I’ll be home for Christmas

by Roisin Meaney

  And as she glanced about, searching for their waitress – did she need a bill for her coffee or could she go directly to the cash desk? – her mother spoke again.

  Tilly, she said, there’s something else …

  ‘Are you awake?’

  The voice too close, too loud, made Tilly start. She opened her eyes.

  ‘We’re about to land,’ Siobhan said. ‘Look out at your first glimpse of sunny Ireland.’

  Tilly turned her head towards the little window and saw the black of the runway tarmac rushing up to meet them, and a strip of startlingly green grass with a row of long, low concrete buildings, and a sky above it all that was full of dense-looking clouds the colour of stone, and everything was blurred by the silvery needles of rain that were falling.

  The wheels touched down and hopped a few times before finally whizzing along the runway – and pretty much everyone on the plane, it sounded like, burst into simultaneous cheery applause.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I really and truly think you’ve done an amazing job.’

  They stood around the decorated tree, positioned in the alcove to the left of the fireplace. The baubles – cheap to begin with, and having survived several Christmases plus the move to Roone – were scratched and mismatched, and there were far too few of them. The strands of tinsel were ragged with use, and completely bald in spots. The star at the top was dented. The lights, two sets that flickered weakly, served only to highlight the shortcomings of the whole affair.

  ‘Amazing,’ Laura repeated, jiggling Poppy gently on her hip. ‘It looks wonderful. Wait till Santa sees it.’

  ‘Evie dropped one of the balls an’ it smashed.’

  ‘I didn’t dwop it, it falled.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, we have plenty – and don’t tell tales on your sister, Seamus. Now go and remind Dad that he needs to collect the turkey: I told Jim he’d be over this afternoon.’

  ‘Will it still be alive?’ Ben enquired hopefully.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will the feathers still be stuck on?’ Seamus.

  ‘They’d better not be.’

  ‘Can we go with Dad?’ Four appealing faces turned towards her.

  ‘Yes please – and tell him there’s no hurry getting back. Put on jackets,’ she called, in the wake of their scurried exodus.

  She turned to smile brightly at Gladys. ‘Well done on the tree. I can see you did the best you could with our limited resources.’

  ‘You should have told me you needed decorations: I could have brought some. It could do with twice as many baubles.’

  ‘Not to worry, the lads love it the way it is, and Gavin and I really couldn’t care less.’

  ‘Still, you’d be ashamed if anyone saw it.’

  There was a small silence. Laura listened to the muffled chatter from the kitchen, wishing she was escaping to Jim’s too.

  Gladys cleared her throat. ‘I hope you won’t mind my mentioning this, dear, but those old books are giving out a terrible musty odour. If I were you I’d clear the whole lot out after Christmas, and give the place a few fresh coats of paint to get rid of the smell. I’m not trying to tell you what to do, I’m just giving my honest opinion.’

  And there it was, the fundamental difference between them. Gladys looked at Walter’s treasured collection of books, many of them leather-bound, many far older than herself, and saw only a pile of rubbish needing to be binned. Laura delighted in lifting out a book, pressing the opened pages to her face and inhaling their glorious rich, ancient scents. There it was, chalk and cheese.

  ‘I love the books,’ she said. ‘I think they give the place a bit of character.’

  Gladys gave her the pitying smile that Laura was well used to. ‘But really, how many have you read?’

  Cow. ‘None,’ Laura said firmly, ‘but Gavin is working his way through them, and he’s begun reading Treasure Island to the boys, and they love it.’

  Gladys changed tack. ‘I would imagine that quite a few of those books are riddled with silverfish.’

  Silver fish? What was the woman on about? Did she think Walter’s grandfather had hauled them up from a shipwreck?

  ‘And look at all the extra work it must take, keeping them dusted,’ Gladys went on, running a finger along one of the shelves before turning it over to inspect it. ‘As if you don’t have enough to do already.’ Knowing full well that Laura hadn’t lifted a duster to them in months.

  ‘Oh, I don’t bother with any unnecessary jobs these days,’ Laura told her lightly. ‘Nothing like a bout of cancer to make you realise what’s important. No more dusting until we’re opening up the B&B again.’ Put that in your pipe, you old biddy.

