The Guesthouse on the Green Series Box Set 2

by Michelle Vernal

  ‘Doctor Burke said it was viral last time she went and it’s probably still in her system. These things can hang about for a long while you know,’ Hilary had said, as though she were an expert on the subject of mystery viruses. ‘I don’t know what you expect me to do about it from here, Bronagh? I’m not exactly around the corner, now am I? And I can’t drop everything because Mam’s a little under the weather.’ She’d been defensive. ‘I’ve a family to be thinking of.’

  And don’t we know it, Bronagh had thought. It was her sister’s trump card. ‘I, didn’t ask you to drop everything.’ She hadn’t rung to fight and bit back the question as to what she’d be dropping exactly. Her bridge club or luncheon with The Wives of the Businessmen of Tramore Society perhaps? She’d made that up but it was the sort of thing Hilary would swan along to, were it to exist. She’d tried to keep her voice steady because this wasn’t about her and Hilary, it was about Mam. ‘I’m trying to explain to you it’s more than her being under the weather, I’m sure of it. She was better, back to her old self and then after she took herself down to the shops, she just crashed. Her memory’s not right either, Hilary. She’s forgetting things which isn’t like her. Mam’s sharp as a tack usually. I’m worried and I thought you’d want to be kept in the loop.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well then, I was hoping you’d talk some sense into her and get her to go back to Doctor Burke again. She pooh-poohs the idea whenever I bring it up but she listens to you. I’d take her myself but I’ve only just started at O’Mara’s. Do you remember the Georgian guesthouse by St Stephen’s Green?

  ‘Yes, I remember it.’

  Not so much as a hint of interest in her voice, Bronagh thought, not knowing why this stung even though she’d expected no different. ‘Well, I’m their new receptionist and I don’t want to be asking for time off so soon in the picture.’ She’d had a bright idea. ‘Could Mam come and stay with you for a week or so? The salt air might perk her up and she hasn’t seen the children in a good while.’

  She’d heard the horror in Hilary’s voice, aghast at the very idea. ‘So, you’d have Declan and Erin catching whatever it is Mam’s picked up, would you?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s contagious, Hilary. I never got it. Sure, I’m fit as a fiddle.’

  There’d been a weighty sigh. ‘Well I can’t risk it. What sort of a mother would that make me? Go and fetch her. I’ll have a word.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can get her to come downstairs. She’s in bed.’

  ‘At this time of the day?’

  Bronagh had rolled her eyes. Had her sister not listened to a word she’d been saying?

  ‘I haven’t got all day. The children will be wanting their tea soon.’

  Bronagh’s hand had trembled with rage as she put the receiver down on the shelf where the telephone sat and she’d taken a steadying breath before calling, ‘Mammy,’ as she took to the stairs. She’d poked her head around the bedroom door dismayed to find the room dark despite it being light still outside. It was stuffy and smelt of skin and the washing liquid they used for their laundry. She’d open the curtains and the windows a crack to let some fresh air in, in a minute. ‘Mammy, Hilary’s on the telephone wanting a word.’ She’d moved closer to the bed and two eyes had blinked up at her. Her mam’s dressing gown was sprawled at the bottom of the bed and she’d picked it up. ‘C’mon now. She’s waiting. Can you sit up?’

  ‘Hilary’s on the phone?’ There’d been a spark in her mam’s weary voice at the mention of her eldest daughter. ‘Help me up, Bronagh. There’s a girl. It’s good of her to call. She’s very busy you know, what with the children and running that house of hers.’

  Bronagh had wanted to snort. It irked her the way her mam put her selfish mare of a sister on a pedestal when she was the one who worked full time, but making a snidey remark wouldn’t help matters. ‘Here we are pop this on, Mam.’ She’d held out her dressing gown for her and when she’d slipped her arms inside it, she’d belted it closed. She’d kept a tight hold of her arm as she helped her down the stairs. How they’d manage the coming back up, she didn’t know. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it. Her mam’s body seemed to be giving up on her and, not trusting her ability to stand on her own for long, she’d dragged a chair in from the kitchen for her to sit on. She’d waited beside her until she’d sat down and said, ‘Hello.’ before taking herself off into the kitchen to put the potatoes on to boil. She who’d nothing important to do with her time if Hilary were to be believed! She’d kept her ear cocked to see how the conversation played out.

