Chapter 22
Patricia joined the chattering throng exiting the Abbey Theatre, wishing she had someone to discuss the play she'd just seen with.
These people were part of her tribe, she thought, noticing their animated expressions and the cut of their clothes.
She drew her coat closer, as if to ward off the sudden pang of loneliness, because they might share an interest, but they didn't know her, and she didn't know them.
Her eclectic clothes were not an automatic conversation starter, and she felt conspicuous because it was odd to be out on her own.
If she really was Patricia from London, she would have no qualms striking up a conversation with someone and revealing her own links to the theatre.
Opening with, What did you think of the play?
and This old thing? I made it myself. I'm a costume designer.
It would be so easy, but it would also be the behaviour of a fantasist spinning white lies, and the line wasn't that blurred, so she stayed silent.
The play, the three-act comedic drama The Playboy of the Western World, had been wonderfully uplifting but also sad, and she'd felt like that little girl being given a treat once more as she sat transfixed by the story unfolding on stage.
She'd even brought a packet of humbugs to suck on as she tried not to think about how her mam was getting on.
She'd be happy during the day in the garden, but would she be anxious at night in strange surroundings with strangers?
The old-fashioned sweets had taken a little bit of finding, but she'd swooped on them with a small gleeful cry when she'd spotted them in the food hall at Arnotts.
This was a play she'd known little about other than it was an Irish classic with a rural setting.
Settling into her seat, it wasn't long before the colourful, poetic and over-the-top dialogue had her tittering along with the rest of the audience.
As for the costumes, well, they weren't elaborate, but they were magical in their simplicity.
One glance at the men's flat caps, tweed jackets and wool trousers or the women's high-necked blouses, long skirts and shawls, and you knew where you were. The early nineteen hundreds.
Time ceased to exist as the story unfolded, and the curtain fell all too soon.
Now she walked the short distance to where taxis were pulling in and out, aware of her toes being crushed inside her boots.
She joined the end of the queue and felt around in her pocket for the ticket stub that had gained her admittance to another world.
It had been a grand evening—a grand afternoon too.
Bronagh on the front desk had gone home for the day when she'd returned from her afternoon jaunt around the inner city earlier, having finished with a meander through St Stephen's Green.
The young girl who'd taken her place introduced herself as Pippa with a sunny smile, and when Patricia passed over the gift she'd bought for Quinn by way of apology, she'd said she'd take it up to him personally.
Remembering he ran a local restaurant, Patricia thought she'd further appease the suitcase debacle by reserving a table for dinner there.
'You're in luck,' Pippa dimpled upon putting the phone to the restaurant down. 'Quinn's is very popular, but there was a last-minute cancellation.'
Her outfit was already chosen and, resisting the urge to telephone Sunny Skies to see how her mam was, she'd changed into it. The staff would ring her if there was a problem, she reassured herself. It didn't stop her feeling guilty though.
Before long, however, she'd been bantering with Quinn's front-of-house manager, who'd insisted they must have known one another in a past life.
Her outfit was right up his alley, he'd said.
It had been a bizarre and utterly fun exchange, and she'd put her mam to the back of her mind.
Fun had followed in the lively atmosphere of the bistro too, with its foot-stamping Irish music, and she'd not felt at all self-conscious dining alone on the delicious traditional fare.
She was still full now, she thought. There was nothing like hearty food, like your mam used to cook, for sticking to your ribs.
Her aching feet inched up the line and a cough erupted as her throat closed over thanks to the eye-watering perfume wafting from the woman in front of her.
She was still coughing when she clambered into the back of a taxi for the short trip back to O'Mara's for what was a non-eventful ride back.
Letting herself in with the door code Pippa had pressed upon her earlier, Patricia entered the dimly lit and deserted reception area.
The scent from the flowers on the desktop was more pungent in the emptiness, and the silence was at odds with the daytime jangling of the phone and general activity.
The guesthouse didn't creak and groan as some old places were apt to, and the only sound was a passing car outside.
She looked to the stairs and then to the darkened guest lounge on her left, deciding she was still too keyed up from her evening out to go straight to bed. It would be nice to have the lounge to herself and soak up a little of its ambience with a cup of tea while she digested the play.
The whirring of the fax as it sprang to life startled her into action, and Patricia tottered through to the lounge, flicking the light switch.
Immediately, the room was illuminated in a cosy glow and she noticed the drapes had been drawn across the street-facing windows in her absence as she crossed the floor to the sideboard.
