O'Mara's

by Michelle Vernal

  A twinkling later their front door banged as Moira, no doubt hurtled down the stairs two at a time. Hurricane Moira. If Mammy had been here, Aisling knew she’d have called after her. ‘Slow and steady wins the race, Moira!’ She was full of pertinent idioms. Aisling wondered at times whether she kept a book hidden about her person so as to always have the right saying on hand at the right moment!

  Alone once more she turned her attention back to the letter she’d been reading before her sister appeared. She kept returning to it. It was rather like picking at a scab for want of a nicer turn of phrase. The plain white envelope it had arrived in a few days earlier had been addressed in the handwriting that always sent a piercing stab straight to her heart. She picked it up from where she’d leaned it against the salt shaker and eyed the carefully written address for a few moments.

  How much easier things would have been if she could have packed her bags and run far away when it happened. Preferably somewhere warm with balmy breezes, and coconut palms, lots of coconut palms. She shivered it was nothing a hot shower wouldn’t fix.

  Aisling folded the letter placing it back inside the envelope, before pushing her chair back and getting up from the table. She tucked it away in the hidden drawer at the back of the bureau where Mammy used to stuff the letters that came from the hospital. It was as if she’d believed by ignoring the information they contained she could make what was happening to her husband go away. These days there was a new pile of letters there which Aisling wished she could make go away. She locked the drawer, returning the key to its hook on the inside of the desk. Her talents were wasted she thought for the second time that morning mentally composing a Dear Aisling letter.

  Dear Aisling,

  I was due to get married this time last year only my fiancé disappeared a week before our wedding. He left me with no explanation as to why he’d left other than a brief note saying he was sorry, but he couldn’t go through with the wedding. Three months ago, he began writing to me from Cork, his bolt hole asking me to forgive him. He says it was all a huge mistake, he got cold feet and he wants a second chance. Blah, blah, blah. What should I do?

  Yours faithfully

  Me.

  The problem was, while she was a wonder at sorting out the lives of those around her, Aisling didn’t have the foggiest how to fix what was wrong in hers.

  Aisling shook her head in an effort to clear it. Marcus fecking coward McDonagh as Moira so charmingly referred to him didn’t deserve to occupy any more of her thoughts today. With that she banished him and moved over to the windows. The sky she saw, drawing the curtains and hooking them back was watercolour blue with fat scudding clouds. A cool wind had been blowing most of the week. Still, it wasn’t raining that was something.

  She stared through the panes of glass. There were six of them in total, she could recall their mammy effing and blinding when it was time to give them a good polish. Now the job fell to her she knew how she’d felt, they were a sod to clean. Across the road the leafy tops of the trees in St Stephen’s Green danced as they tried to cling valiantly to the boughs.

  Autumn had always been Aisling’s favourite time of the year. She loved to watch the greenery give way to the fiery oranges, reds and yellows of autumn. Since Marcus had left, the season had lost its allure. Now it was a reminder that a year ago she’d been jilted. Her gaze dropped to the traffic on the road below.

  It was heavy with the early morning rush, people hurrying here, there and everywhere. The streets were so congested these days. She was glad she didn’t have to travel far to work—three flights of stairs down to reception and she was there. And on that note she thought moving away from the window, it was time she got her a into g. O’Mara’s was mad busy of a Friday with the influx of travellers’ arriving for the weekend. Aisling liked to keep on the go, being busy was an all too welcome distraction from Marcus.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Morning Aisling,’ Bronagh Hanrahan mumbled. ‘Love the suit, very you.’ Her mouth was full as she looked up from the computer where she was processing a reservation with one hand, in the other she held a spoon. It was something she could do with her eyes closed given how long she’d worked for the O’Mara’s—nearly thirty years! Mind you, when Maureen O’Mara had first gotten the Macintosh, Bronagh had been dragged kicking and screaming into the computer age! A mug of tea was next to the keyboard along with a bowl of cereal, her requisite box of Special K next to her in tray.

