A Letter From America

by Geraldine O'Neill

  Her mother stared at her for a few moments, as if she hadn’t quite comprehended the simple question. Fiona felt the same little note of alarm she had felt last night when she discovered her smoking.

  “Not too bad,” her mother eventually said, “but I can’t really remember. I’m sure I took one of the sleeping tablets, so I should have.” A small frown came between her eyes, and she turned slowly to look at the bedside cabinet. “It’s not on there, so I must have taken it.”

  “Do you think you might try to get up this morning?”

  Again Fiona noticed the vacant look.

  “I’ll see...I’ll see how I feel after this.”

  Fiona went downstairs and topped the fire up. Then she went back upstairs to wash her dusty hands and tidy herself for going to work. She gave her jeans and sweater a good brush-down to make sure there were no lingering specks of dust or ashes, then, checking her watch, she quickly put on some mascara and lipstick – which she normally never did in the mornings.

  As she closed the front door behind her and started walking down to the shop, Fiona thought that her mother should be showing some signs of getting better at this point. She wondered if she really was still unwell, or whether she had got used to being lethargic and found anything too much effort.

  Then, a few heavy splashes of rain hit her and the fear of getting her sweater and jeans wet made her run down the hill towards the shop. As the shop doorway came into view and she saw a tall male figure coming towards her wearing a hooded jacket, she slowed down to a fast walk. She didn’t want to meet anyone red-faced and breathless. Then her heart rate moved up again when the man stopped and took the hood down and she realised it was Michael O’Sullivan.

  He came to a standstill at the shop door just a few seconds before her. “Good morning,” he said, smiling at her. “You look like a woman in a hurry.”

  Her heart was now racing faster than it had been when she was running full tilt. “And you,” she said, trying to catch her breath, “look like a man who is in a hurry for his breakfast.”

  “Do I?”

  “I didn’t realise anyone would be up so early, so I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

  “I’m not waiting at all. A cup of coffee will be just fine.”

  She turned to put the key in the shop door. “Have you been out for a walk?” she asked.

  “Yep,” he said, “and I was lucky. I’ve been out for half an hour and it’s just started raining now.”

  She opened the door and he came in behind her. “Did you sleep okay?” she asked. “Was everything all right in the room for you?”

  “Perfect,” he said, “but I woke around seven thirty and thought I would take a little walk out to see Tullamore in the daylight.”

  She closed the shop door behind them and they stood at the bottom of the staircase, between the shop and the bar. “I imagine the town was quiet enough. Not much happens until after ten o’clock.”

  “It was nice,” he said. “I walked right down through the town, past...” he paused, trying to remember, “was it The Bridge House?”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding.

  “Then I carried on until I reached the canal.” He smiled. “I took a walk down the towpath. Not too far, but enough to see that it’s really beautiful around there and very peaceful.”

  “It is. We often go for a walk there or out to Charleville Castle. That’s another place you should see if you get time. It was built in the late 1700’s – if I remember correctly from our history classes in school.”

  “Really? That is old. I’d love to see it.”

  Fiona had feared there might be an awkwardness between them this morning, that they would go back to the beginning again when they had just met as if last night had not taken place. But the two of them seemed to just pick things up exactly where they had left it.

  She lifted the end part of the counter and went in behind. “The kitchen is through here,” she told him, “just behind the bar.” She looked up at the clock which hung above the till. “Breakfast should be ready in about half an hour, and I’ll bring it through to the snug. The other men will probably be down soon so I’d better move and get started.”

  “Could I help you?” he asked. “I’m not in any rush for breakfast – I can wait until the other guys are finished.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Oh, no, I couldn’t ask you – you’re a paying guest after all.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I’d like to think we’re friends now, and friends help each other.” He shrugged and grinned at her. “I don’t mind setting tables or anything like that. My mother has me pretty well trained.”

  Why not? She thought. The idea of the two of them in the kitchen together sounded wonderful to her. She had imagined chatting to him when she brought his breakfast to the table in the snug, politely enquiring about his travel plans while he was in Ireland. But Michael O’Sullivan was asking if he could actually help her, and this was much better than anything she could have imagined.

  She knew it was odd to have him in the kitchen as they only ever had family or staff there, but who else would know? It wasn’t as if her mother or Mrs Mooney was around. The other men who were staying were strangers to the town, so they wouldn’t know who he was and neither, she thought, would they care.

  “Okay,” she said, “if you don’t mind you can help me set the tables and then you can make us both a cup of coffee.” She smiled at him. “I take it that’s why you’re offering? To hurry me up with the coffee?”

  “Darn,” he said, grinning at her. “You’ve got me right there.”

  “Well, don’t get too excited,” she told him, opening the door into the kitchen now, and holding it open for him. “It’s not the kind of coffee you’ll be used to in America – it’s only instant tinned coffee or bottled coffee.”

  “As long as it is some form of coffee it will be just fine.” He followed behind, taking his coat off. “Don’t forget I’ve been in Ireland before, so I know exactly what the coffee is like.”

