Second Hand Jane

by Michelle Vernal

  There was absolutely no doubt in Jess’s mind that she had to tell Amy’s story now. The book lay open where she had printed her name all those years ago on the coffee table in front of her and she traced her finger over the letters. “Is tomorrow too soon for me to come? If you give me your mobile details, I can text through what time I will be arriving.”

  ***

  As it turned out, the operator for Bus Eireann told her there were only two buses every day to Ballymcguinness: one in the morning and one in the late afternoon. Jess decided to get on the eight a.m. bus and return at five p.m. later that day.

  “You’ll arrive sometime around twelve o’clock, in time for your lunch, so you will,” the operator informed her as she booked a return ticket. “It’s around about a four-hour trip each way, with a few wee stops along the way.”

  She assumed he didn’t mean “wee” stops literally. Nothing was ever precise in Ireland either, she thought with a half-smile, thanking him for his help and hanging up. Next she banged out an email outlining to her boss, Niall, the story idea she wanted to put together in the vague hope of some travel expenses coming her way. Fat chance of that, she thought; the Express’s coffers were tighter than Olivia Newton John’s spandex pants in Grease. Oh, well, the fare wasn’t going to break the bank, she thought, sighing and shutting her laptop. Besides, she’d write Amy’s story for free if it came to it.

  After texting the number Owen had left her to give him her guesstimated arrival time in Ballymcguinness, she decided to give Brianna a call and fill her in on the latest instalment where Amy was concerned.

  ***

  “Oh my God, Jess! I didn’t expect that—I bet you didn’t either. That’s unbelievably awful. Whenever I hear things like that, I want to hold Harry and never let him out of my sight—speaking of whom, he was last seen heading toward my room with a look of intent on his face. I’ve just bought a new nail varnish and he’s determined to get a hold of it. Remember what happened last time I was gassing on the phone?”

  Jess did indeed remember; she didn’t think she would ever forget. Harry had decided to put his mother’s fuchsia colourfast lippy on all his teddies. They’d looked like they belonged in a teddy bear brothel, not a little boy’s bedroom, by the time he had finished. She held the phone away from her ear while Brianna yelled, “Harry, come here please. Mammy needs you.

  “Sorry about that,” she said a few moments later. “I’ve plonked him in front of the telly—his favourite Sponge Bob is on so we won’t hear a peep out of him. Now, then, your girl Amy—I still can’t believe she died like that. I mean, I grew up hearing about what was happening in the North and seeing bits of it on the news while my Mammy and Da tut-tutted over it all but it always seemed like it was happening in another country.”

  “In someone else’s backyard.” Jess echoed Owen’s earlier words.

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s a real tragedy, isn’t it? And I bet Amy’s story is only one of hundreds but it is a story I get the privilege of telling. I’m catching the bus to Ballymcguinness tomorrow morning to meet with Owen.”

  “The bus? Jaysus, you’re game! Why did you not look at catching the Dublin to Belfast Express? The train only takes a couple of hours at the most. You could have got a bus down from there to this Ballymcguinness. Sure, it would have only been a hop, skip, and a jump away.”

  “I didn’t know express was even a word in the Irish language.”

  “Ha-ha! Well, I’ll get the last laugh when you’re clutching your bum as you bounce over every pothole from here to the back of Ballybeyond.”

  Mental note to self, Jess thought: bring a cushion. Her cell-phone announced an incoming text and she quickly glanced at the new message. It was from Owen, asking why she hadn’t booked herself on the Belfast Express. She decided not to mention the text to Brianna, whose tone had grown sombre.

  “Seriously, though, tread lightly, Jess; it’s bound to be emotional for this Owen chap, talking about his sister in-depth with you like that after all these years.”

  “I’m not Nora, Brie. I won’t bulldoze my way in.”

  “Sure, I know you won’t but hey speaking of Nora, I got the weirdest text from her. You know what they’re like to decipher but I think she was on about skydiving. Surely not, though; Nora’s terrified of heights.”

