She hesitated. He sat down abruptly.
“I’m sorry, where are my manners?” he said. “I’d be delighted if you’d join me for a drink and we could listen to some more of this fantastic music together.”
She flushed, and drained her glass.
“Why not?” She smiled and this time he smiled back and the smile reached his eyes.
The Finnigan Twins, a mismatched bunch comprising unlikely looking twin brothers in their forties, various cousins and friends, and the handsome young couple, were the purveyors of the type of magical gatherings the west of Ireland could still produce at the drop of a hat. Each musician selected pieces highlighting their talent, and the one featuring the boys’ feisty interpretation of Whiskey in the Jar had the place rocking. The girls’ haunting vocal of Ride On made the hairs stand up on the back of Marianne’s neck, and the audience was so still, only the groaning of the gale, building to a crescendo outside, could be heard along with the youngster’s spellbinding voice.
The rafters rattled with applause again as, without signal, tables and chairs were pulled from the room, so those who had been jigging in corners and generally straining at the leash, could get up and let rip in whatever style they fancied, for however long the band had the wherewithal to play.
Padar and Oonagh kept the drink flowing and then with the help of Kathleen MacReady, the postmistress and one of Padar’s many relatives, they passed around plates of ham and chicken sandwiches, piled high with delicious sticky-skinned sausages.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the Finnigan Twins announced the next number had to be the last, nothing to do with licensing laws, Sergeant Brody and Garda O’Riordan were in the audience, but they had played for nearly four hours and there was a hell of a storm kicking up its heels outside. The whole place rose to its feet for Brown Eyed Girl and because it would have been churlish not to, they rolled it into Dark Side of the Street for the grand finale.
Marianne found herself dancing with Padar, then Garda O’Riordan, who politely introduced himself over the music and enquired if she was enjoying her holiday, and eventually with Ryan, who had been swirled away by Oonagh and a variety of Innishmahon’s womenfolk. Ryan danced in a very un-thespian-like manner, he looked more like a scarecrow than an actor, holding his arms out so that they hung and swung at the elbows, nodding his head in time with the music, placing his feet oddly around himself and his partner, in a quirkish clodhopper style. Marianne swished around him, lifting her arms and waving her fingers in a fashion she considered, being at this stage rather intoxicated, engagingly exotic.
“Hah, hah,” he guffawed overacting dreadfully, throwing his head back and catching her by the arm, twirling her into his side. “You’re trying to seduce me with your womanly wiles, I surmise.” He used a mock-dastardly voice, pretending to twist the end of a moustache with his fingers.
“Unhand me, sir. I do declare, I mean no such thing,” she flipped back at him in her best Southern-belle drawl and, unfolding herself, nearly fell across a stranded chair. He leaned quickly forward and put his arm around her waist as she stumbled.
“Then let me save you from yourself, Ma’am,” he countered, melodramatically.
“You’re always saving me.” She leaned back as he held her tightly. It was the first time they had looked at each other directly since they had met on that fateful night in London. It was like an electric shock, the tip of her nose started to tingle, she could not tear her eyes away from his. The music stopped and they straightened up, breaking away from each other quickly, not easy, as they were both a little drunk.
“Can I walk you home?” His voice returned to normal.
“All that way? How kind.”
The gale nearly blew them both back into the pub as they battled against the wind to the cottage door. Monty pricked his ears; he had been waiting for her return.
“Now, don’t ask me in for coffee. I have far too much work to do tomorrow.”
“I wasn’t going to.” She pushed her hands further into the pockets of her jacket. “Good night and thank you. I had a great evening.”
“Me too,” he said, leaning forward and speaking softly into her hair. “Night, night, Marie.” He strode away as best he could against the squall.
She closed the door behind her, leaning against it, smiling. Monty appeared, tail wagging. She slid down the door to the floor to kiss him.
