by Anne Doughty
I strode down the hill, looked up at the gathering rain clouds, and gave thanks. With rain threatening, there would be few passing cars to interrupt me and I was unlikely to get a lift. I scanned the horizon. Today the islands lay heavy on the grey water, muted shades of purple and grey, the white shapes of the cottages barely visible, the stone walls lost in the dimness. How different they had looked from the bare Hills of Burren, shimmering in the heat, the sea dazzling around them.
‘Distance lends enchantment,’ I murmured to myself, as the images of that day flooded back into my mind. It was a day I would never forget. I felt sure of that, but of little else. What was it that had made the day so memorable? That I’d been kissed by a man a good deal older than myself, a man from a different culture, a different background, a different social group? My parents would be horrified if they knew, George angry, Mary and Paddy delighted. Bridget Doherty would think my good fortune nothing less than a triumph.
It was all a matter of perspective. Each had their own way of looking at it. What really mattered was how I saw it. That was much more difficult. To be honest, I wasn’t sure. Certainly, I had responded to Patrick’s kisses, been delighted and warmed by his tenderness, but if I had expected to feel something more, something dramatic enough to do justice to the fact that this was a new and forbidden relationship, then I hadn’t.
I laughed aloud, remembering all those love scenes I’d viewed over the years at the Curzon Cinema, when I’d been sent off every Saturday afternoon to get me out of the way. Down at Drennan, there hadn’t been so much as a solitary violin hidden behind the marram grass, never mind the full orchestra lurking in the sand dunes just waiting for its cue.
No, I hadn’t expected anything ridiculous like that. I’d made up my mind a long time ago that instant, overwhelming passion was only to be found in that same fantasy world where heroines crash through jungles pursued by natives, wild animals or King Kong himself, and emerge with spotlessly clean blouses and their mascara still on their eyelashes. But excitement, or elation, or even something that might grow to passion? Had I experienced anything like that?
I brushed the trailing grasses by the wayside and set the heavy seedheads bobbing. When Patrick kissed me, I had to confess, what I really felt was relief. A sudden wonderful sense of comfort, and ease, as if some great burden had just melted away, leaving me feeling calm and happy and ready to return his embrace.
Did that mean I loved him? Or was my response simply a new experience, something sure to happen once I moved out of my own familiar world, full of boys I had grown up with, whose sisters I’d met on the hockey field, or in the Schools Challenge Cup debates, or a university club or society.
Although in Patrick’s arms I’d felt nothing I would recognise as passion, equally I knew I’d be happy to make love with him. And there was no disguising the fact that the thought shocked me. Not the actual thought of making love itself. No. The problem was that I’d always insisted I could only make love to someone I was absolutely sure I loved. But that thought hadn’t touched me at all as we clung to each other.
If Adrienne Henderson had had any idea what was going through my mind at this moment, she’d laugh her head off. She’s always saying how terribly old-fashioned I am, because I don’t make love to George. And I’ve always argued back that it was only sensible to wait, because the risks were far too great. Besides, I couldn’t bear the thought of making love in the back seats of cars and on other people’s sofas, furtively and hastily, part of me listening for the sound of someone coming. It just didn’t seem as if that could be the right way for something that was supposed to be so very important.
But she declared she’d make love to anyone she really fancied. It was entirely my upbringing which made me so inhibited. Then she’d hint that if I really did love George, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself making love whenever we had the chance. That really began to worry me, not because I hadn’t, but perhaps after all, I hadn’t really wanted to.
Troubled and uneasy, I sat down on a low stone wall. The islands had disappeared. The curtain of rain which had enveloped them was clearly outlined as it swept south, drawing cold air across my perspiring face. I shivered and remembered the enclosing warmth of Patrick’s arms around me, the sense of well-being they had brought, the comfort and security I felt as we sat together on the tree trunk, sea and sky open before us.
