A Week in Winter(95)

Miss Duffy was vague, and said they were from a friend. She looked at her reflection in the glass doors and patted her hair several times. There was a thoughtful look in her eye.

Freda gave up.

When she was separating the long roses from the green ferns to arrange them better, she found the card that had come with the flowers.

. . . Now I want to be a Friend of the Librarian. They were for her. She realised it with a shock that was almost physical. But who was it? And what did he mean? And why had he not put Freda’s name on them, instead of letting Miss Duffy think they were for her? She felt everything slowing down and becoming slightly unreal. There were far too many questions. She wanted to be alone to think about why she felt so uneasy and slightly shaky.

Lane had been on the phone to Eva to ask her what colour were a puffin’s legs.

Eva hadn’t hesitated. ‘Orange,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘And the beak? We’re painting scenery. Tell me about the beak, I know the shape and everything but what colour is it?’

‘Blue, yellow and orange. But you have to get the colours in the right order.’

‘I don’t mean an exotic puffin like in an aviary, I mean just an Irish puffin.’

‘That’s it, that’s a home-grown puffin. Come into the library – I’m just on my way there myself. I’ll point you to the books.’

‘I think I’d better. Birds with a blue, yellow and orange beak! You’d have to be on something very attitude-changing to see that in Ireland.’

They met on the steps.

‘We’re painting these huge backdrops for the next production,’ she explained. ‘I need to be sure about the puffins’ beak and legs. Are they really all colours of the rainbow, or were you having me on?’

‘Beaks have three colours, legs are orange – mostly during the breeding season. Much duller in winter,’ Eva confirmed.

‘Merciful God, in Ireland, birds like that!’

‘Well, if you ever came with us over to the Atlantic coast, you’d see them for yourself, whole colonies of them,’ Eva said reprovingly. ‘There’s a place called Stoneybridge. You should come along.’

And as they went in, they saw Freda at the counter talking to someone. She was pointing at a brochure and Freda was laughing and shaking her head. Her eyes were bright and she looked so young, so animated and alive in this old, grey building. Miss Duffy wore her usual navy wool cardigan with a small white lace collar; she was demure and full of gravitas. Freda in contrast wore a red shirt over black trousers. She had her black curly hair tied back with a big red ribbon. She looked like a colourful flower in the middle of it all, Lane thought. No wonder they were all queuing up to talk to her.

Waiting next in line was a man in a cashmere scarf and a very well-cut overcoat. He was looking at Freda intently.

Lane held back suddenly. She didn’t know why, but she felt faintly uneasy.

‘What is it?’ Eva asked.

‘That man, waiting to speak to Freda,’ Lane whispered.

‘I can’t see him,’ Eva complained.

‘Come this way, so. You’ll see him then and you won’t distract her.’

They both saw the way Freda was looking at the man who had approached her. It was just too far to hear what she was saying but her face had changed completely.

Whoever he was, he was significant.

Lane disliked him on sight.

‘Did you like my flowers?’

‘The ones for Miss Duffy, the Librarian? They’re lovely. Shall I get her for you?’

He paused to smell one of the roses. ‘They were for you, Freda.’ He was very good-looking, and there was such warmth in his smile.

She couldn’t help smiling back, though if Freda had ever known how to flirt she had forgotten the technique.

‘You weren’t at the Friends evening,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I’d have remembered you.’

‘Oh but I was here. I didn’t know about the meeting, I just came in when the rain came on. I stood at the back, over there.’ He pointed to a pillar beside the back door.

‘You didn’t sit down?’

‘No, I only wanted to miss the worst of the downpour, and I thought a talk in the library would be boring.’

‘And was it?’ She felt as if she were probing a sore tooth.

‘No, Freda, it was a great evening, there was warmth and enthusiasm and hope all here in this very room. That’s why I stayed.’

This was exactly what she had felt. She thought that people had been given some kind of lifeline that night. They were dying for something new, something to get involved in; they were all so anxious to help. She looked at him wordlessly.

‘I came to ask you to have dinner with me.’ She saw his neck redden slightly. Suddenly he looked uncertain. ‘I mean, it doesn’t have to be dinner, it could be a walk, a coffee, a movie, anything you like. Oh – no, wait – my name is Mark. Mark Malone. Will you come out with me?’

‘Dinner would be nice . . .’ she heard herself say.

‘Good. Can I book somewhere tonight?’

Freda didn’t trust herself to speak at first. ‘Well, yes, tonight is good,’ she said eventually.

‘Where would you like to go?’

‘I don’t know . . . anywhere. I like Ennio’s down on the quays, I go there with my friends sometimes for a treat.’