Chapter Eleven
‘Here’s your tea, sorry for the wait.’
I jump like I’ve been caught red-handed.
The café owner is standing beside me, tea in hand.
I quickly minimise Brian’s page, promising not look at Facebook again, ever.
I brush away the wetness from my boiling cheeks with the palm of my hand and sniff, hoping he thinks it’s a cold, and try not to look directly at him.
‘Good on that, are you?’ He uses the hand holding the tea to gesture at the computer.
‘I haven’t a clue about the world wide web.
It’s all passed me by.’ He shakes his head.
‘Now then, a scone to go with your tea?’ He puts his free hand on his waist and his belly, covered in a big white wrap-around apron, sticks out even more.
I shake my head. He’s being kind but I can’t trust myself to speak without my voice cracking and making a total fool of myself …
again. It wasn’t long ago I was standing on the steps of the Garda station in nothing but a cut-down wedding dress.
Blubbing now would really give the waiting audience something to talk about.
In fact I feel like a guest waiting in the wings to go on The Jeremy Kyle Show.
‘That’s two euro then, for the tea,’ he says, putting my tea on the corner of the table and turning towards the till.
I stand up, rummage in the pocket of my waterproof jacket and take out my last note.
I could try and draw some cash from our joint bank account but that would be a sure-fire way of Brian tracking me down.
I follow the café owner to the till, carrying my hot takeout tea. All eyes follow me and I find it hard to swallow or breathe. I stand at the counter and focus on a plastic plant that appears to be for sale for 20 cents, while the man looks for change for a fifty.
‘Won’t be a mo’,’ he says cheerily and goes off into the back room.
Oh no, not again! How hard can it be to get a tea and leave?
I focus hard on the photos on the walls.
They’re of the café owner with a woman, neither of them smiling.
My eyes are stinging but looking up at the pictures stops more tears from falling.
Finally the café owner reappears, just like Mr Benn.
I take my change without looking at it and pour it into my pocket, only my blurred vision makes my aim a bit off and some of the coins fall to the floor.
I bob down quickly, chasing them as they spin round.
As I’m peeling the last one off the floor a shadow falls over me and someone hands me a coin.
‘Here,’ says a young woman’s voice.
I look up. It’s the barmaid from the pub.
‘Thanks.’ I take the coin, straighten up and dust myself down.
The barmaid is staring boldly at me with an interested smile.
Grace peers round the open door. There’s a shaft of sunlight pushing though the watery path left by the rain on the pavement outside.
I put my head down and attempt to side-step her, hoping she doesn’t want to make small talk.
‘Grandad, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ she says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve been let off the small talk.
‘So you’re the joy-rider they’re all talking about?’ she says as boldly as she’s looking at me.
The café goes silent.
Slowly I turn to look at her. The joy-rider!
Wasn’t it bad enough the camper van company representative had referred to me as ‘the jilted bride’ when he’d turned up to reclaim the van shortly before I was taken to the Garda station.
The Garda said I’d stolen the camper van, but I thought it was still rented to me.
I didn’t know Brian had called the company to tell them of ‘a change of plan’.
Typical Brian, always organised. So now I’m the jilted bride and a joy-rider. I just want to be left alone.
‘I’m not a joy-rider. It was a misunderstanding,’ I say quietly.
There’s a murmur around the café.
‘She says she’s not a joy-rider, it was a misunderstanding!’ Evelyn shouts into John Joe’s whistling hearing aid.
‘And is it true you’ve moved in with Sean Thornton?’ Margaret folds her arms like the bully in the schoolyard.
I take a deep breath. I’m shaking. I can’t bear being the centre of attention, singled out.
‘Yes,’ I say quietly again, hoping this will clear everything up. ‘I’m working for him. Now if you’ll excuse me please.’ I try to get round her. Again she shifts in front of me.
‘So, you’re not living with him as in “living with him” then?’ she continues.
I want to say, ‘Who I stay with and where is none of your business.’ But I don’t. That’s not my style. Head-on conflict was never my thing.
‘Two-timer!’ Grandad pipes up.
‘No, that’s not his girlfriend in the car, it’s his dealer,’ Frank corrects him.
‘Is it? A dealer? In the black BMW?’ Evelyn reels off the number plate.
I go to make a quick escape. She side-steps me again, moving Grandad’s wheelchair a tad so I’m wrong-footed. Only this time I’m so determined to make it that I crash straight into her and my tea plunges to the floor, soaking me and forming a great big puddle around me.
‘Lift, Maire,’ Evelyn instructs, and she and her friend lift their feet with precision timing looking like two inquisitive meerkats.
I notice Maire is wearing floral wellies.
Tepid tea drips from my hands and down my front.
The barmaid’s hands fly to her mouth and in all fairness she looks horrified by her actions.
‘Oh God! I’m so sorry,’ she says, grabbing a cloth from the café owner’s waistband. He’s arrived with a mop and bucket and starts swilling the tea around. The barmaid is trying to mop me down. My eyes may have shown a rare flash of fury.
