I make a face. ‘What’s a best person? It sounds suspiciously like I’d have to be good.’
Dillon chuckles beside me as he checks his phone.
‘You know, like a best man, except you’re not a man.’
‘I’m not visible either, dude.’
‘I don’t care. I want you by my side,’ Felix says. ‘You got me through some pretty bad times, Olive. I’ve never told you before—but I couldn’t have done it without you.’
I feel tears well in my eyes. I’m so overcome I can’t speak. I couldn’t have got through it without him either. He’s been my orange life vest in the crazy tempest of my life.
‘I’ll be there,’ I tell him. ‘You’ll look crazy—but I suppose you won’t be able to see anyone’s face, so it doesn’t matter.’
‘Thanks, Ol. You’re the best.’
‘So people keep telling me,’ I say, ‘but somehow it never gets old.’
I hang up and lean back against the pillows, sighing. ‘God I love Felix.’
Dillon slides his fingers to my ribs. ‘That so? Does he make ya yodel like I do?’
I push his hand away. ‘I don’t know what you’re implying, young man, but if you must know, he just asked me to be his best person—and I said yes.’
Dillon beams. ‘Brilliant! I’m a groomsman too.’
I frown. ‘Yeah? Well I’m the best one!’ I take a slug of tea in victory.
‘Not if I stand in front of ya.’
I snort with laughter and tea runs out my nose.
‘Charming,’ Dillon says, handing me a tissue to mop it up. ‘Lucky for you, I organised yer Christmas present before that display.’
‘You got me a present?’ I bounce up and down, making my tea swill. ‘What is it?’
‘Ya have to wait,’ he says, tapping my nose. ‘It’ll come this afternoon.’
CHAPTER
39
The house grows more crowded as Christmas Day progresses. Dozens of uncles, aunts, cousins and not-really-our-uncle-but-known-him-forever types bustle in. The men carry bottles of whiskey tucked into their pockets, boxes of ale on their shoulders, and the women take over the kitchen, fighting for space to cook up platters of Christmas fare. The smells are delectable. Joan slices glazed ham while others butter and salt the carrots, brussel sprouts, peas. There is every type of potato imaginable—boiled, roast, croquette—a fact I can’t help but point out to Dillon. Plus mountains of sweets, fruit cake and mince pies, Guinness porter cake, trifles, tins of chocolates. There will be leftovers for weeks.
On Joan’s orders I wander around topping up glasses of mulled wine. Most guests are in the living area but the house is so full, people spill out into the small rear yard, where PJ is splashing petrol on an oil drum fire to the delight of his cousins.
Kevin slaps a huge hat on my head so people know where I am. It’s so sweet. I love that I don’t have to hide here, I love that people want to speak to me—mostly to invite themselves to Sydney, but still, they’re lovely. A few of the older generation are wary of Dillon, but when one of my uncles strikes up his fiddle and Dillon joins him with his tin whistle, they start to become more comfortable with him.
Sean pushes the couches against the wall so people can dance; they whirl and reel, laughing as they jig around the room. Those who don’t dance slap their knees in time, a few old geezers play the spoons. Everyone sings. Everyone. Even the ones with god-awful voices. It’s so joyous, I love it.
In the middle of it all is Derry. He shoves everyone aside and yells out, ‘Keep up with me ya feckers!’ Then starts flinging himself around in what I have to guess is an Irish jig. It’s complicated footwork; he must have been great when he was young. Now he stumbles and trips but he doesn’t care, he raises his arms in the air, his wizened face shining. ‘Ya have to do better than that!’ he cries to the musicians, as the circle around him clap and cheer.
‘Sure he’s not your grandfather?’ I say into Dillon’s ear, remembering him performing Dieber.
Dillon smiles at me with his eyes and keeps playing, pushing the music faster and faster, louder and louder, so that Derry gets wilder and wilder, sweat flying off him into the crowd until finally he drops to his knees.
‘Get me a feckin’ drink!’ he croaks. And everyone cheers.
After lunch, while I’m listening to an aunt explaining her secret to the perfect mince pie, Dillon comes over. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but your present has arrived,’ he tells me. ‘It’s out the front.’
I excuse myself and wind my way to the front door, Dillon following behind. I’m so excited. I have no idea what Dillon has got me. It’s a mystery how he has managed to organise anything from here.
