Mismatched (7 page)

Erin waits until the last possible second and then jerks the car to the left. We bounce off the motorway onto a side road so narrow it could rightly be called a path. My head hits the side window when it whips back in the other direction.

“What the hell!” Stomach ache plus headache equals cranky girl.

“I’m sorry! I was waiting for the GPS bitch to say something.” She waves at the dashboard as she’s leaning really far forward, her boobs resting on the steering wheel. “Is this the right way? Did I go the right way?”

I poke the screen, getting control of my temper. “The GPS bitch is sleeping apparently.”

The Bambino is trundling over this secondary road that’s not only narrow but could also use some re-paving. I hold my hand against my stomach. “My god, where are we? Did we just travel back in time or what?” I’m staring out over mist-covered green fields, outlined by low stone walls that must have been erected over a thousand years ago and possibly by elves. There is nothing out here but us. “How many people are at this festival? Five?”

“No. Thousands. I think we went the wrong way.”

I point. “There’s a guy up there. Ask him for directions.” As we draw closer, I’m struck speechless. He’s holding an actual shepherd’s hook. Thank heaven he’s wearing jeans and not brown robes or I would for sure think we’d dropped back into biblical times. The guy’s black and white dog runs up to the car and starts barking.

Erin slows the car to a crawl and rolls her window down. “Hey there … we were wondering if we’re going the right way. We’re looking for Doolin?”

He stands there and nods at us. The dog settles in at his side, finally silent.

“Doolin,” Erin says a bit louder. “We’re looking for Doolin.”

For a moment I’m thinking he’s deaf, but then he begins to talk. At least, I think he’s talking; but whatever he’s saying, it’s not in English. I love the cadence of his words, even though I don’t understand a single one of them. And he’s not bad looking, either. Maybe a little rough around the edges, but …
hmmmm
… maybe this matchmaking festival won’t be all bad after all.

Now I’m really hoping we can finish the business of getting Erin’s bar put back whole soon so we have some playtime left over. If the shepherds look this good, I can’t imagine what the rest of them might look like. The old feelings are coming back … the ones that say men in suits are boring and men in dirty jeans are fun.
Rawr
.

Erin nods a few times and then says, “So how far is it, then?”

I frown because she seems to have understood him. I thought she said her Irish was rough. “What’d he say?” I ask in a loud whisper.

She glances over at me. “Can’t you hear him? Clean out your ears.”

“Of course I can hear him, but that doesn’t mean I understand Irish or Pig Latin or whatever he’s speaking.”

She laughs. “He’s speaking English, fool.”

He finishes up whatever it is he was saying and Erin waves, rolling her window back up with the other hand. “Thank you! Good luck to ye!” he shouts with a grin.

We drive away, and I turn around to stare at him. He’s waving at the back of our car and his dog is running after a stray sheep. I’m kind of hoping he’ll be at the festival tonight. I’d do a turn or two around the dance floor with him.

“Seriously, what’d he say?” I ask, turning back to look out the front window.

“He said we’re on the right road. We took the back way, but we won’t lose any time. Doolin’s straight ahead.”

“What language was he speaking?”

“I told you. English. He had a bit of an accent, though.”

I snort. “A bit? Holy understatement. I’m going to need a translation app, I can tell already.” I pull out my phone and then growl when I remember that I can’t use the wifi in this country. The charges on my plan will be more than my mortgage payment, which means no translation app for me.

She pats me on the arm. “Don’t worry. You’ll start getting it. Oh, look! Houses!”

My gaze follows her pointing finger. The roofs are almost the same color as the ground and the buildings themselves are very squat and low to the ground. They’d be easy to just drive right by without noticing when they’re off in the distance like that.

“What are those roofs made of? They look like really thick bushes.”

“I dunno. Reeds. Straw. Stuff you can grow around here.”

“Is it waterproof?” I can’t believe the way they swoop and turn around the corners of the houses. They remind me of Lloyd Christmas’s haircut with the way they’re cut straight across, like bangs on a bowl cut.

“Of course they’re waterproof. Ireland did actually make it out of the middle ages, you know.”

“But they’re … weeds.”

“
Reeds
, not weeds. And look. There are some more modern roofs too.” She points to the edge of town that’s quickly coming up to meet us. “See? Tile. Just like home.”

“Home Dublin, not home Boston.”

