The little girl beamed up at her, and proceeded to spoon the cornflakes very carefully into her mouth.
“Good girl, yourself,” Oliver told her, “and when you’ve finished, you can see what your Auntie Aisling has brought you back from America. She was telling me all about it on her way down from Dublin.”
Aisling pointed to the big bag in the corner. “You’ll ne
ver guess what I have in there,” she said smiling warmly,
“and neither will your mammy.”
There followed a half an hour of oohing and ahhing over the gifts, and the trying on of some of the outfits over nightwear by Bernadette and Pauline. “I’ll try on the other things later,” Pauline said, her eyes shining with delight at the array of fashionable things that Aisling had picked out for her.
Charles demurred about trying on his golfing sweater in front of an audience, and after thanking Aisling profusely for the books, headed off to examine them in the silence and privacy of his bedroom.
When he was out of earshot, Pauline recounted the story about the Virgin Mary’s nose, lest Maggie should come upon the nose-less statue and wonder what had happened. Thankfully, her mother saw the funny side of it, and was more concerned about any ill-effects it might have had on Bernadette’s digestion, than any religious feelings about the statue.
“It was awful good of you to drive all the way to Dublin before going into work, Oliver,” Maggie said when they were all sitting around the table with cups of strong tea and slices of brown bread and the good Irish butter that Maggie had missed, “but I suppose you were desperate to see Aisling after her being away for so long.”
“No problem, no problem at all,” Oliver beamed. “Sure, amn’t I only delighted to see you all back safe and sound. And you’re all looking grand. Fair play to you all, there’s few people around here who’ve been on planes, never mind on a plane all the way to America.”
More pleasant chat followed, then Maggie looked up at the clock.
“You’d better watch your time, Oliver,” she said. “I wouldn’t like you to be late for opening the shop on account of us.”
Oliver sighed and stood up. “I suppose we should make a move,” he said, stretching his arms up as though he’d just got out of bed. “I’ve young Fergal opening up for me this morning. I never said what time I’d be in – it keeps
them all on their toes.” He put a hand on Aisling’s shoulder. “I’d say this one will be ready for the bed shortly.”
“Oh, we’ll all have a few hours,” Maggie said, suddenly sounding tired. “Then we’ll be as good as new.”
* * *
“You look great,” Oliver said when they were in the car on their own heading home. “That’s the best tan you’ve had for years – and it really lifts you.” His eyes were shining with admiration. “And the sun has brought out the blonde in your hair.” Oliver always noticed things like that with women.
He kept his cheery conversation up all the way back to the house and if he thought Aisling was quiet, he didn’t comment on it.
“I could cook you some rashers and sausages,” he offered, when they’d unloaded the car and carried all the bags upstairs to the bedroom. “I’m an expert with the old frying-pan since you’ve been gone.”
“That’s good of you,” Aisling said, giving a weary smile, “but I think my stomach’s a bit mixed-up with the travelling and everything. I’ll leave it until I’ve had a sleep.”
“Fine, fine,” Oliver said. “What about another cup of tea – or maybe some hot milk to settle your stomach?”
“No, I won’t have anything, thanks,” she told him. She ran her fingers through her hair, then fiddled about with it in a distracted sort of way. “I’ll just bring a glass of water upstairs with me, and go off to bed.” She paused. “I have some things for you in one of the cases . . . a couple of presents.”
He came over and put his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t be worrying yourself about presents,” he said. “It’s bed you need just now.”
Aisling turned away from him. “I’ll just get the water.”
He patted her affectionately on the behind, and Aisling had to steel herself from flinching from his touch. She could feel his eyes on her as she went over to fill a glass at the sink, and then she moved quickly out of the kitchen and upstairs to the bedroom, while he followed behind.
She opened her wardrobe door and
took a fresh pair of pyamas from one of the shelves.
“I’m just going into the bathroom for a quick wash,” she said.
“The water’s good and hot for you,” he told her. “I made sure the fire was roaring when I left this morning.”
