by Tara Heavey
‘Nothing broken. Probably just a sprain.’
‘Just a sprain, is it? That’s easy for you to say. It bloody well hurts. What makes you an expert, anyhow?’
‘I’m not, but my brother gave me a few tips.’
‘I didn’t know you had a brother who’s a doctor.’
‘I don’t. I have a brother who’s a vet.’
‘Oh, well, I’m very flattered to be compared to a heifer.’
He ignored me. ‘Come on. Let’s get you in out of the rain.’ He hoisted me easily up into the air, like a new husband about to carry his bride over the threshold, shoved me inelegantly into the cab of the tractor and jumped in beside me.
‘Now, we’ll have you home in no time.’ He looked over at me as he started up the engine. ‘Jesus, girl, you look like a drowned rat.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
The tractor took off at its top speed of ten miles an hour. At this rate, I might make it home by Christmas. I shivered.
‘Cold? Here. Cover yourself with this.’ Jack handed me a tartan blanket that stank ferociously of sheepdog. Not wanting to appear ungrateful, I draped it delicately across my knees, trying not to visualise the dog hairs and possibly even fleas that were transferring themselves to their new home – my clothes.
Despite my somewhat harsh words, I was weak with gratitude. What would I have done if he hadn’t come along? I glanced slyly across at him when I thought he wasn’t looking. I was wrong. He was looking. He smiled easily and openly at me.
‘You all right?’
I nodded. ‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it. Maybe you can do the same for me someday.’
What? Save him in my tractor? I doubted it.
The sudden downpour had ended as abruptly as it had started. In typical perverse Irish-weather fashion, the sun had come out again. An almost perfect rainbow, in all its vivid glory, straddled the countryside before us. Everything looked beautiful after the rain – like a woman’s eyes after crying: washed clean.
Jack looked good after the rain, too. I wished the wet look suited me that well.
‘The view is pretty good from up here.’ I meant it. I could see far more than I’d ever seen in my car or on foot. I could practically see right into people’s bedroom windows, for a start. Usually, I was only able to nose into the first storey of people’s houses.
‘I’m telling you. People underestimate the charms of a tractor.’
‘I’d say it’s a real babe magnet, all right.’
Jack laughed. ‘You’d be surprised. I’m not doing too bad today, anyway, am I?’
He gave me a bird’s-eye tour of the countryside. To the right, a field of lazy beds – rows and rows of ridges, used for growing potatoes at the time of the Famine. To the left, the recording studio of a reclusive rock star. (Really? Rich, famous people chose to live here?) Up ahead, the gate lodge of the estate of the Master of the Hunt. I craned my neck, as instructed by Jack, to make out a herd of deer. ‘And see those horses over there? See that little brown one with the bandy legs? A two-time Derby winner.’ He was munching happily on a clump of grass, bathed in golden autumn sunshine. I never would have guessed. I searched for signs of security precautions, but there were none.
We reached Power’s Cottage, and I wondered how on earth I was going to get down off the tractor. Without saying anything to me, as if he were a fireman and I needed rescuing from a burning building, Jack placed his left arm under my right armpit and his right arm beneath my knees, and swung me out of the tractor and onto the ground. I winced as my injured foot made contact with the earth.
‘Keep your weight off it.’
He hauled me into the house and deposited me outside the bedroom door.
‘You’d better get out of those wet clothes. Let me know if you need any help.’
‘I’ll be all right.’ I closed the door, hobbled over to the bed and sat down heavily. I could hear noises coming from the kitchen: Jack filling up the kettle, Jack cleaning out the fire. I glanced at myself in the dressing-table mirror. My cheeks were flushed and my eyes were unnaturally bright. I must be getting some sort of fever.
I emerged ten minutes later, hair roughly blow-dried, dressed in pyjamas, a towelling robe and bed-socks. Oddly enough, I wasn’t embarrassed by my appearance. Flames were already leaping out of the hearth.
‘Here. Sit yourself down.’ Jack guided me over to the couch, where I sat as instructed. He handed me a mug of tea. ‘Do you mind if I go into your bedroom for a second?’
