The Guesthouse on the Green Series Box Set 2

by Michelle Vernal

  ‘What does Patrick have to say?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to Patrick since he went to America. That’s another thing, Bronagh. I did something that’s weighing heavily on me.’

  Bronagh waited, not wanting to interrupt Maureen’s flow.

  ‘I loaned him some money.’

  ‘A lot of money?’

  Maureen nodded. ‘He wanted it for a venture he said was a sure thing. He’s promised to pay it back before the year’s out. It’s just—'

  ‘It’s not sitting well with you.’

  ‘No, it’s not. I feel as though I’ve the indigestion whenever I think about it.’

  ‘You haven’t told the girls?’

  ‘No, they’d be on the telephone giving out to him.’

  Bronagh shook her head. She was fond of Patrick, having known him since he was a young boy but he had a streak in him that one. He was out for himself and it wasn’t right putting the squeeze on his mammy for cash. ‘He’s your son, Maureen. You’ll have to trust him.’

  Maureen pursed her lips. ‘I do trust him, it’s just he’s not very reliable. You’re a good woman, Bronagh, so you are, listening to my moans.’ She almost wished she’d let Bronagh have her other biscuit now. It would have been the good Christian thing to do. ‘And how’s your mam doing?’

  ‘She’s having a good spell at the moment, been scrapbooking like a demon so she has. She’s off down to Tramore in two weeks and counting down the days. I’ll tell her you were asking after her.’

  ‘Be sure to. It’s a terrible thing that ME and her struck down with it so young.’

  ‘It is and there’s those a lot younger than she was suffering with it. I’ve seen a young woman barely out of college at the support meetings she goes to from time to time.’ It had taken years of, ‘It’s in her head’ for a diagnosis as to what ailed her mam to finally be given and when it had come it had still been vague and inconclusive because the doctors knew so little about the disease but at least Myrna had felt validated.

  ‘Does your neighbour still look in on her during the day when you’re here?’

  ‘Sara? Yes, she’s very good to her. She pops over most days and makes her a cup of tea and stays for a chat. The health nurse calls in twice a week too.’ It meant Bronagh didn’t have to worry about her being on her own all day while she was working. ‘She goes to her club of a Friday, too.’

  A clattering down the stairs made them both pause and turn in time to see a young man with a briefcase in his hand. He gave them a cursory wave as he whirled through reception and out the door.

  ‘Mr Cleary from Room 4. Late for a meeting’s my guess,’ Bronagh said.

  ‘Hm, must have overslept,’ Maureen said. She remembered what it was that had brought her to O’Mara’s today. ‘I came here to ask a favour of you. Would you mind typing this for me?’

  Bronagh took the handwritten sheet from her and said out loud, ‘You’re invited to a Yoga Pants Party. What’s this all about then?’

  ‘You’ve heard of Tupperware parties?’

  ‘Of, course I have.’ Bronagh could recall having gone to more than one back in the early seventies and spending a small fortune on storage containers. Mind they’d been handy in their day. ‘Hasn’t everybody got a Tupperware container with no fecking lid lurking down the back of their cupboard?’

  ‘True enough.’ Maureen had a brown canister that had cost her a pretty penny when the children were small. She’d been convinced by yer woman hosting the do, her life wouldn’t be the same without this superior piece of kitchenware keeping her spaghetti noodles fresh. It had long since lost its lid somewhere or other. ‘But it’s nothing to do with Tupperware.’

  ‘I know that. It says yoga pants party but you brought up the Tupperware.’

  They were getting sidetracked and Maureen was glad she wasn’t in a rush because it looked like she was going to have to start at the beginning. ‘What it is, Bronagh, is this. I was at my line dancing class this week and I wore my yoga pants instead of my jeans on account of the jeans cutting off my circulation around my middle.’

  Bronagh made a noise indicating she knew where Maureen was coming from.

