Then, he faced them both squarely. “Thank you for loaning us your daughter for the last week,” he said in a polite, almost formal tone. “She was a wonderful support to Thomas and to my family. I know it was difficult for you letting her go off with strangers – and I’m mighty grateful to you both.”
Maggie’s eyes darted from Aisling to Declan. “She’s a married woman, you see . . . that was the difficulty. How it looks to people . . . and how it would sound back home. And of course there’s the Church’s views on these things . . .”
“Maggie – “ Declan hissed, pulling at her sleeve.
“As long as it helped the poor lad,” she said, smiling all round, “then it was all worthwhile.”
They made small talk for a few minutes, then, unable to bear the awkwardness that would inevitably descend on them, Jameson made his goodbyes. He shook Declan’s hand, and kissed Maggie’s cool paper-dry cheek. Then, he gave Aisling the lightest kiss on her cheek. So light, she missed the familiar feeling of his beard and moustache.
And then, without a backward glance, he was gone.
A tall, confident figure, striding off into the crowds of strangers.
Chapter 37
Tullamore, County Offaly
The flight to Dublin passed in a blur. The plane was not as busy as their trip out, and Aisling managed to get a row of three seats to herself, giving her parents the excuse that she was tired and wanted space to stretch out to sleep. For the first half of the flight, sleep was actually the last thing on her mind, as she went over her whole holiday in her mind – from the first moment she set eyes on Jameson, until the last glimpse she had of him heading off out of the airport.
After something to eat, accompanied by two glasses of wine, eventually her body and mind gave in to several hours of peaceful oblivion.
When she wakened, she freshened up as best she could in the tiny aircraft toilet, and then she joined her parents for the last lap of the journey. Maggie was not as anxious as she was coming out, as there was little or no turbulence, and her humour was much better now she had Aisling winging her way back home to Ireland.
Winging her way back to the arms of her waiting husband.
No reference was made to Jameson or Thomas, and Maggie filled the time by giving Aisling a blow-by-blow account of all the things herself and Declan had done while she was away. Apart from nodding when Maggie said, ‘Isn’t that right, Declan?” or ‘You wouldn’t have believed it, would you, Declan?” Aisling’s father said very little. He dozed on and off and in between had a couple of whiskeys which made him even quieter.
In what seemed no time at all, the air-hostess was coming along the aisle asking everyone to fasten their seat-belts and prepare for their landing in Dublin airport.
Prepare for Dublin, and prepare for Oliver, Aisling thought to herself.
He was there as promised. Waving to them as they came in through the doors in the arrival area. Although it was little after seven in the morning, he was there looking bright and breezy, a beaming smile on his smooth, handsome face. He held a small coloured bunch of freesias in his hand, which he presented to her with a hug and a kiss.
There were few men in Tullamore who would have stood holding a bunch of flowers without feeling like the proverbial pansy. But Oliver Gayle was not one of them. And no one, on seeing him, would have made more than the odd lighthearted passing remark. He was the kind of man who made men wish they had the nerve and the charm to buy a bunch of flowers, and not care a damn what anyone said.
Oliver chatted away on the drive home, in turn giving them local news of who had died or given birth while they were away, and asking all the right questions about the flight, the wedding and America in general.
To which Maggie happily supplied all the answers.
“Oh, it was marvellous,” she enthused to her son-in-law. “We had a grand holiday altogether, but the one thing I have to say is I won’t miss their tea!”
“Is that right, Maggie?” Oliver asked on cue.
“Indeed it is. The Americans don’t know how to make a decent cup of tea. It was lucky that the priest warned me to bring a few packets out with me, otherwise we would have been poisoned in the house as well as in the restaurants.” She shook her head. “How Jean has got used to the food and drink over there, I’ll never understand. What d’you say, Aisling?”
Aisling found something suitable to say, although she felt as though her brain was operating on two different levels. One part was back in New York with Jameson Carroll, reliving – over and over again – every minute she spent with him. The other part was like a robot. She was asked a question, and she automatically smiled or looked serious according to the subject – then she hopefully gave some kind of appropriate answer. Never – even at her lowest points with Oliver – had she experienced this weird kind of thing.
* * *
They pulled up at the shop first, and Maggie insisted that all four went through into the house for a decent cup of Irish tea and a bit of breakfast to revive them after the journey.
Charles was up and about to greet them, and stood in the middle of the kitchen smiling with embarrassment, one hand cupping the area under his eye.
“How was the flight and everything,” he said, “and the weather out there in the States?”
“Grand, Charles,” his father said, dropping a case on the kitchen table, “and everything’s grand back here at home and in the shop?”
“Oh, grand – grand, the finest,” Charles said, digging his hands deep in his pockets, and rocking back on his heels.
“Are Pauline and Bernadette still in bed?” Aisling asked, putting her bag of presents down in a corner near the radio.
Charles crossed his arms, one hand still up to his eye. “Oh, they’re moving . . . I heard Pauline only a few minutes ago.” He looked up towards the ceiling. “I’d say they’ll be downstairs shortly. Bernadette likes to have her breakfast as soon as she’s up and moving.” He smiled and nodded his head, the hand still hovering around his eye. “Cornflakes it is at the minute – cornflakes every morning.”