  Bronagh was a serial dieter and could often be heard lamenting no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to lose any weight. ‘It’s the menopause, so it is. It gets us all in the end,’ she’d state before pointing a finger. ‘Just you wait Aisling. You’ll hit your forties and that lovely slim waist of yours will vanish and you’ll be left with a roll around your middle like that short bald fella’s.’

  ‘What short bald fella?’

  ‘Ah, you know yer man, the Buddha chap.’

  This amused Aisling, because she knew were she to open the draw in the desk at which Bronagh sat, she’d find a half-eaten packet of Custard Cream’s in there. It also surprised her to hear her waist being referred to as slim. She’d always been the well-padded one in the family. There was nothing like a broken heart to curb one’s appetite though, and the pounds had fallen off her in the weeks after the wedding was cancelled.

  Aisling said good morning back to Bronagh, confiding in her that while her shoes had cost the earth, the suit had been a steal at Penneys. She was a firm believer in anything looking a million dollars so long as it was paired with the right shoes. It was how she justified the ludicrous sums she’d splurged on them over the years.

  She peered over Bronagh’s shoulder and ran a finger down the diary’s open page to see who was checking out that morning. Their receptionist might be au fait with the Mac, but she still didn’t trust it, and insisted on keeping all their guests logged in her diary as well. Behind them the fax whirred into life and began churning its message out as the phone simultaneously beginning to ring. Aisling grinned as Bronagh’s jaw went into overdrive before she swallowed and composed herself.

  ‘Good morning O’Mara’s Manor House, you’re speaking with Bronagh. How can I help?’

  Ever the professional, Aisling was still smiling as a commotion sounded on the stairs a second later. Her head swivelled in that direction. Mr Miller larger-than-life, was standing on the landing. His suitcase was beside him as was a large holdall bag. He had a baseball style cap pulled down on his head, a camera slung around his neck and his t-shirt bore the slogan “Kansas: Not Everything is Flat”. He was urging his wife to get a move on in his booming Midwestern American accent.

  ‘June-bug, for the love of God woman get down here! I can’t carry all of this on my own.’

  ‘I’m coming Jacob, don’t rush me. You know I hate being rushed.’

  ‘Can I help with anything Mr Miller?’ Aisling moved over to the base of the stairs looking up at him as she rested a hand on the rail ready to go to his aid.

  ‘You could put a rocket up my wife, Aisling that would help. The tour bus will be stopping by to pick us up any minute.’ He gestured to the holdall. ‘Do you think you could manage that? This case weighs a ton. June’s been shopping for the kids, the grandkids as well as half of Kansas City and we’re only three days in to our tour.’

  Aisling made her way up to the first floor landing, taking the bag and hefting it up over her shoulder. Mrs Miller had proudly displayed all her treasures in the guest lounge for her to admire last night. She’d made the appropriate enthusiastic noises as the American woman had shaken a glass dome demonstrating how snow fell on the little leprechaun trapped inside. She’d bought tea towels with four-leaf clovers and Irish blessings printed on them, along with a Foster & Allen CD. She had a selection of thimbles, wishing jars and luck stones. Her precious Belleek pottery was bubble-wrapped and Aisling hoped the delicate china didn’t break between now and when she arrived home.

  Mrs Miller’s
pride and joy though she declared, was a traditional Irish dancing costume. It had come complete with a red ringlet wig. ‘I did Irish dancing as a girl Aisling, and I always wanted the proper dress and shoes to wear. There was no money for frivolities when I was a young’un though—not with eight mouths to feed in the family.’

  Aisling had bitten her bottom lip to stop herself envisaging the well-endowed Mrs Miller jigging about in her short green dress, white tights and black shoes to her Foster & Allen CD, reliving her childhood dream. Each to their own!

  ‘I checked out already, so once my wife decides to grace us with her presence we’re good to go. Ah speak of the devil. Here she comes.’

