Chapter Four #2
Granny is stubborn and blunt, with a gallows humor that most people don’t know whether to smile or take offense at, but she was fiercely protective of me and raised me to be proud of who I was and where I came from.
It was Granny who first helped me paint a picture of my parents in my mind, who made me believe that I was connected to them even though they were no longer here, filling me in on every detail she could think of, no matter how trivial.
I know, for example, that my dad was an accountant and that he played hurling and would eat dessert before dinner. I know that Mam liked sunflowers and buying expensive stationery that she rarely used. White wine gave her a headache. Her favorite color was blue. And I look just like her.
It wasn’t obvious as a child, but we could have passed as twins once puberty hit.
The same wild brown hair, the same button nose.
A high forehead, hazel eyes and sturdy hips that would have made me very popular back when my ancestors needed to populate the earth but are not so great now when trying to find jeans that actually fit me.
But I love that I resemble her. That I get to have that part of her.
Like something private we share just between us.
“Frank says we have to cut down the tree,” I say, placing the box back on the bookshelf. “It’s dead.”
“It’s not dead; it’s winter.”
“That’s what I told him,” I say, as she tsks. “He also says we need to clear out the garden before you fall over and die.”
She scoffs at that. “I’m not going to die in the garden. I’ll die warm in bed with my granddaughter by my side.”
“I hope I’m not also dying in this scenario.”
“Oh no, the apocalypse floods will get you.”
“If you just let me take care of it,” I try again, but she waves a hand, cutting me off.
“I’ll do it,” she says. “I said I would, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, last September.”
“Everyone always wants to cut back and clear out. You know this earth survived thousands of years without anyone touching it? If you ask me, we were all the better for it.” She pauses, fixing a beady eye on me. “Which tree?”
“The dead one? It’s the hawthorn around the back.”
“No.”
I frown at her. “What do you mean, no ?”
“You can’t cut down the hawthorn tree. It’s a fairy tree.”
“Oh my God.” I climb to my feet, my legs stiff and uncooperative. “That might have worked when I was five, but not now. Frank’s going to get us the name of someone to deal with it.”
“And disturb the fairies? That’s what you want? I raised you better than that.”
“You also raised me to believe that the pylon down the road was the Eiffel Tower.”
“Hah.” Granny smiles, looking pleased with herself. “I did, yes.”
“We’re cutting down the tree,” I say. “But luckily for you and your fairy friends—”
“Not friends. Respected beings.”
“—it will probably be a few months until we can afford to do it.” I turn on the television, flicking through the channels until I land on a documentary about sharks. Granny likes documentaries about sharks. “But you’re in charge of getting someone to clear the garden, okay?”
“So we can destroy more of their habitat?”
“Granny—”
“Just don’t come crying to me if they steal you from your bed in the middle of the night.”
I kiss her on the cheek, catching a whiff of lavender hand cream when she reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Please get someone to clear out the garden.”
“Fine. But only because you asked nicely.” She pulls back to look at me, nodding at whatever she sees. “You look better.”
“That’s because I’m sleeping like a normal person.”
“How is it?” she asks. “Up there.” She gestures at the window, and I know she means the site. She told me a few weeks ago that she couldn’t bring herself to go and see it. That she was too old for so much change.
“It’s weird,” I admit. “Different. I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like when the hotel is finished. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”
“People can get used to anything,” she says, growing solemn as Plankton comes in to curl up at her feet. “That’s what people like them rely on.”
* * *
An hour before lunch, I get a text from Gemma asking if I’m free, so I heat up some soup for Granny, grab my bike, and head into the village.
I mean it when I say Ennisbawn is small.
One lone gently curving street with farmland on either side doesn’t look like much at first sight, but it has everything we need.
Kelly’s is down by the lake and some campsites by the forest are on the other side, but on the street itself are mostly terraced houses and small shops.
There’s the general store with a converted phone box, now used as a library, and the pharmacy where the GP operates from one day a week.
Nush’s hairdressing salon is next to that, beside a small restaurant/coffee shop/whatever else Bridget and her wife feel like operating as.
These days, there is also more than one empty building, but I’ve grown so used to them being vacant that I barely notice them anymore.
Gemma lives on the far side of the village in a small two-bedroom house in which I spend almost as much time as I do my own. She greets me at the door when I arrive, pulling on a pair of loafers.
“You’re a lifesaver, you know that? I owe you big time.”
“You’re grand. I was free.” I follow her in, stepping over some discarded shoes as I peer into the empty living room. “Where’s Noah?”
“I sent him to the shops. He’s in a mood.”
“Oh, goody.”
“No backing out,” she calls from the kitchen. “You know where everything is, yeah? Just don’t give him any chocolate and don’t steal my jewelry.”
“I make no promises.”
I follow her voice down the narrow hallway, spying the same Glenmill brochure Granny and I got this morning tacked to her noticeboard. Only with theirs, someone—Noah, I presume—has added a half dozen or so shapes that can only be described as male genitalia pointing at Jack’s head.
“It’s only for a couple of hours,” Gemma says, as she flies around the kitchen, closing drawers and dumping dirty dishes into the sink.