  Gladys’s smile was full of vinegar, but for once she had no comeback.

  ‘The books were in the previous owner’s family for generations,’ Laura went on. They’d never once come up in conversation with Walter, but she figured it was a fairly safe assumption. ‘I believe that some of them are quite valuable.’ Another theory with nothing to back it up, but Madam wasn’t to know that.

  Gladys gave a sniff. ‘The value of anything depends on how much someone is willing to pay for it – and to be honest, I can’t see anyone wanting these, apart from some fusty old museum, maybe.’

  ‘Well, they’re not getting them,’ Laura said. ‘They’re staying right here.’ Jiggling Poppy a little too enthusiastically as she spoke, causing the baby to give out a little squawk of complaint.

  Gladys sighed. ‘You’re the boss, dear. I’m just trying to help.’

  ‘Of course, Gladys. I realise that.’

  The women regarded one another, the shakiest of truces achieved, smiles pasted onto their faces. One more day, Laura reminded herself. The thought lifted her spirits.

  The back door banged – the others off in search of the turkey – and directly afterwards Poppy chose that moment to emit a blast of wind of heroic proportions from her nether regions.

  ‘Goodness me,’ Gladys said faintly.

  ‘Oops a daisy.’ Laura struggled to keep a straight face. ‘I think that might be my cue to check this little lady’s nappy and put her down for a snooze. Make yourself tea, Gladys, if you fancy it. I won’t be long.’

  In the master bedroom she undressed Poppy and got her into pyjamas, and settled her in the cot. With Gladys unattended, it looked like only one of them was getting a lie-down today.

  No need to go straight back down though. She stood by the window, watching the rain that had begun as Jim had driven her home from Fitz’s an hour earlier. Still falling steadily, no sign of a let-up. No sign of a storm either though – for once it seemed that Annie Byrnes’s bones were letting her down. The woman must be ninety if she was a day: bones that age were bound to get it wrong once in a while.

  The sea, separated from the house by road and field, looked pretty grim this afternoon. Hard to make out the horizon line, sea and sky merged into one dull grey mass. Trawlers sat hunched on the water, fishermen no doubt longing for warm hearths. The beaches empty for sure today, even the gulls missing from the sky. This was the Roone the tourists didn’t get to see, the off-season Roone the islanders had all to themselves.

  But Laura loved it in winter, for all the harsh winds that blew in from the sea, for all the sheets of rain that hurled themselves against doors and windows. She loved the different character of the island when the holidaymakers went home: the quieter roads to walk on with the children, the deserted beaches for Charlie to race after sticks, the small peaceful pubs with welcome roaring fires in the days when she and Gavin used to get a babysitter and escape for a few hours.

  She remembered how she loved the singsongs that happened spontaneously around the pub fires, and the tales of Roone that got retold by old fishermen in sentimental mood on dark evenings. Winter showed them the essence of the island, the parts saved for the natives – and the blow-ins like herself, the lucky ones who got the chance to make this wonderful place their home.

  Her three girls had been b
orn here, the luckiest of all. When they were old enough, Laura would get Nell to teach them how to swim. Ben and Seamus had already been taught, soon after the move to Roone. They’d been seven going on eight, irresistibly drawn to the water and frighteningly unfamiliar with it. Nell had brought them out to the harbour in her little yellow rowing boat; she’d taken them one by one into the sea and shown them how to move through the water with confidence, and without recklessness.

  It’s bigger and stronger than you, she’d told them. It will always be bigger and stronger, so always respect it, and never, ever take a chance with it.

  Laura had trusted her completely, knowing the boys would be safe with her. Since she’d fallen from a boat into the sea as a tot, Nell was as much at home in the water as on land. Within weeks Ben and Seamus were like fish, jumping with the local kids off the pier at high tide, clamouring for a boat of their own. No problem, Laura told them. The minute you can pay for it yourselves, it’s yours.

