Chapter Seven

the town was stirring as elizabeth drove over the gray-

stoned bridge that served as the entrance to the village. Two huge coaches full of tourists were currently trying to inch past each other on the narrow street.

Inside, Elizabeth could see faces pressed up against the windows, oohing and aahing, smiling and pointing, cameras being held up to the glass to snap the storybook village on film. The coach driver facing Elizabeth licked his lips in concentration and she could see the sweat glistening on his brow as he slowly maneuvered the oversized vehicle along the narrow road originally designed for horses and carts. The sides of the coaches were so close they were almost touching. Beside him, the tour guide with microphone in hand did his best to entertain his one-hundred-strong audience so early in the morning.

Elizabeth lifted the hand brake and sighed loudly. This wasn’t a rare occurrence in the town and she knew it could take a while. She doubted the coaches would stop. They rarely did unless it was for a toilet break. Traffic always seemed to be moving through Baile na gCroíthe, but never stopping.

She didn’t blame them; it was a great place to help you get to where you were going but not one for sticking around in. Traffic would slow down and take a good look all right, but then they would put the foot down and accelerate off out the other end.

It’s not that Baile na gCroíthe wasn’t beautiful; it was. Its proudest moment was winning the Tidy Town competition for the third year running

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and as you entered the village, over the bridge, a display of bright blooming flowers spelled out your welcome. The flower display continued through

the town. Window boxes adorned the shop fronts, hanging baskets hung

from patent black lampposts, trees grew tall in the main street. Each building was painted a different refreshing color and the main street, the only street, was a rainbow of mint greens, salmon pinks, lilacs, lemons, and blues. The pavements were litter free and gleaming and as soon as you

averted your gaze above the gray slate roofs you found yourself surrounded by majestic green mountains. It was as though Baile na gCroíthe was cocooned, safely nestled in the bosom of Mother Nature.

Cozy or suffocating.

Elizabeth’s office was located beside a green post office and a yellow supermarket. Her building was a pale blue and sat above Mrs. Bracken’s curtain, fabric, and upholstery shop. The shop had previously been a

hardware shop run by Mr. Bracken, but when he had died ten years ago,

Gwen had decided to turn it into her own store. Gwen seemed to make de-

cisions purely based on what her deceased husband would think. She

opened the shop of her own, “Because it’s what Mr. Bracken would have

wanted”; however, Gwen refused to go out at the weekends or involve herself in any social outings as, “It’s not what Mr. Bracken would have

wanted.” As far as Elizabeth could see, what made Mr. Bracken happy or

unhappy seemed to tie in nicely with Gwen’s philosophy on life.

The coaches slowly moved passed each other inch by inch and Eliza-

beth sighed loudly. Baile na gCroíthe at rush hour; the result of two oversized buses trying to share the narrow road. Finally, they were successful in their passing and Elizabeth looked on, unamused, as the tour guide jumped from his seat in excitement, microphone in hand, succeeding in turning

what was essentially a boring halt into an eventful bus journey in Ireland’s country roads. Cue clapping and cheering on board the bus. A nation in

celebration. The occupants of both buses waved good-bye to each other after sharing the morning’s excitement.

Elizabeth drove on, looked in her rearview mirror to see the celebrat-

ing coach excitement die down as the bus that had faced her confronted

yet another on the small bridge that led out of the town. Arms slowly

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dropped as they settled down for another lengthy struggle to get out of the town.

The town had a tendency to trap people this way. It was almost as if it did it purposely. It welcomed you into its heart with open arms and showed you all it had to offer with its gleaming multicolored florally decorated shop fronts. It was like being a child in a sweet shop, shown the shelves and shelves of luminous sugar-coated mouth-watering delights. And then while you stood there looking around with wide eyes and a racing pulse, the lids were put back on the jars and sealed tightly. Once the beauty of Baile na gCroíthe was realized, so was the fact that it had nothing else to offer.

Entrance into the village was smooth compared to the exit. The bridge

curved in an odd way that made the leaving so difficult. Getting in was easy. It disturbed Elizabeth. It was just like the road leading from Elizabeth’s childhood home; she found it impossible to leave either place in a hurry. But something about the town kept dragging her back and she had spent years trying to fight it. She had successfully moved to New York at one time. She had followed her boyfriend, and the opportunity to design a nightclub, over. She had loved it there. Loved that no one knew her name, her face, or her family history. She could buy a coffee, a thousand different types of coffee, and not receive a look of sympathy for whatever recent family drama had occurred.

Nobody knew that her mother had left her when she was a child, that her sister was wildly out of control, and that her father barely spoke to her. She had loved being in love there. In New York, she could be whomever she wanted to be. In Baile na gCroíthe, she couldn’t hide from who she was.

