Jameson looked back at the house now, calculating. “About ten years, I reckon. We bought it when Thomas was around five, when we realised he was good in water.”
We, Aisling thought . . . there was obviously a wife and a mother around at some point.
Curiosity made her bold. “And the other house you mentioned?”
“New York City. It’s where my folks live.”
“That must be a huge difference,” she said. “So busy compared to here.”
He nodded. “Yeah,” he said solemnly, “it sure is a busy place.”
After a while, Jameson noticed Thomas flagging and cajoled him into taking a break. Then he took over. Effortlessly he moved the oars and the boat glided over the glass-like blue lake. Thomas knelt up at the back of the boat, dragging a piece of rope in the ripples.
Aisling sat back, letting her hand trail in the cool water. Her eyes followed the path of the boat, taking in all the tall trees and foliage as they went along. The layout and colours of each garden were completely different, and yet they all blended naturally where they met around the communal lakeside path.
As they sailed towards Jean’s garden, Aisling felt relieved that there was no one around to see her in the boat. She wasn’t sure why she felt like that, because all they would probably do was wave and good-naturedly call out to them. But Aisling was enjoying the peace and the scenery . . . and the different company of Thomas and his father. And she didn’t want anything to disturb it.
As the boat gently turned back towards the house, she caught herself thinking of her own house back in Ireland. When she and Oliver had first got married she was so proud of it. She had worked alongside him, painting and decorating, sewing and hanging curtains, planting and then tending her garden.
She had repeated the process almost every year since. Every one of the seven long years.
She looked downwards now, into the deep, blue water and concentrated on the ever-widening circles made by the oars. So practised was she at blocking out thoughts of Oliver and home, that she was surprised when she looked up and they were on the last few lengths of the way back to Carroll’s house.
“You, OK?” Jameson asked in a quiet voice.
Aisling looked up and found his eyes gazing straight into hers. “I’m grand,” she said quickly. “I was just day-dreaming . . .” She turned away, blushing to the roots of her hair, and when she stole a glance at him again, he was still staring.
She looked past him now, to the opposite end of the boat, where Thomas was still having fun with the piece of rope. Glad of the diversion, she reached her hand out to tip at Jameson Carroll’s leg to make him look at his son. He turned for a few moments and then looked back at her, smiling. “Moments like this,” he said, “are worth more than gold . . . I just wish they came along more often.”
Aisling nodded shyly and said nothing. There was so little she knew about this American artist – and so much she would like to know. Instead, she looked back into the depths of the water. Life was a lot less complicated down there.
When they reached the house, Thomas carefully stepped out of the boat, and in a gentlemanly fashion reached for Aisling’s hand to guide her to safety. He then made a joke of repeating the gesture to his father, and the three of them laughed.
“I’ll put the boat away,” he told his father. “You – show Ash-leen paintings – downstairs.”
“Woah, now fella,” Jameson said, a frown crossing his features, “another time maybe – Aisling has other things to do.”
Having won most of the battles of the day, Thomas smiled and said, “Okay, Mr Carroll – you big boss!”
Aisling laughed, enjoying the good-natured banter between father and son. “Thank you both for the lovely afternoon,” she said warmly. “I think it’s time for me to head back to Jean’s and see what the plans are for the rest of the day – and let you get on with your work.”
Without saying anything, Jameson Carroll walked with her down the driveway of the white house until it met with the lake path. They halted for a few seconds.
“You’ll come back again, won’t you?” he asked, his eyes searching her face.
Aisling looked back at him. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I’d like that.”
* * *
Later that afternoon when Maggie and Declan were off for a walk with Bruce, Aisling gently probed Jean about Jameson Carroll while they were sitting on the deck together.
“I don’t know too much about him, honey,” she told Aisling. “As you can probably tell already from your own experiences with him, he’s very private. Apart from his art work – of which I know little – his whole life seems to revolve around Thomas.”
“I find that wonderful,” Aisling said. “So many men would run away from the responsibility of a handicapped child. There has to be something special about a man who would dedicate his whole life to looking after his son.”
