The Traveller's Guide to Love

by Helen Nicholl

  Mwah xx

  From: cosmictraveller@yahoo.co.za

  To: johannavanheerden@hotmail.com

  There is someone out there for you, darling, I feel it in my bones. You mustn’t be so easily discouraged. Just remember that those who see clearly with the eyes of love, will love what they see.

  Have faith!

  Freddy xxxx

  From: johannavanheerden@hotmail.com

  To: cosmictraveller@yahoo.co.za

  All right, Freddy, I’m going to give it one last try. I have to say there’s not much left to choose from in my age group, but I’m going to take a chance on ‘Galahad’, a retired but active gentleman, who has a good sense of humour and his own hair and teeth …

  From: johannavanheerden@hotmail.com

  To: cosmictraveller@yahoo.co.za

  Oh God, Freddy, it was Sticky Wicket …

  Chapter 18

  Fortunately for both Sticky Wicket and me, he didn’t see me. He was sitting in a corner of the cafe where we had arranged to meet, reading a copy of the Belfast Telegraph and a sporting a flower in his buttonhole, as agreed. I backed out as swiftly and surreptitiously as I could, then fled home to compose a message from ‘Magdalena D’ to the effect that she greatly regretted having had to let him down but urgent family business had required her to leave the country at short notice.

  I was particularly kind to Sticky Wicket for the next few days, which was probably why he offered me a lift to Dolores’s house the following Sunday.

  I had been planning to ring for a cab but Sticky wouldn’t hear of it. ‘No trouble at all,’ he boomed, when I told him of my plans. ‘Be a pleasure. Got a bit of a do at the golf club on Sunday, as it happens, and I can just as easily go that way. Pick you up afterwards too, if you like.’

  ‘That’s very kind, but I’ve no idea when I’ll want to leave and anyway I’m sure to get a lift. If not, I can take a cab.’

  We were standing in the front hall during this exchange, sorting through a heap of mail that the postman had just delivered. Sticky handed me an envelope addressed to J.M. van Heerden.

  ‘Often meant to ask you what the “M” stands for,’ he said.

  ‘Maria,’ I answered, which wasn’t true, I am afraid, but if I’d told him Magdalena the penny would undoubtedly have dropped.

  So on Sunday evening, Sticky Wicket dropped me off and I climbed the three steps to Dolores’s front door with a mild sense of anticipation. There was a holly wreath above the brass knocker, the door was ajar, a Christmas tree stood in the hallway, and Dolores herself was taking coats from a man and woman I hadn’t met before.

  ‘Johanna! You look wonderful!’ She embraced me warmly. ‘I don’t think you know Iris and Max? Come along in …’

  She propelled us through double doors and into one of those lovely, traditional rooms that feel so welcoming and festive on a winter’s night. An abundance of Christmas cards and decorations surrounded a real log fire, and from a burnished tureen on a table just inside the door, Charles was ladling out mulled wine.

  Charles and Dolores have an odd but happy relationship: he spends the summers in his house in Italy, and the rest of the year with Dolores in Belfast. Sybilla says that six months with Dolores is as much as anyone could stand but Dolores herself maintains that she doesn’t like ‘Abroad’, and having been married twice, she knows that the secret to a happy relationship is long periods spent apart.

  ‘Hello, Charles,’ I said, accepting his kiss and a glass of mulled wine. ‘What a dashing waistcoat!’

  ‘Hand-painted by Dolores several years ago. Fortunately it was a short-lived hobby.’ He winked. ‘I only wear it on very special occasions.’

  It was certainly an eye-catching garment, with a vivid pattern of green and yellow splodges on a scarlet background, but it was no more startling than some of the other outfits on display. The Good Intentions volunteers are a disparate and eccentric lot, and their party clothes reflected this: Dylan, resplendent in an Irish kilt, was chatting to Agnes, who was in floor-length mauve lace, while a pale girl called Phoebe, who was wearing what looked like a Victorian nightdress with clumpy boots and a little knitted hat, clung to the arm of a boy in jeans and a leather jacket. I could see why my own unremarkable clothing had impressed Dolores.

