Chapter 1
Behind the front desk of O’Mara’s, the guesthouse opposite St Stephen’s Green in Dublin, Bronagh Hanrahan was sitting in her swivel chair doodling.
The phone that had been ringing off the hook all morning had finally fallen silent, and the fax machine was having a rest from spitting out booking requests.
Monday mornings were always busy after the weekend.
Mrs Flaherty, the breakfast cook and her dear friend, had gone home twenty minutes ago after they’d put the world to rights.
This morning’s topic had been the price of rashers having gone up again.
The injustice of it! Sure, the rasher was an Irish staple like the potato.
It was a right, not a luxury. Mrs Flaherty had strong feelings on the matter.
She’d also sounded off about the young wans not having a clue about frying the said rashers properly.
Crispiness was key, she’d declared with passion.
Bronagh, who regularly enjoyed a rasher sandwich smuggled upstairs courtesy of Mrs Flaherty, had agreed with equal passion.
The apple-cheeked cook’s nose had been out of joint after a tussle over the fry pan with Freya this morning.
Bronagh had heard the colourful expletives all the way up here in reception but didn’t bat an eye.
She was used to such carry-on because while her friend might look like a nursery rhyme character, she’d a mouth like a sewer when riled.
And what had riled her was a bad case of too many cooks in the kitchen.
She was fond of Freya but wasn’t enjoying having a right-hand woman in the kitchen, well, slip of a girl really.
However, needs must with her arthritis having worsened of late.
Freya was very good at the multi-tasking, Bronagh had concluded, considering she’d initially been employed on the front desk in the afternoons.
Now she was also employed as the manager Aisling O’Mara’s right-hand woman since motherhood and management had become a juggle for her.
Freya was a handy person to have around the place, except it would seem in the kitchen.
In a change of subject, she had chatted with Mrs Flaherty about the guests who’d checked out earlier.
A lovely couple in their golden years from New York.
They’d got the stamp of approval from Mrs Flaherty too for hoovering up their breakfast each morning.
Then there was the businessman over from London.
He’d been a tad too self-important for Bronagh’s liking, what with his drumming fingers on the desktop while he waited for her to give him his messages each morning.
She was glad to see the back of him. Mrs Flaherty agreed, saying she couldn’t abide a man who didn’t like black pudding.
Not that his leftovers would go to waste.
She’d save them for the little red fox who frequented the courtyard out back.
Her foxy friend loved nothing more than a slice or two of black pudding.
Well, perhaps a sausage. Then again, who didn’t?
‘I’d have enjoyed karate chopping his fingers.
You know, like Miss Piggy used to on The Muppet Show.
Hi-Yah!’ Bronagh made a vicious chopping motion with her hand to demonstrate and they’d laughed uproariously.
Then Mrs Flaherty had done a grand impression of the Swedish Chef from the show.
Who’d have guessed? People were a fascinating lot, Bronagh mused. They constantly surprised you.
Of course, she’d never actually karate chop a guest because even when a guest was annoying like your businessman, she, Bronagh Hanrahan, soon to be Walsh, was a polite professional.
She considered herself to be the face of O'Mara's, after all she was the first port of call for guests checking in. It was her Cleopatra-style bob that appeared above the reception desk, where a beautiful bouquet of fresh flowers always sat ready to welcome guests. Okay, so bounce was a stretch, but the point was Bronagh took pride in her work. She liked to think making people feel relaxed in the knowledge they were in for a comfortable stay at the guesthouse they’d chosen out of all the others in the city they could have picked was a vocation.
It was like nursing only there was no blood involved.
Her role was that of peacekeeper when it came to difficult guests, HR manager for the handful of staff at O’Mara’s and family counsellor for Aisling, Moira and Roisin O’Mara.
Patrick, too if he happened to be in town.
She held a varied and interesting job, one that kept her on her toes, mostly on her arse, truth be told, but hand on heart, she loved her work.
Quiet times like this at the guesthouse were rare with no more deliveries expected today and check-in for new guests not until two.
Hence the doodling. Only, she wasn’t so much doodling as practising what was to be her married name on a message pad.
What she should be doing was organising because her wedding was fast approaching.
She’d a firm picture in her mind of her dress, and of the day and how it would pan out, although she couldn’t imagine what it was going to feel like to stand beside the man she loved and say her vows, to listen to him say his.
Bronagh Walsh.
She’d toyed briefly with keeping the Hanrahan in there because she’d been a Hanrahan so long, it had worried her nobody would know who Bronagh Walsh was.
She’d even practised signing her name as Bronagh Hanrahan-Walsh.