“Well, make yourself useful and get them out of the press,” Maggie said briskly, finding her son’s latest mannerism more than a little irritating, “and don’t be standing there in everyone’s way. Get the cups and plates out, and then go and check that Pauline and the child are moving.”
“Indeed . . . indeed,” Charles said vaguely, turning towards the cupboard.
Maggie suddenly halted. “What’s the plaster for? What’s wrong with your eye?” she asked, her own eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And your ear is swollen too!”
Charles’s hand moved up to cover the orangey-coloured sticking-plaster under his eye. “Ah – it’s nothing,” he said, darting a glance over in Oliver’s direction. “I hit it . . . probably carrying in a sack of potatoes.”
Maggie clucked her tongue and turned back to the whistling kettle. “It’s more attention you need to pay to things,” she said. “If you’d keep your mind on what you’re doing, instead of all the other things you do be thinking of.”
Charles moved to the press at the side of the fireplace where all the dry goods were stored. He lifted out the packet of cornflakes, and just as he was closing the door, reached back in for a packet of porridge oats.
“Anyone?” he said, holding them up.
“Oh, we’ve no time for making porridge now,” she said. “Bread and butter will be fine. Have you a fresh loaf for us, Charles?”
“I have,” he said, handing the box of cornflakes and a bowl to Aisling, “I’ll just go through to the shop and get it for you. I left it under the counter yesterday evening, knowing that the bread van probably won’t appear until after ten this morning.”
“Wouldn’t you think,” Maggie muttered to no one in particular, “that he would have brought it through into the house and had it out on the table for us?”
“Oh, leave the lad alone,” Declan said. “Hasn’t he kept things going for us while we’ve be
en away?”
“True,” Maggie said, sounding surprisingly chastened, “true enough.” She poured water from the boiling kettle into her beloved old brown china teapot. “Sure, I was only saying . . . I meant no harm.”
“Granny!” a little voice called from the door, and in came the curly-headed Bernadette in her pyjamas, followed by her mother in her pink, candlewick dressing-gown. The child ran across the floor and threw herself squarely at her grandmother.
“Hello, my little chicken!” Maggie said, scooping the child up into her arms. “Did you miss your oul’ granny and granda? Did you think we were never coming back?”
“My mammy said you were coming back this morning,” Bernadette said in a clear voice, “and she said you had presents for me.”
“Bernadette!” Pauline warned. “Now, don’t be bold . . .”
“Oh, she’s fine,” Maggie said, coming to sit down with the child on her knee. “Pour those cornflakes out into the little bowl there for her, will you, Aisling? And put a drop of milk in it for her and a good spoonful of sugar.” Then she turned to Pauline. “Everything all right while we were away?”
Pauline got a cup for herself from the hook on the dresser. “Fine . . .” she said quietly. “Everything was fine.” She reached for the teapot. “Charles was up at the crack of dawn every morning – he saw to the bread deliveries and everything.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” Maggie said, taking the bowl of cornflakes from Aisling. “Now,” she said to the child, “let me see how big you’ve got while we’ve been away. Let me see how you can eat all the cereal up on your own.”
The little girl beamed up at her, and proceeded to spoon the cornflakes very carefully into her mouth.
“Good girl, yourself,” Oliver told her, “and when you’ve finished, you can see what your Auntie Aisling has brought you back from America. She was telling me all about it on her way down from Dublin.”
Aisling pointed to the big bag in the corner. “You’ll never guess what I have in there,” she said smiling warmly, “and neither will your mammy.”
There followed a half an hour of oohing and ahhing over the gifts, and the trying on of some of the outfits over nightwear by Bernadette and Pauline. “I’ll try on the other things later,” Pauline said, her eyes shining with delight at the array of fashionable things that Aisling had picked out for her.
Charles demurred about trying on his golfing sweater in front of an audience, and after thanking Aisling profusely for the books, headed off to examine them in the silence and privacy of his bedroom.
When he was out of earshot, Pauline recounted the story about the Virgin Mary’s nose, lest Maggie should come upon the nose-less statue and wonder what had happened. Thankfully, her mother saw the funny side of it, and was more concerned about any ill-effects it might have had on Bernadette’s digestion, than any religious feelings about the statue.
“It was awful good of you to drive all the way to Dublin before going into work, Oliver,” Maggie said when they were all sitting around the table with cups of strong tea and slices of brown bread and the good Irish butter that Maggie had missed, “but I suppose you were desperate to see Aisling after her being away for so long.”
“No problem, no problem at all,” Oliver beamed. “Sure, amn’t I only delighted to see you all back safe and sound. And you’re all looking grand. Fair play to you all, there’s few people around here who’ve been on planes, never mind on a plane all the way to America.”
More pleasant chat followed, then Maggie looked up at the clock.
“You’d better watch your time, Oliver,” she said. “I wouldn’t like you to be late for opening the shop on account of us.”
Oliver sighed and stood up. “I suppose we should make a move,” he said, stretching his arms up as though he’d just got out of bed. “I’ve young Fergal opening up for me this morning. I never said what time I’d be in – it keeps them all on their toes.” He put a hand on Aisling’s shoulder. “I’d say this one will be ready for the bed shortly.”
