The Guesthouse on the Green Series Box Set 2 Page 15

  The next few days had passed in a strange twilight-like fugue for her. She went through the motions of packing her case—she planned to travel lightly—and on Saturday night there’d been a farewell supper held in her honour. As her friends and family laughed, chatted and clinked glasses she’d felt as if she were standing outside herself, a stranger listening in to people talking about some girl she didn’t know. Nobody noticed anything amiss with her and Clio had wished more than anything that she could sit down with Gerry, face to face, and tell him how she was feeling, but he was literally an ocean away from her.

  The day itself rolled around as big occasions always do and in this new dreamlike state that had overtaken her, she’d found herself being jostled by the crowds gathering at Dublin Port, waiting to board or wave off loved ones on the Orion. The huge liner loomed over them all with its steady stream of passengers walking up the gangplank. The day was cold but it didn’t touch Clio; she was unaware of the sorrow, anticipation and excitement that filled the crowded dockside. She was oblivious to the scent of the sea, salty and fishy, which made Neasa’s nose curl and Tom declare the port, “stinky” which saw him get a cuff around the ear.

  She was hugged and kissed and aware of Fidelma urging her to look out for her orange scarf when she stood on the deck to wave down at them; she’d worn it in order to stand out. Mammy was crying, and Daddy was stoic as he nudged her into the throng filing up the gangplank. Her case banged against her leg as she was swallowed up in the crowd, all eager to board the ship and begin their journey. She showed her ticket and passport and then followed the sea of coats and hats to the upper deck where she squeezed in between two families to scan the dock for a last glimpse at her own family’s familiar faces.

  An orange slash of colour split the grey day and her gaze settled on Fidelma waving frantically with her scarf. A wave of love for her sister crashed over her and she waved back, hoping she could see her. Her arm began to ache with the effort, and the stupor Clio had been in began to lift. The calls of the men working on the wharf below mingled with the excited chatter all around her became overly loud. She could smell the salt air and everything sharpened and cleared like the lens of a camera being twisted into focus. Her arm dropped to her side as it hit her what had been niggling at her since she’d received that last letter from Gerry.

  If she were to marry him, she would cease to be. That girl who’d stood outside Brown Thomas admiring the yellow dress, the dress that suggested she be a ray of sunshine on an autumn day, the girl who’d been strong enough to know her own mind, would be swallowed up. Because just as she wasn’t a ray of sunshine on an autumn day sort of a girl, nor was she cut out for Balenciaga or Balmain. Her life she realised, were she to travel to Boston would be immersed in Gerry’s. Her job from the moment she said “I do” would be to support him, and his family’s political aspirations.

  She loved Gerry. She loved him with all her heart, but she knew right then that she couldn’t marry him. She began to elbow her way back through from where she’d come, moving against the tide as she pushed her way back down the gangplank toward the orange scarf. She was Cliona Whelan, she told herself. The girl who would not quit until she was reporting newsworthy stories for the Times. The girl who would write a bestseller. She’d gotten sidetracked, but she’d found her way back to herself.

  CLIO FOLDED THE LETTER and put it back in the box before placing the lid down firmly. She hoped by doing so she was shutting those memories in so she could get back to work. To her surprise she found her cheeks were wet and she wiped the tears away angrily. She had a book to be getting on with. She didn’t have time for dwelling on ancient history. Why had Gerry decided to come back now? What could he possibly hope to have happen at their time of life? She was only a year away from getting her bus pass for God’s sake.

  Chapter 22

  Roisin made her way down the stairs, her nose quivering like the little red fox at the smell of bacon frying. The aroma was curling its way up the stairwell from the kitchen in the basement. She clutched the bannister, feeling unsteady on her feet despite her sensible footwear. Her head was pounding and she vowed for the tenth time since she’d opened one eye earlier that morning, only to be assailed by a needle like pain in her head, she’d never touch tequila again. She hadn’t had all that much to drink but she was out of practice given she hardly led the life of a party girl these days and it had gone straight to her head. The apartment was silent when she dragged herself out of bed, for which she was grateful.

