Chapter 12
12
By ten the following morning, Jess wasn’t only wishing she’d taken heed of Brianna’s warning regarding the bus, she was also wishing she’d donned a sturdy sports bra instead of the non-underwire one she’d worn, opting for comfort. Not only had the bus done a loop inland, passing through all sorts of out-of-the-way towns before finally getting back onto the road that spliced through Drogheda and headed north, but Brianna’s warning regarding the potholes had proved prophetic, too. She was fairly sure the bus driver, whom she’d nicknamed Leery Len – his badge declared his real identity to be one Leonard O’Reilly – was deliberately hitting each and every one of them to see just how much bounce her boobs had in them.
At this rate, they’ll be down to my knees by the time we get to Ballymcguinness , she thought despondently, crossing her arms over her chest before catching Leery Len’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. She huffed. The bloody heating was turned up so high in the bus that it wasn’t as if she could put her jacket back on over her top to cover up – she’d expire long before she even got to Ballymcguinness! She fixed Len with her evil eye instead and received a wink for her troubles.
Turning away in disgust, she gazed out the window. They were officially in Northern Ireland now, although crossing over the border had been a nondescript event since the days of army checkpoints were long gone. Still, she thought as they sailed past rows of Newry’s white stucco identikit houses edged up against the grassy verge of the motorway, Irish flags blowing from their brown-tiled roofs in the chilly autumn winds, even from here she could sense the undercurrent despite all the years of peace. It sent a shiver through her.
The bus veered inland, winding its way into the green heart of County Down where they passed through the town of Banbridge and then on through the smaller village of Dundrum. Spying the ruins of a castle perched hillside, keeping watch over the villagers, Jess fell a little bit in love. She had a thing for castles – there was just something so romantic about them. She sighed wistfully, imagining the grand banquets it once would have hosted and the gallant men bravely going off to battle as the bus left the village behind. She hoped Ballymcguinness would prove to be just as much of a chocolate-box village as Dundrum.
Um, first impressions – not overly fabulous , she thought, peering out the window as the bus topped a hill and headed down toward the little village some twenty minutes and at least one hundred potholes later. The grainy Internet photo she’d seen of Ballymcguinness had been a good likeness: from her vantage point, she could see a narrow, curving street from which a pile of semi-detached houses two streets deep ran off either side. There was a mishmash of power lines dangling over the rooftops, stretching off toward a hill dotted with pylons to the right of the village, at the base of which stood an austere grey stone church with a tall and wide spire – the location no doubt chosen to keep the villagers in line. It was one of three smattered around the surrounding countryside, she noticed – three churches and not one single castle in sight.
The bus slowed to a crawl as it headed down the main street, passing by half a dozen off-white pebble-dash, two-up two-down houses. Their flowering window boxes added a welcome splash of colour to the overall greyness of the day, Jess thought, spying a grocer’s shop followed by a pretty, pastel-yellow pub, next door to a hairdresser’s called Maura’s Place.
As they passed by another pub with a decidedly more serious drinker’s-hole look to it, Jess decided they were now officially on the wrong side of town so to speak. This was reinforced when they drove past another cluster of not-so-well-maintained pebble-dash houses.
The bus came to a juddering halt at the end of this metropolis outside a school that looked at odds with the period of the rest of the village. It was a one-level red-brick building with the bland building style of the 1980s and was obviously a much newer addition to the village. Outside, a dozen or so children ran around in the yard, screeching and enjoying the fresh air despite the damp chill pervading it.
‘Last stop, Ballymcguinness!’ Leery Len called out the obvious as he swung his head round for one last, lingering leer.
Pulling her laptop bag down from the overhead rack, Jess ignored him and glanced down the bus to see that there was only one other passenger left on it. An elderly woman, her spindly frame well rugged up against the cold in a tan wool coat she’d probably held on to since the sixties, was struggling down the aisle with her case. As she peered out from under her headscarf at Jess, Jess saw the woman had a face like a pushed-in jam tin, as her mother would say.
