Chapter 7
SEVEN
I head back downstairs, wrapped up warm against the chill of the winter night, and find a torch left in the back porch window just like it used to be.
I soon discover that I don’t really need it – my feet have retained their muscle memory.
Even in the starlight, I easily pick my way along the path that cuts through the gardens, the sound of waves breaking in the bay murmuring behind me.
It all feels eerily familiar, even though I left here so long ago.
I follow the path through to the centre of the village and pause as I reach the oval green in the middle.
A huge oak tree stands right in the heart, the branches bare now, but in warmer months covered in leaves and offering welcome shade.
Now, it is draped in colourful bulbs for Christmas, casting a merry glow on the snow-covered grass.
The green is surrounded by the homes and businesses that make up the beating heart of St Tilda – but there are so few it has a very low heart rate.
In fact it’s pretty much asleep. It’s just after five pm, and lights are still shining from a few buildings.
I walk around the cobbled street that circles the green, remembering who lived in each house and wondering if they still do.
I see the Post Office, now a small supermarket as well, and quickly pick up pace just in case Doris is still working there.
The little gift shop has closed down, which isn’t really a surprise.
We do get tourists, and the inn does okay, but we’re not top of anybody’s list when they visit this part of the world.
The pandemic a few years ago took its toll around the world, and I know it was tough for my dad as well.
Nothing seems to have replaced the shop, but a brand new boutique has opened next to it.
The shop is closed, but the window display shows some very fancy threads.
I have no idea how it survives in a place like this, where women are far more likely to be wearing jeans and wellies than sleeveless gowns with matching evening gloves.
I see the doctor’s surgery, though the name has changed to a Dr Khan – unsurprisingly, as Dr Mountford was about a hundred back when I lived here.
His cure for everything was a long walk and a glass of water, I recall, which worked just fine until that time Liam had broken his ankle somersaulting off a hay bale, and ended up walking on the fracture for over a week before his mum took him to town for an X-ray.
Then he got a giant boot that he hated with a passion.
I’m happy to see that Maggie’s bakery is still trading, even if it’s closed right now.
I wonder how old Maggie is these days, because she seemed elderly back then.
I think any assessment of age is pretty skewed when you’re a teenager though – everyone over forty seems ancient.
I’m approaching that myself and suddenly it seems relatively young.
Maggie was always lovely; she used to save the wonky pies and cakes for Liam to take home with him, saying she couldn’t sell them but didn’t want them to go to waste.
We’d usually sneak off and gorge on a couple ourselves before depositing them on Bernadette’s kitchen table.
I used to hang out with her when I was little, and she taught me the basics of baking – I still hear her voice sometimes when I’m working on a project myself.
I’m still lost in the memories when the door to the fancy clothes shop opens, and a super-stylish woman steps out.
She’s wearing spike-heeled boots over skinny jeans, and has perfectly coiffed red hair draped over the shoulders of her faux-fur coat.
I live in New York, where there is a lot of glamour, but here in St Tilda she sticks out like a sore thumb.
I wonder who she is, and when she moved here.
She locks up and walks towards me. She’s humming away to herself – something from the works of One Direction if I’m not mistaken – and then comes to a sudden halt when she spots me lingering outside the cake shop. The story of my life.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Is that you, Ellie de Vere?’
For the second time today, I find myself at a disadvantage.
Have I really changed so little? In some ways it’s a compliment, I suppose.
I still have long dark hair, and my perfectly average height and perfectly average build haven’t altered much.
Inside, I’m a totally different human being – but on the outside, apparently not so much.
‘Um… yes?’ I reply hesitantly. ‘Unless I owe you money. In which case, no.’
‘You owe me a hug!’ she says, high-heeling towards me with alarming speed and wrapping her arms around me. She smells glorious, like the most expensive perfume from the poshest of shops. I inhale her hair slightly, feeling a bit giddy at the assault on my senses.
‘It’s me, Cara, you bloody idiot!’ she announces, when she finally pulls away and I still look confused.
I stare at her, doing a double take. That can’t be right.
Cara Byrne is Liam’s little sister, and she does not look like this.
Cara Byrne has short ginger hair, wiry muscles, and dresses in her big brothers’ cast-offs.
She doesn’t wear heels, and she smells of Lynx Africa on a good day, and old socks on a bad day.
‘No way!’ I say, grinning at her. ‘My God, what happened? Were you kidnapped by aliens?’
She laughs, and flicks her gorgeous hair for effect.
‘Yes. They took me to the Planet Make-over. I suppose I just grew up, Ellie. When you left I was, what, thirteen? Not long after that, our mammy insisted I needed my own room, and poor Dad was up in the attic putting in the floorboards and suchlike… and that was when it all began to change. I realised I didn’t have to hang round with the hooligans all the time, and that I could use the showers at school, and I could buy a bra without fear of one of the swines putting it on his head and running around the house pretending to be a pilot from the olden days… ’
‘Well, you look fantastic, Cara. I really can’t believe it. I’ve already bumped into Sean, and I didn’t recognise him either.’
‘Did he tell you to come up and see our mum and dad?’
‘He did. And I will. I’m not sure how long I’m here, but I’ll make sure I call in and say hello. I believe you have a new house?’
