‘What’s the problem there?’ the other man asks.
‘The problem is,’ I huff at him, ‘I don’t do buses.’
He shrugs his shoulders at me. ‘You walk?’
‘Famous for hospitality my ass,’ I mumble to myself as I drag my carryall to the sliding doors and squint through the rain, which is coming down now in sideways sheets. A hard wind billows under my coat as I step off the sidewalk. I tuck my head to my chin, pull the coat tight, and scurry to the last in a row of buses marked ‘Dúlainn/Doolin’. The double door whooshes open, and I grimace at the narrow steps. They seem to jut out at me with menacing intent.
‘Need a hand there, missus?’ The driver hops out into the rain, his hand outstretched to me. I look down the horrible, bullet length of the bus, then back at the terminal. ‘C’mon so.’ The driver shakes his hand at me. I take it and collapse into the jump seat, my breath rasping in little hiccups of panic.
It’s alright, I’m alright.
I wring my hands, then sit on them.
I should have gotten that cup of coffee. Or stayed home. No, I can do this. Deep breaths.
My heart ratchets to an unbearable pace. I shoot out of the seat, and fumble at the door.
‘Just about to head, if you could sit down, missus,’ the driver says to me, and I retreat back into the aisle. The bus is part way full with pensioners in rubber boots and woolly jumpers. A few students in bold colored anoraks nod into their headphones. They peer at me with mild curiosity.
‘First time in Ireland?’ the driver asks, smiling at me in the rear-view mirror.
Oh, for God’s sake--
‘Yes,’ I say, fidgeting with the lapel of my shirt. ‘There’s a ferry in Doolin, right? To Inishmore?’
‘There is. It leaves round three--you’ve plenty of time.’ He swerves onto the road and punches the gas. My stomach heaves. I latch onto the seat in front of me.
This guy’s a lunatic!
We skirt the stone fences along a roadway, listing and jolting in and out of potholes. At the crest of a hill, the countryside opens out into a dizzying spectrum of green--deep emeralds, dusky olives, and here and there a radiant chartreuse. In the far distance, a cloudy sea hems the shoreline, offsetting the grassy light with, what looks from here, a watery sky. The whole island might be floating.
It occurs to me that I should be afraid--we’re going way too fast, and every on-coming car looks like it’s going to drive right down the aisle--but all I feel is sick. We slide to a stop on the slip road outside of Ennis. A string of cattle hoof it past. The driver jams into third, then coasts back down to second when a baler crawls onto the road in front of us. Two sheepdogs ride alongside the old farmer in the cab, tongues out and tails wagging.
‘You hear about the magic tractor?’ the driver asks me.
‘The what?’ I say a couple of octaves too high.
‘Magic tractor.’
‘No.’
‘It was going down the road and turned into a field!’ He slaps at his knee.
Good one.
Finally, the bus winds down Fisher Street to Doolin pier. I clamber off, my face a dull shade of green. A cluster of German backpackers, day-trippers, and farmers, all of them sporting woolly caps, queue on the dock of a small white ferry.
‘Is there a bigger one?’ I ask the woman behind the ticket counter.
‘This is the big one.’
‘Oh. Good.’ I smile weakly, pocketing my ticket, and follow the line onboard. My eyes skim uneasily over the deck of the ferry.
A loudspeaker crackles to life overhead: ‘A dhaoine uaisle, fáilte ar bord. This is your captain speaking. We’ll be underway shortly.’
I dig my phone out of my purse and try to check my emails (Kate may have heard if our bid on the office won out), but the coverage is dodgy. I huff and sink down on a bench, crossing and then recrossing my legs. The wind is up. I hug my arms to my sides and try to make myself smaller.
A church bell tolls in the village. Three o’clock. I should make the meeting just in time. Five gusty minutes pass, but nothing happens. We should be leaving. I peer up at the pilot house and spy the captain and his mates lounging on the console with mugs of tea. If we don’t push off now, I’ll be late for the meeting! And they’re having tea! I jump to my feet and pace a tight oval along the starboard gunwale. I scramble through my contacts and try to ring Mr. Heaney, but the signal cuts out. Would they start the meeting without me? Could they?
