Paul was one of the top research and development men in a computer software firm with dozens of people under him.
Maggie heard a rustling noise like the sound of a paper being folded. It was late and she could imagine Paul sitting on the cosy couch in his and Shona’s apartment, the newspapers around him, with his feet up on the coffee table and the remote control on his lap.
‘Hello, Maggie,’ he said, taking over the phone. ‘My advice is to write out what the aim of the committee is on a big sheet of paper, take it to your first meeting and stick it up on the wall.
Explain that nobody is on the committee to make themselves popular or to give themselves something to brag about. They’re there simply to achieve the aim you’ve written on the paper. What’s the committee for, exactly?’
‘We want to stop the council selling half of our park to a developer who’s going to build apartments there.’
‘Well, I guess you need to lodge a formal planning objection with the council, then talk to local politicians …’
‘Talk to the newspapers,’ said Shona in the background. ‘Yes,’ said Maggie excitedly, writing this down.
She had an inspiration. ‘What about finding out more about the park? They want to pull down this beautiful old pavilion. It’s Victorian at least and it could be a meaningful historical site.’
‘Exactly,’ said Paul with satisfaction. ‘Tie them up with surveys and formal objections and politicians complaining so that the whole thing’s not worth their while. Or so that the bad press they’ll get for it will scare the developers away. The key to committees, Maggie,’ he said, ‘is like amateur dramatics. Never let them see you’re afraid.’
The following night at eight, Summer Street Cafe was closed to everyone except the Save Our Pavilion committee. There were ten of them sitting around two tables pushed together, with Maggie seated at one end.
She’d gone out and purchased a businesslike navy jacket which she wore over her best dark denim jeans and a turquoise camisole. She’d tied her hair up into a chic knot, had a writing pad and pens in front of her, and was keeping all her anxiety firmly locked on the inside. The other committee members were all older than her and probably had miles more experience than she did, but she was still chairwoman and she was going to make this a success.
‘The most important thing tonight,’ she said, ‘is our aims. None of us are here so we can boast that we’re on a committee, or to have something to talk about or because we like arguments.’
One man opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish at this.
Paul had said there was always one person who joined up because they liked both the sound of their own voice and a good fight.
Maggie felt a wave of confidence hit her.
Forewarned was forearmed.
She was ready for Mr Goldfish Face. ‘We’re here to save something very important to Summer Street. So this is not going to be one of those committees where everyone argues or grandstands or tries to get the better of anyone else. We’re here to save the pavilion, that’s it.’
The nine people facing her stared back, nodding, and Maggie thought how unbelievable it was that she was able to confront them and talk in such calm, measured tones, when inside, she really was quivering.
Luckily, nobody could see the inside.
‘I’ve made up a list of what I think we should do and I’ll go through it. Then everyone else can come in with their suggestions until we’ve come up with a blueprint for what we’re going to achieve over the next few days, right? I’m new to this and would appreciate ideas but we’ve got to work as a team, or we’re going to go nowhere fast.’
The next hour and a half passed in a flash, but when Maggie wound up the meeting everyone had been allocated a useful task to perform before they reconvened. Maggie herself was to try to interest several politicians in their cause.
When everyone was gone, Maggie and Xu, who’d stayed behind to help and make coffee, tidied up.
‘I hope you weren’t bored out of your mind listening to that,’ Maggie said to Xu.
Now that they were alone, she hoped Xu might talk to her.
‘It was interesting,’ Xu said. She had a low sweet voice and perfect English. ‘We do not do this in my country. If the authorities want to pull down a building, they pull it down. It’s very different.’
Maggie stopped collecting cups and sat down. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Tell me how you came here and what you’d like to do and what your country’s like. I’d love to hear.’
She’d never seen Xu give anything other than a shy smile that was more defence mechanism than emotion, but now Xu really beamed at her.
‘I never asked before because I was afraid I’d insult you or something,’ Maggie admitted. ‘You’re very brave to come here on your own.’
‘Brave is the only way in China,’ Xu shrugged.