It did sound posh. Double-barrelled surnames always did, but it was such a mouthful.
Besides, Bronagh Walsh had a lovely ring to it.
Maureen had been quick to point out that seeing as her middle name was Mary, her initials would be BMW, like the car, and everybody knew they were quality.
She had been taken with that idea, but then Maureen had said she could call her ‘Beemer’ and she was very much on the fence about that.
Her tongue was poking out the corner of her mouth as she concentrated on her new signature, which was helping take her mind off the custard creams in the bottom drawer of the desk.
She should get rid of temptation and tell Freya, who seemingly could eat whatever she fancied and never gain a pound, to go to town with them.
The very idea of her comfort stash not being within reach, just in case like, filled her with panic however, and so the biscuits remained — calling to her.
Bronagh, eat us, eat us. You know how custardy and delicious we are.
The menopause was a terrible thing for the sugary cravings, she ruminated, drawing an extra fancy B and then scribbling the rest of her name.
That made six variations of Bronagh Walsh now and the leading contender was still number two.
She particularly liked the swirl of her ‘B’ and ‘W’, but she’d get a second opinion from Freya, Ita the director of housekeeping, who cleaned around her coursework, and Aisling or Moira.
Yes, whoever appeared first could help her make her mind up before she began practising it furiously in readiness for committing it to important things like her passport and bank accounts.
Joint bank accounts, she reminded herself.
There was to be none of that modern separate bank accounts malarkey for her and Lenny. They were a team. A team who had their own interests like bowls, yoga and working here at O’Mara’s. A team of three, as her mammy would continue to live with them. Four if you counted Bessie the golden retriever.
Given she and her mam were a package deal, Bronagh thanked her lucky stars that he got on well with her.
She could never marry a man who didn’t. That wasn’t to say there weren’t going to be changes though because Lenny was in the throes of trying to sell his Liverpool house and pack up his worldly belongings to move back to the city where he’d grown up.
His sister Joan still lived there too. He was eager for Bronagh and her mam to rent their little house out and for them to start their new lives in a bigger house with a garden.
As a man who’d never married with no dependants other than Bessie, Lenny had a tidy sum in the bank and with the sale of his house they’d be sitting pretty, he said.
The garden wasn’t for their sake, or even her mam’s.
No, it was for Bessie. She’d love a bit of grass to run around on, he said, and fair play to her too, Bronagh reflected.
Who wouldn’t love a bit of grass? Although she didn’t plan on running around on it.
She intended to find a sunny spot to bask in.
Who’d have thought her mam would turn her nose up at a nice bit of lawn, but turn it up she had.
Myrna Hanrahan insisted she was happy with her poky little yard with its pavers and not a single blade of grass to be seen.
Bronagh knew her well enough to know it didn’t come down to pavers or grass.
It came down to the people on their street.
Myrna enjoyed knowing her neighbours. Not that all of them were worth knowing, but Sara next door looked out for her, popping in most days for a cup of tea.
Still, Lenny was moving across the Irish Sea to be with Bronagh.
The least her mam could do was move a few blocks without making a fuss.
She’d reluctantly enlisted Hilary, her older sister, to talk some sense into her, thinking it was the least she could do.
When their mam became ill all those years ago, Hilary was already married with children and the duty of care had fallen to Bronagh.
It was one she’d taken on gladly, despite the sacrifices it demanded of her, but still, it was high time Hilary stepped up and sided with her sister.
Only she hadn’t.
Hilary had been most sniffy upon hearing about the proposed bigger house with a garden.
Mind, Hilary always had a propensity towards being sniffy, having enjoyed lording it over Bronagh with her fancy house in Tramore and husband who was a solicitor.
She’d said it wasn’t fair expecting Mammy to move at her age.
Bronagh had said there were lots of things in this life that weren’t fair.
There’d been no need to bring up the broken engagement years ago when the man she’d been going to marry decided he wasn’t prepared to take on her mam too.
It had sat unsaid between them down the phone line, and Hilary had sniffed so hard her sinuses would surely be clear for a year.
Still, she’d refused to budge on her stance.
‘Selfish mare,’ Bronagh muttered, oblivious to how hard she was pressing the pen into the pad.
The phone ringing saw her put the image of her smug sister from her mind and, tucking her hair behind her ears, she arranged her face into a smile.
‘Good morning, O’Mara’s Guesthouse. You’re speaking with Bronagh. How may I be of help?’
Bronagh Hanrahan, soon to be Walsh, was nothing if not a professional.
She also had a problem.
One she’d not shared with anyone.