Johanna
On Wednesday there was another …
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
My sweet darling,
I have been making plans for our weekend – would you like to do a tour of Strangford Lough? But I don’t think I can wait until Friday to see you so if I knocked on your door tomorrow evening, would you let me in?
Albert
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Of course I will let you in and I would go with you to Strangford Lough or any other place you care to name.
I wish you were here right now.
Love, love, love,
Johanna
There were more emails of course, but I think that’s enough to give a flavour of our early exchanges. And so, on Friday morning, in a haze of middle-aged love, Albert and I set off on our second adventure.
Strangford is a sea lough, deep and long and studded with islands – little drowned drumlins that rise above the surface of the water and are home to seals and a multitude of birds. We drove down the western side, along the road that leads to Mahee Island and Nendrum, where the remains of a Celtic monastery are protected by three concentric, stone-walled enclosures that circle the hillside; where bluebells grow on the slopes in spring; and where the view sweeps out over the lough. That morning, that I first stepped through the little gate and climbed the hill, it was winter and there were no bluebells, but the stillness and beauty of the place – and an undeniable current of something old and holy running beneath my feet – struck me dumb. I am an atheist and rarely lost for words, but on this occasion I was shaken.
From Nendrum we took the road that leads on to Ardmillan and Killinchy: a winding country route, twisting along past Skettrick Island, which is linked by a causeway to the mainland, and from the highest point of which there is a wonderful view of Strangford Lough. We stopped there briefly, before driving on to Killyleagh, a village that charmed me with its fairytale castle, and the pub where Albert and I ate beef and Guinness pie in the privacy of a tiny wooden booth.
‘I suppose you’ve been here many times?’ I said, as I wiped up the last of the gravy with a piece of crusty bread.
‘A few,’ he replied, ‘but never in such delightful company. And you’ve no idea how much pleasure it gives me to rediscover it like this.’
I reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘Well, you’ve no idea what a pleasure it is for me to be driven around by you, and to see so many places I had no idea existed. If we keep this up, I’ll be able to write a guide to County Down myself!’
‘Oh we’ll keep it up, all right,’ Albert promised, ‘and when we’re finished with County Down, we’ll go on to all the rest.’
It was a light-hearted exchange, but it was in a little corner shop in Killyleagh later in the day that I bought the first of the notebooks I would use to keep a detailed record of our travels.
From Killyleagh we drove to Downpatrick, but winter days are short and it seemed wiser not to stop but to press on to Strangford, with a brief stop at Castle Ward.
‘There is one little detour we could make, though, if we have time.’ I had a map spread out on my lap, together with The Traveller’s Guide. ‘According to M. Heaney, a turning to the left will take us to Audleystown Court Cairn, which is a wedge-shaped cairn with shallow courts at either end.’
‘It sounds very promising,’ Albert agreed – and with that readiness to explore that I found so endearing, he launched the car down yet another of the little roads that criss-cross the countryside like cobwebs. We found the cairn without trouble and, close by, a holy well with the charming name of Toberdoney. To anyone with an interest in such things, it is worth the detour; however, if ancient burial sites do not excite you, you should continue along the Strangford Road and enter Castle Ward by the main gate.
Castle Ward is an eighteenth-century property belonging to the National Trust, and a monument to incompatible tastes, one side being designed in the classical style admired by the then Lord Bangor, the other in the Gothic, as preferred by his wife. On that occasion it was still closed for the winter months, so we stayed just long enough to admire the grounds and the views across the lough, before driving on to Strangford.
Our original plan had been to cross to Portaferry and stay there overnight. But by now the afternoon had darkened, the wind had risen, and the sea was rough. As luck would have it, the pub where we stopped had a blazing fire and a room for the night, and so we stayed in Strangford and took the ferry the next morning, over the wild grey waters to Portaferry, where we breakfasted, to the detriment of our arteries, on the full Ulster fry.
As Albert poured me a second cup of coffee, I spread the map on the table and traced our return journey up the east side of the lough.
‘As I see it there are three possibilities open to us: we could take the most direct route north, or we could follow M. Heaney’s directions to Cooey’s Wells, where there are a couple of holy wells and a ruined church. But this would take us away from Strangford Lough and towards the sea. The third choice appears to be a little road that hugs the shoreline and joins up later with the main road north. What do you think?’
Albert regarded me with the wonderment of a man who could no more tell north from south than walk upside down. ‘My darling,’ he said, ‘the choice is yours.’ And the way he said ‘my darling’ turned my bones to butter.
‘Then I propose that we follow the shore. After all, this is supposed to be a circuit of the lough. Cooey’s Wells will keep.’
We did in fact return to Cooey’s Wells at a later date, and found that there are three: one for drinking, one for washing, and one with healing properties. As I had recently injured an ankle, I thought it worth submerging my foot, but I noticed no improvement. If anything, there was a slight increase in my discomfort. When I told Dolores of my experience, she said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Johanna – you have to be a Catholic for it to work. Protestants and atheists haven’t got a prayer. And you’re a foreigner.’