  June Miller’s tread sounded lightly on the stairs and she appeared behind her husband. ‘It was my hair Aisling,’ she said spotting her. ‘Flat as a pancake after I blow-dried it this morning. The water’s so soft here. I looked like I had a helmet on and I’ve been trying to zhoosh it up a bit.’

  ‘Well you succeeded. You look like you stuck your finger in an electric socket, woman. You should have left it alone.’

  She did but Aisling gave her a reassuring smile. ‘It looks lovely Mrs Miller. There’s loads of body in it. Now then I hear you’ve got a bus to be catching. So we’d best get down these stairs.’

  The couple, cases thudding behind them followed her down to the foyer where a tall, thin man in a tweed cap and clobber that would look right at home on a farm in County Middle-of-Nowhere, had appeared.

  ‘Ah here they are now,’ said Bronagh.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Miller?’ the man said stepping forward.

  Mr Miller took his outstretched hand and shook it. ‘Please call me Jacob and this is my wife June.’

  He nodded and smiled at June, revealing a missing front tooth before taking her suitcase from her.

  Jaysus, Aisling wondered what the tour company was called, Boondocks Bus Breaks, perhaps?

  ‘I’m your tour guide, Ruaraidh. The bus is outside.’

  ‘Say your name again, son?’

  ‘Ruaraidh.’

  ‘I think I’ll just call you Roy, if that’s okay.’

  Jacob Miller didn’t wait for a reply turning his attention to Aisling and Bronagh. ‘Thank you ladies for your wonderful hospitality. We’ve enjoyed every minute of our time here in your capital city haven’t we June? It’s a fine establishment you run, Aisling.’

  ‘We sure have. You made us so welcome. We appreciate it, and we’ll spread the word about your beautiful manor house won’t we Jacob?’

  ‘We will indeedy.’

  This was what it was all about, giving their guests happy memories of their time here in Dublin. Aisling thanked them both for their kind words and for staying with them before wishing them a fabulous time tripping around Ireland.

  Ruaraidh moved toward the door eager to get his two charges on board the bus. Aisling tried not to laugh at the look on his face as Mr Miller boomed, ‘Lead the way Roy my boy.’

  ‘Enjoy the craic!’ Bronagh called after them.

  There was a whoosh of cool air as Ruaraidh opened the door and they heard Mrs Miller lament as she stepped outside. ‘Darn it Jacob, if you hadn’t been rushing me, I would have put a scarf over my hair. That wind will flatten it faster—’

  ‘Oh, put a sock in it woman.’

  Any further exchange was lost as the door shut behind them. Bronagh and Aisling grinned at each other. There were some guests who made you laugh, the Millers a case in point, and some that made you pull your hair out. Aisling threw a glance over her shoulder to Room 1. It was the only room on the ground floor, a single and given the courtyard outlook, its nightly rate was cheaper than their other nine rooms. The door was firmly shut.

  So far Miss Brennan had complained about other guests keeping her awake with their chatter in the lounge. The guest lounge was behind reception to the left, the stairs were all that separated Room 1 from it, but no one else had complained about the noise being a problem before. She’d also complained about the foot traffic up and down the stairs of a morning as other guests made their way down to the dining room below for breakfast.

  She’d only been here for two nights and had found something to moan about each morning. Aisling wondered what today’s problem would be. Then she frowned remembering what Moira had called her this morning, a sourpuss. She didn’t want to be like Miss Brennan. She’d always had a positive outlook on life and had been rewarded for this with a good life. It had been marching along in the direction she’d thought it would—the altar. Marcus had snatched her happy-go-lucky attitude away though. He’d shattered not only her trust but her heart too. Stop it Aisling, don’t go there.

  She focussed on the diary instead and flicked a couple of pages until she found what she was looking for. Their problematic guest wasn’t checking out until Monday, three more days! Her mother’s old mantra ran through her head, ‘Just like the customer’s always right Aisling, our guests are always right. Even when they’re not!’