  ‘They were so comfortable, like wearing no pants at all and I still looked the part doing the Tush Push. Afterward, all the ladies were asking where they could get a pair for themselves and that’s when I had the idea for the party. Rosi’s on board, she’s going to be my supplier. You can have yours at cost if you come along to the church hall, your mammy’s more than welcome too. We’ll have drinks and nibbles. It’ll be grand. And I’m going to get Rosi to do a demonstration of all her bendy yoga moves so everyone can see what you can get up to in the yoga pants.’ Aisling would be back by then and if she’d been holiday-eating she’d probably be wanting a pair of yoga pants to be getting about in herself. Moira could come and help her and Rosi set it up, as penance for being a cheeky mare this last while.

  Bronagh began tip-tapping the invitation out. She liked the sound of these yoga pants.

  Chapter 10

  Maureen set off for home having had a quiet word in Ita’s ear about what needed doing about the guesthouse, leaving their young director of housekeeping with the impression she’d be calling back later on without actually saying so. She’d left her hurrying off to the cleaning supplies cupboard and, satisfied all was as it should be at O’Mara’s, Maureen set off with the neatly typed invitation in her hand. She’d plans to call in at Reads to get copies run off and would multi-task once back in Howth by distributing them to her various groups as well as taking Pooh for a walk.

  Meanwhile, Bronagh, sitting behind her desk, eyed the date of the party, the invitation still on her screen. It was on a Thursday evening in just on two weeks. She was looking forward to it and not because her skirt was once more straining at the middle because she couldn’t very well wear yoga pants to work, now could she? Mind, Maureen had said they could be dressed up or down. What she was looking forward to most with regard to the party was sharing it with Leonard. She looked forward to sharing all the ins and outs of her day-to-day goings on with him. She opened her desk drawer, bypassed the biscuits and retrieved the latest letter she’d been poring over when Maureen had called in.

  Most of the guests were out and about and the pile of reservations waiting to be entered into the computer could wait until she’d read through it again properly. She wanted the opportunity to savour the letter for a while. Leonard, or Mr Walsh as she’d always thought of him until his unexpected Christmas card, would be back in Dublin come September and although Bronagh knew how time had a way of running away on itself, September seemed a long ways off. He came every year at the same time, staying at O’Mara’s in the same room, and had done so for years. He’d leave his home in Liverpool to visit his sister who still lived in the house he’d grown up in here in the city. He maintained his reason for not staying in his old family home was so as to put some distance between himself and his sister, a necessity if he wanted to keep his sanity during his visits.

  The tone of the letters was conversational and, as she read them, Bronagh imagined she was having a cosy chat with a good friend. A little like she’d just done with Maureen only it was different because she’d get a fluttering sense of anticipation as she began to read them. The letters from Leonard were her secret, and a delicious one at that.

  ‘Who’s that you’re writing to, Bronagh?’ Myrna had asked seeing Bronagh putting pen to paper for the first time in a very long while, the television humming in the background.

  ‘I’ve a pen pal, Mam, in Liverpool.’

  ‘Liverpool!’ Myrna snorted. ‘Couldn’t you have found somewhere more exotic than Liverpool? Sure, the world’s a big place you know, Bronagh.’

  Bronagh carried on writing. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Liverpool, Mam, it was home to the Beatles after all and besides, my pen pal’s very well-travelled.’ He was too. He’d been a shipwright in the navy and had seen the world. Each week he shared an anecdote fr
om this time and she looked forward to reading it because she was seeing a little of the world through his eyes.

  ‘I’m not saying there is and I’m as fond of Paul McCartney as any other red-blooded woman but I’m saying you could have struck up a friendship with someone from Australia or New Zealand for instance. I’d have liked to have heard what it’s like to live on the other side of the world with kangaroos and snakes and things. How did you come to be writing to this lass in Liverpool anyway?’

  Bronagh hadn’t corrected her mother’s assumption her pen pal was a woman nor did she tell her there weren’t any kangaroos or snakes in New Zealand, not that she’d ever heard of at any rate. Instead she was economical with the truth. ‘A guest, Mam, who stayed at O’Mara’s, we struck up a friendship and decided to keep in touch.’

  ‘Well, I suppose they had yer Cilla Black one too, she’d a lovely voice,’ Myrna had said, wincing as she shifted in the armchair trying to get comfortable.

  Now, Bronagh glared at the telephone daring it to ring while she took five minutes to scan the familiar old-school handwriting.