Gemma works at a frequently short-staffed nursing home a forty-minute drive away, meaning myself and a few of her neighbors often act as babysitters on call.
“And if Patrick comes to the house, Noah’s not allowed out with him. He’s half-grounded.”
“What’s half-grounded?”
“It’s when I still need him to leave sometimes because I want peace and quiet. What’s this I hear about you sorting out that traffic issue?”
“It’s because I’m such a capable adult? I managed to talk to someone who rerouted their main entrance so no one’s right outside the house anymore. With the earplugs, I’m fine.”
“That’s great news. Who did you talk to?”
“Just some guy.” I pour myself a glass of water, secretly hoping she’ll push me a little more so I can tell her all about it.
I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Callum since.
The last few nights I kept expecting him to waltz through the doors of the pub, even though none of the workers on the site have worked up the courage to do so yet.
Not that Adam would mind the business, but he’s right in that some of the locals might have something to say about it.
Callum didn’t seem too bad, though, and surely, once everyone gets talking, they’ll realize most people down there are just doing their job.
Then he could come all the time. Then he could—
“Are you working today?” Gemma asks, interrupting my little daydream. “I might swing by with Noah later. I have nothing in for dinner.”
As though summoned from off-stage, the front door opens, and Noah appears.
Gemma’s son is an angelic-looking, increasingly moody pre-teen who I’ve known since he was five when Gemma moved them back to Ennisbawn after her divorce.
She’d been brought up here but is closer to Adam’s age than mine, so we never really interacted until she returned.
We quickly grew close once she did, and she’s now one of my best friends, meaning Noah is practically a godchild to me.
I have a huge soft spot for the kid, something he exploits the hell out of.
“Hi, Katie,” he says now, placing a loaf of bread on the kitchen table.
He’s the spitting image of Gemma, with the same blonde curls and hazel eyes.
Right down to the smattering of freckles over his nose.
In the last year or so, he’s also got her resting bitchface down to a tee, to the point where I swear, she must have taught it to him.
“Hey,” I greet in what I hope is a very cool way. It must be because he gives me a nod as Gemma holds out a palm.
“Change.”
“They didn’t have any.”
She raises a brow. “They didn’t have any change from a five-euro note for one loaf of bread?”
Noah shakes his head, his face solemn. “Because of the economy.”
I choke on my water. I can’t help it. And when Gemma glances my way at the sound, Noah uses the distraction to slip his headphones back over his ears, tuning us out as he starts making a sandwich.
I don’t miss the flicker of concern that crosses my friend’s face.
Last week, Noah got suspended from school for fighting in the playground.
It isn’t the first time something like that has happened and Gemma was furious, but he insisted he’d been sticking up for another kid and no one could get their story straight.
“Are you going to tell Darren?” I ask, dropping my voice even though Noah’s listening to music. “About the school?”
“Absolutely not,” she says, like the very mention of him leaves a bad taste in her mouth.
Gemma’s ex-husband moved back to Manchester a few years ago and started a new family. Now he doesn’t even send his own son a Christmas card.
We do not like him.
“One of his teachers suggested sending him to a therapist.”
“Noah?” I frown, considering it. “It might help.”
“Yeah, and who’s going to drive him the two hours it will take to get there?
Who’s going to pay for it?” She plucks her phone from the charger and drops it in her purse.
“Remember when I thought moving back here was the thing that would change my life?” she asks.
“And now I’m turning forty-three as an overworked single mother with a precarious rental situation?
” She gives me a tight smile. “That’s fun. ”
“It will be okay,” I say automatically, but she’s not listening, her attention back on her son.
When he was younger, the two of them were best friends, but, like most parent/child relationships, it’s gotten more difficult the older he gets.
I know she worries about him. They bicker all the time, but, much like Granny and me, it comes from a place of love.
Everything Gemma does is for Noah, which wouldn’t be a problem if she didn’t often forget about herself in the process.
“Okay,” she says, clapping me on the shoulder as she grabs her coat.
“I’m going and I’m gone. Noah? No—” She tugs his headphones off his head, earning herself a scowl.
“Hi. It’s me. Your beloved mother. We’re short-staffed at the home.
I’m going in for three hours max and then I’ll be back. Katie’s going to mind you until then.”
A horrified look comes over his face at the word mind . “I’m eleven,” he says like he means twenty-two.
“Exactly,” Gemma says. “Eleven. A child. A tiny little child who needs protecting and guarding and—”
“Mam—”
“—dinner and baths and an hour of television if you’re good.”
“Are you going or not?”
She grabs him by the cheeks, kissing him soundly on his forehead before he can stop her.
Lifesaver , she mouths to me again, and then she rushes out the door, leaving us alone.
There was a time when my looking after Noah caused great excitement in this house. When we’d get into our pajamas and eat pizza and play board games no matter the time of day. Now he just looks like he’s being punished.
“Do you want to play Fortnite ?” he asks, after a good thirty seconds of him probably thinking of ways to get rid of me.
“Do you want to play The Sims ?” I counter, and he rolls his eyes before disappearing into the living room.
“Is that a no?” I call after him.
“You can just watch me play,” he yells back, which is probably the best I’m going to get, so I do as he says, curling up on the couch next to him as he destroys some bad guys.