‘My mother is much braver than me. This is nothing compared to what she suffered during the Cultural Revolution. I only had to get on an aeroplane and learn another language so I could go to college here. I can make choices in my life - she could make none.’
‘Will your mother come here too?’ asked Maggie, not wanting to upset Xu now she’d got her talking. ‘Maybe. She loves China, it’s her home. I’d like her to visit. But she doesn’t speak English.’
‘And will you go back?’ asked Maggie.
‘I don’t know. I love China but I feel at home here. We are very alike, the Chinese and the Irish.
We love our families.’
‘Your English is fantastic. When did you start learning?’
‘Nine months ago,’ Xu said casually.
‘Nine months ago! You’re so fluent. I can’t imagine being that good in such a short length of time.’
Xu laughed so loudly that her curtain of thick dark hair shimmered. ‘Chinese people know how to work.’ She grinned.
They sat talking for an hour, whereupon Xu said she ought to go home and Maggie said the same, because she knew her mother would be sitting up waiting for her to hear how the meeting went.
‘Perhaps you’ll come out with me sometimes?’
Maggie asked Xu. ‘To see a film or something?’
‘I would like that very much indeed,’ Xu replied.
On the way down Summer Street, Maggie reflected that if a girl from a small town in China could travel thousands of miles to a strange land where she knew nobody to start a new life, then she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life being afraid of what happened to her when she was a schoolgirl.
‘Well, how did it go?’ demanded Una, when Maggie got home. Her mother had been mad to go to the
meeting, but since she wasn’t on the committee, she couldn’t.
‘Marvellously,’ said Maggie, still astonished at how she’d stood up in front of a room of strangers and handled it well. ‘Everyone had loads of ideas and we’ve all got various jobs and I think we have a really good chance.’
‘I’d like to be involved though,’ said Una. ‘Of course you’re involved,’ Maggie placated her. ‘It was your idea in the first place, don’t forget that. But you do need to rest.’
‘Ah, rest, schmest,’ muttered Una. ‘I’m sick of resting. I want to do something.’
‘Well, I need to make appointments to see three local politicians and you could come with me to see them,’ Maggie said, thinking that she’d be braver with company.
‘Marvellous,’ Una said, satisfied. ‘I better get my best suit out. Don’t want to go stalking the corridors of power looking like some mad old dear in a bobbly cardigan, do I?’
The following morning, Christie phoned Maggie to ask her round for coffee.
‘You can fill me in on the meeting,’ Christie said. ‘I couldn’t make it, although the Summer Street grapevine has already broadcast the fact that you’re in charge.’
Maggie laughed. ‘The lunatics have taken over the asylum,’ she said. ‘But yes, I’m in charge. I’d love a coffee.’
When she arrived, Christie hugged her and rushed back into the kitchen to take scones out of the oven.
Maggie took the chance to stop and admire the paintings in Christie’s hall, marvelling at the intricate watercolour strokes that brought delicate plants to life.
One wall was covered with lily paintings, interspersed with tiny Klimt prints in antique gold frames and blackand-white family photographs.
On the other were displayed exquisite paintings
of herbs, from the lacy froth of sweet cicely to the fire-red flowers of bergamot. There were herbs Maggie had never heard of, like comfrey, lovage and feverfew, alongside the soft purple of French lavender and sleek, slender chives, so well drawn she could almost smell their tangy scent.
‘These are beautiful,’ Maggie called into the kitchen where Christie was brewing coffee. ‘You’re so talented.’
‘I love herbs and foliage,’ Christie said. ‘So many artists only want to paint flowers, but plants and the history behind them are fascinating. They have incredible medicinal uses and we’ve lost that, sadly.
I try to put herbs from my own garden into my cooking. And if you haven’t tasted proper fennel and lemon balm tea, you haven’t lived.’
A lovely sense of warmth and comfort emanated from the Devlins’ house. It was partly due to the scent of Christie’s white tea roses with their tightly furled buds, and a burning candle that filled the downstairs with a citrus scent. But there was something more, more than the sum of its parts. It was a house of peace and security. Maggie felt as if nothing truly bad could ever happen as long as there were people like Christie in the world to make sense of everything and to offer her home as a refuge.