It was a wild and beautiful day when Albert and I set off along the eastern side of the lough. The tide was rushing in, clouds were racing overhead, and the colours of the land and sea changed constantly as the sun came and went through fitful showers of rain.
‘We’ll come back in the summer,’ Albert promised, when the road finally turned inland and away from the lough. ‘We’ll bring a picnic, and we’ll paddle.’
I laughed. ‘I can’t imagine it ever being warm enough for me to paddle! But I’ll look forward to the picnic.’ I looked down at the map and traced our route. ‘Greyabbey is the next place we come to. Is there an abbey there?’
‘There was,’ said Albert, ‘and the ruins are worth a visit, but they won’t be open today. If we press on, though, we might just get a walk around Mount Stewart before the rain sets in.’
Mount Stewart is another National Trust property, famous for its gardens, and justly so: the house is interesting enough, with some notable furniture, and there is a charming Temple of the Winds overlooking Strangford Lough, but it is the grounds that are the glory of the estate.
The house is closed until early March, as are the formal gardens, but in February you can walk, as we did, through the lakeside area, or follow one of the many woodland paths that loop between the ancient trees and banks of flowering shrubs.
‘I’m sorry we can’t see all the gardens,’ Albert said, as we completed our circuit of the lake. ‘They are quite something, you know, and there are some wonderfully sinister stone monkeys that I think you’d like. But we’ll come back in the spring or summer.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ I replied, ‘although it’s been a wonderful day as it is, and you are an excellent guide: you seem to know about everything.’
‘My parents were pillars of the Belfast Natural History and Philosophical Society,’ said Albert. ‘As children we were always being dragged off on educationa
l outings. My sisters used to complain bitterly, but in my case it was the beginning of a lifelong interest – and it’s nice to be able to indulge it now that I’ve retired.’
I already knew that Albert’s working life had been spent in the forgotten passages of the Classics department at Queen’s University, that his two sisters lived abroad, and that we had a surprising number of interests in common. Now, as the rain which had threatened all day began at last to fall in earnest, and we sprinted towards the car, I thought again how happy I was, and how lucky we were to have found each other.
And I know what you are thinking: was it all so romantic, so idyllic? Reader, go and pour yourself a fortifying glass of wine – or better still, a large gin and tonic. Real life is waiting just around the corner.
Chapter 3
Albert lived at 16 Chestnut Avenue, a tall thin house in the south of the city, and next door, at number 18, lived his ex-wife, Carmel. It was at number 18 that he and Carmel had lived for most of their turbulent married life, and where they had been joined in due course by Norah and Rosie, whose childish voices had provided lighter notes in the discordant symphony of flying crockery (Carmel) and furious silences (Albert) that formed the background music to their days.
It was shortly after Rosie’s fifteenth birthday that Albert had finally moved out – and into the house next door. Thus was peace restored to Chestnut Avenue, and with the girls free to move at will between the two houses, Albert had congratulated himself on having caused as little disruption to their lives as possible. It was, he said, an eminently civilised arrangement. So, when he ushered me through the gate one early spring evening, I was looking forward not just to my first night in Albert’s house, but to it being the first of many such visits.
However, we were only halfway up the garden path when a window flew up in the house next door and a voice rang out.
‘I see you, Albert Morrow,’ it yelled. ‘Adulterer!’
Albert propelled me up the path and through the door with surprising speed. It was not an auspicious start, and even before we had passed through the hallway and into a long kitchen at the back of the house, I had started to revise my expectations. The kitchen itself had a certain idiosyncratic charm, with books heaped everywhere, and on the shelves a clutter of objects that reflected Albert’s many interests, but the muffled crescendo of crashes and thumps coming from next door was beginning to cause me serious concern.
‘I’m so sorry, Johanna.’ Albert removed a pile of books from a chair and invited me to sit down at the kitchen table before uncorking a bottle and pouring two glasses of wine; then he reached across the table for my hand. ‘I thought Carmel was away – I wouldn’t have brought you home if I’d known she was back: she’s rather highly strung.’
There was the sound of splintering glass outside. The woman was clearly unhinged.
I sipped my wine and took a moment before I spoke. ‘Does she always react like this when you bring someone home?’
‘She hasn’t really had much cause to – until now,’ Albert replied.
There was another loud thud, then a crash.
‘But why would she accuse you of adultery? You’ve been divorced for … what? Five years?’
‘Well,’ he shifted uncomfortably, ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. The fact is that we have been separated for five years, but not actually divorced. I realise that I may, inadvertently, have given you the impression that we were divorced – and in my own mind, I do assure you, Johanna, I most certainly am – but as far as Carmel is concerned, divorce has never been an option.’
It is perhaps because I grew up speaking two languages that I always choose my words with care, and the more upset I am, the more carefully I speak. Now I took a deep, slow breath.
‘Albert,’ I said, ‘you have just used the words “inadvertently” and “impression” and I must tell you that, in this context, I do not like them. I was married for many years to a master of the art of inadvertent impressions, and while I have no strong feelings either way on divorce – except to say that it is probably tidier than separation – I do like to know exactly where I stand. I am also a stickler for the truth. I hope that you will remember this in future.’
