A Keeper(6)

The idea of a Lonely Hearts advertisement hadn’t been hers. That brainwave belonged to her friend Rosemary O’Shea, the only other girl from her class in the convent to still be single. At the age of thirty-two Patricia and Rosemary were most definitely on the shelf. Everyone seemed to have found a man. Even greasy Annie and the unfortunate-looking Niamh Rourke, otherwise known as Beaky, had managed to march down the aisle. Rosemary was different. She seemed perfectly happy in her own company. She worked as a hairdresser in Buncarragh Beauty, though not even the kindest would have described her as the greatest ambassador for the salon. She had left her parents and four brothers out on the family farm and rented a small flat above Deasy’s the chemists. Last year she had even bought herself her very own second-hand Fiat. What use did she have for a man? Patricia didn’t really know why, but she trusted Rosemary’s judgement. She hadn’t seen that much more of the world but her certainty about things was infectious. It was Rosemary who had convinced her to cut her hair. The straight brown locks that she had worn at shoulder length for as long as she could remember had been turned into a short bob, with a side parting replacing her fringe. ‘You aren’t in the convent any more, you need hair for life,’ Rosemary had argued and somehow Patricia had known what her friend had meant. It was also Rosemary who had talked her out of shapeless pinafores. ‘You’re so lucky – you have a waist,’ she had said, indicating her own fuller figure. ‘Show it off!’ A pile of Simplicity patterns had been borrowed and Patricia had dusted off her mother’s sewing machine to make herself a few skirts that she had to admit did suit her. Rosemary made her feel as if life was possible, that you didn’t have to simply accept your fate. It was a lesson that Patricia badly needed.

At eighteen her life had been completely rewritten. After a car crash that killed her father and left her mother unable to manage by herself, she had found that instead of going to university or having a nice steady job in the bank, she was a full-time carer. As the unwed daughter, there was never any question that it would be otherwise, so she had turned her back on the idea of having a life of her own and wrapped herself in an apron. The last fourteen years had been spent waiting for her mother to get better or die. Now she had nothing. Well, that wasn’t technically true. She had inherited the large family home in the town and until they could find a way to wriggle out of it, a small allowance from the family business run by her older brother Jerry and his wife Gillian. She was already under pressure to sell up or do the decent thing and give the house to her brother and his young family. ‘What do you need with all those rooms?’ But she was holding firm. ‘That house is your reward,’ Rosemary reminded her.

They were sitting in the Coffee Pot, which was the nearest thing to urban sophistication that Buncarragh had to offer. It was owned and run by Eileen Moore, who was married to Cathal the printer. After a much-heralded trip to Paris, Eileen had decided to open her very own café. A vast gleaming coffee machine had been imported from Italy along with a huge marble bar top. Sadly, the counter had been broken in two in transit but Eileen put her sausage roll display case over the join and now you’d only notice the repair job if you were looking for it. There were even tables and chairs placed out in the street. Patricia’s mother had never approved. She couldn’t understand why anyone would want the world and his wife driving by looking at what you were eating. She would have felt like a cow in a field.

Rosemary carefully divided their chocolate éclair in two. ‘Well, there are no fellas around here. None you’d want, anyway. Anyone decent is gone.’

‘Cormac Phelan was about the only one I sort of fancied and slutty Carol got him.’

‘She’s a fierce whore,’ Rosemary observed while licking some cream from the side of her mouth.

‘Fierce,’ agreed Patricia and the two of them sat silent in mutual contemplation. How could a man be found?

‘Kilkenny!’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘You could. I could drive us in one Sunday. There are those big dances at the Mayfair. That’s where all my brothers went to shift girls.’

‘Rosemary, look at me. I’m thirty-two. They’ll think I’m a mother come to collect my kids. I could no more go to a dance …’

‘You could. You look great.’ But her reply lacked conviction.

‘I just want a nice farmer. He doesn’t need to be too young. I don’t even care if he doesn’t live around here. A farmer’s wife. Doesn’t that sound lovely?’

‘Yes.’ Rosemary sounded unconvinced.

‘I just think you’d feel useful. You’d be a team.’

‘I suppose.’

‘How do I find a farmer?’

This conundrum rendered them silent once more but then Rosemary sat up straight and fanned both of her hands in front of her. She had the answer!

‘The Journal!’

‘What?’

‘The Farmers’ Journal! They have ads in there. I read it in the salon.’

‘You get the Farmers’ Journal in the salon?’

‘People leave it behind. The point is they have ads in there, the “Getting in Touch” section. It’s farmers and women who want to meet a farmer.’

Patricia’s face indicated she still didn’t fully understand.