But the fact was that she was back in Ireland – back with her husband – and without those mementoes. All she had left to remind her now was the album of Bob Dylan’s soulful songs.
And Aisling Gayle wasn’t quite brave enough to listen to that just yet.
Chapter 38
“Mr Kearney got a cigarette-end on the floor among the mineral bottles this morning,” Maggie said, coming across the shop to where Charles and Peenie stood by the bacon slicer. “I hope there was no smoking going on here, while we were away.” She glanced at Charles’s swollen, red ear, that he’d brushed off her questions about, as he had with the cut eye. “Or anything else going on, for that matter.”
“Ah, true as God, Mrs Kearney,” Peenie said, lifting a great lump of bacon onto the machine, then rubbing his hands down over his brown overalls to remove the watery grease from the meat, “there was nothing going on that doesn’t go on as a rule. It must be a fag-end that was tramped in on the sole of a shoe. Or maybe one of the delivery men, comin’ in with a fag in his mouth, and droppin’ it down on the floor. Yeh couldn’t be up to them lads.”
“Indeed,” said Charles, folding his arms and looking closer at the butcher’s stamp on the rind of the bacon.
“True for yeh, Charles,” Peenie went on. “Sure, it’s fierce hard to be tellin’ those fellas anythin’. They have their own way of workin’ and their very own rules.”
“Exactly,” Mrs Kearney said, “just as we have our very own way of working around the shop here, and the rules that keep things in check.” She looked at the cold-meat cabinet now. “You’re running low on the sliced bacon there, Charles,” she observed. “See that Peenie cuts a good bit now, and have it wrapped in the greaseproof in half pounds and whole pounds, so’s we’re not keeping people waiting.”
Peenie started the blade whirring. “Five minutes, Mrs Kearney,” he said, winking at her, “five minutes an’ we’ll have yards of bacon cut an’ wrapped up.”
Maggie smiled in spite of herself. “Less of the talking,” she told him, “and more of the slicing.” For all his crafty ways, she was fond enough of Peenie Walshe, and when he was in the humour he was an excellent worker. He beat Charles hands down – but then that wasn’t saying much. Charles’s mind was often elsewhere when he should be working.
“My father said to tell you that he’ll be back from the bank around three o’clock,” Charles suddenly remembered.
“Grand,” Maggie said, checking her watch. It was around half-past two now. “Did Pauline mention where she was going?”
“Not to me,” Charles said, racking his memory just in case she had, and he wasn’t listening.
“Oh, well,” his mother said, “maybe she’s gone out for a walk, or cycled over to Aisling’s. She definitely didn’t say?”
“Not,” said Charles, in his hedging manner, “to the best of my knowledge.”
“So, ye all had a grand time in America?” Peenie asked, over the whirring noise of the bacon slicer. “Did ye see any cowboys at all when ye were out there?”
Maggie folded her arms and thought for a moment. “Not exactly cowboys,” she told him, “but we saw plenty of fellows with big, cowboy-style hats.”
“There yeh go, Charles,” Peenie said, nudging his workmate. “See what yeh missed? Yeh’ll have to make sure that you go with them the next time. Cowboys an’ everythin’.” He looked at the bacon slices that were piling up on the machine. “Yeh could cut me a few sheets of greaseproof, Charles, an’ we’ll get this lot weighed an’ wrapped like yer mother said.”
“I’ll leave you to it, lads,” Maggie said wearily, heading back to the house end of the shop. “I might have another hour’s lie-down, because I never slept a wink this morning, and I’ve been up the whole night travelling. You can let your father know, Charles.”
“Certainly,” Charles said, looking around vaguely for the scissors to cut the greaseproof paper. “You can rely on me to pass on the message.”
“Begod,” said Peenie, as Maggie disappeared through the connecting house door, “the head-woman’s back and make no mistake about it! It’s all hands on deck this afternoon.”
“Indeed,” said Charles, suddenly locating the scissors on the hook where they were always kept. “The captain of the ship, and all that kind of thing.”
Peenie brought the bacon slicer to an abrupt halt mid-slice. “I’ve been thinkin’ about this neighbour business, Charles,” he said in a low voice, “and it doesn’t make a bit of sense to me, at all, at all.”
Charles gave a mighty sigh that lifted his rounded shoulders up for a few moments. “Nor to me,” he said. “I’m mystified about the whole thing.” His hand came up to rest his chin. “What business is it of a neighbour’s, who visits the house next door? It makes no sense at all.” He fingers gently touched the sticking plaster under his eyes.
“He’s a lunatic, that lad,” Peenie said, “an’ make no mistake about it. A born lunatic by the sounds of it. I’ve never heard the likes of it in me life.”
“Well,” Charles said, “he’s made my mind up for me anyway. I wouldn’t chance going near Mrs Lynch’s house ever again.”
Peenie took off his cap, and juggled it between both hands. “I’m sorry to say it, Charles,” he said, shaking his head, “but I’d knock that one on the head if I were you. I would take no more chances with that quarter in Tullamore.”
“I’m taking it as an omen,” Charles announced solemnly, “an omen that our relationship wasn’t ever meant to be.”