  Dear Bronagh,

  The sun’s been shining this week and I saw my first daffodil while I was walking Bessie. The warmer weather’s doing wonders for her old bones, and mine! It’s far too early for spring bulbs of course but it brought a smile to my face as did the rise in temperature. Winter seems to go on for such a long time, don’t you think? While summer passes in the blink of an eye. Last Sunday I went to see an afternoon session of Erin Brockovich. You know the film people are talking about. Very good it was too. I think you’d enjoy it although you might think twice about drinking water straight from your, kitchen tap again. Julia Roberts played her part well too. Normally I find it hard to take her seriously with that enormous mouth of hers but she did herself proud. Hats off to Julia.

  Some good news, Harry and I ended our month-long losing streak by winning at bowls this week and we enjoyed a celebratory pub lunch and pint or two after. The Duke of York does a lovely roast. I can’t remember the last time I had roast pork with crackling and apple sauce not to mention the plumpest Yorkshire puddings you’ve ever seen. It went down a treat.

  This week I thought I’d tell you about the time the Orwell docked in Montevideo, Uruguay. I’d not long turned twenty-one and didn’t know much about much and all I knew about Uruguay was, it’s home to the gaucho. This conjured up wide open spaces and sprawling estancias. The other fact I was aware of was the people love football and eat lots of meat. So, it was a pleasant surprise to disembark the ship and be greeted, not with men on horseback, but a grandeur from the city’s Spanish and Portuguese history I hadn’t expected. I set off exploring on foot down the cobbled lanes near the port with no preconceptions as to what I might find and it wasn’t long before I heard drums. I waited to see what would happen and was rewarded a few minutes later by the sight of a large group of people parading down the middle of the street banging out a beat that sounded African in its roots.

  The Uruguayan’s call it the candombe and it was infectious, prompting those on the sidelines into spontaneous bursts of dancing. I may or may not have kicked my heels up.

  An aroma of broiled and barbequing meat hung on the air and I decided to follow my nose. It led me to the Mercado Del Puerto, the undercover port market where the tantalising smells began to mingle with the odour of fish caught from the briny waters of the Rio de la Plato. I was feeling adventurous because I stepped out of my comfort zone to sample a dish called choto, which translates as barbequed lamb tripe. I think perhaps it was a dish that would grow on one but I didn’t hang around long enough to find out. Nevertheless, the meal filled the gap and I carried on to the central Plaza Independencia to admire the city’s hub before winding my way into the surrounding labyrinth of streets.

  It was hot, a sticky close heat akin to how I’d imagine it would be to wade through soup and I was drawn into a bar to enjoy a cold beer while observing the tango being performed. There was something voyeuristic almost in watching the intimacy of the couples dancing and feeling as though I’d intruded, I downed my ale and carried on.

  I finished my time ashore with a brisk stroll along the Ramblas, a stretch of continuous avenue running the length of Montevideo’s coast. The mighty Atlantic crashed on one side of me and children played football in the green spaces on the other.

  I always thought I’d go back there one day, Bronagh, but it wasn’t to be. It’s a funny thing, you know, because I thought I’d revisit a lot of the places I saw as a young man once I retired but the inclination was gone by the time I was of a pensionable age.

  Now then, let’s move on to more important matters. I have to say the lemon drizzle cake is the leading contender to date and, as always, I look forward to hearing your verdict on this week’s cake.

  Yours

  Leonard Walsh.

  Bronagh sighed feeling as if she’d taken a mini-break to Uruguay’s capital. She imagined what it would be like to dance such an intimate dance like the tango. What would it be like to dance it with Leonard? Aisling and Quinn had taken salsa dance classes and look where they’d led. Sure, they’d even performed the Latin American dance at their wedding. Her eyes flicked to the postcard leaning against the computer. There they were now, honeymooning in some unpronounceable place in an igloo! A very posh igloo by all accounts too and they were having a wonderful time gadding about in their padded snow suits. Her mind turned to cake. It never took much turning when it came to cake and she had to agree with Leonard in respect of the lemon drizzle. It was her favourite so far too.