It’s twelve minutes past three. If they don’t cast off in ten minutes, I’m going up there. Six minutes crawl past, and I lose all patience. I trot up the cramped stairwell, my bag slapping each rung behind me, to the pilot house and rap on the door. A boyish skipper opens up.
‘Can I help you?’ he asks. The captain and a couple of old salts stare over his shoulder.
‘Yes. Excuse me,’ I clear my throat. One of the sailors winks at me. ‘Wasn’t the ferry supposed to leave at three?’
‘It was, yeah,’ the captain says.
‘Well, it’s eighteen minutes past! And I have a meeting!’
Something catches my eye at the far end of the pier: a scruffy, dark headed man trailing a Cob pony on a frayed rope. He carries a large brown paper bag under one arm and, as he steps on board, a huddle of farmers tip their hats to him. He nods to them and strides up deck, waving to the skipper and the captain.
‘Thanks for waiting, lads,’ he hollers up to them.
The hair on the back of my neck bristles. Who does this guy think he is?! I look past the skipper to the captain.
‘You held the boat for one person? And… a horse! Are horses even allowed on board?!’
‘Sorry, missus, but--’
‘You’re sorry?’
‘I’m sorry, but if you could go back down to the passenger deck--’
‘Oh, we’re going now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
Jesus, it’s no wonder this country’s tanking.
I make my way down the stairs and scan the crowd for the offending cowboy. He’s going to hear it from me. I stomp over to him, hands on my hips, but he doesn’t look up from, what appears to be, a deep minded conversation with the horse. I tap him on the shoulder and he turns, smiling.
‘I just wanted you to know,’ I stammer, ‘that, because of you, I’m going to be late. To a very important meeting. With my lawyer.’ He’s still smiling at me. ‘And I almost died to get here on time!’
‘Well, I’m very sorry for all that,’ he says, rubbing at the horse’s muzzle.
‘Yeah. Well. You should be.’
A pair of grizzled old lads look on, sniggering and elbowing one another.
‘Careful now, Michael!’ one of the old men hollers. He winks at my carryall. ‘Never trust a woman with such a small mála!’
I sneer at him and turn to make a very dramatic exit.
‘You Yanks,’ the old man chuckles. ‘Mad as a bag of hammers, the lot of ye!’
I spin around to Michael, who’s laughing into his sleeve. ‘What? What did he say?’
‘He’s only messing.’
‘What did you say?!’
‘You YANKS--’ the old lad yells.
‘I’m Irish!’ I holler into the crowd.
‘And I’m Saint Patrick!’ someone hollers back.
Something clenches in my chest that I didn’t know was there. Not Irish? I’m one hundred flipping percent Irish (by birth) and a New Yorker by the grace of God! The boat clears the channel, the wind catching it broadside, and the bow smacks hard into the quartering sea. I brace myself against the gunwale.
‘You alright there?’ Michael asks.
‘Never better.’
‘Come here, I’m sorry for keeping you. If I’d have known, I wouldn’t have let Mrs. O’Connor talk me into that second cup of tea. Or the porter.’ He smiles and tips an imaginary cap to me.
I stick my lip out at him. ‘What, is that an apology?’
He studies me for a fe
w seconds with those deep green eyes of his, and all of a sudden I feel an incredible urge to look away.
‘I’ll do you one better,’ he answers and hands me the pony’s lead. I watch as he climbs the stairs to the pilot house, one fluid step at a time.
He works out. In front of a mirror, I bet. Show off.
His horse, meanwhile, is eating my coat.
‘Shoo!’ I push at its head, and it nips at me.
‘Ladies, gents,’ Michael’s voice crackles over the engine. He clears his throat emphatically. ‘I want to offer my apologies for the delay, in particular to the lovely missus stopping over from New York.’ All eyes lock on me, and for a split second I consider jumping ship. ‘Will you forgive me?’ Michael calls down, arms thrust out to me like an Elizabethan bard.