Chapter 39
Oliver returned from work later in the evening, in the same attentive mood.
“Do you fancy eating out?” he asked. “We could drive out to Mullingar to that new restaurant we haven’t tried yet. It would save you cooking, and you just back home.”
Aisling thought for a moment. “Yes . . . that’s a good idea. I’ll go and get ready.”
It was between the devil and deep blue sea: sitting with him all evening in the same room, watching television or listening to the radio – maybe sipping a glass of the bourbon she had brought him back from America – or sitting opposite him in a restaurant. The choice was not too difficult. There was a big difference between public intimacy and private, inescapable intimacy.
As they sat in the packed restaurant checking the menu an hour and a half later, Aisling wondered how long she would be able to keep up her avoidance of any closeness with Oliver. Then, she noticed a young, attractive woman at table opposite staring at him – as young women often did – and she sighed inwardly at the irony of it. Most women would be thrilled to sit opposite him – gazing openly at Oliver’s smooth, dark good looks. As she once did herself.
“I’ve something to tell you,” Oliver said brightly, as the waiter left with their order. “Something that will delight you.”
Aisling raised her eyebrows. “What is it?”
“I’ve finished with the drama,” he said, “completely washed my hands of it.”
Aisling had no idea what he was going to say – but this was the last thing she expected. “But why?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
“Oh, nothing very dramatic,” he said, laughing lightly at his little joke. “I’ve just had enough of it. You get fed up with the whingeing and moaning about who’s got what part – and then when they don’t turn up for rehearsals. I’ve just decided that I could spend my evenings more productively at home with you, than wasting them in freezing church halls.” He leaned forward, and took her hands in his. “I think that I’d prefer to devote the time to yourself and myself for a change. Get our priorities in order, so to speak.”
Aisling looked back at him, speechless. Then she looked down at their hands on the white tablecloth, and she was suddenly reminded of her hands being held across a formica table in a New York airport.
She withdrew her hands, using the excuse of reaching for a jug of water and a glass. “Oh, give yourself time to think about it, Oliver,” she said. “Once the plays get going, y
ou’re the best of friends with everyone in them.”
He shrugged. “It’s different this time. And anyway . . . I told them all at the AGM last night.”
Aisling looked at him closely over the rim of her glass. “I think you’ll miss it,” she told him, “but it’s up to you.” She took a sip of the water. “I know I’ve often complained about you being out over the winter evenings, but I suppose I’ve got used to it. And I know you’ve always enjoyed it.”
His hand stretched out towards hers again, and held it tightly. “Just because people have got used to things, doesn’t mean that they can’t be changed or made better.”
Aisling stared at him, wondering what had caused this huge change of heart.
“We’ll enjoy this meal,” Oliver said, smiling. He touched his glass to hers. “To us . . . and to a lot more time together.”
Aisling wondered if her trip to America had really made all this difference to him? Was it possible that he had missed her so much that he had finally come to realise what he really felt for her?
Two waiters appeared with steaming dishes heaped with vegetables and potatoes – and stopped Aisling from wondering for the moment.
* * *
The phone was ringing as they walked up the garden path. Aisling was first in the door, so she answered it.
It was one of the men from the drama group. “How are you, Joe?” she said. Then, “He is . . . yes.”
Oliver gestured back to her to say that he wasn’t in – but it was too late. Aisling handed the phone to him, and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on before going to bed.
Bed. She was dreading it. She knew only too well what would be in Oliver’s mind and somehow, she had to put him off.
She couldn’t bear the thought of him making love to her. Not now. Not ever again. Not after finding out what making love with someone you really loved meant. And then a feeling of hopelessness came over her.
She spooned two large heaps of tea leaves from the caddy into the teapot, and left it by the side of the kettle until the water was boiled. She could hear Oliver’s voice in the distance, low, and with an argumentative tone in it. It was probably one of the committee who had just found out about him resigning, and were trying to get him to change his mind. Aisling wished with all her heart that he would change his mind, because she couldn’t imagine how they would fill every evening at home together. He had been involved with the drama since she had known him, and although there had been a time when she had resented it for taking him away so much, that time was long gone.
A weary sigh sounded in the kitchen before Oliver appeared. “Oh, feck it,” he said, “I’m going to have to go to the hospital.”
“Why?” Aisling asked, her brow furrowed. “What’s happened – who is it?”
“Oh, it’s one of the group,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t get any great details – some kind of accident. I think it’s one of the girls from Limerick . . . she doesn’t have any family round here. Joe was saying that some of us should go in and see how she is.”
“In that case,” Aisling said, “you’d better go.”
“It’s not just me.” he said. “A few of the lads are there already. They’ve been trying to get me on the phone all night.” He shook his head. “It’s the last thing I feel like – having to go out at this hour. Especially with it being your first night back.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Aisling told him. “Take your key. I’ll be going off to bed anyway . . . I’m very tired now.”
“Sure,” he said, nodding his head vaguely. “You probably still have jet-lag.” He stepped backwards to the door. “They say – they say that jet-lag can be a nasty oul’ thing. A good night’s sleep is the only way to beat it.”
