The Traveller's Guide to Love

by Helen Nicholl

  Albert didn’t come in with me when we got back: he had the beginnings of a headache, he said – the onset of a chill, perhaps – and although I suspected it was probably due to anxiety at the prospect of further upheavals in his life, I felt contrite.

  ‘Go home,’ I said, ‘and tuck yourself up with a hot-water bottle, and I’m sorry if I upset you – it’s just that I cannot bear any skulking around. I love you so much, but I want our relationship to be open and honest, and fair to us both.’

  Then I kissed him tenderly and went inside to heat up the stew I had planned to share with him. But even before the meal was ready – just as I poured a glass of good South African Pinotage to accompany it – my telephone rang.

  I was expecting a call from Finn, my eldest son, who had left a message for me earlier, and it was also the time of day that my daughter Ellie tended to phone, so I went to answer it eagerly. But it was neither Finn nor Ellie.

  ‘Is that Johanna?’ a female voice enquired. ‘This is Norah Morrow, Albert’s daughter.’

  My stomach dropped as I envisaged disaster: a car crash, a heart attack brought on by stress … but it was none of these.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ she said, ‘but I found your number next to the phone and I wondered if my father was with you?’

  ‘He left ten minutes ago,’ I replied. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s just that we expected him back a bit earlier – it’s Mum’s birthday and we’re waiting for him to be take us out for dinner.’

  ‘Well I’m sure he’ll be there any minute now,’ I said. ‘Enjoy your evening.’

  I replaced the receiver and drank the wine in one gulp – then I hurled the glass with a force that even Carmel Morrow might have envied into Sticky Wicket’s tastefully tiled fireplace.

  Chapter 6

  From: johannavanheerden@hotmail.com

  To: aj.morrow@googlemail.co.uk

  Dear Albert,

  I am not sure what I feel about the man I love taking his estranged wife out to dinner, but what I am sure of is that I object to being deceived. If you have other arrangements it is better to say so at the start rather than to pretend to be ill. Sticky Wicket is scratching at my door. I think I might let him in to console me.

  Johanna

  From: aj.morrow@googlemail.co.uk

  To: johannavanheerden@hotmail.com

  My darling Johanna,

  I am so very sorry. The girls had arranged the dinner and I didn’t want to disappoint them but I knew it would make you unhappy and I couldn’t bear to distress you. I should have told you. If it is any comfort, it was not a success: the food was poor and Carmel threatened to hit the waiter. I wished the whole time that I had been with you.

  Please forgive me – or at least let me see you tomorrow so that I can plead my case. And for God’s sake don’t let Sticky Wicket in.

  Your loving (if unloved)

  Albert

  From: johannavanheerden@hotmail.com

  To: aj.morrow@googlemail.co.uk

  Coffee. Tomorrow. 11 a.m. at Archie’s. And I expect you to grovel.

  Johanna

  From: aj.morrow@googlemail.co.uk

  To: johannavanheerden@hotmail.com

  I will be there on the dot, on my knees. And if you will let me, I will take you to lunch. And to dinner. And to Paris in the spring … you beautiful thing.

  Love,

  Albert xxxx

  Of course, there were other emails flying back and forth, as I later discovered.

  From: ellie3os@hotmail.com

  To: fingarden@hotmail.com

  Finn, why don’t you ever answer your phone? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days.

  Ellie

  From: fingarden@hotmail.com

  To: ellie3os@hotmail.com

  Hi Ellie, sorry, we’ve been a bit busy and I lost my phone. What’s all this about our ma falling in love? She hasn’t said anything to me. We’re going to Marta’s family for Easter so I’m not likely to see her for a while. I wouldn’t worry about her though: he’s hardly likely to be after her money! When are you coming home yourself? Marta and Pip say hi.

  Love from me,

  Finn

  From: ellie3os@hotmail.com

  To: nualavanshea@gmail.co.uk

  Hi Nuala-pie. Did you know Ma was seeing someone? I think you and Seamus should go over at Easter and report back. I’ve had some very strange emails lately: it could just be senility but I suspect it’s Love.

