Second Hand Jane Read online

  “Aye, when she was younger, she did. Not so much the high school; she was too busy messing about. She loved to draw. I remember seeing her sitting at the kitchen table, doodling away for hours. Dress designing, she called it. If she wasn’t drawing, she had her nose in a book. She was a dreamer, Amy—no good with the practical stuff like maths. Da was always threatening to take her record player off her if she didn’t start applying herself.”

  “My Mum and Dad used to say the same thing, except with me they always threatened to snap my Guns N’ Roses record in half. It made no difference, though; I still got lost at fractions.” Jess thought for a moment. “Amy obviously liked music but was she musical?”

  Owen gave a short laugh. “I don’t know if it was the music she liked or if it was that Simon Le Bon fellow and his tight trousers but no, she wasn’t musical—not unless you count the god-awful racket she used to make with a recorder. She had lessons once a week. It is my firm belief that whoever invented the recorder deserves to be locked in a room for twenty-four hours with a child practising it. Even when the bloody thing is played well, it still sounds awful.”

  “My niece is learning the recorder and sometimes when she is practising, my sister puts her on the phone for me to listen to. I agree—it is terrible.”

  “What did you do to your sister to deserve that then?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—moved to Ireland and made myself unavailable for regular babysitting services.”

  She almost didn’t hear Owen when he said, “She used to give me and me mates a hard time because we were annoying little sods, always spying on her and her pals. She’d tell us to piss off and leave them alone but sometimes when it was just me and her, we’d talk. Talk properly like. She asked me once what I made of the violence—I mean, like I said, we were kind of isolated from it growing up here but it was there all the same and you were always aware of the undercurrent. There were places you couldn’t go and things you wouldn’t say too loudly. Amy hated it; she said she couldn’t understand why everybody just couldn’t get along.”

  Jess was beginning to form a mental picture of Amy as a creative child with a wilful personality who, if she had had the chance to grow up, might have gone on to do something really fabulous with her life. She had just got caught up in something she couldn’t understand and something that had nothing to do with her at all.

  “Where is it you come from then? Your accent’s not strong enough to be an Australian’s so I am guessing that you must hail from New Zealand?” It was Owen’s turn to abruptly change the subject.

  “Well done! Most Irish assume I am from Aussie. I once had a chap ask me if I’d ever bumped into Kylie at home or if I used to take my holidays in Summer Bay.”

  Owen laughed and Jess felt inordinately pleased with herself.

  “I always fancied New Zealand but it’s too far to go unless you go for a decent spell and these days it’s not so easy to just up and go, what with the farm.”

  “No, I guess not and especially not when you’ve got young Wilbur out there to bring up.” Jess caught sight of the old carriage clock ticking away on the mantel. The day had flown! It was four thirty already and she would have to be making tracks if she was going to make it to Ballymcguinness for the bus at five. The return journey back to Dublin was not one she was relishing the thought of.

  She gathered her things and followed Owen out to the Land Rover, scurrying past Jemima, who gave her a sly hiss.

  Owen turned the key in the ignition and instead of the engine roaring into life as it had done earlier, absolutely nothing happened. He tried again and again and again, finally slamming his hands on the steering wheel and announcing, “Bugger, it’ll be the starter motor gone. It’s been grumbling for a while.”

  “Er, should I get a taxi then?” Even as she said it, Jess knew it was a pointless statement. Ballymcguinness was the size of a postage stamp; the village would not stretch to a taxi service.

  “Tell you what—I’ll ring old Joe over on the farm next door to see if he can give you a lift down to the station.”

  Jess dug her phone out of her bag and checked the time; it was marching on. “Here, you can use this.”

  Sadly, old Joe wasn’t home, Owen informed her a minute later. Apparently he had left a message on his answerphone to say he had headed down to the bachelor festival at Lisdoonvarna. That gave Jess pause for thought. She had been down to the tourist spa town’s festival with Nora a few years earlier in the vague hope of meeting a wealthy land owner. Ye gods, some of the sights that had staggered out of the wild west of County Clare in the search of a wife had just about been enough to make the girls head for the hills themselves. The dance they had attended had seen them both visiting chiropodists on their return to civilisation—Dublin.