  It was this attitude toward the people that chose to stay at O’Mara’s that had turned it around from a tired, old manor house and establishment that had seen better days to the quaint but plush accommodation offered today. So Aisling resolved no matter what Miss Una Brennan from County Waterford pulled out of her hat this morning, she would smile sweetly and promise to sort the problem for her. Just as well it was she and not Moira who’d stepped up and taken over running the guest house. Her sister had never mastered the art of smiling sweetly. She’d be likely to tell the old wagon that the tide wouldn’t take her out, or that the sea wouldn’t give her a wave or some such insult.

  Smiling at the thought of what Moira with her repertoire of sharp retorts would say she set about her morning routine. It consisted of a customary sweep of reception, to take note of what needed a tidy up. The phone was ringing once more, and Aisling left Bronagh to answer it. The cushions on the elegant rolled arm sofa with its cream and green stripes could do with a plump. She saw to those first before straightening the magazines on the antique mahogany coffee table. A few of the brochures were out, and she replaced the Wicklow Tours slot with the glossy Slane Castle pamphlets ensuring there were no empty spaces.

  There were only two of Quinn’s flyers advertising his restaurant of the same name left. It was as good an excuse as any to call on him. Not that she needed an excuse! She’d known Quinn and had been firm friends with him since their wayward student days.

  Maybe, she’d even take him up on his offer of dinner on the house. His way of saying thank you for recommending his traditional Irish fare to their guests. It would be nice not to cook for a change. Moira’s culinary skills were limited so unless she wanted to dine on beans on toast each night, preparing the evening meal fell to her.

  Yes she decided, once breakfast was finished she’d stroll over to Quinn’s. Her eyes roved over the stand one last time and when she was satisfied all was shipshape she turned her attention to the blooms on top of the front desk. Bronagh, she saw was off the phone and scraping out the remnants from her breakfast bowl.

  The bouquet arrived fresh from Fi’s Florists once a fortnight on a Monday morning. They’d need a freshen up if they were to continue looking their best between now and then. Aisling knew the tricks of the trade, trim the stems and add a little sugar to the water. She picked up the vase and carried it out to the poky but ‘sufficient for their needs’ kitchenette at the very back on the ground floor. The door beside it held a chunky old-fashioned brass key which when turned allowed the door to open up onto the steps outside. They led down to the concreted courtyard. Nobody used it, nobody except Mr Fox and Mrs Flaherty when she took out the rubbish.

  The little red fox was rarely seen but often heard as he checked out what had gone into the bin that day. His calling card was the rubbish he’d leave strewn about the courtyard. Their breakfast cook Mrs Flaherty who despite her rosy apple cheeks, and pensionable age could drop the ‘f’ bomb with the best of them was often heard shrieking, ‘That feckin
g fox!’ Ita in charge of housekeeping was terrified of her, Aisling wished she had the same effect on the young woman because she might actually do some work then.

  There was no need for a garden at the rear of the house for two reasons. Firstly, St Stephen’s Green was their front garden. Sure there was a busy road separating them from the Green, but it was only a hop, skip and a jump away. Secondly, the back wall of O’Mara’s housed a secret. A gate which if ventured through welcomed you into the Iveagh Gardens, Mr Fox’s home.

  Aisling took the flowers their scent still heady from the vase and set about her task. It was in this little kitchenette that Bronagh would heat up her leftover dinner, for lunch or make herself a cup of tea. She was on the front desk from 8.00a.m. until 4.00p.m. Monday to Friday and then Nina the young Spanish girl who’d started a year ago would arrive to do the evening shift. Of a weekend James and Evie, two students split the front desk shifts. Aisling spent her days overseeing them all.

  Satisfied the arrangement would continue to brighten reception until Fi’s next delivery, she carried the vase over to the front desk. The guest lounge was next on her agenda. It was her favourite room in the whole house, Aisling loved the cosy, yet elegant sunny space. She’d conjure up images of the well-heeled people who’d have been received there when it had served as a drawing room. The ladies she pictured all looked suspiciously like they’d stepped from the pages of a Jane Austen novel and the men bore an uncanny resemblance to Colin Firth as Mr Darcy!