  There were always a few people at these affairs whom I hadn’t met before – partners, or new recruits, or volunteers whose shifts had never coincided with mine – but most of them I knew reasonably well. As I ran my eye over the crowd, I saw with relief that Susan appeared to be absent. Nor was there any sign of Sybilla’s husband.

  ‘Poor Roger – he had a migraine coming on,’ she explained. ‘I’m not surprised, though – I thought yesterday that he was looking very out of sorts.’

  I only just stopped myself from asking ‘How on earth could you tell?’ – Roger being a permanently sour-looking individual whose appeal to Sybilla was unfathomable.

  Of course, we all knew perfectly well that it was the previous year’s confrontation with Agnes that had kept him away. The reason for Susan’s absence from the party, however, was more surprising, as I discovered when Dolores took me aside and asked if I’d heard the news.

  ‘No. What’s happened?’

  ‘Well, Susan told me she couldn’t be here this evening because she had to drive down to Clogher unexpectedly, to spend the weekend with an ailing aunt. But on Friday night she was spotted at the airport – waiting to board a plane, with a man who wasn’t her husband!’

  ‘Perhaps it was her cousin or her brother and they had decided to fly down to visit the aunt?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Johanna. You can’t fly to Clogher: I’d be surprised if they’ve got a bus stop there, never mind an airport. Anyway, they were holding hands, and you don’t hold hands with your cousin – and certainly not your brother – not in Northern Ireland.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he was tall, silver-haired and handsome?’

  ‘Why? Do you know who he is?’

  ‘Well, it just so happens that Susan took it upon herself to intervene in my personal affairs recently, and it seemed to me that she might have fallen for the charms of my ex-husband Socrates …’

  ‘Oh, I’ve met him,’ Dolores interrupted. ‘He’s come slithering round the shop a couple of times, enquiring after your health and intimating that you were drinking too much. I sent him packing.’

  ‘Good for you. A pity Susan didn’t have as much sense.’ And I regaled Dolores with the story of my conversation with Susan and the subsequent dousing of Socrates.

  She shrieked with mirth. ‘I’ll have to ask Paula for a fuller description – she’s the one who spotted Susan. I don’t think you’ve met her but she’s one of Kathleen’s granddaughters. She works at the airport, but she sometimes helps out in the bookshop at weekends.’

  It was hard to think of two people less suited to each other than Socrates and Susan, a thought that gave me some pleasure, I’m sorry to say. Mind you, I did feel a passing sympathy for anyone trying to have an illicit affair in a society where everyone kept such a close eye on each other – whatever it was that you were up to, someone, somewhere, would see you and take note.

  ‘Well, I’d be delighted if it was Socrates Susan was with,’ I said. ‘It would serve them both right!’

  ‘I’ve often meant to ask you, how did you meet him in the first place?’ asked Dolores.

  ‘I was on a backpacking holiday in London, and he was a student working in some pub or other. I met him in Hyde Park. I was bowled over by his Irish accent and his charm – and literally bowled over by his dog. It was a whirlwind romance.’

  ‘What sort of dog was it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea – something huge and enthusiastic. And it wasn’t his dog. He’d pinched it from where it was tied up while its owner had nipped into the cafe – thought it would be a useful means of introduction.’

  Dolores gave another snort of laughter, and then reached out an arm to grab the man I’d been introduced to wh
en I first arrived. ‘Here, talk to Max – I’m sure you’ll have a lot in common – while I go and tell Sybilla about Susan!’

  She sailed off, leaving me with Max, a slight, gentle man with beautiful manners, who had arrived with Iris but was single. On the face of it, this was all we had in common, discreet questioning having swiftly elicited the information that Max was a recently-retired civil servant who had never been to Africa, was almost certainly gay, and didn’t particularly like cats. However, he was a keen bridge player and inevitably, he knew Archie.

  ‘I see him at the club quite regularly. He sings your praises.’

  ‘Thank you. Well, I love Archie and it’s a pleasure to work for him.’

  ‘And such an intriguing little shop, I always think.’

  ‘Indeed. He’s a rather intriguing character himself. Full of surprises.’

  ‘I suppose you mean those rather dreadful books he writes?’

