The Hat Shop on the Corner (28 page)

He was tired and stiff from the awkward position he’d lain in on her bed, but the thought of her lying in his arms all night was pleasing and something he definitely intended to repeat.

Joining the rush-hour city traffic, he circled the Green and found a parking spot on Dawson Street. He locked his car and crossed the street towards the hat shop, stopping for an instant when he saw her standing in the doorway. She looked tired too, he mused.

He watched her for a few minutes. Saw her face light up as the guy in the black T-shirt approached, the way he handed her a dozen yellow roses, heads close, talking, then kissing. Turning slowly, he got back into his car. He didn’t need to see any more. He started the engine and drove away.

Rosemary Harrington was in the middle of tying up some sweet peas in the garden when the doorbell rang. She hurried up from the kitchen and out through the hall to the front door, where the shaven-headed courier in his red top and leather jacket asked her to sign for a package.

It was for Neil. She signed for the delivery, wondering was it important. The courier companies regularly delivered to the home address rather than the office further up the square. Perhaps it was something urgent and she had better check? She opened the envelope and was surprised to discover a mobile phone inside. Neil’s, by the look of it! There was a simple note attached on pretty yellow business paper. Why would her son be dealing with the hat shop?

Neil

Thank you for rescuing me! This must have fallen down beside the bed last night.

Love, Ellie

Curiouser and curiouser, thought Rosemary. It was from that beautiful young woman who made those gorgeous hats. She slipped the phone and note back inside the packet.

Her son returned home at six thirty and she called out about the package in the hall, reminding him she had a lamb casserole nearly ready for dinner.

‘I’m going out,’ he shouted, grabbing the phone and banging the door, scowling at her just like he’d done when his junior rugby team had lost a very important match.

             

Tommy Butler searched around under his bed for the box. The cardboard box was well hidden behind a bag of
Marvel
comics and a blue plastic carton holding his favourite DVDs and videos. Lying almost flat on the floor, he reached the container of his treasures: a medal he’d won for swimming and a Fulham football jersey his uncle had bought for him when he was about eight; football boots that were never ever going to be given away despite the fact they were two sizes too small for him, and the globe his grandad gave him for his communion. The globe had fallen off its stand and was a bit dented from rolling around the floor, but to him it was still precious. It made him feel he could hold the world in his hands like Atlas, that fellah Mr McHugh had been telling them about in class. Down underneath it all was his bank book, his post office account and the cards his friends had made for him the time he’d gone into hospital to have his tonsils out. Today he had no interest in sentiment. It was the balance in his bank account he was after. Tommy studied the figure. It was less than he’d hoped. How had he managed to go through his confirmation money and savings so quickly?

Fifty-nine euros and fifty cents was the total in his account.

He sat back up and leaned against the bed. He had been hoping to put the money towards either a new bike or a skateboard. Still, the money would go a long way towards getting a present, a decent present for his granny. Yeah, being a hundred years old was definitely deserving of a great present. Now he just had to rattle his brains and think of something totally suitable and awesome for Lillian Butler.

Mam and Dad were giving her an antique silver frame.

‘It’s a genuine antique. Georgian silver,’ his mam decreed proudly, hiding the present in the sideboard. ‘We can get a nice photo of Granny and put it in it, or get one taken at her party.’

Pat Butler had nodded his head in agreement as he sat down to watch the evening news and sports results. ‘The perfect present.’

Tommy didn’t agree. Auntie Joyce was giving her a photo album, and the cousins from Athlone were talking about a Waterford crystal photo frame or ornament. His big brother, Ray, was giving her hand-made chocolates.

‘Old ladies love chocolates. Got a sweet tooth for them.’

Tommy wasn’t sure if he should remind his brother that for the past two years or more chocolate had upset Granny’s stomach and the only sweets she liked were bullseyes or wine gums, which were hardly good enough for celebrating being a hundred years old. He had tried to talk to his older sister, Vonnie, about it but she was so busy with her new baby that he didn’t think she was really thinking when she advised him to buy their granny soaps and bubble bath.

Granny Butler lived in a big old red-bricked building near Ranelagh called the Charlemont Nursing Home with a load of other old ladies and a few men. Nurses minded them and made sure they didn’t fall and break their bones because old ladies were always falling! His granny had fallen when she was ninety-seven and that was how she had ended up in the nursing home. Before that she had lived with them, sleeping in the big room across the landing.

He’d missed her when she moved. Missed her stories, and the card games they used to play. Missed the way she used to say that just because he was the youngest and was called after Grandad, it didn’t mean to say he was her favourite. No, she’d laugh, it was just that she loved him the most. The most of them all!

Soaps and bubble bath? He had to get her something better than that. He’d seen a book about Dublin in the ‘rare old times’ which seemed to be around the time Granny was born, but studying it in the bookshop he soon realized that Granny with her poor eyesight would no longer be able to read all the pages of print. He needed to get her something that would remind her of all those times – but what?

On Saturday he went downtown and had a bit of a ramble round, hoping to get ideas, resisting the temptation to spend the money on himself and then having to borrow off his parents.

Embarrassed, he wandered through the cosmetic and perfume hall of Clery’s searching for the perfect gift, until a lady in a pink dress sprayed him with some perfume.

‘This scent will bring back memories of spring in Tuscany,’ she gushed.