After a short while, Aisling came back into the bedroom dressed in pink-striped, cotton pyjamas. Oliver was standing by the window, and he turned towards her as she came into the bedroom. He came over to her and caught her by the hand.
“I really missed you,” he said in a low voice. “If you like, I could go into work a bit late . . . they can manage on their own for a few hours.” His hand moved to encircle her waist, and he bent his head down to kiss her.
Aisling felt herself flinching from his touch again. “I’m sorry, Oliver,” she said quickly, “but I’m absolutely wrecked. I feel as though I’m falling asleep on my feet . . . as if I’m not really here.”
“No problem,” he said good-naturedly. “It’ll be the oul’ jet-lag. I’ve heard it’s very bad.” He ran a finger down her arm. “We’ll have plenty of time together later.”
Aisling nodded without saying anything.
He leaned over and gave her a light, harmless kiss on the cheek. “See you tonight,” he said. Then added, “It’s nice to have you back home.”
* * *
Aisling lay awake for a long time after Oliver had left for work, staring at the watery sun as it peeped through the curtains, and thinking of Jameson Carroll back in New York. She looked at the clock on the bedside cabinet. It was just after eleven o’clock, which would make it around six o’clock in the morning there. She stared back at the window, then lay staring up at the ceiling, her mind full of him. Then, at some point towards midday, her eyelids grew heavy and she drifted into sleep.
When she awoke later in the afternoon, she padded about in pyjamas, making tea and glancing at the American magazines she had brought back with her. She flicked from page to page, seeing the words and pictures but taking nothing in.
Then, she had a long hot bath, dressed, and started on the task of unpacking her luggage.
She sorted everything out into piles on her bed. Some for washing and some for hanging back in the wardrobe or putting into her chest of drawers.
As she picked up a pile of nightwear and underwear – washed and ironed by Mrs Scott – Aisling’s eye caught sight of a silk, lace-trimmed bra she had bought in the lingerie shop, the first day she met Jameson.
She gathered the silky garments into her arms, and hugged them towards her, as though the material which he had run his hands over would somehow bring him closer
to her. Somehow close the distance of thousands of miles.
When she had unpacked all the bags containing her clothes, she started on a smaller one, which contained some of the presents that she had brought back. She was hesitant as she opened each package, carefully feeling the shape and weight. Her heart sank further and further as she reached deeper into the bag. And then she realised that she had come back home without the two gifts Jameson had given her at Lake Savannah. The small painting and the Christmas figure.
She closed her eyes and could picture them at the back of one of the lower shelves in the wardrobe she had used. She had placed them on that shelf for safety. So safe, that presumably her mother had not seen them. She remembered asking Maggie to be sure to bring them to New York but then, in the midst of all the farewells and everything, she had forgotten to check about them.
An empty ache crawled all over her, for she had looked forward to touching and feeling both things. Remembering the white house by the lake where the painting had hung and the magical Christmas shop where the porcelain figures had stood in their red and green cloaks. And reliving – minute by minute – the days that Jameson had given them to her. The long, lovely days around Lake Savannah and all the other days doing whatever they did – and especially the nights and early mornings they had spent together.
But the fact was that she was back in Ireland – back with her husband – and without those mementoes. All she had left to remind her now was the album of Bob Dylan’s soulful songs.
And Aisling Gayle wasn’t quite brave enough to listen to that just yet.
Chapter 38
“Mr Kearney got a cigarette-end on the floor among the mineral bottles this morning,” Maggie said, coming across the shop to where Charles and Peenie stood by the bacon slicer. “I hope there was no smoking going on here, while we were away.” She glanced at Charles’s swollen, red ear, that he’d brushed off her questions about, as he had with the cut eye. “Or anything else going on, for that matter.”
“Ah, true as God, Mrs Kearney,” Peenie said, lifting a great lump of bacon onto the machine, then rubbing his hands down over his brown overalls to remove the watery grease from the meat, “there was nothing going on that doesn’t go on as a rule. It must be a fag-end that was tramped in on the sole of a shoe. Or maybe one of the delivery men, comin’ in with a fag in his mouth, and droppin’ it down on the floor. Yeh couldn’t be up to them lads.”
