‘You’re great, Chicky.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m lucky. So are you. Miss Howe was not.’
‘We made a bit of our own luck.’
‘Perhaps, but we listened when people tried to help us. She didn’t.’
Before dinner, Chicky carried Miss Howe’s small case to the van.
‘I hope some of it was to your liking, Miss Howe,’ she said. ‘Perhaps when the weather is better, you might come back to us again?’ Chicky was unfailingly courteous.
‘I don’t think so,’ Miss Howe responded. ‘It’s not really my kind of holiday. I spent too much of my life talking to people. I find it quite stressful.’
‘Well, you’ll be glad to get back to the peace and quiet of your own place,’ Chicky said.
‘Yes, in a way.’
The woman was brutally honest. It was her failing.
‘Did you discover anything here? People often say they do.’
‘I discovered that life is very unfair and that there’s nothing we can do about it. Don’t you agree, Mrs Starr?’
‘Not entirely, but you do have a point.’
Miss Howe nodded, satisfied. She had spread a little gloom even as she left. She would sit alone on the train back to Dublin and then get the bus back to her lonely house. She looked straight ahead as Rigger drove her to the railway station.
Freda
When Freda O’Donovan was ten, Mrs Scully, one of her mother’s friends, read everyone’s palms at a tea party. Mrs Scully saw good fortune and many children and long, happy marriages ahead for everyone. She saw foreign travel and small inheritances from unexpected quarters. They were all delighted with her, and it was a very successful party.
‘Can you tell my future too?’ Freda had asked.
Mrs Scully studied the small hand carefully. She saw a tall, handsome man, marriage and three delightful children. She saw holidays abroad – did Freda think she might like skiing? ‘And you will live happily ever after,’ she said, smiling down at Freda.
There was a pause. After what seemed a long time, Freda sighed. Although her mother seemed pleased about what she was hearing, Freda was confused. She just knew that none of it was true.
‘I want to know what’s going to happen,’ she insisted, and she started to cry.
‘Whatever’s the matter? It’s a good future,’ said her mother, pleading with her daughter not to make a fuss about silly fortune-telling.
But Freda wouldn’t listen and just cried harder. She was having no part of this prediction. It just wasn’t right. She knew. Sometimes, she thought she knew what was going to happen, though she had already learned to keep quiet about it.
She didn’t see a husband and three children. And she certainly didn’t see herself living happily ever after. She cried all the more.
Freda’s mother just didn’t understand why Freda was so upset. Never had she regretted anything as much as persuading Mrs Scully to tell a child’s fortune, and she would make sure it never happened again.
Mrs Scully wasn’t invited to tell fortunes after that. And Freda never told anyone what she saw about the future.
Life at home was quiet and a bit frugal for Freda and her two older sisters. Her father died young, and there was no money for luxuries like central heating or foreign holidays. Mam worked in a dry cleaner’s, and Freda had a very undramatic time at school, where she was bright and worked hard and got scholarships. She had her heart set on becoming a librarian; her best friend, Lane, wanted to work in theatre. The two were inseparable.
Freda couldn’t remember when she got the first inkling that she might have some unusual insights. It was hard to describe them. The word ‘feelings’ didn’t quite cover them because they were more vivid than that. Nor did she recall when it had been that she realised not everyone had the same insights; but over the years, she had learned not to talk about them to anyone. It always upset people when she mentioned anything, and so she had kept quiet; she didn’t even talk to Lane about it.
There was no passionate love life: as a student, Freda went to clubs and bars and met fellows but there was nothing there that made her heart race. Mam was inclined to be overcurious about Freda’s private life, and yet at the same time disappointed to hear that there was no love interest at all.
Freda loved books, and felt she had everything she ever wanted when she got her library certificate and was lucky to find a place as an assistant at the local library. Her sisters, though, were dismissive about her lack of love.
‘Well, of course you can’t find a fellow. What do you have to talk about except books,’ Martha said.
