Her phone starts to ring. Thinking it might be Des or the children she whips it out of her pocket. When an unknown number comes up on the screen, she freezes. It could be Simon. It’d be just like him to call on a different phone. But how did he get her number? The only people she gave it to are Des, the children, Myra and the schools. Her heart bucks as she watches it ring and ring. She keeps walking. If she doesn’t answer, he can’t get her. Twist her. Trample on her. She pockets the phone and picks up her pace. If it’s someone else and urgent they’ll leave a message.
At the bottom of the hill, she rounds a corner. A gust of wind slams into her, stalling her. She squints out to sea and her stomach churns. It’s incredibly choppy. How could this be? But she knows how it could be. It’s the direction of the wind. The clinic is sheltered from it because of how it’s positioned. Still, it must be safe to sail. Otherwise someone would have come from the ferry.
The wind is howling in her ears, whipping at her hair, tugging at her coat like a wild and living thing.
She sees it then, the ferry, anchored in the harbour, being tossed by the waves, Ger Daly rowing away from it, with two people in lifejackets onboard. She can’t believe it. She was relying on him. She could have left earlier…. Okay so maybe she couldn’t. Still, this is a disaster.
She stands on the pier, arms folded, buffeted by wind and spray, waiting for them to reach shore.
At last, they do, faces red and lips blue. The passengers look shaken.
“What’s happening?” she shouts over the gale.
“Ah, I’m sorry, love. It came up so fast in the end. We just got across. I couldn’t even dock at the pier, it’s so rough. Had to abandon her there. It’s too dangerous to risk going anywhere now. We’ll have to burrow in for the night.”
Burrow in for the night? What about her kids, her dad, her job? “When’s the first ferry back?”
He looks out to sea as if he can tell by looking at the horizon.
She wants to remind him that that didn’t work this morning.
“Tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, I’d say. Why don’t you go on up to Cooke’s? Have yourself a nice meal and check in for the night.”
She shakes her head in disbelief. Then resigned to her new destiny, she takes out her phone to call home. Before Des picks up, it occurs to her that they won’t hear anything over this wind. With a sigh she hurries up to Cooke’s which, admittedly, does look like a haven, yellow light flooding from the windows illuminating the rapidly darkening day, reminding Grace of novels she read as a child about pirates and hidden coves and mischief.
The wind barrels Grace through the door of Cooke’s. On her left, is a simple pine table with a small plastic tent sign saying “Reception” that could have been picked up at any office suppliers. Beside it is a clashing, gold-coloured, old-fashioned metal bell with a slap-down button for attention. In between the two, is an open book for guest comments which Grace ignores. Beggars can’t be choosers as her mother used to say. Past the table, on the left, is a light blue door through which float the muted sounds of conversation, tinkling glasses and occasional laughter. To the right is an oak staircase and, to Grace’s immediate right, a corridor featuring another rudimentary sign pointing to “Toilets.” She could be at a train station.
She whips out her phone. But there’s no service. Muttering to herself, she moves around reception slowly, retracing her steps over and over till she finally picks up two bars at the end of the corridor just past the toilets.
Des answers on the third ring.
“Dad! I’m stuck on the island! Is everything okay there?”
“Everything’s grand here, love,” he says calmly. “The three of us were about to make dinner. How are you?”
“The ferryman thinks they won’t get another boat out till tomorrow afternoon!”
“Well, Ger’s pretty good with the weather.”
Grace could beg to differ.
“Sure, check into Cooke’s there for the night. Have yourself a nice meal and a glass of wine by the fire. We’ll be grand here.”
Grace bites her lip. “You didn’t give my number to anyone, did you?”
There’s a pause. “I did yeah. Alan Wolfe. I hope that’s okay, love? He seemed keen for a chat.”
Grace feels her whole body deflate in relief. “No, no. That’s great, thanks Dad. It was just an unknown number and I thought…” She lets her voice trail off. “I’ll call Alan back later.” Her stomach knots again. “Dad?”
