Hot Property (Irish romantic comedy) (4 page)

Megan backed away. “No. I don’t want your cattle in my garden.” She picked up her phone again and switched it on. “I’m going to call my solicitor.”

He played with the catch on the trailer’s ramp. Then, without another word, stomped back to the tractor and started the engine. “Good luck finding Dan Nolan on a Saturday,” he shouted over the rumble before he took off.

“Good luck to you too.” Megan mumbled, closing the gate.

Chapter 4

Mulligan’s pub was flooded with the golden light of the late evening sun. A stone-faced, low building, it had wonderful views of Brandon bay and the mountains beyond. Far out at sea, waves crashed against the rocks of an island. The sails of two windsurfers bouncing on the waves were just visible.

Megan closed the door of Beata’s ancient van. “How beautiful.”

“Not bad,” Beata agreed. “Come on, Boris, get your ass out of the car. I need a drink.”

The tall Russian scrambled out of the back seat. “Okay. Don’t twist your panties.” He smiled amiably at Megan. “She takes no prisoners.”

Megan laughed. “No, so I gather.” She had liked him instantly. A handsome man with high cheekbones and features that seemed to have been hewn out of a rock, he had dark, nearly black eyes and a thatch of brown hair. “I’d say she has a good heart, though.”

He nodded. “A good, warm heart with much kindness.” He put his finger to his lips. “But,
shh
, she no want anyone to know.”

“Your English is getting worse instead of better,” Beata remarked. “Could you try to keep that gob shut tonight? I don’t need to be embarrassed again like the last time. Nobody wants to hear the details of our sex life. Or how big my boobs are.”

“Yes, boss.” Boris shuffled into the pub.

“He’s such an arsehole sometimes.” Beata sighed. “But strong as an ox and very useful to have around when something needs fixing. Must work on his English, though. Can’t have him using language like that.”

“Uh, no,” Megan started. “You have an interesting turn of phrase yourself.”

Beata’s eyes turned colder than a glacier. “I’m from Poland, in case you were wondering. I’ve been here a long time, and Ireland isn’t the land of the welcomes but a lot better than a small village in the middle of Poland. And I’m not the maid of the Blue Door but the owner.” She drew breath.

Megan squirmed. “I didn’t think—”

“Yes you did. Everyone does. ‘Where are you from? Have you been here long?’ That’s what you were going to ask, wasn’t it? Then you assumed I was the maid. I could see that’s exactly what was going through your mind.”

“No, it wasn’t. I was going to ask how come you speak such good English.”

“I learned English from my dad. He was a seaman and worked on English trawlers for years.”

“That explains your, uh, fluency.”

“Thanks. Let’s go in. I could kill for a drink.”

The noise in the pub was a sharp contrast to the peace outside, where the silence was only broken by the plaintive cry of a seagull. Inside, the chatter of many voices, loud music and a large TV screen, showing a soccer match, brought Megan back to Dublin. But the sweaters and jeans, deep tans and tousled hair of the crowd were different from pub-goers in the city. You could tell most of these people had been out surfing or sailing all day. In her sequined tee-shirt, tight, short skirt and high heels, she didn’t exactly blend in. She looked around, but Beata and Boris had disappeared into the crowd. She elbowed herself to the bar and ordered a glass of Guinness.

Someone jostled her as she picked up her glass. “Sorry! Oh, Megan?”

She turned around. Confused, she tried to place him. “Hi, uh, Dan.”

In tee-shirt and shorts, his hair damp, he looked younger than the solicitor she had met two months earlier. “Hi. Nice to see you again.”

“Yes, great. You’ve been swimming?”

He pushed his hair back. “No, surfing. Some great waves today. So you decided to come and spend the weekend?”

She suddenly felt self-conscious. “Yes… I mean… no, I thought I’d stay around for a bit.”

“Oh, yes. So you said.”

“I’m staying at the Blue Door.” A thought struck her. “Listen, there’s a bit of a problem with my… with the land and stuff. I tried to call you earlier but there was no reply.”

He laughed. “Yeah, well, the surf was up, so I was busy catching a wave.”

