2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Maeve
Cloonmara isn’t the kind of place you stumble upon.
In fact, it’s a village you either leave on purpose or come back to on instinct, and for me, it’s sort of the latter.
One of my friends in Dublin grew up in the village, and even though I hadn’t given it much thought when he told me about it, the name and what it represents popped into my head when I needed to turn my back on Dublin and my life there.
The village, perched on the edge of a restless grey sea, where gulls cry overhead and salt clings to the air like old gossip, is the exact opposite of where I come from.
Cottages huddle against the wind, their paint cracked and sun-faded, as if no one has gotten around to caring for them yet.
And, surprisingly, I like that. I like that time moves much slower here; that time is measured in cups of tea, the Wednesday fish delivery, and the faint chime of the church bell that still rings out every Sunday, even if no one attends.
I need a clean slate, peace of mind, and quiet. All the things I can’t find in Dublin.
But what I do not need is having to fight an old man about his pet bull every week, and as I walk through the sliding doors of the Cloonmara Garda office, I can’t help but cross my fingers, hoping it’s not going to happen a fourth time.
At the same time, a nagging voice in my mind will not leave me alone.
It taunts me, causing the ever-returning tic at the corner of my right eye to twitch.
Even though I was fully prepared to go to battle, so to speak, against the older farmer, I didn’t find him at home.
I had to leave him a note in his letterbox instead, advising him that I would come back later.
As I scowled at Harry, locked safely behind a fence, it almost felt as if my ears rang from the memory of the verbal assault of said owner I had to suffer through the last time I was here.
My stomach tied up in knots at the memory.
I miss the way I used to be, especially on days like today when just the thought of an old man’s ranting can end up making me almost regret relocating to Cloonmara.
I shake my head at the heavy dread that festers in the pit of my stomach.
The icing on the cake is the fact that the minute I close the distance and reach the far back to enter the main office, my new, silent companion rears its ugly head.
Anxiety. Ugh. Welcome back. Now piss off and leave me alone.
My heart hammers against my ribcage, and I blink rapidly as my vision closes in.
Instead of turning to the main office as I usually do, I turn to the left and head for the toilets.
The last thing I need is for someone to see me in the middle of an anxiety attack.
A part of me is still embarrassed about my issues, even though I know I have nothing to be embarrassed about, but that doesn’t mean I want all my new colleagues to watch me going through it.
The pity mixed with confusion is not welcome.
I almost break out into a light jog, but that will attract too much attention, and by sheer force of will, I reach the toilets and enter a stall. As soon as I have the door closed and locked, I push down the toilet seat and sit down, my eyes closed, head in my hands.
One…breathe in…two…breathe out…three…breathe in…four…
I repeat the breathing exercise until I’ve counted all the way to ten, and once my heart is beating at a normal pace again, I take one last breath and open my eyes.
At least I didn’t have to count to twenty this time. A small victory to some, but for me, it shows that I’ve come a long way in the last few months.
My breathing now back to normal, I exit the stall and quickly wash my hands and then my face, all the time avoiding the mirror. I dry off, then leave the restrooms, aiming for the office, when a noise stops me in my tracks.
“There you are, DS Gallagher.”
The voice of my new boss, Superintendent O’Neill, stops me in my tracks, and I turn towards him.
His face is angled in my direction but the rest of him is hidden behind the door to his office. The lower half of his face is concealed by a big, dark-grey moustache. One that I can’t stop staring at every time I see it, but I hope it’ll grow on me.
“Yes, Sir?”
He jerks his head. “A quick word, please.”
He disappears behind the door, leaving me no room to protest. I swallow an impatient sigh and turn right to enter his office. He motions to the door from his seat behind the desk, and I take the hint and shut it behind me.
“Take a seat.”
Again, I do as I am told and sit down in the creaky wooden chair in front of his desk.
The office is small, a bit cramped, but it’s tidy and clean.
In fact, the Cloonmara Garda station is hardly more than a converted post office with a kettle older than my career and a logbook filled mostly with sheep reports and arguments about hedges. And that, too, suits me just fine.
No crowds. No sirens. No ex-fiancé.
