The Hat Shop on the Corner (20 page)

Councillor Richard Doyle took the floor. ‘I promise, along with my colleagues here, to raise your concerns about these important issues with the council.’

They agreed that their South Anne Street Day would be held on a busy August Saturday. Newspapers and TV and radio programmes would be informed of the traders’ attempt to highlight what small businesses like theirs did to keep the streets of the city alive.

‘What will we do if it rains?’ asked Sissy.

‘We need sunshine and blue skies,’ insisted Frank as they began to talk about hiring tables and maybe some parasols.

‘We shall all pray for clement weather,’ added the Revd Lewis as the meeting broke up.

Just like the song, Ellie didn’t like Mondays. First and foremost because Rory had only told her last night, while they were at a party, that he would be away in England for the next few weeks.

‘The lads are playing double dates in London, Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham and Newcastle. If they are going to get noticed and pick up some publicity,’ he predicted confidently, ‘England is the place to be.’

‘I’m going to miss you,’ she said shyly, wondering if he would miss her too.

‘Listen, Ellie, when the band go on tour, I do too,’ he explained. ‘You have to understand that. Next year, if we get lucky and get some gigs in the States, we could be gone for six or seven months. That’s just the way it works.’

She hadn’t meant to put pressure on him and cuddled up in his arms for a fond farewell.

‘Hey, beautiful, we’ll have fun when I get back,’ he promised, stroking her hair.

Ellie said nothing, knowing that if she was going to have any sort of relationship with Rory she must get used to his way of living and learn to accept it.

Reaching the shop, she noticed in dismay that the last remaining buildings opposite had been demolished over the weekend. Only their narrow redbrick façades had been left standing as the serious building work began. Overnight dust and debris had blown everywhere. All her lovely paintwork, the front step and the windows were covered in a dirty layer of dust.

Ria Roberts was standing in the street, shaking her head.

‘Look at the state of the place,’ she whispered. ‘How can I open?’

Scottie O’Loughlin had left his toy shop and marched up to the site to look for the foreman.

‘You keep out of the way,’ Ellie warned Minouche, the black cat, as she got out the mop and bucket of water and began to wash the outside step of the shop, ‘or you’ll bring dust everywhere on your paws.’

Rinsing out the bucket, she decided to wipe the paintwork round the door and then do the windows. Her mother had never tolerated dirt or mess and she wasn’t about to start. She’d clean up the place quickly before the town got busy.

Ellie got the stool and her cloth and a bucket of clean water and stretched as high as she could to wash the windows. The dust was everywhere, she thought, annoyed, as she sloshed the water around. She wished she had a higher stool or a chair to stand on or was a little bit taller herself: it was a much harder job than she had imagined. Minouche sat on the step and stared at her balefully, avoiding the drips of water.

‘Cleaning again, I see, Miss Matthews.’

Ellie froze. Why did he always catch her at her worst!

Neil Harrington was standing a foot away from her as Ellie perched like an eejit trying to manage the bucket and cloth and water and not wobble on the narrow stool.

‘Unfortunately I am trying to clean up the mess that your clients made when they demolished the shop across the way,’ she replied sarcastically. ‘The dust is everywhere.’

‘I’m sure it was not intentional,’ he replied pleasantly, ‘and that they will do their best to rectify the situation.’

‘Well, I hope they do,’ she said as the stool gave an alarming tilt.

He caught her neatly and steadied her, his hands around her waist.

‘Got you!’

He certainly had got her. He was clasping her firmly in his large hands, his fingers on her bare skin.

‘Ellie, please come down off there before you fall!’ he said, taking hold of the water bucket as she flung the cloth into it, the water sloshing everywhere, the stool wobbling again. Neil almost tripped over the cat, who’d jumped for cover. As she suspected, he’d got splashes of dirty water on his good suit and white shirt.

‘If you could just pass me up the dry polishing cloth,’ she asked sweetly, ‘that would be very useful.’

‘So you are staying up there?’

‘Yes. I’ll finish it off.’ She hoped he wasn’t going to stand there watching her as the window was smeared in places and still wet.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he said, ‘I have an appointment.’

She watched open-mouthed as he turned and walked three doors up from her to Ria’s shop.

‘I hope that you are not trying to browbeat poor Ria into signing one of your contracts!’ Ellie called. ‘Because that wouldn’t be fair.’

He looked offended. ‘I have a meeting with Mrs Roberts,’ he said firmly, ‘but the matter that we are discussing is none of your business.’

Well, that was her put in her place, thought Ellie, as she tried to tackle the window.

Just before lunchtime a team of window cleaners appeared in the street and went from shop to shop cleaning up, compliments of Casey Coleman Holdings.

The shop was quiet, windows sparkling, when one of her mother’s regular customers appeared wanting to order a classic navy felt hat for the winter without any trims. Beatrice O’Reilly, or Lady Bea as she was better known, was a large and forthright woman adored by children and dogs, given to wearing navy or red, who lived in a shabby old country house in Kildare and ran a kennels. Ellie remembered going to visit her a few times with her mother to see the puppies and play with the ‘hounds’ as she called them.

‘Binky, my spaniel, ate my last one,’ she’d confided, ‘and I have to have something good to wear to funerals and to church, especially if I don’t make it to the hairdresser’s.’

Ellie had nodded in agreement, trying to keep a serious face, for Lady Beatrice had been a loyal customer for years and had been taken aback when she’d seen the changes in the shop.

