Spin the Bottle

by Monica McInerney

  She’d been driving for less than thirty minutes when she saw the sign up ahead. ‘Dúm Seachlainn. Dunshaughlin.’ Her old hometown. She hadn’t had time to visit the previous year, too busy with Eva and Joseph’s wedding. The last time she’d been here was ten years before, when she’d come home for two months’ holiday.

  She pulled over just as she reached the start of the main street. It was like a different town. There were new shops, new pubs, new street lighting and the footpaths were as crowded with people as Dublin had been. She’d always told people she’d grown up in a small country town just outside Dublin. She couldn’t say that any more. She started the car again and drove until she reached her family’s old house, a bungalow on what used to be the edge of town. It was now surrounded by new housing estates. Eva and her parents and sister Cathy had lived just a few doors up. She slowed, debating whether to get out and knock on the door, ask the new owners if they minded if she had a quick look inside. They’d probably think she’d come to rob the place, she decided. There was no rush, in any case, she was here for a year. She could ease herself back in slowly.

  Her mobile phone rang as she drove away, the tone loud in the small car. She pulled over again.

  ‘Miss Elaine Byrne?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘This is Deirdre from Fogarty and Gleeson solicitors. I’m afraid Mr Fogarty has been delayed in court and won’t be able to meet with you this afternoon after all. He’s sorry for any inconvenience.’

  Damn, Lainey thought. She’d been expecting to pick up the keys to the B&B from him so she could stay in the house that night. ‘Can I still get the keys this afternoon, though? We could run through the legal side of things tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid not. There are quite a few documents to sign before Mr Fogarty can legally give you the keys. And he does of course want to fill you in on the whole situation.’

  ‘The whole situation? Is there something we haven’t been told yet?’

  The voice became prim. ‘I’m afraid it’s up to Mr Fogarty, not me, to advise you of those particular details.’

  ‘I see.’ Lainey checked her watch. It would be dark soon, the roads already wet and too slippery for her liking, especially driving an unfamiliar car. She could turn around and go back to Dublin, stay another night with Eva and Joe. But she decided to keep going. ‘Never mind. I’ll call in to you in the morning instead, then? About ten? Eleven? That’s grand. Thank you.’ That’s grand? Here less than one day and she was back using Irish phrases. She pulled back out onto the main road, deciding she’d just book into a B&B for the night. Then she changed her mind. She’d book into a hotel in Navan, the next big town. She’d be staying in a B&B for the next 365 nights. The 366th night could just tip her over the edge.

  She’d driven past the first turn-off to the Hill of Tara when she decided she couldn’t wait until the morning to see the B&B. It wouldn’t matter if she had a look at it from the outside, surely. She took the second turn-off a few miles further on, surprised at how familiar the road seemed. It had been years since she’d been here, but they had visited often when she was a child, either to see May or for family picnics on the Hill itself.

  The road was as narrow as ever, the trees on either side bare, the hedges dripping from the rain. She passed two other cars, pulling in close to the side of the road to avoid them and then even closer when a tourist bus appeared around one bend. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said aloud, as she felt her wheels slip. She looked over her shoulder. The bus driver was oblivious, heading back towards the main road. Hill of Tara, tick, Lainey thought. What next for the tour group? The nearby Trim Castle probably. They’d want to hurry if that was the case. It’d be dark before too long. She rounded a corner, turned left down a bumpy laneway for a few hundred yards and there it was in front of her. Her home for the next twelve months.

  It looked awful.

  There was no other word for it. It had been just over seven weeks since Aunt May had died, but the house looked like it hadn’t been lived in for years. It was two-storey, built of a dark stone that was smothered in parts by thick ivy. A small porch was attached to the front, in urgent need of a coat of paint, the bricks mottled and unappealing. There were two big windows on either side of the porch and another two on the first floor. The B&B sign was stuck on the front of the house, half covered in ivy. Lainey looked over her shoulder to see if there was another sign on the front wall. There wasn’t. You’d have to know what you were looking for to find this place.

