Mismatched

by Elle Casey

  “He said we just have to take five turns and we’ll end up at her house.”

  “House?”

  “Yeah. B&B. That’s a house. I’m not exactly sure she’s an official B&B. It might just be a friend of a friend of the family.” Her cheesy grin does not ease the delivery of this news at all.

  “Oh, goody.” So much for power-showers and a good night’s sleep. One thing I’ve learned about Ireland so far is that bedtimes are much later and much louder. I think it’s the whiskey. If this person’s family is anything like Erin’s, I’d better just plan on sleeping on the plane ride back.

  Minutes later, we’re pulling up to a house painted robin’s egg blue. The roof is tile, the garden is filled with ceramic gnomes, and a woman with a yellow-flowered housecoat is standing out in the middle of it all, talking to herself.

  “Hey ho!” Erin says, sliding up to the curb next to the garden. “Mrs. O’Grady, I presume?”

  The little old lady smiles kind of absently. “Oh, hello dear. Do I know ye?”

  “Not yet!” Erin shuts off the car and gets out. “We’re Erin and Ridlee. Here to stay a few nights. My Uncle Miley set it up for us.”

  “Oh, well … the niece of Miley O’Neill is always welcome. But I’m not sure that I have any rooms, dear.” The woman goes from joyful to worried. Then she starts talking to herself again, and I can’t understand a word of it.

  “Is that singing or talking?” I whisper loudly, getting out of the car. Mrs. O’Grady is walking into her house. I’m pretty sure she’s forgotten we’re out here already.

  “She’s doing a little of both. In Irish. Let me go see what’s happening.” Erin opens the small picket-fence gate and follows the woman inside.

  I’m not sure what to do with myself, so I just stand out on the sidewalk, admiring the view. All the houses are lined up in neat little rows. Everyone has a small garden in front, although none as interesting as the one I’m standing in front of. Some of them are tangled messes of weeds, some have pretty flowers, but none have the gnomes that I can see. The mist gives the place a dreary feel to it, but rather than making it seem off-putting, it makes it more mysterious. I feel like this place has secrets, things to be discovered. Or maybe I should just leave those secrets alone. I’ve read some stories about Irish folklore; there are some seriously spooky goblins and shit here that don’t seem like anything I’d want to meet on a dark road in the middle of nowhere.

  “Baaaeeerrrggghhhh!”

  Screaming, I nearly jump out of my skin trying to get away from the demon goblin behind the fence in Mrs. O’Grady’s garden.

  Pounding footsteps come from inside the house and then the front door flies open. “What?!” Erin yells at me. “What’s wrong?!”

  I’m on the other side of the Bambino, pointing at the garden. “Gnome! Demon gnome! Lock the door!”

  “What?” She’s frowning and half-smiling at the same time. Instead of being terrified like she should be, she’s amused.

  “Get in the house and lock the door!” I yell. “I’m not kidding!”

  “What’s that dear?” Mrs. O’Grady comes out of the house and down the stairs.

  “Baaaeeerrrggghhhh! Baaaeeerrrggghhhhpp! Braaaabbpptt!”

  Erin’s eyes get as big as saucers but she doesn’t move her feet.

  “Told you!” I yell, waving for her to get back.

  “Oh, da pussy, pussy, pussy…” Mrs. O’Grady is bending over, shuffling through her garden with her hand held out.

  “Oh my fucking god, she’s going to get eaten,” I say in a half-whisper.

  Erin’s hand goes to her mouth and then she starts laughing.

  She’s laughing?

  “What?” I stand up straighter, trying to see over the top of the car. It’s not difficult, being that it’s only about four feet off the ground.

  Mrs. O’Grady disappears from view for a couple seconds and then she stands. In her arms is something big and hairy and black.

  “Oh, da pussy, pussy, pussy. Is the pussy hungry?”

  “What the hell is that thing?” I say softly.

  Erin waves me in. “Grab the bags, will ye?”

  I shake my head. “You want me to come in with the goblins? No, thanks. I’ll just stay out here.”

