Scarlet Feather by Maeve Binchy

who would have stayed. Not anyone she could trust or rely on. And Shona Burke was not one to trust easily. She would get up soon go out to Dun Laoghaire for a brisk walk with a neighbour’s dog, come back and get ready for the charity lunch. Because she was considered the very public face of Haywards, she was often asked to such things. Haywards was
the
store in Dublin. It had survived take-overs, makeovers and the passage of time. And today it would give her the chance to wear the new outfit which she had bought at a discount in Haywards. Ridiculous to have so many nice clothes at twenty-six, and not enough places to wear them.

    ‘Neil, is it all right to talk?’
    ‘Not really, father, we’re in the middle of something…’
    ‘So are we, we’re in the middle of those two children taking the house apart brick by brick.’
    ‘No, I mean what I’m in is really serious. I can’t talk about Maud and Simon now.’
    ‘But what are we going to do?’
    ‘Father, we’re going to look after them, it’s as simple as that. We’ll help you, Cathy and I, but now, if you’ll excuse me…’
    ‘But Neil…’
    I have to go.’
    Jock Mitchell hung up wearily. The twins had unpacked all the desserts Cathy had left in the fridge and eaten them for breakfast. Simon had been sick. On the carpet.

    In a garden flat in Rathgar, James Byrne was up and at his desk. Ever since he had retired six months ago he had continued the routine and habits of working life. Breakfast of a boiled egg, tea and toast, ten minutes’ minimal tidying his three-room apartment, and then a second cup of tea and twenty minutes at his desk. It had been such a useful thing to do when he worked in the big accountancy firm. Cleared his head, sorted his priorities before he got into the office. Now of course there
were
no priorities. He didn’t have to decide whether or not to oppose some tax scheme on the grounds that it was evasion. Other, younger people made those decisions. There was less and less to do, but he could always find something. He might renew a magazine subscription, or send for a catalogue. To his surprise the telephone rang. Very few people telephoned James Byrne at any time, and he certainly hadn’t expected a call at ten o’clock in the morning on New Year’s Day. It was a girl.
    ‘Mr Byrne? Is it too early to talk?’
    ‘No, no. How can I help you?’
    The voice was young and very excited. ‘It’s about the premises, Mr Byrne, we’re so interested, more than you’d believe. Is there any chance we could see them today?’
    ‘Premises?’ James Byrne was confused. ‘What premises?’
    He listened as she explained. It was the Maguires’ old place, the printing works they hadn’t even entered since the accident. He knew that they had been listless and depressed. They had been unwilling to listen to any advice. But now, apparently, they had disappeared, leaving a For Sale sign on their gate and James Byrne’s phone number. In years of business James had learned that he must never transmit any of his own anxiety or confusion to a client.
    ‘Let me see if I can find them, Miss Scarlet,’ James said. ‘I’ll call you back within the hour.’
    Cathy put the phone down carefully and looked around her in Tom’s apartment, where the little group had been following every word of the conversation. Tom leaning forward, like her father always did to a radio when he wanted to hear who was winning a race. Marcella in an old pink shirt of Tom’s and black jeans, her dark eyes and clouds of black hair making her look more and more like the top model she yearned to be. Geraldine, crisp and elegant, dressed for her smart lunch but still giving time to be present for the great phone call and what it might deliver.
    ‘He’s not an estate agent, he’s an accountant, he knows the people who own it and he’ll ring us back in an hour,’ she said, eyes shining. They could hardly take it in.

    It felt like three hours, but Geraldine told them