Aisling Gayle

by Geraldine O'Neill

  “I wish I never had to go back,” she whispered. “If I were here on my own, I think I would be brave enough to stay for a while longer with Jean and Bruce . . . but I’m not on my own. I came with my parents, and I have to go back with them.”

  “Don’t make any decisions yet,” he said quickly. “I reckon we should wait and see what happens in the next two weeks. I’ll put off my trip to New York for the time being . . . I’m not going to waste a minute of the time we can spend together.”

  Jameson called in to the house to check on Thomas, and then he and Aisling walked around the lake together – hardly talking and hardly touching – both so relaxed and easy with each other that it wasn’t necessary.

  As they neared Harpers’ house, Aisling heard the sound of a car engine. She turned towards him. “I’ll be back to you, as soon as I get the chance.”

  “And I’ll be waiting,” he told her. “Any time of the day or night.”

  Chapter 22

  Tullamore, County Offaly

  “Weighing everything up,” Charles told Peenie, “I reckon that things have improved all round.” He lifted a large meat knife to attack the well-sealed packaging on a box of Dinky toy cars. It was nearly half-past eleven o’clock in the morning, and his father usually had any deliveries opened and on the shelves by ten at the latest. Still, they were quiet at the minute – considering the dry, sunny morning – and they should be finished the last few boxes shortly.

  “Improved in what way, exactly, Charles?” Peenie asked. He leaned one elbow on the wooden counter, and dug into his overall pocket for Woodbines and matches.

  “Well,” Charles said, thrusting the knife in deep, ripping through a particularly large mound of sticky tape. “Pauline’s humour has certainly improved . . . and that in itself makes life an awful lot better for me, personally.”

  “Indeed?” Peenie said, striking a match. “And is it the Byrne lad you were tellin’ me about from Mullingar? The lad that brought her home in the car the other night?” He watched now, amused as Charles tried to wrestle the knife back out from the depths of the box. “An’ would you say that he’s the cause of her good humour?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Charles said, his jaw clenched with the effort of retrieving the knife. He gave a huge sigh as it eventually came loose. “She’s never been off the phone since. Although in all fairness, he’s the one who’s been doing most of the phoning up. He even phoned her from Dublin last night.”

  Peenie took a long drag on his cigarette, the blue smoke curling its way up into his hair and greasy cap. “An’ tell me, Charles – is it all love talk on the phone? Have you heard what’s been said?”

  Charles clattered the meat knife down on the counter, then, with both hands, wrenched the box open.Dinky cars and lorries came flying out in all directions. “Aw, feck it!” he exclaimed as the bottom of the box gave way, scattering the remainder of the miniature vehicles on the floor.

  “Well?” Peenie prompted, as he scooped up some of the cars. “Do you think they’ll be at it soon? Pauline and the Byrne lad?”

  “At what?” Charles asked, examining a small blue and yellow caravan. He was surprised to note that they had even put a tiny towbar on the caravan. Amazing, what they could do with even toys these days. He wondered if the towbar had been attached by hand or by machine. Probably machine. These big factories in England could handle anything.

  “At it,” said Peenie. “You know . . . a bit of what you’d like to be getting’ up to with Mrs Lynch.” He made a suggestive thrusting gesture now with his hips. “Up, ya boyo! That’s what I mean!”

  Charles set the toy caravan down on the counter. He pushed his tortoiseshell working-glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “Now, Peenie,” he said, wagging a finger at the assistant. “What have I told you before about that coarse kind of talk? I won’t have you talking like that in the shop – or have any of that crude behaviour you just displayed.” Charles was in his stride now, an excellent take-off of his father. “And furthermore – I won’t have you talking about my sister or Mrs Lynch in that fashion. Two decent women who deserve a bit of respect . . .”

  Peenie lifted one of the little vehicles from the counter – a red Brooke Bond Tea van – and inspected it for any dents or cracks it might have sustained in the fall from the parcel.