  She could vaguely recall Aisling having said something yesterday about taking the opportunity to head off early do a spot of Christmas shopping. There was a tour party returning from their travels later this afternoon and she’d have to be back by then. Moira, she’d deduced, was probably out with Tom making the most of the college break. She didn’t want to deal with her sisters quizzing her about her night out with Shay. Come to that she didn’t want to think about her night out. All she wanted was a new head. That wasn’t too much to ask was it? Failing a new head then a visit see what Mrs Flaherty had on offer in the kitchen would suffice. ‘A rasher sandwich will fix me up.’

  ‘What was that, Roisin?’

  Roisin started, she hadn’t seen Ita, O’Mara’s director of housekeeping as she insisted on being called, loitering in the doorway of Room 7, the trolley of cleaning products nowhere to be seen. Ita’s phone made a telltale ding from her pocket and the younger woman looked sheepish.

  ‘Oh, hello, Ita. I didn’t see you there. I was just saying I fancy one of Mrs Flaherty’s rasher sandwiches.’

  ‘Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, so it is.’ Ita moved closer and peered at her. ‘You don’t look very well, Roisin.’

  Roisin knew she was an unbecoming shade of green and she should have brushed her hair. She had managed to brush her teeth and get dressed, that was something at least.

  The younger woman looked sly. ‘Big night on the lash, was it then? Has your mammy got your lad?’

  Roisin saw the gum in her mouth and felt irritated. There was just something about Ita that was annoying. It wasn’t just her insufferable air of superiority, evident in the fact she seemed to think her work or more aptly lack of work at O’Maras was beneath her. Or the way she lurked about the hallways of the guesthouse not doing much of anything other than earwigging and playing on her phone. Roisin knew she drove Aisling, who was obligated to her employ her through Ita’s mammy and their mammy’s longstanding friendship, mad. ‘Not at all, Ita, I’m grand so I am, and yes, Noah stayed overnight at his nana’s along with Pat and his girlfriend Cindy.’

  ‘Patrick’s home?’ Ita breathed, her pinched features taking on a moony quality. Roisin mentally rolled her eyes, she was obviously another one of her brother’s many admirers.

  ‘Yes, he’s home for Christmas. Mammy’s made up, so she is.’ She answered as brightly as she could then, keen to get downstairs, added, ‘Oh, Aisling asked me to mention if I saw you that she’d shortly be checking on the rooms that needed to be made up for the guests returning from their tour this afternoon.’ She felt better watching Ita pale and scurry off. It was a little white lie but it was satisfying watching her get moving. It was about time she earned her wages!

  Roisin carried on her way, reaching the ground floor without bumping into any guests, and with the smell of a good old Irish fry-up getting stronger, her mouth began to salivate. Salvation was nigh! She spied the back of Bronagh’s head, dipped slightly as she huffed over entering the pile of faxed bookings into the computer and was relieved she was busy. She’d creep past and say hello once she had some good old greasy, soaky-uppy, sustenance inside her. She’d only got one foot on the last flight of stairs leading down to the basement when Bronagh’s voice rang out.

  ‘Roisin, don’t try and sneak past without telling me how your night went with the handsome Shay. I’ve eyes in the back of my head so I have and I’ve been waiting for you to make an appearance. Show yourself.’

&nb
sp; Roisin froze. There was nothing for it. She mooched forth. ‘Morning, Bronagh.’

  ‘Jaysus wept, look at the state of you! You’re the poster girl for the evils of alcohol at Christmastime so you are. Your eyes are like road maps. I could find my way all the way down to Kerry just looking in those.’ She put down the papers she was holding in her hand.

  ‘Not so loud, Bronagh. My head hurts.’ Roisin tried squinting her eyes to see if that helped ease the throbbing. It didn’t.

  ‘Am I to take it, it was a good night then?’

  Roisin nodded.

  ‘Then why do you look like someone just stole the last piece of your pie?’

  ‘I made an eejit of myself, that’s why.’

  ‘Really, I’d never believe that?’