Oh well, hadn’t she always been taught not to judge a book by its cover? She’s probably a real sweetie, and if it were my nan, I’d like to think someone would give her a helping hand . She decided she’d ask her whether she wanted help carrying her bag, as Len apparently wasn’t the chivalrous type.
She didn’t get a chance to, though, as the elderly woman shoved past her, sending her flying into the seat opposite. She glared back at Jess – who was open-mouthed at finding herself plonked with her legs swinging over the side of the armrest – as though to say, Well, it was your own fault for getting in my way , and then her hunched back disappeared from view as she disembarked.
‘Rude old cow!’ Jess muttered, struggling to get out of the seat.
‘What was that? Do you want a hand, love?’ Len called down the aisle.
She could well imagine where his hand would inadvertently slip to. ‘No thank you.’
It was with a face like a pushed-in jam tin herself that she got off the bus, sending up a little prayer that not all the Ballymcguinness locals were tarred with the same brush as the nasty old biddy who was now hobbling off down the street at a surprisingly fast pace.
‘Er, Jessica?’
She quickly rearranged her expression from that of a smacked bum to that of a sensitive writer. The tall man clad in an Aran knit jumper and thick brown corduroy pants stuffed into a pair of wellingtons standing over her looked nothing at all how she’d pictured the severe-sounding Owen Aherne to look. She caught him giving her a quick once-over and was surprised to see his expression change to one of amusement, although she couldn’t understand why.
In her opinion, she’d toned it down for her day in the country, opting for a tight-fitting white top (OK, the top had been a bad move) tucked into an artfully worn pair of jeans. The leather belt with its wide brass buckle had been a recent find in one of her trusty little boutiques – code for her favourite second-hand shops. As had the scarf, which she’d tied in a jaunty knot around her neck in what she liked to think was a cowgirl sort of fashion. Her brown leather ankle boots, although reminiscent of the 1980s, were a practical choice because there wasn’t much call for owning a pair of wellies in the city.
‘Er, yes, that’s me. Hello – you must be Owen. It’s nice to meet you.’ She decided to repay the favour by giving him the once-over before peering up at him. His hair was dark brown, almost black, with a smattering of grey around the temples, and his eyes were a light, almost luminous grey. It was a disarming combination – one that took you unawares, she thought, holding her hand out to him. He looked surprised by the gesture ,and for a split second as he took it, she thought he was going to raise her hand to his mouth and kiss it, but instead he shook it like he meant business.
Jessica Baré, here you go again , she told herself sternly. One of these days you’re going to have to stop behaving as though you’ve just stepped out of a romance novel every time you meet a man . At least he didn’t have sweaty palms. That was a good sign, she decided as he let her hand drop from his firm grasp. She could never trust a man with sweaty palms. It conjured up all sorts of unpleasant connotations.
Seemingly unaware of her scrutiny, Owen followed the direction in which she’d been looking so disgruntled a moment earlier and said somewhat formally, ‘Welcome to Ballymcguinness. You didn’t just encounter Mad Bridie, did you?’
‘If you mean that bad-mannered elderly lady making her way down the street like the Bionic Woman, then, yes, I did. She pushed me over on the bus.’
Owen emitted a low, throaty laugh. ‘Ah, pay no heed to her; she’s mad as a hatter, poor old thing. Besides, that’s mild by Bridie’s standards. She once chased Teddy O’Shea the postman down the street with her walking stick. Waving it around like a woman possessed, she was, shouting at him for being a peeping Tom. All the poor sod had done was push some letters through her door. So there you go – think yourself lucky she only gave you a bit of a push.’
She had to raise a smile at the mental picture he’d invoked of Bridie and the postman. She was relieved, too, that underneath his bluster, he had a sense of humour.
‘So did you have a good trip up?’ he asked, heading across the road to where a battered and mud-splattered Land Rover was parked.
