Mollie Cinnamon Is Not a Cupcake (11 page)

Landy arrives as we’re adding the final touches to the bunting. There’s a fold-up metal ladder under his arm. “Lauren isn’t still here, is she?” he asks, looking around.

“She just left,” Alanna says.

“Phew. So where do you want this bunting?”

With Landy and Sunny’s help, it doesn’t take long to put up the bunting. There are now jaunty blue and yellow arcs criss-crossing the cafe’s ceiling and hanging in the windows. It looks brilliantly festive. Sunny goes home for lunch, but Landy stays. He puts the ladder outside, comes back in and flops down beside me on the sofa.

“It looks grand from out there,” he says. “Everyone will be able to see it from the ferry. Nice work, Mollie. Hey, Lauren didn’t give you a hard time earlier, did she? Dad told her to keep away from you, but she never listens to anyone, especially not him.”

“It was fine.” I try to sound convincing. “But I wish she wouldn’t tease Sunny about, well, you know.”

Landy frowns. “Not speaking, you mean?”

“Yes. I can deal with Lauren’s snide comments, but Sunny can’t.”

“What was she saying exactly?”

“That Sunny was a weirdo who spied on people. She also said something about the cafe closing. And some developers building a hotel. Is that really going to happen?”

Landy exhales slowly, making his fringe lift a little. “Sounds like it. Dad was talking about that at dinner last night. If Alanna can’t pay the bank back, she’ll have to sell. And the developers are offering a good price.”

“Can’t Alanna’s parents help?”

Landy lowers his voice. “Did Nan not tell you about Alanna’s mum and dad?”

Suddenly I realize what I’ve been missing all along. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”

He nods silently.

“What happened?” I feel hollow and sad. Poor Alanna.

“Car crash on the mainland. It was icy and they skidded off the road. Alanna lived with her aunt for a while, but that didn’t work out so she moved back here and opened her mum and dad’s cafe up again. Dad said Alanna had to take out a loan to do the cafe up a bit and build the conservatory.”

“This place must be pretty special to her,” I say. “Where would she live if it closed down? And what about Sunny and everyone else who needs the cafe?”

Landy gives a deep sigh. “I hear you. But some people think a hotel would be good for the island – bring in more tourists, new jobs. And the bank won’t give Alanna any more time to pay back the money she owes. They’re putting pressure on her to sell.”

I almost jump out of my seat. “That’s so wrong! This cafe is special. We have to do something. We have to fight back – let the bank know that they’re being unfair, that they should give Alanna a break. If people know the cafe is in danger of closing, they’ll visit, and Alanna will be able to pay back the loan. We have to get the news out. Hey, I’ve got an idea! We should have a protest march.”

He laughs. “A march? To where exactly? Up the hill and back down again? Like the Grand Old Duke of York?”

He’s teasing me, but I let him get away with it. “OK, maybe not a march. A Save the Songbird Cafe campaign. We can start with an online petition to send to the bank. And I’ll ask Sunny to design a campaign poster we can put in the cafe’s window and on the ferry. I can make a short film about the Songbird, talk to people who use it, and we can set up our own Facebook page and post the interviews. Once we’ve raised awareness, we can ask people to send donations to help keep it open.”

Landy has that amused smile lingering on his lips.

“What?” I demand. Is he making fun of me again?

“It’s a grand idea, Mollser. A brilliant idea, in fact. I can help you with the film if you like, and set up an online petition. When do we start?”

Lunchtime is really busy and Alanna asks me to take the orders – me! I write down what people want in a little notebook, like a proper waitress. Alanna even ropes in Landy to help in the kitchen. He was a bit reluctant at first – “I burn toast, Alanna,” he said – but she managed to convince him. I want to say something to Alanna about her parents, tell her how sorry I am, but I know now isn’t the right time.

The cafe is mostly full of tourists straight off the one o’clock ferry: birdwatchers dressed in dark green with binoculars around their necks, mums and dads with young kids who all keep asking me, “Where’s Click?”

One particular little boy of about six, with a round, freckled face, is driving his grandparents mad with his Click questions. He doesn’t seem to like sitting still. He’s hopping around like a piece of popcorn in the microwave.