‘I really am sorry,’ she says. ‘Let me get you another. Here, sit down.’ She points to a chair. The café begins to empty as the café owner cleans up. The smell of bleach is too much for some.
‘No, really, I’m fine.’ I brush away the barmaid’s dabbing hands in my attempt to leave.
‘No, you can’t go, not like that. Here, Gerald, get another tea there and a bun,’ she instructs.
‘I’m fine,’ I repeat, but no one seems to be listening to me.
‘But not one of Evelyn’s scones,’ she calls to Gerald, and then, checking that Evelyn has actually left, says more quietly to me, ‘They taste of fish,’ and smiles.
I look at her for a moment and wonder if I’ve heard her right.
And then I can’t help it, I laugh. Maybe it’s some kind of nervous reaction, an emotional release, but Evelyn’s fishy scones make me laugh.
The barmaid joins in too, her confrontational stance disappearing like the rain.
‘That’s better,’ she smiles, showing her neat white teeth. ‘Now, bring the tea over, Gerald. I’m sooooo sorry,’ she repeats in her husky voice, like she’s been smoking roll-up cigarettes all her life.
She guides me to a seat and I realise resistance is futile.
Apart from anything, I still haven’t had a cup of tea this morning.
I look at the clock. I have to be back soon.
Sean will be home and the tide will be out.
Strange, I think, how quickly my life is being led by the tides. The barmaid sidles in opposite me.
‘Sorry,’ she repeats again, only this time I don’t think she’s talking about the tea. ‘I didn’t mean to come on so strong there. It’s just not often we get blow-ins, and young ones at that.’
‘Don’t worry, love, I was the last blow-in, came from Dublin twenty years ago,’ Gerald joins in with a whoosh from the urn.
‘They still think I’m the newcomer.’ He comes over and sets down the tea.
‘They’ll find something new to interest them soon enough.
Just tell them your name and where you’ve come from and how long you’re planning to stay and they’ll leave you alone after that.
’ He gives the table a swift wipe and adjusts a pair of reading glasses on the shelf next to me.
‘Now then, scone?’ he asks, and I look at the barmaid and we both laugh.
I shake my head and he wanders back behind the counter looking puzzled.
‘Jeez, Gerald. We keep telling you, they taste of fish!’ the girl shouts after him playfully.
Gerald picks up a scone and sniffs it. ‘It’s you! It’s your tastebuds!’ he bats back.
I smile at the banter and take a sip of the tea. It’s fabulous. Not like the tea at home, which is usually just wet and warm. This actually tastes of tea.
‘You look like you needed that. I’m Margaret, remember? We met in the pub.’ She sticks out a hand; her nails are painted bright blue. I think about what Gerald just said: tell them your name, where you’re from and how long you’re staying, and then they’ll leave you alone.
‘I’m Fi, Fi English. I’m from the UK. Just staying for a month or so,’ I say, hoping that will be enough.
‘And you and Sean, you’re not …?’
I shake my head.
‘Great!’ she says. ‘Just like to know the competition, if you know what I mean.’ She’s grinning broadly, clearly besotted with my prickly boss.
I knock back the rest of my tea feeling surprisingly revived. ‘Thanks for the tea.’ I start to stand up. ‘And the scone advice,’ I smile, and Gerald gives us a mock scowl.
‘Working with Sean then?’ Margaret persists.
‘That’s right.’ Grace is whining impatiently now.
‘Oyster farmer, are you?’ She stirs her tea with a plastic spoon.
‘No, I’m more of a Girl Friday. Doing a bit of everything.’ Having given the locals all they wanted I do up my coat. Now I can go back to the farm and get on with my work.
‘What’s your star sign?’ she asks cheerily.
I shrug. ‘I’m not sure.’
She sighs good-naturedly.
‘Well, when’s your birthday?’
‘August twenty-first.’ This is a bit more than my name and where I’m from.
‘Leo! Brilliant!’ Margaret bangs the table. ‘Just what we need around here. A leader. Someone who can take charge. You can be on our committee,’ she beams at me.
‘Com … committee? What committee?’
‘The Dooleybridge Events Committee. This used to be a popular holiday stop. Couldn’t move for traffic in the summer.
Now the traffic’s all one way, out of here.
We want to put Dooleybridge back on the map.
Something to bring the crowds, like the Volvo Yacht Race or Band Aid.
Only trouble is, we haven’t actually come up with any events yet. But we will,’ she beams again.
‘Oh no, I don’t think so,’ I stutter. ‘I’m not really the committee type. Besides, I really won’t be here that long.’
‘Oh, just come along. We’re a friendly bunch and we meet every week.
Come to the pub, next Monday, seven o’clock.
Bring some ideas. You might as well be there while they talk about you, instead of them doing it behind your back.
’ She sips her tea with a smile. I hurry for the door.
‘I’ll let the others know,’ Margaret calls after me.