Freckles(20)

I’m not religious. Neither is Pops, though he’s technically Church of Ireland. Despite going to a Catholic boarding school I didn’t have to take part in any religious studies. I wasn’t the only one. A few Protestants, three Hindus and a Muslim. And a girl who’d moved over from Malaysia to study in Ireland while her parents stayed behind in Malaysia. She said she was an atheist and I had no religion so whenever religious things were happening we were always put together and given other work to do. Essays, worksheets, pointless errands, that kind of thing. Once we were brought outside on a sunny day to tie-dye our T-shirts while the others were stuck inside learning about transubstantiation. People were jealous of our non-religious cult.

I still liked Sister Lettuce even though I wasn’t into her religion. She was young, in her thirties and really believed in her cause. I think she thought she had to single-handedly make up for all the hateful things the decrepit nuns did in the past. She tried with all of us, to hear our problems, to show us she cared, to fix them.

I take my gold notepad out of my bag and place it on the table and start working on my list. From the age of five to eleven my five people were my best friend from Valentia, Marion, Cara, Marie, Laura and Pops. In secondary school it was Marion, Sister Lettuce, Bobby my boyfriend for a year but obsessed over for longer than that so much so that he shaped my dreams and thoughts, Viv who was my closest school friend, and Pops. After school when I didn’t get into the Gardaí and all the way up to now, it was Marion, my boyfriend Jamie, Cyclops, my aunt Pauline, and Pops. Always Pops.

It’s been months since I’ve been home and I’m looking forward to catching up with them. With most of them anyway.

It’s 10.20 when I step off the train at Killarney station. The drivetime to Valentia Island is an hour and twenty minutes, or one hour if Pops is driving. It’s not easy to get back home, my part of the world is badly serviced by public transport. Valentia Island is a small island, eleven kilometres in length and three kilometres in width and it’s not that far away but accessibility-wise I sometimes feel like I’m trying to get to Australia.

Even if I were to hitch a ride to Portmagee, I’d still need a car to get over the Maurice O’Neill Memorial Bridge, which links the mainland to Valentia Island, and then to Knightstown, which is the town at the furthest point from the bridge entrance. There’s a car ferry from Reenard’s Point that runs directly to Knightstown, a five-minute journey. But it only operates from April to October during the busier season and if you’re not at Reenard’s Point by 10 p.m., then you’ve missed the last ferry. I worked on the car ferry after school, it was the job I left to become a parking warden. From April to October anyway, the rest of the months I worked in the gift shop of Skellig Experience, a museum showcasing the story of the island. Thanks to a sixth-century monastic site, the place has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage site offshore. They needed more staff when Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens was released.

Tom Breen is usually the man to rely on to get from Cahirciveen to home. He’s the local taxi but he plays a lot of golf and isn’t always helpful when he answers the phone from the fourth hole on Kinsale and asks if you can wait a few hours. And he’s slow. As much as Pops’ driving terrorises me, Tom Breen’s driving makes me feel murderous.

I survey the train station car park. Pops isn’t here.

I ring him.

Allegra my love, he says, I’m at the house, I couldn’t drive to you.

Are you okay, I ask.

I’m fine, but the car is not.

I look around the car park and wonder what my options are. Buses to Cahirciveen don’t run on a Saturday and even if they did, I’d have to call Tom Breen and oh God, I think I’d walk home faster. And when did this car trouble happen. He could have told me earlier. It would have taken him an hour to get here, he should have left the house an hour ago. Why didn’t he call or text, why am I finding out now by ringing him.

I fight my irritation while weaving through the cars and trying to figure out how to get out of Killarney.

But don’t you be worrying, he says, I’ve arranged a lift for you.

My stomach drops. I see a familiar car enter the car park and hope to God it’s not here for me. Tom Breen’s car.

Pops, you didn’t call Tom Breen, did you.

It’s not Tom, he says.

Good, he must be here for someone else I think with relief, but then wonder who Pops has arranged to meet me. My uncle Mossie perhaps, or my aunt Pauline, though she’d be busy with her B&B and wouldn’t have time to collect me. She won’t be happy at a last-minute request such as this, much as she loves me.

Tom’s car is creeping through the car park. I turn away and walk in the other direction just in case he accosts me and insists I share with someone else. It drives slowly towards me and crawls after me like a stalker.

Tom wasn’t available, Pops says, at such short notice, he was out golfing but he said he’d send his son Jamie.

His son Jamie, as if I’ve never heard of Jamie in my life. Jamie who was my boyfriend for three years. On my list of five. I just wrote it on the train, I can’t deny it. But he was the one I wasn’t looking forward to seeing quite so much.

Jamie. Fuck.

I stop walking and the car stops. I look in, Jamie looks back at me. Neither of us smile. I left Valentia Island behind, I left Jamie behind. Not on good terms. And now I’ll be stuck in a car for an hour and twenty minutes with him.