“Yeah. Right.” Erin goes silent.

I’m wondering why the idea of home always seems to shut her up, but I don’t press her for explanations. Now’s not the right time. Our most immediate need is to find shelter, and even though those reedy weedy roofs look interesting, I’m kind of hoping our B&B has a tile roof over our heads. It has to rain a lot here with the way everything is so misty and green, and I seriously doubt I could handle water dripping on my head while I sleep. I’m all up for new experiences and getting into the culture and all, but I’m pretty sure that the water dripping thing is used as a torture device in POW camps. I have to draw the line somewhere. Yes, I’ll eat a few balls and a loop of intestine, but no, I cannot sleep in a rain barrel. I Just. Can’t. Do it. Captain.

“He said we just have to take five turns and we’ll end up at her house.”

“House?”

“Yeah. B&B. That’s a house. I’m not exactly sure she’s an official B&B. It might just be a friend of a friend of the family.” Her cheesy grin does not ease the delivery of this news at all.

“Oh, goody.” So much for power-showers and a good night’s sleep. One thing I’ve learned about Ireland so far is that bedtimes are much later and much louder. I think it’s the whiskey. If this person’s family is anything like Erin’s, I’d better just plan on sleeping on the plane ride back.

Minutes later, we’re pulling up to a house painted robin’s egg blue. The roof is tile, the garden is filled with ceramic gnomes, and a woman with a yellow-flowered housecoat is standing out in the middle of it all, talking to herself.

“Hey ho!” Erin says, sliding up to the curb next to the garden. “Mrs. O’Grady, I presume?”

The little old lady smiles kind of absently. “Oh, hello dear. Do I know ye?”

“Not yet!” Erin shuts off the car and gets out. “We’re Erin and Ridlee. Here to stay a few nights. My Uncle Miley set it up for us.”

“Oh, well … the niece of Miley O’Neill is always welcome. But I’m not sure that I have any rooms, dear.” The woman goes from joyful to worried. Then she starts talking to herself again, and I can’t understand a word of it.

“Is that singing or talking?” I whisper loudly, getting out of the car. Mrs. O’Grady is walking into her house. I’m pretty sure she’s forgotten we’re out here already.

“She’s doing a little of both. In Irish. Let me go see what’s happening.” Erin opens the small picket-fence gate and follows the woman inside.

I’m not sure what to do with myself, so I just stand out on the sidewalk, admiring the view. All the houses are lined up in neat little rows. Everyone has a small garden in front, although none as interesting as the one I’m standing in front of. Some of them are tangled messes of weeds, some have pretty flowers, but none have the gnomes that I can see. The mist gives the place a dreary feel to it, but rather than making it seem off-putting, it makes it more mysterious. I feel like this place has secrets, things to be discovered. Or maybe I should just leave those secrets alone. I’ve read some stories about Irish folklore; there are some seriously spooky goblins and shit here that don’t seem like anything I’d want to meet on a dark road in the middle of nowhere.

“Baaaeeerrrggghhhh!”

Screaming, I nearly jump out of my skin trying to get away from the demon goblin behind the fence in Mrs. O’Grady’s garden.

Pounding footsteps come from inside the house and then the front door flies open. “What?!” Erin yells at me. “What’s wrong?!”

I’m on the other side of the Bambino, pointing at the garden. “Gnome! Demon gnome! Lock the door!”

“What?” She’s frowning and half-smiling at the same time. Instead of being terrified like she should be, she’s amused.

“Get in the house and lock the door!” I yell. “I’m not kidding!”

“What’s that dear?” Mrs. O’Grady comes out of the house and down the stairs.

“Baaaeeerrrggghhhh! Baaaeeerrrggghhhhpp! Braaaabbpptt!”

Erin’s eyes get as big as saucers but she doesn’t move her feet.

“Told you!” I yell, waving for her to get back.

“Oh, da pussy, pussy, pussy…” Mrs. O’Grady is bending over, shuffling through her garden with her hand held out.

“Oh my fucking god, she’s going to get eaten,” I say in a half-whisper.

Erin’s hand goes to her mouth and then she starts laughing.

She’s laughing?

“What?” I stand up straighter, trying to see over the top of the car. It’s not difficult, being that it’s only about four feet off the ground.

Mrs. O’Grady disappears from view for a couple seconds and then she stands. In her arms is something big and hairy and black.