“Yes, love?”
“Don’t answer the door, okay? Just in case. I know he won’t come down from Dublin in the middle of the week but….”
“Don’t you be worrying about that. I’ve everything under control here. Let your hair down for one night and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
She sighs. Nothing else she can do now. “Thanks Dad. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
As soon as she hangs up, she calls Myra, explaining that she won’t be getting in until the afternoon the following day. “Oh, and Myra could you make sure we have a vial of tetanus vaccine for a patient who is coming across.”
“’Course I will. And don’t you be worrying. Take your time tomorrow. There’s no rush,” Myra says like she runs the place.
Still, Grace is reassured. She remembers Wayne Hill’s sample in her bag. Would Cooke’s keep it in their fridge overnight? A sample of pus from an infected scrotum? Could she, in all fairness, ask them to?
Grace slaps the bell. No one appears. She waits. A good five minutes. Starving, and getting a bit shaky from what at this stage must be low blood sugar, she slaps it again. A sturdy woman in her fifties, in a navy apron, comes bursting through the blue door like a bear that has been woken from hibernation. Spying Grace, she delivers a look that implies a major inconvenience and, hands on hips, she comes marching over.
“Mrs. Cooke?” Grace asks with what she hopes is a disarming smile.
“Have you come for the restaurant or a room?”
“Both actually.”
“Have you booked?” she snaps like she already knows the answer. The Cooke’s are famous for their gruffness. In summer, tourists travel from afar to sample it. It’s quaint, they think. Right now, it feels anything but quaint. Grace wants to remind her that she does plan on paying.
“No. I haven’t. I’m Dr. Sullivan. I was here doing a clinic and got trapped by the storm.”
Her face softens – ever so slightly. “I may have a single,” she says. “And I’ll have to check the kitchens to see what’s left in terms of food. I know for a fact you’ll have to share a table.”
Grace nods. “That’s fine. I just want to eat.”
“Right. Let’s get you sorted with food,” Mrs. Cooke says, like she appreciates a good appetite. “I can show you to your room after.”
An idea hits Grace that may solve her swab conundrum. “Do the rooms have fridges by any chance?”
The look she gets is murderous. “It’s not the Hilton you’re in now. Far from fridges in rooms…”
“It’s fine. I just have to pop back to the surgery for a minute before dinner if that’s okay?”
Mrs. Cooke tut-tuts. “You shouldn’t have come till you were ready.”
“Give me two minutes.”
“It’ll take five.”
Wearily, Grace turns around and strides to the door.
Before Grace is halfway to the surgery, the skies release a monsoon of biblical proportions, a monsoon that the wind turns horizontal. Head down, she starts to run. Could the day get any worse?
She opens up the clinic, bangs on the lights and rushes the sample back into the fridge. Then she locks up again and it’s back through the monsoon. Soon, rain starts to seep through her coat. Icy water trickles from her, now drenched, hair, down her neck and back. She could cry.
Bursting into Cooke’s, Grace hurries to the bathroom. Where she is met with a surprise. Pretty flowers in a jar, L’Occitane liquid soap and hand cream, and a basket of fluffy face towe
ls for hand drying. A beautiful, antique mirror reveals how wretched she looks. Like a drowned rat. She snatches a towel and pats her face dry, unintentionally removing the last of her makeup. Apart from her mascara which stubbornly clings to the area under her eyes transforming her to a rat/panda cross. She uses two cloths to dry her hair. Another on her briefcase. She slips out of her soaked coat and runs another cloth over the back of her neck and across the shoulders of her blouse. She glances down at her soaked high heel shoes and tights, wishing she had worn trousers.
This time, she doesn’t ring the bell, just goes straight through the blue door. It’s as if she has walked into a country kitchen that has welcomed in all the neighbours. It is cosy and down-to-earth and buzzing with relaxed conversation. But the best thing about the restaurant is the smell of lamb and roast potatoes. She closes her eyes and inhales while hanging her coat up on an old-fashioned wooden stand that could be as old as the building.