  Roisin wasn’t sure whether Bronagh was taking the mickey or not. ‘Well, I did.’

  Bronagh studied her face and raised a sympathetic smile as she made a clucking sound. ‘Ah, c’mon now, it can’t be that bad. Tell your aunty Bronagh all about it.’

  Roisin felt a little like she was standing in front of a schoolteacher as she bowed her head, her hands clasped in front of her while she confided in the receptionist how her evening had been going really well until she’d had a reality check as to her situation. ‘He’s only in his twenties, Bronagh. Sure, what would he want with me. Anyway,’ she shrugged. ‘I began knocking back the tequila sunrises and the rest is history.’

  ‘That’s not so bad. You won’t be the only one to get a little too merry this time of year.’

  ‘I tripped over leaving the restaurant and fell in a heap near the entrance.’ Her face flamed because even in her inebriated state she’d felt the curious stares of the other diners on her. Shay had helped her up, checking she hadn’t hurt herself, before taking a firm grip of her and hustling her out of the restaurant and into a taxi.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He was a gentleman, saw me all the way to the sofa upstairs. He fetched me a big glass of water and listened to me ramble on. I think I told him we weren’t a good match due to him being footloose and fancy free and me having enough baggage to sink the Titanic, but that’s not to say I didn’t find him highly rideable. Ah Jaysus, Bronagh I can’t believe I said that. Anyway I must have fallen asleep at some point, and that’s when he made his escape because I woke up alone on the sofa with a terrible crick in my neck as the sun was coming up.’ Roisin rubbed her temples. She was old enough to know better. Never, ever again.

  Bronagh opened her drawer. ‘Here,’ she held out the packet of biscuits. ‘I think you need one of these.’

  Roisin took the custard cream and nibbled it, relishing the sweetness.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, Roisin. You’ve had an awful lot of changes this year and you were bound to let off steam some time. As for having luggage—’

  ‘It’s baggage, Bronagh.’ Roisin managed a weak smile.

  ‘Whatever, you know what I mean. There’s not many of us who get through life without picking up a few heavy bags along the way. I don’t know why you’re making a fuss about being a few years older than your man, either.’

  ‘Nearly ten years older, a whole decade, Bronagh.’

  Bronagh flapped her hand. ‘Age is just a number. Do you like him?’

  ‘I do, he’s a very nice man.’

  ‘And he obviously likes you, suitcases and all so, there you go. I’ve seen that beautiful bouquet in the guests’ lounge. Cut yourself some slack, Roisin. You’re not after marrying him, you went out for dinner and a few drinks that’s all.’

  ‘Too many drinks, and I couldn’t marry him because then I’d be a bigamist.’

  ‘You’re as bad as your sisters with an answer for everything.’

  ‘Sorry, I know you’re trying to help.’ Roisin licked the crumbs off her bottom lip which felt dry and cracked from sleeping with her mouth open all night.

  Bronagh was mollified. ‘Roisin, I’ve been around the block a few times.’

  She was fond of that saying, Roisin thought, finding it very hard to imagine Bronagh doing any such thing, but she’d obviously had a life outside of O’Mara’s. It was just one they’d not been privy to.

  ‘And if there’s one thing I know it’s this.’ Bronagh’s expression was sage. ‘We women tend to spoil things for ourselves by spinning things round and round in our heads. Things we have no control over. We weave our own version of events. Save your energy, Rosi, I’d put money on him phoning to check how you’re feeling today.’

  ‘Do you think?’ Roisin wasn’t sure she wanted him to. The part of her that wanted to throw caution to the wind and be damned, desperately wanted to hear his voice. To know she hadn’t blown things. The other part, the sensible mother part, thought it best if they just left things alone. She wasn’t right for him, he wasn’t right for her so why pursue it? She squinted again, her head hurt too much for all this analysis.

  ‘I think. Now why don’t you get yourself down those stairs and see what Mrs Flaherty can whip up to sort you out and next time I see you make sure you’ve brushed that hair of yours. Is it a new look you were after with the you know?’ She pointed at Roisin’s fringe..

