Chapter 17
17
When I woke, with a Jacqui hangover, I wasn’t sure I could face a roomful of people tucking into rashers and sausages. In what unlikely circumstances did anyone think it would be a good idea to start their day with platefuls of fried meat?
(I understood I was in the minority on that.)
However, they’d have sugary, baked things down there—glazed Danishes, cranberry muffins, maybe even waffles…The older I got, the more irresponsible my diet. Why not? We’re here for a good time, not a long time, et cetera, and why eat disappointing food just because it’s healthy?
At “my age” I was meant to be eating lots of fish. But at “my age” I wasn’t sure if I was old or not-old. The thing was, I was both of them, I was all the ages.
I wanted the freedom to hop from one to another, from seventy-seven to thirty-nine, from nineteen to forty-four, whenever the mood took me. I wanted a life where I could have a two-hour nap each afternoon, but where no one looked askance if sometimes I took a sexy man along with me. A place where I could complain bitterly about my arthritic knee, then rub on painkilling gel and embark on a brutal spin class. Where I could go out dancing (I loved dancing) or stay home alone, attempting to crochet a mouse. Where retinol, fish oils, statins and red lipstick were all part of my day. Where I was wise enough to know that someone’s boyfriend was a tool but compassionate enough to say nothing unless my opinion was sought. Where I wore my niece’s jeans and my mother’s rain hat (I’d just had a blow-dry. It was like a hotel shower cap with ribbons. Portable and effective). Where I could go out for so much fun that I’d leave my phone in the taxi and during the subsequent forty-eight-hour hangover regret nothing.
Like every woman I’d spent my life being told nope, you’re doing it wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. You’re too serious, too short, too confident, too flat-chested, too ambitious, too repressed, too hard, too flirty, too fat, too thin, too old, too hairy, too angry, too prissy, too messy, too stupid, too opinionated, too lazy, too emotional, too…
Occasionally, though, I felt this is how to be me—at least for the moment, because I might change my mind and be one of my many other versions.
Today I was the version who wanted to eat Danish pastries, so that’s what I would do. Courtney had said it was okay to go down in my pajamas, but she’d had a couple of glasses of wine so I decided not to chance it. In the breakfast room she was the first person I saw.
“Good woman, you’re out of bed.” She whipped past, laden with plates. “I thought I’d have to come up and wake you.” Moments later, she was back, with a menu.
Troubled, I asked, “Are you the only person who works here?”
“I hate my husband and sons. I take as many shifts as I can.”
This was a surprise; she really didn’t give off husband-and-kids energy.
“It’s been the slowest time of year, not much call for more than myself, Emilien and her ladyship, who cleans the rooms. But it’s all kicking off this coming week with Paddy’s Day. Take a look at the menu and I’ll bring you coffee.”
“Tell me where to find it and I’ll get it myself.”
“Sit down, you lunatic. Brown or white toast? Would you like a scone?”
While I ate two slices of toast with Nutella, I texted Lenehan. There had been no further damage, he said. Well, that was something. Relieved, I stole a scone and a banana and returned to my room where I repeated the previous day’s exercise with the tinted moisturizer, cream blush, lip balm and perky ponytail. Then went out into the damp morning to pester the devout, making their way to mass.
Everywhere were reminders that we were only a kilometer from the sea: the salty air; seabirds screeching overhead; paint blistering on wood.
Setting my face into a fixed smile, I began thrusting flyers left, right and center. “A public meeting about Kearney’s Farm!” My voice was chirpy. “Everyone welcome.”
I’d been braced for some hostility—but people accepted my flyers and expressed concern about Queenie.
These folk were warm, they cared …or were they just bored? It was a fact that the demographic this morning heavily favored the elderly.
“I don’t condone what happened with the digger,” said a woman. “Putting the sand in the tank.”
But her brother disagreed. “They’re going to bulldoze the Naughton house.” He was upset rather than angry. “That entire family starved to death during the famine. It’s wrong to wipe away every trace of them.”
“Will you come to the meeting?” I said. “Have your say. We’ll sort all of this out.”
“Is it true?” The woman leant closer. “That they…did their business in one of the cottages?”
Did their…? What business…? I didn’t even want to think about it.
“Moyna, stop it, you ghoul.” Her brother pulled her towards the church.
I resumed my smiling. “A public meeting about Kearney’s Farm,” I said, again and again. “Tomorrow night. All welcome. Refreshments will be served.”
One young fool, who wasn’t even going to mass, just swaggering past the church, yelled, “Not in my name!” But skedaddled when he saw me coming to engage. Not a serious person, I decided.
Back in my room, I wrote a long report for Joey on everything I’d learned and done so far, ate my scone and banana, checked the email account for correspondence—nothing so far—and went down to seek out Ferne from Fine Irish Knits.
In the lobby, Courtney greeted me with, “Her ladyship had to leave. Another job to get to.”
Who was her ladyship and why would I care?
“If you want your sheets changed, I can run up and do them.”
Now I remembered: “Her ladyship” was the chambermaid.
“She knocked on your door, she said. You must have been asleep?”
I hadn’t been. “Why is she ‘her ladyship’?”
“Rose Tolliver. One of the ‘gentry.’?” Courtney gave at the knees in a tongue-in-cheek curtsey. “Lives in Tolliver Hall, the giant monstrosity far up on the cliffs. Hasn’t a penny. Not the best cleaner in town, give me a Brazilian any day, but Kilcroney—that’s our owner—is fond of her so she works whatever hours she likes.”
“Thank you!” I had enjoyed this potted life story enormously. “No need for new sheets or anything. Okay, I’m off out.”
Only to discover that Ferne’s Fine Irish Knits was shut. A few doors down, Heather Maumtully was my home. But a big change was imminent, which threatened to upset several delicate balances in the town’s social ecosystem. A right of way which had existed forever was suddenly to be fenced off. Now we’d have to go the long way round to reach the beach.
Or my neighbor’s sheep were to be ousted from their fields. I was aggrieved on his behalf. Or anxious in case he began eyeing up my land?
Perhaps I was a carpenter. Jobs were never plentiful so the news of a big build on the Kearneys’ land was very welcome—until I discovered none of the work was coming my way.
I needed to empathize, to sympathize, to listen and soothe. I opened my eyes to find a blue and white butterfly perched on the lamp. “Oh, hello!”
How did it get in? My window was cracked open: it could have shimmied through. Very early in the year for butterflies, though.
After Aidan’s death, I’d read many bereaved folk insisting that the person they had lost visited in the form of a butterfly. Eventually it happened to me: I’d dreamed about Aidan, he’d told me to “look for the signs’ and, when I woke, a butterfly was in our apartment, touching off objects which had mattered to us both. It had even dotted itself about my face, as if I was being kissed. I’d been 100 percent certain it was Aidan. The solace it gave me was immense.
Five or six times in the years since, invariably at a time of upheaval, a butterfly had shown up. Maybe they were around all the time but I only noticed when I was freaking out with worry?
It was so long since Aidan had died that I was no longer sure these visits were actually from him. I wondered if perhaps his spirit and my internal emotional radar had somehow merged? Either way, I always felt reassured that I’d be okay.
This unexpected blue and white visitor flitted around my room, idly inspecting my expensive foundation and the small pile of books I’d brought. Lightly, it touched my hand, before spending a moment on my eyebrow, then cheek.
I watched it float upwards to the open window, perch briefly on the sill, then disappear off into the world. Out loud, I said, “Thank you.” Whether it was to Aidan or the universe or to the strongest part of myself, I was grateful.
A beep on my phone jolted me from my warm glow. A text from Joey. I’m here. In the bar.