 
“I see. But now that you’re here, maybe you could explain something to me?”

He lifted a bushy black eyebrow. “Okay, let me get a drink, and we can have a chat about it.” He turned to the bartender. “A pint of lager, please.” He smiled at Megan and gestured to an empty spot at the bar further away. ‘”Let’s grab those seats.”

“Okay.” Megan inched her way along the bar and sat down.

Perched on a stool, Dan raised his pint of lager. “Cheers and good luck with your new property. So what was it you wanted to ask me?”

 
Megan sipped her Guinness. “I had a bit of a problem with a farmer today. Paudie something, I think his name was. He seems to be renting my fields in something called conacre, which you seem to have forgotten to mention.”

“But I did.”

Megan frowned. “No, I don’t remember that.”

“Probably because you were half asleep.”

“Must have been while you were droning on about property laws. I kind of lost interest halfway through. Maybe you should improve your reading skills? Make it more interesting so your clients don’t fall asleep.”

He put his glass on the counter. “You mean you expect it to be some sort of entertainment? I’m sorry if I bored you, but I thought, as it concerned your property, you might have made an attempt to stay awake.”

“I didn’t know I had a property at that stage. You might have told me that at the beginning and then—” Megan stopped. “Aren’t we losing track of the real issue here?”

“Yes.” He took another swig. “What was the issue?”

“Paudie O’Shea and his conacre. He said the contract was good for ten years.”

Dan shook his head. “No, it’s not. It’s renewable at the end of every year. He’s paid until then, and after that it’s up to you if you want to continue.”

“But he has the right to put cattle in the garden too? He tried to unload some calves.”

“No, absolutely not. He probably took the liberty, thinking there was nobody around. I suspect your Uncle Pat said it was okay or something. You have to sort that out with Paudie.”

“Or you could write him a letter,” Megan suggested.

“Could do. But if you speak to him first, he might agree without much pressure.”

Megan sighed. “I doubt that very much.”

Dan winked. “But a pretty face goes much further than a solicitor’s letter.”

She smiled stiffly. “Of course. That’s what I always use. My charm and femininity.”

“Thought so.” He winked. “You have foam on your lip.”

She wiped it off. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“What’ll I do about Paudie?”

Dan drained his glass. “Nothing for the moment. Let me know if he causes any trouble, and I’ll go and beat him up.”

“Very funny.” Megan wriggled off her stool. “Goodbye.” She took her half-finished glass and pushed into the crowd, looking for Beata or Boris.

Someone touched her arm. A stocky, red-haired man in his fifties blocked her way. “Are you the O’Farrell girl?”

“Um, yes?”

His beady eyes studied her for a moment. “Thought so. You’ve that O’Farrell look. He grabbed her hand so roughly, she nearly dropped her glass. “Tom Quinn. Your Aunt Molly’s nephew.”

Megan took a step back. “Hello. Nice to meet you.”

He looked at her in silence for a moment. “So, how did you do it, then?”

“Do what?”

“Get him to will you the house.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The man grabbed her arm. “We were very good to Pat the last few years. Worked hard we did, for him. Helped him with the animals, drove him to the shops, even dug the potatoes. Hard work it was. My brother and I went to see him nearly every day in the nursing home. And he swore we would get the place when he died.” He moved closer still. “But a pretty girl like you wouldn’t have any trouble getting an old man to part with his property,” he wheezed in her ear. He smelled of sweat and beer.

Megan pulled away. “I really—” They were interrupted by a voice calling for Megan.

Beata sidled up to them. “Come over and meet our friends.” She nodded at Tom Quinn. “Hi. I’m Beata.”

He smirked. “Yeah, I’ve seen you before. Not from around here are you?”

Beata frowned. “No. From Poland.”

Tom nodded. “Yes, thought so. A blow-in.”

Beata bristled. “What do you take me for? I don’t do stuff like that.” She pulled at Megan. “Come on, we don’t want to talk to this fucker.”

Tom Quinn lifted his glass. “Have a nice evening, ladies.”