‘No – but ...’
He emerged from the bedroom with my duvet, which he proceeded to cover me with, tucking it right up to my chin. All that was left exposed was my face and the hand holding the mug of tea.
‘Now ...’ He looked down at me seriously. ‘Do you think you need a hot-water bottle?’
‘I’m fine, Jack. Couldn’t be cosier.’
He grinned. ‘Never let it be said that Jack Power doesn’t know how to treat a girl.’
Never let it be said, indeed. He was like some hero out of a romantic novel. Were farmers meant to be this smooth?
He was so nice. So funny. So gorgeous.... So what was he doing here with me? I banished the renegade thought immediately, before it had time to take root.
His next good deed was to bandage my ankle. He took a first-aid kit – which I hadn’t even known existed – from under the kitchen sink, and wrapped my foot up like a mummy. I was relieved I’d happened to shave my legs in the shower that morning. Pity about the chipped nail-polish, though.
‘You’re to go to the doctor first thing tomorrow. You won’t be able to drive so I’ll take you.’
‘What, in the tractor?’
‘If you’re good, I’ll bring the jeep.’
So Jack Power brought me to the doctor the next morning (‘a slight sprain’. Slight! The man was clearly a quack). Then he collected me from work that evening and took me home. As he was leaving (he had to bring the cows in from the field), he turned and looked at me strangely. I felt awkward in his company for the first time in the two days.
‘Are you doing anything this Saturday night?’ he asked.
Tell him.
‘I’m going to Kerry for the weekend.’
‘Oh? Whereabouts?’
Tell him.
‘A hotel close to Sneem.’
‘Oh. Who are you going with?’
Tell him.
‘My boyfriend.’
Told him.
Jack nodded slowly, as if understanding something.
‘Well ... I hope you have a nice time. I’ll see you soon.’
‘See you next week sometime?’
He waved, without looking back at me, and sped off down the hill in the jeep.
Come back!
Chapter Twelve
The chosen location for our anniversary weekend was an elegant country-house hotel on the Ring of Kerry. I made my own way down on Saturday morning, the Audi cautiously hugging the cliff road. The spectacle of the waves rushing at the harsh coastline and flinging themselves against spiky black rocks was so awe-inspiring that I almost ended up in the ocean on two occasions.
It was mid-morning when I swung through the impressive wrought-iron gates of the hotel. I drove slowly, taking in the lush, well-kept vegetation and the ancient native trees. Paul’s car was already parked in front of the hotel. He must have left his flat in Dublin at five in the morning, or some such ungodly hour. He’d probably been for a swim, had a back rub and played two rounds of golf already. All I wanted to do was sit in one of the plush reception rooms with a coffee and a smoke and read the papers. Hotels with activities were wasted on me.
I opened the door of room 101 with the key they had given me at reception – a proper key, not one of those stupid cards that never work. The room was everything I had hoped for and then some. A four-poster bed! I’d never slept in a four-poster before, but I’d always wanted to, ever since I’d read ‘T
he Princess and the Pea’ at the age of six. I sat on the edge of the bed, giggling as I bounced up and down and took in my surroundings. The décor was wine and gold, rich and royal. Original paintings of the Kerry countryside adorned the walls and each piece of furniture was an obvious antique – not that I knew much about these things, but I knew quality when I saw it; not a stick of over-varnished MDF in sight. There was even a writing desk. I kicked off my shoes, padded over and started fiddling around with all the little compartments. Hotel pencils and sheets of writing paper had been laid on. Maybe I’d even start writing that novel I was always thinking about – but later. There was still the bathroom to explore.