  ‘You know about them?’

  ‘Oh, we all know about them, we just don’t mention the subject because we know he’d be utterly mortified.’

  If I had needed any further proof that evening that absolutely nothing in this part of the world could be kept a secret, it was provided at supper. Agnes and I had taken seats next to Kathleen at a small table in one corner of the room. Kathleen is a great favourite of mine. She is unfailingly kind and interested in those around her, and a tremendous talker who rarely finishes a sentence – which grasshopper-like quality in her conversation I attribute to her having had an enormous family and a lifetime spent doing a thousand things at once. At any rate, we were all three happily addressing our turkey and ham when Agnes suddenly froze.

  ‘Don’t look round now!’ she hissed. ‘It’s Mary …’

  With one accord we bent over our plates, but it was too late – Mary, a famously lugubrious and dedicated hypochondriac, had loomed up behind us like a cold front and there was nothing for it but to shift up and make room.

  ‘Thank you, dear.’ She settled herself beside me. ‘I thought I was never going to find a seat. My poor old back is playing up again – I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there’s more bad weather on the way.’ She gave a deep sigh, then poked doubtfully at the food on her plate. ‘I do hope there isn’t anything too spicy in this. I had terrible indigestion the last time.’

  ‘It’s delicious,’ said Agnes, ‘and not at all spicy.’

  ‘Isn’t Dolores so good, doing this every year?’ Kathleen shook her head in amazement. ‘Always such a wonderful spread, I wonder does she go to Orr’s …’

  ‘I couldn’t come last year,’ Mary interrupted. ‘It was just after Harold’s accident, and I wasn’t well myself of course. Not at all. I wasn’t a bit surprised when I found I had shingles.’

  ‘Oh dear, that’s so painful!’ Kathleen patted her hand. ‘I had it once …’

  ‘I’ve had it three times so far.’ Mary spoke with grim pride, and Agnes, who was on my other side, rose abruptly to her feet. ‘It’ll be her diverticulitis next,’ she muttered to me. ‘I’m off to get another drink.’

  She left us to our fate, while I made a feeble stab at directing the conversation along more cheerful lines.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s lovely to see you looking so well now, Mary. And you’ve got a new hairstyle.’

  This temporarily distracted her. ‘I had it done for a wedding yesterday.’ She patted the iron waves complacently. ‘It was a beautiful wedding. Such a lovely young couple: Kevin – he’s my cousin’s son, the cousin that died from septicaemia – and Norah, she’s …’ She stopped short. ‘But I think you might know her, Johanna: Norah Morrow. I’m sure I saw you with her father once. I was coming out the surgery and you were getting into his car.’

  Fortunately, Dolores chose that moment to announce the arrival of dessert, and I seized the opportunity to make my escape.

  ‘Can I bring either of you some Christmas pudding?’ I asked. ‘And it looks as though Charles is breaking out the champagne.’

  ‘Champagne! What a treat.’ Kathleen clapped her hands in delight, which made me feel more than a little guilty about abandoning her as well, but on these occasions it’s every woman for herself. As I made for safety I heard Mary say, ‘Champagne? Oh no, I don’t think so, dear, just a small mince pie for me. But you go ahead and enjoy yourself, while you still can.’

  I spent the next hour or so doing my best to enjoy myself, and succeeded rather well. By eleven o’clock we had all been well fed, and possibly too well watered, because a heated argument broke out suddenly between Dylan and one of the other volunteers. I’m not sure anyone knew what it was about, but I sidled up to Dolores and suggested that it might be time we all went home.

  ‘Shall I start the ball rolling and ring for a cab?’

  It was Kathleen who gave me a lift home, however – or rather, her husband John did. He was one of those large, slow, silent men, but there was a twinkle in his eye, and he and Kathleen had been married for fifty years. As I waved them goodbye and let myself into my flat, I reflected sadly on the fact that so few people I knew had long-lasting and companionable relationships – or even unaccountable ones like Sybilla and Roger’s. But apart from that, and the pang I had felt at the mention of Kevin and Norah’s wedding, it had been an unexpectedly happy evening.