  “Ah yes, but she’s also mad about Ewan. Question is—is she mad enough to throw herself out of a plane for him?”

  Both girls chorused, “No way!”

  ***

  Er, yes way, she thought, shaking her head in disbelief at seven thirty that night. She was scrolling through photos Nora had just sent through to her email as evidence that she, Nora Brennan, had indeed done a skydive. Jess’s eyes widened as she took in the impressive sight of one of her best friends, spread eagled and decked out in some hideous padded suit with goggles on, blonde hair flayed out behind her and mouth forming a perfect terrified O as she launched herself into the great blue yonder. Crikey, Jess thought; she really does have it bad for Ewan.

  Spying a new message from her boss, she opened it and to her surprise read that Niall was so enthused over her story idea he wanted to run it as a full-page article, independent of her column for which, if the figure he had quoted as payment was correct, she was to be generously reimbursed. Her eyes widened further as she carried on reading. The Express would pay her travel costs to Ballymcguinness, too, and any other additional costs she incurred. She felt inordinately pleased that it wasn’t just her that recognised Amy’s story was one that needed to be told; it was just a bummer that she hadn’t booked a first-class seat on the train after all.

  ***

  By ten the following morning, she was not only wishing she had taken heed of Brianna’s warning regarding the bus she was also wishing she had donned a sturdy sports bra instead of the non-underwire one she had worn, opting for comfort. Not only had the bus done a loop inland, passing through all sorts of out-of-the-way towns before finally getting back onto the road that spliced through Drogheda and headed north, but Brianna’s warning regarding the potholes had proved prophetic too. She was fairly sure the bus driver whom she had nicknamed Leery Len—his badge declared his real identity to be one Leonard O’Reilly—was deliberately hitting each and every one of them to see just how much bounce her boobs actually had in them.

  At this rate, they’ll be down to my knees by the time we get to Ballymcguinness, she thought despondently, crossing her arms over her chest before catching Leery Len’s gaze in the rearview mirror. Humph, she huffed; the bloody heating was turned up so high in the bus that it wasn’t as if she could put her jacket back on over her top to cover up—she’d expire before she even got to Ballymcguinness! She fixed Len with her evil eye instead and received a wink for her troubles.

  Turning away in disgust, she gazed out the window. They were officially in Northern Ireland now, although crossing over the border had been a nondescript event since the days of army checkpoints were long gone. Still, she thought as they sailed past rows of Newry’s white stucco identikit houses edged up against the grassy verge of the motorway and Irish flags blowing from their brown tiled roofs in the chilly autumn winds, even from here she could sense the undercurrent. It sent a shiver through her.

  The bus veered inland, winding its way into the green heart of County Down where they passed through the town of Banbridge and then on through the smaller village of Dundrum. Spying the ruins of a castle perched hillside and keeping watch over the villagers, Jess fell a little bit in love. She’d heard of the father complex but she reckoned she had castle complex. There was just something so romantic about them, she thought, sighing wistfully and imagining the grand banquets that it once would have hosted and the gallant men bravely going off to battle as the bus left the village behind. She hoped Ballymcguinness would prove to be just as much of a chocolate box village as Dundrum.

  ***

  Um, first impressions—not overly fabulous, she thought, peering out the window as
the bus topped a hill and headed down toward the little village some twenty minutes and at least one hundred potholes later. The grainy Internet photo she had seen of Ballymcguinness had been a good likeness and, from her vantage point, she could see a narrow, curving street from which a pile of semi-detached houses two streets deep ran off either side. There was a mishmash of power lines dangling over the rooftops, stretching off toward a hill dotted with pylons that lay over to the right-hand side of the village. At the base of the hill stood an austere grey stone church with a tall and wide spire. The location, of which, had been chosen no doubt to keep the villagers in line. It was one of three smattered around the surrounding countryside, she noticed—three churches and not one single castle in sight.