Yips of laughter peel through the crowd. With horror, I realize just what sort I’m up against--a show boating, make-everything-into-a-joke rube. Even worse, a well meaning rube! My face flushes an unnatural bluish red. Everyone stares at me. Old women titter. Children point, and the horse is slowly, determinedly, gumming at my shoulder.
Michael trundles back down the steps, and the crowd swallows him up.
‘Never mind her, Michael,’ I hear a woman say.
‘I tell ya,’ another adds. ‘Yanks do be all the time in a mad rush.’
‘Now,’ they nod at one another.
Mad rush? Excuse me, I didn’t know that ‘on time’ was an unreasonable request!
Michael sidles over to me. ‘How was that, missus? Have I redeemed myself?’ he asks, eyes bright and smiling.
You just made an ass of me in front of half the island, and you want a thank you?!
‘Piss off,’ I snap at him and throw the pony’s lead at his head.
He smiles all the wider as I stomp to the far side of the transom.
When the ferry eases into port in Kilronan, I’m the first in line on the gangplank. I check and recheck my watch; it’s ten to four, and I haven’t a clue which way to head! The lawyer’s letter had simply said ‘The O’Mahony’s, Mainistir’, as if I should know where that was.
Wonder Boy leads the horse down a cargo plank and hands him over to a ginger headed girl, almost exploding with happiness, on the pier. I groan and hobble down onto the rocky road in my, regrettably, open-toed heels. My head is killing me. I put a hand to my forehead and peer down the road. The village sits in swale above the sea, the row of houses along the quay casting a long, pinky glow on the water. There isn’t a thing in the opposite direction. I throw my head back and set out for the village. There’d be a sign, surely.
I trundle through the street, reading off the names of shop fronts and pubs--not as many O’Somebodys as you’d think. I dodge knots of women, heads together, arms crossed over their chests. They pratter on at such incredible speed. I think for an instant they’re speaking some bizarre patois, not English or Irish but a mishmash of German and Sioux. They give me a little wave as I pass. A man smoking in a doorway flashes the same winking nod the doorman reserves for Kate.
I reach the crossroads and lean on my suitcase handle. Not a sign in sight. I squint down each fork of the Y but, apart from a cow shed and a heap of bales, nothing stands out against the fields.
A jeep pulls up behind me and I scuttle to the verge, yanking my bag up onto the grass. Already, the wheels are stuck solid with muck. The jeep slows to a stop.
‘How ya getting on?’ Michael asks, his arm slung out the window.
‘Fine,’ I snap.
‘Need a lift?’
‘No thank you. I’ll walk.’
‘It’s no bother.’
I look up at the jeep. After the bus ride from hell this morning, no frickin’ way.
‘Yeah, no,’ I say and stomp off in my heels. The cheek of that guy! I reach the bend and stop. Was it left I was going to go?
‘Left’s the pub,’ Michael hollers. ‘Right’s everything else.’
I shoot a hand up in thanks, and turn abruptly to the right. Behind me, the engine revs into gear. I double time it. The jeep creeps up the road behind. Will he ever just go? What does he think?! I’m some sort of princess? I can’t look after myself? Yeah, well, this princess doesn’t need a hero! I jerk the case and the stuck wheel smacks a stone. It jostles open, and my clothes--all of my clothes--spill out into a heap onto the road.
‘Dammit,’ I growl and stoop over the pile of panties and (I realize now) over frilly blouses.
I can hear the jeep creeping up the road behind me and Michael stepping out and waltzing over.
‘Where is it you’re headed?’ he asks as he crouches down beside me and grabs up a mud spattered camisole.
‘That’s none of your business, is it?’ I say and snatch it out of his hands.
‘Not really,’ he smiles and picks up a pair of lacy, high-cut panties. ‘Neither are these.’
‘Give me those!’ I huff.
He pulls back, grinning. ‘Not all business, are ya?’
I grab the panties from him, slam the case shut, and draw up haughtily.