‘You could have bettered yourself if you had tried,’ Laura had sniffed.
Freda looked very defeated, and her sisters felt remorseful.
‘It’s not as if you’re a total failure,’ Martha said encouragingly. She had a very stormy relationship with a young man called Wayne, and was not predisposed to believe the best of men.
‘You did get taken on as a library assistant, and now you could earn a living anywhere.’ Laura was grudging but fair. She was going out with a very pompous banker called Philip, to whom style and reputation meant everything.
Theirs was not neutral advice.
It was during the run-up to Christmas that Freda got another of her ‘feelings’. They were having a family lunch to plan the Christmas festivities. Freda was coming for the day for sure, but Laura would be going to Philip’s parents’ big Christmas Eve do. Martha was very irate because Wayne would make no plans. What kind of person made no plans for Christmas?
Their mother edged the conversation back to the turkey. They would have their Christmas lunch at three p.m. with whoever wanted to join them, and that would be fine.
Laura fidgeted; she had something she wanted to share. She wasn’t absolutely certain but she thought that Philip was going to propose to her on Christmas Eve. He had been very vague about his parents’ party. Normally he put a lot of store by these events, and would tell her in advance who everyone was. No, there was something much bigger afoot. Laura was pink with excitement.
And totally unexpectedly Freda knew, she didn’t just suspect but she knew that Philip was going to break off his relationship with Laura before Christmas; he was going to tell her that he was expecting a child with someone else. It was as clear as if she had seen a newspaper headline announcing it, and Freda felt herself go pale.
‘Well, say something!’ Laura was annoyed that her huge news and confidence was not meeting with any reaction.
‘That would be wonderful,’ her mother said.
‘Lucky you,’ Martha said.
‘Are you sure?’ Freda blurted out.
‘No, of course I’m not sure. Now I’m sorry I told you. You’re just saying that because I dared to say you couldn’t get a fellow of your own. It’s just spite.’
‘Did you and Philip ever talk about getting married?’ Freda asked.
‘No, but we talked about love. Leave it, Freda. What do you know about anything?’
‘But you might have it wrong.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a sourpuss.’
‘Are you going to be talking to him before the party?’
‘Yes, I’m meeting him this evening. He’s coming round to my flat at seven.’
Freda said nothing. Tonight was when he was going to tell her. It was there in her chest like indigestion all day, as if she had eaten something that she couldn’t swallow properly. At nine o’clock she called her sister.
Laura’s voice was unrecognisable.
‘You knew all the time, didn’t you? You knew, and you were laughing at me. Well, are you happy now?’
‘I didn’t know, honestly,’ Freda begged.
‘I hate you for knowing. I’ll never forgive you!’ Laura said.
In the weeks and months that followed, Laura was very cold towards Freda. She cried when Philip’s engagement was announced on Christmas Eve: his marriage to a girl called Lucy would take place in January.
Martha said that Laura would never believe to her dying day that Freda had not known about Lucy way in advance. There was no other explanation.
‘I got a feeling, that’s all,’ Freda admitted.
‘Some feeling!’ Martha sniffed. ‘If you ever get a feeling about me and Wayne just let me know, will you?’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever let anyone know about a feeling ever again,’ Freda said fervently.
The Friends of Finn Road Library will hold their first meeting on Thursday September 12th on these premises at 6.30 p.m. All are welcome, and we hope to have ideas and suggestions about what you want from your Library.
Freda knew within minutes of printing out the notice in the library that all was not well. It didn’t take a psychic to see it: Miss Duffy’s face was stern with disapproval, peering over her shoulder. This Library did not need Friends, the look said. It was not a dating agency. It was a place where people came to borrow books and, even more importantly, to return them. This kind of thing had no place in a library. It was, to use the worst criticism possible, quite inappropriate.
