Under the Hill(2)

I hadn’t told my FB friends that John and I had split. Or my living, breathing ones either. I didn’t want their pity, or worse, their “it’s about time!” reaction. If I was honest, I had to admit I had known it was over long before it ended, but I hadn’t had the energy to move on. It was too easy to fall into the habits of everyday life: who’s cooking dinner, did you pay the electric bill, time to do laundry. We’d lost sight of the bigger questions: What do you want out of your life? Where are we going? Do you love me? For the last one the answer was easy: no, on both sides. It was over, and I was pretty sure John had already moved on, if his absences from the office at odd times and his increasingly late returns home in the evening were any indication. I hadn’t cared enough to confront him about it.




After a day or two, I could feel Ireland beginning to work its magic on me. Once the jet lag wore off, I slept better than I had for quite a while, alone in my bed, in the silent darkness. My fingers had stopped itching for a keyboard. I could have a glass of wine with dinner, or even two, and I could eat more than one dessert, all without John looking over his reading glasses with disapproval. I discovered I liked being on my own. More important, I liked who I was when I was alone.

I ventured into the nearest town a time or two, to pick up food and to look around, but I scuttled back to my little cottage fairly quickly: it was beginning to feel like home. Still, I was getting kind of restless, so I started walking. The nearest neighbor’s house was more than half a mile away, so I could ramble when and where I wanted without disturbing anyone. I was surrounded by fields used mainly for grazing cattle, if the large cowpats were any indication, but since I saw no cows, I assumed they were all safely stowed in their winter quarters.

It felt good to get out, to breathe clean air, to feel the autumn sun on my face, to use muscles I hadn’t felt in a while. I felt free. It wasn’t like walking in a city, where you had to be alert all the time for weirdos on the street, crazy drivers, or craters in the sidewalk. It was just me and the land, and a few birds and the occasional rabbit.

For the first few days I didn’t see another soul. Then I saw someone a good distance away: a woman, maybe a few years older than me, dressed much as I was in jeans, a nondescript jacket, and sturdy shoes. She was leaning against a wooden fence, and she didn’t appear to notice me, and I felt oddly relieved. Since I’d been heading on a course that bypassed her anyway, I kept going.

The next day I saw her again, coming upon her suddenly as I rounded the corner of a stone wall, and the sight of her startled me. “Oh, hi,” I said awkwardly. “Do you live around here?”

“I do. You’d be staying at the McCarthys’ cottage?” Her accent was local, her voice low and musical.

“I am. Do you know Catherine McCarthy?”

“We go back a ways. Will you be stayin’ long?”

“No, I’m just here for a couple of weeks. On vacation.” I realized I hadn’t had a conversation with another human for several days, beyond How much do I owe you? to the salesclerk at the Costcutter store in town. I had to resist the urge to start babbling. “It’s peaceful here.”

“That it is. I’ll leave you to it, then. Safe home.” With no further comment she turned and left. I stared after her retreating back, equal parts relieved and miffed. I hadn’t wanted to start up a friendship with a local stranger, but on the other hand, I’d always heard that the Irish were friendly people, and this woman had been anything but. Odd.

I trekked back to the cottage, but before I could insert my key in the lock, I noticed a small painted wooden sign over the door, half obscured with ivy. It appeared to be in Irish. I thought it said Faoi an Cnoc, which I couldn’t begin to pronounce. Did the house have a name?

It was getting dark and I was thinking about starting dinner when someone rapped on the front door. It turned out to be Catherine McCarthy. “How’re things?” she asked. “No problems?”

“Come in, please. Everything’s been fine. I really like the house.”

“Glad to hear it. I just wanted to be sure you were settling in.”

“I am, thanks. Oh, I just noticed—that sign over the front door? What is it?”

“Faoi an Cnoc?” It sounded to me like “fwee an kanock.” “It means ‘under the hill.’ Comes from an old Irish song, ‘The Little House Under the Hill.’ You’ve seen as how the house sits just below the top of the hill? Cuts the wind a bit, else it would go howlin’ round the house like a banshee.”

“That makes sense. Do you live nearby?”

“The next town over. My husband used this land fer pasture, and the house came with it. Then he says, why not fix it up and rent it out, bring in a bit of cash? So he modernized it, did all the work himself. Spent a lot of time on it, when he wasn’t looking after the cows.”

“He did a good job.”

“He did that.”

“Well,” I said briskly, “I don’t want to keep you from your supper. Thanks for stopping by. I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

Catherine gave me a long look, then turned to go. “I’ll stop by again, before you go.”

“Great. Thanks.” I shut the door behind her with relief. And then I felt guilty. After all, she’d been trying to be a good landlady, making sure I had whatever I needed. And it was her house, wasn’t it? She was just looking after her property. Funny about the work her husband had done—I’d wondered about some of the decorative touches I’d seen here and there. Men were usually clueless about the small details of housekeeping, like putting a light over the sink so you could see to wash the dishes, or providing enough towel bars in the bathrooms. In this cottage, all the little things like that had been seen to.