Chapter Two
Just like the barmaid, he looks at me first in the face and then up and down, taking in the scuffed gold, kitten-heeled shoes, the dress with the newly fashioned, torn hemline, and the big baggy sweatshirt.
I flap my arms by my sides. ‘Sorry, didn’t have time to change.’ I feel as ridiculous as I no doubt look. When he says nothing back, I cringe and my toes begin to curl. Then my stomach roars again.
‘Sounds like your stomach thinks your throat’s been cut. Tell you what, take a seat, eat your soup and then we’ll chat,’ and he goes back to looking at his notes.
I sit down self-consciously, pick up the spoon and sip the soup. It’s warm and really tasty and I’m already feeling better. I look at the sandwich. I’m hungry but the knot in my guts won’t let me eat it. Besides, it’s hard to eat when you know you’re being watched.
I’m just finishing the bowl of soup when the man with the mass of unbrushed spiral ringlets comes over and stands in front of Sean Thornton, spilling some of the pint he’s carrying.
‘How are ya, Frank?’ Sean says politely, but there’s a stiffness in his voice.
‘Good, Sean, good. Now about this job. Evelyn says you advertised in the Galway Advertiser for an assistant. And it’s been on the Face Book, or was it Twatter?
On the world wide web, anyways. Well, reckon I could fit the bill.
’ He has one hand in his pocket and is waving the pint around with the other, spilling a little more.
‘I know my way around the farm and I’m local. ’
‘Ah, I wish I could offer it to you, Frank, but I’m looking for someone who can do some office work too, take phone messages, write them down, that kind of thing,’ he says with an apologetic shrug. Frank nods and shrugs back. Then he turns to rejoin the group on the other side of the bar.
‘Nice bloke but wants to fight the whole town with a drink inside him,’ Sean says in a low voice. Surprised by this aside, I watch Frank as he reseats himself unsteadily on a high bar stool.
I dab the corners of my mouth nervously with the twisted paper napkin.
Right, now it’s my turn, I think, and take a deep breath, although I have no idea where or how to start.
I put down the napkin and turn to Sean. Suddenly the woman I recognise as Evelyn, in her oversized anorak zipped up to her neck, marches quickly over and stands in front of Sean.
‘I understand you’re looking for someone up at the farm. I’m available,’ she says curtly. My heart sinks. Sean looks thoughtful, even a little amused.
‘Evelyn, you and John Joe have your own farm to worry about.’ He tucks his reading glasses into his top pocket. ‘This isn’t for you,’ he says, picking up a drinks mat and turning it over in his hands.
‘Well, that’s as may be, but the extra money wouldn’t go amiss,’ says Evelyn with a conciliatory sniff.
‘’Fraid it’s more board and lodgings and pocket money,’ he says with another apologetic shrug.
Evelyn gives him a sharp nod and walks back quickly to her group.
Now it’s my turn. It has to be. I take another deep breath and go to stand when suddenly the barmaid appears with a pint of Guinness and puts it down in front of Sean.
Don’t tell me she’s after the job as well, I think, flopping back down.
‘Thought you looked as if you could do with this,’ she says flirtatiously.
‘Ah, Margaret, you’re very good,’ he smiles, accepting the pint.
‘My horoscope said that an act of kindness would reap its rewards today.’ She pulls out a damp cloth from her pocket and starts wiping his table. I get the impression she’s keeping one eye on Sean and another on me.
‘At least someone round here doesn’t think I’m bad through and through,’ he says, lifting the glass with its creamy top to his lips.
‘They do not think that. Didn’t three of them come and ask about the job?’ She wipes down my table and scoops up my plate and bowl. ‘Are you finished with that?’ She looks miffed at the untouched sandwich.
‘Yes, sorry.’
She turns her back on me and her attention onto Sean.
‘That’s only because they want to find out why I need an assistant,’ Sean says, finally sipping the pint. It leaves creamy foam on his top lip that he sucks off.