  Mrs. O’Grady disappears into the house and Erin comes out to stand by the gate. She’s laughing. “It’s not a goblin. It’s a pussy,” she says.

  My stomach turns over. “Please don’t say that word again, especially when referencing that big hairy … I don’t even want to know what that thing is that just came out of that unholy garden of demon spawn.”

  Erin opens the gate and then un-bungies my bags from the roof. “It’s a cat, you muppet. Come on. We have to check in. She’s an official B&B, believe it or not.”

  “I’m not signing in blood.” I say, pulling my bags gingerly from the roof. I’m appalled at how dirty they’ve become being exposed to the elements.

  “She’s not a witch. She’s just a little batty.”

  “So you say now. Just wait until she puts us in a giant pot with a bunch of carrots and eye of newt,” I say, walking up the front steps with Erin. “I’m so holding this against you for the rest of our lives.”

  “I hear she makes the best homemade blood pudding,” Erin stage-whispers as we walk into the dark front hall. “Oh, did I say blood pudding? I meant black pudding.” She giggles.

  My stomach does a triple flip with a twist for added flair. “Oh … My god … You are so dead. Where’s the bathroom?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ERIN

  “THERE ARE TWO ITALIAN LADS staying in the next room!” I squeal at Ridlee as I return from my little chat with Mrs. O'Grady, the bean an tí, or ‘woman of the house’ as my mother would helpfully add.

  Our little chat ended up taking the best part of an hour, and I now know not only her medical history but also the medical histories of her two cats and her next door neighbour. “Hemorrhoids," she had mouthed at me as though letting me in on a state secret. The furry cat on her lap blinked its blue eyes as if to confirm what she said. It took all my dealing with older people skills to get away at all without offending.

  Her review of the house rules took a very long time: no showers after nine o’clock, no visitors in the rooms — especially those of the opposite sex — no drinking, and the corker — would we mind coming home before eleven each night as otherwise she would worry about us. Great.

  It seems better to break the news of the Italians to Ridlee to soften the blow of the house rules. I won’t mention the fact that they’re checking out tomorrow.

  Bent down in front of the dresser mirror, my intrepid traveling companion is just putting the finishing touches to her bangs, which look amazing, before we hit the town. She recently had her hair cut to just above her shoulders, and now the natural wave winds strands of dark brown hair around her face, framing her stunning features. With grey eyes and generous lips, it’s no wonder the boys try to befriend me in order to get to her.

  If Ridlee and I had met in school we would never have become friends; I would have found her too intimidating back then. By the time I started college in the States I’d given up on caring about what people thought of my looks and clothes, though, and to her credit, Ridlee didn’t seem to care what I looked like either. My hair is long and unruly, and while my features are pretty enough, I can’t be bothered with make-up much, or the latest fashions. I always feel a few pounds over my ideal weight, so jeans, t-shirts, and my trusty Chuck Taylors — in a range of cool colours and designs, of course — are my usual uniform. Occasionally, Ridlee will suggest a little lipstick or a particular item of clothing, but mostly she takes me as she finds me.

  “When in Rome…,” she says before blotting her lips with a tissue.

  “Ooh, sounds saucy… you mean the Italians, right? What are we gonna do to … I mean, with them?”

  “No, eejit, I mean, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Comprende?”

 
I sit on the end of the bed, genuinely flummoxed once again by Ridlee’s logic. “Sorry, no—no comprendo. Are we gonna eat gelato and strut in the street? ‘Cause the west of Ireland doesn’t really allow for that kinda thing. There’s the weather for one, it’s waay too cold for gelato in the evenings, and strutting in the rain seems kinda desperate. And it almost always rains here.”

  Ridlee raises her eyes to the heavens theatrically. “No muppet, we’re gonna get us some cute Irish guys.” It’s her ta-da moment.

  “Eh, I hate to rain on your parade, Rid, but I think you’ll find that the term cute Irish guys is in fact an oxymoron. Why do you think I moved to the States?” I ask over my shoulder, as I head to the bathroom to freshen up.

  Fifteen minutes later I am showered and dressed in a clean pair of jeans, a crisp-ish white shirt, and I’ve changed my green sneakers for my newer white ones.