  ‘No, it’s a long story and one I definitely don’t want to talk about.’ Roisin leaned in and gave the receptionist a quick hug, ‘Thanks, Bronagh.’ Straightening up, she tried to smooth her fringe down with her hands.

  Bronagh patted her hand. ‘Go on. Away with you now.’

  Before she headed off down the stairs, she poked her head around the door to the guests’ lounge and there on the coffee table was the beautiful bunch of flowers Shay had presented her with last night. She recalled the boyishly shy look on his face as he handed them to her and her heart ached. Why did life have to be so hard sometimes?

  ‘WHERE’S MY BOY?’ MRS Flaherty demanded, releasing Roisin from a bearlike embrace and giving her the once over.

  ‘He’ll be in to see you later, Mrs Flaherty. He stayed at Mammy’s last night,’ Roisin explained.

  ‘So as you could have a night out, by the looks of things.’ The dumpling cheeked cook, whose apron straining around her middle bore the hallmarks of a busy morning at the stove, made a tutting sound.

  Roisin mumbled, ‘I wish I hadn’t now.’

  ‘Ah well, good sense is as important as good food and since you obviously had no sense last night it’ll have to be the good food. A rasher sandwich do you?’

  ‘Oh, yes please, Mrs Flaherty, nobody makes a rasher sandwich as good as yours and do you think there’s a chance of a fried egg going in there too?’ Roisin tried her luck and, watching Mrs Flaherty puff up proudly at the compliment, she knew her luck was in because there was nothing Mrs Flaherty liked more than her food being enjoyed.

  ‘Sit yourself down and tell me what’s been happening since I last saw you,’ she said, wielding the fry pan with expertise as Roisin brought her up to date with how she and Noah were getting on in London. Roisin felt better already. She was at home in the kitchen with its delicious smells that always transported her back to her childhood. Mrs Flaherty’s kitchen, as they all thought of it, had always been a place of sanctuary where something tasty usually got passed their way. By the time she’d brought the cook up to speed, the rashers were being placed between two thick slabs of buttered, real butter mind, soda bread. The finishing touch was an egg cooked on both sides. She plopped it on a plate and Roisin took it from her reverently.

  ‘Thank you. Food of the Gods this is, Mrs Flaherty.’

  Mrs Flaherty wiped her hands on her apron. ‘You can earn your keep by helping clear the tables when you’re finished.’

  Roisin nodded, her mouth too full to speak. She ate in silence, greedily gobbling the sandwich down and already beginning to feel like there was a real possibility she may be able to rejoin the human race after all.

  ‘That was wonderful, thank you.’ She made herself a milky, sugary cup of tea, which she gulped at before stacking her dishes in the dishwasher, while Mrs Flaherty b
egan to tackle the frying pan and other pots in the sudsy sink water. She hadn’t forgotten her promise and she felt capable of nattering politely with the guests now she was fed and watered, so she ventured into the dining room. The tables were laid with white cloths and the walls of what once would have been servants’ quarters were adorned with black and white prints of the Dublin of old. A handful of guests were still enjoying the remains of breakfast, mopping up the last of their yolk with a slice of bread or enjoying a leisurely cup of tea. She smiled and introduced herself before asking an older couple if they were enjoying their stay.

  ‘We are thank you, dear,’ the woman, who looked a little older than Mammy in her sensible cardigan and blouse, replied. She would not be the sort to come home from a holiday in Asia with her hair braided, Roisin decided, smiling back at her. Nor would she be likely to get about in trousers three sizes too small!

  ‘We go home tomorrow, in time for Christmas.’

  ‘And where would home be?’

  ‘We’re from Sligo,’ the woman added, beaming proudly.

  ‘Oh lovely.’ Roisin had never been there. The only thing she knew about Sligo was Westlife came from there.

  Her husband put his teacup down. ‘The wife here, wanted to do her Christmas shopping in Dublin. We’ll have to hire our own bus to get home with the amount of parcels she’s been after buying. Spoils the grandchildren rotten. In my day it was an orange in the stocking if you were lucky.’