Reluctantly Charmed (28 page)

I strode along the main street, drinking in the atmosphere. It was quiet. I came across a handful of villagers, old men stooped on a bench, flat caps shadowing their faces, tweed jackets capturing the heat of the day. I nodded in their direction, but they were too busy discussing politics or whatever to notice me.

The largest building on the street was Tyrrell’s, a grocery shop at the front with a small pub tucked in behind. A bell rang announcing my arrival as I swung the door open. Dusty tins of
Batchelors Baked Beans adorned the shelves and pink inflatable armbands and buckets and spades littered the corners of the shop. A wire rack of neon-colored postcards swayed freely and bottles of TK lemonade balanced on newspapers.

A tall white-haired man watched me curiously. His belly rested on the countertop, and the buttons on his white shirt strained with his every breath. “Howerya.”

I smiled. “Grand, thanks. Is the pub open? Do you serve food?”

“We are. We do.”

“Great.” I maneuvered past the bookstand, banging my hip into the freezer, and wedged myself into the pub section, where four high stools were squashed up against a counter. I perched myself on one, nose to nose with a Guinness tap. Enjoying the warmth of a mild June afternoon, I took off my jacket, wrapped it around the stool beside me, and sat my bag on top of it.

From the far end of the counter the man dislodged his belly and ambled slowly toward me.

“What can I get you?”

“What do you have?”

“Soup, toasted sandwiches, Tayto.” Tayto are the makers of the finest cheese and onion crisps in Ireland, if not the world—a glorious institution.

“Yes, please,” I said, suddenly realizing just how hungry I was.

“Right so.”

The soup was vegetable, the sandwich was ham and cheese, and the Tayto were perfect. The barman and grocer was Martin. He joined me for the soup, and although he eyeballed me with curiosity he didn’t ask me any questions. He was happy to chat about the weather and the size of supermarkets in Dublin.

“You wouldn’t know where you’d be in those places.” His
accent came from the back of his throat and rose and fell like an orchestra reaching its crescendo.

“I know. They can be large.” With great satisfaction I put my spoon down and pushed away my bowl. I was full to the brim.

“Will you go again?” He looked at my empty soup bowl and stood to replenish it.

“I couldn’t, honestly. Thanks, though.”

“Tea. You’ll have tea.” There was no room for refusal. A pot of tea and a packet of chocolate HobNobs appeared from under the counter. I sipped and dunked happily, memories of David Hasselhoff and screaming paparazzi fading rapidly.

Martin coached the under-twelve hurling team, who were showing great potential, by all accounts, particularly a Sean Og, who was born with a hurling stick in his hand. The locals were trying to raise funds to buy the team a kit so they could compete in the nationals. There were pictures of them in a rainbow of colored T-shirts all over the shop/pub. I wondered why he was telling me about this, I wondered if he recognized me, if he was looking for money from me. I stopped myself. I couldn’t and wouldn’t allow myself to get suspicious of people. He probably told everyone about his team—he was proud of them.

“Will you be looking for a place to stay?”

Again the panic gripped me. Why was he asking? What did he know?

He sensed my anxiety. “I only ask because we’ve rooms above, and you’ve a look of uncertainty about you. Sometimes, when you’re running, you’re best to stand still a while.”

I breathed deeply. That’s all I wanted: to stand still.

“I’m only saying, there’s a place up the road—Miles O’Brien runs it. He’s four acres of pure rock out the back. Nothing will grow there for him, never has. I suppose you could go there if you
wanted, but they say there are mice. But if you wanted a room here, my wife will sort you out grand.”

“That would be great, thanks,” I said, double-checking that my Visa card was in my wallet.

“You should stay till Monday, anyway. We do a chicken soup on Monday that would put hairs on your chest.”

Mavis had a bosom that you wanted to run straight into and a behind that you wanted to look away from. She stared at me for a long time when she saw I had no luggage, no doubt wanting to know what brought a Dublin girl with no plans to the back end of Clare on a Friday. But, like her husband, she welcomed me and didn’t question.

“Sometimes people just need to stand still,” I said by way of explanation.