  “Okay,” she said, filling the electric kettle, “I’ll get this boiling and then you can make yourself a big mug of it.”

  “What will I do first?” he asked.

  She showed him where the loaf of brown bread was and gave him three white side-plates. Then she asked him to cut six slices and put two on each of the plates. She told him where the cutlery and the blue paper napkins were, and asked him to set three places at different tables in the snug. While he did so, she went over to the fridge and got the sausages and black and white pudding into a frying pan to make a start.

  By the time he came back, she was busy separating rashers of bacon to cook in a second pan.

  “You look very efficient,” he told her. “You seem to have everything under control.”

  “It’s not a very big kitchen,” she said, “but then it doesn’t get that much use. It’s just really for the breakfasts and for us making cups of tea during the day.” She put six rashers in the pan and left them to start cooking on a medium heat while she sliced up mushrooms.

  He lifted two mugs down from the shelf. “Is coffee really okay for you? I know most Irish people prefer tea.”

  “I like coffee too,” she said, bending down to the cupboard by the oven to get a small pan, “but I’m going to have mine made with half milk and a spoonful of sugar. How are you having yours?”

  “Black,” he said, “and as strong as I can get it.”

  “Well, I hope what we have bears some resemblance to what you’re used to,” she said, in a light tone. She put the milk on to boil on one of the rings, and then went to the fridge to get the eggs.

  He moved the mugs over to the boiling kettle and filled one to the top and the other almost half full. Then he turned back to the cooker to check if the milk was boiling yet, just as Fiona came back to turn the bacon. They both laughed as they almost collided.

  “I told you it was a small kitchen,” she said, weaving her way around him.


  His face suddenly grew serious. “Am I getting in your way? I didn’t think. Maybe I’m holding things up here talking?”

  “No,” she said, “you’re not...I would tell you.”

  She turned to glance at him and their eyes locked and held for a few seconds. Then he smiled at her and she smiled back. She thought he was going to say something but, when he just kept looking at her and smiling, she felt silly and embarrassed. She turned back to the cooker, but she was just a few seconds too late as the milk came bubbling up to the edge of the pan. Like a small, foaming white waterfall, it flowed down the sides and onto the top of the cooker.

  “Oh, damn!” she said, lifting it up and turning off the heat.

  “I’ll take that,” he said, taking it out of her hand, “and let you get on with the cooking.”

  She felt suddenly self-conscious now as she lifted the spatula and began turning the bacon, and she realised that she had just caught it before it started to burn. She turned the heat down low, and told herself to concentrate as she turned each piece over. She moved the shrunken rashers closer to the cooler edge of the pan, put another lump of lard in the middle and added the mushrooms.

  She then bent down to open the oven and check how the other things were doing. Thankfully, they were fine, and after turning them over she closed the door and gave a little sigh. The commercial travellers’ breakfasts were almost ready. She only had the eggs to fry and she would wait until they came down to do that.

  When she turned around he was holding a mug out towards her. “Milk and one sugar, just as you ordered, ma’am!”

  She laughed now and took it from him. She took a sip. “It’s lovely.”

  “I’m glad,” he said, in a low voice, “Because you are lovely too. Very lovely.”

  She looked at him, shaking her head and smiling, and then she saw his face was serious.

  “I mean it,” he said. “I like you very much, Fiona. I like everything about you that I’ve seen so far.”

  She did not know what to say, because the way he looked made her think that he was going to kiss her, but yet he was making no move to do so. He was just still standing opposite, holding his coffee mug and looking at her.

  She thought she should make some light-hearted remark to show that she didn’t think he was really serious. But before she could think of anything, footsteps sounded above their head and then could be heard on the stairs.

  “That’s the men,” she said. “I better get moving.” She took another sip of her coffee and, as she moved towards the boiling kettle, she felt her legs were shaking.

  She made the tea and took it out to the men, along with the butter which she had forgotten to ask him to put at each place. The thought of making more silly mistakes focussed her concentration. She pushed all thoughts of him out of her head, and went back to finish cooking the men’s breakfasts to the usual high standard that they expected.

  When the businessmen were happily settled with full plates and pots of tea, she went back into the kitchen.

  “I warmed your coffee up in the pan,” he said, going over to get it. “And I think you need to stop and drink it.”

  “Thank you,” she said, pushing her hair back from her forehead, “but straight after that I need to make your breakfast.”

  “I’m not in any rush to leave.” He poured her coffee back into her mug and put it down on the worktop. “Actually, I was thinking...have you a room available for tonight? I mean a room apart from Patrick’s? I wouldn’t want to take his again when it’s not an emergency.”

  She caught her breath. He was going to stay another night. He wasn’t just disappearing. “Yes,” she said, “I think so – I’m sure the men are all leaving this morning, and we only have one booked in for tonight.”

  “Well,” he said, “you now have two men booked in. I think I’d like to spend a little more time in Tullamore – maybe see that castle you mentioned. And I’d like to spend a little more time getting to know you.”

