Encounter
Encounter
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, AS SHE WAS HELPING A mother choose birthday books for her toddler twins, she became aware of a figure hovering nearby. Waiting with a question, maybe. When the woman had left, she looked at him enquiringly. ‘Can I help you?’
He advanced with a tentative smile. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry for staring.’ He lifted a hand to sweep his long hair back. Softly spoken. Tall. Around her own age. ‘It’s just – I might be wrong, but you look like someone I used to know.’
She waited. He didn’t seem familiar.
‘You’re not, by any chance – Ellen Sheehan, are you?’
She stared at him. ‘I am, but—’ She stopped. It wasn’t – was it? Could it be?
‘Danny?’
He gave a wide smile. ‘I thought I might be hallucinating.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said.
Her best friend before they’d moved from their old town, living just three doors from the Sheehans. It was surreal, seeing this grown version of the boy she’d known so well, once upon a time. He was a full head taller than her now – hadn’t she always been the taller one?
‘Wow,’ he said, ‘it’s like time travel or something, isn’t it? I can still see you with your hair in pigtails.’
‘I never wore my hair in pigtails. You must be thinking of Joan.’
He laughed. She liked the sound of it. ‘No, not Joan, definitely you. I used to pull them when you made me cross. Remember poking my chin dimple, just to annoy me?’
‘Oh, I do. You hated when I poked it.’ Still she was trying to reconcile him with the long-ago boy. The same person, chin dimple still in place, only all grown up now.
He folded his arms, narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Now that I come to think of it, you were actually incredibly annoying.’
‘So were you. It’s a wonder we got on at all.’ They stood there, taking in their adult versions as people walked around them.
‘How long’s it been?’ he asked.
‘Twelve years. We were eight.’
He was a week younger than her, so every year they’d had a joint birthday party on a day between the two dates, their houses hosting in turn. She’d forgotten that until now, hadn’t given him a thought in so long. He’d been tucked away, along with the rest of her old life.
He gave a low whistle. ‘My God. Twelve years. More than half our lifetimes.’ A beat passed while that sank in. ‘I hardly know where to begin,’ he said. ‘Have you lived in Galway long?’
‘Moved here yesterday, started this job today. You live here too?’
‘For now I do. I’m three years through a course in UCG, one more to go. Electronic engineering.’
‘What on earth is that?’
‘It’s a new course. Basically, it’s all about computers.’
‘Computers? That’s a surprise – you always wanted to be a vet.’
‘A vet? I did not!’
‘You did, or an explorer. You wanted to sail the seas like Christopher Columbus. You were going to build your own boat.’
‘What? Now you’re just making things up.’
‘No, it’s true.’ She thought of something else. ‘I wrote to you after we left.’
‘And I wrote back, and I never heard from you again.’
‘Oh, really? I’d forgotten that part. I suppose we moved on.’
‘You moved on, you mean. Forgot your old friend in five minutes.’
‘Sorry. I replaced you with a girl.’
‘Typical.’
Already they were falling back into old familiarity. She liked his hair long. He looked like a fairer version of Neil Young. Amazing they’d both landed in Galway.
‘We must have a proper catch-up,’ he said. ‘When do you finish?’
‘Half five.’
‘Could we grab a coffee then?’
‘We could, in the pub right next door.’ As long as she left by six, she’d be home for dinner.
‘Great – see you there.’
Danny O’Meara, of all people. Wait till she told Joan. She wished she’d kept his letter.
‘You’re a natural,’ Ben said at closing time. ‘I made a good choice.’
‘And you’re a big improvement on my last boss. Miss Arthur never bought me lunch.’
‘Now don’t get ideas. I did make it clear that was a one-time occurrence, didn’t I?’
‘Very clear. I have no expectations.’ She enjoyed his humour. What had seemed disconcerting on the phone was much better face to face.
‘See you in the morning. Half nine sharp, or you’ll never darken this door again.’
‘Half nine sharp.’
