Black Irish

by Tracey Lee Hoy



  Black Irish

  By Tracey Lee Hoy

  Copyright © 2011 Tracey Lee Hoy

  Tracey Lee Hoy asserts the moral rights to be identified as the author of this book.

  Characters, locations and settings in this Ebook unless otherwise stated are fictitious and bear no resemblance to persons living or dead.

  All content in this E-book unless otherwise stated is the sole work of the author and remains the sole property of the author and shall not be reprinted, copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted, shared or used without the author’s implicit permission and is legally protected by the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  For Tanya, who gave me my very own Celtic cross and lives across the Irish Sea.

  And at the end there was a beginning,

  Then the circle returned,

  For there would always be a beginning.

  Part One

  There she was.

  Through the crowded post-flight crowd in airport Arrivals he saw her waving frenetically. Cautiously lifting a hand in return, however, his smile faltered. He expected a younger woman...much different to what he now saw.

  She was looking right at him. His heart plummeted. He cast a glance to the heavens in anguish and groaned as the large, greying woman hefted herself toward him; her booming voice only rivalling her trunkish thighs. She had sounded different on the phone; young and beautiful. For the love of God, this woman was older than his mother. He blushed, thinking of the endless, entertaining fantasies he’d had on the flight over. Beyond him, and in sympathy of the anti-climax, the day suddenly lost its lustre as leaden clouds scudded across the scraps of sapphire sky and dumped driving rain over Dublin Airport and rest of the visible world.

  Bracing himself, Jack Gruffydd groaned as his dream woman drew nearer. Disappointment reigned as he closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable bear hug from this woman. This woman of whom he’d so obsessively fantasised and he, now feeling very much the fool. This trip had cost him over two hundred quid already and here he was about to spend several long, tedious days helping ‘Grandma’ solve some little problem.

  ‘Hello there, Jack…’ she cooed richly, her Irish lilt wrapping itself around him like a favourite old quilt. ‘You right?’

  He felt her hand on his shoulder. Dare he open his eyes? The voice had certainly been misleading – in fact it sounded much like he knew it. But he’d seen her. God what this was truly her…he knew her voice as he knew his own hands, and finally drew sufficient courage to open his eyes and face her. The other noisy woman had disappeared, and in her place stood a woman his own age, a woman who was not only exquisite looking, but a woman he felt sure he’d seen before. Pleasant shock immobilised him as she embraced him. He needed quite a few moments to gather his wits enough to realize that the older woman whom he had mistakenly believed was Kate, was now making shrill noises from somewhere behind him. Obviously, she had been waiting for someone else! He relaxed, and gratefully returned her embrace. God...he missed her. How odd. He’d had never met her, only spoke over the phone. ‘Uh...Irish?’ he stammered, pulling back reluctantly. ‘Is it you?’ She was clad in black relieved only by the ornately carved Celtic cross slung carelessly between her breasts. The cross tilted; almost jumped out at him and he felt the ground sway slightly as he momentarily fell into its ornate, black vortices. ‘This will protect ye until we can be together again,’ he whispered on a breath. Where had on earth had that come from? He gazed into her darkened, mysterious eyes, as ancient memory began to rise from somewhere deep within him however the sensory overload in the airport muted it and melted it away into nothing.

  ‘W.what did you just say?’ Alarmed, she stared at him with eyes suddenly wide.

  He frowned thoughtfully. ‘I really don’t know…’ He shrugged. He honestly didn’t. ‘I must’ve heard it before...’ he trailed off because the memory had faded as quickly as it had come upon him, but he was elated at finally seeing her and his face suddenly split into a genuine grin. ‘Oh…let me look at you!’ He looked into her slender nymph-like face with its cute turned-up nose that was faintly smattered with tiny freckles. At that moment he had to wonder seriously if there were such things as the wee folk.