“Hello again, Teddy,” Alanna says, passing by his table with a tray. “Click will be here very soon. You keep watching out of the window. I bet if you draw a dolphin picture he’ll come even sooner. Mollie will get you some pencils and paper. And if it’s really good, I’ll give you a lollipop.”

“I like lollipops,” he says.

As I get the coloured pencils, I spot Alanna slipping out of the door of the cafe. Where’s she going when the cafe is so busy? I watch her stand at the harbour wall and raise her hands to her mouth, like she did the first day I was on Little Bird.

Seconds later, Teddy is squealing and pointing out of the window. “Click! I can see him.”

Click starts playing in a small fishing boat’s wake, leaping into the air and diving back down with a splash.

“I love Click,” Teddy says, beaming at me as I give him the pencils and paper. “This is such a cool island. And this is the best cafe ever.”

I feel a little sad inside. If the cafe shuts, so many people will lose out. Forcing myself to be brave (I’m not usually all that good at talking to strangers, especially adults), I explain to his granny and grandpa that the cafe may have to close down. I ask them to sign our petition for the bank when Landy has set it up and to make a donation if they can. They think it’s terrible that the cafe is in danger and promise to help. Then they thrust ten euros into my hand. Our Save the Songbird Cafe campaign has begun!

As I walk back to Nan’s house later that afternoon, my feet are throbbing from standing all day. Now that I’m on my own I start thinking about Flora again and how much she hurts me sometimes. I don’t think she means to, but that’s just it − she doesn’t seem to consider me and my feelings at all. I’m upset about the cafe, too. Poor Alanna. It’s so unfair. She works really hard, and it’s such an amazing place. Why is everything so rotten sometimes? I put the money the couple gave me in a cookie jar on a shelf in Alanna’s kitchen, but a lone ten euros isn’t going to go very far.

It’s cold, and I shiver and thrust my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. My fingers hit something smooth and cold.

I pull out a small blue bottle – one of Alanna’s remedies. She must have slipped it in there earlier. The liquid inside smells like the island – the tang of the sea, mixed with wildflowers and something I can’t quite identify, something sweet. I breathe it in and immediately feel less anxious and more determined. I can’t get discouraged. I need to start working on the Songbird campaign right now. They can’t destroy the cafe − I won’t let them. I know Nan will help. I start to run.

I burst through the door of Summer Cottage like a whirlwind and race down the hallway to the kitchen.

“Nan! Where are you, Nan? I need to use your camera again.”

“Goodness, child, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” Nan says, clutching her chest. She was making a cup of tea, but she puts the kettle down. Then she reaches for a small brown plastic bottle and pops a pill in her mouth. She washes it down with some water.

“Are you OK?” I ask.

“Just my angina. These are beta blockers. It’s nothing to worry about, pet. I think I overdid it in the garden. Weeding is hard work. So what’s all this about?”

“Developers are trying to buy the cafe and turn it into a hotel,” I say in a rush.

“I know, child. I didn’t want to say anything as I knew it would upset you. Awful, isn’t it? Having to sell the place is one thing, but seeing it destroyed.” She shakes her head. “Poor Alanna.”

“That’s why we’re going to start a campaign to let people know and hopefully raise some money to save it. Landy’s going to help and I’ll ask Sunny too. I’m going to make a film about the cafe and what it means to people, and put it up on a special Songbird Facebook page. That’s why I need your camera.”

Nan leans back against the kitchen counter and takes another sip of water. “It’s a wonderful idea, Mollie. There’s been a building where the cafe is for hundreds of years. It used to be a blacksmith’s, way back. They think there was a link with Red Moll’s castle. If only we could find proof that Red Moll actually lived on the island, those developers would have a fight on their hands. I can’t believe they’re thinking of plonking a hulking great hotel right in front of that beautiful castle. It’s despicable.”

“I thought it was certain she lived there. There must be some record.”

“I wish there was. Ellen did a big history project on Red Moll when she was in secondary school. She did a huge amount of research and I helped her. We even went to the National Library, but we couldn’t find mention of Little Bird and Red Moll. In fact, there are very few references to Red Moll at all in the documents from that time. Women’s lives weren’t seen as important in those days.”

“But that’s so wrong!”