“Oh, we’ll all have a few hours,” Maggie said, suddenly sounding tired. “Then we’ll be as good as new.”
* * *
“You look great,” Oliver said when they were in the car on their own heading home. “That’s the best tan you’ve had for years – and it really lifts you.” His eyes were shining with admiration. “And the sun has brought out the blonde in your hair.” Oliver always noticed things like that with women.
He kept his cheery conversation up all the way back to the house and if he thought Aisling was quiet, he didn’t comment on it.
“I could cook you some rashers and sausages,” he offered, when they’d unloaded the car and carried all the bags upstairs to the bedroom. “I’m an expert with the old frying-pan since you’ve been gone.”
“That’s good of you,” Aisling said, giving a weary smile, “but I think my stomach’s a bit mixed-up with the travelling and everything. I’ll leave it until I’ve had a sleep.”
“Fine, fine,” Oliver said. “What about another cup of tea – or maybe some hot milk to settle your stomach?”
“No, I won’t have anything, thanks,” she told him. She ran her fingers through her hair, then fiddled about with it in a distracted sort of way. “I’ll just bring a glass of water upstairs with me, and go off to bed.” She paused. “I have some things for you in one of the cases . . . a couple of presents.”
He came over and put his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t be worrying yourself about presents,” he said. “It’s bed you need just now.”
Aisling turned away from him. “I’ll just get the water.”
He patted her affectionately on the behind, and Aisling had to steel herself from flinching from his touch. She could feel his eyes on her as she went over to fill a glass at the sink, and then she moved quickly out of the kitchen and upstairs to the bedroom, while he followed behind.
She opened her wardrobe door and took a fresh pair of pyamas from one of the shelves.
“I’m just going into the bathroom for a quick wash,” she said.
“The water’s good and hot for you,” he told her. “I made sure the fire was roaring when I left this morning.”
After a short while, Aisling came back into the bedroom dressed in pink-striped, cotton pyjamas. Oliver was standing by the window, and he turned towards her as she came into the bedroom. He came over to her and caught her by the hand.
“I really missed you,” he said in a low voice. “If you like, I could go into work a bit late . . . they can manage on their own for a few hours.” His hand moved to encircle her waist, and he bent his head down to kiss her.
Aisling felt herself flinching from his touch again. “I’m sorry, Oliver,” she said quickly, “but I’m absolutely wrecked. I feel as though I’m falling asleep on my feet . . . as if I’m not really here.”
“No problem,” he said good-naturedly. “It’ll be the oul’ jet-lag. I’ve heard it’s very bad.” He ran a finger down her arm. “We’ll have plenty of time together later.”
Aisling nodded without saying anything.
He leaned over and gave her a light, harmless kiss on the cheek. “See you tonight,” he said. Then added, “It’s nice to have you back home.”
* * *
Aisling lay awake for a long time after Oliver had left for work, staring at the watery sun as it peeped through the curtains, and thinking of Jameson Carroll back in New York. She looked at the clock on the bedside cabinet. It was just after eleven o’clock, which would make it around six o’clock in the morning there. She stared back at the window, then lay staring up at the ceiling, her mind full of him. Then, at some point towards midday, her eyelids grew heavy and she drifted into sleep.
When she awoke later in the afternoon, she padded about in pyjamas, making tea and glancing at the American magazines she had brought back with her. She flicked from page to page, seeing the words and pictures but taking nothing in.
Then, she had a lon
g hot bath, dressed, and started on the task of unpacking her luggage.
She sorted everything out into piles on her bed. Some for washing and some for hanging back in the wardrobe or putting into her chest of drawers.
As she picked up a pile of nightwear and underwear – washed and ironed by Mrs Scott – Aisling’s eye caught sight of a silk, lace-trimmed bra she had bought in the lingerie shop, the first day she met Jameson.
She gathered the silky garments into her arms, and hugged them towards her, as though the material which he had run his hands over would somehow bring him closer to her. Somehow close the distance of thousands of miles.
When she had unpacked all the bags containing her clothes, she started on a smaller one, which contained some of the presents that she had brought back. She was hesitant as she opened each package, carefully feeling the shape and weight. Her heart sank further and further as she reached deeper into the bag. And then she realised that she had come back home without the two gifts Jameson had given her at Lake Savannah. The small painting and the Christmas figure.
She closed her eyes and could picture them at the back of one of the lower shelves in the wardrobe she had used. She had placed them on that shelf for safety. So safe, that presumably her mother had not seen them. She remembered asking Maggie to be sure to bring them to New York but then, in the midst of all the farewells and everything, she had forgotten to check about them.
An empty ache crawled all over her, for she had looked forward to touching and feeling both things. Remembering the white house by the lake where the painting had hung and the magical Christmas shop where the porcelain figures had stood in their red and green cloaks. And reliving – minute by minute – the days that Jameson had given them to her. The long, lovely days around Lake Savannah and all the other days doing whatever they did – and especially the nights and early mornings they had spent together.
Aisling Gayle Page 36