Happy with this diagnosis, she rubbed her hands together and led me upstairs, balancing carefully on each step as it creaked under the strain of her ample figure. She squeezed through the upstairs passageway and showed me to my room—well, she showed me five rooms and told me I could have whichever I thought best. Knocknamee was quiet at the moment, she explained, as she wiped a strand of white hair from her unwrinkled face.

I chose a room with pink rosebuds on the walls. It wasn’t the biggest, but I liked the way the rosebuds didn’t join up where the strips of wallpaper met—they were centimeters off from being a perfect fit. The imperfection made me feel right at home. I was going to be happy with Martin and Mavis.

22

I
woke well rested and lay in bed looking at my rosebudded walls.
What now?
I thought.

I reached across the bed, grabbed my phone, and rang Lily to tell her where I was.

“What’s it like?”

“Beautiful.”

“I could come down? Take leave? Hide out with you for a while.”

“Do you need to hide from Mr. Goatee? Is it any better?”

“It’s worse,” she sighed. “He’s writing about me on a blog, pages and pages of stuff about my hair, my nose, my eyes.”

“Weird.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I have a suggestion . . .”

“You do? Oh, please tell me. I’ll try anything to get him off my case.”

“Well, before I went to sleep last night, I asked out loud. It’s a thing I’ve been doing, and it seems to work.” I was sounding apologetic. “I asked: ‘How can Mr. Goatee fall out of love with Lily?’ And then I had a dream, and you were in it, and so was he. Well, I mean, it wasn’t him—it was just a big goatee—but I’m
pretty sure it was him. And there was a fairy, of course, because what else is going through my head these days? Anyway, the fairy was holding a stick and cutting it between you, but the stick had some lilies wrapped around it. I don’t know if that’s just because of your name or if there’s something else. Then the fairy turned counterclockwise three times. Don’t ask me how I know it was counterclockwise, but it was—you know how in dreams you just know things? And you have to say, ‘This is broken.’”

“Kate, I’ll try anything. I’ll happily try this.”

“Okay. Sorry it’s a bit odd.”

“This whole situation is odd—I need to get rid of him. Anyway, are you sure I can’t come down to you?”

I appreciated the offer but said I wanted some space. I had some things to figure out.

“How’s Fiona?” I asked.

Lily paused. “She’s not great. The board of directors have put her on a formal warning. She’s kept her job for now, but she says they’re muscling her out and not giving her any work to do because they don’t trust her. They want her to quit.”

“What will she do?”

“I don’t know. That’s part of her problem. All she’s ever known is work. If she didn’t work, what would she do? Like, think about it, Kate. I can’t remember the last time she even talked about a guy, let alone kissed one.”

“I know, but she always says she doesn’t have time.”

Lily sighed. “Maybe if she quit her job she’d finally have time for the other things in life.”

“Like men?”

“Well, yeah. Men and holidays and yoga.”

“Yoga?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“While I think of it, I know you hate cats, but can you ask Fiona to call into my flat and feed Mister Snoop Doggy Dogg?”

We chatted for another little while until Lily had to go into a meeting. I hung up. Dad rang. He and Mam had been at some awards ceremony the night before. They were now officially D-list celebrities, which secured their invites for pretty much every opening or closing event that had a red carpet in Dublin. Dad had stood on the sidelines taking photos while Mam danced with Liam Neeson. Now she was sleeping off the excess champagne—it didn’t agree with her.

“He was a great dancer, love. Had that whole cha-cha-cha thing going on. And you know how your mother loves to dance. Handing her over didn’t bother me in the slightest.”

I told him where I was.

He was surprised and a little bit worried. “Do you have enough money? Your mother and I can be down in a couple of hours to keep you company.”

“No, Dad, honestly, I’m grand. I want a bit of a break from all the madness. Anyway, don’t you have a shoot for the self-tanning gel?”

“We do, but sure, we could get Harry to reschedule. We’d much rather come down to you.”

“Ah, no. You’ll enjoy it. Have a good time. Show off your fake tan.” I laughed down the phone at him.