  “Well, you can’t walk into town; it’s too far. And by the time I can tee up a ride for you, the bus will be long gone anyway.”

  “Oh,” was all Jess said. What the hell was she supposed to do now?

  They had both gotten out of the vehicle that obviously wasn’t going anywhere and Owen kicked the door. “Damned thing.”

  He looked so annoyed that Jessica found herself saying, “Hey, it’s okay. It’s one of those things; don’t worry about it.” Actually, she thought, it wasn’t okay because she was bloody well marooned.

  “I’m sorry about this,” he muttered brusquely in that tone that implied apologising was a foreign concept to him. “Come on, it’s getting too cold to be standing around out here. I’ll phone Mick from the garage and get him to come out with a new motor. There’s a bus that swings through just after ten tomorrow morning. I’ll have you on that.”

  “Oh,” was all Jess could come up with again as she stayed where she was.

  He looked back. “Well, you’ll have to stay the night, won’t you?”

  Jeepers, Jess thought, taking in his surly expression. He was as enamoured at the thought of having her stay over as she was about staying. She didn’t think she could face the long evening that stretched ahead alone with him and his moods. She didn’t want to have to make conversation with him. What she needed was to be alone with her thoughts to process what she’d learnt about Amy today.

  Owen was right, though; the temperature had dropped and the air was filled with that real autumnal chill that had begun setting in every afternoon once four o’clock rolled around. It was a taste of the winter yet to come. She thought of that blazing fire he had going inside the cottage and reluctantly followed him back inside. Spying Jemima a safe distance away under the rose bushes, she poked her tongue out at her before closing the front door firmly behind her, just as the pudgy white goose charged.

  This was so not what she had planned. She should be sitting on the bus: boobs-a-bouncing, evil-eyeballing Leery Len as he drove her back to Dublin. Yes, by rights, she should be well on her way home to her own cosy apartment with all the noises of city life wafting in thanks to the building’s crap soundproofing. She should be looking ahead to an evening spent slopping around in her elephant suit as she dined on beans on toast with a big handful of grated cheese on top for dinner. After which she’d pour herself a nice milky cuppa and curl up on the settee to think about Amy and begin writing her story while the emotions were raw and fresh.

  She didn’t suppose there was much point in telling Owen that she couldn’t possibly stay overnight because she hadn’t a clean pair of knickers with her, either. She had never been a very good Brownie, never quite getting that whole “be prepared” bit. Oh well, there was nothing she could do about it, she thought with a sigh as she followed him through the lounge and out through a door she hadn’t ventured past since arriving.

  Jess found herself in a hall with a huge skylight in the middle of it. If it weren’t for that and the electric light coming in through the lounge with the remnants of daylight thrown in from the three other rooms all running off the hall, she guessed it would be pretty much pitch black.

  “That’s my room,” Owen stated, pointin
g to the first door that was ajar. She paused to catch a glimpse inside what was a surprisingly big room. It was spacious and painted white with a big overstuffed armchair placed by a picture window that looked out at the gardens to the side of the cottage. An ottoman was placed at the foot of the chair. Though the light was fading, she could make out a book resting open on top of it and Jess wondered what he was reading—A Guide to Rearing Healthy Pigs perhaps? A huge double bed dominated the room and it was neatly made up with a masculine chocolate duvet with cream piping around the edges.

  The next room was a large bathroom, complete with a gorgeous claw-foot bath and a walk-in shower. The room next door was to be hers.

  “It’s always made up. I have friends who pop over from London regularly,” he told her, opening the door.

  Jessica couldn’t imagine him having friends who “popped” in but there you go—as she had discovered earlier, Owen Aherne was by no means a straightforward man.

  This room, too, was large but had been made to feel warm and welcoming with a double bed made up with a plain white bedspread; there was a folded patchwork quilt at the bottom of it. At the end of the bed sat an old sea chest.