I tried to remember what we’d said to each other. I laughed again, as lines of torrid dialogue from the ninepenny novels circulated at school repeated themselves in my mind. How marvellous it would be if writers actually told the truth about passionate encounters; admitted that lovers got caught in each other’s spectacles, got cramp at an absolutely critical moment, found ants in their knickers, or that a parting embrace had been written out of the script by Michael Flannigan and his goat.
We hadn’t produced much in the way of torrid dialogue. In fact, after the first long kiss, we’d said very little to each other. When we were not kissing, we sat silently side by side, and I watched the second hand of his watch sweep away what little time we had, before we had to walk along the empty beach and drive back to Lisara.
‘You know I’d cancel this trip if I could?’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘I’ll try to be back by Tuesday. You’ll still be here, won’t you?’
‘Yes. I’ll be here.’
In the middle of the deserted beach, we had paused a moment, kissed again and then run hand in hand to the car, hoping that Mary Coyle would not be there to delay us. He had not said he loved me but I felt sure that he did. What I was quite sure of was that I was longing to see him again.
‘Miss Stewart, can I give you a lift?’
For a moment I didn’t recognise the young man who stopped his van and pushed open the passenger door for me. It was the barman from Delargy’s. One look at his face told me he was as uncomfortable about giving me a lift as I was about having to accept one. But the rules were clear for both of us. He could not pass a known person on the road and I could not refuse a kind gesture.
‘Thanks, Mickey. It’s beginning to look very like rain.’
‘Aye, it rained further back. It might rain here yet.’
Why was it so many young men were so desperately shy, I asked myself, as I set about finding some topic of conversation to help him through the next four miles.
He parked in the stable yard just outside the stockroom. As I got out and thanked him, I could just distinguish the outline of Patrick’s desk among the cardboard boxes and the crates. There were no lights and no fire. Painfully aware of his absence, I walked round to the shop entrance and wished I didn’t have to go in. But I had Mary’s list.
Not all the visitors had gone home after all. The shop was full of them, buying cups of coffee or postcards, or just wandering aimlessly around. Kathleen was nowhere to be seen and by the time one of the younger girls was free to serve me, my back had begun to ache with a dull throb.
Full of irritation with the visitors who were also filling up the Square, I wove my way through them and up to the post office. The sky had turned grey and to the west the heavy cloud had a darker tone. A few spots of rain fell on the pavement and evaporated almost immediately in the warm breeze.
The queue at the post office did nothing to improve my temper. My head had begun to ache and when I discovered I’d put the shopping into Mary’s bag on top of the letters for the post, I nearly burst into tears. I stood behind a crumpled green anorak and fished for them one-handed as we shuffled towards Miss Molloney’s window.
Mary’s two letters were under the tea and sugar, my thank you to Professor McDonagh emerged badly creased, but search as I might I couldn’t find the two notes I’d written to George and my parents. Surely, I couldn’t have forgotten to put them in. If I had, it would mean yet another expensive phonecall and an awkwardness I would much rather avoid. If I rang the shop my mother would complain about my extravagance, but if I rang George’s mother instead, she’d co
mplain about hearing at second hand.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I found them under the squashy brown-paper parcel of bacon. You really must get yourself better organised, I berated myself, as I caught up on the green anorak who had made several strides forward. The sight of the Belfast addresses reminded me that a week today I’d be on my way back. The thought depressed me utterly. But then, if I hadn’t phoned George’s mother, I’d be on my way back at this very moment. Better be thankful for small mercies. I still had a week, a precious week, and so much to do with the new ideas from my time with Professor McDonagh. And so much to resolve between Patrick and me.
I wiped my forehead. The post office was warm and steamy and I had thoroughly upset myself panicking over my letters. Come on, Elizabeth, calm down. Not long now. Out of town at speed and then a quiet walk home. Doesn’t matter if you get soaked, you’ve plenty of dry things at the cottage.
‘Four letters and three cards, please.’