  Every Friday on her way home from O’Mara’s she’d taken to calling in at the Cherry on Top, cake shop in order to buy herself and her mam a treat to enjoy after their dinner. The clean, sweet tang of fresh baking would tickle her nostrils as she pushed through the door, pausing to admire the array of taste-bud teasing treats on offer in the cabinet. Her mam was partial to New York cheesecake while she was fond of anything with icing and cream. It was on a Friday afternoon too that a sample cake would be placed on the counter for patrons to try a sliver of. When Bronagh had mentioned this in a letter to Leonard, he’d given her the role of chief cake tester. He’d written to say he himself had a sweet tooth and fancied himself a cake connoisseur. He’d been particularly impressed by the gooey chocolate fudge cake he’d enjoyed last time he was in Dublin and was always eager to try the new, and untasted. As such, when he came to visit in September, he’d take Bronagh to the Cherry on Top where he would treat her to a cup of coffee and a wedge of the cake she deemed to be their best. In the weeks since Aisling’s wedding, once Moira had hung up her personal trainer cap and the diet was a distance memory, Bronagh had been enjoying her Friday afternoon samplings. To date she’d tried a Cherry on Top’s red velvet, angel food, Victoria sponge and of course lemon drizzle cakes. Chief cake tester, was a role Bronagh took seriously.

  The door burst open and she forgot all about cakes as Mr and Mrs Blevins from Wales trooped in, carting bags of shopping. Their faces were barely visible inside the hoods of their rain jackets and they stamped their feet on the mat inside the entrance, hastily shutting the door behind them.

  ‘Lovely day for the ducks out there, Bronagh,’ Mr Blevins muttered.

  ‘You didn’t get too wet, I hope.’ She smiled over at them as she folded the letter up and put it back in the envelope. She’d write back on Friday when she’d seen what was on offer at the Cherry on Top this week.

  ‘We’re from Wales, Bronagh, we’ve plenty of happy ducks there too.’ Mrs Blevins chuckled.

  Chapter 11

  Maureen knocked on the door of the white, stone cottage. There was a prickly creeper enveloping one side of it which would be a mass of flowers come summer time. Now though, it was bare and spindly with knobbly buds giving the only clue as to what was to come. She tilted her head to one side to see if she could hear footsteps coming but the only sound was a blackbird warbling in the apple tree over to her right. She knocked
again and took a step back wondering whether she should poke her head around the side of the house where she could see a wheelbarrow with a few freshly dug spuds in it. Her tutor might be in the back garden but before she could make her mind up, a woman appeared pulling off the gardening gloves she was wearing.

  Maureen knew instantly this was a relationship that was going to work out because Maria de Valera was the image of a singing teacher. Or, at the very least, how Maureen envisaged a singing teacher to look. Her light brown hair was long and left loose, with a few silver threads around the temples streaking through it. She was wearing a cream Aran jumper and a flowing paisley skirt with her feet in a pair wellington boots. Alright the wellington boots weren’t part of the music teacher scenario but the woman had obviously been working outside.

  She dropped the gloves in the wheelbarrow and held out a hand. ‘Hello there. Sorry, I was out the back doing a spot of pruning when I realised what the time was. You must be Maureen, I’m Maria. It’s lovely to meet you.’

  Oh, yes, Maureen thought, beaming, even her speaking voice had a melodious timbre as she shook her hand enthusiastically. ‘I’m looking forward to this, Maria, thank you for fitting me in at such short notice.’

  ‘Not a bother. It was perfect timing in fact, Maureen, given I’d had a cancellation. Right then, come on in.’

  Maureen followed behind her wondering whether she should remove her shoes as she watched Maria step out of her wellies, revealing feet clad in woolly brown socks. She’d only walked from the car to the front door not trudged through muddy fields. Maria read her mind. ‘Leave them on, Maureen, you’re grand. I’ve the fire on so you won’t need your coat. You can hang it there.’ She pointed to the hooks on the back of the door as they both stepped into the narrow, dark hallway. Maureen divested herself of her coat and hung it up, breathing in the jostling scents of incense and slow-cooking meat. She was led down the hall to the back of the cottage, spying bedrooms off to the left and the right. The light and airy living space she found herself in looked out onto an expansive back garden with more fruit trees and several raised vegetable beds. The area was enclosed by a brick wall. The additional room was a pleasant surprise given the age of the front of the cottage.