He was still digesting this information when we heard the front door open. To my relief, it was not Albert’s enraged wife who erupted into the room but a cross-looking young woman with a silent ginger youth in tow.
‘Johanna, this is my daughter, Norah,’ said Albert, ‘and her boyfriend, Kevin.’
Norah eyed me narrowly. ‘Well, I’m sorry you’ve got company,’ she said, ‘but there’s no way we can watch Culture Creep next door now that you’ve gone and upset Mum.’
Even I had heard of Culture Creep: it was a new and peculiarly nasty reality TV show, beloved, it seemed, by everyone under the age of forty, including my own children. I think the idea was to bring together an interesting cross section of the different cultures in society, but in my opinion all it managed to prove was that every culture has its fair share of creeps. Norah walked past her father and switched on a large television in the corner of the kitchen. The demented sound of the Culture Creep audience baying for blood filled the room, but at least it drowned out the noise from next door.
Then the door opened again and a second refugee appeared. This one was small and plump with curtains of dark hair and a sorrowful expression.
‘She’s just broken Granny’s tureen,’ she said.
‘Oh God,’ said Albert. ‘That was Sèvres!’
‘I’m Rosie.’ The newcomer looked at me with marginally more interest than her sister had shown. ‘Sorry to crash your evening like this, but it’s getting dangerous at home!’ She rolled her eyes, then gave me a knowing little grin to let me know she wasn’t the least bit sorry before plonking herself down next to her sister.
I waited for Albert to tell them that it was hard luck but he had his own evening planned, and they could all just take themselves off again, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood there looking like a man who had unexpectedly found himself between a tiger and a pride of lions and was wondering how on earth to get away unscathed.
And it occurred to me suddenly that I might be underestimating the unseen Carmel: quite possibly she wasn’t deranged at all, just creating havoc in order to drive her children next door. After all, what surer way to ruin Albert’s chances of a night of passion? The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Whatever the truth of the matter, there didn’t seem much hope of rescuing the evening.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I was just going anyway,’ and abandoning my wine, I left. Of course it was only when I was outside that I remembered that I didn’t have my own car, but Albert had hurried after me, and drove me home.
It was a silent journey: I was adjusting my expectations of being welcomed into the bosom of Albert’s family, while Albert was probably hoping that least said would be soonest mended – or, at any rate, forgotten.
The road home from Belfast winds down the coast to the seaside town of Bangor. On the way are Holywood and the leafy suburbs of Helen’s Bay, Carnalea and Crawfordsburn. There are golf courses, picturesque inns and a country park with delightful walks. By day the colours of the lough change with the weather, and there is a never-ending procession of cargo ships and ferries going to and fro.
Just after Holywood, we turned down to Seapark. On high summer weekends and evenings the lawns and paths are crowded, but on a cold moonlit night there is often no one there at all, and it is as good a place as any for some quiet reflection. Albert and I stood for some time at the edge of the water, looking out at the lights on the other side of the lough, as we listened to the soothing suck and hiss of the sea.
Eventually my silence wore him down and he was forced to speak. ‘Johanna,’ he said, ‘I am so sorry for the unfortunate way the evening has turned out. I realise I didn’t manage things very well, but perhaps we could talk about it all another day?’
He sounded so weary t
hat I turned and took him in my arms. I kissed him and told him not to worry: I said I was sure it would all be all right in the end, and at the time, I believed that. Then I suggested that we go home to my blessedly child-free sanctuary and open another bottle of wine. So that is what we did, and the evening ended in a most satisfactory manner after all.
Chapter 4
The next week was a busy one. As well as my three days at Archibald’s, I sometimes helped out on a Friday afternoon at the Good Intentions Bookshop. This particular week Dolores was away, having twisted an ankle while walking in the Mournes, and her temporary absence from work had caused a surge in custom: the tougher customers felt they had a better chance of picking up a bargain – or of browbeating the staff into a discount – but most of the regulars simply felt safer when Dolores wasn’t there.
Sybilla, having roped me in to help, had gone home to take Percy to the vet (a case of suspected claw rot – or something) and had left me with Basil, an eighty-year-old whose interests were bee-keeping and opera. According to Good Intentions policy, therefore, he was in charge of keeping those sections of the shop in order. As there were rarely any books on either subject, his duties were light, and he spent most of his time fiddling with the radio to ensure that both programme and volume met his particular requirements.
When I arrived, the powerful sound of Götterdämmerung was rending the air and Basil was gazing with a perplexed expression at the till, while a small but restive queue of customers waited to be served.
‘Ah, Johanna, we seem to have a slight problem: it says the total is £2,001.50. That can’t be right.’
‘It should be £3.50,’ said the customer indignantly. ‘This one’s £2 and this one’s £1.50. How difficult is that?’
Luckily, Wagnerian crescendos drowned out the rest of his comments on Basil’s diminishing brain cells, but after him came a ferrety-looking woman who did her best to take advantage of the situation.
The Traveller's Guide to Love Page 2