She realized she had been humming to herself this entire time, that silly song that Luke was trying to convince her that “Ivan” had made up. Luke called it the humming song and it was annoyingly catchy, chirpy, and repetitive. She stopped herself singing and spun her car into the empty space along the road. She pushed back the driver’s seat and reached in to grab her briefcase from the backseat of the car. First things first, coffee. Baile na gCroíthe had yet to be educated in the wonders of Starbucks. In fact, it was only last month “Joe’s” had finally allowed Elizabeth to take away her coffee, but the owner was growing increasingly tired of having to ask for his mugs back.

Sometimes Elizabeth thought that the entire town needed an injection

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of caffeine; some winter days in particular the village seemed to be sleep-walking, it needed a good shake. But summer days like today were busy, with people passing through. She entered the purple painted “Joe’s,” which was empty all the same. The concept of eating breakfast outside their own

homes had yet to be grasped by the townspeople.

“Ah, there she is, the very woman herself,” boomed the singsong voice

of Joe. “No doubt spittin’ feathers for her coffee.”

“Morning, Joe.”

He made a show of checking his watch and tapping the clock face. “Bit

behind time this morning, aren’t we?” He raised his eyebrows at her.

“Thought maybe you had a bout of the summer flu. Seems like everyone’s got it this week.” He tried to lower his voice but only succeeded in lowering his head and raising his voice. “Sure didn’t Sandy O’Flynn come down with it right after disappearing the other night from the pub with PJ Flanagan, who had it the other week. She’s been in bed all weekend.” He snorted. “Walking her home, me arse. I’ve never heard such nonsense before in my life.”

Irritation rose within Elizabeth; she didn’t care for tittle-tattle about people she didn’t know, especially since, as she knew, for so many years her own family had been the subject of all the gossip.

“A coffee, please, Joe,” Elizabeth said crisply, ignoring his rambling.

“To take away. Cream, not milk,” she said sternly, even though she had the same every day, while rooting in her bag for her wallet, trying to hint to Joe that she hadn’t time for yapping.

He moved slowly toward the kettle. To Elizabeth’s utter annoyance,

they only sold one kind of coffee. And that was the instant kind. Elizabeth missed the variety of flavors that she used to get in the cities she traveled on business; she missed the smooth, sweet-tasting French vanilla in a Paris café, the creamy full-bodied flavor of hazelnut cream in a bustling café in New York, the rich velvety masterpiece of the Macadamia nut in Milan, and her favorite, the Coco Mocha-Nut, the mixture of chocolate and coconut

that transported her from a Central Park bench to a sun-bed in the Carib-bean. Here in Baile na gCroíthe, Joe filled the kettle with water and flicked the switch. A café with one measly kettle and he hadn’t even boiled the water. Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

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Joe stared at her. He looked like he was going to say—

“So what has you so late then?”

That.

“I’m five minutes later than usual, Joe,” Elizabeth said incredulously.

“I know, I know, and five minutes could be five hours for you. Sure

don’t the bears plan their hibernation on your time?”

That made Elizabeth smile, despite herself.

Joe chuckled and winked. “That’s better.” The kettle clicked as it

boiled and he turned his back to make the coffee.

“The coaches delayed me,” Elizabeth said softly, taking the warm mug

from Joe’s hands.

“Ah, I saw that.” He nodded toward the window. “Jaimsie did well to

get himself out of that one.”

“Jaimsie?” Elizabeth frowned, adding a splash of cream. It quickly

melted and filled the top of the cup. Joe looked on with disgust.

“Jaimsie O’Connor. Jack’s son,” he explained. “Jack, whose other

daughter Mary just got engaged to the Dublin boy last weekend. Lives

down in Mayfair. Five kids. The youngest was arrested there last week for throwing a wine bottle at Joseph.”

Elizabeth froze and stared back at him blankly.

“Joseph Mc Cann,” he repeated, as though she were crazy for not

knowing. “Son of Paddy. Lives up in Newtown. Wife died last year when

she drowned in the bog. His daughter Maggie said it was an accident, but sure weren’t the family suspicious on account of the row they’d being having about not letting her run off with that troublemaker from Cahirciveen.”

Elizabeth placed her money on the counter and smiled, no longer want-

ing to be a part of this bizarre conversation. “Thanks, Joe,” she said as she made her way to the door.

“Well, anyway,” he concluded his rambling. “Jaimsie was the one driv-

ing the coach. Don’t forget to bring that mug back,” he called to her and grumbled to himself, “Takeaway coffee; have you ever heard something so ludicrous in your life?”

Before Elizabeth stepped outside, she called from the door, “Joe,

would you not think of a getting a coffee machine. So you can make lattes 62

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and cappuccinos and espressos instead of all this instant stuff?” She held up her mug.

Joe crossed his arms, leaned against the counter, and replied in a

bored voice, “Elizabeth, you don’t like my coffee, you don’t drink it. I drink tea. There’s only one kind of tea I like. It’s called Tea. No fancy names for it.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Actually there are lots of different types of tea. The Chinese—”

“Ah, be off with you.” He waved his hand at her dismissively. “We’d all be drinking tea with chopsticks and putting chocolate and cream in our coffees like they’re desserts, if you have your way. But, if you’re at it, why don’t I make a suggestion too then, how’s about you buy yourself a kettle over there for your office and put me out of my misery?”

