Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
Saoirse
I wander around town aimlessly for a while. It’s unusually cold for May, and without a coat, I’m shivering. I think about turning back, but instead I wrap one side of my cardigan over the other, fold my arms tightly across my chest, and lower my head into the wind.
The city is busy, just the way I like it. Solo shoppers dip in and out of shops on a mission to find the perfect bag or coat or shoes. Loved-up couples hold hands, window-shopping and enjoying a stroll. And of course, there are mothers and their children. Young women push buggies. Flustered mothers try to wrestle wiry toddlers while keeping an eye on fed-up older children. Pregnant women smile every time their hands brush against their round bellies.
One mother in particular catches my eye. She’s about my age, mid-thirties, I’d guess. Her hair is red and curly like mine. She’s petite too. No taller than five foot three. My height. I can’t take my eyes off her and the little girl who holds her hand and skips alongside her so contentedly. The child is about four or maybe five. She’s pretty. A miniature version of her mother. They look at each other every so often as they walk, and they both smile. They love each other very much and it’s a beautiful thing. I try to imagine myself in the mother’s shoes. I think about small fingers knitted between mine and round innocent eyes smiling up at me. I think about loving someone unconditionally and being loved all the same in return. I think about the responsibility that falls on every mother’s shoulders the moment she brings a child into this world. A responsibility to put that child first, always. And I think that I could do it. I know I could. Miles is right. I know that the instant I held a baby of my own in my arms, that child would come above all else. But, more than that, my gut is telling me that I am not ready. I doubt I will ever be ready.
The mother and her daughter turn into Zara and I walk on. I pick up my pace, trying to keep warm as the sky darkens. I’m almost outside Connolly train station when there’s a clap of thunder and angry clouds spit torrential rain. The street empties as people scatter, searching for cover. I race up the steps of the station and by the time I duck inside, my cardigan has turned from mint to dark teal.
“Summer my arse,” someone says, as a handful of people huddle just inside the entrance. “It’d freeze the balls off a pool table out there today, so it would.”
There’s shared laughing and strangers engage in collective venting about turbulent Irish weather. Someone says something about the forecast looking better for next week. I break away from the small group of wet people and close my eyes. Rain pounds the roof like hundreds of tiny feet marching. I love that sound. Miles and I spend many lazy Saturday mornings in bed listening to the sound of stomping rain. I wonder if he’s gone back to bed with a cup of coffee and one ear cocked toward the ceiling, listening. Or maybe he’s pacing around our small apartment trying to walk off his frustration. Miles always paces when he’s mad or hurt. This argument is going to have our carpets threadbare. I slide my phone out of my jeans pocket and think about calling him. But there’s nothing I want to say over the phone. I decide to go home when the rain stops.
The station smells of engine oil and coffee. My stomach rumbles and I remember that I skipped breakfast and lunch. I pick up a bar of Cadbury Dairy Milk and a cup of machine coffee in the tuckshop and find a bench to sit down and wait the bad weather out. I sip bitter coffee and enjoy the soothing sounds of the busy station: the rumbling of a train coming to life and chugging away. The hum of commuters chatting, and the patter of their feet as they hurry down the platform and hop aboard. Finally, I realize the rain has stopped. But I sit a little longer, alone with my thoughts, an empty paper cup, and service announcements.
Please stand back behind the yellow line. The next train departing from platform two is the thirteen-fifty enterprise service to Belfast. Calling at Drogheda, Dundalk, Newry, Portadown, Belfast.
I’ve never been to Northern Ireland before but I’ve heard it’s beautiful and the wine is cheaper, apparently. One of the girls in radiology travels across the border every Christmas to stock up on booze and chocolates. She says that even with the exchange rate from euros to pounds she saves a fortune. I wonder if Miles and I should take a trip. It’s only a couple of hours from Dublin, and a long weekend away could be just what we need.