“I know. Ellen felt very strongly about that too. The only place Red Moll’s name is mentioned is in the records of her plundering English ships for their cargo and seeing off English generals who tried to take over her family’s land, plus some references to her clashes with foreign pirates.”

“So are you saying you don’t know where Red Moll really lived? What about all those stories Granny Ellen used to tell me? About all the sea battles and scaring off the slave traders? Are you saying they’re not true?”

“They’re true, all right,” Nan says. “And Red Moll did live here − I’m sure of it. Those stories were passed down through generations of McCarthys and O’Sullivans and Cotters and all the other families that have lived on this island for hundreds of years. But unless there’s some sort of written document from that time, there’s no historical proof.”

“Then we have to find proof. There must be something in the castle grounds: old coins, swords − I don’t know – bones?” I clench my fists so tightly that my knuckles go white.

Nan shakes her head. “Archaeologists have been combing the castle and the land around it for years and they’ve never found anything of note. I know it’s frustrating, but I think you should focus on the other parts of your campaign.” She pauses and smiles sadly. “Ellen would be so proud of you. When she wasn’t much older than you are now she organized a protest against the closure of the island’s primary school. All the papers covered it and it was even on the six o’clock news. She saved the school.” Nan’s eyes well up. “Sorry. Let me get a tissue.”

As Nan wipes her eyes, I think about Granny Ellen. She told me a lot of stories, about her life as a travel agent and all the different countries she had visited but very few about the island, and none about Nan or PJ. She certainly never mentioned any campaigning – I would have remembered that. I’m discovering a side of her life I never knew, and it makes me miss her more than ever.

After dinner, I’m still fired up about the cafe. I want to do something – now! I’ve set up the Facebook page and I’ve posted lots of photos of the island and the cafe. The more I think about it, the stronger I feel about everything. I have to help Alanna. My film about the island needs to be really great. Talking to Nan has given me an idea. I need to include the castle in my film, so people will see how wrong it would be to build a hotel right in front of it, even if I can’t prove that Red Moll actually lived there. I should shoot some footage now, at twilight – the ruin will look spectacular against a darkening sky.

Nan is reluctant at first to let me go outside. “Can’t you go in the morning? It’s brass monkeys out there, child.”

“Please?” I beg. “It’ll be all dramatic and atmospheric − perfect for our campaign.”

“Go on then. If you must. But don’t be more than an hour, mind. And you’re not stepping outside this house without a coat and welly boots.”

Nan gives me a torch and makes me wrap up warmly, winding a woolly scarf around my neck so many times that I almost can’t breathe. I take it off as soon as I’m on the lane and stuff it into the pocket of my jacket. I know Nan means well, but what is it with adults and dressing us up like Egyptian mummies? Granny Ellen was just the same.

I’d forgotten how spooky the lane is in the half-light. I can hear rustling in the hedgerows again. I know it’s probably just a field mouse, but it still gives me a fright. I whisper, “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!” to myself as I march along, pretending I’m Dorothy, lost in the woods, in
The Wizard of Oz
. I’m relieved when I get to the road.

I walk towards the harbour, climb over the gate that leads to the castle and tramp across the field in Nan’s green welly boots, stomping in a couple of muddy puddles on the way. I’d be too embarrassed to wear wellies in Dublin, but on Little Bird everyone wears them. I hate to admit it, but they’re ace for splashing about in and having dry feet is actually pretty cool.

After climbing over the small wall into the field just behind Alanna’s cafe, I walk past the mossy old trees, and there it is − the tumbledown remains of Red Moll’s castle. Last time I was here I was too angry to think straight. Now, I stand and gaze up at the castle, imagining what it must have been like in Red Moll’s day. I spot the ruins of a spiral staircase sticking out from one of the walls, almost hidden by ferns. There must have been a brilliant view of Dolphin Bay from the top of the castle. Maybe that’s where Red Moll had her quarters. Granny Ellen told me that Red Moll slept in a four-poster bed and the hawser, or front rope, of her favourite galley ship was attached to one of her bedposts at night. The thought of the boat tied to her bed, like a pet, always makes me smile.

I start to feel a prickling at the back of my neck. I sense I’m not alone. There’s someone watching me. Adrenaline washes through my system, making my skin tingle.