“And out of business.” Elizabeth smiled and stepped outside.

The village had taken a big stretch and a yawn and was wandering

sleepily from its bed to the bathroom. Soon it would be showered, dressed, and wide awake. As usual, she was one step ahead of it, even if she was running late today.

Elizabeth was always the first in; she loved the silence, the stillness that her office brought at that time of day. It helped her focus on what lay ahead before her noisy colleagues rattled around and before the major traffic hit the road. Elizabeth wasn’t the chatty, giggly type. Just as she ate to keep herself alive, she spoke to say only what she had to say. She wasn’t the type of woman that she overheard in restaurants and cafés, chuckling and gossiping over what someone said someday about something. Conversations

about nothing just didn’t interest her.

She didn’t break down or analyze conversations, glares, looks, or situations. There were no double meanings with her; she meant what she said at all times. She didn’t enjoy debates or heated discussions. But, sitting in the silence of her small office, she supposed that was why she didn’t have a group of friends. She had tried to be involved before, especially during her college days with her attempts to settle in, but just as she did then, she would quickly tune out of the mindless nattering.

Since childhood she hadn’t pined for friendship; she liked her own

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company and liked her own thoughts, and then later in her teens she had Saoirse as a distraction. She liked the orderly way in which she could depend on herself and manage her time more effectively. When she returned from New York, she had tried to host a dinner party in her new home with the neighbors. She thought she would try a fresh beginning, try to make friendships like most people did, but Saoirse as usual burst into the house and in one fell swoop managed to offend every single person at the table.

She accused Ray Collins of having an affair, Fiona Conway of having a

boob job, and sixty-year-old Kevin Smith of looking at her in a sexual way.

The result of Saoirse’s ranting and raving was a crying nine-month-old

Luke, a few red faces at the table, and a burned rack of lamb.

Of course, her neighbors wouldn’t be so closed-minded as to think that

a member of her family’s behavior was Elizabeth’s fault, but she gave up after that. She didn’t desire their company enough to be able to cope with the embarrassment of having to explain and apologize all the time.

Her silence was worth more to her than a thousand words. In that si-

lence, she had peace and clarity. Except during the night, when her own jumbled thoughts would keep her awake, sounding like a thousand voices

jumping in, out, and interrupting each other so much that she could barely close her eyes.

She was worried about Luke’s behavior right now. This Ivan character

had been hanging around her nephew’s head for too long. She had watched Luke all weekend walking, talking, and playing games by himself. Laughing and giggling as though he was having the time of his life. Maybe there was something she should be doing. With Edith away, she couldn’t even witness his odd behavior and deal with it in the wonderful way she always succeeded in doing. Perhaps Elizabeth was supposed to automatically know

what it was. Once again, the mysteries of motherhood escaped her and she had no one to ask for advice. Nor had she any example to learn from. Well, that wasn’t strictly true—she had learned what not to do, a lesson just as good as any. So far, she had followed her gut instinct and had made a few mistakes along the way, but overall thought Luke had turned out to be a polite and stable child. Or maybe she was doing it all wrong. What if Luke ended up like Saoirse? What had she done so wrong with Saoirse as a child 64

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that had caused her to turn out the way she was? She groaned with frustration and rested her head on her desk.

She turned on her computer and sipped at her coffee while it loaded.

Then she went to Google, typed in the words “imaginary friend,” and hit search. Hundreds of sites came up on her screen. Thirty minutes later she felt much better about the Ivan situation.

To her surprise, she learned that imaginary friends were very common

and not a problem as long as they didn’t interfere with normal life. She was relieved to learn that imaginary friends were a sign of creativity and not a sign of loneliness or stress. Although the very fact of having an imaginary friend was a direct interference with normal life, it didn’t seem to be an issue with the online doctors. Site after site told her to ask Luke what Ivan was thinking and doing, as it would be a positive way of giving Elizabeth an understanding into what Luke was thinking. They encouraged Elizabeth to actually set a place for their phantom dinner guest and that there was no need to point out that Luke’s “friend” existed only in his imagination.

But even so, this was going to be difficult for Elizabeth to accept. It went against everything she believed. Her world and the land of make-believe existed on two very different planes and she found it impossible to playact. She couldn’t make baby noises to an infant, she couldn’t pretend to hide behind her hands or give life or a voice to a teddy, she couldn’t even role-play at college. She had grown up knowing not to do that, not to sound like her mother for fear of her father getting mad. It was instilled in her from an early age, but now the experts were telling her to change all that.

She finished the rest of her cold coffee and read the final line on the screen. Imaginary friends disappear within three months, whether or not you encourage them.

After three months she would be more than glad to see the back of Ivan

and return to normal life again. She flicked through her calendar and circled August with a red marker. If Ivan wasn’t out of her house by then, she’d open the door and show him the way herself.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 399