  “And,” Charles went on, “you know well that you wouldn’t be coming out with that foul kind of language if my father was around – you’re trying to take advantage of me, and it won’t work.” He put his hands on his hips for emphasis. “Come to think of it,” he said now, “you wouldn’t have a job in this establishment, if my father was to hear about this kind of carry-on. We have our good name to think of in the town.”

  Peenie sniggered, the Woodbine dangling from the corner of his mouth. He parked the Brooke Bond Tea van down on the counter beside the other vehicles. “Aw, get away with you, Charles. Where’s yer sense of humour? Sure, isn’t it only a bit of oul’ male banter? A bit of coddology. Sure, if two oul’ pals can’t have a laugh and bit of coddin’ together – life wouldn’t be worth the livin’.”

  Charles was silent for a few moment – musing over Peenie’s last statement. You had to be careful with Peeenie Walshe. In the midst of his nonsense, he sometimes came out with the odd gem of wisdom. Especially where women were concerned. And in any case – it was nice to be referred to as a pal.

  “Right,” Charles said, clearing his throat. He would say no more on the matter. The point had been made and Peenie put firmly in his place. He motioned to the Dinky cars. “Let’s get these up on the shelf where they can easily be seen, and then you can stack the Lucozadebottles and the bleach and disinfectant on the back wall.”

  “Righto, Charles,” Peenie said, stifling a grin. “You’re the boss-man, and no mistake about it!”

  * * *

  Peenie perched a packet of porridge oats on the top of Mrs Flannigan’s shopping bag. “I’ve put the eggs on the top,” he told the deaf old woman in a loud voice, gesturing towards the bag for greater emphasis, “so they should be safe enough.”

  Mrs Flannigan nodded vigorously and smiled at Peenie and then at Charles and Pauline – not having understood a word of what Peenie had said.

  “The porridge oats,” he told her, “are the lightest, and they won’t harm the eggs, as long as you’re careful.”

  Mrs Flannigan nodded and smiled all around her again, and went to lift the bag from the counter.

  “Mind yerself, now,” Peenie said, taking the bag up in his hand. “I’ll carry it to the door for you.” He chatted to the old woman, taking her arm as they headed out to the door.

  “Now that,” Pauline said, turning to Charles, “is why my father keeps Peenie Walshe on here. He’s great with the customers – and he has a good heart.”

  Charles’s hand came up to his chin. “True,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose he has his good points, like everyone else.” He decided that he would elicit Peenie’s opinion on another visit out to Mrs Lynch’s this evening.

  Peenie came back, rubbing his hands together. “Ah, God be good to her – but isn’t the poor oul’ divil very bothered? She’d put years on ye, when ye’re tryin’ to serve her, and her not understandin’ a word of it.” He gave a shrug in Pauline’s direction. “I’ve spent nearly a half a blidey-well hour trailin’ round the shelves with her, tryin’ to make out what she’s pointin’ out – and then tryin’ to ask her how much I need to weigh out of cheese and rashers and so on. No harm to her now – for she’s a nice oul’ soul, but it’d feckin’ wear ye out – no word of a lie.” He shoved the cap back and scratched his head. “Wouldn’t you think the family would take her, and sort her out with some class of a hearin’ aid or some feckin’ thing like that?”

  Pauline laughed, turning towards the back of the shop. “Oh, you’d have everything sorted out if it was left up to you, Peenie,” she told him.

  “You have me in one,” Peenie said, taking the compliment as serious and sincere
. “And I’d sort a lot of others out an’ all, if I had the chance,” he said. And I’d well and truly sort you out, Miss Pauline Kearney, Peenie thought, as he watched her trim little figure disappearing through the door into the house part of the building, if God was only good enough to give me the chance.

  * * *

  Later, Peenie came back through to the shop having enjoyed a ‘good feed’ of Mrs Kelly’s bacon and cabbage and new potatoes, along with home-made rice pudding adorned with a generous tablespoonful of strawberry jam. He brought his mug of tea to finish in the shop along with a couple of digestives that he had stowed in the top pocket of his overall.

  “So what do you say, Peenie?” Charles asked. “If you were me, would you take the risk of another visit out to Mrs Lynch?”

