Chapter Three #2
‘I’ll get a fire going now and we’ll be grand,’ he says, busily gathering up sticks and matches and throwing open the doors on the stove.
‘Like I say, I’m not used to guests.’ He picks up some more sticks from the basket beside the fire and feeds them into the grate.
He’s still in his coat and pulls a lighter from his pocket.
He makes a few attempts before it throws up a little flame and he holds it to the paper in the fire’s belly.
The paper catches and the fire suddenly erupts into life.
He shuts the doors, letting the orange and yellow flames roar upwards inside.
I’m still rooted to the spot, shell-shocked.
‘I’ll show you your room then I’ll rustle up some supper,’ he says, taking off his coat and hanging it on the heavily laden hooks by the front door.
‘You’re just through here,’ he says, pointing to a room by the front door.
‘Bathroom’s to your left. I’m through there,’ he points back through the living room to where he dumped the washing.
‘And that’s Grace’s place.’ There’s a large box filled with blankets by the guitar.
In the other corner, by the doorway to Sean’s bedroom, is what I think is a desk, but it’s hard to tell underneath the precarious piles of paper that are threatening to spill over. Some look as if they already have.
‘Will your, um, wife be joining us?’ I croak in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine.
‘My wife?’ He shakes his head and laughs as he feeds turf on to the fire.
‘No. No wife. It’s just me and Grace here.
’ He straightens up and turns to me. At that moment Grace barges in through the door, letting in a huge rush of cold air.
Sean rubs her head as he passes to shut the door.
‘That’s one of the reasons I need some help.
I need someone to look after Grace when I’m not here.
I’ve got some work, just summer work, but it helps pay the bills, so I need someone to be here for Grace.
’ He wipes his hands on a tea towel. ‘And the other animals.’
My eyebrows shoot up. The closest I’ve ever had to a pet was a goldfish called Fred that I won at the fairground, and he died after three days.
‘Other animals?’ I try to swallow.
‘Yes, there’s the hens. They’re laying pretty well so there’s loads of eggs.
And the geese, great guard dogs. And then of course there’s Freddie and Mercury, the donkeys.
I kinda inherited them from my uncle. They lived here before me.
But apart from that it’s just me.’ He nods apologetically at the mess.
‘It’s just you,’ I repeat. I’m slowly processing my situation. I’m miles away from anywhere, with a man I don’t know, who’s told me he’s an oyster farmer. I swallow hard. The full stupidity of my situation is beginning to sink in.
‘Do you want to see your room?’ He puts out a hand to show the way. There’s a single bed, an old dark wood wardrobe, a small dressing table that looks as if it was once someone’s pride and joy, and a chair.
‘Make yourself at home. I’ll call you when supper’s ready.
’ He pulls the door to behind him. ‘And don’t mind Grace.
Tell her to go to her bed if she comes calling,’ he shouts back.
I hear him in the kitchen; music goes on and he’s singing.
I sit on the bed, pull off my sweatshirt and then my ruined wedding dress.
I hold it to my face, breathing in the smell of my former life, before folding it and putting it at the bottom of the wardrobe.
Then I sit back on the bed and let the tears that have held off all day finally fall.
Great big blobs of them. What on earth have I got myself into?
Later, after an erratic shower – hot, cold, dribble, fullforce – I go back into my room to find some joggers and a T-shirt on my bed.
I put them on and return to the living room feeling drained but clean.
The smell coming from the little kitchen is surprisingly delicious. Sean looks up from his hot frying pan.
‘I thought you might need some more suitable working clothes. Hope they’re OK. They were the smallest things I could find. We can pop into town tomorrow if you need to pick up a few bits.’
‘They’re fine. Thank you. It’s very kind of you.’ I know it must seem odd that I have absolutely nothing else with me.
‘I’ve got a spare toothbrush. Like I say, we can pick you up some more stuff when I go to work in Galway.
’ He goes over to the pot-bellied stove where a pan of cubed potatoes is frying on the flat top.
He shakes them and releases another mouth-watering explosion of garlic, rosemary and olive oil to fill the little cottage.
‘It’s just omelettes,’ he says, almost apologetically. ‘Could you put the bread on the table?’ He points to a large round loaf on the side. I pick up the board with the knife and the butter dish as well.
‘What shall I do with …?’ I pick up the coil of rope and the bag of dog food.
‘Oh, on the floor. Well, maybe not the dog food.’ He takes that from me and puts it high on top of a cupboard.
Then he puts two plates on the table with yellow omelettes on them, gets the potatoes from the stove and divides them between us and we sit down to eat.
It’s dark outside, which in a way helps.
I can’t see the sea. Sean slices bread and I find after 48 hours or more of living on Diet Cokes and Jammie Dodgers, my appetite has suddenly returned.
It’s delicious. I cut into the fluffy omelette and let the melted cheese stretch between my mouth and the plate.
After supper we clear away the plates, neither of us saying much, for which I’m grateful.
‘Right, now off to bed,’ he claps his hands. ‘The spring tide starts tomorrow at around ten and we have work to do.’
‘Fine,’ I reply, suddenly feeling dead on my feet.
Not only have I not eaten properly since I left the wedding, apart from the soup earlier, but I haven’t slept properly either.
I pulled out the bed in the camper van and hid there on the ferry, but I didn’t actually sleep.
With luck, everything will look better tomorrow after a good night’s rest.
‘Thank you for the meal.’ I stand and tuck in my chair. I even manage a small smile. ‘And thank you for …’ What could I say – for the clothes, for the job, for not asking me why I’m here?
‘No worries,’ he says dismissively, standing up himself.
‘Welcome on board. I’ll show you everything you need to know in the morning and explain what I need you to do.
Now get yourself to bed, get some rest.’ He waves a hand to shoo me out good-naturedly.
‘I’ll be out with my hooker first thing if you want to join me.
Don’t decide now, let me know in the morning. ’
The words hang in the air. I turn slowly and creep out of the room and into my bedroom. I shut the door firmly. Had I heard him right? I mouth the words to myself. ‘His hooker? He’s a pimp!’
I look around and then grab the chair, propping it under the door handle.
I’m furious I’ve let myself be lulled into a false sense of security by a fluffy omelette and some homemade bread, even if it was delicious.
Maybe it was poisoned, with that date drug stuff …
I look out of my window to see if I can jump.
It’s pitch black, and I have no idea where I am.
I can’t go anywhere until it’s light. I crawl into the bed and sit there with the covers up to my neck and my knees to my chest. There is no way I can let myself fall asleep.