Freda fixed a smile very firmly on to her face. In advance, she had tied her long dark curly hair back with a ribbon to make herself look more serious in preparation for this encounter. This was a time to look businesslike. It most definitely was not the time to get into a serious battle. And if she lost, then she would just wait and try again.
She must never let Miss Duffy know how very determined she was to open up the library to the community, to bring in those who had never crossed its threshold. Freda wanted passionately to make those who did come in feel welcome and part of it all. Miss Duffy came from a different era, a time that believed people were lucky to have a library in their area, and should want no more than that.
‘Miss Duffy, you remember you telling me when I applied to work here that part of our role was to bring more people in . . .?’
‘As library users, yes, but not as Friends.’ Miss Duffy managed to use the word as a term of abuse.
Freda wondered had Miss Duffy always been like this, or had there ever been a time when she had hopes and dreams for this fusty old building.
‘If they sort of thought of themselves as Friends, they might do a lot more to help,’ Freda said hopefully. ‘They might help with fundraising, or getting authors to donate books . . . Lots of things.’
‘I suppose, as you say, that it can’t do any harm. But where will we get seating for them all if they do come?’
‘My friend Lane has lots of fold-up chairs in her theatre. She won’t need them that night.’
‘Oh, the theatre, yes.’ Miss Duffy’s interest in the small experimental playhouse down the street was minimal.
Freda waited. She couldn’t put the notice on the board until she had Miss Duffy’s agreement; she was nearly there, but not quite.
‘I’d be happy to sort of run the meeting, I mean, I’d sort of introduce you as the Librarian, and then when you had spoken I could throw it open to them . . . the Friends, you know.’ Freda held her breath.
Miss Duffy cleared her throat. ‘Well, seeing as you’re so keen on it, then why not put up that notice and let’s see what happens.’
Freda began to breathe properly again. She fixed the paper to the notice board. She forced herself to move slowly and not to show her excitement at having won. When she was quite sure that Miss Duffy was safely installed at her desk, Freda took out her mobile phone and called her friend Lane.
‘Lane, it’s me, I have to speak very quietly.’
‘And so you should. It is a library that you work in,’ Lane said sternly.
‘I got the Friends idea past Miss Duffy. We’re in. It’s going to happen!’
Halfway down the street, Lane paused in the middle of writing begging letters for support of her little theatre.
‘Fantastic, well done Freda! The killer librarian.’
‘No, don’t even say that, it could be such a disaster. Nobody might turn up!’ Freda was delighted that she had got this far, and yet terrified that it would all collapse on her.
‘We’ll get them in somehow. I’ll get all our team here to go, and we can put up a notice about the meeting and pull in our audience as well. Listen, will we go for lunch to celebrate?’ Lane was eager to seize the moment.
‘No, Lane, I can’t, no time. I have work to do on the budget allocations.’ Imagine – people thought there was nothing to do in a library except stand around! ‘But we’re meeting at Aunt Eva’s tonight as planned, aren’t we?’
Eva O’Donovan was pleased that Freda and Lane were coming to supper. It meant that she had to galvanise herself and get into the day. First she must finish ‘Feathers’, her weekly birdwatching column in the newspaper. Eva had found that if she was very reliable about getting her copy in early, typing it neatly into her laptop, she could get away with outrageous views.
Then she must find something in the freezer that those girls could eat. They never had a proper lunch and were always hungry. Besides, she didn’t want them reeling around after a few Alabama Slammers. She studied the contents of her freezer with interest.
There was a sort of fish and tomato bake. She would put that in the oven when they arrived with some fresh tomato and basil. She defrosted some French bread. Nothing to it; people made such a fuss about cooking when all it took was a bit of forward thinking.
When she had pressed Send on her article about the great flocks of waxwings that had come in from Northern Europe, then she would choose a colourful stole and a hat and would lay out all the drinks ingredients on her little cocktail table. This was the best part of the day.