“Oh Monty, I’ve had the most fabulous night, really fabulous. I’ve changed my mind, he’s gorgeous and he just called me Marie, only people really close to me call me that, as you know, but he just said it as if it was the most natural thing in the world,” she slurred, and started crawling up the stairs, humming.
This is good, surmised Monty, wisely bringing up the rear, this is happy-pissed, happy-pissed is a good thing. She stood up when she reached the top, missed the last step completely and, losing her balance, went flying. Luckily the door was open and she landed flat on her face on the bed.
Chapter Ten –
Stormy Weather
Monty was restless. He had been all night, moving from the rug at the side of the bed, to the chair in the corner and finally to the eiderdown near the footboard, where he could rest his chin and peer out of the bedroom window as dawn broke. The storm had howled and railed against the building unceasingly; roof tiles lifted and thrown to the ground; the gate at the end of the tiny garden ripped off its hinges and Marianne’s underwear long since disappeared with the washing line, into the dark.
His ears twitched at muffled voices, drowned to murmurs by the wind, the odd shout signalling an instruction. His black eyes flicked from the window to the bundle under the duvet, which had flopped and twisted a few times but had not acknowledged any of the impact of the storm. His mistress had to all intents and purposes, been dead to the world. Monty on the other hand had spent most of the night fretting.
He stretched his chin further to watch, beneath the grey swirl of water spiralling off a broken drainpipe, a gaggle of sou’westers and sailing jackets, bent in formation, as the inhabitants sandbagged doorways and portals against the water rising along Innishmahon’s main street. An alarm was wailing intermittently, the warning light flashing as it outlined feverish activity further along the road towards the Post Office. Everywhere else was in darkness. Monty growled. Someone was banging on the door. He placed his cold wet nose in his mistress’s left ear and sniffed loudly. It always had the desired effect.
She groaned. The banging continued. Monty snuffled her hair. She reached out from under the duvet.
“What the..?”
He yapped, nipping sideways to avoid her upwards serve. The banging persisted. She opened an eye.
“If that’s in my head, I’ve had it,” she surmised, then twisting to place her feet on the floor, she hoisted herself upright to stagger towards the stairs. Monty led the way, unsure if she would remember where the front door was. It flew open and a bundle in a blue and yellow Musto fell in. Padar emerged from under the hood, his eyes swept over her.
“Don’t tell me you’ve bloody well slept through this lot? The bridge is down. No power and the water’s rising. Are you alright? I need to check everyone is okay.” The blast of rain that hit her in the face as he burst through the door, brought her round a bit.
“Fine Padar, we’re fine. What about everyone else? Anyone injured? Anyone on the bridge?” She struggled to get a grip on the situation.
“Don’t know yet. They’re trying to sort the power out. In the meantime, Oonagh’s got the old stove on the go up at the pub. Soup and sandwiches. The men are bringing anyone down who could get into real trouble if they stayed put. Could you go up and lend a hand?”
“Of course.” She took her shoulders back and smoothed down her hair. “Shall I go now?”
“Well it is sort of an emergency.” Padar turned to leave.
“Has anyone checked on Ryan? Is he okay?”
“He’s out here with us, has been since this thing started to t
ake hold.”
She felt wretched. Wretched with a humungous hangover and wretched that she had slept through what seemed to have been a devastating storm, and so far she had been neither use nor ornament to man nor beast. With pounding head, she ran upstairs to dress.
Oonagh was working like a demon. The debris from the previous night’s revelry a mere echo of the music and dancing that had rattled the rafters in quite another way. The inside of the public bar was lit with candles and every surface shone. The huge oak door to the private quarters was propped open with a stone flagon on the quarry tiled floor and Oonagh appeared to be stirring soup with one hand and buttering soda bread with the other. She managed a half smile of acknowledgement as the street door opened and a gale force blast of air swirled Marianne through the portal. She pointed the bread knife at a large, metal tea pot.
“Make tea will you, Marie. They’ll be here soon enough.”
“Was this forecast?” Marianne asked, as she filled the kettle.
“Bad weather was predicted alright, but nothing like this. We’ve had some storms, but never lost the bridge.”