“You’re so right,” Jean said, “and I think it’s something that a woman appreciates even more than another man.” She cocked her head sideways, looking thoughtful. “You definitely seem to have made an impression on Jameson. I don’t know too many people who’ve been sailing around the lake with him.” Then, a twinkle came in her eye. “I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he asks you down to see his etchings soon.”
“I don’t think so,” Aisling said, her blonde hair swinging from side to side. “Thomas suggested he show me them this morning and –” Then she saw her aunt’s shoulders shaking with laughter. “Oh – very funny! I get it now . . .” She rolled her eyes in amusement. “Going to see his etchings . . .”
“Well, honey,” Jean said, clapping a hand on her shoulder, “I’m over sixty years of age, and I would sure love to see his etchings!”
Aisling laughed heartily. Then for the next few minutes, every time aunt and niece caught each other’s eye, they went off in another fit of laughter.
Eventually Aisling became serious enough to ask. “How old do you think he is?”
Jean shrugged. “I don’t know, honey . . . maybe fortyish. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with men . . .” She looked at Aisling now. “Does he seem much older than Oliver?”
Aisling turned her head away, looking off in the direction of the lake. Oliver. Her throat had suddenly tightened at the mention of him. “Yes,” she said in a slightly hoarse voice. “I suppose he does seem a bit older than . . . Oliver.”
Jean’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Once again she noticed how silent and strained Aisling became when her husband’s name was mentioned.
* * *
The Harper household became a hive of activity that afternoon as preparations for the wedding gathered momentum. Bedrooms were aired and beds changed, and large dishes of salads and cold meats and fish prepared for the guests. The bride – Jean’s daughter, Sandra – was arriving later in the evening with her husband-to-be Simon. They were travelling down from Boston where they lived and worked.
Most of the wedding arrangements had been sorted out months ago. The bridesmaid’s outfits and the beautiful long, white wedding dress now hung in Sandra’s old bedroom in her parents’ house.
“I can’t believe how casual they are about the whole affair,” Maggie commented as she and Aisling went outside to pick flowers for the table. “You’d think it was just an ordinary party the easy way they’re all going on.”
“I think that’s nice,” Aisling said. “It means that people are more relaxed. It would be really uncomfortable for us if they were all worked up, and rushing about all over the place.” She bent down to pick some lovely pink and white flowers, then held them to her nose, breathing in their spicy perfume. “We’re so lucky being here for the wedding. The weather’s beautiful, the house is lovely – and the garden and lake, just out of this world.”
“True,” Maggie said, her face lightening up a bit. “We’re definitely having a nice break away.” She paused. “D’you know, Aisling – I can’t remember the last time I picked flowers. I’m sure it mu
st have been when I was a young girl, picking the poppies and primroses out in the ditches, and bringing them in jamjars in to my mother.”
Aisling smiled. “You don’t have the time for things like that, Mammy, with the shop and everything.”
Maggie looked thoughtful for a moment, then she gave a little sigh and moved on to an orange and creamy flowering rosebush. She carefully snipped a long-stemmed rose and adding it to the pile in the basket. “These roses are full of thorns. I’m sure ours haven’t that many thorns at home.”
“There’s plenty of thorns on the rosebushes in our garden,” Aisling said, “especially the ones around the door.”
Maggie snipped a few more flowers, then she suddenly turned to Aisling. “Do you know that Jean’s not wearing a hat to the wedding?” She took a large thorn off one of the roses. “Did you ever hear the like? Mother of the Bride and not wearing a hat!”
“It’s up to her,” Aisling said, giving a little shrug. “I don’t think things like that matter so much out here. Anyway, she said the hairdresser was going to put some flowers in her hair.”
Maggie gave a deep sigh. “The thing is,” she said looking agitated, “where does that leave me?”
Aisling stared at her mother. “What do you mean?”
“What about my hat?” Maggie said urgently.
“What about your hat?”
“It cost me a fortune from Dublin,” she stated, “and now I’m going to look over-dressed if nobody else bothers to wear one.”