‘You have done wonders, my dear,’ she said, looking around her, ‘but thank heaven it’s still got the same atmosphere it always had. Poor Madeleine would be pleased.’

Ellie had shown her the felt colour choices in navy, promising to have the hat ready in less than two weeks.

‘I’ll be back up to Dublin then as I have an appointment with a chiropodist. I’ll call in and collect it afterwards.’

Ellie smiled and walked her to the door, her good humour restored. Did other milliners have clients whose dogs ate their creations and who regaled them with stories of their bunions and corns?

             

Rosemary Harrington stared out of the tall window of the morning room in her Georgian home on Merrion Square, and prayed that the rain would hold off and the sun would shine for the annual fund-raising garden party for Holles Street Maternity Hospital. She had been on the committee for ten years and she still quaked at the memory of the sudden deluge one summer when guests had to run for cover under the trees as food and wine, chairs and tables were abandoned. She studied the sky above and agreed with the meteorologist on Sky News, who had predicted perfect weather.

‘Thank God,’ she said to herself, and turned her attention to the long to-do list she had to get through to ensure the smooth running of one of the hospital’s main fund-raisers.

‘Everything OK?’ interrupted her youngest son, searching for his briefcase after a hasty breakfast of coffee and toast.

‘Yes, everything seems to be fine, but promise me that you will be there on time.’

‘Do I have to come?’

She arched her eyebrows as she gazed at him, sensing his discomfort.

‘Neil, it’s all I ask of you, once every summer to support the hospital where I worked and where you and your brother and sister were born.’

‘I know,’ he apologized, ‘it’s just that I thought I might do something different this evening.’

‘Like what?’ Rosemary knew her son too well, and guessed that he was just trying to avoid one of her favourite shindigs.

‘Maybe a swim out in the Forty Foot or a walk! I need some fresh air.’

‘We will be dining and listening to music and perhaps even dancing al fresco,’ she reminded him, ‘so there will be plenty of fresh air.’

‘Then I’ll be there.’ Defeated, he gave in, giving her a quick hug before he left for the office.

Rosemary watched his tall loping figure disappear through the door, thinking he was getting more like his late father every day. She still daydreamed of Sean walking through the door and embracing her, nuzzling his lips into her neck, making her put aside whatever she was doing to concentrate on him and hear about his day.

She refused to get sentimental today of all days and tried to focus her mind on the catering and entertainment lists, hoping that nothing had been overlooked. She put on her shoes, grabbed her handbag and leather Filofax and set off for the park, ready to go through the checklist one more time with Yvonne Callery and Beth Donnelly, her fellow committee members. Afterwards she had an appointment for a cut and blow-dry in the hairdresser’s. But first there were a hundred things to do before tonight’s event.

Merrion Square looked wonderful, Rosemary thought, as she began to greet guests as they arrived for the garden party. Chinese lanterns gaily swung between the trees, and the wooden trestle tables and chairs were set with gay pink and turquoise tablecloths. The large barbecue area was well organized, with long serving tables for the salads and breads and arrays of chicken and steak and hamburgers. The wine bar was under a stripy awning and there was a small group of stands and stalls, one showing the hospital’s good work, one for the raffle with the prizes displayed, and one with a luscious variety of ice creams. Rosemary allowed herself a smile, for it all looked wonderful. Everything was going swimmingly.

By eight o’clock the buzz was beginning to build up. The still summer’s evening was filled with the sounds of the jazz quartet playing on the terrace above the lawn, the air scented with the appetizing aroma of chicken and steaks grilling on the large barbecues. The stalls were busy and their loyal supporters had sure turned on the glamour for the evening, with silks and satins and chiffon in a rainbow of colours. Rosemary watched photographers from the daily newspapers and
Image
and
Tatler
magazines vie for pictures of the pretty young things and their beaux. Fingers crossed, they might make the covers or social columns tomorrow.

‘Rosemary, may I interrupt you?’

She turned. It was Jo-Jo Hennessy, her old schoolfriend, who had surprised them all by becoming one of Ireland’s foremost magazine publishing magnates. They hugged each other wildly, clinking their champagne glasses.

‘Cheers, Ro! You’ve done a great job. Sean would be proud of you!’

‘He’s weather-watching for me,’ she smiled.

Jo-Jo nodded in agreement as she gestured for Heather Lannigan, their fashion photographer, to join them.

‘Can I get a photo for the magazine?’ she asked.

‘Oh Jo-Jo, there’s no need . . .’

‘Our readers will be interested in seeing a bit of real style, I assure you.’

‘Perhaps the two of you together?’ suggested Heather, who was more stunning-looking herself in her figure-hugging jeans and trademark black T-shirt than most of the women she was asked to photograph.

‘Of course,’ they said, trying to look suitably relaxed.

‘Perfect,’ grinned Heather.

‘I have to check on a few things, Jo-Jo, but what about a G&T in a while?’ said Rosemary.

‘Sounds perfect,’ agreed Jo-Jo. ‘I’m off to rescue poor Charlie, he’s stuck with that awful government man he’s trying to get a department raise from. Don’t think it will do any good myself but I suppose there’s no harm in trying.’

Rosemary glanced over. Charlie Hennessy was deep in serious conversation with a bespectacled civil service type. Dr Hennessy, one of the country’s top paediatricians, would do anything to fund-raise for Holles Street’s overstretched neonatal department. Rosemary hoped that this evening’s fun would help swell the coffers of a few of the hospital departments, including his.