Finally, with the dogs scampering ahead, she wandered into the kitchen. Christie had laid coffee cups and the scones on a tray.
‘You carry this into the garden,’ Christie said, ‘and I’ll be out in a moment with the coffee.’
Christie had been thinking so much about Maggie and Faye lately that it was no surprise to wake up that morning with Maggie again in her mind. Only today, as Maggie stood there, holding out her arms for the tray, Christie had a moment of seeing exactly what had hurt the younger woman so much.
Sweet, tall, kind Maggie, who should have had lots of confidence, but didn’t. Lovely Maggie, who’d been bullied when she was at school.
Lying in bed, listening to the birdsong and the rising and falling of James’s breath the past came flooding back. Hers and Maggie’s. It was easier to think about other people’s problems than focus on her own. She’d tried to put Carey Wolensky out of her mind, but hadn’t managed it. He loomed large in her fears.
So she made herself remember Maggie starting at St Ursula’s almost twenty years before: shy and lanky, falling over her own feet all of the time.
She was clever and good fun, so it was hard to work out why bullies had picked on her. Sister Aquinas, who had been headmistress at the time, had talked in the staff room one day about bullying in general and the fact that young Maggie Maguire appeared to have been targeted by a particular coterie of little madams in her year, led by a really nasty piece of work called Sandra Brody.
‘We’ll just keep an eye on it for the moment,’
said Sister Aquinas, who was a great believer in not rushing into things. Girls needed more backbone,
she felt. Sister Aquinas had spent twenty years in the field in Africa and was of the opinion that Irish girls could do with a little hardship because, compared to the children in the townships, they hadn’t a clue about life.
Christie hadn’t thought too much about it because Maggie hadn’t been in one of her art classes, but she’d seen her sometimes at lunch.
Maggie was so often on her own, reading, when everyone else was out playing tag or netball, or sitting in little groups discussing boys and the unfairness of life.
When Maggie went into the fifth year, the leader of the gang of bullies, Sandra Brody, left, although Christie couldn’t recall why, and her gang fell apart without their natural leader.
But it seemed obvious now that the damage had already been done where Maggie Maguire was concerned. There were lots of naturally quiet, shy people in the world, but Christie now felt that Maggie hadn’t been one of them when she’d arrived. It was as though she had found that keeping her mouth shut and blending into the background was the easiest way of survival.
Having taken the jug into the garden, Christie poured coffee into the cups and proffered scones. ‘This is lovely here, a little oasis,’ sighed Maggie, sitting back and looking around her. She wondered what Christie wanted to talk to her about. Perhaps she was going to help with the Save Our Pavilion campaign, which would be wonderful. Christie would be great at getting people to return her phone calls.
So it came as a total shock when Christie asked: Were you bullied at St Ursula’s?’
Maggie’s head shot up and the colour drained away from her face.
‘What? How …
‘I didn’t know at the time,’ Christie said apologetically. ‘You weren’t in any of my classes and I hardly knew more than your name then, but it suddenly made sense to me. It’s your secret, isn’t it? The thing that holds you back.’
Maggie could only nod silently.
‘I’m so sorry. I was there and if I’d really been aware…’ Christie said. ‘Your mum doesn’t know, does she?’
This time, Maggie shook her head, biting her lip to make sure she didn’t cry. This was so unexpected, like the ground being pulled away from her feet.
‘I couldn’t talk about it because ‘
‘-Because you thought she should know without you having to say it?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Tilly leaped up on to Maggie’s lap, circling slowly on delicate paws, before lying against her.
Maggie clung to this soft comfort, stroking the pansy-soft fur, grateful for a creature to hold. And she felt her shock subside slowly.
Christie leaned across the table and touched Maggie’s hand gently, a touch that helped even more, filling her with peace.
‘It’s all right to talk about it,’ Christie said. ‘The people we love often don’t see our pain, and that’s one of the hardest things in the world to cope with. We think they should see, they should know. If they don’t, we feel as if they’ve failed us somehow and we have to deal with it all on our own.’