by Niamh Greene
‘Just temporarily, Dom,’ I correct him. ‘Until Claire gets back from India.’
‘But still! I can’t believe it! What on earth possessed you to do that? You hate the country!’
‘Well, I don’t hate it as such,’ I say.
I’m starting to regret calling Dom, just a little. He thinks this whole country idea is hilarious and it’s making me even more nervous and unsure about it than I already am – something I’d thought was impossible.
‘Maggie, you once told me that if you ever had to live beyond the motorway you’d go bonkers.’
‘I was exaggerating, Dom,’ I reply.
Trust him to remember. I vaguely recall saying something like that over a few after-work drinks and he’s never forgotten it. Not surprising – the man has the memory of an African elephant. He can recall the most mundane of conversations, something his delusional mother likes to think qualifies him for Mensa membership. She even sent him the application form once – she honestly believes he has a gift.
‘Anyway, you’ve moved to Australia,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘What’s the difference?’
‘The difference, dear Maggie, is a whole lot of girls in string bikinis. You’re going to live in the sticks! I just can’t imagine you mucking out ponies or digging up spuds. You’d be useless at that sort of stuff.’
He’s convulsing with mirth at the end of the line and I can’t help feeling a little aggrieved. It won’t be that bad. Besides, I have absolutely no intention of dealing with any animals – that’s part of Claire’s agreement with the landlord, not mine.
‘I’m not that useless,’ I say. ‘I could dig potatoes if I wanted to.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Dom guffaws. ‘I don’t know anyone less suited to country life than you!’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I protest. ‘I can hoe vegetables just as well as anyone else.’
‘When was the last time you hoed a vegetable, Maggie?’ Dom snorts.
The truth is, of course, that I’ve never hoed a vegetable in my life. I’m not even sure if hoeing is the correct term for what you do with vegetables. Is hoeing something to do with weeding? I think so. But I’m not sure – not that I’m going to admit that to Dom.
‘Actually, my dad had a brilliant vegetable patch when I was a kid,’ I say. ‘I spent lots of time helping him out. If you need any hoeing done, I’m your woman.’
This part is true. Dad did have a vegetable patch when I was young. He loved pottering about in our tiny garden fiddling with his bedding plants and talking to the grass. But I never helped him out. Not once. I was usually inside watching MTV or talking to my friends on the phone. I feel a real pang of regret now that I didn’t spend more time with him then – it would have been a lovely way for us to bond. Why didn’t I see that?
As it is, I’ve lied to him and Mum about why I’m leaving the city for a while: I told them I was working on a new property development in the country and they accepted this explanation without question. The guilt is killing me, but I know it’s for the best. I don’t want them worrying about me any more than they have since the split. They seem to be over the shock of me leaving Robert, but Mum still makes sad references to having ‘lost a son’, and Dad has been less than subtle about the old spinster jokes. It’s why I’ve told Theresa the same thing – if I have to listen to her lecture me about being left on the shelf one more time I’ll find a shelf myself and cheerfully jump off it.
‘So, what did you grow?’ Dom’s voice interrupts my rueful thoughts.
‘Sorry?’
‘In this wonderful vegetable patch of yours, what did you grow?’
I try to remember what sorts of things Dad grew. There was a lot of lettuce. Not that I ever ate much of that, of course. Unless food came in a can, smothered in tomato sauce, I wasn’t interested. God, I must have been a pain in the butt – how did Mum and Dad ever put up with my picky ways?
‘Lettuce. I grew lettuce,’ I say confidently. He can’t fault me for that.
‘What else?’
‘Peas,’ I ad lib. ‘And … spring onions.’
I’m almost sure I remember Dad growing spring onions in a row near the lettuces – I can still remember their strong smell.
‘Right …’ He doesn’t sound too convinced. ‘Well, if you change your mind and want to move down here, Maggie, you know I’ll welcome you with open arms. You could rub the suntan lotion into my back – or anywhere else that might take your fancy. I’ve got very sensitive skin, you know …’
‘I’d only cramp your style, stud,’ I joke. ‘Besides, I don’t like the heat. That Australian sun would kill me.’
