Chapter One #2
‘Oh, looks like someone’s beaten you to it,’ says the barmaid as we watch the younger of the two men from the bar, the one in the shell suit, go over and speak to Sean Thornton.
‘Can I get you something while you wait?’ she says a little more cheerily.
I feel my spirits plummet even lower, and I hadn’t thought that was remotely possible, as I look over at the man in the shell suit, sitting on a small green velour-covered stool opposite Sean Thornton.
‘Do you do tea?’ I sigh rather more loudly than I’d intended to. The group in the corner is still watching me.
‘Tea? Sure.’ The barmaid picks up a pen and pad. ‘Anything to eat?’
I shake my head, thinking about the few euros I’ve got left after paying the damages at the Garda station. ‘For reckless driving,’ he’d said. He was probably right too. My stomach suddenly rumbles loudly, like a lion’s roar. My hand shoots up to cover both it and my blushes at the same time.
‘Soup and a sandwich,’ the barmaid tells me rather than asks, with a raised eyebrow.
‘Fine,’ I quickly agree.
The barmaid flicks on the kettle with a flourish.
I can’t help but feel she’s still keeping an eye on me.
Now that she’s moved to the back of the bar, I can see she’s wearing purple leather-look shorts with tights underneath and a red T-shirt saying ‘Drama Queen’ in sparkles.
In contrast I look down at my big grey sweatshirt and nude-coloured tatty dress.
‘On holiday, are you?’ she shouts over the noisy kettle, cutting into my thoughts.
‘Um, well, not exactly. Well, sort of.’ I can’t answer this without going into a long explanation and that’s the last thing I want to do right now.
‘Excuse me,’ I try and change the subject quickly.
‘Could you tell me where the loo is?’ To my surprise she put her hands on her hips and shakes her head. The kettle is still warming up noisily.
‘Daloo?’ She shakes her peroxide head again and then to my bigger surprise says, ‘No, can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.’ She looks genuinely puzzled. For a moment I freeze and then the penny drops. OK, very funny. It’s that Irish humour. I try and join in the joke and laugh good-naturedly.
‘Hey, John Joe,’ the barmaid calls over to the group huddled by the fire. Oh dear God, please don’t tell me this is happening, that it’s some sort of prank they pull on holidaymakers looking for the toilet.
‘Any ideas where Daloo is?’
An elderly man in a holey jumper shakes his head.
‘What about you, Evelyn? You’ve got kids living all over the place, any idea where Daloo is?’
Evelyn’s in an oversized anorak. She turns down her mouth and shakes her head.
‘Frank? Any ideas?’
Frank scratches the black spiral curls poking out from under his woollen hat.
‘Grandad? What about you? If anyone knows about this place it’s you.’
Someone nudges Grandad awake and he splutters.
‘Daloo! She’s looking for Daloo!’ Evelyn shouts at him. He shakes his head and goes back to sleep, resting his elbows on the arms of his wheelchair and letting his head fall forwards.
If there really is a God, would he just let the floor open up now and let me fall through it? I look up to the ceiling and shut my eyes in hope. Nothing. Just like my mother, He’s never been around when I’ve needed Him either.
‘I think …’ a voice pipes up next to me and makes me jump.
My eyes ping open. Sean Thornton is standing beside me.
The man in the shell suit is back at the bar, picking up his pint and shaking his head.
‘I think,’ he repeats slowly and quietly, ‘that the lady is looking for the bathroom.’ He puts down his cup and saucer on the bar.
‘Through there to the left,’ he points, and gratefully I put my head down and scuttle in that direction.
I grab hold of the porcelain sink and splash water over my face and then attempt to dry it with a stiff paper towel, which just inflicts pain.
I look into the mottled mirror. The person staring back scares me.
I hardly recognise myself. My eyes are swollen, my face blotchy and red, and I look as if I’ve aged ten years.
A far cry from the blushing bride that left home yesterday.
‘Sean told me to put your food over there,’ the barmaid says a little sulkily as I return from the loo, like someone who’s been told off. She goes back to polishing the glasses.
On a table tucked round the other side of the bar a bowl of steaming orange soup and a huge doorstep sandwich is waiting for me. My stomach roars again in expectation.
‘Thought you might like to eat somewhere a little more private.’ Sean Thornton nods to the group on the other side of the pub.
‘Thank you,’ I say and go to sit down.
‘No problem. I’d like to say they mean well, but … I can’t,’ he says, throwing a look first at the locals on the other side of the bar and then at the two standing next to it. They pull down their hats and turn in towards each other. I realise I need to seize my opportunity.
‘Actually, are you Sean Thornton?’ I pick up the red paper napkin by my bowl and twist it in my hands. I try and smile but it probably looks more like a grimace.
‘I am,’ he says evenly and stares right back at me, making me feel nervous. There’s no humour in his eyes.
‘Good.’ My throat is drying again. ‘In that case,’ I say really quickly, with what feels like a tennis ball in my throat, ‘I’ve come about the job.’