I’m googling hotels in Belfast when an elderly lady passes by. I catch her glossy silver hair and baby-pink raincoat from the corner of my eye and I hope I’m half as glamorous when I’m older. I watch her for a moment as she tries her best to hurry toward a waiting train. She carries a scrapbook by her side, the way a businessman might carry a briefcase. I smile as I’m reminded that before mobile phones and laptops, people used scrapbooks or photo albums to hold their memories. My heart pangs and I wish I was living in those simpler times. I sigh audibly and stand up to go home. I’m dropping my cup into the nearby bin when I notice an old black-and-white photograph on the ground nearby. The lady must have dropped it from her scrapbook , I think as I bend down to pick it up.
“Excuse me,” I call out.
A teenager with a backpack slung over one shoulder turns around and makes eye contact.
“No. Sorry,” I say, standing back up and pointing toward the lady gaining distance.
He nods, turns back, and continues walking.
“Sorry, excuse me,” I call out again, louder this time.
My efforts are no match for the noisy station. The lady doesn’t hear me. Instead, she gingerly steps over the gap and onto a waiting train.
I stare at the photo in my hand, hoping to find a clue about its owner. One corner is missing and another is fraying. Unsurprisingly, the gray image has adopted a yellowish hue over the years, but the bright smiles on the two young women looking back at me are no doubt as fresh as the day it was taken. The women stand each with one arm wrapped around the other’s shoulders and with their other arm punch the air as if they are cheering. Their joy emanates from the delicate paper, and I wonder what they’re celebrating.
I guess from their clothing the photo was taken in the sixties or maybe the early seventies. The taller of the two women is slim and stylish. Her hair is centered on the top of her head in a neat bun and she’s wearing corduroy trousers with a flare at the bottom. The other lady is older, or perhaps just less fashion-conscious. She wears a box-pleated skirt and sensible shoes. There’s a train in the background and it takes me a moment to realize the photo was taken here, in Connolly Station. The station has changed somewhat since then but certainly not enough to be unrecognizable. I turn the photograph over, hoping to find a name or an address, but unsurprisingly there isn’t either. There is, however, a date handwritten in blue pen.
22 May 1971.
My breath catches when I realize the photograph is exactly fifty-two years old today. I sweep my eyes over the station, searching for the lost and found. I spot a small hatch with a sign above it exclaiming LOST. The FOUND seems to have peeled away. The irony makes me sigh. The place where lost things go and are rarely found , I think. I shake my head. It’s obvious this photo is of great importance—why else would someone carry it in a scrapbook for more than fifty years? I’m not sure why, but I can’t escape the sense that I owe it to the smiling women staring up at me to ensure that this photograph is returned safely to its owner.
A train horn honks, and there’s no time to think before I instinctively start running toward platform two. I don’t have a ticket and I balk when I reach the turnstile. I count backward from three and jump. My face stings and I’m certain I’ll feel the hand of security on my shoulder at any moment, but I keep going.
“I’m not getting on. I’m just giving a woman her photo,” I find myself announcing to no one in particular as I race down the platform.
I’m red-faced, mortified, and short of breath when I step onto the train. I shuffle down the aisle, scanning the seats on both sides until I come upon a lady with silky silver hair shaped into a neat bob that frames her face. The scrapbook is lying on the table in front of her and up close I can see it’s fragile and dog-eared, just like the photo. The leather spine is cracked and has been hand-stitched with green and blue thread.
“Hi. Hello,” I puff. “I think you might have dropped something.”
I open my hand and show the lady the photograph.
Her hands cup her face and she lets out a distressed gasp. The skin on the back of her hands is thin, like tissue paper covering her bones. Her nails are painted a delicate pink and match the coat she has taken off and folded across her knees.
“Oh goodness yes. That is mine. How on earth did I drop it? I’m usually so careful.” Her voice has the distinctive crackle that comes with age.
“Ah, it can easily happen,” I say, trying to make light of the situation. “I left my phone in the cinema a few weeks ago.” I pass her the photograph and smile, rather pleased with my good deed for the day.
“I was rushing, you see,” she continues, noticeably swallowing an emotional lump. “I have to be in Belfast for dinner this evening and I couldn’t miss this train….” She trails off. “But if I lost this…” Her voice cracks. “Well, Bernie would never forgive me.” She points to the shorter of the two women in the photograph. “That’s Bernie there. And that’s me beside her. We were best friends for over forty years. I still haven’t forgiven her for dying and leaving me to take this train alone.”