Mrs. Cooke comes bursting out of the kitchen carrying two plates of food. She slaps them down in front of an appreciative looking couple. Spying her, Mrs. Cooke marches over.
“Come with me,” she says like a prison guard.
Grace follows obediently. She doesn’t care where she sits as long as there’s food. Warm, filling food. And wine. Plenty of wine.
As luck would have it, Mrs. Cooke guides her to a table right beside the fire. As misfortune would have it, it is occupied by an American – the last American in the world Grace wants to see.
“Wayne Hill? Young Dr. Sullivan will be joining you,” Mrs. Cooke states. And that’s that.
Wayne Hill starts to choke. He reaches for his glass of red and gulps it back.
Grace will not apologise. She didn’t ask to sit with the man. And she’s not about to give up a seat by the fire for him. She yanks out the sturdy pine chair and sits down.
“Just pretend I’m not here,” she says, matter-of-factly. She’d prefer if they didn’t have to talk. She has too much to think about anyway.
He puts his hands up. “No, no. It’s fine! Honestly. I just got a fright.” He exaggerates a grimace. “I looked up from my lamb and felt physical pain.”
She smiles. “I tend to have that effect on people. Seriously, though, we can totally eat separately. Just keep your eyes on your lamb and I’ll do the same.”
“Too late; I’ve lost my appetite.”
Is he serious?
He grins.
She touches her heart. “Not funny. After the day I’ve had.”
He pours her a glass of red.
She waves her hand. “It’s okay. I’ll get my own.”
“Fine but get that into you, first.”
She’s not going to argue. “Thanks.”
He raises his glass and they clink.
“To new starts,” he says.
She closes her eyes as the wine hits. The air moves beside her and she hears the slam of a plate landing in front of her. She looks up. Mrs. Cooke is back.
“You’re lucky there was anything left.”
At Cooke’s, there’s no menu. You take what you get. But it’s always good. So goes the legend. The lamb, roast potatoes and mixed vegetables do look like a feast to Grace right now. Then again, given her state, anything would.
“Thanks so much.” She smiles up at Mrs. Cooke.
“Don’t you have a change of clothes?” she asks with a look of derision.
Grace just smiles curtly and takes another sip of wine.
“Here, take my fleece,” Wayne Hill says, when Mrs. Cooke leaves. “You’re soaked through.”
Panicking, Grace glances down at her breasts. The relief is gargantuan when she finds them dry. “It’s fine. It’s just my shoulders.” And entire back but who’s looking?
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m grand. Honestly.” She nods to the fire.
He takes off his fleece anyway and hands it to her. “Go to the bathroom, take off your things and change into this. Then you can dry them by the fire.”
She freezes at the order in his voice. “It’s okay,” she snaps. And hands it back.
He looks at her as though trying to understand the sudden frostiness.
She blushes and looks down. “I’m sorry. I’m fine, okay? Long day.”
“Know the feeling,” he says, putting his fleece on the back of his chair in case she changes her mind. “Thanks for the painkillers, by the way.”
She smiles. “My treat.”
24
Holly ignores the wind that is whipping around the tombstone and the darkness that is falling, listening only to the calm beating of Benji’s heart. It seems to her to be matching her own. When she checks her pulse, it is.
Her phone rings, jolting her and Benji into alertness. They sit up together and Holly fumbles for her phone. Onscreen is “Grandad” – who she texted earlier to say that she was with a friend and would be home for dinner. It wasn’t a lie. Benji is a friend.
“This storm is really blowing up, Holly. I want you home, now.” He sounds worried.
“Okay, Grandad,” she shouts over the wind.
“Wait. Where are you? Don’t tell me you’re out in it?” The worry in his voice grows.
“On my way.”
“No but where are you? I’ll come and meet you.”
“Just out past the school. You don’t need to come. I’m grand. I’ll see you in a minute.” She hangs up.
Benji is looking at her questioningly.
How can she leave him?
She kneels in front of him and places her hands on either side of his narrow head.