  “You’ll find towels and an extra blanket in there if you need it,” Owen said, pointing to it. “There’s an unopened toothbrush in there too.”

  She hoped he wasn’t implying she had bad breath. “The room is lovely, thank you.” She wondered whether this was Amy’s old room.

  “I knocked the wall out between what was mine and Amy’s old rooms and turned it into the master bedroom,” he said as though having read her mind and then, turning on his heel, he left her to it.

  Ah, so this room had once upon a time been his parents’, she thought, noticing that it was well and truly evening outside now. Jess pulled the heavy white drapes, too, before tossing her bag down on the bed and switching the little bedside lamp on. She should text the girls and let them know what was happening; otherwise, the pair of them would put two and two together and come up with five. Wresting her phone from her bag, she perched on the end of the bed and tapped out a message explaining what had happened. Sending it off, she sat there for a moment, unwilling to go through to the kitchen and face the long evening that stretched ahead. What on earth would she find to talk about other than Amy between now and nine—which was the earliest she’d be able to sneak off to bed without appearing rude. She sensed Owen, too, was exhausted from trawling his memories and would have liked nothing more than to wave her on her way so he could reflect on the day. Sighing, she got to her feet. She couldn’t hide away in here all night; besides which, she was getting peckish. It must be all that fresh country air.

  Owen was in the kitchen, making up a baby’s bottle. “Would you mind taking this out to feed Wilbur? Mick said he’d be here in the next half hour and that was fifteen minutes ago.”

  Jess took the bottle from him happily. She was glad of the escape hatch and more than happy to go and see her little baby again.

  ***

  The cacophony from the stall next door settled down as the sow, and her demanding brood, grew used to her presence. They couldn’t see her but they certainly sensed she was there, she thought, crouching down and stroking Wilbur.

  “Hello, little man,” she whispered, picking him up, sure that the squeal he emitted, although weak, was one of delight. As she settled down to feed him, her mind played over what Owen had told her that day. She was still trying to process the sadness of Amy’s story and she didn’t want to make that the sole focus of her article. She wanted to paint the picture of a girl who had laughed and made others laugh with her for the short time she was here. The article began to take shape in her mind as Wilbur drained the rest of the bottle and so, settling him back into his box, she stood up. It must be around five thirty, which would mean he would be due another feed around seven thirty. She could handle that one—even the nine thirty feeding—but she was grateful that she wouldn’t be pulling an all-nighter thanks to the drip bottle. She really did take her hat off to all new mothers, she thought, making her way back to the cottage.

  An outside light was on and she could make out the shape of what looked like a Ute parked next to Owen’s Land Rover. The bonnet was up and Owen stood next to it, talking to a little roly-poly man.

  That must be Mick, she decided, registering the surprise on his face as he clocked her making her way toward them. Owen waved her over.

  “Mick, this is Jessica Baré—she’s a writer up from Dublin. She’s doing a piece on Amy for her paper. I was supposed to drop her back in the village to get the bus back to Dublin but the old beast died on me.”

  Mick nodded and the knowing twinkle in his eye as he gave her the once-over reminded her of a beardless Santa Claus. “Pleased to meet you. Aye, she was a bright spark, Amy. Terrible thing. Terrible thing.” He shook his head then and turned away to make himself busy under the bonnet.

  “Right, well, I’ll leave you to it. Owen, is there anything I can get underway in the kitchen for you?” She was fairly sure it would be a simple dinner of chops and mashed spud or some such farming fare.

  “You could top and tail the beans, thanks. I’ve knocked up a smoked chicken pasta bake; it’s in the oven. We should be eating in half an hour or so, alright?”

  Jess was gobsmacked and Owen looked bemusedly at her for a moment before turning away to help Mick.

  He probably got the sauce from a jar, she thought, going back inside and having a quick look around to see whether she could spy the evidence of this. There was an empty cream bottle and a block of parmesan on the bench, as well as half a bunch of fresh herbs. He’d made the sauce from scratch. It was her turn to look bemused as she picked up a knife and began doing as she’d been told to the beans. They were freshly picked and obviously home-grown. Just who was this guy—a distant relative of Gordon Ramsay? He certainly had the same cranky demeanour but thankfully he didn’t use bad language and he was definitely better looking.