  The bus slowed to a crawl as it headed down the main street of the village, passing by half a dozen off-white pebble dash, two-up two-down houses. Their flowering window boxes added a welcome splash of colour to the overall greyness of the day, Jess thought, spying a grocer’s shop followed by a pretty, pastel yellow painted pub, next door to which was a hairdresser’s called Maura’s Place.

  As they passed by another pub with a decidedly more serious drinker’s-hole look to it than the first one, Jess decided they were now officially on the wrong side of town. This was reinforced when they drove past another cluster of not-so-well maintained pebble dash houses. The bus came to a juddering halt at the end of this metropolis outside a school that looked at odds with the period of the rest of the village. It was a one-level red brick building with the bland building style of the 1980s and was obviously a much newer addition to the town. Outside, a dozen or so children were running around in the yard, screeching and enjoying the fresh air despite the damp chill pervading it.

  “Last stop, Ballymcguinness!” Leery Len called out the obvious as he swung his head round for one last lingering leer.

  Pulling her laptop in its shoulder bag down from the overhead rack, Jess ignored him and glanced down the bus to see that there was only one other passenger left on it. An elderly woman, her spindly frame well rugged up against the cold in a tan wool coat she’d probably held onto since the sixties, was struggling down the aisle with her case. As she peered out from under her headscarf at Jess, she saw the woman had a face like a pushed-in jam tin, as her mother would say.

  Oh, well, hadn’t she always been taught not to judge a book by its cover? She’s probably a real sweetie and if it were my Nan, I’d like to think someone would give her a helping hand. She decided she’d ask her whether she wanted help carrying her bag as Len apparently was not the chivalrous type. She didn’t get a chance to, though, as with all the manners of an old codger on a motorised scooter who thinks he owns the pavement, the elderly woman shoved past her, sending her flying into the seat opposite. She glared back at Jess, who was open-mouthed at finding herself plonked with her legs swinging over the side of the armrest as though to say well, it was your own fault for getting in my way and then her hunched back disappeared from view as she disembarked.

  “Rude old cow!” Jess muttered, struggling to get out of the seat.

  “What was that—do you want a hand, luv?” Len called down the aisle.

  She could well imagine where his hand would inadvertently slip to. “No thank you.”

  It was with a face on her like that of a pushed-in jam tin that she got off the bus, sending up a little prayer that not all the Ballymcguinness locals were tarred with the same brush as the nasty old biddy who was now hobbling off down the street at a surprisingly fast pace. She sent a second prayer up in quick succession as she heard Leery Len mutter something about get a load of the rump on that prize filly that he would not be the driver on her return trip to Dublin.

  “Er, Jessica?”

  She quickly rearranged her features from that of a smacked bum to that of a sensitive writer. The tall man clad in an Aran knit jumper and thick brown corduroy pants that were stuffed into a pair of wellingtons standing over her looked nothing at all how she had pictured the severe sounding Owen Aherne to look. She caught him giving her a quick once-over and was surprised to see his expression change to one of amusement, although she couldn’t understand why.

  In her opinion, she had toned it down for her day in the country, opting for a tight-fitting white top (okay, the top had been a bad move) tucked into an artfully worn pair of jeans. The leather belt with its wide brass buckle had been a recent find in one of her trusty little boutiques—code for her favourite second-hand shops. As had the scarf, which she had tied in a jaunty knot around her neck in what she liked to think was a cowgirl sort of a fashion. Her brown leather ankle boots, although reminiscent of the 80s, were a practical choice because there wasn’t much call for owning a pair of wellies in the city.

  “Er, yes, that’s me. Hello—you must be Owen. It’s nice to meet you.” She decided to repay the favour by giving him the once-over before peering up at him. His hair was dark brown, almost black, with a smattering of grey around the temples and his eyes were a light, almost luminous grey. It was a disarming combination—one that took you unawares, she thought, holding her hand out to him. He looked surprised by the gesture and for a split second as he took it, she thought he was going to raise her hand to his mouth and kiss it but instead he shook it like he meant business.