  Peenie dipped a digestive into his steaming mug. “It all depends,” he said, taking a bite of the softened biscuit, “on whether that madman’s been put behind bars or not. I wouldn’t go near the place if there was any chance of him being in the vicinity, like. Who’s to know what he might do next?”

  Charles looked startled. “Do you think,” he said fearfully, “that he might be around Mrs Lynch’s locality, on a regular basis?”

  Peenie shrugged, taking a slurp of the tea. He hadn’t a clue what Charles was going on about – he’d been rambling on for the past week about the madman that had leapt on his father’s car outside Mrs Lynch’s house. Who knows what it was all about? For all Peenie knew, it might all be in Charles’s head. He might finally have gone completely mad altogether, and was now imagining things. You just never knew with over-brainy lads like Charles Kearney. They didn’t see things the way other people saw them. Always going on about weird things like planets and Nostradamus, and carrying library books around the place. Mind you – there wasn’t an ounce of harm in Charles. All in all, as Peenie often told customers and the other fellas in the pub at the weekend – Charles Kearney was the finest.

  Pauline and little Bernadette came into the shop through the front door now, Pauline humming happily to herself.

  “Uncle Charles!” Bernadette said, rushing over to him with a brown package. “Look at the jigsaw that my Uncle Oliver bought me.”

  Peenie’s eyebrows shot up. So that’s where Pauline and the little one had been – dining with the bold Oliver Gayle. Peenie had missed them at the table at dinner-time today. He’d had to dine with Mrs Kelly and Charles on his own, and it wasn’t the same at all. Peenie enjoyed the female company and the childish nonsense that Bernadette came out with. Things had been grand these last few weeks – much more lighthearted altogether than when the real bossman and the missus were at home. Things would soon change back to normal, when they got back home from their trip to America.

  Charles examined the jigsaw – a picture of some cartoon or other. “I’ll help you with that this evening,” he said, looking at the back of the box to see which company had manufactured it. It had the look of an American design about it. And he was right. He could just make out the blurred stamp of Seattle, USA.

  “Any calls while I was out?” Pauline asked, as she passed through the shop to the house.

  “Not to my knowledge,” Charles said, his mind now floating back to Mrs Lynch.

  “What about the phone call earlier?” Peenie said, lowering his brows in thought. “You wrote something down on a bit of a notepad inside there.” He motioned to the back shelf at the door to the house.

  “Oh, right . . .” Charles said vaguely, adjusting the leg of his glasses. “Now that Peenie mentions it – I believe there might have indeed been a call . . .”

  “Charles!” Pauline snapped. “Would you ever pay attention to what’s going on around you?” She rolled her eyes in Peenie’s direction. Then she went over to look at the note. Her face softened as she read the message – the call was from Jack Byrne.

  “So your advice is that I should steer clear of Mrs Lynch’s house?” Charles said, when Pauline and Bernadette had gone through to the house and were well out of earshot.

  Peenie drained his tea with a last noisy slurp. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, wiping his mouth with the end of his overall sleeve. He banged the empty mug on the counter, and reached into his top pocket for the Woodbines and matches. A cigarette might just help him to come up with a suitable answer, plus – it would prolong the nice, easy dinner-break that had gone on for well over the appointed hour. As long as he was dealing with Charles’s romantic problems or imagined romantic problems – Peenie was able to dodge getting down to actual work for a little while longer.

  “Well . . .” said Charles, looking perplexed. “Do you advise me to go to see her – or to stay away?”

  “I reckon,” Peenie considered, “that that particular fella is probably in the Portlaoise asylum by now. I reckon that he’ll have been picked up by now, and they’ll be sorting him out.”

  “Do you think so?” Charles said, suddenly feeling a weight lifting off him.

  “Oh, definitely,” Peenie said in an authoritative tone. “If there had been any more shenanigans, I would have heard about it by now. Sure, I know all the lads in Tullamore, and that kind of lunacy would have been reported back here in no time.” He took a drag on the Woodbine. “Even the Gardai would have mentioned it, and I heard nothing from that quarter either.” He clapped a hand on Charles’s shoulder. “Ah, I’d say ye’re safe enough, Charlie boy! The madman has gone!”