“Oh, da pussy, pussy, pussy. Is the pussy hungry?”

“What the hell is that thing?” I say softly.

Erin waves me in. “Grab the bags, will ye?”

I shake my head. “You want me to come in with the goblins? No, thanks. I’ll just stay out here.”

Mrs. O’Grady disappears into the house and Erin comes out to stand by the gate. She’s laughing. “It’s not a goblin. It’s a pussy,” she says.

My stomach turns over. “Please don’t say that word again, especially when referencing that big hairy … I don’t even want to know what that thing is that just came out of that unholy garden of demon spawn.”

Erin opens the gate and then un-bungies my bags from the roof. “It’s a cat, you muppet. Come on. We have to check in. She’s an official B&B, believe it or not.”

“I’m not signing in blood.” I say, pulling my bags gingerly from the roof. I’m appalled at how dirty they’ve become being exposed to the elements.

“She’s not a witch. She’s just a little batty.”

“So you say now. Just wait until she puts us in a giant pot with a bunch of carrots and eye of newt,” I say, walking up the front steps with Erin. “I’m so holding this against you for the rest of our lives.”

“I hear she makes the best homemade blood pudding,” Erin stage-whispers as we walk into the dark front hall. “Oh, did I say blood pudding? I meant black pudding.” She giggles.

My stomach does a triple flip with a twist for added flair. “Oh … My god … You are so dead. Where’s the bathroom?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

ERIN

“THERE ARE TWO ITALIAN LADS staying in the next room!” I squeal at Ridlee as I return from my little chat with Mrs. O'Grady, the
bean an tí
, or ‘woman of the house’ as my mother would helpfully add.

Our little chat ended up taking the best part of an hour, and I now know not only her medical history but also the medical histories of her two cats and her next door neighbour. “Hemorrhoids," she had mouthed at me as though letting me in on a state secret. The furry cat on her lap blinked its blue eyes as if to confirm what she said. It took all my dealing with older people skills to get away at all without offending.

Her review of the house rules took a very long time: no showers after nine o’clock, no visitors in the rooms — especially those of the opposite sex — no drinking, and the corker — would we mind coming home before eleven each night as otherwise she would worry about us.
Great
.

It seems better to break the news of the Italians to Ridlee to soften the blow of the house rules. I won’t mention the fact that they’re checking out tomorrow.

Bent down in front of the dresser mirror, my intrepid traveling companion is just putting the finishing touches to her bangs, which look amazing, before we hit the town. She recently had her hair cut to just above her shoulders, and now the natural wave winds strands of dark brown hair around her face, framing her stunning features. With grey eyes and generous lips, it’s no wonder the boys try to befriend me in order to get to her.

If Ridlee and I had met in school we would never have become friends; I would have found her too intimidating back then. By the time I started college in the States I’d given up on caring about what people thought of my looks and clothes, though, and to her credit, Ridlee didn’t seem to care what I looked like either. My hair is long and unruly, and while my features are pretty enough, I can’t be bothered with make-up much, or the latest fashions. I always feel a few pounds over my ideal weight, so jeans, t-shirts, and my trusty Chuck Taylors — in a range of cool colours and designs, of course — are my usual uniform. Occasionally, Ridlee will suggest a little lipstick or a particular item of clothing, but mostly she takes me as she finds me.

“When in Rome…,” she says before blotting her lips with a tissue.

“Ooh, sounds saucy… you mean the Italians, right? What are we gonna do to … I mean,
with
them?”

“No, eejit, I mean, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Comprende?”

I sit on the end of the bed, genuinely flummoxed once again by Ridlee’s logic. “Sorry, no—no comprendo. Are we gonna eat gelato and strut in the street? ‘Cause the west of Ireland doesn’t really allow for that kinda thing. There’s the weather for one, it’s waay too cold for gelato in the evenings, and strutting in the rain seems kinda desperate. And it almost
always
rains here.”

Ridlee raises her eyes to the heavens theatrically. “No muppet, we’re gonna get us some cute Irish guys.” It’s her ta-da moment.

“Eh, I hate to rain on your parade, Rid, but I think you’ll find that the term
cute Irish guys
is in fact an oxymoron. Why do you think I moved to the States?” I ask over my shoulder, as I head to the bathroom to freshen up.