Outside, a cab is parked on the street with two people in the backseat, one of whom is leaning forward to pay the fare. My heart beats loud in anticipation. Instinctively, I know who it is but I can’t fathom it’s possible. But when the door swings open I’m right—it’s Muirgheal and Rose, my darling grandmother and sister.
I gasp. ‘Dillon! You didn’t! How?’
‘I called them up last night and bought them tickets.’
‘But why?’ I watch them unload their bags and look uncertainly around at the rundown cars and caravan in the front yard. ‘Tell me later,’ I say, flying towards them, then I turn around and fly back to Dillon, flinging my arms around his neck. ‘Thank you!’
He chuckles. ‘Pleasure.’
‘Rose! Muirgheal!’ I run to them, hugging them both. It’s so good to see them. I hug them both again. ‘I can’t believe you’re here.’
‘I can’t believe it either,’ says Rose.
Joan appears with Dillon. ‘You must be Rose and Muirgheal,’ she says. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’
‘We have?’ I say.
‘Come in out of the cold, I’ll wet the tea, unless you’d like something stronger?’ she says, bustling them along the path.
‘Tea would be lovely, my dear, thank you,’ Muirgheal says.
I take Muirgheal by the arm. She looks surprisingly at ease in such an odd situation. ‘Are you okay about this? Seeing Derry?’
She pats my hand. ‘It’s lovely to be home, pet. Lovely.’
Sean and Mik barge past out of the house. ‘Don’t mind this rowdy lot,’ Joan says to Rose and Muirgheal. ‘Take Muirgheal’s bag will ya, Sean?’
‘I was going to look at Mikey’s new bike,’ he whines.
‘Do it after,’ Joan insists, just as Derry bursts through the door.
‘Muirgheal—my girl!’ His grin is so wide you can see where he’s missing teeth. His long hair is wild and tangled, his shirt sweat-stained from dancing and unbuttoned so you can see his scapula bones and a mess of grey hair on his chest. He looks like he’s been lost in the wilderness for weeks. The only thing that saves him are his eyes; his blue eyes dance with mischief and Muirgheal blushes like she’s sixteen again. ‘Yer still tinsy. I could blow ya away with a fart!’ Derry says.
‘Way to lay on the charm,’ Sean mutters, grabbing Muirgheal’s bag.
‘Shut it, you little fecker,’ Derry snaps at him. ‘If my dog had a face like yours I’d shave its arse and walk it backwards!’ He’s flustered now and off his game.
Dillon takes Derry’s elbow, edging him towards the caravan. ‘Why don’t ya girls catch up,’ he says. ‘Derry and I will be back in two shakes.’
‘Sure,’ I say. I’ve got no idea what Dillon’s doing but I trust him.
Inside, Joan commandeers a corner of the kitchen so Muirgheal can sit down while the tea is made. Rose and I press against the counter opposite so we can catch up in private.
‘Can you believe this place?’ I say. ‘Isn’t it mad?’
‘We’re related to all these people?’
‘Yes!’
Rose looks around, smiling. I always thought she was pale, but here among our Irish relatives she looks positively tanned.
‘Do you mind being here?’ I ask. ‘I mean, Dillon didn’t pressure you into coming, d
id he?’
‘No! Course not. I was happy to. But Muirgheal was the one who really wanted to come,’ Rose says, looking mystified. ‘She insisted we leave immediately.’
I look across at Muirgheal chatting with Joan, stretching a crochet tea cosy over a large teapot. She looks so at home it makes me sad to think of the life that could have been hers. ‘Wanted to see Derry I suppose?’
‘I guess so,’ Rose says, watching her too. ‘Strange isn’t it? Seeing her and our grandfather? The curse story used to feel like a folktale to me. Derry was just a character.’
‘He’s a character all right. Dillon thinks it’s because he’s riddled with curse magic.’
Rose goes pale; it’s too much too soon. I pull the conversation into normal territory. ‘How’s your man?’
She smiles. ‘Mal’s good. He’s turned your room into a study.’
‘Cripes. I’m welcome home then.’
‘He’ll change it back when you come home—if you come home. Muirgheal was saying you were thinking of staying in New York for a while?’
