CHAPTER 21
Back at the car park, Franz seemed reluctant to stop even for a cup of tea.
‘We can if you want,’ he said, ‘but unless you’re hungry it might be better to go on to the next place first, before the light goes.’
‘Okay.’
He walked ahead of her to the car, took out the keys and opened the passenger door for her, forgetting that she had wanted to do the driving. She got in and they drove away from the lough, leaving the hermitage and the waters behind them but taking with them the silence.
She didn’t ask where they were going next. It was restful, in a way, not to know. She would go along with Franz’s timetable, whatever it was, and sooner or later she felt he would stop being tour guide and become himself. In the meantime, the Wicklow mountains and wooded valleys were a beautiful place to feel lost in, with the security of being with someone who clearly knew his way.
‘It’s been used as a film set, a number of times,’ said Franz, when they were standing looking at ‘the next place.’ ‘It’s been the backdrop to all kinds of scenes, from lost-world to olde-worlde – Lancelot and Merlin.’
The waterfall had its own complex rhythms, different streams of it falling at different speeds, shooting to earth or tumbling over rocks or meandering downwards in small trickles. It seemed to create its own atmosphere.
‘The highest waterfall in Ireland,’ Franz told her.
Still being tour guide, Ella thought. Increasingly, during the last hour, the words kept ringing in her mind: what are we waiting for?
They wandered round the waterfall, looking at it from different angles and heights. It was impressive. Franz did not look impressed. His gaze was directed towards the waterfall but he seemed preoccupied with something far beyond his line of vision.
He glanced at his watch then did a double-take, shook his wrist and held the watch up to his ear. ‘Look at the time!’ he said, amazed. ‘Where did all that time go?’
‘It’s magic,’ Ella said, smiling. ‘The leprechauns whisked it away.’
‘Leprechauns! Don’t go Hollywood-Irish on me now!’
‘You mean leprechauns are not real? Go on wit’ ye now, ye’ll be telling me dere’s no Santy Claus next t’ing! How’s my Irish accent?’ Ella asked him.
‘Terrible. Irish mixed with Scots, with a touch of Hindustani.’
‘You’re just jealous,’ she told him, ‘because mine’s more authentic than yours.’
‘Go ‘way wid ye, woman! And dere was I after t’inking of making you me wife!’
She caught her breath. ‘Were you?’
‘Yes.’
They were both suddenly serious.
‘Subject to your decision,’ he said. ‘No pressure.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly, ‘if I believe in marriage. I didn’t know you did?’
‘We don’t have to believe in marriage,’ he said. ‘We just have to believe it would work for us.’
She wanted to ask if he believed it would work for them. As she paused, she saw fear in his eyes and knew he had meant it – subject to your decision. He wanted her to be decisive. Turning the decision back to him would be indecision. And indecision would mean 'no' to him at this time.
‘I believe it would be a good thing for us,’ Ella said firmly.
‘You’re sure? I mean, I know it’s only a piece of paper and an anachronistic way of ….’
‘Ssh!’ said Ella. ‘You’ll upset the hermits who followed us from Glendalough. Now go down on one knee and do it properly, in front of all of them.’
He grinned, dropped promptly to one knee on the rocky ground, and said, ‘Ella Martha Cohen, in the presence of Saint Kevin and all his companions of Glendalough, will you marry me?’
‘You haven’t started right,’ she chided him. ‘It’s "I, Franz Kane, ask you, Ella Martha …" What?’
He had shot upright as though suddenly threatened by something. Ella instinctively looked over her shoulder to see if someone had come up behind her or something had happened out of her line of sight.
‘Nothing,’ he said quickly. ‘Cramp in my leg. Shows I’m too old for this.’
She didn’t want to lose the moment; didn’t understand what she had said to shake him like that.
‘The answer’s yes,’ she said, holding him by both arms. ‘Ella Martha Cohen will marry you, Franz Kane. All right? And can we go and celebrate with a cup of tea and whatever Irish people eat at this time, because I’m starving?’
After driving away and keeping on driving for a while, there didn’t seem to be any cafes in the area.
‘We’re too used to London,’ Franz said, ‘where whatever you want is on every corner.’
Ella switched on the interior car light as Franz drove and turned the map upside down to see which way they were going. ‘We could head for the nearest town, which is … let me see ….’
‘Too far,’ said Franz. ‘We’ll go for one of the villages and see if there’s a shop open.’
‘Well, we’re going to have to go to the town this evening, aren’t we? To find somewhere to eat?’
‘We don’t have time now.’
She looked at him, eloquently not asking.
‘I’ve arranged to go and see someone,’ Franz said reluctantly. ‘You don’t have to come.’
She was silent.
‘I mean, you can come, if you want to,’ Franz said. ‘It’s just, you look tired, so I thought you might prefer to go back to the B&B ….’
‘I’m not tired,’ Ella said untruthfully.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m not tired but if you don’t want me to come with you, tell me.’
He shook his head quickly. ‘No, come.’ A pause. ‘If you don’t mind the lack of explanations,’ he added gruffly.
‘That was the deal, wasn’t it?’ Ella agreed.
‘I’m sorry. I just can’t …’ He left the sentence unfinished.
‘Then I’ll accept what you can,’ Ella said equably. ‘As long as, somewhere along the line, there’s a cup of tea and some kind of food. I don’t know what this Irish country air is doing to me.’
He laughed. ‘It does that to everyone who isn’t used to it.’
He stopped the car by a village green, in front of a row of cottages with a battered tin sign outside one of them. Wind and rain had erased all the writing, leaving faint patterns in the flaked paint and rust patches.
‘Do you want to come in?’ asked Franz.
‘Is this the visit?’
‘No, it’s the shop.’
