The Boatman's Wife(5)

‘Watch out!’ she shouted, pulling on the brakes, but they were old and rubbish. The man heard her just in time, and jumped to the right, but she couldn’t stop the bike now. She’d lost all control – it went spinning into the bushes as she fell off into the ditch.

‘Hey, are you okay?’

Niamh groaned. She was tangled up in brambles, but nothing hurt.

‘Give me your hand,’ the guy said.

She looked up, noticing the accent now. American. He was tall, with dark hair and brown eyes. Without waiting for her to reply, the guy took hold of her arm and hoisted her out of the bushes. She took a wobbly step out onto the road.

‘You were going real fast,’ he said to her.

‘Well, I wasn’t expecting anyone on the road so early,’ she said, flustered, aware of the state of her, and her boozy breath. Up close, he was even better looking. Really tall, and fit as a sportsman, with white, even teeth. He was wearing jeans and a red check shirt, a small rucksack on his back. She brushed down her jeans, noticing they were torn, and she could see a smear of blood on her knee.

‘You’re bleeding,’ he said.

‘It’s nothing, just a graze,’ she said, going for her bike and trying to pull it out of the bushes.

‘Here, let me,’ he said, helping her. He brushed against her arm as he pulled her bicycle out of the undergrowth, and the sensation set off a flutter in her stomach. She felt quite giddy. Well, of course: she’d been drinking all night, and had just fallen off her bike at breakneck speed.

‘Looks like it’s okay,’ the guy said, wheeling the bike up and down the road. ‘But your brakes need fixing,’ he added, testing them.

‘Right,’ she said gruffly, still trying not to breathe over him. He looked like he’d had a good night’s sleep, all freshly shaven, in his clean shirt. Whereas she must stink of cigarettes and a whole night spent in the pub.

‘So, my name’s Jesse,’ he said to her, clearly wanting to engage her in conversation.

‘Niamh,’ she said, mounting the bike again. ‘Are you on holidays?’

‘No,’ he replied.

‘Oh,’ she said, a bit surprised.

‘I’m off to work, sort of,’ he said. ‘I’m in training with Joseph O’Reilly.’

‘At the boatyard?’

‘Yeah, I’m learning how to make traditional Irish wooden boats,’ he said, smiling at her. Was he flirting? Niamh couldn’t be sure. It was so early, and she was a bit dazed from her bike fall.

‘I don’t think Joseph will be at the yard yet,’ she said.

Joseph O’Reilly was one of their regulars. Sure, he’d been in Murphy’s until well after midnight last night. Most evenings he’d be in the bar at nine o’clock, after his dinner, to sink a couple of pints of Guinness. Niamh liked Joseph because he was always respectful and, unlike most, minded his own business. He was also held with respect in the community as a skilled boatbuilder. She’d been told he’d been offered jobs all over the world, but had chosen to stay put in his little boatyard in Mullaghmore. It was clear Joseph was a little too fond of the drink, but it was a vice which never seemed to change his quiet manner, unlike some of the others.

‘I know,’ Jesse said to her. ‘Joseph gave me keys, so I can get started without him.’

‘That so, Jesse?’ She liked saying his name. Made her think of outlaws and the Wild West.

‘We’re fixing up an old yacht, see,’ he said.

‘Well, that’s pretty cool,’ she said. ‘Are you going to sail it home to America?’

He raised his eyebrows, looked amused. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said, giving her a cheeky grin.

They stood in slightly awkward silence for a moment.

‘Sure your knee’s okay?’ Jesse asked her.

‘Yeah, I’m nearly home,’ she said. ‘Well, see you around.’ She pushed off again, and began to cycle, feeling self-conscious.

‘Have a nice day!’ Jesse called after her.



She still felt jittery as she leant her bicycle against the side of their house. Jesse had stepped out of nowhere. Had she imagined him altogether? He was so wholesome, which made her suspicious. Were Americans truly that friendly, or was it all an act?

‘There you are, darling,’ her mam said, pouring Niamh a mug of tea from the pot as she picked up the keys to the postal van. ‘What happened to your leg?’

‘Sure it’s nothing, Mam. I fell off the bike.’

Her mam shook her head. ‘Too many late nights!’ She left the back door slightly open as she slipped out into the yard, the thick scent of the summer hedgerows wafting into the cottage.

Niamh stood at the kitchen window, watching her mam get into the green An Post van and drive off down the road. She was clearly in good form today. In fact, the whole month, her mam had been cheerful. But Niamh knew it was all a matter of time before she went down again. If her father were still alive, would her mam be better? Of course she would. Her lows had only begun after he was gone.

Niamh took some cotton wool out of the kitchen drawer, dampened it at the tap and applied it to her cut knee. It stung a little, but really it was only a graze and she didn’t need a plaster. She applied a little Sudocrem to it, before pouring another mug of tea from the pot and wandering into the sitting room. They lived in a small two-storey cottage, with an outbuilding, Daddy’s old workshop, across the backyard. Downstairs there was a big kitchen and a small sitting room. They spent most of their time in the kitchen. The TV was in there, as was the wood stove and a big old sofa to sprawl upon. But Niamh loved the sitting room best. Small and dark due to all the bookcases lining the walls. Her mam’s desk was in the window, overlooking Bunduff Lough. The house was situated off a narrow lane which cut between two halves of the lough: they lived between water. Niamh sometimes worried about flooding when water levels rose, but her mam had absolute faith it would never rise too high. They were near the sea, too. You could hear the distant waves as they crashed upon Bunduff beach, but the only water they could see was the lake before them. Glimmers of still blue peeked out through the leaves of the trees which lined the road outside.