  ‘The doctor’s, you say?’ Her mam’s voice had sounded thin, reedy almost. There was silence as she’d listened to whatever it was Hilary was saying. ‘Ah now, you know Bronagh can be dramatic. I’m a little tired that’s all, but yes, if it makes you feel better, I promise I’ll go tomorrow. How are the children? Are they about?’

  Her grandchildren’s voices would have been a tonic for her mam, Bronagh had thought, but Hilary had already ended the call.

  ‘She’s very busy. She’s a function to go to this evening and she had to give the children their tea.’ Myrna had excused her eldest daughter’s rush to get off the phone as she appeared in the kitchen doorway, Bronagh turned the boiling water down a notch and pulled out a chair for her.

  ‘Sit down, Mam,’ she’d said, before tossing the sausages in the fry pan. She’d heard her mam sigh over the top of the hissing, spitting sausages.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re always prickly when it comes to your sister.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are, I can see it in the set of your shoulders now. You shouldn’t be worrying her like that either. She’s enough on her plate. I’m alright, you know, but if it means you’ll stop panicking and telling all and sundry your old mam’s on death’s door, I’ll go and see Doctor Burke tomorrow.’

  Bronagh had stabbed a fat sausage with a fork, that was something at least.

  Now, as her mam sipped her tea, she asked her how she’d gotten on. ‘What did Doctor Burke have to say this time around Mam, has he given you anything to take?’

  ‘He couldn’t find anything wrong with me. I’m worn out that’s all. He thought it might be women’s problems. This here,’ she raised her teacup, ‘is better than any pills he could prescribe.’

  Bronagh shook her head and left her to enjoy her tea. It was like banging her head against a brick wall trying to get anywhere. Women’s problems, was a broad term for I haven’t a clue what’s wrong with you, she thought, taking herself off to the kitchen to peel the potatoes and carrots to go in the hotpot she was making for their dinner.

  Present

  The fax clicking and whirring into life brought Bronagh back to the here and now. She’d never thought she’d become a caregiver. It was a role that had sneaked up on her. It wasn’t as though she’d gone for an interview as she’d done for this job, here at O’Mara’s. There’d been no reference from her previous employer to hand over to be glanced at. She hadn’t had to smile and put her best foot forward, it had simply happened. A gradual slide as her mam’s bouts of being unwell had continued to recur. She’d thought, as most women her age back then had done, she’d marry and have children, taken it for granted she’d do so in fact. Kevin had wanted to marry her, she was sure of it, even if he hadn’t gotten around to asking her. It wasn’t meant to be, though. She wouldn’t think about him. It would do nothing to improve her mood. Bronagh didn’t believe in regrets but if she did, she’d regret the way things had turned out. Her sigh came from deep within her as she got up from the seat to see what the machine behind her was spitting out.

  Chapter 9

  Maureen bustled into her old stamping ground, the guesthouse, where things were ticking over nicely in Aisling’s absence. She’d left Pooh at home this morning having loaded her stereo with country music CDs and setting it to random selection. He’d given a mournful howl as she’d pushed play and edged her way out the door, which Maureen was
certain was an attempt at singing along with Loretta Lynn. He really was very clever, she thought, sneaking out the door and leaving him to it.

  She hadn’t come to O’Mara’s to check up on the staff; they were all perfectly capable of managing on their own for the fortnight, Aisling was away. All of them, except perhaps, Ita. Maureen might give her a gentle rally today and it wouldn’t do any harm to check on the rooms that were expecting guests tonight to ensure they were up to standard. She was young, Ita, and needed to be steered in the right direction until she could find her place in the world. Maureen had a soft spot for their director of housekeeping as she called herself because she knew she’d had a tough time when her dad had left, as had her mammy, Maureen’s old friend. As for Bronagh, whose dark head she could make out behind the enormous vase of blooms, she’d worked for them for thirty odd years and could run the place with her eyes shut, and her hands tied behind her back too, come to that. She was more than their receptionist, she was part of the furniture, she was family.