  She got out of the car, hugged her jumper close around her and pushed the gate. It swung open easily. The path leading to the house was overgrown. She walked closer, half expecting to see a flash of lightning, bats flapping around the chimneys, the silhouette of an old woman in a rocking chair in one of the top windows. Snap out of it, Lainey. You’re not in a film, this is just your aunt’s house. The dark afternoon didn’t help, the mist adding to the air of gloom.

  There was a faded sign by the front door. Green Gables, Lainey read. She didn’t remember it being called by that name. She looked up. The gables were actually red. She tried the front porch door and the back door. Both were secure. She peered through the windows, but the lace curtains were fully across and the heavy drapes half drawn, blocking any view she might have had. That pleasure would have to wait until tomorrow. A drizzle of rain started, carried in a gust of cold wind. She shivered and ran back down the path.

  From the warmth of the car, she studied the house again. All right, it looked grim but what had she expected? A house crammed with smiling guests, waving through the windows? A bright blue sky, swaying palm trees, brightly coloured flowers in the garden? After all, it wasn’t the house’s fault she’d arrived on a bleak mid-winter February afternoon. And once she did a bit of weeding, got the fire going, had a comforting stream of smoke pouring from the chimney, fixed up that sign, it would be warm and welcoming.

  As she started the car, she remembered something else she needed to do before she went on to her hotel. Her aunt’s ashes had been scattered on the Hill of Tara. If there had been a grave-site she would have visited it, paid her respects on behalf of the family. Even though it was cold and darkening quickly, she decided to visit Tara right then. Her father would have wanted her to, surely.

  The car park beside the café and gift shop at the foot of the hill was half full. Things had changed here, too, she realised as she looked around. When she used to come here as a child, there was nothing formal like a nice coffee shop. She remembered her father remarking on it with some pleasure. He’d loved its wildness and windswept fields, the fact that the site of the ancient capital of Ireland was so undeveloped and accessible.

  She parked her car and got out, gasping as a cold wind tugged at her jumper. She was out of the shelter of the valley now, the wind fierce across the fields. She opened the back door and rummaged in her overnight bag until she pulled out her big sheepskin jacket. Buttoning it up tight and pulling the hood over her head, she faced the wind again.

  She’d heard there had been lots of improvements to the site over the years but the same entrance was still there, with the curved bars and unusual swinging gate, designed to stop the sheep that grazed on the hill from escaping. Inside the gate was a new sign spelling out the history of the site.

  The path had been improved, gravel laid down in a curve, heading towards the old church, which was surrounded by a clump of trees and gravestones. She didn’t follow it all the way, wanting to go up onto the Hill itself first. To her left was a tall, white statue of St Patrick on a stone plinth, enclosed by an iron fence. He’d moved since she’d been here last, from the top of the Hill to this new position – was he the latest in Ireland’s miraculous moving statue phenomena? she wondered. The ground was springy beneath her feet, the air damp with mist. Her shoes were getting wet from the long grass. She reached the first ditch and leapt over it, remembering the first time she had seen aerial photos of Tara. What they had thought of as ordinary ditches had b
een revealed as foundations of ancient buildings and burial mounds, curving in rings across the green fields. She remembered describing all of this to Adam, how interested he’d been, all the questions he’d asked. Then that memory sparked other memories and she had to stop herself thinking about him any more.

  She kept walking, heading up onto the top of the Hill itself. The county of Meath lay all around her, the mist obscuring much of the view but adding to the quiet. There were no buildings, no interpretative centres up here, just green fields stretching on either side, rising and falling into grass-covered ditches and mounds of earth, one marking the site of a prehistoric passage-tomb, another the site of a sacred well. Black-faced sheep grazed among them. Far off to the left of the Hill she saw a clump of people. A guided tour, she guessed. That was a shame, she’d have liked to have the place to herself.