She turned back to the kettle. “I’ll see you later then.”
As she heard the front door close, Aisling wondered if there was something going on other than a hospital visit. Oliver usually preferred something to be going on, than nothing. A call late at night was a welcome alternative to sitting quietly listening to the radio or doing any of the chores around the house that he thought so boring.
Whatever it was tonight, Aisling could tell by Oliver’s manner that he was irritated or concerned about something – more than she would expect in the circumstances. But she didn’t have the energy – or the interest – to care much.
She poured the boiling water into the teapot. Maybe it was genuine enough. Maybe she was misjudging him. Especially after the announcement he’d made about leaving the drama group. She stirred the tea leaves around in the boiling water in the teapot. Round and round in little circles.
Maybe Oliver was right. Apart from all the other things she was feeling, maybe she was suffering from jet-lag, and bed was the best place to be.
* * *
It was dark when she woke up with a start – drenched in perspiration and her heart thumping fast. She sat bolt upright in bed, trying to shake off the awful feelings of the nightmare she had just escaped from. The bedroom was almost black, and it was only when her eyes began to focus that she could make out familiar shapes. And then she realised that she was back in Ireland.
She stretched out a shaky hand to switch on the bedside lamp. The intense light blinded her for a few moments. When she could bear to look, she saw that it was just after four o’clock. She stared straight ahead, her brow creased in concentration, trying to recall what it was that had frightened her so much.
Gradually, it started to come back to her.
She had been back in America. Back at Lake Savannah. She’d been down at the bottom of Jean and Bruce’s garden, where she’d sat so often, reading in the sun. A boat had appeared in the distance. A speedboat. It got nearer and nearer, until she could see Oliver steering the boat.
Then, two figures reclining on rocking chairs on the deck and drinking out of champagne glasses had come into view. Aisling’s mother and father. She had stood up and ran to the edge of the water, waving and calling out to them. But they didn’t notice her. The boat went on to speed around the lake in circles – getting faster and faster.
Then, a tiny raft appeared on the edge of the lake at the opposite side from Aisling. Seated in the middle were Jameson Carroll and Thomas. Thomas, still heavily bandaged like his first day in hospital, and clutching his father’s hand. Aisling had called out to them to watch out for the speedboat, but they didn’t hear or notice her either.
Then, Oliver had turned the boat and headed straight for the raft. Aisling had tried to scream to warn them – but although her mouth had opened, no sound had come out.
She started to run around the path on the lake, getting caught in the branches of trees and huge windchimes that seemed to appear from nowhere. She struggled on, freeing herself from one lot, only to be tangled up in the next.
Eventually, she managed to free herself completely and then ran on, until she came to a clearing in the trees, where she could see the speedboat and the raft – only yards apart.
Thomas and Jameson were faced in the opposite direction to the speedboat. Aisling gave one final scream which at last they heard, and turned towards her. They stood up on the raft and waved, Jameson keeping a fatherly arm around his son, and at that moment the speedboat hit the raft at a side-angle, toppling them into the water, before speeding off and disappearing into the distance.
Aisling ran and ran towards them – but the harder she ran, the further away she seemed to get. And then she decided that she would reach them more quickly by swimming across the lake. She dived into the water and she swam and swam. When she reached the part where the crash had happened, all that remained was the raft with the two champagne glasses sitting neatly in the middle of it. And floating in the water was a white strip of bandage with a picture of Mickey Mouse on it.
She had dived and swam deep into the water looking for Thomas and Jameson. She had come up and then dived again until she was so tired that she could not dive or swim any more. And then she dr
agged herself up onto the little raft and lay down.
And that – she remembered now – was where the dream had ended.
Aisling covered her face now, and sat there in the bed, tears streaming down between her fingers. She cried and cried, her heart aching with the huge loss she had just relived in the dream. After a while, when the tears subsided, she switched off the light and lay back in bed going over the dream again.
It had been a very obvious dream. The kind of dream that did not need an expert in the psychology of dreams to analyse. It was a classic case of the parting in America being repeated in a weird, dreamy way.
But still it disturbed her.
And this time, sleep would not come as her mind flitted from one memory to another. She lay for nearly an hour, and then she decided to get up and have a bath. A short time later, she was downstairs, dressed in slacks and a warm sweater and comfortable walking shoes.
She raked out the fire and filled it up with wood and small pieces of turf, then she put the kettle on. After that, she moved around the kitchen and darkened sitting-room, opening curtains to allow the first rays of morning into the house, hoping that some of the light might just seep into her own dark mood and brighten it up. She paused at the sitting-room window to stare out to the garden.
It hadn’t been touched since she left for America. Aisling wondered now if she would ever find the energy and interest to tend it, as she had done so contentedly before.
Then, a strange noise suddenly drew her attention away from the window, and when she turned around and saw a figure lying on the sofa she screamed in fright.
“Jesus!” Oliver was startled out of his sleep by her scream. “What’s wrong?” he yelled. “What’s wrong?”
“You frightened the life out of me!” Aisling rounded on him angrily. “What the hell are you doing down here?”
Aisling Gayle Page 37