Chapter 7
HE OFFERED HER WHAT LOOKED LIKE THE SAME beaker as before. ‘Vegetable soup,’ he said. ‘Left out the chicken this time.’ A minuscule lift of an eyebrow.
‘Thank you.’
‘I have something else . . .’
While he was gone she took the lid off the beaker and smelt herbs and garlic. She wondered if he’d made it from scratch, or cheated with a can.
The bicycle he returned with was the pale yellow of the little flowers she remembered growing in clumps along the roadside, the spring before last. Wild primroses, Damien had told her. No sign of them yet this year. ‘I thought Owen was bringing it.’
‘I was over at their house yesterday, and Susan happened to mention it. Only three gears, so it won’t be much good to you on the hills, but it’ll get you in and out of the village until you find yourself a car.’
‘I don’t drive,’ she said. ‘This will be fine for me.’
‘It’s tricky around here without a car.’
‘I’ll manage,’ she said. ‘I’m not staying permanently.’
He nodded. ‘You’ll go back to Dublin.’
‘I will, but not for another while.’
Until now, Gareth was the only one she’d said it to. Nobody else had asked, not even Marian, but people probably assumed that was what she would do.
‘Right so.’ He pushed a hand through his unruly hair. ‘Sorry the way things worked out for you. You got it very tough.’
The sympathy, as always, made her eyes sting. She blinked the tears back, not wanting to cry in front of him again. ‘Thanks for the soup.’
‘About the only thing I can make without burning it. Mind yourself on the bike.’
It wasn’t in bad shape. Its yellow paint was chipped in spots, easily touched up.
The chain was a little rusty but someone had oiled it, and a small rip in the saddle had been glued.
The brakes worked. Best of all, it had a carrier, a wicker basket, lights front and rear and a bell that tinkled. All she needed was a lock and a helmet.
She could keep it in the shed, which was finished. Gareth was already storing his garden tools in it. Good that it was being put to some use.
She decided to take it out for a quick run.
Despite its lights, she wouldn’t fancy cycling on dark country roads, but it looked like there was enough daylight left in the sky if she didn’t go too far.
She pulled on her outdoor things and wheeled the bicycle to the lane.
She put a foot on a pedal and swung herself up into the saddle.
She negotiated her wobbly way along the pitted surface until she reached the road, where she turned in the opposite direction to the village.
She pedalled hard then to gather speed, feeling the remembered rush of air on her face, the pleasant ache that developed in her calves as the hedgerows flashed by. She loved it, loved how the physical act of cycling left little room for the quiet despair that still so often threatened to swamp her.
She pumped the pedals for a mile or two, then turned around, blood racing, face warm despite the cold air. She guessed she had the roses in her cheeks that Father Phil had said she needed.
By the time she got home, twilight was setting in. She wheeled the bike around to the shed, leg muscles singing, and pushed open the thick weatherbeaten wooden door that Brendan had salvaged from a derelict house.
It was only her second time to enter it.
When she pulled the door closed behind her to take in the space the air felt different, scented with earth and old stone, marginally warmer than outside.
The floor was plywood, solid and plain. The light was soft, the small window not allowing a whole lot of it through.
She saw Gareth’s fork and spade leaning against a wall, and his battered wheelbarrow standing on its end next to them.
A pair of well-worn gardening gloves was draped across one of its handles, and hanging from the other was the watering can he filled from the rain butt he’d installed at one of the drainpipes.
She stood the bicycle behind the door and looked through the window at the sea. Its sound was more muffled in here.
Back in the house she rang Susan. ‘I just took the bike out for a spin. Thank you so much. It’s great.’
‘Oh good, I’m delighted it’s found a home. It’s a bit of a workhorse, but it’ll be handy for short hops. Sorry I didn’t have a helmet to go with it, but you’ll get one in the hardware store.’
‘Yes – and about the yoga . . .’
‘No pressure – I told you the bike wasn’t a bribe.’
‘No, I know. Let’s give one class a go,’ so they settled on Tuesday, right after the morning break.
‘Come in time for a cuppa beforehand, if you feel like it,’ Susan said.
‘Ours is just a four-teacher school, me being one of them, and someone is always on yard duty during the breaks, so you’ll only have three of us to cope with in the staffroom,’ and Lydia said yes to that too.
She had to start saying yes to things again.