‘Really?’ Dom is shocked. ‘God, it’s bliss!’ he says. ‘I plan to spend the next few months soaking up the rays, surfing and drinking beer.’
‘And work? Is that in your plan?’
‘Work? Do they actually work here?’ He laughs. ‘I think I’ll concentrate on finding myself for a while. And I’ll let all the hot women find me too!’
Obviously Dom has fallen on his feet, which doesn’t really surprise me. He’s a jammy bugger. He always managed to worm his way out of trouble in the office. I lost count of the times that Dermot caught him on the Internet when he was supposed to be working and he always got away with it.
‘So you’re scoring, then?’ Dom hasn’t got into the specific details yet, which is unusual for him. ‘Had many threesomes, have you?’ I ask.
There’s a pause on the line.
‘Not exactly,’ Dom admits.
‘What? But I thought your cousin Pierce said that threesomes were ten a penny over there.’
‘Yes, well,’ Dom’s voice is strained, ‘myself and Pierce have parted ways.’
‘You have? Why?’
‘He lied about the threesomes, the bastard. He’s never had one in his life.’
‘Not even in the Jacuzzi?’ I giggle. Isn’t that what Pierce had told him?
‘He doesn’t have a Jacuzzi.’
‘No Jacuzzi?’
This is hilarious – maybe Dom isn’t having such a fantastic time, after all.
‘No.’ He sighs. ‘Not even a paddling pool.’
‘I’m sorry, Dom.’
‘That’s OK.’ He brightens. ‘The action is still excellent – I got really badly sunburned the other day and the nurse in the ER was a little ride – I’m meeting her next week.’
‘You had to go to the emergency room with sunburn?’
That sounds serious. Dom is very fair-skinned – which is why he’s addicted to self-tanners. I even caught him brushing bronzer on his chest once.
‘Yeah. That bastard Pierce gave me baby oil – he said it’d give me a real glow. Anyway, I got fried. Still, it was worth it – that nurse who smeared the camomile lotion on me loved my Irish accent. I’m in there!’
‘Dom, you’re a disgrace,’ I tell him. ‘I can’t believe you picked up an on-duty nurse!’
‘The Aussie chicks love my Irish charm, Maggie, what can I tell you?’
‘And I bet you’re laying that on nice and thick, am I right?’
‘As thick as I can to be sure, to be sure!’ he says, in his best Oirish accent. ‘They can’t get enough of it.’
‘I suppose you’ve been using your Gaelic trick, too?’
‘Maggie, I can’t help it if they like me to whisper sweet nothings to them in my native tongue, can I?’
‘Dom, reciting the Our Father in Irish and pretending that what you’re saying is something deep and meaningful is very dishonest.’
Dom likes to pull this stunt on foreign girls. He lets on he’s a fluent Irish speaker and then proceeds to charm them by reciting a few prayers he learned as a boy at school. When they ask what he’s said he claims he’s just told them how they’re the most beautiful girl on the planet.
‘Maggie, Maggie, these women don’t care what it is I’m actually saying, they just love the way I say it. That nurse certainly did.’
‘You’re a tramp,’ I say. ‘Now I
have to go. I’ve just pulled up outside the cottage.’
‘OK, my little country bumpkin. Don’t forget to send me some teabags and crisps when you get a chance, will you? That bastard Pierce robbed the last parcel Mum sent me.’
‘OK, I will.’ Dom loves his mugs of tea and crisps sandwiches.
‘Great – thanks. You take care of yourself and keep in touch.’
The phone goes dead and, with a pang, I realize how much I miss him. Even when, or if, I get another job, it’ll never be as much fun as it was working with Dom. He’s an annoying, sexist, lewd perve, but he’s such a good laugh.
Suddenly I feel very alone. Dom is gone and Claire is too. She flew out to India days ago and is now meditating somewhere halfway round the world, surrounded by like-minded spiritual types. I’ve only spoken to her once since she got there because mobile-phone use is discouraged in the ashram. Apparently having people gabbing on the phone to their friends back in civilization can put the pilgrims off their daily meditations – at least, that’s what Claire has been told.