  Jessica Baré, here you go again, she told herself sternly; one of these days you are going to have to stop behaving as though you have just stepped out of the pages of a romance novel every time you meet a man. At least he didn’t have sweaty palms. That was a good sign, she decided, as he let her hand drop from his firm grasp. She could never trust a man with sweaty palms. It conjured up all sorts of unpleasant connotations. Unaware of her scrutiny, Owen followed the direction in which she had been looking so disgruntled a moment earlier and said somewhat formally, “Welcome to Ballymcguinness. You didn’t just encounter Mad Bridie, did you?”

  “If you mean that bad mannered elderly lady making her way down the street like the Bionic Woman, then, yes, I did. She pushed me over on the bus.”

  Owen omitted a low, throaty laugh. “Ah, pay no heed to her; she’s mad as a hatter, poor old thing. Besides, that’s mild by Bridie’s standards. She once chased Teddy O’Shea the postman down the street with her walking stick. Waving it around like a woman possessed, she was, shouting at him for being a Peeping Tom. All the poor sod had done was to push some letters through her door. So there you go; think yourself lucky she only gave you a bit of a push.”

  She had to raise a smile at the mental picture he had invoked of Bridie and the postman. She was relieved, too, that underneath his bluster, he had a sense of humour.

  “So did you have a good trip up?” he asked, heading across the road to where a battered and mud splattered Land Rover was parked.

  “Let’s just say it was a bit of a bouncy ride,” she replied, deciding not to elaborate further as she clambered up into the passenger seat.

  “The farm’s about a ten-minute ride from here and it will be another bouncy ride, I’m afraid.” Owen jammed the gearstick into first and muttered something under his breath about the old bloody beast as the jeep set off with a judder back through the village. The flash of humour she’d seen a few minutes earlier had disappeared.

  Damn this bloody bra, she thought, feeling her own short-lived good humour dissipate as quickly as Owen’s apparently had as at the juddering of the jeep her boobs began a wobbling all over again.

  Considering the place had been devoid of street life five minutes earlier, it suddenly seemed to have come to life, she noticed, as they drove past an old man sitting on the low wall outside the drinker’s pub she’d spied on her way in to town. He was wearing the requisite tweed jacket and cap and his nose was a bulbous red. As Owen raised his hand in acknowledgement, the old man raised his walking stick in greeting.

  “That’s Ned; he was a great mate of me Da’s in their day. He’s waiting for the pub to open. You can set your watch by him. He’s there perched on that wall every day at
ten forty-five a.m. come rain or shine even though the pub doesn’t open until eleven o’clock.”

  Outside the hairdresser’s, a woman with a plastic cape and a headful of tin foil stood chuffing on a cigarette. She nearly dropped her fag as Owen scowled out at her. “Katie Adams—she’s our local busybody and barmaid at the Primrose Arms up there.” He nodded in the direction of the pretty yellow pub. “And over there, that’s Billy Peterson, the grocer. His wife left him for another woman—took off to Spain with her. I tell you, Katie pulled pints on that one for months on end.”

  Jess glanced over to where a world-weary looking man who was probably only in his early fifties despite his stooped gait was piling oranges into a crate outside the grocery store.

  Two young mums in tight jeans and puffer jackets pushing their prams toward each other had a head-on pushchair collision as Owen drove past, giving them a mock salute.

  It was all very Twilight Zone like, she thought, sneaking a peek at Owen and as though reading her mind he growled, “That’s village life for you. Everybody knows everybody’s business. It’s a bit like living in a goldfish bowl; that’s what Amy struggled with. You mark my words, I’ll be the talk of the town by lunchtime.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have a strange woman sitting in my passenger seat, that’s why.”

  Oh, she realised, suddenly understanding the stupefied looks on everybody’s faces. It obviously was not a common occurrence.

  “Oh well, at least your wife knows what I’m doing here. That’s all that really matters,” she said cheerfully.