We're delighted to present an extract from The Year of Lost and Found, the new novel by Felicity Hayes-McCoy, published by Hachette Ireland.
Ordinary people. Extraordinary secrets… It's business as usual in the sleepy town of Lissbeg on the west coast of Ireland, but, as local librarian Hanna Casey gathers material for an exhibition on Ireland’s struggle for Independence, secrets revealed in her Great-Aunt’s diary expose her own family history of love, dishonour and revenge. Will Hanna risk personal and professional fallout by keeping those war-torn secrets to herself, or will she honour the exhibition’s spirit of shared storytelling? Meanwhile, newly-wed Aideen has just had her first baby and becomes convinced that she needs to find her own dad, whom she’s never known. But is she really prepared for the consequences? Hanna and Aideen each face decisions and it soon becomes clear that, when old wounds are opened and forgotten memories disturbed, history is never just about the past. Will they discover that finding happiness is all about living in the present?
July 20th, 1920. I never thought that I'd have to leave Finfarran. I suppose I won’t be the first or the last who’s had to. I’m worried about Mam even though I know the neighbours will mind her. Mrs Donovan will anyway, she’s always been good to us, though these days you wouldn’t be sure of anyone. When there’s a price on a neighbour’s head people are sorely tempted
Liam was my grandfather, thought Hanna. Dad’s father, who died before I was born. In 1920, Liam couldn’t have been more than nineteen, and Maggie was younger than he was, years younger than Jazz is now. Jazz was still pursuing her point: 'It’s exactly the sort of thing you’re looking for, isn’t it? That extract would be brilliant. From a marketing point of view, it’s pure gold.’
‘From a marketing point of view?’
‘Don’t look at me like I’m crass. I’m a marketing manager. And you do see what I mean about that paragraph? It’s immediate and condensed. Draws you in, makes you want to know more. Isn’t that the point of having exhibitions in local libraries? What’s the phrase ‒ "the library as a community living room"?’
‘Where did you find that?’
‘It’s on the county library website. I thought it was rather good.’ Jazz was amused by Hanna’s evident distaste. ‘There’s nothing actually wrong with soundbites, Mum.’
‘I never said there was. It’s just that most things in life are more nuanced than a soundbite can convey.’
‘And that is what us marketing people like to call "the challenge".’
Maggie could have talked to me, thought Hanna. I was twelve when I was sent round to spread seaweed for her spuds. She was in her eighties. If she’d wanted to share her story, she could have sat me down and talked. If the house had become derelict, I might never have found her notebook. It could have been lost in a pile of stones in a muddy field on a cliff. Suddenly she remembered asking her father why Maggie had left the place to her. ‘Why me? What would I want it for?’
They’d been driving to Maggie’s funeral and her father had shushed her and smiled. ‘Life is long, pet. You might have a use for the house when you grow up.’
And I did, thought Hanna. This house kept me sane. Without it, I couldn’t have recovered from my divorce, and Brian and I could never have had our slow, unobserved wooing. With a start, she realised Jazz was staring at her. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, it’s just that this has taken me by surprise.’
‘I still don’t see why.’
‘Well, do you remember the entry Maggie added just before she died?’
‘In the 1970s?’
‘1975. It was one of the ones she wrote on scraps of paper.’
Hanna found the page and read aloud: ‘Hanna hardly opens her mouth and I say little enough. She’s a great little worker. I went to Lissbeg the other day and got an appointment with the solicitor. I want her to have this house and the field when I’m gone. Maybe one day she’ll need a place where she can feel safe and be happy. If she does and she has this place, I think Mam would be glad.’
She looked at Jazz. ‘That was about me.’
‘So? What are you saying? Obviously, an entry from 1975 doesn’t fit the period. But you don’t have to use it.’
‘It’s about me.’
‘Well, don’t use it if you don’t want to. But surely the 1920s stuff is important.’
‘Are you saying the 1970s stuff isn’t?’
‘All I’m saying is that I don’t think you’re being rational.’
I’m not, thought Hanna. I’m being emotional. Jazz sees this as history, but I see Maggie as the person I knew. Maybe it’s because she straddles the gap between history and lived experience. I never thought of displaying stuff that belongs to my own family. This is what Fury meant. It’s a can of worms.
Jazz had gone to the kettle and made another pot of tea. She poured it and sat down again, facing Hanna. ‘Mum, there’s no pressure. It’s your choice. It’ll be the same for everyone who has stuff tucked away. They can all choose whether or not to bring it into their library.’
‘Will they understand the implications of putting it on display, though?’
‘Well, that’s their problem, isn’t it?’
Hanna stabbed her cake with her fork. No, it’s not, she thought. I’m the one with the job of explaining the implications to them, and I’m not sure I understand them myself. But there was no point in arguing, so she smiled and said she supposed Jazz was right. Later, as she was leaving, she picked up the notebook. ‘Do you mind if I hang onto this? I’d like to read it again.’
Jazz hugged her goodbye. ‘Of course I don’t mind if you take it. And it wouldn’t matter if I did. You own it.’
Driving between the scrubby clifftop fields and the lush farmland, Hanna considered that parting remark. It’s the central issue, she thought. Owen and I have been working on how to catalogue material, but keeping a record of physical ownership is just the start. Maybe we’re focused on the wrong thing entirely. Maybe the real questions will be about ownership of the hidden stories behind the bits and pieces people choose to entrust to us.
The Year of Lost and Found by Felicity Hayes-McCoy (published by Hachette Ireland) is out now.