‘Yeah, I might. I’ve started writing again. But I don’t really have a plan. I’m just kind of playing it day by day.’
‘So what about this thing with Dillon? I thought you’d be coming home with Tom for sure after he told us he would be seeing you at Christmas … But now Dillon sees you?’
My instinct is to freefall into moans about how unfair it all is. But I don’t. Instead I feel a loosening inside me, like a magician has tapped me with his wand and doves are flying out of my chest.
‘I know,’ I tell her. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
‘So you’re with Dillon?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m not with anyone. I’m with me.’
Rose reaches out until she finds my cheek. ‘That is wonderful.’ And her smile tells me she’s never been prouder, which kind of makes me cry.
I turn away just as Derry bursts through the door. He’s in a clean shirt and trousers, his hair combed, his face clean-shaven. Dillon is behind him. When he catches my eye, I give him the thumbs up and he winks.
‘Rose!’ Derry bellows. ‘Where’s me eldest granddaughter, Rose?’
‘She’s here, Granddad,’ I tell him.
‘Aye, over with her mad sister,’ Derry says, moving towards us. He takes her by her shoulders. ‘Pretty as a rose you are too.’
‘Thank you … Derry.’
‘Call me Granddad.’ He’s shaking so much that Rose shakes too. ‘Can ya dance?’
Rose blushes. ‘Um—’
Derry ignores her, turns to look at Muirgheal. ‘Ya going to be jealous if I take me granddaughter for a whirl?’
‘Course not, you old fool,’ Muirgheal scolds him. She ducks her head as if looking for something in her handbag, and as she’s bent over I see her dab briefly at her eyes.
Witnessing how touched she is to see Derry and Rose together almost breaks my heart. I go over and kiss her forehead. Dillon ambles over and slings his arm around me. ‘I think he fancies you, Granny Muirgheal.’
‘Don’t be cheeky,’ Muirgheal says, straightening her spine and taking a sip of tea.
‘I’ll be back for you, girl,’ Derry calls to her through the doorway. ‘We’ve got miles of catching up to do. In my caravan, mostly.’ He winks at her and Muirgheal blushes.
I turn to Dillon, horrified. ‘No!’ I mouth.
Dillon nods, eyebrows raised.
‘Ew!’
Muirgheal looks sharply in my direction. ‘I suppose you think fun should only be for the young?’
I’m glad she can’t see the revolted look on my face. ‘No,’ I say, not entirely convinced.
From the living room you can hear Derry yelling, ‘Clear out. Make some bleedin’ space. This here is Rose, me eldest feckin’ granddaughter. I’m going to show her how we really dance.’
‘I’ve got to see this,’ I say, grabbing Dillon’s hand and pulling him next door.
In the living room, Derry holds Rose firmly in dance position while Rose looks around wildly for help. My uncle strikes up the fiddle in a lilting Irish jig, everyone starts to sing and Derry begins to reel.
I laugh as Rose is bandied about in Derry’s arms. She does her best to keep up but the old man is frantic. Rose’s long hair loosens from the jolting and swings wildly between them which spurs Derry on. He cries out yips and yaws and Rose’s eyes widen.
Muirgheal appears beside me, laughing too. She claps her hands, tears of laughter running down her cheeks. ‘Poor Rose. He’s frightening the life out of her.’
‘Jesus, give the girl a chance,’ Sean calls out. He seizes Rose away from Derry and leads her in a calmer step. Derry looks ready to blow his top until Muirgheal steps into the circle and lays her hands on his chest.
‘Dance with me, love.’
Then he’s grinning and yelling at Sean, ‘Ya have to steal ’em, ya little blighter. But not me—the girls come running to me!’
I stand with Dillon, watching them dance; Derry and Muirgheal, Sean and Rose—they look so happy it makes my heart hurt. ‘I can’t believe you did this,’ I say. ‘Flying them over here.’
‘Family is important.’ He squeezes my fingers. ‘Besides, I used Simon’s credit card.’
I laugh and look down at his beautiful hand still in mine. A surge of emotion flows through me. Our eyes meet and he sees it. ‘Want to get out of here for a bit?’ he says.
‘Sure.’
We ride west on his motorbike through crooked glens, sweeping moors and glimmering lakes. Without the rain I see vistas so dreamy I could be imagining them. Yes, this is the Ireland of my dreams. It’s like my genetic core weeps for it.