  She stopped near the Lia Fáil standing stone, the Stone of Destiny said to have been brought to Tara by the magical Tuatha de Danann people. She touched it, recalling the legend that it was supposed to roar when touched by a true king of Tara. There wasn’t a sound out of it. It seemed she was still a mere mortal. Off to her right was the Celtic Cross, protected by an iron barrier. It was a good time of day to be here, the winter sun weak and watery, the light soft around her. She remembered standing here on a clear, summer’s day as a child with her father and brothers, Mr Byrne pointing out all the other historic sights around them. ‘The most important County of all Ireland, this one is. See, all roads lead to Tara.’ He pointed out the Mountains of Mourne far off in the distance, the Hill of Slane, the Hill of Skryne. ‘And over there, those white stones in the distance, can you see them? That’s Newgrange, more than five thousand years old, that tomb is. Legend has it the kings of Tara were all buried there.’ His voice seemed louder, more real to her at that moment than the actual sounds, the soft bleats of the sheep grazing around her, the murmur of the voices from the tour group.

  ‘Hello, Aunt May,’ she said quietly. This was a fine place to end up, part of the landscape, part of history. She wondered if May had loved this place for its beauty or for its history alone. Perhaps she’d find out over the next year. Talk to her friends, learn more about her. She muttered a quick prayer for the repose of her soul, feeling self-conscious.

  She stood for a moment longer, looking around, trying to imagine it in her mind’s eye as it would have been centuries before, with kings, poets and heroes, horses and chariots leading parades, sacred rites and rituals taking place… Then a sheep bleated, and once again it became just an ordinary green hill with a good view.

  The wind swirled around her and she shivered, turning back and heading through the other gateway that led into the churchyard. The light was failing but she wanted to have a quick look around, find the old stone with the carving that she and Eva had always thought was so rude. She remembered Eva, at ten or eleven years of age, being shocked by it. ‘Is it really a nudie lady showing her, you know, bits?’ ‘It’s not rude, Evie. It’s a futility symbol,’ Lainey remembered answering. Behind her, her Aunt May had overheard. ‘Fertility, actually, Elaine.’ Lainey had thought she’d detected a smile in her aunt’s voice, but when she’d turned around her aunt’s face had been serious as usual.

  The carved stone was still there. It surprised her that something all those thousands of years old was lying out in the open, not under glass in some museum or covered up for being so rude. She pulled her jacket in around her and crouched down to look more closely at the stone, tracing the carvings with her finger.

  ‘Leave that alone!’

  She spun around. A bearded man was striding towards her, dressed in a tunic, cloak and heavy boots, a gold amulet on his chest. She blinked. Was she seeing things? He came closer. In a few seconds, she registered curly dark hair and angry eyes. ‘I’ve told you already, this isn’t a theme park and these aren’t souvenirs to be pawed over and damaged.’

  She stood up straight, stung at his words. ‘I wasn’t pawing over it. And this is the first time you’ve asked me.’

  ‘No, it’s not. I recognise your clothes.’

  Lainey looked down at her sheepskin jacket. ‘This old thing?’ she joked. He didn’t smile. She tried again, pushing the hood back off her head. ‘I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. I really was just looking. And I just got here.’

  ‘You’re not with that tour bus?’

  ‘No.’

  His eyes stopped flashing at her. ‘I’m very sorry. There was a whole group of them, crawling all over the stones. I caught one of them trying to break off a bit as a souvenir and I thought you were her, back for a second attempt.’

  ‘Well, no, I have a bit more respect for my Irish heritage than that.’

  ‘You’re Irish? You sound Australian.’

  ‘I’m back from Australia but I was born near here.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘And you’re back home on holiday? Seeing the sights?’

  He was a tour guide, she guessed. Which would explain the clothes as well. ‘No, I’m back to live for a year actually. Just down the road.’

  He smiled then. A big, sudden smile. ‘Lainey? It is you, isn’t it? Lainey Byrne? May Byrne’s niece, come home to run the B&B?’

  How did he know about that? ‘You know May? I mean, you knew May?’

  ‘Everyone around here knew May. But you and I know each other too.’

  ‘We do?’ She looked more closely. There was something familiar about him, though it was hard to tell with so much of his face covered with beard. Was it the eyes, now looking at her with amusement, waiting for her to remember him? Or that dark hair, a mass of curls in the wind?

