the messy garden.’
‘Oh, not that messy,’ Maureen protested. ‘It just needs a little tidying up after the winter.’
‘You’re very kind,’ Siobhan Murphy said and took Maureen by the arm. ‘But come and meet some of the locals.’
They disappeared into the crowd while Ciara was left trying to chat with Paul Murray.
‘Your mother seems unwilling to talk to me,’ he said.
‘You were a bit rude when you called in,’ Ciara remarked. ‘She finds that hard to deal with.’
‘She didn’t find it hard to snap back,’ Paul Murray retorted. ‘I kind of liked it, though,’ he said, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘A woman with spirit is always attractive. I know I was a little brusque, so I’ll go and apologise in a minute.’
‘I’m sure she’ll forgive you,’ Ciara said. ‘She also likes a good repartee.’
‘Then we’ll have great fun if we become friends,’ Paul said. ‘But that’s in the future. Right now, I’d like to introduce you to someone who’s been dying to meet you.’
‘Who?’ Ciara asked as Paul took her by the elbow and propelled her to the far side of the drawing room.
‘See that lady on the sofa?’ Paul asked. ‘That’s Nuala O’Dwyer. The last living member of the covenant. She’s a hundred and four but as sharp as a tack.’
‘The covenant?’ Ciara asked as they stopped in front of the tiny woman with white hair who nearly disappeared among the cushions on the large chintz sofa that sagged in the middle.
‘Just my little joke,’ Paul said. ‘None of those ladies would harm a fly.’
‘What ladies?’ Ciara asked, confused.
‘Martha and her friends.’ Paul turned to the little old lady. ‘Nuala,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘This young lady is Martha’s heir, Ciara Doyle. Ciara, meet Mrs Nuala O’Dwyer.’
‘Hello,’ Ciara said and took the woman’s pale, cool hand. ‘So nice to meet you.’
‘Is it?’ Nuala said, staring at Ciara with her pale blue eyes. ‘How do you know?’
Ciara smiled. ‘Well, of course I don’t, but that’s what you’re supposed to say.’
‘Why?’ Nuala asked. Then she patted the space beside her. ‘Sit down on this side. I’m totally deaf on the other side.’
Ciara did as she was told and sat down beside the old woman, who still had a glint in her eyes as if she was enjoying the exchange. ‘There,’ she said when she had settled amongst the cushions. ‘I’m ready to hear what you have to say to me.’
‘About what?’ Nuala asked. ‘The weather?’
‘No,’ Ciara replied. ‘About Martha Fitzgerald and what you two used to talk about.’
Nuala smiled. ‘I thought you would want to hear that. But it’s a very long story. If you get me a cup of tea and one of those fancy sandwiches, I’ll be willing to share some of the secrets. I’m the only one left, you see.’
‘Only one left of what?’ Ciara asked, struggling to get up from the softness of the sofa, trying not to sneeze as the smell of mould hit her nostrils.
‘Of our little club, of course,’ Nuala said. ‘Oh, don’t bother getting up. I can see that nice young man coming towards us with tea and sandwiches for us both,’ she said as Paul Murray arrived with a small tray with two cups and a plate with sandwiches and scones that he put on the side table.
‘I thought I’d spare you the trouble of getting tea and food,’ he said. ‘Those women are like locusts at the buffet. There’s nothing much left.’
‘Olivia always does a good afternoon tea,’ Nuala said. ‘Even if the house needs a good airing, and about fifty thousand spent on renovations. You can go now,’ she continued with a flick of her hand at Paul. ‘I’m going to have a confidential chat with young Ciara here.’
‘I see,’ Paul said. ‘Okay. I know when I’m not wanted.’ He walked away, his shoulders slumped, the picture of hurt pride, but then he shot Ciara a smile and a wink over his shoulder as he went. She smiled back, thinking he was actually quite nice behind the grumpy surface.
‘He’s just pretending,’ Nuala said. ‘He knows I wanted to talk to you in private.’
‘I could tell he wasn’t offended.’ Ciara handed Nuala a cup of tea and a plate with a cucumber sandwich and a small paper napkin.
‘Thank you, dear,’ Nuala said and sipped her tea. ‘Oh that’s lovely. Nothing like a cup of tea to cheer you up, is there?’
‘Absolutely,’ Ciara agreed and took the remaining cup from the tray. She helped herself to a cucumber sandwich and took a little nibble. ‘So what was it you wanted to tell me, Mrs O’Dwyer?’
‘Oh, please, call me Nuala,’ she said. ‘Nobody calls me Mrs O’Dwyer.
’ She paused for a moment, taking another sip of tea.
Then she looked at Ciara with a serious expression.
‘I wasn’t Mrs O’Dywer for more than a few years.
And Nuala is the name my parents gave me.
But for many years, I was in a convent under another name. ’
‘What name was that?’ Ciara asked, feeling she was being drip-fed information. But it suddenly dawned on her what the old lady was hinting at. ‘Sister Assumpta?’ she asked in a near whisper.
‘Yes,’ Nuala replied. ‘That was my name at the convent.’