  Ridlee gives me the once-over, her chin resting in her hand. Then she takes a hair comb, emblazoned with emerald-coloured stones from the dresser and expertly puts my hair into one of those messy chignon buns. Next, she pulls out what looks like lipgloss and rubs a finger tip full across my lips and into my cheeks. “Better,” she murmurs to herself. She steps back again and looks me up and down. “Something’s missing…”

  “It’s cool, Rid. Let’s go. It’s bum-fuck Ireland. It really doesn’t matter what I look like. We’re here to find this Flanagan guy and go, right?”

  “Aha!” Ridlee searches through the tiny wardrobe in the corner. That’s one thing about Rid, she takes care of her clothes. I notice now that she has unpacked her cases and is airing any items that may have suffered creasing while in transit. She produces a cute, tailored navy jacket and holds it out for me to put on.

  “Nah, Ridlee. That’s your Prada jacket. What if I spill a drink on it or something?”

  “Then you’ll have a dry-cleaning bill, won’t you?”

  Reluctantly I shuffle into the jacket.

  “Spill anything on this and you’re dead,” she whispers in my ear.

  I snap my head around to see if she’s smiling, but she’s turned away reaching for something else on the dresser.

  “Scary Ridlee.”

  “It’s a joke, silly! But seriously, just be careful.”

  I check myself out in the mirror and smile. I look good. The jacket is beautifully cut and even makes my Gap jeans look stylish. Ridlee looks amazing in her five-hundred-dollar jeans, vintage chiffon blouse, angora sweater, and brown leather boots just high enough to be sexy but low enough for the countryside. We stand in front of the mirror, arms linked, smiling.

  “Let’s go paint Doolin red!” cries Ridlee with more exuberance than I’ve seen in her since she started at law school. I guess she’s ready to let her hair down. We march down the stairs, passing Mrs. O’Grady on the way out.

  “Is off out dancin’ youse are?” she asks, brightly.

  “Yes, Mrs. O’Grady. We thought we’d have a glass of sherry or a shandy or something in one of the pubs,” I say, expertly using my older people skills again to deflect any suspicion that we are anything other than angelic.

  “Who’s Sherry?” asks Ridlee, utterly perplexed. I elbow her in the ribs.

  “Sure the craic will be ninety. Go on. Enjoy yerselves. But not too much!” Mrs. O'Grady chuckles to herself as she walks back toward the kitchen.

  “Don’t forget, eleven pm curfew, ladies!” she yells just as I’ve almost steered Ridlee out the door.

  “What? Wait…was that old lady trying to sell us crack cocaine?” Ridlee’s aghast. “And what the hell was that about a curfew? I’m twenty-four years old.” We’re walking down the street but Ridlee keeps straining her head to look back at the B&B.

  “Relax, Ridlee. Craic! It means fun and lively conversation.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” She stops dead in her tracks and pulls on the sleeve of my —well her— Prada jacket, so that I have to stop too. We’re facing each other, standing at the top of the hill that leads down into the tiny town of Doolin. The houses are all multi-coloured and I can already identify the three pubs that make the town a town.

  “Look, Erin, I don’t know what’s come over you, but we don’t need drugs to have a good time. We always have lively conversations.” She gives me a reassuring smile and folds her arms. I stare back blankly at her. “And anyway, ninety euros is waaay too expensive.” She says this as though that’s what would steer me clear of my secret drug habit.

  “Craic agus ceoil, Ridlee. It means fun and music. Ninety refers to the high level of fun to be had. Mrs. O'Grady assured us that the fun would be great. No drugs. Whad’ya take me for?”

  “Ooohhh… I see.” She grins big. “Well, let’s go have some crack then!” And with that she loops her arm through mine and starts skipping down the hill.

  It’s as quiet as a tomb when we get inside the first pub. An old man is standing behind the bar reading the local newspaper. He looks up at us as we enter.