Just me, the Atlantic wind, and the faint hope that maybe, if I stay quiet long enough, my heart will finally stop looking for what it has lost.
There is an air of authority here that I recognise from my time in Dublin, immediately settling my nerves, and the thrumming in my veins eases up as I focus on the man in front of me.
Superintendent O’Neill runs a hand over his salt-and-pepper-coloured hair, but then settles back in his chair. “Heard about the bull,” he starts, and I purse my lips. “Did Harry win again?”
I tilt my head, reluctant to admit my defeat, but since he will end up hearing about it before the end of the day, I just nod.
“Thought so.” He sighs and scratches his cheek. “You’ve got some mud there,” he mutters.
“I know.” I rub the spot, matching his movements. “I just came in to write up my report, and then I’ll head home for the day.”
He nods slowly, seemingly lost in thought.
“Was there something you needed to talk with me about, Sir?” I prompt.
“Yes, um…” He clears his throat. “I just wanted to check in with you. Have you settled in well at the cottage?”
“Yes, thank you.” Trying to ignore the uncomfortable vibe in the room, I force my body to relax and lean back. “I just finished unpacking the last of my boxes last weekend.”
The truth is I’ve barely started getting settled in, but my boss doesn’t need to know that.
“Good. That’s good, yes.” He sighs deeply and then leans forward. His eyes are gentle, and even though I can hardly see his lips because of his large moustache, I sense that they’re drawn down. “We’re very happy that you were willing to transfer to our small part of the Irish coast.”
“That’s very kind of you, Sir. Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. You don’t have to call me Sir all the time, either.
” He flashes a smile at me. “We aren’t that formal around here, but we take some getting used to.
I know that Cloonmara is a far cry from the excitement of the big city, but since you seemed to need the change of scenery, I have no doubt that it was already in your considerations when you applied for the position here. ”
I nod. “It was.”
“Yes. I’m sure that, in time, you’ll come to see that we have many things to offer. Even though we’re a small community, we have several activities outside office hours that you might find interesting.”
I nod. “I know, and I’ll get to them, but for now, I’m taking it easy, settling in and going on walks. The sea air does me good.”
“It does that to many people, yes.” He taps his fingers on the armrests and then picks up a pen. Grateful, I take the hint and rise from my seat.
“Oh, by the way.” He frowns at me. “What did Murdoch have to say this time?”
I sigh. “He wasn’t home when I dropped by.”
His moustache draws down in an unhappy line. “Hmm.”
I raise my eyes at him and point at the door. “I’ll just get on with it, Sir.”
He looks down and I open the door, relieved to be dismissed, then scurry out. I head to my desk at the far end corner of the office, wondering if I’ll get used to the informality that seems to be the norm at my new job, but for now, I think the only choice I have is to go with it.
An hour later, I’m finishing up writing my report when I’m interrupted by our receptionist calling out my name.
“DS Gallagher, you have a visitor, dear.”
I quickly save my work and close the laptop as I get up from my seat. I offer Franny a crooked smile. We usually share our first cup of coffee in the morning with each other, and she’s the person I feel the most comfortable with.
Probably because she’s in her sixties, around the same age as Nellie, my foster mother.
She’s a very capable knitter, and she always brings one of her colourful knitting projects with her to work, giving us something to chat about even though Hell will freeze over before I pick up a pair of knitting needles myself.
“Who is it?”
Franny leans towards me and takes off her glasses, resting them on top of her latest project in her lap.
Her brown eyes are big and earnest. “Roisín McCarthy, our baker.” She tilts her head in the direction of the visiting room, her ash-blonde hair sweeping her shoulders, and keeps her voice low.
“Mighty temper, that one, but her baked goods are slices of heaven on this green Earth. It looks like she’s got something for you. ”
I grin at her. “I already know her cinnamon buns pretty well. They’re the reason I spend so much time on the treadmill.”
She nods sagely, clearly understanding.
I head through the doors to the waiting room.
Our village baker seems to be lost in thought as she stands at the far corner and looks at the flyers and papers scattered on the board.
I wish I could pull off the shortish, wavy black bob like she does, but I know myself well enough, and the short length would annoy me after half a day.