  From: nualavanshea@gmail.co.uk

  To: ellie3os@hotmail.com

  What, you mean like a mad passionate affair?

  From: ellie3os@hotmail.com

  To: nualavanshea@gmail.co.uk

  Yes

  From: nualavanshea@gmail.com

  To: ellie3os@hotmail.com

  Ew!

  Chapter 7

  Downpatrick is the county town of Down and boasts two famous hills: one is the Mound of Down, site of an ancient Ulster stronghold; the other is the Hill of Down, where a large stone in the churchyard of the Church of Ireland cathedral is said to mark Saint Patrick’s burial place – although this, like so much else in Northern Ireland, is disputed. What cannot be denied is the commanding position of the cathedral itself: long before the town comes into view, the traveller approaching from the north will see its twin spires, as sharp and uncompromising as the pricked ears of a Dobermann on guard.

  Some time between St Patrick’s Day and Easter, Albert and I drove directly to Downpatrick from Belfast, stopping just before the town itself to see the ruins of Inch Abbey. This is another ancient site – according to M. Heaney there was a monastery here by 800 ad – but the Gothic remains, which have been most beautifully restored, are of a later Cistercian abbey. There were one or two other people wandering, like us, between the grey stone walls and arches, and across the springing grass that sloped down to the edge of a little lake, but we had a wooden bench to ourselves, with a view of the ruins, and beyond them, trees and hills, and sunlit water.

  I lifted my face to the sun and sighed with pleasure. ‘How lovely it is to be able to sit outside again and feel the sun. It’s one of the things I miss so much, just being outside and feeling warm.’

  ‘Do you get very homesick?’ Albert sounded worried.

  ‘Not as much as I used to.’ I squeezed his hand. ‘But I haven’t been home for a couple of years, and I’ve been thinking I should make a trip back soon.’

  ‘Do you plan to be away for long?’

  ‘A couple of weeks, perhaps. It’s too far to go for less.’

  A solitary magpie landed a few feet away. A moment later it was joined by another. One for sorrow, two for joy, I thought.

  Albert cleared his throat. ‘I don’t suppose you would consider letting me come with you?’

  ‘Oh, Albert, nothing would make me happier!’ I flung my arms around him. ‘I so badly want you to meet all my family – especially Frederika – and besides, I don’t really think I could bear to go without you.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ Albert replied, and scandalised a passing couple of twenty-somethings by returning my embrace with unseemly enthusiasm.

  From Inch Abbey we went on to Downpatrick, where the steeply climbing Mall leads up to a museum, housed in an eighteenth-century gaol. We wandered happily through it and through the unusually small and charming cathedral, and then went back into the ancient town, which we planned to explore further – until a sudden shower of rain drove us to abandon cultural pursuits in favour of a pub with a glorious peat fire.

  ‘Johanna,’ said Albert, some time later, ‘very few things give me as much pleasure as seeing the way you can clear a plate, but sometimes I can’t help wondering if you went hungry as a child?’

  ‘Not if I was quick,’ I replied, as I spooned up the last buttery juices of my salmon. ‘There were a lot of us. And that reminds me: have you made any plans for Easter?’

  Albert, who had been gazing at me fondly, immediately
looked stricken. ‘Ah, well, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it … the thing is, Johanna, I have a cousin I don’t see very often who will be over from Canada with her daughters, and Carmel has gone and invited everyone for lunch on Easter Sunday. They have a very busy schedule so it would be a chance to see them all at once, but– ’

  I reached out a slightly buttery finger and laid it gently on his lips. ‘It’s fine, Albert. As it happens, I’m having lunch with Socrates: the twins are coming home for Easter and he has invited us all out – and the opportunity to get Socrates to pay for a slap-up meal is such a rarity that I couldn’t bring myself to turn it down.’

  ‘Socrates?’ Albert looked stunned. ‘I thought you’d left him somewhere in Africa.’