I’m not sure how to react to that.
“You can smile,” she says, reading my discomfort. “Bernie would. She was always smiling and laughing. Oh, what fun we had.”
I do smile, because I notice how she strokes her finger over the photo, gently caressing Bernie’s image with such fondness.
“I’m so glad you got this back,” I say. “Enjoy Belfast.”
I turn to walk away when I feel her grab my hand. She’s trembling slightly and I wonder if she could use a drink. I know I could do with one after the turnstile incident.
“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you so very much.”
She lets me go and reaches into her purse. She pulls fifty euros out and shoves it toward me.
“For helping me… eh…” She smiles at me with her head cocked slightly to one side, and it takes me a moment to realize that she’s waiting for my name.
“Saoirse,” I say.
“Thank you, Saoirse.” She straightens her head once more. “I’m Maura. It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Maura and Bernie,” I whisper, my eyes falling onto the photo again. “You look beautiful.”
She presses the money against my palm. “It was a beautiful day.”
I smile awkwardly, not sure what to do or say and certainly not sure if I should accept an elderly lady’s money. But Maura doesn’t give me time to overthink it. She guides my fingers to curl around the crisp note. Satisfied it’s firmly in my grasp, she cups both my hands in hers and squeezes gently. My heart swells and I enjoy this unexpected moment.
Suddenly, I lose my footing and I grab the back of Maura’s chair to steady myself. “Are we moving?”
“It seems so,” Maura says.
“Oh God. Oh no.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I’m not supposed to be on board. I mean, I just got on for a minute to give you the photo. Feck, this is all I need today.”
“Oh, love.” Maura’s face fills with concern as she pulls her shoulders toward her ears and holds them there. “Have you somewhere very important that you need to be?”
I shrug. “Actually, no. Not really. It’s my day off.”
Maura’s shoulders fall back into their rightful place and she pats the seat beside her. “Oh well, that’s all right, then,” she says. “I think you should sit yourself down. Drogheda’s the first stop. It’s not too far. You’ll be back where you started in less than an hour.”
“I don’t have a ticket,” I say, flopping into the seat next to her.
“Don’t worry, m’dear. I boarded this train for the first time on the twenty-second of May, nineteen seventy-one, so I can have a word if they ask. It’s very hard to say no to a nice little old lady.”
“That’s the date on the back of the photograph,” I say. “The twenty-second of May 1971. Was it your first time on a train?”
“Oh no.” Maura scrunches her nose. “But it was my first time on this train. Bernie’s too. It changed our lives forever.” A rosy hue brushes across her cheeks and I think she’s blushing. “But hey, I’m just an old lady now,” she says. “I’m not sure anyone wants to listen to my ramblings.”
“What happened on that train ride?” I ask.
There’s a twinkle in Maura’s eye and I’ve no doubt she’s replaying the memory in her mind. She stretches her arm across the table and places her hand on the scrapbook, pausing for a moment as if it’s a delicate, sleeping thing that she doesn’t want to disturb. The skin on her hand highlights her age. Time has patiently embroidered lines and folds over the fifty-two years since the photograph was taken. Fifty-two years , I think, and still, she clutches the scrapbook photo as if it’s her most prized possession in the world . I have no doubt that it is.
Finally, she flicks through the scrapbook and settles on a page somewhere in the middle. She pulls some sticky tape out of her handbag and attaches the photo with a firm press.
Then she flicks the scrapbook back to the first page and, keeping it open, guides it across the table toward me.
“Bernie always said a story is best told over tea and biscuits. Do you like tea?”
I glance over my shoulder toward the confectionery cart at the end of the carriage and back toward the scrapbook with a handwritten message on the first page that reads Property of Mrs. Bernie McCarthy .
I haven’t had a cup of tea in years; I’m a coffee person—occupational habit, I guess. But suddenly there is nothing I’d like more than a cup of tea and a chance to hear Maura and Bernie’s story.
“Tea sounds great,” I say.