“Mammy,” Aisling said, putting her arm around her mother’s shoulder, “wear your hat if it makes you happy. I bet everybody will tell you how lovely it looks.”
“It’s not always a case of being happy, Aisling,” Maggie told her now. “Sometimes it’s a case of doing the right thing.”
“Well,” Aisling said, looking towards the white house at the other side of the lake, “we spend all of our lives in Ireland worrying about doing the right thing. We’re in America now – where nobody minds what we do. So, for the time being we can do what we really want to do.”
There was a pause.
Maggie plucked yet another thorn from a perfectly formed rose. “I’ll wear the hat so,” she suddenly declared, “and if anyone doesn’t like it – be damned to them!”
Chapter 9
Tullamore, County Offaly
“Right, Peenie,” Charles Kearney said, shrugging off his brown shop overall, “you can take over while I have a bite to eat.” He motioned to the front door of the shop. “It looks as though it could rain. Make sure you bring in the potato sacks and the boxes of carrots if it starts . . .” He suddenly halted, looking at the shocked look on Peenie’s face. The shop assistant wasn’t used to taking orders from Charles.
“My mother says we have to keep things ticking over just the same,” Charles explained.
“Ah . . . yer mother. Sound as a pound, Charles,” Peenie Walshe said, coming round from the back of the counter to have a look out at the weather for himself. He pushed his check cap high up on his head, and gave his thick mop of sandy-coloured hair a good scratch. “An’ tell that oul’ Kelly one to keep a bite of dinner for me when you’re up there.”
Charles looked at him. “You’ll be lucky to get any dinner,” he said, his eyes glinting behind his tortoiseshell spectacle frames. “Mrs Kelly ran you down the stairs the last day for complaining about her gravy.”
“Never mind Mrs Kelly,” Peenie grinned, folding his arms and leaning on the open shop door – a perfect vantage point to view anyone moving up or down the street. “Just run up them stairs and tell her to make sure the potatoes are nice and floury for me. Tell her you’re the boss since yer mother went off – winging her way to Ameri-cay – an’ what you say goes.”
Charles shook his head and gave a lopsided smile. “You’re some boyo, Peenie . . . I wouldn’t like to be you if Mrs Kelly heard what you were saying.”
Peenie laughed heartily, dragging in a sack of spuds now that the rain was starting. “Mrs Kelly’s nothin’ but an oul’ crow,” he said, “an’ it gives me the greatest of pleasure to torment her.”
“Don’t think,” Charles said, “that you’re going to be taking advantage, just because my mother and father’s away.” He raised his eyebrows, and looked over the top of his specs at the skittish hired help. It was only for the fact that Peenie was as strong as an ox and could lift the heavy things that neither Charles or his father would attempt, that his mother put up with him.
“Now, Charlie-boy,” said Peenie, winking, “would I do that?” He heaved the potato sack behind the door, then went to get the other one that was propped up, holding the door open.
“You,” Charles said, “would chance anything.” He turned towards the back of the shop in his slow, measured way, his shoulders stooped way beyond his years.
“Tell, me Charles,” Peenie said, in a low voice, dropping the second sack “did you decide to pay Mrs Lynch another visit yet?”
Charles shook his head, and turned back. “You’re a mind-reader,” he said, coming back to lean on the counter. He looked at his employee and erstwhile confidant. Not having any friends as such, Charles found himself seeking the advice of Peenie, who professed to be wise in the ways of women. “I was actually thinking of paying her a visit this evening . . .”
“Good man, yerself!” said Peenie. “I’m impressed with you now.” The bit of sport with Charles livened up an otherwise dull afternoon. He gave a low whistle. “She’s a fine bit of stuff . . .” Peenie thought nothing of the kind, but he knew that the line of chat would keep Charles’s mind off the more boring and arduous tasks that were to be done around the shop. The seamstress was far too stodgy and heavy in the legs for Peenie’s taste.
