A Week in Winter(50)

‘It’s certainly a very comfortable place to stay,’ John said.

‘When you get back home, will you tell your friends in America to go there?’

‘Sure I will.’ John wondered did he know anyone in Los Angeles who would come to an outpost like this.

They left him to his soup and his pint of Guinness. He felt oddly at ease in their company, and listened while they talked about old Frank Hanratty who had painted his old van bright pink so that he could find it without any difficulty. Frank was still driving round the place peering through his glasses, seeing nothing ahead of him or behind. He had never been in any accident. Yet.

Frank had never married, apparently, but had a better social life than any of them; he called here, there and everywhere and was welcome wherever he went. He was mad keen on the cinema and would drive the pink van thirty miles every week and see at least two films in the big town . . .

Their conversation drifted around John. He had an image of this peaceful, undemanding life the man Hanratty lived, happy with the way the cards had been dealt. He wondered if he should buy everyone a drink. That’s what would happen in a movie. But life wasn’t a movie. These men might be affronted. He gave them his big, enveloping smile and promised he would come back again.

‘Great soup that, lumps of chicken in it,’ he said.

He couldn’t have said anything that pleased the landlord more.

‘That chicken was running around the back yard yesterday morning,’ he said proudly.

The day’s walking did wonders for his jet lag, and he slept soundly that night. He woke at six but found himself happy to lie in bed listening to the sounds of the wind and the sea. It was louder today, he felt sure. The wind seemed to have changed direction and was battering against the windows; when eventually he got up, there was a dark and angry look to the waves.

Sure enough, Mrs Starr was issuing weather warnings to everyone over breakfast. He had thought he might try the walk down to the shoreline with the little rocky inlets, but thought better of it, given her advice. Not sure what alternative route to take, he found himself lingering over a last cup of coffee, the other guests bustling around the doorway; as the last of them left, he smiled at Chicky Starr and, raising an eyebrow, invited her to join him.

‘I hear you were in New York for a while,’ he said.

He started to look forward to their chats. There was something restful about being able to have a normal conversation with people who had no preconceived notions about him, no idea about his other life and no expectations. The following morning, once again, John stayed back and was the last to leave after breakfast. He watched as Orla cleared away the plates.

‘You are lucky to have family to help you here,’ John said.

‘Yes. Orla had different plans but they didn’t work out, so I think she’s happy to be here, for a while anyway.’ Mrs Starr never usually seemed in a hurry but this particular morning, she seemed slightly preoccupied.

‘Am I keeping you from anything, Mrs Starr?’

‘I’m so sorry, John, I am indeed a little distracted. My car has died on me and Dinny from the garage will be up to fix it but not until this evening. Rigger, that’s our manager, has to go to the doctor with his babies – they’re having inoculations. We need to go shopping, Orla and I. I’m just working out how we can . . .’

‘Why don’t I drive you?’ he suggested immediately.

‘No, that would never do. This is your holiday.’

Orla was at the table, listening in. ‘Oh, go on, Chicky, John doesn’t mind. And it’s only fifteen minutes down the road. I’ll go with him and get myself a lift back.’

It was settled.

They drove companionably to the town. Orla was a handsome girl with easy conversation.

‘It’s unfair to ask you to do this on your holidays but it’s Chicky’s first week ever. She has enough to think about. I thought you wouldn’t mind.’

‘No, I’m very pleased to help. And by the way, I’ll come with you. I actually like going to the stores,’ John offered. He was indeed captivated by Orla’s conversations with the butcher, the cheesemaker and all the feeling and prodding of vegetables in the greengrocer’s. Soon it was all packed and paid for.

Orla was very grateful. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll ask one of the O’Haras for a lift back now, so off you go and enjoy your day.’

‘I was going to have yet another coffee,’ John admitted. ‘I see a place over there. Why don’t you put the shopping in the car and we’ll go to the café for ten minutes.’

They chatted easily. Orla told him how she had nearly gone to New York to see Uncle Walter and Chicky, but then of course there had been the accident. Poor Uncle Walter had been killed.

Orla said she had done a course in Dublin and then she and her friend Brigid had gone to London to work. It had been good fun for a while but then her friend had got engaged to and married a madman and anyway, she had been feeling restless and longed for the seas and cliffs of Stoneybridge. There would have been no work for her without Chicky. There was something healing about this place. It helped to take the ache out of her heart.

‘I think I see what you mean about this place being healing,’ John said. ‘I’ve only been here a short time, and I can feel it getting to me.’

‘It must be very different from the life you’re used to,’ she was sympathetic.