‘You’re obviously looking for something quite specific …’ and she sounds like she’s fishing too. Either that or she’s trying to put me off – which, in fact, she does.
I don’t know what I’m doing here. It’s a mad idea.
I mean, what do I know about farming? He’s turned down three applicants already.
Why put myself through even more humiliation?
I’ll have to think of something else. I stand up to leave, pick up my small carrier bag of belongings, pull down the disintegrating hem of my dress, lift my chin a little and make for the door.
‘Hey!’ He stops me in my tracks. ‘I thought you’d come about the job?’
Not wanting to be made any more of a spectacle, I turn back.
‘I just don’t think …’
‘Sit yourself down. We won’t know until we’ve talked,’ he says. My shoulders slump as I turn and sit on the little stool in front of him.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ he asks, gesturing to the barmaid.
‘Could I possibly have a glass of tap water?’ It might help my dry throat and the twisting, sick feeling in my stomach.
‘Sure.’ He looks up and catches the barmaid’s eye. The barmaid gives me a look so icy it could freeze the sea and then goes back behind the bar.
‘So, tell me, what’s your name?’ He slides his glasses back on and looks at me over them, making me feel like the new girl in school all over again, and, God knows, there’d been a lot of new schools.
‘Fi—’ I suddenly stop without finishing my full name.
The last thing I need is for anyone to come looking for me.
I don’t want anyone to know who I am, just in case.
And the best way I can do that is to change my name.
I learnt very early on, when starting another new school, that the only way to get on was to keep your head down and become invisible.
And that’s what I need to do right now; I need to become invisible … again.
‘Fi?’ He looks up from writing it down. I can’t think of a surname, my mind’s gone blank.
‘Hm, just Fi,’ I nod, hoping I’ve carried it off.
‘Surname?’ he asks.
I’m stumped. ‘Er …’
There’s a silence which he finally fills. ‘You’re English, right?’ He waves his pen at me.
‘Sort of.’ I don’t want to tell him my name any more than I want to say where I’ve come from.
I don’t want anything to connect me to home.
I mean, who knows, I could be trending on Twitter by now and another little piece of me dies with embarrassment.
‘Moved around a lot,’ I say through a dry mouth.
‘English …’ he writes down.
‘That’s right, Fi English.’ I’m not great at thinking on my feet but that’ll do. If my shambolic wedding becomes an internet sensation, no one here will be any the wiser.
He looks at me.
‘Fi English,’ he repeats slowly.
Tiredness is starting to get the better of me. I just need to get this over and done with and then I’ll have to work out where I’m going to stay tonight.
‘And what skills do you think you could bring to the table?’ He’s looking right at me over his glasses again.
It feels as though he can see into my soul and knows everything about me.
He has a long nose that looks like it could have been broken a few times.
Maybe he’s played a lot of sport. Or maybe he’s got into one too many fights, I think guardedly.
He pushes back his long curly hair from his weather-beaten face while he waits for my answer.
‘Well, I, um, I …’ My mind has gone completely blank again.
I’d be like this on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.
I hate pressure. It’s all very well Brian and me shouting the answers at the telly from the comfort of the leather settee, but if I was actually there I doubt I’d even be able to get my favourite colour right.
I’d probably answer brown instead of lilac.
Lilac always reminds me of the garden of a foster home I stayed in once.
But this isn’t helping me think about my skills. Come on, brain!
‘Tell you what, how about we start with proper introductions. I’m Sean Thornton and I’ve advertised for an assistant, a Girl Friday so to speak, to help me out on my farm.
I’ve got … a lot on and I need extra help.
’ He looks over at the rubber-neckers in the corner.
The barmaid returns and puts down the water in front of me.
‘And this is Margaret,’ he says with a little laugh as she puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head, ‘our friendly barmaid.’
‘Hey!’ she flicks him playfully with a tea towel. I find a little smile tugging at the corner of my mouth, or maybe it’s just the tension relaxing a little. I really need this job. I’ve got nowhere to stay and no money. There’s a lot to feel tense about.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and sip the water.