  Sticky Wicket had not returned, but Tiger Lily was curled up in the middle of my bed. She opened one eye disapprovingly when I gave a gentle hiccup.

  I pretended not to notice. ‘Do you know,’ I told her, ‘I feel better than I have done for a very long time. I think I might be on the mend at last!’ And for the first time in weeks, I fell asleep at once and slept like a log until morning.

  Chapter 19

  Disappointingly, it turned out that Susan’s mystery man wasn’t Socrates at all, but rather a dance instructor called Harry. Still, as Dolores said, when relaying this piece of information, not only did Susan have a husband of her own, the man in question was reputed to have a wife in Letterkenny, so that would give us enough ammunition to keep her in her place for the foreseeable future.

  More distressing to me was the report in a local paper, a couple of days later, of the wedding of Norah Morrow to Kevin Dunne. There was a photograph of the happy couple with the bride’s parents, Mr and Mrs Albert Morrow. Carmel appeared to be wearing a fur lampshade on her head, but that was small comfort: she still looked distressingly beautiful, and she had her arm linked through Albert’s in a proprietorial manner. Albert himself looked mildly alarmed, but as that was his habitual expression, it wasn’t much comfort either.

  Fortunately I had Christmas in London to look forward to. I did feel briefly guilty about abandoning both Sticky Wicket and Archie to their solitary celebrations, but my concerns turned out to have been misplaced – Archie assured me that he would be having a slap-up lunch with friends from the bridge club, and Sticky, when I enquired about his plans, grew unexpectedly pink.

  ‘Been invited out, actually.’

  ‘Oh, somewhere nice?’

  ‘Friend’s house. Don’t think you know her.’ His ears had begun to glow like beacons. ‘Called Vera.’

  I was tempted to ask him how he had met her – and, indeed, whether she had her own hair and teeth – but he was so covered in confusion that I decided not to tease him. Instead I kissed him on his blushing cheek, wished him a very happy Christmas, and went back downstairs to finish my packing.

  I arrived in London to find the Organic Ashram full to bursting – Ellie was still living with Finn and Marta, Nuala and Seamus had arrived the day before, and Sophie (famous for her turnip and lentil stew) had been replaced by a charming pair of Swedish ballet dancers, much to Pippa’s delight. So charmed was she, indeed, that she followed them around constantly – dressed in a grubby pink tutu and leg warmers – and did her best to emulate their languid grace. There was also a new addition to the house in the shape of a rescue dog called Pocket, who in turn followed Pippa everywhere, bringing up the rear of a small comi
c procession that moved about the house, with the twins and their cameras filming them as they went.

  It simply wasn’t possible to be unhappy in the middle of such a lively crowd, and Christmas went by in a blur of food, drink, presents and laughter. But I didn’t stay on for New Year because Socrates was planning to join the party and it was only fair to let the children have some time with him alone. Also, given the circumstances of our last encounter, and my murderous feelings towards him since I had spoken to Albert, I felt it was probably wiser to avoid a meeting.

  So, with a promise to return as soon as the new baby was born – and with another to Pippa that she could come over to Belfast for a visit on her own, or with Ellie, in the Easter holidays – I flew back to see in the New Year with Tiger Lily.

  I had received several invitations to spend New Year’s Eve with friends – even Sticky Wicket had manfully suggested that I might like to join a party at the golf club – but I had declined them all. I was determined to stay quietly at home and see the old year out with the stoicism that I hoped would carry me through the dark and lonely months to come. Besides, I was in no mood for company and I had a very real fear that one drink would lead to several more, and eventually to maudlin self-pity. I did in fact have a bottle of champagne in the fridge, sent by Rita who was sunning herself with friends in the Caribbean, but I planned to keep it for a happier occasion – should one ever again arise.

  Instead I sat down at my desk and prepared to write my last email of the year.

  From: johannavanheerden@hotmail.com

  To: cosmictraveller@yahoo.co.za

  Darling Freddy,

  I’m glad you had such a merry Christmas. I must say my own Christmas was a lot happier than expected and the children made a huge fuss of me. They are all looking well – Ellie is back to her old self, I’m glad to say, and Marta is positively blooming.