‘You’re kidding! Where?’
‘The middle cottage. The one with the shop sign.’
Ella got out of the car. ‘What does the sign actually say under all that rust?’ she asked, laughing. ‘You don’t have to be psychic to live here but it helps?’
‘I’m hoping it says Open,’ said Franz. The door opened with a tinny jangling of bells when he pushed it.
A tiny counter enclosed a corner of the small front room, which was stacked from floor to windowsills with an extraordinary variety of goods.
‘Shop!’ Franz called.
A fly died noisily in the silence, spinning around on its back on top of a pile of curly-edged magazines which in turn stood on top of a pile of tins.
Looking around, Ella noted fishing lines, packs of tights, packets of peanuts, balls of string and cards of washing-line pegs hanging from one beam of the ceiling, and on the floor in front of the counter piles of fire kindling, firelighters, toilet rolls, jars of chutney with handwritten labels, and packs of sanitary towels. Big jars of sweets were lined up on shelves behind the counter. There was no one around.
‘Anybody home?’ Franz called.
‘Let’s go,’ Ella muttered. She felt as though they had walked into someone’s private home and were intruding on the silence.
‘I’ll be with you in just a moment!’ a voice called back.
‘No hurry: take your time!’ Franz replied. ‘Look a
t that,’ he said to Ella, pointing at the jars. ‘Lemon sherbets: I haven’t seen those for years. Did you have those as a kid?’
‘We called them sherbet lemons,’ Ella said. ‘Culture difference! I’m sure they tasted the same, though.’
She was assuming now, she realized, that Franz had been brought up – or at least spent part of his childhood – here. He gave her a quick glance but if he noticed her assumption he didn’t comment.
A tiny lady appeared, her face a swathe of wrinkles encasing bright blue eyes like teddy bear button eyes.
‘I was putting the dog out,’ she explained. ‘It’s not time for his evening walk yet, as he well knows, but he wouldn’t wait. He’s getting old, the creature,’ she said pityingly. She must have been eighty herself, Ella imagined. ‘What can I do for yez?’ she asked them.
How sensible, Ella reflected, to have this plural form of ‘you’ here. It saved all the confusion of wondering whether someone was addressing one person or both.
‘What would you like?’ Franz asked Ella.
‘I don’t know!’ She hadn’t so far seen anything in the shop that was edible, except for the sweets and some cans of soup. ‘You don’t sell bread or fruit or …?’
‘We do indeed,’ said the lady, with satisfaction. ‘You’ll be English, are you?’
The single form of ‘you’, Ella noted; the question didn’t seem to include Franz.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We were really looking for somewhere to get a cup of tea and something to eat.’
‘Yez’ve been walking? The air makes you hungry, isn't that it?’
Ella smiled. ‘It certainly does!’
‘Now, if you’re English you must try barm brack,’ the lady said firmly. ‘Mustn’t she?’ she appealed to Franz.
‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘It’s an experience not to be missed!’
Was it genuine, then, that Irish tang in his voice? Or was it something he assumed at will, succeeding so well at blending with his environment that he even sounded Irish to the Irish?
‘What part are you from, yourself?’ the shopkeeper asked him.
Ella held her breath, hoping he would answer honestly and she might learn something.
‘Oh, from all over,’ Franz said. ‘We moved about a lot.’
It was his usual answer. The woman gave him a sharp look, as if finding it unsatisfactory.
‘Where were you born, then?’ she asked, but Franz interrupted with, ‘Whatever else we decide on, we must have some lemon sherbets – okay, Ella? Sorry to ask you to lift down the jar,’ he added charmingly to the shopkeeper.
‘No trouble at all,’ she said, jumping on to a small stool with surprising agility and dumping the jar on the counter. ‘A quarter or a half? Sure, have a half,’ she said winningly. ‘You don’t get half nothing of these big things in a quarter, do you?’
It was a deal and Franz recognized it gracefully. No offence taken at evading her question if he would settle for the half-pound.
‘A half it is,’ he said, smiling. ‘And some brack and a couple of apples. And something to drink.’
‘I can make yez a cup of tea if you’re gasping,’ the woman said. ‘I know when you get the taste for it nothing else will do, and the kettle’s on the range in the back if you want to come through.’
‘Thank you!’ said Ella, astonished at this hospitality.
‘Thank you but we don’t have time,’ Franz said. ‘We’ve an appointment at six o’clock and we’ve still ten miles to go. Do you have any red lemonade?’
‘We do. Right behind you, between the skipping ropes and the soap – d’ye see it?’
‘Fine. Will that be all right for you, Ella?’
‘I’ll try anything once. I never heard of red lemonade.’
‘Is that a fact?’ said the old lady, shaking her head in wonderment. ‘D’ye not have lemonade in England at all?’
‘Only the white one,’ Franz said.
He paid and accepted the change but seemed suddenly reluctant to leave, standing by the door, looking round.
‘Don’t I know you from somewheres?’ the old lady said suddenly.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Thanks very much. Goodbye now.’
‘Take care on the roads,’ she said. Her eyes were still scanning his face quizzically. Franz turned away and pulled open the door.
He was silent as they drove away, leaving Ella to open the paper bag and discover that brack was a kind of teabread made with dried fruit, and the apples were tiny russets, for whose small size the old lady had compensated by giving them six instead of the four that Franz had requested.
‘She thought she knew you,’ Ella commented, when she had decided she didn’t like red lemonade but had torn off large chunks of barm brack, eating some ravenously and feeding morsels to Franz as he drove.
He swallowed a mouthful too quickly and choked. She patted him between the shoulders. The car swerved slightly across the narrow road. Franz righted it quickly. When he recovered, he said, ‘A lot of people think they know me.’
The Healing Place Page 21