“Bastard,” Beata growled when they were at the door. “Did you hear what he called me? A ‘blow-in’. As if… I mean…”

Megan took Beata’s arm. “Hey. Listen, it’s not what you think.” She struggled to keep her face straight. “A ‘blow-in’ means a stranger. Someone who’s not from here. Have you never heard it before?”

Beata’s jaw dropped. “Oh… I see. I thought he meant some kind of tart giving—you know…”

Megan let out a giggle. “Yeah, I know what you thought.”

“ Oh shit. Thanks for letting me know. But that guy’s still a fucker. I’ve seen him around. Always getting drunk and touching up women.”

They were interrupted by a shrill sound from Megan’s bag. She put her glass on a nearby table and fished out her phone. “Hello?”

A voice said something she couldn’t hear. “Hang on. I’m in a pub. Can’t hear a thing. I’ll go outside. Sorry,” she said to Beata. “Phone call.” She inched her way through the crowd and walked to the door. Once outside, she put the phone to her ear. “Okay. Can hear you now.”

The male voice said something in a Kerry accent so thick, it was impossible to understand more than ‘—on the road’.

Megan pressed the phone harder to her ear. “What? On the road? Could you speak more slowly? Who is this?”

“Mick Ryan. I live down the road from your house.”

“What?” Megan asked, confused. “How did you get my number?”

“Dan Nolan gave it to me. Said it would be useful in case something happened. And now it has. Your cattle are on the road.”

“What cattle?” Megan looked wildly around and was relieved to see Beata, coming out of the pub, puffing on a cigarette. “Hang on, I’ll put you on to my friend who understands the language.” She handed the phone to Beata. “Here. Please try to find out what’s going on. I don’t speak Kerry.”

Without removing the cigarette, Beata took the phone. “Hey, what’s your problem? You harassing this woman, huh?” She listened for a moment, then: “What the fuck do you mean? Megan doesn’t have any cattle. You must have the wrong number. If you don’t stop this, I’ll call the—”

The voice grew louder.

“What’s going on?” Megan hissed, trying to take the phone.

 
Beata puffed on her cigarette “I see. Okay. I’ll tell her. We’ll be right over.” She handed the phone to Megan. “He says there are cattle on the road outside your house. You have a house?”

“Yes. Just an old wreck I inherited. Don’t really know what to do with it. Then today this guy with a trailer arrived trying to unload some calves into the garden, but I told him I’d call the police so he left. Must have snuck back later when I was gone and unloaded them.”

“Who was he?”

Megan shrugged. “Said his name was Paudie O’Shea.”

Beata’s eyes narrowed. “I see…”

“You know him?”

“Yes, sure I do. Creep.”

“What am I going to do?”

Beata marched to her van. “Get in. We’ll sort this out.”

Megan got into the passenger seat. “What about Boris?”

Beata slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. “We’ll leave him here. He’s drunk. No use to anyone.”

“Where are we going?” Megan asked when the van took off.

Beata squinted through the cigarette smoke. “First, we’ll go to the house and see about the cattle. Then we’ll go and have a little chat with Paudie.”

“It’s very kind of you to help.”

Beata laughed. “Kind? I’ve been waiting for a reason to stick it to that bastard for a year.”

~ ~ ~

Four calves grazed on the sparse grass at the edge of the lane. Beata stopped the van. “There they are. All together. Great. This won’t be too hard.”

“What are we going to do?” Megan asked.

Beata smirked. “We’re going to drive them back up to Paudie. It’s not far. A couple of kilometres up the lane.”

“How?”

“On foot, of course.” Beta glanced at Megan’s shoes. “ Oh shit. Your shoes are useless. And that miniskirt’s pathetic. You have fantastic legs, but that won’t help you now. Hey, there’s a pair of willies in the van. Stick those on and we’re away.”

“You mean wellies, I hope?”

“Yeah, whatever. Willies, wellies, same difference.”

“Uh, not quite.” Megan found a pair of muddy boots in the back of the van. She pulled them on and tossed in her stilettos. “How’s that?” she called, walking around the car.

Beata laughed. “Not the most elegant look but better for this job.” She glanced at the house. “This is it? This wreck?”