  ‘How’re ye, Bronagh,’ she trilled. She had the paper she wanted her to type and print off the computer clutched in her hand. In her other was a brown paper bag in which she had two fresh, sugar topped ginger-snap cookies. They were so fresh they were still warm and she knew Bronagh was partial to anything ginger—anything sweet, more to the point. She was easy to please was Bronagh.

  Bronagh jumped, she’d been so engrossed in the letter she was reading she hadn’t heard the door open. She swiftly tucked the piece of paper away in her top drawer beside the replenished biscuit stock. Its arrival along with this morning’s post, which in Aisling’s absence she was taking care of, had done wonders to lift the fug that had settled over her these past few days. The letters had been arriving like clockwork once a week since Christmas; she wrote back with equal regularity. It had all begun with a Christmas card addressed to her personally which had been sent here to the guesthouse. These letters warmed her and lifted her spirits during the bleak wintery weeks. She hoped hers were having the same effect across the water there.

  ‘Grand, Maureen. Yourself?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t complain.’

  ‘No, I hear not.’

  Maureen appeared around the side of the desk with narrowed eyes. ‘Moira?’

  ‘Moira,’ Bronagh confirmed.

  ‘Jaysus wept, that girl! Shall I make us a cup of tea so we can enjoy our morning treat?’ She held up the paper bag.

  ‘A grand plan, Maureen,’ Bronagh said as the gently spiced aroma of ginger teased her.

  The guests’ lounge was deserted and Maureen set about making the tea and running an eye over the place. She’d tell Ita it could do with a dust. Bronagh was on the telephone when she came back in and placed the cups and saucers carefully down on the front desk. She disappeared again and returned a moment later with two side plates for their biscuits. The door burst open before she could take so much as a bite or sip and, with Bronagh still on the phone, Maureen snapped back into her old role.

  ‘Good morning and welcome to O’Mara’s.’ Her eyes widened at the sight of the tall, thin man, clad in tweed with a matching cap on top of his head. He had a clipboard in his hand and looked like he’d just got off the bus from the Village of Back of Beyond. His smile, revealing a missing tooth, cemented her first impression. The more she stared the more she thought he had a look of Colm, one of her Brother’s Grimm about him.

  ‘Ruaraidh’s the name,’ it came out as a lisped, ‘Rory.’

  ‘And a grand name it is too. What can I be doing for you today?’ All that was missing was a piece of straw between his teeth.

  ‘I’m here to pick up a couple from America.’ He looked at the clipboard he held in his hand. ‘The Claremonts from Virginia. I’m their tour guide.’

  Sweet and Merciful Jesus! What impression would the couple take home of Ireland with him as their guide? Maureen thought, with a shake of her head.

  Bronagh put the phone down and finished scribbling the message she’d taken before peering over at Ruaraidh. ‘I’ll ring their room and tell them you’re here.’

  ‘Where’s the pretty red-headed girl?’ Ruaraidh leered about the place.

  Yes, he definitely reminded Maureen of her brother, Colm. ‘On her honeymoon,’ she said in a clipped voice, to quell any ideas he might be having under that tweed cap of his. A huffing and puffing akin to a train pulling into its stop sounded behind her and she spun around to see their breakfast cook, Mrs Flaherty. She was even redder in the cheeks than normal, if possible.

  ‘Maureen, I thought I heard your voice.’

  Holy God Above Tonight! The woman had better hearing than a bat, Maureen thought, taking a step back as Mrs Flaherty drew breath before launching into her speech.

  ‘It’s no fecking good. Something’s got to be done about that fecking fox!’

  Ruiraidh’s eyes popped at the apparition in the apron as he thought to himself, surely she was a woman who should be baking apple pie not cursing like a sailor?

  At least it had stopped him poking his head about the place to see if Maureen was only teasing when she’d said Aisling was away because she was in fact hiding behind the sofa. It was either that or he was checking for dust.

  The Claremonts appeared on the landing, each clutching a suitcase. Poor Mrs Claremont was holding the cross around her neck as if to ward off the spectre of the swearing Irish cook.