I for one am suspicious. I can’t help thinking that the ashram leaders or gurus or whatever they’re called might be trying to stop her talking to her friends on the outside for a more sinister reason. What if this place is some sort of cult? What if they’re brainwashing her right now? Persuading her to ‘donate’ her worldly goods and possessions to them? You read about it all the time in the papers – innocent people duped by sophisticated cults. Next thing you know Claire might be calling to say she’s become the fourth wife of some long-bearded freak and is never coming back. My only consolation is that I’ve already Googled this ashram place and from what I can make out it looks above board. There are glowing recommendations on there from pilgrims who’ve travelled across the world to meet this guru person: they seem to have enjoyed the experience and returned to their regular lives afterwards. None of them looks glassy-eyed or intimidated.
Then again, the website could be a scam too. The cult could have a web designer brainwashed and creating the whole thing from some dungeon underground. All the testimonies could be fake. All the happy photos of pilgrims grinning blissfully in their yoga pants could be Photoshopped – you just never know.
Claire has promised to call as often as she can, just to reassure me that she’s safe, but I can’t help worrying all the same. The reality that I’m going to be all alone in a strange place with no one to talk to is hitting me hard now. This was one aspect of the situation I hadn’t thought through fully when I finally agreed to the idea. I’m used to having constant banter in the office with Dermot and Dom and speaking on the phone to clients, even though that had quietened down in the past few months. But I like to be with people. I like talking. Who am I going to talk to in the country? The cows?
Easing my legs out of the car, I take in the cottage before me. I have to admit it looks even better than I remember, pretty and inviting and cosy, and as I walk up the narrow path to the front door, I start to believe that this may have been a good idea. I need some down-time before I throw myself back into trying to find a job. Some time to just think. And, like Claire says, I’m doing her a favour. Now that she’s in India, I can keep an eye on the place for her. And she’s paying the rent – that’s another massive plus because money is tight and it’s only going to get tighter.
I rummage under the mat for the key. It’s there – just as Edward said it would be.
It’s hard to believe that round here they still think it’s safe enough to leave a house key under a mat in broad daylight but, then, what do I know about country life? Maybe everyone leaves their door unlocked at night too. I can’t imagine doing that – I need at least three locks and a chain to feel safe. I’m going to have to ask Edward to install a few extras first thing, although if I remember rightly, this door is so stiff that no burglar would be able to gain easy access.
I scoop up the key, but before I can prepare myself to do battle with the stiff lock, the door swings open before me, creaking gently as it does.
‘Hello?’ I call.
Maybe Edward is here. He knows I’m moving in today – maybe he’s let himself in to give the place a final airing before I arrive. Unlikely, seeing as he’s probably the typical selfish landlord who just wants to make a fast buck with minimum responsibility, but it is possible.
There’s no answer so I try again. ‘Hello?’
‘Who are you?’
A teenage girl stalks into the room, tugging her T-shirt down over her navel. Her face is flushed and her blonde hair tousled, like she’s just been wrestling someone.
‘I might ask you the same question.’ I eye her up and down.
She doesn’t look like your average burglar but, then, I have no idea what an average burglar looks like. Do they wear balaclavas these days? Probably not. Still, she looks far too young and far too flustered to be breaking and entering. She can only be about fifteen at most.
‘My name is Matilda Kirwan and I own this cottage,’ she says, with the confidence of someone twice her age. She pushes her hair back behind her ears and smoothes her T-shirt with the other hand. ‘You’re trespassing. You’d better leave right now, or I’ll have to call Security.’
‘You own this cottage?’ I try not to laugh, but the conceited look on her face is so funny it’s hard not to. She’s lying through her teeth – although I have to hand it to her, she’s pulling it off quite well. If I didn’t know for a fact that her father owns this cottage I’d almost believe her. She is quite obviously Edward’s elder daughter: she’s a larger carbon copy of the obstinate Polly.
‘Yes, I do,’ she pouts, eyeing me viciously, ‘and you are trespassing on private property. Leave immediately before I have to – take action.’