A few minutes later, Marian rang. ‘Susan tells me you’re going to do yoga with my crew on Tuesday.’
She sounded elated. Lydia imagined the two of them cooking up this plan, trying to help her find a way back into the world.
Did it matter if they had, if Susan hadn’t really needed something for the infants?
Lydia wasn’t sure how she felt about being a charity case, but their motive, if she was right about that, was good.
‘I’m delighted you’re doing this, Lydia. They’re a lively bunch, but very lovable. I’ll pop over to you tomorrow after school for a quick hello.’
After hanging up, she rang her parents. They’d both been a little quiet since Lydia had told them of her intention to delay her return to Dublin, so here at least was her opportunity to pass on some positives.
‘That’s good,’ her mother said, of the infant yoga, ‘as long as they’re not too rowdy. I don’t think you should have to deal with that at the moment.’
‘Marian is the teacher, and she’ll stay in the room. And I’ll get paid a bit.’ A sum hadn’t been mentioned, but she didn’t imagine it would run to much, schools not exactly rolling in money. ‘And there’s more good news.’ She told her of Susan’s gift.
‘That’s kind of her. Is it just a loan, while you’re there?’
‘No, it’s mine to keep.’
Pause. ‘But you are still coming back?’
‘Mum, I’ve told you I’m coming back. I’ll be bringing the bike to Dublin, whenever I return.’
‘That’s good, dear. Make sure you wear a helmet, and take care on those country roads. They can be lethal.’
Lydia said nothing to that. People didn’t mean to hurt: they just didn’t think before they spoke.
The following morning she cycled into the village.
She dropped into the hardware shop and picked up a helmet, and then she kept going, pushing through the stiffness in her legs as she sped past cottages and haysheds and fields full of silent cows.
Again she loved it, even when she had to puff her way up the rises.
On her return to Chance House, when she wheeled the bicycle around the back she saw Gareth kneeling at the edge of the patio, trowel in hand, a green plastic tub and his watering can next to him.
He sat back on his hunkers when she came into view. ‘You’ve found yourself a bike.’
‘Susan gave it to me. She got a new one.’
‘Very good. Mind yourself on the road.’
‘I will. What are you doing?’
‘Wild primroses,’ he said, lifting a clump from the container, parting the bright green wrinkly leaves to show her buds.
‘You have to have some bit of colour till I get everything else down. They should open in a week or so. Don’t tell anyone – I lifted them from up the road, but the cultivated ones are an abomination, and I spaced out what I took, so they won’t be missed.
They spread, so you’ll have more every year. ’
She could picture him, covertly digging up the wild flowers to give her something cheery to look at. Funny that they’d crossed her mind when she’d seen the bicycle’s colour.
‘I’ll probably be gone before next spring,’ she said.
‘Maybe you will, but they’ll still come back.’
She wondered if she could dig up some and bring them to Dublin.
If she didn’t have a garden, maybe she could plant them in a window box or on a balcony.
She liked the idea of bringing something from this garden to the middle of the city.
‘Could I help you out here?’ she asked. ‘I know nothing about gardening, but maybe there’s easy stuff I could do. ’
‘Absolutely, lots of easy stuff. You can give a hand with the next round of planting. Root out those wellies again.’
‘I will.’
Damien’s pair still sat next to hers at the back of the wardrobe.
She couldn’t imagine the day would come when she would be able to part with anything of his.
She watched Gareth digging in the rest of the primroses, and then he got to his feet, brushing earth from his palms. He crossed to the rain butt and refilled the watering can and handed it to her.
‘Your first job. If it doesn’t rain, throw a bit of water on them every day, to help them settle in. ’
When she went back inside she became aware of hunger pangs, the cycling maybe, so she heated Andrew’s soup till it sent up soft wisps of steam. She poured it into a bowl and dipped chunks of Greta’s rye bread into it, and relished every mouthful.
And didn’t throw it up.
On Tuesday she cycled to the school, her rolled-up yoga mat sitting in the basket. She was apprehensive. She hadn’t thought to ask about mats. Would the floor be suitable, if there were none? What if she couldn’t control the children? Had she taken on too much, too soon?
Why was she so nervous? It was a group of infants. It was only twenty minutes, and Marian would be there.
But still it was worrisome. It was her trying to inch forward, trying to move past the nightmare, and she wasn’t at all sure she was strong enough.