  Chapter 23

  Lake Savannah

  “What an awful waste of time,” Maggie said to Aisling and Jean in the railway station. “All this time travelling down to New York, and then back again at the weekend. And then travelling all the way back down to New York again to fly back home the week after. It’s an awful lot of travelling when we hardly know the people.”

  “Don’t look at it that way,” Jean told her. “Since they’re going away you have no choice but to go this week. And anyway, remember what you told Declan – when you all get home, you’ll be glad that you got to see his cousin.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” Maggie said, not looking sure at all. She turned to Aisling. “What will you do to fill the time while we’re away?”

  “Oh, we’ll look after her well,” Jean said, putting a protective arm around her niece.

  Maggie cast an anxious glance at Jean, and then back to Aisling. “Don’t be going into any shops on your own or anything like that. After what happened the last time we all separated.”

  “I’ll be fine, Mammy,” Aisling reassured her.

  “It’s just that anybody seeing you out here on your own might get the wrong impression,” Maggie went on. “You know . . . they might think that you’re a single girl.”

  “Mammy!” Aisling hissed. “I’ve already said that I’ll be fine.”

  “I know you think I’m only an ould fuddy-duddy,” Maggie persisted, “but don’t forget that half-cracked lad that followed you round the shops . . . and you’ve not been in touch with Oliver since you came over. I thought you’d be writing him letters every day.”

  “For goodness sake, Mammy,” Aisling sighed, “I’ve sent him a postcard, and I’ll be phoning him next week to sort out times for us arriving home.

  “Oh, well,” Maggie sniffed, “I suppose you know your own business best.”

  “I do,” Aisling said firmly, but with a smile. “Now, away you go, and enjoy your few days with Martin and his wife.”

  At the mention of the relatives, Maggie pulled a face. “I hope she’s not as odd as she sounds.”

  A few moments later Declan returned with the tickets, and they hurried to join the queue to get on the train. As they reached the ticket barrier, Maggie turned to look back at her daughter and sister with a panic-stricken face. “I hope that Martin and the wife are waiting for us at the other end,” she said woefully. “It would be just like the thing, for us to be left wandering about New York on our own! We could be robbed or even murdered and no one would be any the wiser, for they wouldn’t know where we were!”
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  “Don’t worry,” Jean reassured her. “If anything goes wrong, just give us a ring and we’ll come and get you – or we’ll tell you what train to catch back up here.” They had been over this scenario numerous times already.

  “Declan,” Maggie said, pulling at her husband’s sleeve, “have we got Jean’s phone number?”

  “In the little notebook in your handbag,” he sighed, losing his patience. “You wrote it down yourself. Now, come on – or we’ll miss the damned train, and then it will be Martin and the wife who are wandering about looking for us!”

  “No need to lose the rag,” Maggie told him. “It’s better to be safe than sorry.” She looked back at Aisling and Jean. “Please God we’ll all be together this time next week.”

  With a final wave and painful smile pinned on her face, Maggie went through the ticket barrier like a condemned woman heading for the gallows.

  “Thank God!” Aisling said with a loud sigh and a weary smile as they got into the car. “I nearly thought Mammy was going to change her mind at the last minute.”

  Jean gave a grin. “When she was younger, that’s just the thing she would have done. She was quite capable of changing her mind if it suited her. Let’s just hope that there are no emergency phone calls waiting for us when we get back home!”

  When Jean had negotiated the traffic out of town, they relaxed into the journey home. Jean was in a talkative mood, and she launched into an energetic discussion about how things had changed in Ireland since she had left. Then she mused out loud about all the things she still missed about Ireland, and the things she preferred about America. After a while, the conversation quietened down, and they listened to the radio in companionable silence. Following a string of Country numbers on came one of Bob Dylan’s songs from the album Jameson had – and Aisling hummed lightly to the music while she listened to the words.