“Ms McCarthy?”
She turns around and beams at me. “Roisín, please.” Her straight nose and cheeks are tinged pink from the chill in the air, the rest of her skin a beautiful fair shade.
“Roisín. Can I help you with something?”
“Yes, definitely.” She picks up a basket and practically pushes it into my chest, leaving me no choice but to hang on to it for dear life.
Her bluebell eyes crinkle at the corners in much the same way as her grandmother’s, putting me at ease almost instantly.
“My way of saying ‘thank you’ for helping my nan this morning. Well, and the other times, too.”
“Oh, I didn’t really do anything.”
She waves her hand at me. “You did, and you do. She appreciates the time as well as the company. That’s a direct quote, by the way.” Roisin’s smile widens. “And I also wanted to give you a little something extra for your breakfasts the rest of the week.”
The delicious scent of cinnamon and sugar in my arms makes my mouth water. “Honestly, you shouldn’t have…”
“I’m just glad to see Nan happy,” she interrupts and takes a step closer to me. “Besides, your company today meant that she had to postpone trying her matchmaking skills on me again.”
At her distinct shudder, I can’t hold back a very unladylike snort.
“So, you see,” Roisín carries on, “my gratitude is for myself as well. And since I can’t do anything else fancy but bake, this is the only thing I came up with.” She pats the basket. “Hope you enjoy them.”
“Thank you, Roisín, but this is too much.”
She tilts her head, lips pursed in thought. “Not used to village life yet, eh?”
“Not really, no,” I admit.
“Well, it took me a while to get used to it again when I first moved back here a year ago. You’ll get there.” She points at the basket. “You can bring it back to the bakery next time you need the best coffee the village has to offer.”
The warmth her words bring me feel like the softest blanket, and I wrap them around me in comfort. “Thank you.”
She wraps her long cardigan around her small frame and ties the belt. I admire the beautiful light-blue knitted scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, the pattern so intricate and delicate I want to reach out and find out if it’s as soft to the touch as it looks like.
“Let me know once you’re fully settled in at Rose Hill cottage. We’ll go out, have some fun. Not here, obviously.” She grins and puts her hands in the pockets on her dark-blue corduroy skirt that falls almost down to her toes. “But we can spend a day in Cork, do some shopping?”
Touched by the offer, I nod. “I’m not quite there yet, but I’ll let you know.”
“No worries.” She turns her back, her raven-black bob swinging. “I’ll let you get on with your day. See you later.”
“Thanks again,” I call out to her retreating back and then look down at the gift in my arms. The basket is heavy making me wonder just how much Roisín brought. I make a quick decision and walk back to the reception desk.
“Franny, didn’t you say you have a knitting club?”
She nods, glasses perched on her nose. “We meet every Monday.”
“Perfect.” I prop the basket on the desk separating us. “Want to bring some baked goods for your meeting tonight?”
She claps her hands in front of her.
“Ooh, are you sure?”
“Of course. There’s no way I can get through all of it on my own, or I’ll end up as big as a house.”
Franny clucks at me as she gets up from her seat. “I can never say no to Roisín’s treats, but since it was a gift from her to you, I will only take a few pieces. I’ll go find something to put them in. Back in a bit.”
“Deal.”
I release the breath I hadn’t realised I was holding, and as I do, a small grain of hope starts to settle inside me. I’ve never been good at small talk or creating connections, even superficial ones, but perhaps I can finally learn those vital life skills here.
Growing up in foster care doesn’t always give people the life lessons they need, and making friends was what I had the hardest time doing.
Even though Nellie and Jack, my last foster parents, worked wonders with me, it’s still what I’ve always found the most difficult when I’m not a natural extrovert.
In one day, I’ve managed not to break out in a sweat by talking with a few people, and one even wants to get to know me better.
While the nerves are always there, never far away and reminding me that I'll always have to watch my own back as no one else will do it for me, there is a different feeling beside it. One that doesn’t make me nervous.
Cloonmara might just be what I need–even though it comes with a nosy boss and an old bull that won’t be kept locked inside no matter how hard I work to keep it there.