  She’d just finished the beans when she heard an engine revving outside. Owen appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, looking pleased with himself as he headed over to the sink to wash his hands.

  “All sorted then?”

  “Aye,” he grunted, drying his hands off before opening the Aga’s door, sending out a waft of something delicious as he did so.

  Jess’s tummy rumbled. “Shall I set the table?”

  “Aye. I’m heading off for a shower. Do you want one?”

  Jess must have looked shocked because Owen’s face flushed a mottled red and he stammered, “I, uh, meant after me, of course. There’s time before dinner’s ready.”

  It was quite fun seeing this normally reserved man flustered, she thought with a grin before answering. “Oh, right, yes, I suppose I probably should.” She had spent the best part of her day wandering around a pig farm, after all, even if they were extremely clean animals.

  Owen recovered himself and pointed to where she’d find the cutlery, plates, and glasses before disappearing down the hall.

  By the time she’d laid the table, he had reappeared, heading straight over to the stovetop to put the beans on. “The bathroom’s all yours.”

  He had changed into a clean pair of jeans and a loose sweater. Without the thick corduroy pants and gumboots on, he looked a different man. He’d lost the farmer look and for the first time she caught a glimpse of the man who had been a successful lawyer in London. His hair was freshly washed and he had that scrubbed look of someone who had done a hard day’s work and earned a hot shower at the end of it. I bet he wears Old Spice, she thought, her nose twitching to identify the cheap aftershave that had been a Father’s Day staple when she was growing up. Instead, she received a whiff of something citrusy but fresh and rather delish.

  “Er, thanks. I won’t be long,” Jess said, feeling slightly awkward about her silent inventory as she made a hasty retreat through the door. She checked her phone on her way through to the bathroom to find as expected that there were
two messages—both from the girls. She read Brianna’s first:

  Take care sweetie behave yourself and phone me as soon as you get home xox PS: Harry’s in big trouble he used my Coco Chanel as toilet freshener

  Jess smiled. Poor Harry—he would be in the poo! Grinning at her inadvertent pun, she opened Nora’s message next which was as usual indecipherable at first glance:

  Wht u doin on pg frm - wnt xtrme mntain bking 2day feckn scry – wld hve bn lkin fwd 2 xtreme actn of anthr knd 2nite but cnt wlk Bloody hell, she’s getting worse, Jess thought, re-reading it and slowly beginning to make sense of what she was saying:

  What are you doing on a pig farm– I went extreme mountain biking today with Ewan – would have been looking forward to extreme action of another kind tonight but can’t walk.

  God—movie star or not, this Ewan Reid would be the end of Nora, she thought, grabbing a towel out of the chest. What would be next—abseiling down the Empire State Building? She shook her head at the thought of Nora leaping off tall buildings—before heading off for her shower.

  Chapter Eight

  Owen was pulling a bottle of wine from the fridge when Jess came back in, feeling refreshed and pleased with herself for having the nous to turn her knickers inside out. Maybe she could have gone on to the Girl Guides after all.

  “Have a seat,” he said, placing the bottle on the table. “I’ve got juice or a soft drink if you’d rather that?”

  Jess sat down and leaned forward to read the label on the wine.

  “Are you kidding? Oyster Bay is my favourite sav.” The grapes were a taste of home. “Pour away,” she said, holding out her glass.

  “Aye, well, you Kiwis do produce a good drop,” Owen replied, doing as he was told.

  The meal was even scrummier than it had promised to be. Owen had poured lemon-infused vinaigrette over the beans and tossed a sprinkling of roasted walnuts on the top. There was a crusty loaf of garlic bread on a wooden bread board for them to share and as for the pasta, it was carb heaven. She hoped he wouldn’t think her too much of a pig—whoops, better make that glutton, she quickly admonished herself—if she helped herself to seconds.