  Maureen went into damage control. ‘Mrs Flaherty, come back downstairs with me and we’ll see if we can’t sort this out. Good morning to you, Mr and Mrs Claremont. You’re in for a grand day to start your tour of our fair isle today so you are, there’s definitely a hint of blue under those rain clouds. Mark my words, the sun will be shining in an hour.’

  The forecast was for rain and more rain followed by rain but they didn’t need to know that, she thought, beaming up at them before herding Mrs Flaherty back to the kitchen. Bronagh better not eat her ginger snap as well as her own, was her last thought before she began to pacify the cook who was threatening to storm the Iveagh Gardens behind them where the little red fox was holed up, her rolling pin her weapon. Foxy Loxy had paid a visit the night before by all accounts and left a telltale trail of debris all the way to his hole under the bricked wall.

  By the time she’d returned, having made promises of sealing holes up she had no intention of keeping, reception was quiet once more and her tea was stone cold. Bronagh who had indeed been eyeing her ginger snap had thought better of helping herself and instead had gotten up to waft the air freshener about.

  ‘That Ruiraidh fellow smelled of horses,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t fancy being shut in a bus with him for hours on end.’

  Maureen breathed in the Arpège fragranced freshener she’d bought for the guesthouse, pleased it was being used.

  ‘It reminds me of you, this does, Maureen. Whenever Aisling’s after spraying it about the place I’m always looking over my shoulder expecting to see you there.’ She put the cap back on the canister and sat down. Maureen perched on the edge of the fax table and both women settled in for a good chat.

  ‘So, what’s his name and what’s he like this fella of yours, and is he a toy boy?’ Bronagh watched as Maureen’s face seemed to come alive as she described him.

  ‘He’s five years older than me. His name’s Donal, Donal McCarthy and he’s a widower.’ She gave Bronagh the same spiel she’d given Moira, adding. ‘And he’s kind and generous. He makes me laugh and when I’m around him I feel young again.’

  Bronagh felt wistful stirrings. ‘Is he a silver fox then?’

  ‘No, I’d say more a silver bear.’ She polished off her ginger biscuit deciding she could trust Bronagh and besides, she wanted to confide in someone who would be excited for her not like the old bionic hip of Howth, Rosemary Farrell. ‘He’s a dead ringer for Kenny Rogers and he sings in a Kenny Rogers Tribute band.’

  ‘I love Coward of the County.’ Bronagh was animated as she hummed the old tune. ‘Does he wear the white
suit with the waistcoat. A natty dresser is Kenny.’

  ‘He does and Donal does a very good rendition of Coward of the County. Although, I prefer The Gambler myself. Bronagh, don’t be breathing a word about his hobby to Moira, will you? She’s been making enough wisecracks as it is. I’d rather she met him without any preconceptions.’

  ‘Fair play to you, but these things have a way of getting out, Maureen. It won’t be thanks to me though and I’m happy for you,’ Bronagh said, and she meant it.

  Maureen leaned over and patted the receptionist’s hand. ‘You’re the first person to say that to me. Thank you, Bronagh, it means a lot to me.’

  ‘Are the girls taking a bit of getting used to the idea then or is it just one in particular?’

  ‘Moira?’

  Bronagh nodded.

  ‘She was very close to her daddy being the baby of the family and all.’

  ‘Ah, don’t be making excuses for her. They all were, Maureen, and as I said to Moira the other day, just because your mammy’s met someone who’s making her happy doesn’t mean she’s stopped loving your daddy. It doesn’t diminish what they had.’

  Maureen’s eyes burned with threatened tears and she sniffed in an effort to keep them at bay, blinking rapidly. ‘Oh, Bronagh, I’m frightened they’re all going to hate each other on sight.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His daughters, Louise and Anna, and my three. Donal’s wanting to organise a lunch for us all to meet when Aisling’s back and Roisin’s next over. He says he feels like we’re sneaking around the place and he’s too long in the tooth for that.’

  ‘That sounds a very sensible thing to do and I think you’re worrying over nothing. Once the girls have seen for themselves, Donal’s a nice man with good intentions toward their mammy, they’ll be grand. It’s the unknown you see. They’ve vivid imaginations your three, they’ll be picturing all sorts.’

  Maureen thought about yer busking one who whistled through the gap where his front teeth used to be.