  A voice called out behind him. ‘Rohan, we need you right now. The light’s perfect.’ It was a young woman carrying a clipboard and a walkie-talkie, looking curiously at Lainey.

  ‘In a moment, Beth.’

  ‘Did she say Rohan?’ Lainey said. ‘Not Rohan Hartigan?’

  He grinned. ‘Right first time.’

  ‘Rohan Hartigan! I don’t believe it. I haven’t seen you in years.’ They shook hands.

  ‘It must be seventeen years at least. How are you, Lainey?’

  ‘I’m fine, just fine. And you?’

  ‘Grand, thanks.’

  Looking at his smiling face, seeing the landmarks of Tara all around them, she suddenly remembered the circumstances of their last meeting. She was surprised at the rush of guilt she felt. ‘And your arm? That’s grand too?’

  He touched his elbow and then flexed it. ‘Oh, fully recovered. I never did thank you for that card you sent to the hospital, did I?’

  ‘I was so sorry about that accident, you know,’ she said quickly. ‘About what happened here that night –’

  He gave a casual shrug. ‘We were just kids. And it’s long forgiven and forgotten, Lainey, don’t worry yourself.’

  Relieved to hear it, she hurried to change the subject. ‘So what are you doing here? I’d heard you left Ireland years ago.’

  ‘I did, but I’m back for a while. Just like you, it seems.’

  ‘Different circumstances, I hope?’

  That hint of a smile again. ‘Oh, we’re both servicing the tourists in our own way, I think.’

  Beth came closer. ‘Rohan, sorry to interrupt, but we really do have to get moving before we lose the good light. I’ll tell them you’re on your way, will I?’

  ‘The good light?’ Lainey asked the woman. ‘Good for what? Don’t tell me I’ve stumbled on a clan of druids? You’re about to sacrifice a goat or something?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Beth said with a grin. ‘We’re filming the opening scene of a documentary about Tara. Our presenter fell ill today, and Rohan kindly offered to stand in for the silhouette scenes. Which we’re about to lose for another day if we don’t get a move on.’ She looked pointedly at Rohan.

  Lainey turned too, taking in his outfit again. He appeared to be wearing thick tights under the tunic, presumably as protection against the freezing wind. ‘So thi
s wouldn’t be your everyday wear these days, Rohan?’

  ‘Not everyday, Lainey, no,’ he said solemnly.

  The walkie-talkie crackled. Beth spoke into it. ‘Yes, I know, we’re coming. Rohan, sorry to boss, but…’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’ He turned to Lainey. ‘See you again soon, Lainey. And welcome home.’ As he started walking up the hill, Lainey saw his outfit in all its magnificence again.

  ‘Rohan?’

  He stopped and looked back.

  ‘Nice tights, by the way.’

  She saw just a flash of a smile before he walked away.

  CHAPTER NINE

  AT ELEVEN THE NEXT morning Lainey was sitting in a badly decorated room opposite Mr Fogarty, the solicitor. As he moved around his office, taking folders from various piles here and there, she decided he was like a mouse changed into a man by a not wholly successful spell. She felt like a giant beside him. He was small, in height and build, and wore a neat little suit. She imagined his tail tucked safely away into a back pocket. His house would be small scale too, with tiny cupboards and a neat bed. Did he have a wife and children? They’d be tiny too, she supposed. With a tiny mouse-sized cat as a pet…

  He found the folder he was looking for and settled into the chair on the other side of the desk. Lainey had to fight a temptation to see if his legs touched the ground or dangled over the edge of the chair.

  ‘I do apologise for the inconvenience regarding my unavailability for yesterday afternoon’s appointment, Miss Byrne. I trust your hotel accommodation was satisfactory last night?’

  Why was he talking as though he had a bit part in a Charles Dickens BBC adaptation? ‘I did indeed, my good sire,’ she wanted to say. ‘Yes, thanks, it was fine,’ she said aloud. ‘And would I be able to get the key this morning? I’m anxious to have a look around the house, start getting things organised.’