by Fox Brison
“Well you’re not and you need to speak to Leo,” she advised soberly, in spite of our current inebriated condition.
“There’s nothing to say,” I said frankly. “He proposed the night I came to stay with you and I shot him down.” Her arm tightened around my shoulder and I snuggled in even further.
“Jesus, Bri, I’m not sure my heart can take any more tonight. I mean, I never saw eye to eye with him-”
“Eye to eye? You called him a patronising arsehole on more than one occasion.” Yet despite the enmity, she never tried to use our friendship to persuade me to leave him.
“Well yes, but he loved you, so that was all that mattered. Why’d you turn him down?”
“Because I don’t love him. I don’t think I ever did. I made do because I was scared of putting myself out there.”
Could my predisposition to settle for an easy life be down to an intrinsic feeling of rejection?
***
Being offered an interview for a job I didn’t apply for was bizarre, and even though it appeared serendipitous at the time, in the cold and harsh light of hangover retrospection it was plain odd.
A little disconcerting too.
I studied the board in the lobby and saw that the Heavenly Homes offices were located on the ground floor. Taking the corridor to the left, I came to a reception area bare of anything apart from a large money plant and a metal desk from the eighties. Retro chic or really cheap?
“Hi, Brianna?” I jumped when a voice spoke from behind me. I turned to face a short-ish woman with blonde curls and silvery blue eyes. She was cute… I shook my head. Shit, am I still half-cut?
“Yes, that’s me,” I said, recovering my aplomb, just, and nervously straightened the bottom of my suit jacket.
“Great. I’m Rachel McTavers, it’s good to meet you. Come on in, the others are already here.” She ushered me through to the main office.
“Others?”
“Yes, my wife Devon, and our friend Celeste. Unfortunately the architect of this project won’t be joining us… well look,” she must have noticed my discombobulation. “A coffee and a chat. We’ll all get to know one another and then decide if we’re a good fit.”
***
It was a bewildering hour and a half later, and having secured the job I was standing in front of the money plant once again.
“Congratulations, Brianna; we at Heavenly Homes are very pleased to have you on our team. Elisha Callery will be in touch.” Shaking my hand, Rachel reminded me to expect a phone call from the director of the scheme. I simply nodded. Dazed? Yes. Excited?
My new job was project managing building the ‘Free to Dream’ campsite and activity centre for disadvantaged kids. Starting in ten days.
On a mountain in Ireland.
Excited? Positively feverish!
Chapter 4
Elisha
Standing on the shores of a tranquil Lough Esker, I threw my head back and worshipped the gift Mother Nature bestowed on us. Inhaling a lungful of crisp, crystal clear air, the cold burned my chest and the tight coil inside slackened.
The lough wasn’t a bad spot to decompress and catch your breath.
Dawn was breaking through an early mist carpeting the valley I called home. A shaft of golden sunlight pierced the murk and flickered through the trees edging the shimmering waters. I smiled softy and was gradually transported back to my teens when I would come here to escape the turmoil of being different in a small community.
I was no longer Elisha M Callery of Gloshtrasna, no, I was Eslin, an elven warrior on her way to rescue her princess. (Who of course was ultra femme and actually ended up rescuing me because I was not hero material.) Or I was the battle hardened leader of the resistance rising up against the hetero white male overlords in a dystopian future, and me and my band of gay gals (instead of merry men!) were on the charge to make the world a better place for everyone – whilst having awesome sex of course - before one of us got an arrow between the eyes.
So yes, this was where I came to escape, and this was where my dreams started... this lough was the essence of heaven to me. I didn’t need a priest to wax lyrical about God’s paradise, because I lived my life surrounded by it. It was easy to see beauty here. It was easy to soothe a tattered soul. It was easy to breathe.
And boy did I need the space to breathe.