“I’m half orange. But they’re paying good money for it. Are you sure you don’t want us?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll tell you, have your bit of a break and we’ll head straight to Knocknamee after the shoot. It’ll only be a few days.”

“That sounds great.”

“Now call if you need money or a chat or anything.”

“I will, Dad.” I hung up. My phone buzzed again. No such thing as peace and quiet. Fiona.

“Kate, we’re on our way down in a day or two.”

“What, Fi? What about work?”

“I quit. Can you believe it? I’d just had enough of them. It’s like I woke up this morning and every inch of me said quit. I listened to my gut instinct, like your fairies said to do. And I did it. I quit. I rang my boss—I knew she’d be at work on a Saturday—and quit. Just like that! God, it felt good.”

“Oh, wow!”

“I know. I never thought I’d do it. But it feels amazing.” Fiona was talking at a hundred miles an hour. “I feel free, Kate. I should have done this years ago. I’ve saved some money, so I can take time to figure out what I’m all about.”

“You sound really happy.”

“I am. Ecstatic.” She took a deep breath. “And myself and Lil fancy a road trip to Knocknamee. We haven’t done one in ages. Load the car up with cider and crisps, get the tunes pumping loud—it’ll be mighty
craic
. And Kate, you need us. Stop pretending you don’t.”

I did. I knew I did.

“Give us a couple of days to get sorted. We just have to make up a few good lies for Lily’s work, and then we’re on our way to the wild west. If you catch any fairies, shove them in your handbag and hang on to them until we get there.”

“Thanks, Fi. And do you think you guys can bring me some stuff from home, some clothes, jeans, a few tops, my laptop?”

“Yeah, of course, and, Kate, this’ll all be fine. This witch shit, these fairies, these Steps—they’ll all be fine.”

I hung up, smiling, delighted they were coming and thrilled Fiona sounded so happy. I stretched. Now what?

The smell of bacon sizzling gave me my answer. Up and at ’em. I put on yesterday’s clothes, washed my face with soap and water, and tied my hair back into a loose ponytail.

Martin was stooped over a frying pan in the kitchen. Smoke billowed up to the ceiling. Mavis was clinking teacups and pouring steaming water into a blue teapot. She was humming quietly to herself.

“Morning,” I announced cheerfully.

Martin turned around with a smile. “’Tis yourself.”

“You’ll be wanting tea.” Mavis reached for another cup.

“Can I help?”

“Would you go on with that? Sit in there, now. Martin’ll have the breakfast ready in a minute.”

I sat down at the kitchen table, watching their easy, well-practiced routine.

“I thought I might do some sightseeing today. Is there anywhere you’d recommend?”

Mavis placed the teapot in front of me and started to pour. “An Trá Bhán is always popular with visitors—you could go for a dip? Or you could climb to the top of Devil’s Bit. You can see forever from there. Or there’s the old ruin.”

Martin shook his head furiously. “Sure, why’d she want to go there?”

“Sometimes people are interested in that kind of thing.”

“Well, she’s not,” he said sternly. Martin placed a mountain of fried food on the table, and was just about to sit when Mavis threw him a look. “Toast. I forgot toast.” He retreated back to the toaster. “Did you come by car?”

“No. I didn’t drive.”

“Well, then, she can’t be going to An Trá Bhán.”

“How far is it?”

“Six miles, but it’s a tricky road.”

“She could take Colm’s bike.” Colm was their son. He was studying accountancy in Dublin.

I loved the idea of taking Colm’s bike, but stayed quiet until they’d agreed on it themselves. Which they did, eventually, saying it needed a bit of fresh air to keep its wheels turning.

Two hours later, with a pencil sketch of the area and a muddled set of directions, I had mastered the crossbar on an oversized racer and was battling the hills all the way to An Trá Bhán. The uphill pushes were exhausting and the freewheeling downhills exhilarating. Not one car passed me as I spun around the back roads of Knocknamee, admiring the varying shades of green that tumbled in on themselves: the fields, the trees, the bushes all fighting with the road. The sky was freckled with clouds, and the summer sun shone on me and the open road.