  She looked straight at him. “That’s nice, because I’d like to get to know you better too.”

  He caught her eye and smiled at her, and a feeling of excitement ran through her. She still felt embarrassed, but when he put his coffee mug down on the worktop and came over and put his arms around her, it didn’t feel awkward – it felt right.

  At first, he held her tentatively – as though checking he wasn’t presuming anything – but when she did not move or pull back, his arms tightened around her waist and his breathing deepened. She reached up and put her arms around his neck and then his lips came down on hers. It was like no other kiss she had ever experienced. It awakened something deep inside her which was now slowly spreading to all the little fibres in her body.

  It seemed to last for ages, and then he drew back and gently took her face in his hands. “This is not what I expected to happen, Fiona.”

  She thought again how much she loved the sound of his voice, his American accent.

  “I didn’t come to Ireland to meet someone – to have the feelings that I now have for you. I know it’s all very quick...but something is telling me that this is meant to happen.”

  As she looked up at him, she felt such a wave of emotion that she almost felt like crying. “I feel the same. I never imagined something like this happening to me.” She smiled, almost laughed. “Especially not here – not at home. Not where I work and everything.”

  “I never thought I could feel so close a connection with someone from such a different world. I couldn’t sleep for thinking about you last night. I lay awake for hours trying to figure this thing out.” He stroked her hair. “And the only conclusion I can come to is that we should make the most of the time we have now – getting to know each other and then see what happens.”

  She heard a chair scraping on the stone floor in the snug which meant that one of the men had finished his breakfast. She did not move. She did not care. He pulled her close and kissed her again and she felt the same physical intensity that she had felt earlier. It became stronger when she felt his tongue in her mouth, and made her wish they were in the privacy of a bedroom where she could let the feelings just carry her off. She had heard and read about this sort of physical passion – the feelings that were racing through her – and she now knew exactly what it was. She now understood why it made women take all kinds of risks.

  The bell on the shop door loudly sounded and, as footsteps came through the shop towards the kitchen, they moved apart.

  Patrick walked in, carrying a large brown envelope. He looked from one to the other.

  “Good morning,” Michael said.

  Patrick nodded to him and said good morning, a slightly surprised look on his face. He turned to Fiona. “I thought you might need a hand...”

  “That’s good of you, but I’ve already served the breakfasts to the men.” She felt her face hot and red. She wondered if he had guessed there was something going on between them. “I was just going to make a start on Michael’s now.” She moved across to the cooker. “Have you had anything yourself?”

  “A cup of tea and a bit of bread,” he said.

  She looked at the clock. “Well, if you keep an eye for anyone coming into the shop, I’ll cook the three of us something now.”

  Patrick clapped his hands together. “Sounds good to me.” He handed the brown envelope to Michael. “That’s the book I was telling you about, the one that gives you a bit about the history of Tullamore and Offaly.”

  “You remembered?” Michael said. “It was so late I thought neither of us would remember.”

  “Truth be told,” Patrick said, “I remember saying I would bring the book down to let you have a look at it – but I’ve actually no idea what I was going to show you in it!”

  Michael started laughing. “Well, that makes two of us.” He slid the book out of the envelope.

  “If you two want to go into the snug,” Fiona said, “I’ll bring a pot of tea in to you while you’re waiting for the breakfast.” She looked
at Michael and in mock exasperation said, “Do you Yanks drink tea at all – or will I have to make you a coffee?”

  She caught the amusement in his eyes. “Tea would be just lovely,” he said.

  Fiona busied herself with cooking again, although eating was the last thing on her mind. From what she could remember, he had planned to set off to Clifden today, but surely, she thought, he wouldn’t have kissed her and said what he did, knowing that he was going to be gone in a few hours? But some men were like that. Even though she had never been let down by a boyfriend herself, she wasn’t stupid or naïve enough to think that it couldn’t happen to her. She had heard her friends talking about boys they liked, or were actually courting, blowing hot and cold. And there was even more chance of it happening to her, because the fact was, Michael O’Sullivan was an American on holiday. It was temporary. It was something that could never develop into a real romance. But yet, something would not let her give up hope. Something made her feel that what she would gain from knowing him – even for a short time – would be worth it.

  She would just have to wait and see.

  Chapter 24

  The morning in the shop had been one of the longest that Fiona could remember. Fridays usually went by quickly because they had several delivery vans calling, but everything seemed painfully, irritatingly slow. The baker took ages to unload the bread and cake boards because he was talking to someone he knew outside, and the hardware delivery fellow parked the van and then came into the shop to ask her about the funeral that morning. He stood there, enquiring as to who had attended it, instead of bringing in the brushes and mops and boxes of nails that the shop was low on.

  She found each customer seemed to take an age to say what they wanted, their eyes wandering along the shelves and then down into the cold cabinets as if they had never seen the displays before. Even routine tasks like slicing the joints of cold meat on the machine, or using the wire cheese-cutter seemed more problematic than usual. And everyone just seemed to want to talk, talk, talk, when it was the last thing she felt like doing.