Danny was waiting on a high stool in the pub. ‘Coffee, or something stronger?’
‘Coffee’s fine, thanks.’
Time slipped by as they caught up. Sheila, his eldest sister, was married with a four-year-old daughter, and two other sisters were engaged and planning a double wedding next summer. His two brothers, both still single, were working on building sites in England. She used to envy his big noisy family, with him the youngest of the six.
‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘How are your parents, and Joan?’
The question wasn’t unexpected. He wouldn’t have heard about what had happened. She said what she hated to say, what she avoided saying if she could, but there was no avoiding it now. ‘My father walked out four years ago, the day after my sixteenth birthday. We haven’t seen or heard from him since.’
His face fell. ‘What? He just left?’
‘Just left.’
‘Are you OK?’
If anyone else had asked, she would have said she was fine and quickly changed the subject – but she wanted to tell him the truth. Sensed, even after all this time, that the truth would be safe with him.
‘I’m . . . I try not to think about it. It was a huge shock for me and Joan. We had no idea it was coming. I mean, he and Mam had . . . drifted apart, I suppose, but it never once occurred to us that he might leave. He didn’t say goodbye, just went one night after we were in bed. He left us a note that explained nothing.’
‘Jesus, that’s . . . And no contact at all since then?’
‘Nothing, not even a letter or a phone call.’
He shook his head in sympathy. Would he have had any idea how close she’d been to her father, how much of a hero she’d considered him? Of course not – eight-year-olds didn’t notice things like that.
‘I blamed Mam,’ she said slowly. ‘I still do. I felt she pushed him away.’
He made no response, and she regretted saying it. He hadn’t needed to hear that. ‘I’m living with my aunt now,’ she said, to change the subject. ‘Mam’s sister.’ She told him about the previous evening, exaggerating the mishaps to make them funnier.
He knew where Frances’ road was. ‘Not too far from us, about half a mile.’
‘Who’s us?’
‘Two pals from secondary school, both in college as well. We’re sharing a house.’
‘And how do you like student life?’
‘Good. I’m enjoying it.’
‘Met anyone nice?’ she teased, and he grinned and said a few, and didn’t elaborate. She thought he would be popular. Nice looking, good personality.
‘If you have three years of college done, you started young.’
‘I skipped fourth class in primary,’ he said. ‘Left school at seventeen.’
‘Brainbox’ – and he laughed, but he was. He must be. She told him about Claire, soon to join her in Galway. ‘I’ll start looking for a flat, once she lets me know when she can come.’
‘I’ll keep an eye out,’ he promised. ‘Spread the word.’
‘Thanks.’ She glanced at the clock above the bar and got up. ‘I have to go – I’ve been warned not to be late for dinner.’
‘I’ll walk with you,’ so he did, until their paths diverged at a roundabout. ‘Come to the college some evening,’ he said. ‘We can have drinks in the bar – I can get you in as a guest. How’s Wednesday night?’
‘Perfect.’ Any night was perfect, with no plans and nobody to make them with.
‘Might as well meet you here – eight o’clock?’
‘Fine.’
Unexpectedly, he stepped closer and bent to give her a swift hug, over before she had time to react. ‘Amazing,’ he said, ‘to meet you again. See you Wednesday.’
His shampoo, or something, smelt of lemons.
She got home as Frances was setting the table. ‘Sorry,’ Ellen said, ‘I meant to be back in time to help, but I bumped into an old friend and we got chatting.’
‘Wash your hands,’ Frances said, ‘and fill the water jug. You can help another night. How was your first day?’
‘Great. The shop is lovely. Have you ever been in it?’
‘I have not. I get my books from the library. Cold chicken we’re having, and a bit of salad.’
‘Lovely, thank you. My boss took me out to lunch for my first day.’
‘Well, that’s a good start. And you met an old friend too.’
‘He came into the shop. I knew him years ago – we were neighbours before we moved. Now he’s in college here.’
‘Small world,’ Frances said.
Small world indeed. Danny O’Meara, of all people.