  Kate’s spine tingled at the physical contact. The words he’d spoken as he noticed her antique cross were as unsettling as the day around them. Surely she’d heard those said by him, before? His smile was contagious, though and she slowly grinned back. It was him...finally! Gazing into his eyes was like falling into the ocean they were so sparkling blue, but also she could see they were as changeable as the depths of the moody ocean and she experienced the ridiculous thought that she recognised him – at a level deeper than consciousness where her spirit dwelled. Shrugging off the impossible notion that she’d met him before, she stooped to pick up his hand luggage and gave him a rich, warm laugh that crinkled her eyes. ‘Course it’s me y’big shyte. Come on then, we’ve got a fair drive.’

  His heart skipped several beats while adrenalin coursed through his body. She was here...he was here. They were here together! It was her all right, and she was very agreeable to the eye. He strode after her, still reeling from their first embrace and gazed longingly up at the crowded restaurant wishing they could eat first. Thinking about her always made him hungry. ‘How did you know it was me, lovely girl?’

  She shrugged, ‘Y’were the only one in the airport lookin’ lost, Jack.’ The crowd had thinned noticeably, probably and he followed the dark enchantress like a trusting pup, and leaving the well-established adult he had been before he left, somewhere back over the Irish Sea in Wales.

  ‘Tá sé ag cur fearthainne,’ she said, turning back to him once they were in the car park.

  ‘Uh....yeah, it is raining pretty heavily.’ The smell of new rain filled his senses and mingled with coffee, leather and hot food.

  ‘Good Jack! Ye’ve been practicing!’

  He shrugged, though loving her praise. ‘Yeah, a little. It comes natural for some reason, but for the love of God don’t tell any of my Welsh friends! Won’t do for a Welshman to be good at Irish!’

  As the rain descended noisily on the car park, and Kathleen O’Donaghue pulled her anorak tighter as she scurried along. She was a lot shorter than he expected, but right now she was striding the legs off him. Her black hair flicked back and forth caressing the back pockets of her hippy pale blue jeans.

  Black hair? ‘Your hair!’ he called suddenly after her retreating figure. The smell of rain wafted around him, and as water had begun to seep in and pool in the car park, he watched his steps on the slick cement.

  ‘What about it?’ she yelled, without turning.

  ‘Tá tú chuids gruaige dubh, Chaite!’ She’d told him over the phone that her hair was a mousy, nondescript brown. ‘It’s black!’ Damn her Irish eyes! What else had she lied about? Not that they weren’t the most beautiful locks. He wondered what in God’s name had made him answer her bizarre call for help. He’d crossed oceans for this stranger, for tales of legend and lore that his friends had scoffed at. His mother was right, he was an idiot. ‘Your hair is black,’ he repeated to her back.

  Reaching a small, blue Honda, Kate opened the rear hatch, grabbed his huge bag, and carelessly dumped it on top of a strange assortment of jumble, then faced him squarely. ‘I know,’ she whispered with a conspiratorial smile, ‘I was born with it.’ She reached up then ran her finger slowly down his whiskery cheek and he gazed longingly at the hastily applied smudge of lipstick. Time stood still as he felt himself drawn into the vortex of her eyes; into images of strange things; felt himself swaying, falling…did she just kiss him? He opened his eyes; unaware that he’d actually shut them and smacked together his lips tasting traces of mint with a hint of fr
esh rain. He trembled, but not from the cold; blinking dumbly as she appeared around the back of the car.

  ‘Welcome to Ireland, Jack,’ she called; slamming the hatch and striding around to the driver’s side.

  As he climbed into the musty smelling vehicle, Jack suddenly remembered why he’d come, as he’d answered her ad for someone with skills in psychometry—despite that he loathed it. However, there were other reasons, and he was not entirely sure where it came from, because the circumstances that surrounded his chance at being in the right place at the right time; finding, and answering that particular ad were peculiar. There was one reason for coming that he was sure about. A motive that had little to do with ability or good fortune.

  Desire—plain and simple.

  *