When we reach the coast Dillon parks the bike so we can hike down a dirt track to the sea.
Now I’m standing on the edge of the rugged cliffs, looking out over the pitching black waves of the Atlantic. It feels monumental—like I’ve travelled full circle. This was the beginning of my journey—can it signify the end?
I think about how far I’ve come and how much I’ve changed. Somehow throughout this process I’ve shaken free of my bitterness. Invisibleness is just my appearance now, like my dark hair or blue eyes. It’s not who I am. It’s just part of me.
It was a blessing, I realise, thinking of Yseult laying her fingers on Muirgheal’s swollen belly.
I’m grateful for everything it’s given me. I’d probably be boring as hell if I’d always been seen. I wish Muirgheal were here so I could express my revelation. I want to tell her she doesn’t need to feel guilty anymore, that I can live with this. I’m happy to.
I know I deserve love.
Not as in True Love—whatever that means. I’m starting to believe that every love is different—whether it’s fleeting or forever. All we really need is faith in ourselves and a few special others. Nothing could be truer than that.
Dillon’s finished peeing in the grass. He comes up and wraps his arms around me. ‘All good?’
I pull his arms around me tighter. ‘Just happy.’
‘Just happy?’
There is no hiding the truth from Dillon. The wonderful thing is, I don’t want to. ‘No, not just happy. It’s weird but I just realised something …’
‘Aye?’
‘I think …’ I hesitate. It’s harder to say than I thought. ‘I think I might like myself.’
Dillon smiles as he kisses my ear. ‘I see it.’
‘Do you think that changes anything?’ I’m abusing his soothsaying powers.
‘I think it changes everything,’ he whispers.
Curious, I spin around, about to ask him what he’s talking about, when a hiker walks past us. He nods at my Kiss Me I’m Irish T-shirt. ‘Nice shirt,’ he says.
‘Thanks.’
Wait a minute …
He walks on and Dillon grins at me.
‘He saw me,’ I whisper.
‘Aye.’
‘He saw me.’
‘Aye.’ He laces our fingers together and
holds them up so I see my hands in his. My fingers. My hands. My arms.
‘What the hell?’ I say, stepping back and looking down at my body. It’s standing there, inexplicably, like some strange monster under my power that’s just come alive. My knees bend obediently, my feet stomp the grass as I lift and set them down, my chest swells with my breaths. It’s all there—visible. I’m exposed to the world.
‘Don’t be mad,’ Dillon says.
‘Why would I be mad?’ I ask. ‘Wait. What did you do?’
‘I could be wrong.’
‘What did you do?’ I press him.
‘You asked me to help Derry,’ Dillon starts to explain. ‘And he wanted it—he needed it. You could see it all over him, aye? The shakes, the nerves. He was exhausted with it. Muirgheal understood. She wanted to be here for him.’
I step back from Dillon, afraid where this is heading. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Derry’s curse. If he chose anyone but Branna he’d kick the bucket,’ Dillon reminds me. He shrugs awkwardly. ‘I’m guessing he chose Muirgheal …’
My breath stalls. ‘You mean, he’s dead?’
I can’t have lost my grandfather just when I found him. I can’t. Tears well in my eyes and Dillon pulls me to him. ‘It’s what Derry wanted, love, to die with Muirgheal in his arms.’
‘And Muirgheal knew?’ I say against him.
‘It’s why she came.’
I don’t know how to feel about this. It’s beautiful—her flying across the world to help her first love die in peace—but it’s also horrible. ‘You should have told me. I could have been there for them.’
‘Ya wouldn’t have let it happen if I told ya,’ Dillon says. ‘And I wanted yer last memory of him to be happy.’
‘Oh god.’ I bury my face in his chest and truly cry. Dillon holds me tighter. ‘I really liked him, Dill. He was a sweetheart,’ I sob.
Dillon laughs. ‘Not sure he would have heard that often.’
‘He was!’ I moan.
He rubs my back. ‘I’m sure.’
‘And poor Muirgheal,’ I say, turning my head to look over the ocean. ‘This is such a tragic land for her.’
‘She did it for you,’ Dillon says. ‘They both did.’
The Implausible Story of Olive Far Far Away Page 26