  ‘I did. But it turns out he’s been living in Dublin for a while and as he is putting himself up in luxury while he’s here, it appears that whatever he’s up to, it has been successful. Criminal, probably, but lucrative.’ I drained the last of my Sauvignon Blanc. ‘Anyway, Nuala and Seamus are going back down to Dublin with him after Easter, but I do want you to meet them, so I thought we might have a picnic on Easter Monday?’

  ‘With Socrates?’ Albert looked horrified.

  ‘Certainly not. He has dodgy relatives he can visit. Just you, me and the twins.’

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ said Albert. ‘And now, my darling, what’s next – the St Patrick’s Centre, or the Ballynoe Stone Circle – or both?’

  The Ballynoe Stone Circle lies south of Downpatrick, just off the road to Killough. As usual, M. Heaney’s directions and description turned out to be exact. It was indeed a gentle and unusual site, accessed by a long, upward-sloping lane arched by thorn trees, which give a fairy-like atmosphere to the place. The outer circle, 108 feet in diameter, is made up of large stones, some more than six feet tall. There are smaller stones and a cairn within, and wonderful sweeping views of the surrounding countryside. On the day that we were there, a herd of cows grazed peacefully around us and away to the southwest – now that the rain had stopped – the Mournes were clearly visible. We leaned against each other and drank in the tranquillity and beauty of the place.

  ‘Look,’ said Albert. ‘See how the hawthorn is beginning to bud. The blossom will be out in May.’

  It was Albert who told me that fairy thorns are never cut, for fear of bringing bad luck. You will see them often, in the middle of a field, with plough marks all around but the tree untouched. And perhaps it was the magic of the thorn trees that made Albert take both my hands in his just then.

  ‘Johanna, my darling, we’ll come back in May to see the blossom, and we’ll go to Paris, and to South Africa too! And by autumn I hope the house will be sold, and you and I will have found somewhere to live together.’

  I had to squeeze my eyes shut against the tears as I put my arms around him and hugged him fiercely. I could see us clearly, snug in a warm interior, with snow outside and a Christmas tree in the window, mulled wine steaming gently … then I opened my eyes, and froze.

  ‘Albert,’ I whispered, ‘I think one of those cows is a bull!’

  Fortunately Albert was a countryman born and bred, and he knew just what to do. We retreated, slowly but steadily, with Albert placing himself between the bull and me, until we were close enough to the entrance to the lane to sprint for safety. But it was a cautionary experience, and the traveller in rural Ireland will be well advised to look carefully before venturing into unknown territory.

  There is another unusually large stone circle much closer to Belfast: this is the Giant’s Ring, and is the only prehistoric site that I visited without Albert. The ring itself is an enormous bank of earth and stones lying in a bend of the river Lagan, and is the largest ritual enclosure in the country. There is a dolmen in the centre, and according to M. Heaney the chamber once contained fragments of cremated bone, but otherwise the history of the place remains a mystery.

  My reason for being there, later that year, was that one of the Good Intentions volunteers lived in the area, and had invited me to tea. She had spent her childhood in South Africa, so we passed a pleasant afternoon reminiscing over scones and homemade jam. Agnes was a tiny, energetic woman with strong opinions who shared her house with half a dozen cats, and fed several other cats and dogs in the neighbourhood, as well as two donkeys in a field across the way, and such birds as had the wit to avoid the cats.

  Just I was about to leave, a young man whom I had taken for a gardener, approached us and was introduced by Agnes as her nephew, Marc.

  He dusted off his hands to shake mine, then pointed to the shrubbery where he had been working. ‘I think I’ve cut those bushes back enough, Aunt Agnes,’ he said, ‘but if you don’t mind I won’t stay for tea – I need to be getting back into town to collect my car before the garage closes.’

  ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere?’ I offered. ‘I’m heading back through town myself.’

  And that was how I came to be driving him back down the lane, and happened to mention as I did so that I had visited the Giant’s Ring on my way to call on his aunt.