I turned on the light to reveal a pristine black-and-white bathroom, striking in its contrasting modernity. There was a bath with all the jacuzzi trimmings (I could be a floozy in the jacuzzi) and a shower that would comfortably fit two people (at least). But these details barely registered: I was magnetically drawn to the freebies adorning the sink. I noted with excitement the Crabtree & Evelyn shampoo, conditioner and body lotion. And then there were the shower caps, and soaps in fancy flowery boxes. Lovely. I looked around, wide-eyed, to see what else I could steal when I was leaving. There was a fluffy white bathrobe hanging on the back of the door.... No. I’d never have the nerve. I’d be glancing nervously in my rear-view mirror all the way back to Ballyknock, expecting a squad car to pull me over at any second: ‘Where do you think you’re going with that bathrobe?’ I had always been a good, law-abiding citizen. I’d love to claim that this was for moral reasons, but actually I was just terrified of being caught.
I selected a soap, a shower cap and two body lotions and was about to transfer them to my bag when I was interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the lock. Guiltily, I threw the contraband behind me into the bathroom, where it landed with a clatter in the sink. I posed casually in the doorway, leaning my left hand against the frame, my right hand on my hip. It was Paul. I loved the way his face broke into a genuine happy smile the second he saw me.
‘You’re here!’ He kissed me warmly.
‘You’re in a good mood.’
‘I’m just pleased to see you. When did you get here?’
‘About half an hour ago.’ More like ten minutes – but who was counting?
He looked at his watch. ‘What time did you leave?’
‘About seven.’ It had been more like eight. I’d had to wrench myself from my cherished Saturday-morning lie-in.
‘Really? The traffic must have been awful.’
‘Oh, it was. Terrible. I got stuck behind a tractor coming out of Ballyknock, and there was a bad pile-up just outside Cork, and, would you believe, there were loose horses on the road in Clonmel....’ I trailed off as it became obvious that Paul was no longer listening to my excuses (just as well, too). He was hunkered down beside his sports bag, pulling out clean clothes.
‘Were you swimming?’
‘Yeah. I did about fifty lengths. The pool’s fantastic. Maybe you’ll come down with me tomorrow morning?’
‘Yeah, maybe. Do you fancy an early lunch? I’m starved.’
‘Sure. Just give me a few minutes to shower and change.’
I looked on appreciatively as Paul whipped his T-shirt over his head and stepped out of his shorts. Mmm ... I’d almost forgotten about his footballer’s legs. I stood in the doorway of the bathroom, watching him prepare for his shower.
‘What happened here?’ He was picking the body lotions out of the sink and lining them up properly again, as nature intended.
‘I don’t know. They must have fallen.’
As Paul turned on the jet of water and stepped into the shower, I was struck by a brilliant idea. Mentally hugging myself with excitement, I went back into the bedroom and rapidly stripped off, throwing my clothes onto the bed or wherever else was convenient. I tiptoed back into the bathroom, loosening my hair as I went, and drew back the door of the shower, startling Paul.
‘What are you doing? I’m having a shower.’
‘I just thought you might need your back scrubbed.’ I smiled up at him in what I hoped was a suggestive fashion, and felt vaguely foolish.
Stepping into the shower, I closed the screen behind me. Paul looked at me, his brow furrowed, uncertainty clouding his eyes. I ignored this and looped my arms loosely about his neck, pressing my breasts against his chest. This, at least, had the desired effect.
‘Let me wash your hair,’ I said.
‘What do you want to do that for?’
‘I just want to. Let me wash your hair this once, Paul. Please.’
I had recently read in a well-known women’s magazine that washing your partner’s hair (even if he didn’t have all that much of it) was a sure-fire way of establishing intimacy. I squirted a blob of Paul’s medicated, masculine-smelling shampoo into my hand and began to spread it over his head. I rubbed it in, using each and every finger to massage his scalp, until it looked like he was wearing a white foam wig. I removed the shower nozzle and started to rinse. As I did so, I accidentally dislodged Paul’s shaving kit from the shelf; unfortunately, it landed slap bang on his big toe.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ He hopped onto his other leg.
‘Sorry.’
But the fun didn’t end there. As he hopped, a soapy rivulet ran straight into his eye.
‘Oh, Jesus!’ He rubbed frantically at it.
Without saying another word, I replaced the shower-head and got out. I grabbed the nearest towel and exited the bathroom, leaving a trail of soapy footprints behind me.
An all-too-familiar phrase played once again in my mind.