It’s funny how life interrupts you living. Eighteen months previously I took a sabbatical from my social work job in Dublin to return home and care for my father after he fell from a ladder. What should have been a few weeks turned into a few months because his broken leg became infected, and for a period it looked like he might have to have it amputated. It didn’t come to that, thankfully, however, my pregnant sister Isabella and her husband Thomas couldn’t cope with his needs, their four children, and finally the farm. So like the doting daughter I stayed… and life chewed me up and ground me down until I resembled masticated mutton.
However, thanks to my ‘Free to Dream’ epiphany (and thanks to Rachel McTavers and Heavenly Homes) I finally had something to get my teeth into.
My phone beeped and I ignored it. “Five more minutes,” I murmured pleadingly into the serenity. I wasn’t going to get it because the beeping went on and on.
It wasn’t a text, it was FaceTime. I ran a nervous hand through my hair. I was a right state and knew my new project manager would look as if she’d stepped out of a salon not five minutes earlier. The previous one, Dylan Jackson, was offered a tax free position in the sunshine of Dubai and I couldn’t blame him for leaving. Work in Ireland wasn’t always readily available and he had a family to provide for. Luckily Heavenly Homes hired Brianna McAteer almost immediately, and as long as the schedule remained in place I was happy.
“Hi, Brianna, thanks for getting back to me,” I said into the screen.
“No problem at all, Elisha. I’ve read through the documents you emailed. I’m impressed, especially with the design. The advanced framing techniques I suggested might cost more initially, but it will be far better in the long run.”
“Yes, I did a little research after we last spoke and totally agree.” I sat down with my back to the lough.
“Oh wow, Elisha. Talk about a view! Free to dream alright!”
I echoed her smile. “It seemed a shame to keep it to myself,” I admitted softly.
“Well if that doesn’t provide inspiration for the kids, I don’t know what will. The main reason for my call is to confirm I’ve booked my flight, and I land at twelve on Tuesday. Are you sure about picking me up? I could get a cab.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, I’ll be there.” We said our goodbyes and I glanced at the dark phone screen.
There was something about Brianna McAteer that unsettled me; I’m not certain what, but whatever it was didn’t bode well for my sanity over the next six months.
Chapter 5
Brianna
“So you’re really going then?” Sam said as I threw knickers and bras into my suitcase. I held two pairs of thermal long johns in my hand, toying with whether or not they’d be necessary; I put them in. Better safe than sorry, after all the build was on top of a mountain. Most of my work clothes were coming with me, despite them having McAteer Construction embroidered on the chest.
“Yep,” I replied, like I didn’t have a care in the world, when I was in actuality shitting a brick. And yes as a construction expert I can assure you that is a technical term.
“Bri-”
“Sam,” I sat down on the bed next to her and sighed. “Call it fate, kismet, serendipity… call it the fucking luck of the Irish, but this job has come along at exactly the right time. Plus it’s for a good cause, so we can call it charity or paying it forward too. You were right, I do need this.”
“It’s in Ireland though,” she argued. “I’ve got used to having you around and I’m gonna miss you!”
“Sam tell the truth, having me here has completely cramped your style!” I ribbed. However, when her woebegone
expression didn’t brighten I added, “And I’ll miss you too, but it’s only an hour’s flight away and you can come and visit.” A week after the interview and I was almost on the plane. Elisha, the brainchild and director of the ‘Free to Dream’ project, included surveyor’s reports and architect plans in her daily emails, but I still needed to be on site in order to organise schedules and plant hire. The completion date was July.
An incredibly tight schedule, but doable.
“So I googled mountain and St Patrick,” I said in an effort to distract Sam from talking me out of going. In fairness, talking me out of things hadn’t been a requirement before because Brianna McAteer didn’t take chances. I’d coasted through life until -
Crash… Adoption
Bang… Proposal
Wallop… Relocation.
“Yeah?” she said with little enthusiasm and even less curiosity.