I pricked up my ears. The voice was English, rather formal and slightly hesitant, like the kind of public school boy George enjoyed imitating, the ones who are supposed to say things like ‘Frightful bore’ and ‘What ho, Carruthers’.
There was a pause. It had taken me a little while to discover that as Miss Molloney pressed the stamps on the damp sponge pad, aligned them carefully and smoothed them thoroughly, she was busy reading the addresses. She had long ago identified my parents and George. The third time Ben’s address appeared she’d enquired coyly if he was another boyfriend. When I explained that Ben was just very good at writing me letters, so obviously I wrote back, she’d made a funny noise like a hiccup.
I’d no idea how to interpret this sound, but I was planning to tell Ben about it tomorrow when I wrote again. I knew he’d enjoy being vetted by the local postmistress, because so far he’d enjoyed all my stories. After he’d had my first long letter thanking him for the Brigadier’s fiver, he’d asked for more details about the people I’d mentioned and how various aspects of my work were going. In his most recent letter he said he thought I was doing so well I ought to take as much time as I could manage. He insisted I was to be sure and use the Brigadier’s fiver if I was tight for money. How lovely of him to call it ‘the Brigadier’s fiver’ when actually half of the money was his.
But that was just like Ben, looking for the best in any situation. Working at the Rosetta was far better than I expected, because Ben was there to point out what I was missing. He always saw the lighter side of things, made people laugh, and yet underneath the easy manner there was a thoughtfulness and a seriousness most people missed. When he came up against exploitation, or prejudice, or indifference, he’d get just as angry as I do. But whereas I always try to stop myself being angry, because it upsets me so badly, Ben believes anger is perfectly proper and can be very productive so long as you decide what you’re going to do with it.
‘All right, Lizzie, so the man next door practises the violin at midnight. Every night. And he’s no Yehudi Menuhin. So you get angry. That’s fine. You have a right to be angry. It’s what you do after that really matters. Wiring up the seat of his loo to the ring circuit is not appropriate.’
I grinned broadly, then hastily straightened my face in case someone might think I’d gone mad. But I felt cheered. As I shuffled another few feet and felt the dull ache in my back again, I did a quick calculation. Too obvious for words. I’d brought one box of Tampax, of course, but as the minutes dragged by I began to worry what I’d do if I needed more and the medical hall didn’t stock them.
‘Could you possibly tell me how to get to this address?’ green anorak enquired politely.
‘Ye’d be a friend of Mr O’Dara’s then?’
‘No . . . er . . . I’m afraid I haven’t met Mr O’Dara yet.’
‘Ah, yer going to visit him, is it?’
Green anorak cleared his throat nervously. I was beginning to feel sorry for him. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with Miss Molloney unless she got more information out of him than she herself was asked to supply. Being English and reticent, he would never think of saying more than was necessary.
‘I have a letter of introduction to Mr O’Dara, but I’ve not been able to find Lisara on the map.’
That makes two of us. I peeped round the side of his jacket to see how Miss Molloney was reacting to a letter of introduction. She was frowning crossly at the piece of paper with the address written on it. The young man was tall and thin, with a pale, rather pointed face and very dark straight hair. A few strands of it kept falling down on his heavy-rimmed spectacles and he ran his fingers through it in a vain attempt to keep it back. He spoke with the kind of deliberation that suggested he might once have had a speech impediment.
‘D’ye know the road to the Cliffs of Moher?’
‘I’m . . . er. . . afraid. . . I don’t.’
‘Well, if you go down to the Square you might find a Guard. He’ll put you right.’
Miss Molloney dismissed him with a curt nod and as he thanked her and moved away, I saw how tired and anxious he looked. When I touched his arm and said I thought I could help, he blushed as if I’d just propositioned him.
‘Is this a friend of yours, Miss Stewart?’ broke in Miss Molloney.
‘Any friend of Mr O’Dara is a friend of mine,’ I said innocently, as I spread my letters out to be inspected.