  We’ll save up, Seamus replied, not a bit put out. Clearly unfamiliar with the cost of boats, even a humble little one like Nell’s. No harm, let them put their cut of the donkey-ride money aside: by the time they were in a position to buy a boat, they’d be more than old enough to handle one.

  By the time they had a boat, all this would be behind her. Good days would come again, she told herself. She’d rediscover happiness, she’d learn to laugh again.

  She turned from the window and regarded her sleeping daughter, Rabbity tucked in beside her. Gavin’s doll had been duly washed and pegged on the line this morning, still out there in all that rain: not a hope of getting it dry now for at least another day. Poppy probably wouldn’t look at it: she only had eyes for Rabbity. They’d pass it on to Charlie – he’d chew on anything.

  Laura tiptoed from the room, pulling the door ajar. As she padded downstairs the phone in the hall began to ring.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me,’ Susan said. ‘How’s everything?’

  ‘Hang on.’ Laura ducked her head into the sitting room: empty. She checked the kitchen door: closed. Coast clear.

  ‘We’re on the home stretch,’ she said quietly. ‘She leaves at lunchtime tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s good. And it’s going alright?’

  ‘As well as can be expected. Biting my tongue a lot, as usual, but we’re managing.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘Everything OK there?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Everything is fine.’ Small pause. ‘I just want … Listen.’

  Laura listened, and heard nothing. Susan didn’t do silences. ‘What? Is something up?’

  ‘Laura … I have news.’

  Her heart jumped. Something was wrong. Susan was sick. Susan was dying, or Laura’s father was. A second went by, two seconds that felt like two hundred. She was holding her breath, she couldn’t breathe. ‘Tell me,’ she demanded finally.

  ‘Laura … I’m pregnant.’

  It was so wholly unexpected that she was momentarily struck dumb. Susan was pregnant, after twelve years of marriage to Laura’s father. Susan was forty, which wasn’t too old these days to have a baby, even if it was your first. Even if your husband was sixty-three next birthday, with no great track record as a parent. Susan was pregnant, when Laura had assumed she never would be, given the man she’d married.

  ‘That’s great,’ she said, because it was. ‘That’s wonderful.’ A new baby, a cousin for—

  Hang on. Not a cousin for the children, an aunt or an uncle. A half-brother or sister for Laura. She wasn’t going to be an only child any more, even if she had a thirty-year start on her sibling. Half-sibling.

  ‘You’re happy about it, aren’t you?’ she asked, aware of another stretching silence on the other end.

  ‘Yes,’ Susan said, more forcefully than necessary – and it was all there in the single word. The news hadn’t gone down well with the expectant father: another child to come between him and his art, the last thing he’d want. Laura wouldn’t mention him; she didn’t need to confirm what she already knew.

  ‘When?’ she asked instead.

  ‘Early June.’

  Six months away – no, five. She was nearly four months gone.

  ‘Are you feeling OK?’

  ‘I was a bit queasy for the first while, but I’m fine now.’

  ‘You’ll be a mother,’ Laura said. ‘A real mother, as opposed to my pretend one.’

  A small laugh. ‘Can you believe it?’

  ‘Can I go public – or can I at least tell Nell?’ Too late, she realised she should have said Gavin. He should have been the first person she’d thought of telling.

  If she noticed, Susan gave no sign. ‘Tell who you want – no going back now.’

  Laura wondered if it had been planned, if Susan had quietly stopped preventing the possibility of babies, then called it an accident when she’d broken the news to him. Because she wanted children, Laura was sure of it. Nothing had ever been said, the subject had never come up between them, but Susan undoubtedly wanted them.

  Look how she’d cared for Ben and Seamus as babies, when their mother had been too much of a wreck to cope. Look how she doted on the girls when she saw them, how delighted she’d been to hear Poppy was on the way, able to see the joy in impending new life despite the other devastating news.

  Look how the children all adored her – and now at last she was getting one of her own.

  ‘Come to Roone,’ Laura said. ‘We have to celebrate. Come as soon as you can.’ Come on your own: they both understood.

  ‘I’d love to,’ Susan replied, so quickly that she must have been hoping for it. She must have been planning for it. ‘I could come on Stephen’s Day, if that’s not too soon.’