Michael searches my face as if he’s seen me somewhere before and is trying to place where. Okay, he’s hot--like Liam Neeson meets Ryan Gosling hot--but he’s completely full of himself. The whole Mr. Nice Guy bit? Give me a break. I turn to hide the flush in my cheeks and pick my way with rapid little steps down the road.
‘You’re sure you’re alright?’ he calls after me.
‘Fine. I’m fine,’ I say without looking back.
The road bends gradually before me as I stutter step around washouts and greenish clumps of sheep shit. Just a few days of this, I tell myself, and I’ll be back in the realm of sidewalks and subways.
The road bottoms out at the peak of the bend and, set into the lee side of a hillock, is a whitewashed cottage, the thatch low hung over the eaves and the window boxes overspilling with drapes of nasturtium. I catch my breath. Even with the overcast sky, the colors are overwhelming. A garden, thick with onion greens and potato plants, runs the length of a low fence and, beyond that, a small copse of apples and plums. In the nearby field, two donkeys stand blinking at me, ears cocked and noses twitching. A faint peel of smoke rises from the chimney.
This is where my mother grew up. This is what she looked out on when she had her tea and toast. A shiver of impossible recognition courses through me.
I take a deep breath and walk the steps up the yard to the front door. All the deep set windows are flung open to the sea air, and inside I can hear the rattling of teaspoons against china.
‘It’s gone four,’ a woman says, and my stomach knots. That must be Aunt Clare. She sounds so like my mother. ‘Didn’t I tell ye all she wouldn’t come? Go on so, Cathal,’ she says.
A man clears his throat. I brace myself against the porch wall and ring the bell. Everything goes quiet in the house, and then there’s a flurry of movement--scooched plates, a heavy, plodding step. The door swings open and a paunchy man with incredibly bushy eyebrows puts a hand out to me.
‘Julie! My God.’ He squeezes my hand. ‘How was the journey?’ He cranes his neck and makes a ‘who’s telling who now’ face at the woman on the sofa.
‘Let me get that.’ He grabs hold of my bag and shunts it into a corner, then escorts me into the room like an usher at a wedding.
‘I’m Dermot, of course,’ he says. ‘And Clare,’ he nods to the woman, and I extend a hand to her. She doesn’t get up, but takes my hand at the fingertips as if I have something that might be catching. Her eyes hitch on Mum’s necklace, a brooding recognition in her face.
‘Cathal Heaney,’ a baby faced man in a pink shirt says, hand stuck out at the hip.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ I say. ‘The ferry got held up, and then the walk down, and this guy… Anyway, I’m very sorry to have kept you waiting.’
Why am I stammering?!
‘Not at all!’ Dermot booms.
‘That ferry is useless. Never on time!’ Cathal beams at me.
I sit down
beside Clare, who instantly pops up to put on the kettle.
‘Sure this pot’s not gone cold,’ Dermot smiles.
She sits back down and turns just enough to block me from the lawyer’s line of sight.
It’s like that, is it? So much for the happy homecoming.
Cathal squares a stack of papers and sits forward on his chair. ‘Right, that’s everyone present.’ He clears his throat heartily. ‘Being in sound mind, I dictate the present testament by which I bequeath all of my property. To my daughter, Mrs. Clare O’Mahony,’ he nods at Clare, ‘I leave the family home in Kilronan inclusive of contents and adjoining pasturelands.’ Clare purses her lips--the house was hers, of course.
‘To my niece, Ms. Julie Quinn--’
‘Sorry,’ Clare pushes forward on the sofa. ‘Is there not more?’ Cathal scans the page.
‘The house and adjoining lands…’ he says, a thin thread of nerves breaking through his voice. He turns to me. ‘To my niece, Ms. Julie Quinn, I leave St. Enda’s.’
‘What?’ Clare bellows. ‘You’re mistaken, I’m sure! Leave St. Enda’s to this… stranger!’
My blood ices over and I look to Dermot, who’s leaning on the edge of the end table, almost smiling.
‘Sorry, what is St. Enda’s?’ I ask.
Made With Love: I Love You Forever Page 8