She pulls a mobile phone from her jeans pocket and flips it open, glaring at me defiantly.
‘You’re pretty young to own a cottage, aren’t you?’ I smile.
‘Technically my father owns it,’ she sniffs snootily, narrowing her eyes at me, ‘but it’ll be mine soon enough. So, you’d better get out or I’ll have you … arrested.’
‘I see. Well, Matilda,’ I keep my voice as neutral as I can, ‘I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. I’m here to rent the place. My name is Maggie – your father was expecting me.’
‘Rent? Here?’ The girl’s face falls and suddenly she looks far younger. ‘What do you mean?’
This news has evidently come as a surprise to her. I wonder why her father hasn’t told her what he’s doing. ‘I’m going to live here for a while, until my friend Claire gets back from the ashram anyway, and then she’ll live here …’ It all sounds a bit ridiculous and convoluted when I say it out loud like that.
‘There must be some sort of mistake,’ the girl snaps, but a flicker of confusion in her eyes tells me she’s suddenly doubting herself. ‘This cottage is not for rent.’
I pass a hand across my brow – my head is starting to throb and a wave of exhaustion washes over me. The drive here is beginning to take its toll – all those potholes were hell. ‘Listen, Matilda, I’m sorry if this comes as some sort of … shock to you, but I am moving in. Your father has rented this property. Didn’t he mention it?’
‘There’s been some sort of misunderstanding.’ Matilda’s eyes are cold now. ‘Like I said, the cottage is not for rent. Not now. Not ever. My father wouldn’t agree to something like that unless he discussed it with me first.’
I hear a thud from the bedroom. Someone else is in there – Matilda isn’t alone – which may account for her mussed-up hair and flushed face. Hearing the noise she blinks rapidly, but says nothing.
‘OK. If you don’t believe me,’ I say, ‘I have the contract right here.’
I rummage in my handbag and pull out the lease that Claire signed. Shaking it smooth, I hand it to her.
Matilda scans the document and, seeing her father’s signature at the bottom, gasps aloud.
I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. This isn’t exactly
how I imagined I might settle in here. Obviously darling Matilda and her father have some issues they need to resolve. She apparently had no clue that Rose Cottage was being rented and she certainly isn’t overjoyed about it.
‘Right.’ She flings the lease back at me. ‘Daniel!’ she calls, over her shoulder. ‘Come out, we’re leaving.’
A teenage boy appears from behind the bedroom door, his pockmarked face red with embarrassment. Just as I suspected, Matilda hasn’t been alone. From the look of things she and this boy have been using the cottage as their love nest. It’s sort of sweet, really – puppy love can be very powerful. I wasn’t much older than this girl when I met Robert and I was sure then that he was the one for me. He wasn’t, of course, but it took me years to figure that out. A fresh pang of remorse hits me as I think about poor Robert. I wonder how he’s doing – whether he’s forgiven me for leaving and ruining his life, like he said I had.
‘Let’s go,’ Matilda snaps at the boy. ‘I’m sick of being here – it smells.’
She glares at me again, then marches out through the open front door, the boy shuffling behind her, and I’m left standing in the room, unsure of what to do. It looks like I interrupted a snogging session between Matilda and this skinny boy. I wonder if her mother and father know about her boyfriend? Probably not. Teenagers are very good at hiding things – Edward and his wife probably have no idea what their elder daughter is getting up to, or with whom. Now all I can do is keep out of her way and hope she does the same. It’s not the best start to my stay here but more trouble is the last thing I need.
Sighing, I go back outside to try to haul my bags from the boot. They’re so heavy I’m probably going to have to drag them up the garden path. It’s as I’m trying to decide which way to manoeuvre the first one that I notice the scratches on the side of the car. They aren’t from any tree branches on a country lane, though – they are long and even and very, very deep.
With a shock, I suddenly realize that this was no accident: these scratches have been made deliberately. Someone has just viciously keyed the passenger door, and I think I can guess exactly who it was. It looks like I’ve made my first enemy here and I’ve only just arrived – it may be some sort of world record.