Chestnut Grove was a house that would have suited nobody except Eva: it was in poor repair with a wild, rambling garden, very shaky plumbing and unreliable electrical works. She really couldn’t afford the cost of maintaining it properly, and it might have seemed sensible to sell the place – but when had Eva ever done the sensible thing? Besides, the garden was full of birds that nested there regularly and were great material for her column.
The walls of her study were covered with pictures of birds and reports from various conservancy and birdwatching groups around the country. There were shelves full of magazines and publications. Eva’s laptop computer was there, half buried in papers. In this room, as in every room in the house, there was a divan bed ready to be used at a moment’s notice if someone wanted to stay overnight. And someone often did.
There were clothes hanging in every room; on almost every wall there were hangers holding colourful, inexpensive dresses, often with a matching stole or hat. Eva would pick them up at markets, car-boot sales or closing-down sales. She had never bought a normal dress in what might be called a normal shop. Eva found the price of designer clothes so impossible to understand that she had refused to think about it any more.
What were women doing, allowing themselves to be sucked into a world of labels and trends and the artificial demands of style? Eva couldn’t begin to fathom it. She had only two rules of style – easy-care and brightly coloured – and was perfectly well dressed for every occasion.
Eva took out her highball glasses and lined up the Southern Comfort, amaretto liqueur and sloe gin. She had a very well-stocked bar but drank little herself. For Eva, the serving and making of cocktails was all in the preparation, the theatrics and the faint whiff of decadence.
Freda and Lane let themselves in through the back gate of Chestnut Grove and walked through the large sprawling garden. There were no formal flower beds, no lawns, no cultivated patios or terraces; instead it was a mass of bushes and brambles ready to trip the unwary in the dark. Here and there, some late roses peeped through. But mainly it looked like a site which was going to be cleaned up for a makeover on television.
‘It’s so different to my parents’ garden,’ Lane said, avoiding some low-hanging branches filled with vicious thorns. ‘Their garden looks as if it’s auditioning for some prize all the time.’
‘Still, they do have i
t in great shape. You wouldn’t put your life at risk like here,’ Freda said.
‘Yes, but Dad isn’t allowed to have his vegetables anywhere that they can be seen. What would the neighbours say if they saw drills of potatoes and broad beans?’
As they reached the house, Eva ran to meet them. She was wearing a dark orange-coloured kaftan and had tied her hair up in a scarf of the same material. She looked like a very exotic bird that you might see in the aviary at the zoo. She could have been heading out for a Moroccan wedding, a fancy-dress party or the opening of an art gallery.
‘Isn’t the garden just wonderful right now?’ she cried.
Wonderful wasn’t the first word Freda and Lane would have chosen to describe the great wilderness they had just ploughed their way across, but it was impossible not to get caught up in Eva’s enthusiasm.
‘It’s got lovely bits of colour in it, certainly,’ Lane said.
‘Just the way the branches look against the sky, that’s what I love.’ Eva guided them into the front room and began to mix the cocktail.
‘Here’s to the library, Freda my dear, and to all the many, many Friends waiting to join in its celebration.’
She was so genuinely delighted that Freda felt choked. Nobody else except Lane and Aunt Eva would understand and care that she had made this great step. How lucky she was to have them. Most people had nobody to share excitements and celebrate with.
The cocktail nearly took the roof off her head. Freda placed it down carefully. Eva didn’t expect you to knock the drink back in one go; she liked you to appreciate its different flavours. There must be about five things in this, Freda thought, all of them alcoholic except for the orange juice. She treated it with great respect.
Eva wanted every detail of the new scheme in the library. Was Miss Duffy grudging? Was she hostile? Had she given in with a bad grace? What did Eva want the Friends to do, once she had assembled them?
She was so eager and enthusiastic that Freda and Lane felt dull and slow in comparison. If Eva had been running the library, there might be fairy lights around it, and music blaring from inside. She could have set up a cocktail bar in the foyer. Her life was like her house – a colourful fantasy where anything was possible if you wanted it badly enough.