True to her word, Marianne was just setting mugs and a variety of cups and saucers on the scrubbed table, when the door opened and a steady stream of bleary eyed locals, attired in an array of wet weather gear, overcoats over pyjamas and raincoats over housecoats filed in. They shuffled in wellingtons, stout Sunday shoes and trainers to huddle by the log burner Oonagh was enthusiastically feeding with fuel. Laying down the bizarre assortment of belongings they had quickly gathered: pillows, cushions, a blanket, toothpaste - one elderly gentleman was still clutching a remote control - they stood in a bemused queue while Marianne and Oonagh served them. With a couple of sips of tea and slurps of soup inside them, the murmuring started to become discernible.
“Have they gone as far up as Mrs Molloy yet?” one elderly lady with hair in pins under a rain hat asked.
“God, would be a struggle up to her in this,” commented a young woman, with a sleeping infant wrapped in a blanket against her.
“Padar and the film fella were taking the best truck up to see if they can get to her. Sure she’s little enough up there, without this,” said a frail looking man with a shock of standing-on-end white hair. He nodded at the baby. “Sleep through anything.” Marianne looked up from her tea pouring, relieved he had not meant her.
The pub door opened again and a family of six poured in. Joan Redmond and her five children, two girls and three boys, aged between five and nine. The Redmond’s had two sets of twins. The nine-year-old boys were each holding a mongrel puppy. The eldest girl, seven-year-old Cicely, had a basket with a cat in it. Both the five-year-olds, Molly and Milly, were sobbing softly.
“What’s wrong?” asked Oonagh of the girls; gently feeding them cheese and pickle sandwiches. “Come on now, don’t be crying, it’ll be alright.” She put her spare arm around them.
“But Mammy won’t let us bring the ponies,” snivelled Molly, “and they’ll be swept away and drowned.”
Oonagh caught Joan’s eye.
“Not at all, sure they’ll have gone further up the hill till the storm’s over.”
“Mammy said you won’t let them in the pub.” Milly glared.
“Ah sure, ponies hate the pub, it makes them very claustrophobic, no they’ll have gone further up the hill, you see.”
Joan smiled at her frowning daughters, who seemed to have jointly decided that the big word Oonagh used sounded far worse than being drowned. They sat down and ate their sandwiches in silence.
“How bad is it?” the white-haired man asked Oonagh. She turned the corners of her mouth down, though she had still managed a flash of tangerine lipstick.
“Ah sure, we couldn’t know yet,” she said. “No electricity anywhere, but Kathleen MacReady has the Gardaí and the Coastguard on the radio, so she’s told the mainland anyway.”
“Sure they couldn’t get across in this. The ‘copters couldn’t even fly. Where is she?” The man asked.
“Ah, you know well enough she wouldn’t leave her post for the Second Coming! She told Padar she’d a bottle of whiskey and she’d be grand till that ran out. The worrying thing is, if anyone is injured or sick, they’d have to be airlifted out of it.”
“What about the Lifeboat?” He asked.
“Too far from us and stretched to capacity along the coastline, I shouldn’t wonder.” Oonagh said.
“Should never have closed the surgery,” grumbled a woman in curlers, “Bloody holiday homes, I ask ya?”
Marianne raised an eyebrow at Oonagh.
“I didn’t realise there’s no doctor on the island, but I suppose with the bridge that’s not too much of an issue?” They were in the kitchen, washing up at the old Belfast sink.
“If we had a bridge,” Oonagh said grimly, “Padar always says Innishmahon has a lot in common with seaside towns everywhere, not quite a holiday resort and a barely functioning fishing village. That’s why the bridge is so important to us, it makes it easier to get to and away from, for locals and visitors alike. The doctor’s surgery was that fine double fronted house, above the main street, you know the one with the big gates.” Marianne nodded. It was the grandest property on the island. “Well, three generations of Dr Maguire’s lived there. The family originally owned the pub too but Padar’s father bought it when he came back from overseas and wanted to settle down. Anyway, the last Dr Maguire was a bachelor who mysteriously left the island without so much as a ‘by your leave’. Not long after that, the property was sold to an English stockbroker. I’ve only seen the stockbroker twice. It’s such a shame, that beautiful house just stands there on its lonely hillock shuttered and closed.” Oonagh was gazing wistfully into the washing up bowl.