“Yeah. There’s a mountain on the west coast called Croagh Patrick. It’s near a town called Westport. They have a pilgrimage there every year in honour of Saint Patrick himself-”
“You don’t say!” she interrupted.
“I do say. And get this, people not only walk to the summit, but they do it wearing nothing on their feet.”
“Barefoot? Is it a pilgrimage for the insane?” She winced.
“No, the faithful. But don’t you get it?” I wasn’t exactly a super sleuth, nor was I a fan of mysteries or riddles, but even I’d worked out the connection between the mountain and the reference in the letter.
“Get what?” Sam obviously hadn’t.
“Croagh Patrick must be the St Patrick Mountains written about in my DNA provider’s letter.” I’d begun referring to my biological mother as my DNA provider because all other words intimated a relationship, and I was nowhere near claiming that with someone who, quite frankly, gave me away like a pair of old shoes.
“So you’re going to look for your biological family?”
“It isn’t far from where I’ll be staying, so I may as well have a nose about whilst I’m there.”
“That’s… hmm.” She bit her bottom lip nervously. “I knew you’d thought about it, but are you sure it’s a good idea?”
“Yes. At least, I think so. There’s no harm in looking, is there?” She still wasn’t convinced I was doing the right thing. “C’mon, Sam, I could be related to landed gentry!”
“You’ve more chance of being related to Jedward!” Sam sniggered. “And where are you staying anyway?”
I opened the email containing the picture of my home for the foreseeable future, and handed the phone to Sam. Elisha was doing everything possible to keep costs down for the charity. From what I gathered it was one of the reasons Heavenly Homes chose to approve her grant request. And from the disgust on Celeste D’Angelo’s face during my interview, I also gathered that a large percentage of grant applications they received were money grabbing pure and simple because, well let’s face it, it’s not like they didn’t have it. Elisha’s plan stood out because it centred on sustainability, environmental awareness and most importantly, on not being frivolous.
“It’s a cottage next to the site. Adorable, right? Straight out of ‘The Quiet Man.’” A film I’d seen on numerous occasions as it was my mum’s favourite.
“I hope you’re not being Air B&B catfished,” Sam teased.
“What now?”
“Air B&B catfished. She sends photos of idyllic Ireland and a charming cottage, when in reality it’s a one man tent surrounded by cows! And we both know you don’t do camping, do you?”
“I’d rather spend the weekend cleaning out a cesspit,” I said drolly, “with my tongue.”
“Eww. Jesus, Bri, you always have to take it one step further than you should!”
I did. It was a gift! I leant my head on Sam’s shoulder and she put her arm around me. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you these past few weeks. Thanks, Sam, I owe you big time.”
“Find me a nice Irish girl, and we’ll call it even!”
“You have a one track mind!” I laughed. “Go and order the Chinese whilst I finish packing.” Giving myself a quick talking to, I removed some of my smarter blouses. I didn’t need half the crap I’d packed. The only vital piece of luggage was my violin - that, however, was joining me in the cabin, a luxury that cost more than my seat! I had stopped playing years before, but it was the one constant in my life (a varnished security blanket) and with no distractions I was hoping to rekindle my passion for music whilst on this job. From what I’d seen, I couldn’t imagine a more perfect setting in which to do so.
Remote, lonely, and stunningly rugged.
Working for my father was only ever meant to be a stop gap when my dreams of becoming a concert violinist didn’t pan out. I never thought I’d still be there twelve years later, but apparently construction was in my blood. In my blood? I gave a disdainful huff. Give over, Bri, you never had the guts to leave.
I gave a little sigh.
I began violin lessons in primary school and not only was I good at it, I also loved it. From that moment on playing the violin became my dream, my sole focus. I relished the adrenaline rush of performing live, the nerves and anxiety melting away until it was simply you and the audience, until it was you and the music. It was a natural high you couldn’t manufacture synthetically.
Until it wasn’t.
I developed debilitating stage fright, which (turns out to my utter non-surprise) is a tad problematic for someone who wishes to perform. On a stage. In front of thousands of people.
