I paused, thinking back to the day when Red and the children came down. That was good use of the land. But no, we needed the money. It would be better for the long-term gain of the school. Nora was just using emotion to win. ‘Mum, I told you. It’s full of nettles and brambles.’
‘And what’s wrong with them? Your grandmother used both of them. Nettle soup, do you remember. And bramble jelly.’ She was pulling on her trousers now, buckling her belt.
She paused. ‘Can we just forget about it? I’ll carry on and you’ll carry on and no hard feelings? Hello, Fiona, yes, lovely day.’
‘Well, would you just stop? Nellie and Arthur and the others, they can carry on. But you, would you retire gracefully?’
‘I can’t, Tabitha,’ she said, as we began to walk to my car. ‘I wish I could, but I can’t. I am an environmentalist. That’s what I do, have always done. I can’t give up now.’
‘Why can’t you?’
‘Principle.’ She shrugged. ‘Bloody-mindedness.’ She laughed. ‘That’s what Rosaleen used to say about me. She used to say I was my own woman. And I think she might say the same about you.’ She smiled at me.
‘Bloody-minded?’ I tried to look outraged but I quite liked the idea that I was a little bit bloody-minded. She’d won me over, as she always did.
‘Tell me about Rosie, the poor loveen. I phoned her yesterday, did she tell you?’
‘I don’t really know. She seems better.’
‘I’ll get her swimming again, that’s what I’ll do. It’ll do her the power of good.’ She looked at me. ‘And we’ll go to West Cork. I’ll get the two of you down there if it’s the last thing I do. It’ll be fun. When was the last time you had fun?’
I tried to think.
‘See!’ she said triumphantly.
She looked at me as we stopped at the car. ‘Tabitha…’ Finally, she was going to say sorry.
‘Yes?’ I would be gracious and accept her apology, but I would also say how much she had hurt me and that it was not acceptable.
‘Could you give me a lift home? Puncture. I had to walk this morning.’
She smiled at me. That was the problem with Nora, she was charm personified. She never let anyone be annoyed with her for too long.
‘In you get.’
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning as I drove past the protestors, Nora waved at me to stop and when I slowed down, she leaned into my window. ‘Come and say hello to Christy.’
‘Christy Power?’ I said. ‘Red’s dad Christy?’
She nodded. ‘The very one. He’s writing a poem, or a collection of poems. He’s just read one out to us. “Nora’s Last Stand”. I told him there was no way it was going to be, but he said it flowed better this way.’
I parked the car and walked over to them. Christy was sitting on Nellie’s flowery picnic chair, with his notebook, sucking on an old chewed pencil ruminatively.
‘Well, young Tabitha,’ he said, and began to try and get up.
‘Hello Christy,’ I said, easing him back down. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I meant to come down weeks ago, swell the numbers a bit, but my legs haven’t been so good.’
‘There are new people here every day,’ I said. ‘It’s turning into a day care for the retired.’
‘You see, Tabitha,’ he said. ‘You never lose your passion. Eyesight, ability to sprint 100 metres, to cook a soufflé, but you never lose your principles.’
‘Since when did you cook a soufflé, Christy?’ said Nellie. ‘I don’t think it was on soufflés you were reared.’
‘Bacon and cabbage,’ he said, giving her a wink. ‘Like we all were. But I wouldn’t mind a soufflé. Just to see if they are as nice as they sound…’
He was right, I thought, as I listened along. They had created something, my mother and her pals, they had created a sense of community, a cause, a reason to be, out of passion and commitment. They had created a space for people to come down, have a chat, pass the time of day, hold placards and feel part of something greater than they were.
‘So, you’re never going to sell the land, are ye?’ said Christy. ‘It’s a bit hare-brained, wouldn’t you say. Have these fine people not convinced you yet? You are going to tell the developers where to go, aren’t you?’ He was smiling at me but Christy meant business. They all did. These were not pensioners who gave up. Christy had survived the death of his wife, bringing up a son on his own. He’d left school at fourteen and had worked his way up in the council to a nice, desk job. And he wrote poetry.
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘It’s kind of hard to make a decision when you have protestors clouding your thoughts.
‘I know you’ll do the right thing,’ he said. ‘Whatever the outcome. You’ve got a good heart, you have.’
‘Tea, Christy?’ said Robbo. ‘Nice and hot?’
‘Thank you, lad,’ said Christy. ‘I was just saying to your mother, how nice it was that you and Red were… you know, friendly again.’
Nora just gave me a shrug and a weird smile, as if she hadn’t contributed to this particular part of the conversation.
‘I’d better go,’ I said. ‘Are you here for the day, Christy?’
‘I think so. If Robbo over there keeps the tea coming.’ He gave Robbo a wink.
‘The more the merrier,’ said Nora. ‘We need all the reinforcements we can get. Now, Tabitha, at this board meeting tonight, you’re to tell this Brian Crowley, that you won’t be selling.’
‘But, Mum, it’s not that simple,’ I said, crossly. I admired the protestors and couldn’t help but be impressed by the community they had created, a mini movement. It may not be of the magnitude of the Sheep’s Head Peace Camp but it was significant. But it still didn’t take away from the fact that our school needed money.
‘Well, whatever you decide,’ said Christy, ‘we all know your heart is in the right place. Decisions can be difficult.’
I flashed him a grateful smile, touched by his kindness.
‘They don’t have to be,’ said Nora. ‘This decision is wrong. Pure and simple.’
‘Let me just write that down,’ said Christy. ‘It’ll be good for the poem.’
*
Nora had been right, I thought. I didn’t have fun anymore. The last time I had gone out was to Celia’s soiree and that didn’t count. But at Clodagh’s party, there surely was an opportunity for fun and to prove to my mother that I too could have a laugh. Drinking, music… and Red. He didn’t make me feel fun. Just awkward.
And then there was the not insignificant issue of what I was actually going to put on. I mean, what did people wear to parties these days? At Celia’s, everyone was in various shades of taupe. But to a cool, media party?
Unless you counted my collection of sensible suits for school or my tracksuit bottoms and cashmere jumpers (all slightly bobbly, if truth be told), I had nothing to wear. And the thing was, I wanted to look sexy. Attractive. Still got it. That kind of thing. Things that I hadn’t asked of myself in years. If Red was going to be there, I didn’t want to turn up in my easy-care separates.
Jeans. Try the jeans. And my black top. Better perhaps than with the black trousers? What about my ballet flats? Hmmm. I assessed myself in the mirror. No. No way. I looked like a nun on a night-off. Maybe it was the way I was standing, slightly hunched? I pulled myself up, ballerina style.
‘Mum! Oh my God!’ Rosie was standing at the door, laughing. ‘Oh my god what are you doing, you look ridiculous!’ She looked effortlessly gorgeous as always, in her old tracksuit bottoms, long hair loosely tied. ‘Mum… you haven’t gone mad, have you?’
‘I think I might have. I was just trying to look nice. It’s Clodagh’s party and it’s going to be full of scary media folk. No one eats, apparently, and they all have personal trainers and dieticians and food coaches and…’ I sounded pathetic, I knew that. ‘I just want to up my game…’