“So what happens if anyone needs medical attention urgently?” Marianne asked.
“Ah, we’re very lucky Phileas and Sinead Porter have the pharmacy attached to the main shop. Phileas is a pharmacist and Sinead’s a midwife. I believe they met at medical college, Sinead still works three days a week on the mainland, at the cottage hospital in Newtownard. They moved here from Cork a few years ago. She’s lovely, but he can be a bit moody at times. When they’ve had a row, Sinead comes in on her own for a few glasses of wine, God love her, and her job must be very stressful at times.”
“I hope there are enough medical supplies on the island for what we need at the moment.” Marianne was folding tea towels.
“We can’t do without the bridge, not now,” Oonagh said firmly, as they headed back into the pub to see what else they could do for their gaggle of guests.
Marianne was making the third pot of tea when the three men came in, climbing over sandbags in the doorway. Padar pushed the hood of his sailing jacket back. Ryan’s baseball cap was sodden and rammed onto his head, but the last man, the tallest, was hatless. His short greying hair sent drips down his forehead and along the sharp line of his nose, bright blue eyes darted around the room as he moved swiftly among them, nodding and smiling reassurance.
“Gregory, a cup of soup?” Oonagh pushed a mug into his hand. He unzipped the top of his jacket to reveal a clerical collar, his badge of office. Oonagh took a step back, it was unusual for Father Gregory to wear it, everyone in Innishmahon knew who he was and his modern, laidback style when performing his priestly duties was like a breath of fresh air after the hell and damnation of the previous incumbent.
“Official business?” Oonagh whispered, concerned.
“Mrs Molloy’s in a bad way. Fell down the stairs in the dark. Padar fetched me and Mrs Walsh, while Ryan resuscitated her. Mrs Walsh is with her, but when she first came round she wouldn’t have a man near her. She’s very distressed, but neither of them should be left for very long. Sinead’s on her way, Padar’ll take her and see if we can make her comfortable till Miss MacReady has news of the Coastguard.”
“She needs the hospital?”
Gregory nodded, relieved it was not the undertaker required at this stage.
“We should be okay,” Padar said.
“No way, what if you get stuck, the road’s nearly washed away.”
In a flash, Father Gregory was at Ryan’s side.
“C’mon, the more the merrier.”
Ryan grabbed the basket Oonagh had prepared for Mrs Molloy.
“Good luck,” Marianne whispered, as he passed.
He touched her arm. “You okay?”
She smiled, relieved for some reason. “Absolutely fine.”
“The little fella?”
“Over there with the rest of the menagerie.” She indicated the pile of puppies and children on the floor in the corner, Monty in the midst of them, having the best of times.
“You take care,” she told his back, as he left.
Father Gregory turned at the door.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, God bless us all. Amen.”
“God Bless, Father. Amen,” they murmured back at him, crossing themselves as the makeshift rescue team disappeared.
There was no let up. Even the oldest resident had never seen anything like it. The torrential rain coupled with gale force winds had not eased in nearly twenty-four hours. The roads in and out of Innishmahon were impassable. The new black tar of the European Union funded thoroughfares, awash, as the land alongside, unable to bear the force of the water, broke banks and gave way; rocks, trees and livestock were swept down towards the village, which clung precariously to the sea wall. A section of the new bridge, only two kilometres from the village centre, had cracked and split in the night and crashed, hardly discernible above the howling of the storm, into the bay below. The last non-residents leaving after the session at the pub, had driven over it, barely half an hour ahead of its collapse. It was a miracle no-one had been killed.
The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Page 12