“Indeed,” said Charles, folding his arms and looking closer at the butcher’s stamp on the rind of the bacon.
“True for yeh, Charles,” Peenie went on. “Sure, it’s fierce hard to be tellin’ those fellas anythin’. They have their own way of workin’ and their very own rules.”
“Exactly,” Mrs Kearney said, “just as we have our very own way of working around the shop here, and the rules that keep things in check.” She looked at the cold-meat cabinet now. “You’re running low on the sliced bacon there, Charles,” she observed. “See that Peenie cuts a good bit now, and have it wrapped in the greaseproof in half pounds and whole pounds, so’s we’re not keeping people waiting.”
Peenie started the blade whirring. “Five minutes, Mrs Kearney,” he said, winking at her, “five minutes an’ we’ll have yards of bacon cut an’ wrapped up.”
Maggie smiled in spite of herself. “Less of the talking,” she told him, “and more of the slicing.” For all his crafty ways, she was fond enough of Peenie Walshe, and when he was in the humour he was an excellent worker. He beat Charles hands down – but then that wasn’t saying much. Charles’s mind was often elsewhere when he should be working.
“My father said to tell you that he’ll be back from the
bank around three o’clock,” Charles suddenly remembered.
“Grand,” Maggie said, checking her watch. It was around half-past two now. “Did Pauline mention where she was going?”
“Not to me,” Charles said, racking his memory just in case she had, and he wasn’t listening.
“Oh, well,” his mother said, “maybe she’s gone out for a walk, or cycled over to Aisling’s. She definitely didn’t say?”
“Not,” said Charles, in his hedging manner, “to the best of my knowledge.”
“So, ye all had a grand time in America?” Peenie asked, over the whirring noise of the bacon slicer. “Did ye see any cowboys at all when ye were out there?”
Maggie folded her arms and thought for a moment. “Not exactly
cowboys,
” she told him, “but we saw plenty of fellows with big, cowboy-style hats.”
“There yeh go, Charles,” Peenie said, nudging his workmate. “See what yeh missed? Yeh’ll have to make sure that you go with them the next time. Cowboys an’ everythin’.” He looked at the bacon slices that were piling up on the machine. “Yeh could cut me a few sheets of greaseproof, Charles, an’ we’ll get this lot weighed an’ wrapped like yer mother said.”
“I’ll leave you to it, lads,” Maggie said wearily, heading back to the house end of the shop. “I might have another hour’s lie-down, because I never slept a wink this morning, and I’ve been up the whole night travelling. You can let your father know, Charles.”
“Certainly,” Charles said, looking around vaguely for the scissors to cut the greaseproof paper. “You can rely on me to pass on the message.”
“Begod,” said Peenie, as Maggie disappeared through the connecting house door, “the head-woman’s back and make no mistake about it! It’s all hands on deck this afternoon.”
“Indeed,” said Charles, suddenly locating the scissors on the hook where they were always kept. “The
captain of the ship, and all that kind of thing.”
Peenie brought the bacon slicer to an abrupt halt mid-slice. “I’ve been thinkin’ about this neighbour business, Charles,” he said in a low voice, “and it doesn’t make a bit of sense to me, at all, at all.”
Charles gave a mighty sigh that lifted his rounded shoulders up for a few moments. “Nor to me,” he said. “I’m mystified about the whole thing.” His hand came up to rest his chin. “What business is it of a neighbour’s,
who
visits the house next door? It makes no sense at all.” He fingers gently touched the sticking plaster under his eyes.
“He’s a lunatic, that lad,” Peenie said, “an’ make no mistake about it. A born lunatic by the sounds of it. I’ve never heard the likes of it in me life.”
“Well,” Charles said, “he’s made my mind up for me anyway. I wouldn’t chance going near Mrs Lynch’s house ever again.”