ANNE SCHULMAN
PIPE DREAMS
Anne Schulman is a biographer and novelist. Her best-selling novels include Intrigue, Encounters and Broken Biscuits Don’t Count. She lives in Dublin.
PIPE DREAMS
First published by GemmaMedia in 2009.
GemmaMedia
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Boston MA 02109 USA
617 938 9833
Copyright © 2000, 2009 Anne Schulman
This edition of Pipe Dreams is published by arrangement with New Island Books Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Printed in the United States of America
Cover design by Artmark
12 11 10 09 08 1 2 3 4 5
ISBN: 978-1-934848-13-5
Library of Congress Preassigned Control Number (PCN) applied for
OPEN DOOR SERIES
Patricia Scanlan
Series Editor
CHAPTER ONE
Meany Freeney sat at the bar nursing his pint of Guinness. Of course, Meany was not his real name. He had been christened that in school when he refused to share a bar of chocolate. He had made it last for five whole days. The name stuck and he had been known as Meany ever since.
John Doyle stood quietly wiping a glass. In all his years at Doyle’s pub he had never known Meany to order a pint. It was always a half. Nor had he ever seen him in the bar before seven in the evening.
“Everything all right, Meany?” he asked.
“No, not really,” Meany said with a sigh.
John waited. Something was going on, he was sure of it
“Can I help?” John tried again after a few minutes.
Meany shook his head.
John loved to be in the know. He hated to be kept in the dark. He felt it was his duty to be the first with any news. Good or bad.
Meany drained his glass and got down from the bar stool. “See you later, John,” he said and left without another word. Sharing a secret with John would be like telling the world.
Meany opened the door of his car and made sure that his seat was still safely tied in place. The Gardaí had warned him that unless he got the seat fixed they would have to fine him. It was dangerous sliding around the way it did. But, Meany thought, taking it to a garage would cost money. He would find time some day soon and mend it himself. No point worrying about that now. He had more important things on his mind.
Meany drove along the narrow country roads towards the farm. The beauty of the trees with their fresh green leaves was lost on him. He saw only pound signs. He had no eyes for the baby lambs hopping and skipping alongside their mothers. The memory of his bank manager’s smile blotted them from his mind. Even the soft, sweet smell of the late spring afternoon was wasted on him because the car window was stuck fast. His head was full of troubles. And of Julie.
Life had not been the same since Julie had come back to look after her mam. Julie and Meany had grown up together. They had been in the same class at school. Made their confirmation together. Gone to the pictures and the same dances – but not together.
And when they were old enough, drank at Doyle’s pub. Meany had always been shy. Far too shy to tell Julie that she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. That was before she had gone to work in Dublin. Now she was beautiful. Masses of brown curls and big blue eyes. Even bluer now because of the eyeshadows she used.
The last three months had flown by. They had been the happiest of his life. He dashed through his work on the farm each day. He could not wait to get to Doyle’s each evening. Julie always made a beeline for him when she came in. Her smile melted his heart. It made him the envy of all the other fellows. He had taken to sitting at a table now. It was easier to watch the door from there. Meany always waited until Julie arrived before he ordered his half pint. After all, there were two drinks to be paid for now, his and hers. Some nights she had two drinks. Last Wednesday it was three, but Tom Scully had paid for the third. They usually gave Doyle’s a miss on Mondays. They went to the cinema instead. Monday nights were half price.
“No point in paying double to see the same film,” Meany reasoned.
“Whatever you say,” Julie agreed.
Julie liked Meany a lot. An awful lot. He was not like most of the other guys she knew. They were full of smart remarks. Touching her up, pretending it was an accident. Meany was polite. Kind. Thoughtful. Certainly he was mean, she knew that. Everyone knew that. But it was one of his few faults and she was working on that.
CHAPTER TWO
“I can’t stay long tonight,” Julie warned as she arrived at Doyle’s, spot on seven o’clock.
“Is your mam worse?” Meany asked as he pulled out a chair for her.
“She’s been bad most of today. My sister is with her now. I didn’t want to let you down. I’ll just have one drink, then I must get back,” she said.
Before he had time to sit down, Julie threw back her gin and tonic in a couple of gulps and pushed back her chair.
“Sorry, Meany, I have to go,” she apologised.
Meany understood. “Keep an eye on my glass, I’ll be back in a minute,” he called to the barman.
He walked Julie to her car and waited until she was safely on her way.
Meany left a great wave of pity for her. It was a little over a year since his own mam had died. He still missed her terribly. Especially on cold winter nights when the wind and rain howled round the farmhouse. They tapped on the windows and rattled the doors like a couple of playful children. It was lonely with only the fire and the crackling radio for company. He had almost owned a television once. He found it in a skip. But, after weeks of tinkering with it, he gave up and returned it to its resting place. The radio was just as good, he decided. And he loved reading. He liked true crime stories and books about farming. He was a regular at the library. A visit every three weeks without fail. His mam had not approved of buying books. “Why buy them when you can get them for free?” she used to say.
His mam knew the value of money. She could make a pound stretch further than anyone else he knew. Take soap for instance. She kept all the ends, melted them down, then pressed them together to make a new bar. She was a whiz with an onion too. Used every scrap of it. Even the papery skin went into stews. No one could do more with the weekly Sunday roast than she could. Sliced and reheated with gravy on Monday. Served cold with boiled potatoes on Tuesday. Meat and potato rissoles on Wednesday and scraped to the bone with a salad on Thursday.
Now that he thought about it, he had never heard her grumble about cooking on the old turf-fired stove. She never minded giving the clothes a good scrub on the washboard. No new-fangled washing machines for her. Not like Julie, who said she would rather die than stand scrubbing collars with a bar of soap.
Meany knew all about Julie’s Dublin apartment. If she needed heat she just flicked a switch. The same with the kettle. A jug-kettle, she