Who am I kidding? Performing for three people and a dog down the local park bandstand gave me the shakes and initiated a cold sweat, not good when the smooth glissando your sliding fingers are aiming for ends up sounding like a cat in the throes of passion. It started slowly, so slowly I barely noticed my trembling hands taking longer to steady and my heart continuing to pound well into my first piece… and then all the way through to the third. It took on a momentum all of its own until it got to the point where I froze up completely.
However the events of the past few weeks stirred something in me. Now I was being courageous rather than hiding, stepping out of my comfort zone and taking a chance. Hence the violin and the hope that these changes would allow me to pick up my bow, rosin it, and play some of my favourite pieces once more.
Even if the only person who heard it was me.
Cleaning out my parent’s attic was the start of a journey I didn’t realise I needed to take. I had thought there was something missing from my life, and I had attributed it to the lack of passion in my relationship.
But maybe Leo wasn’t the problem, perhaps it was me…
Chapter 6
Elisha
Checking myself in the mirror I bit my thumb nail, a nervous habit that I had tried hard to eradicate over the years, but one which always resurfaced in times of extreme anxiety. I’d visited the barbers the day before, and let’s just say I was still getting used to the result.
I kept my style very simple, mainly because after years of paying heaven knows how many thousands of Euros to expensive salons, I finally decided to let nature take its course. My father went grey when he was twenty-three, and although my grandfather died before I was born, I never remember my grandmother being anything other than white; therefore I didn’t stand much of a chance when I found my first silver strand at eighteen. It was depressing at the time, thus I spent the next fourteen years trying to cover it up. However, toward the end of last year I finally realised I was fighting a losing battle, and surrendering I let my natural colour grow out. The result was a platinum so striking that people frequently enquired what shade I used, a question I was never asked when I did, in fact, dye my hair.
It was liberating.
Yesterday, however, Michael at ‘A Clip Around the Ear’ got carried away and he was lucky I didn’t give him a clip around the ear when he’d finished. Total empathy with the sheep during shearing season should give you some idea of the
closeness of the shave.
Thankfully he left the length on top, and after applying a little wax to create texture and give it the messy look I favoured, I headed down stairs for a cup of tea before I collected Brianna from the airport.
“What have you got yourself all dolled up for?” My father griped in his usual surly manner. I glanced down at my outfit. Dolled up? Maybe I should take him to Specsavers because I was wearing jeans, a navy jumper over an army green shirt, and brown boots. It was hardly the stuff of Paris fashion week. “Don’t be expecting me to be putting on any airs and graces,” he derided. “I don’t know why we need an English woman telling us how to build a few sheds anyway. Sure, without the Irish there’d be no feckin’ New York. It was our lads that built those skyscrapers.”
Himself and my sister weren’t overly enthusiastic when I first mooted my plans for the camp. However, once I explained to Isabella the kudos she would receive from the local community (and that she’d get her picture taken with the president in the Sligo Champion at the opening) it didn’t take long for her to change her tune. Image was everything to Bella, even to the detriment of familial relationships.
At any rate as the land the camp was being built on was left to me by our Grandparents, neither of them had much say in the matter, much to their annoyance.
“Jesus, Dad, she isn’t coming here to tell us how to build anything! Heavenly Homes, who, by the way, are giving me an awful lot of money to get this thing off the ground, are sending Brianna to make sure everything goes to plan, more as support for me than anything else. And after what happened with the Celtic Tiger, I wouldn’t be one for singing the praises of Irish builders. Sure that estate in Boyle is falling to bits and there’s plenty like it dotted around the country.” I shot him a scathing look. “Besides it wouldn’t hurt for you to make more of an effort once in a while.”
It was a low blow, but he’d been pushing and pushing all week and I finally budged.
“Oh well, Empress Elisha, shall I go and change into my tuxedo?” He retorted sarcastically.