‘We do,’ she says, ‘or at least they do, and very nice it is too. More than one bathroom for a start, plus bedrooms downstairs ’cause Daddy isn’t too good on his feet these days. I live with my husband and kids just down the coast. I run the wee shop here, keeps me busy and turns a profit.’
I probably don’t do a good job of keeping the surprise off my face, and she punches me lightly on the shoulder. I’m glad to see that the old Cara isn’t entirely gone – she was forever scrapping, with her brothers, kids from school, pretty much anyone who ever crossed her path.
‘What, you don’t think a little place like St Tilda is busy enough for a fashion empire?’
‘Frankly, no. I looked in your window. Nice stuff, but not exactly practical.’
‘Ah, well, you see – I have a loyal customer base who come from all over just to buy from me! I built it up online, sourcing one-off items, and eventually sold the online company on for a fair few quid. I opened the shop instead, because I’d be bored sick without something to do other than look after little ones and watch telly.
How about you, Ellie? What are you up to these days? Still America is it?’
‘Still America, yes. New York. I… um…’ I’m realising that I don’t know quite how to describe the last few decades of my life and decide to go with a quick summary.
‘Married, then divorced, then single, now not. I work doing temporary contracts as an office manager, but my real love is baking, and I’m trying to make a go of that. ’
Her face lights up. ‘I still remember that birthday cake you made for Liam’s fifteenth. It was in the shape of a gravestone, but it tasted of lemons!’
I laugh at the memory. ‘It was a Buffy the Vampire Slayer inspired cake! And he liked lemons.’
I feel awkward talking about Liam, and I’m relieved when she continues.
‘What other news, Ellie? I know your daddy would have told us if you had kids, but what about pets, tattoos, significant others?’
I clench inside at the mention of kids. You get asked about it a lot as a woman of my age, and it always gets to me.
It’s nobody else’s business, and feels intrusive to have my biological clock referred to in conversation.
And more to the point, it makes me sad – I would like kids, but it just never seemed like the right time with the right person.
Or maybe it’s down to me, because Tyler is most definitely good father material, and I’m still not picturing that in my future.
‘No kids, no, or tattoos. Technically no pets of my own, but I share my boyfriend’s three Labradors. He’s called Tyler and he looks like Superman.’
‘Which version?’ she asks seriously. ‘Christopher Reeve, Henry Cavill, Smallville, that fella who was in Lois and Clark… I need specifics now!’
‘How come you know so many different Supermen?’
‘My ten-year-old is obsessed, as is the hubbie. So, which would it be?’
I think about it, and nod decisively. ‘Definitely Henry Cavill. But more when he’s Clark Kent, you know, kind of goofy but hot?’
‘I do know! So, congrats on that, then. Living the dream right there, so you are. You’ll have heard that our Liam moved from Australia to Dublin? Terrible shame, it was.’
I shake my head. No. I had not heard that. I feel slightly unnerved at the fact that he is getting closer. Also unsure as to why it was a terrible shame – I’m sure Dublin is a very nice place. ‘I hadn’t. I kind of lost touch with everything. I just came home to help my dad.’
She pulls a sympathetic face and pats my arm. ‘That’s a good thing to have done. He needs the help whether he admits to it or not. Right, I must be getting home now, but I’ll be seeing you soon – you’ll have to come and visit, meet the brats!’
I promise her that I will, and continue my stroll.
The weather is harsh, but New York winters aren’t exactly tropical so I’m well prepared.
It is an enjoyable thing to do, noting the small changes in the place, then feeling amazed at how small those changes are.
Big cities are in a constant state of change, always evolving and developing.
Here in St Tilda, it feels like time has stood still.
I head to the back of the village, to the less picturesque area where the bus stop lives – and, I see, the new additions of big recycling bins.
The bus stop is a small wooden structure with a seat inside.
It’s where us wild and crazy teens would hang out – the nearest thing St Tilda had to a seedy underbelly.
As I walk I see that hasn’t changed. A small gang of kids are lolling about.
I see the glow of cigarettes or, from the fragrant scent in the air, something slightly more exotic.
Huh. They’re obviously much better at being wild and crazy than I was.
The chatter and giggling stops as I go by, and I try not to laugh – they’re all trying so very hard to look tough, but they don’t give off a single threatening vibe.
One of them – a stunning-looking girl with dyed black hair and a nose ring – is lounging fully flat on the wooden bench, smoking almost defiantly.
Unlike the others, she makes eye contact, then leaves the cigarette in her mouth so she has her hand free – with which she proceeds to give me the finger.
I can’t help it at that point; I actually do burst out laughing.
She narrows her eyes at me, obviously not happy with that reaction, and I give them all a little wave as I walk away.
Oh my. The fashions might change, but the attitude doesn’t.
I had exactly the same surly outlook, the feeling that I was trapped.
I felt trapped right up until the moment I was told I had to leave.
Then, it was like a switch flicked on inside me, and I realised just how special it was here.
What St Tilda lacked in nightclubs and gigs and cool shops it more than made up for in natural beauty, in a sense of community, in friendship.
I had more freedom running wild here than I have had in the rest of my life.
Those kids hanging around the bus stop don’t realise how lucky they are, but I suppose it was ever thus with teenagers.
I’m still smiling at the encounter as I head back to the inn. It’s time to roll up my sleeves, and get stuck in. I’m here to help my dad, and that starts tonight.