Scarlet Feather by Maeve Binchy Page A

it was only thirty-six minutes. Then the call came. This time Tom took it. James Byrne, ex-accountant, had been in touch with his friends in England. They reported they really did intend to sell. They had made their decision over Christmas, and had gone away to England yesterday now that it had been made. James Byrne had been asked to set it all in train. And as quickly as possible. Cathy looked at Tom in disbelief. It really was going to happen,
exactly
the kind of place they wanted. And they were the first potential buyers, they were in there with a chance. Tom was thinking the same thing.
    ‘We are very lucky that you made this enquiry for us, Mr Byrne, and now if you would like us to let you know—’
    The voice interrupted him. ‘Of course you will understand that my first loyalty lies with the Maguires who own the premises. They will have to be represented by a lawyer, an auctioneer, and I will have to try and get them the best price possible.’
    ‘Yes, of course,’ Tom sounded deflated.
    ‘But I am very grateful to you, Mr Feather, for bringing this to my notice, otherwise it might have been some days…’
    Geraldine was scribbling something on the back of an envelope and showing it to him.
    Is there any chance you could show us inside the place, do you think?’ Tom asked.
    There was a pause. ‘Certainly,’ the man said. ‘That would be no problem. In fact, the Maguires were anxious to know what kind of people had discovered the notice so quickly; they only put it up yesterday before they went to the airport.’
    ‘Yesterday?’ Tom was astounded. ‘But it looks as if the place has been abandoned for a long time.’
    It has; the family had a lot of trouble.’
    ‘I’m sorry. Are you a friend of theirs?’
    ‘In a way. I did some work for them once. They trusted me.’
    It was a sober sort of thing to say. Tom hoped that they could get back to the bit about letting them in. Then Mr Byrne cleared his throat.
    ‘Suppose we meet there in an hour?’ he suggested.

    The city was still partially asleep, but James Byrne was wide awake. Small and rather precise-looking, wearing a navy overcoat and gloves, with a silk scarf tied around his neck, he was a man in his sixties who might have been cast in a film as a worried bank manager or concerned statesman. He introduced himself formally and shook hands with everyone as if they were in an office instead of standing in the bitter cold on the first day of the year outside a falling-down printing business. At first Cathy was pleased to see him take down the ludicrous cardboard notice while tut-tutting at the amateur nature of it all, but then he explained again that the place would of course have to be sold professionally, maybe even at auction. It could still be snatched from them. They sensed somehow that he wasn’t going to tell them anything about the Maguires and what sorrows or confusion there had been in their lives. This was not the time to enquire.
    They walked through in wonder. The place that could be Scarlet Feather’s new home. First home.
    All this middle section could be the main kitchen; this would be the freezer section, that would be the staff lavatory and washroom, and they would have storage here. And a small room where they could greet clients. It was almost too perfect: everything was what they had hoped. And it was so desperately shabby and run-down; perhaps others might not realise the potential. Cathy was aware that she had clasped her hands and closed her eyes only when she heard James Byrne clear his throat. He seemed to be concerned that she might be too happy about it all, too confident. She knew she must reassure him.
    ‘It’s all right, James, I do know it’s not ours. This is only the first step of a very long journey,’ she smiled at him warmly.
    They had been talking to this man for forty-five minutes, calling him
Mr
Byrne all the while. He was a stranger, twice their age and she had called him James. She felt a slight flush