The kettle was already filled, and she turned it on turning a cup upright in its saucer.
Then, confident no one would be about at this time of night, saw to her poor screaming feet.
Unlacing the boots, she kicked them aside and twiddled her toes, revelling in the blissful freedom.
Soon, the sound of singing filled the room before the kettle clicked off, and her fingers rifled through the selection of tea, settling on Earl Grey.
Tearing open the sachet she dropped the teabag into the cup, the string and tag dangling over the side.
Once she'd splashed hot water into the cup, she began dipping the bag up and down, picturing Georgian ladies taking tea in this elegantly appointed room.
What might they have chattered about? Patricia wondered.
Scandalous goings-on in the community, she decided, as a clattering noise made her let go of the teabag's paper tag.
Her eyes darted towards the back of the guesthouse, where she'd seen a courtyard when she'd looked in earlier.
The drapes were drawn across the rear window too, so there was nothing to see, but she strained her ears, hearing a scuffling noise. Who or what was out there?
Her body tensed on alert, Patricia crept towards the window, uncertain of what she'd see as she peeked around the curtain. A giddy giggle was stifled upon seeing the prowler illuminated by the courtyard's sensor light. A little red fox.
The animal had knocked the lid off the bin and had paused mid-snaffle of what appeared to be half a sausage, though she couldn't be sure, to fix its yellow-green gaze on her.
They stared at one another, and Patricia pushed the curtain all the way back.
She'd always had an affinity with animals and, not stopping to think, found herself unlocking the sash window and pushing it up.
To her surprise, the fox didn't dart off into the shadows. Instead, never taking its eyes off her, it finished its supper and then sat back on its haunches. 'Hello there.' She kept her voice soft. 'I'm Patricia.'
The fox's eyes glowed.
'So, I can take it you're not one for small talk?'
There wasn't a sound, but a breeze scattered leaves about the courtyard, and the fox's inquisitive tilt of the head was all the invitation Patricia needed. She had enough to say for the both of them.
'I've been to the theatre tonight to see a play set in a pub on Ireland's west coast. Shall I give you the long rundown or the short?'
Silence.
'The somewhere in between, then.' She smiled, thinking if anyone could see her standing with her head out of the window chatting to a fox like a long-lost friend, they could be forgiven for thinking she'd lost the plot.
Come to that, given her behaviour today, inventing and dressing up as her flamboyant London-based alter ego, maybe she had.
In for a penny, in for a pound, as the saying went, Patricia thought, launching into an outline of The Playboy of the Western World.
'The crux of it is an anxious stranger called Christy Mahon arrives in a small town and barrels into the pub, confessing to murdering his da by striking him with a spade.
The local folk are fascinated by what they see as an act of rebellious courage and, when his story inevitably spreads, he becomes a bit of a celebrity.
This notoriety gives him newfound confidence, but it's threatened when his supposedly dead da shows up. His only injury? A head wound.’ Patricia paused for effect, realising that throughout her monologue, the fox hadn't so much as blinked. She continued.
'The villagers turn against Christy, seeing him as a fraud rather than a hero.
Desperate to prove himself, he attacks his father in front of everyone, only for the villagers to turn on him, treating him as a genuine murderer.
In the end, Old Mahon survives and Christy and his da reconcile.
There's a ‘what might have been’ romantic theme in there too, but there's no need to get into that. '
Now the fox blinked.
'It was very good, by the way.'
Patricia thought about Christy Mahon. He'd lied about what he'd done and was seen as a fraud by those who'd thought him a hero.
She was lying about who she was too. What for?
The validation of strangers? Why? She questioned herself.
Didn't she have children, a mam, colleagues and friends who loved her?
Suddenly, the madness of what she was doing dawned on her. 'I'm a fraud,' she whispered.
The fox’s ears twitched.
Shame washed over her, thinking how easily her fibs had tripped off her tongue in reception when she'd arrived at the guesthouse earlier.
The thought of anyone she knew catching sight of her parading about in her finery like a delusional peacock today made her feel ill. How would she explain herself?
The fox's eyes continued to bore into her, and she felt as though the creature could see into her soul.
'I think I've had a lucky escape. I'll check out tomorrow and go home, back where I belong. We'll call today a blip, or a transgression, and pretend it never happened. Let’s keep it between us.'
The fox gave a swish of its tail before disappearing through a hole in the bottom of the wall.
Patricia closed the window and pulled the curtain. Her mind was made up.
Tomorrow she'd go home.