  ‘Oh, do. It won’t be a bit too soon – they’ll be bored with Christmas by then.’

  ‘Will the ferry be running?’

  ‘Sure will – Leo never takes more than one day off. And stay as long as you like.’

  ‘I’ll need to go back on Thursday morning. We have a New Year’s Eve thing.’

  Of course they had a New Year’s Eve thing: Luke would have people clamouring for him to be part of their celebrations, everyone wanting to boast that the famous artist was gracing them with his presence. ‘We’ll see you Saturday then. Ring when you know what ferry you’re getting.’

  ‘I will. Happy Christmas to you, love.’

  ‘And you. Take care.’

  She hung up and entered the kitchen. Gladys was sniffing the milk jug, frowning. ‘I’m afraid it’s turned, dear.’

  Hardly surprising, considering who was looking at it.

  Ireland was very wet, and shockingly cold and predominently green. When Tilly rubbed a circle of condensation from the bus window, she saw fields of vivid green bordered with hedges of darker green and dotted sparsely with rather bedraggled sheep and small clusters of cattle.

  The air was clogged with the scent of damp wool. The bus was blessedly warm and packed to capacity, with every seat occupied and several passengers standing in the aisle. They hung onto the backs of seats and swayed with the movement of the vehicle and generally didn’t look too put out at their plight, even though presumably they’d paid the same as all the people who’d got seats. The Irish, it would appear, didn’t sweat the small stuff.

  And just like on the plane, everyone was talking. Wherever she looked, people were having animated conversations, some leaning over seats to chat, others conversing on mobile phones. Tilly caught little snatches that meant nothing – She didn’t know who your one was … They looked a fright, the cut of them … He hadn’t a bull’s notion, but sure that never stopped him – and she was reminded of sitting in the Brisbane café, listening to other strangers’ conversations as she’d waited for her mother to appear.

  A radio was being piped through the bus, trying to compete with all the other noise. Some kind of chat show or interview was taking place, but everyone involved spoke so rapidly that most of what was being said was lo
st on Tilly. Was she going to struggle to understand everyone here too?

  Although the woman in Dublin airport had had no trouble making herself perfectly clear. I don’t know what they were thinking in Heathrow, she’d said, holding Tilly’s standby ticket by a corner, as if she feared contamination of some sort from it. All our flights to Kerry today and tomorrow have been fully booked for weeks.

  It was another blow – but strangely, Tilly found herself not too upset by it. She was in Ireland, she’d got this far: she’d find Kerry eventually. Maybe she was high from lack of sleep, and immune to obstacles. Is there any other way I can get to Kerry? she asked.

  The woman looked doubtful. I can put you on a bus to Dingle. That’s the best I can do.

  Dingle?

  The woman waved a hand, as if the place might be located somewhere to the left of her desk. It’s in Kerry, about an hour from the airport. You’ll have to tell whoever is meeting you to go to the bus station in Dingle – assuming, like everyone else, that Tilly was being met. The next bus leaves at half four, she said, it’ll get you to Dingle by about nine.

  She wrote rapidly in a notebook. I can’t issue you with a ticket here, but take this to the desk at the bus area – ripping the page from the notebook – and they should sort you out. I’d advise you to go straight there: it’ll be busy, but hopefully you’ll get on.

  So Tilly followed directions and got her ticket, and took her place in the queue at the bus shelter for over an hour, stamping her feet and rubbing her hands together to stop them turning completely numb, and eventually the Dingle bus arrived and they all clambered on, the driver blithely ignoring the maximum allowed number of passengers that was displayed on a sign above the front windshield, for surely there were a lot more than fifty-three of them crowded together.

  So she was bound for Dingle, an hour away from Kerry airport – and possibly an hour further from Roone. No matter, it was bringing her closer. And it had to be better than hanging around Dublin airport, which seemed even busier than Heathrow, if that was possible. Full of happy reuniting families, by the look of them. Everyone smiling, everyone embracing. Everyone, it seemed, with someone to meet them, someone glad to see them.