“You’ll be okay, Benji. It’s just wind. Nothing to worry about. I’ll come and see you before school tomorrow, okay? I’ll bring you something. I don’t know what yet. But I’ll know it when I see it.” She kisses the top of his head. “I love you,” she says with ease. Everything is easy with dogs. You don’t even have to tell them you love them. They know. And they love you right back.
She picks up her school bag and smiles goodbye. She wishes there was somewhere for him to shelter from the storm. She thinks about calling him, seeing if he’ll come home with her. But that would be taking him away from his family. And she can’t do that to him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She kisses him again.
Easier for both of them if she doesn’t look back.
She squeezes through the gap in the wall, then, thinking of her grandad having to come out in the storm, she starts to run. She squints against the wind which is whipping dust and leaves into her face.
In the glow of a streetlamp up ahead she sees the outline of someone. But it’s not her grandad. She slows.
“I thought Grandad was coming?” she shouts to Jack.
“Yeah, I said I’d come. Quicker. Who’s your friend?”
“What?”
“The dog.”
She swivels around and her heart melts. Benji is right behind her, gazing up at her with big, brown, questioning eyes. It’s as if he’s asking her why they’ve stopped and who this guy is. Smiling, she squats down and opens out her arms. He trots to her straight away. Tearing up with emotion, she flings her arms around him. He has chosen her.
“Come on!” Jack says. “Grandad’s worried.”
Holly gets up and turns to her brother. “You’re not going to believe this story.”
When she starts to tell him, Jack stops her. “Yeah, I heard about him already at school. Come on.”
“Okay, well, you’re not going to believe his name, then.”
“Can’t you go any faster? Holly seriously.”
“Benji! It’s Benji!”
Jack stops. “For real?”
Holly is nodding furiously. “D’you think Grandad will let him stay?”
Jack looks up at the gale whistling through the overhead wires, ripping through the trees, the charcoal clouds scuddering across the sky, the rain starting to fall. “Well, if he doesn’t take him in today, he never will.”
“I bet
if he takes Benji in for one night, he won’t want to let him go.”
Out on the island, Grace thanks Mrs. Cooke, who has just added coal to the fire. Turning back to Wayne Hill, she meets questioning eyes.
“You haven’t asked what an American is doing living on Torc Island but then you probably already know,” he says with what sounds like a mix of suspicion and bitterness.
What’s his problem? She didn’t even know he was living there. More fool him. “All I know about you is that you like to climb over barbed wire.”
He pulls a face. “Ouch. Just when I’d forgotten.” He lifts his glass like he’s hoping to forget again. Then he leans back in his chair and folds his arms, observing her. “You’re different.”
What’s that supposed to mean? Is it a line? Or is he being condescending? She’s so out of touch she can’t tell but she wishes she’d kept her wedding ring on for times like this. She glances around the restaurant. Why didn’t Mrs. Cooke put her sitting with a woman, for crying out loud?
“You’re not curious like everyone else around here,” he explains like curiosity is a crime.
“I don’t have time for curiosity,” she says, cracking pepper over her meal. She should be working out what to do if Fred Cronin tests positive. How to approach Dr. O’Malley. And whether or not to tell him about the mess he’s made of Wayne Hill’s scrotum.
“Good, because news spreads way too fast in this part of the world.”
This part of the world is her part of the world. “Would you rather people were cold, aloof, disinterested?”
“Sometimes.”
Okay, she actually knows what he means; she still hasn’t got used to the need for people to know her business. But she’s not telling him that.
“I came here to get away from people,” he says.
People or person? Grace would like to know. Does that make her curious?
“But it seems that, instead, I’ve become a local celebrity.”
She feels like telling him that not everyone cares about his struggle for privacy. People have their own stuff to deal with – if they could get a moment’s peace. She stabs a broccoli floret. She’ll eat faster. Finish up and go. “I’ve never heard of you, if that’s any comfort.”
Season of Second Chances: an uplifting novel of moving away and starting over Page 12