Tommy grimaced: he’d never been to Tuscany. The scent clung to him throughout the day, even when he went to play football with his mates on the green after tea. In bed that night he could still smell it. Then it came to him. He didn’t have a scent that would remind his grandmother of her long life but he could find something else. Something that would remind her of all the good times she’d had in a hundred years. Contented, Tommy rolled over with his quilt tucked round him. Now all he had to do was to think what that something might be.

On Sunday he went to visit her with his mam. Sitting in the front seat of his mother’s blue Toyota made him feel almost like a navigator as he had to keep up a running commentary on hazards that lay ahead.

‘Lady with a buggy, watch out! . . . The traffic lights are just changing! . . . We need to be in the other lane so we can turn!’

Driving with his mam was crazy. His da and big brother refused to go in the car with her and Vonnie had her own little runaround, so it always fell to him to accompany her on excursions that involved more than a trip to the local shops. His mam had a great knack of ignoring the irate drivers around her: she simply turned the radio up loud as could be or put on her Rod Stewart CD. Even Tommy flinched as they turned the corner and scooted up the driveway of the Charlemont Home to the tune of ‘Sailing’, coming to rest parked up against a flower bed.

‘Here safe and sound,’ laughed his mother as she got him to carry in a load of things for his nan.

Tommy always kept his eyes focused ahead as he walked past the old people lined up in their chairs and staring at the TV. Some were blocked into their seats like babies in high chairs and some old ladies fiddled with their handbags, but most of them just slept. He supposed that when you got to be a great age all you wanted to do was sleep. You were too tired for anything else. Lillian Butler was in her room and her eyes lit up the minute she saw the two of them. She loved visitors and a bit of chat and she patted the chair and the bedside.

‘Give your old gran a kiss,’ she ordered, puckering up her lips. Tommy would die if any of the boys in his class saw him kissing a woman, especially an old woman. But his granny had always loved a kiss and a hug and there was no getting away from it.

He could see his mam laughing as he went red.

‘Now, Tommy love, don’t you be shy of telling the people you love how you feel, promise me. I won’t always be here to remind you.’

‘Yeah, Granny, yeah!’

He sat beside the bed as his mam and his granny nattered away, talking about his dad and Yvonne’s baby and the neighbours next door and the conservatory they were building.

‘Pat doesn’t like it at all!’ whispered Mary Butler. ‘Not one little bit.’

His grandmother sat in her special chair listening, taking it all in. Her brown eyes were bright in her small face, the wispy white hair standing out round her head as she chatted. Granny Butler was the oldest person he knew. She had lived through the
Titanic
, the 1916 rising, the First World War and the Second World War, Concorde, mobile phones, the first man on the moon,
Star Wars
and James Bond. She was a living breathing history project, as Mr McHugh would say. She remembered everything . . . well, almost everything. One time before she had her fall she had forgotten where their house was, and that she had married Tommy Butler and had nine children. His mam and dad had worried about her and all the aunties and uncles had paid for her to go to a special doctor and had a whole load of Masses said for her, but God was good, as his mam said, for she got her brain back, even if she did have her fall a few weeks later.

‘At least she’s all there,’ was what the family decided.

Looking at her now, Tommy realized she was most definitely all there, as she asked him what marks he got in his spelling test and what homework Mr McHugh had given him for the weekend.

He studied the photos on her locker. Lily Butler had been a right good-looker in her day. Small and dark with those sparkling eyes and a turned-up nose. There was a photo of her on her wedding day with his grandad, with a funny thing on her head that made her eyes look even bigger, and another of her at a christening party wearing a flowery hat. Tommy got up and went closer to look at the photographs.

‘Mind you don’t knock any of them down, Tommy love,’ she warned.

‘You look real pretty in them, Granny, really pretty.’

‘That’s why your grandfather fell in love with her,’ smiled his mam.

Tommy studied the array of photos, noticing that in many of his grandmother’s favourite pictures she wore a hat or a bonnet or a beret or something.

‘You like all these things on your head.’

‘I was always a bit of a hat woman, Tommy. Your grandad said I was blessed with my legs and my face but, you know, the old hair let me down sometimes. Ronnie Leary gave me a desperate perm one time! Couldn’t show my face for weeks. Tom bought me a beautiful red felt hat. Took me walking down O’Connell Street in it. A man with a camera stopped us and I got my photo taken in it.’

‘There it is,’ said Tommy, recognizing the buildings, an idea finally taking shape in his mind. A Memory Hat, that was what his granny needed.

A hat should be easy to find. After only a brief saunter round the shops in Henry Street and Mary Street and Talbot Street, and uptown to Grafton Street and Wicklow Street, Tommy began to realize there was a vast difference in terms of price and style when it came to hats, and the fact that he hadn’t a clear idea of what he really wanted didn’t help. The ladies behind the counters shooed him away when they saw him coming, not even giving him a chance to explain what he was looking for. He had just begun to feel despondent when he noticed the cheerful little hat shop on South Anne Street, with its bright window and the stands with hats displayed. He stopped outside, staring in as he studied the shape and design of each one carefully, twisting and bending as he tried to see the price tag. He noticed the sign above the door.
Ellie Matthews – Milliner
.
Hats made to order
.

Well, that was exactly what he wanted to do, order a special hat for his grandmother. He stared in the window. The lady was busy with someone. He’d come back tomorrow.