‘You’re welcome,’ she replies, and turns to go back to the bar.
‘So, do you have any experience in the food production industry?’ he asks as Margaret sashays away without him really noticing. He’s looking right at me. Suddenly, I can answer this one.
‘Oh yes! I’ve worked in a bakery since I was fifteen,’ I say, slightly encouraged. ‘And I work answering the phones at a local radio station at the weekends,’ I add, remembering what he’d said earlier. Or should that be ‘worked’?
‘Any other skills, courses you’ve been on?’
‘Well, I did a health and safety course at work,’ I offer, and he writes it down and then when I can’t think of anything else, I add, ‘and a sailing course once too.’ My mouth dries and I sip the water again.
‘And you see yourself being here for a while?’ He looks at me seriously. I’m not sure what to say, but I do know I need this job. I nod.
‘No family here?’ He’s making notes on his pad.
Under the table I feel for my wedding ring.
It slides around my finger. I turn my engagement ring into my palm.
It’s harder to move as it’s been on there a long time.
I slide it up my finger and rub the dent it’s left. I slide it back and shake my head.
‘No, no family.’
‘So you don’t know the area very well?’ he quizzes me.
I shake my head again. I have a feeling this is taking a downturn.
‘And it’s just the bakery work you’re used to, no other food?’
Again, and feeling rather pathetic now, I shake my head.
He looks at his notebook again, then starts to put it away.
Now what am I going to do? I’ll have to go back to the Garda in the Portakabin, if he hasn’t clocked off, and tell him I’m stuck.
If I thought today couldn’t get any worse, it just did.
‘Well,’ I give a little cough. ‘Thanks anyway.’ I go to stand, feeling a little choked. Sean suddenly turns back to me with a huge smile on his face.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I take it I’m not what you’re looking for,’ I say, not needing to hear his reply.
‘You’ve no experience and no knowledge of the area,’ he states the obvious.
‘You’re exactly what I’m looking for! When can you start?
’ His eyes are wild and excited and his change of tack completely disarms me, like Willy Wonka in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory – you never really knew what he was going to say or do next.
‘You’re joking, right?’ is all I can think of saying.
He shakes his head, still smiling.
There are so many questions I should be asking but I’m so grateful I just say, ‘Thank you,’ and, ‘Right away, if that’s OK?’
I should ask the questions, of course. But it’s bed, board and crap pay; exactly what I need right now.
‘Perfect!’ He gathers up his belongings. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ He looks over at the group by the fire. ‘Statler and Waldorf have got nothing on this lot.’ He picks up his battered brown briefcase and does up his wax jacket.
‘Who?’
He laughs.
‘Let’s get you settled in.’ He looks around. ‘No luggage?’
‘Travelling light,’ I reply quickly. Suddenly the memory of running down the cobbled path of the church as fast as my kitten heels would let me, holding my dress up to my knees as my flower tiara slipped from my head, comes crashing back, like something out of a film.
Only it wasn’t a film. I remember the horror I felt as everyone looked at me.
I had to get away, and sprinted towards the waiting camper van minutes after we’d been pronounced man and wife.
Sean shrugs, seeming to accept my simple explanation, even though the reality is far from simple, and I follow him out of the pub and down to the harbour car park where any last links with my past life have all but disappeared.
I stare for a moment at the space where the camper van had been, when I had been Mrs Brian Goodchild.
Now I’m Fi English.
Sean opens the door to a red Transit van and a large sandy-coloured Great Dane jumps out.
‘This is Grace,’ he says as she sniffs around my feet and nudges me with her big black nose.
‘She used to be Gary, according to the tag on her collar, but I think Grace suits her much better.’ He whistles and the dog jumps back in the van.
I climb in next to her and stretch to pull the heavy door shut.
As we drive away from the harbour I feel I’m leaving my past life behind.
Like footprints in the sand, very soon there will be no trace Mrs Brian Goodchild ever existed at all.