  “Fuck, he’s seen us,” I say under my breath to Ridlee. “We have to have a drink here now.” My excitement plummets. It’s like when you pick the wrong line in the supermarket. In my mind I can see the other two pubs, bursting at the seams with people having more craic than they’ve ever had in their lives, and here we are in the graveyard of pubs.

  “Well, well, well. Aren’t you a pair of lovely ladies. What can I get ye?” Ever so slowly he shuffles to our end of the bar. It’s like watching someone in slow motion. Ridlee and I stand there, smiling to beat the band.

  “What’s this, the oldest barman in Ireland?” asks Ridlee through gritted teeth. She’s always prided herself on her ventriloquist skills.

  “No, I believe the oldest barman works in Lahinch—not too far from here, m’dear,” he says reaching our end. Ridlee actually blushes, a first for her.

  “Ahh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” she stammers.

  “Not-ta-tall! Not-ta-tall! Sure, it’s old I am. No gettin’ away from that fact. Eighty-two next birthday.” He says this with the kind of pride peculiar to the very old and the very young when giving their age. “Or is it eighty-three? I can never remember…” He shakes his head, leaning on the beer taps in front of him, lost for a moment.

  We wait patiently.

  “Not to worry, doesn’t matter.” He looks up at us. “Well, I’m not gettin’ any younger standin’ here. What can I get you lovely ladies?”

  “Eh, do you sell wine?” asks Ridlee eagerly. I have warned her that small, out-of-the-way pubs tend to do beer, stout, and hard liquor well but that wine can be a bit hit and miss, but she persists anyway.

  “Indeed I do, young lady. Indeed I do.”

  Ridlee stands there beaming at him.

  He beams back.

  Time passes.

  “Umm, could I see the wine list please?” she asks.

  “No need for a list, m’dear. It’s all up here.” He points a curled finger to his temple.

  “Fabulous! Well, do you have…?” begins Ridlee, but the barman cuts her off.

  “…We have eh, red wine,” he counts off his fingers, “and eh, white wine, but not the mixed kind.”

  “Rosé,” I offer helpfully, grinning at my friend. It’s Ridlee’s dream to own a vineyard some day; she takes her wine very seriously.

  “Wonderful,” she says with way too much enthusiasm. “I think I’ll have…,” she contemplates the bar for a moment, “…a pint of Guinness.”

  “Make that two,” I add. “And could you put a drop of blackcurrant in my friend’s pint? She’s still acquiring the taste for the black stuff.”

  “Right ye are," answers the barman winking at me. “Have a seat and sure I’ll drop them down to ye.”

  I walk after Ridlee, then pause and turn back to him. “Excuse me for asking, but you wouldn’t happen to know a Padraig Flanagan would ye?” He isn’t from Doolin, but I figure it can’t hurt to ask.

  “I knew a Padraig Flanagan of Lisdoonvarna. Might that be him?
”

  “Could be. Do you know where he lives? Or even, if he lives?”

  The barman looks at me trying to get the measure of me. I feel my heart-rate begin to quicken. Maybe he’s already dead and had no family…

  He raises his hand to his chin and rubs thoughtfully. “I went to school with a Padraig Flanagan. Nice fella. Dead now, though. Some young lass broke his heart when he was only a young fella. Don’t think he ever got over it. I’m almost sure he never married.” He looks at me closely. “I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help.”

  “Oh no, not at all. You’ve been very helpful.”

  I can’t help grinning as I sidle over to Ridlee who is sitting at a low table by the fireplace. It’s September but there’s a turf fire going and we’re glad of the heat it gives off.

  “Things are lookin’ up, Rid.” I tell her what I’ve just learned. “We might be on a flight back to Boston in a day or two if we play our cards right.” I’m finding it hard to contain my excitement.

  “Cool,” she says in response, looking round the place.

  It takes an age but our pints eventually arrive. The old man hovers at the table as I take a long swallow.

  “Wow!” I exclaim. Even Ridlee seems to like hers.

  He smiles. “You’re an American, so here’s one for ye…” He’s looking at Ridlee. “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?”

  Ridlee raises both her eyebrows and looks to me for help. I take another mouthful of creamy Guinness as I shrug.