‘Let’s just say it was a bit of a bouncy ride,’ she replied, deciding not to elaborate further as she clambered up into the passenger seat.
‘The farm’s about a ten-minute ride from here, and it’ll be another bouncy ride, I’m afraid.’ Owen jammed the gearstick into first and muttered something under his breath about the old bloody beast as the jeep set off with a judder back through the village. The flash of humour she’d seen a few minutes earlier had disappeared.
Considering the place had been devoid of street life five minutes earlier, it suddenly seemed to have come to life, she noticed as they drove past an old man sitting on the low wall outside the drinker’s pub she’d spied on her way into town. He was wearing the requisite tweed jacket and cap, and his nose was a bulbous red. As Owen raised his hand in acknowledgement, the old man raised his walking stick in greeting.
‘That’s Ned; he was a great mate of me da’s in their day. He’s waiting for the pub to open. You can set your watch by him. He’s there perched on that wall every day at eleven forty-five come rain or shine even though the pub doesn’t open until midday.’
Outside the hairdresser’s, a woman with a plastic cape and a headful of tinfoil stood chuffing on a cigarette. She nearly dropped her fag as Owen scowled out at her. ‘Katie Adams – she’s our local busybody and barmaid at the Primrose Arms up there.’ He nodded in the direction of the pretty yellow pub. ‘And over there, that’s Billy Peterson, the grocer. His wife left him for another woman – took off to Spain with her. I tell you, Katie pulled pints on that one for months on end.’
Jess glanced over to where a world-weary-looking man who was probably only in his early fifties despite his stooped gait was piling oranges into a crate outside the grocery store.
Two young mums in tight jeans and puffer jackets pushing their prams toward each other had a head-on pushchair collision as Owen drove past, giving them a mock salute.
It was all very Twilight Zone- like, she thought, sneaking a peek at Owen.
As though reading her mind, he growled, ‘That’s village life for you. Everybody knows everybody’s business. It’s a bit like living in a goldfish bowl; that’s what Amy struggled with. You mark my words, I’ll be the talk of the village by lunchtime.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I have a strange woman sitting in my passenger seat, that’s why.’
Oh, she realised, suddenly understanding the stupefied looks on everybody’s faces. It obviously wasn’t a common occurrence.
‘Oh well, at least your wife knows what I’m doing here. That’s all that really matters,’ she said cheerfully.
‘I don’t have a wife,’ he growled.
‘Oh, I—I’m sorry. I just assumed you were married,’ she stuttered – just like she’d assumed his sister was alive when she’d contacted him.
‘Do you have a husband?’
‘No.’
‘There you go then.’
She wasn’t sure she knew what he meant by that, but she decided not to analyse his comments. Or antagonise him more by asking him to explain. So she settled back in her seat as the village disappeared behind them, giving way to an unmade road with hedgerow on either side. That explained the mud splatters then, she thought as the jeep nosedived into a giant brown puddle and her boobs smacked her on the chin.
‘The dairy farmers at home would love this,’ she said, looking out at the lush, flat green fields stretching to the horizon on the other side of the hedgerow. Healthy-looking cows chomped happily on the grass, and determined to make cheery conversation, Jess ploughed on, ‘How many cows do you have?’
Owen’s scowl deepened. ‘None, actually. I’m a pig farmer.’
Crap! She’d got it wrong again. She was silent for a moment – she’d never actually met a pig farmer before. It wasn’t a glamorous-sounding profession, but, hey, she liked a nice bit of bacon as much as the next girl.
She was saved from having to make any further embarrassing small talk by Owen announcing, ‘We’re here.’
He swung the jeep to the right, and as it veered round into an entranceway, she hit her shoulder against the door.
‘Sorry. I’m not used to carrying a passenger.’
The jeep bumped its way down a long gravel driveway, at the bottom of which sat a scene straight from the pages of a Beatrix Potter book.
‘Welcome to Glenariff Farm,’ Owen grunted, wrenching the handbrake up and sending her lurching forward.