  ‘I know it well,’ Marc replied. ‘In fact I’ve done quite a lot of research there.’

  ‘Oh? Are you an archaeologist?’

  ‘I’m a history teacher. But some years ago I wrote a guide to the ancient sites of County Down.’

  I very nearly swerved into a ditch. ‘You’re never M. Heaney!’

  ‘Yes I am. Marc Heaney. I can’t believe you’ve read my book.’

  ‘Book?’ I said. ‘It is my bible!’ And I explained how Albert and I had been following in his footsteps. ‘But I’m amazed that you’re so young: I imagined you as a hoary old academic, if not dead! Tell me, have you written any other books?’

  ‘Funny you should ask,’ he replied. ‘I’ve spent the last few years working on a guide to ancient County Antrim, and with a bit of luck it will be published fairly soon.’

  All this was later in the year of course. At the time of our visit to the Ballynoe Stone Circle, it had never occurred to me that my path might one day cross M. Heaney’s, but as my sister Frederika would say, ‘All things are intertwined in celestial harmony.’

  It is something I frequently have difficulty remembering.

  Chapter 8

  Celestial harmony was not immediately apparent at Easter. Seamus and Nuala had arrived a day earlier than expected, with a great quantity of washing and a small striped cat. I found one sitting on my kitchen table and the other spread all over the floor.

  ‘Good God,’ I said. ‘What on earth is all this?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Seamus. ‘Our machine broke down last week.’

  ‘And are there no launderettes in Glasgow?’ I enquired. ‘But never mind the washing, what is that cat doing on my table?’

  ‘That’s Tiger Lily,’ said Nuala. ‘We couldn’t leave her behind – there was no one to look after her.’

  The twins take after my Dutch forebears: they are tall and blonde and remarkably alike – a resemblance which, despite all my efforts to emphasise their separate identities, they have carefully fostered. I looked at them now and sighed. Identical skinny black clothing and sphinx-like expressions. Ellie says they are unnatural but Finn maintains that it was having to stand up to their elder sister that caused them to bond so firmly in the first place. Whatever the cause, they are inseparable.

  I reached out a hand to Tiger Lily, who rubbed her head against my arm and purred loudly. ‘Where did you get her?’ I asked, softening in spite of myself.

  ‘We found her in a skip,’ said Seamus.

  ‘She was starving,’ said Nuala, ‘poor little thing.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘you had better start putting your washing into the machine and then you can go down to the shops and buy cat food and a litter tray. And flea drops. I suppose you’re expecting me to look after her while you’re in Dublin with your father?’

  They draped themselves around me, one on either side. I could feel them smirking at each other over my
head.

  ‘Well, just so long as you understand that she can’t stay here a moment longer,’ I said feebly. ‘There’s a clause in my lease that clearly states no pets. We’ll have to keep her out of Sticky Wicket’s sight.’

  ‘Oh he’s seen her already,’ said Nuala. ‘She stuck her head out of Seamus’s pocket when we arrived. Seamus told him she plays cricket with a ping-pong ball. He fell in love immediately.’

  ‘And does she?’ I asked. ‘Play cricket, I mean.’

  ‘No idea,’ my son replied.

  ‘Seamus,’ I said, ‘there are times when you are worryingly like your father.’

  This exchange took place on Thursday. On Friday morning I woke to find Tiger Lily curled in the crook of my neck and purring softly into my right ear.

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I have too many problematic relationships as it is: I am not entering into one with you.’

  But over the next two days I weakened. She was an extraordinarily endearing little cat, and she did indeed turn out to have a knack for cricket. The twins would position her on a table or sofa, then bowl her a ping-pong ball, which she unerringly batted to the far corners of the room. Sticky Wicket was invited down to watch, and roared with joy. He was also invited by Nuala to join our Sunday morning egg hunt.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve got better things to do,’ I said discouragingly.

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ said Sticky. ‘Nothing I’d like more!’