Why do I even bother?
Lunch was a frosty affair – and I’m not talking about the ice-cream pie for dessert. I was in a bad mood because I felt I’d made a fool of myself. Paul was in a bad mood because I’d failed to apologise for injuring his toe/injuring his eye/ruining his shower. He could go fuck himself if he thought I was going to say sorry to him.
I think he sensed this; he was the first to thaw out.
‘The food’s lovely here, isn’t it?’
I shrugged.
‘Better than that over-priced restaurant for posers that Chris made us go to.’
He was trying to catch my eye, but I deliberately wouldn’t let him. I was in a sulk.
‘Will we go for a walk after lunch – explore the grounds?’
‘You can do what you want. I’m going to stay here and read my book.’
We ate in silence for a couple of minutes. Then Paul said, ‘I got you an anniversary present.’
‘What is it?’ Damn!
A smug smile played about his lips. ‘Will I go and get it?’
‘Do what you like.’ I knew I was being ridiculously petulant, but I didn’t seem able to stop myself.
He went out to his car and returned a minute later, carrying a large oblong box wrapped in silver paper and decorated with a bright-red bow. At first I thought it might be a dozen roses, but when he placed it in my arms I realised it was too heavy for that. A sawn-off shotgun, perhaps? A stick to beat the lovely lady with?
With that familiar Christmas-morning feeling, I ripped open the silver paper. I saw Paul wince; he hated the way I wasted wrapping paper. You could never use a piece again after I’d got my hands on it.
I finished unwrapping and stared down at the box in my lap.
‘What is it?’ I already knew the answer. I just didn’t believe it.
‘It’s that steering-wheel lock your father mentioned last week. It’s an amazing gadget. Look, I’ll show you what it can do.’ He removed it from my lap and started playing around with it, like a total fucking anorak.
My vision blurred, and for one crazy moment I thought I was going to cry. Don’t be ridiculous, Lainey. It’s not as if that innocent steering-wheel lock is a symbol of everything that’s wrong with your relationship.... I realised that Paul had stopped enthusing about the thing and was addressing me again.
‘Don’t you like it?’<
br />
‘I love it, Paul. It’s so romantic. I got you those cufflinks you wanted. They’re in the car. I’ll get them for you later. Right now, I’m going for a walk.’
‘I thought you were going to stay and read.’
‘There’s been a change of plan.’
‘Give me a second and I’ll come with you.’
‘I’d prefer to go on my own.’ I walked out of the restaurant without looking back. There must have been something about my manner that prevented Paul from following me.
A fucking steering-wheel lock. Was I going out with my father or what?
I needed time to think.
I felt a lot better after spending a few hours on my own. The hotel grounds would have soothed the most troubled of hearts.
I met up with Paul for dinner, which was a much jollier affair than lunch. We were entertained during our meal by a pianist, who – in between beautifully played classical pieces – told the most outrageously filthy and funny jokes. The wine flowed even more beautifully than the music, and by the time we were onto our coffees I was in great form.
I had begun to talk seriously about accompanying the pianist with my superb singing voice when Paul decided it was time to go to bed. He pushed me along the corridor to our room, his hand firmly on the small of my back, guiding me when I started to veer off course. He shushed me now and then, when the strains of my marvellous rendition of ‘My Way’ threatened to disturb the inhabitants of the other rooms.
In room 101, I flopped down on the bed and watched the ceiling spin. I heard Paul locking the door behind us and shielded my eyes when he turned on the bedside lamp. I felt him lie down on the bed beside me. Even though my hand was still covering my eyes, I could tell he was looking at me. I felt hot breath on my neck. Gentle fingers stroked the skin of my clavicle rhythmically. I gave myself over to the sensation, stretching my supine body luxuriantly on the bed. The fingers travelled further down, tracing the outlines of my breasts and following my curves from ribcage to waist to hips. Hot, insistent lips pressed down on my mouth. I kissed them back gently, aware of the fingers starting to unbutton my top. I lay almost rigid, a knot of anticipation tightening in my stomach.