To my amazement, she creased her face at me and peered sideways through her grille at the young man.
‘He’s too old for a student,’ she muttered. ‘And he’s English.’
‘Some English students are awfully old,’ I assured her in a whisper.
‘Ye’ll be going home soon, I expect?’ she said, reverting to her normal tone and giving me her full attention as she checked out my letters.
‘Yes, indeed. Next Saturday. I’ll be sorry to go.’
‘Ye will, indeed. I’m sure ye’ve enjoyed yer stay.’
This was my cue for more information, but I ignored it politely and told her I would see her again before I left.
‘I say . . . it’s frightfully . . . good of you to. . . er. . . help me out like this. My name’s . . . Llwellyn-Jones, Geoffrey Llwellyn-Jones,’ he said, thrusting his hand towards me when we got outside.
As I said my name, I wondered why I’d never learnt to think before I offered help. So much for my quiet walk back to Lisara.
‘I have my car parked . . . down in the Square . . . unless Mr O’Dara lives nearby.’
As we wove our way back to the Square, I explained where Lisara was and that I was staying with Mary and Paddy.
‘What a . . . tremendous piece of luck. . . meeting you. My directions weren’t very clear. I should have been here two days ago, you see, to meet someone who would have helped me, but the car packed up . . . she does sometimes.’
We had come to a halt beside a battered Morris Minor. I wasn’t surprised she’d packed up, I was only surprised she’d got going in the first place.
‘I’m sorry . . . it’s a bit of a mess,’ he said, disappearing inside the car to unlock the passenger door.
To clear the front seat for me, he had to move a pile of books, a plastic raincoat and a tape recorder. These he tried to accommodate on the back seat with some rubber boots, a pile of maps, a Norwegian sweater, two thermos flasks and the remains of a packet of sandwiches. I settled in the passenger seat with Mary’s shopping on my knees, but when he saw the large black bag he insisted on putting it in the back. I gazed through the grubby windscreen while he tugged and pulled until he managed to perch Mary’s bag on top.
He looked quite exhausted as he got back in and turned on the ignition. The engine coughed, whirred, and died.
‘She’s sometimes a bit difficult to start.’
It had grown heavier through the afternoon and now the strip of sky above the roofs of the shops was the same dark colour as their slate. A sudden rattle of thunder was followed by rain that lashed on the windscreen so fiercely that the buildings ahead were com
pletely blurred.
He tried again. To my absolute amazement, the car started perfectly. He pressed the accelerator, the engine noise increased encouragingly and we moved slowly across the now deserted Square. After a few yards, he stopped again and switched off.
‘I’m frightfully sorry. . . do you mind if we wait. . . a minute or two. . . the windscreen wipers . . . haven’t been too good.’
He looked distraught For the first time that afternoon my sense of humour came back. I could just picture Mr Feely on one of his regular circuits of the Square seeing me in a car with Geoffrey and all his worldly goods. What else would he think but that we were eloping?
I couldn’t exactly share the joke, but it made me feel better. I was about to make some encouraging remark when a thought struck me.
‘Geoffrey, you aren’t by any remote chance connected with Professor McDonagh?’
‘Why, yes. I was to meet him here in the Square on Wednesday, so I could go with him to Mr O’Dara. However did you know?’
For all the slowness of the journey back to Lisara, the problem of conversation did not arise. Just as Mickey Coyle had sprung to life when I’d told him about my problem getting a good head on a pint of Guinness, so Geoffrey was transformed at the mention of Professor McDonagh.
Once he began to tell me about his research fellowship and his work on Celtic myth survivals in the oral tradition of western Britain, the change was nothing short of miraculous. His hands relaxed on the wheel, he stopped running them through his hair, and there was no trace whatever of the hesitancy in his speech. Once, he actually looked at me long enough for me to notice he had rather handsome, brown eyes with surprisingly long dark lashes.