“Here! None of that coarse kind of talk.” Charles pointed a warning finger, affecting the manner his father might take with the employee. “I’m only taking over a few things to be mended. I’ve only just got chatting to her . . . it’s early days yet.” He stood, waiting for the shop-assistant’s next comment or word of advice.
Peenie sauntered outside and lifted the three boxes of carrots, one on top of the other, and carried them all inside. Then, he placed the boxes on one of the vegetable-racks. “If you want my opinion,” he started off again, “you won’t waste any time. For feck’s sake, Charles – you’re over thirty years of age.”
“You’re not far off it yourself,” Charles retorted, shoving his specs high up on his nose.
Peenie shook his head. “Big difference, Charlie-boy,” he grinned, taking a half-smoked Woodbine from behind his ear. “You see, I’ve been all over. I’ve worked in Dublin, Cork and London.” He struck a match on the wooden counter and lit the cigarette. Something he wouldn’t have dared to do, if the real bosses had been around. “And,” he said raising his eyebrows, “I’ve had women every place I’ve been. Sure, those English women are mad for it. You should go over there yerself some time. You wouldn’t be so slow over there, I can tell you.”
Charles folded his arms. “Sure, I’m in no rush about anything.”
“And that,” Peenie said, “is precisely the problem.” He shook his head. “Mark my words – if you don’t make a move with Mrs Lynch, she won’t be a widow much longer. You’ll miss the boat, and some other lad will get in there.”
Charles cupped his chin in his hands thoughtfully. “I’ll be taking a run out later . . .” he said, “and I’ll see how the land lies then.”
“And remember,” Peenie warned, “don’t start talkin’ a load of oul’ shite about books or anythin’ of that nature!” He shook his head solemnly. “There’s no warm-blooded woman that wants to spend her time discussing dusty oul’ library books – especially the kind that you’re always carting around.”
Charles stretched his rounded shoulders up to their proper height, and puffed his chest out. “Now, Peenie,” he said, smiling in a mildly patronising way, “don’t forget that I met up with Mrs Lynch in the library in Tullamore, and she had a pile o
f books in her shopping bag. That’s exactly what made me feel that we might be kindred spirits.”
“Kindred spirits?” said Peenie, looking baffled. “What’s religion got to do with it? You either fancy her or you don’t!”
Charles lifted his glasses up on to his forehead now, and rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t mean to insult you, Peenie . . . but matters of an intellectual nature are something that you would know nothing about.”
“And women, Charlie-boy,” said Peenie, giving an equally patronising smile, “are something that a brainy fella like you would know nothing about!”
Heavy footsteps sounded towards the door. “Shockin’ weather, isn’t it?” Mrs Gilroy, a daily customer, said. “And isn’t it well for yer mother, Charles – off out to the sun in America?”
“It’s well for them indeed,” he said vaguely, turning towards the back of the shop.
“It was just Aisling that went along with them, wasn’t it?” Mrs Gilroy checked, running a hand over her headscarf to see how wet it was. “Pauline and the little one didn’t go – sure they didn’t?”
“I’ll leave you to it, Peenie,” Charles said, not even hearing the woman’s question. He fixed his glasses back on his nose, then wandered off out the back.
“Isn’t that fella shockin’?” Mrs Gilroy said to Peenie, shaking her head and clucking her tongue. “The Kearneys are lucky they have you here. What would they be thinkin’ of – leavin’ that amadán in charge? Sure, he hardly knows what day of the week it is, never mind askin’ him the price of anythin’.” She lifted up a fair-sized cabbage and scrutinised it closely. Then she handed it across the counter to Peenie. “An’ you wouldn’t want to be dependin’ on him weighin’ anything out for you. The Lord help us and save us! You could be there all day while he cuts a bit off a piece of cheese, then has to add another bit on because it’s too small.”
“That’s brains and education for yeh,” Peenie said philosophically, wrapping the cabbage in a piece of the Irish Independent. Then, he suddenly paused. “But havin’ said that, poor oul’ Charles is the finest. He’s a decent fella, and fair to work for.”
Aisling Gayle Page 9
