‘Course ya were.’ They’d all said, ‘Hello Maggie’at the same time.
‘Let’s go.’ We had walked home making polite chit-chat but I knew he could sense my body language had changed. It had. I needed this to stop.
The Little White Cottage plaque catches my eye and I dart out of my flashback. It’s far from a little cottage. It’s a very tongue-in-cheek name for a huge, sprawling, grand farmhouse. I’m really beginning to get this Irish sense of humour and I loveit. The front door is almost like a stable door in blazing yellow. There is no doorbell or knocker.
‘Hello, anyone home?’ I cock my head around the open half of the door. My priority today is my article. It’s really time to focus now. I leave so soon. Dan will soon be just a distant memory.
‘In ya come, pull back the latch.’ An older woman’s voice flows from the back of the house so I follow her instructions and let myself in.
Stepping on cobblestones, I cross into a room that can only be described as a parlour. Old horseshoes and Blacksmiths’ anvils hang on the walls and horses’ bridles and saddles are on the ground. Two overly fed black cats purr on the stone counter while a lazy Labrador snores. I take it all in as I continue through another half-open door into a large dining area. A long rustic table is in the centre of the room but it’s the photos on the wall that really catch my eye. They seem out of place in a farmyard – older men and women draped in fine clothes, serious poses in oil painted portraits, regal-looking almost. The frames are gold and embellished and look very expensive. I spot an almost identical painting of the black horse galloping that’s in my bedroom.
‘Maggie, I presume?’ A tiny white-haired woman, slow and steady on a walking frame, enters the room. ‘I’m Esther. Welcome.’
‘Esther, hi, lovely to meet you. Thank you for talking to me.’ I have to crouch down to make eye contact with her and she immediately reminds me of Mrs Schwartz.
‘Aren’t you ever so pretty,’ Esther compliments me. ‘Those eyes you have, they tell a story.’ Esther runs her hand up and down my arm, in a gentle, motherly way, I welcome her touch. ‘You’re like a young Maureen O’ Hara.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile warmly at her, ‘I loved her inOnly The Lonelywith John Candy, my mom loves a good comedy.’
‘Michael!’ Esther’s loud voice shocks me as I jump up to mycorrect height and put the heavy plate down on the farmhouse table.
‘Deaf as a doornail.’ She holds a white hankie to her eyes. ‘Sorry, I’ve terrible watery eyes. It’s all watery – a bit like my gin these days! Life becomes watery after eighty.’ But Esther’s smile lights up her old, well-weathered face. All the years on a farm, outdoors in all weathers, I think. A life well lived.
‘I’m not deaf, Esther.’ Michael, I assume, shuffles in, his feet half out of his brown slippers. He wears knee-length shorts with a shirt and tie, black socks pulled up to his knees and holds a pipe.
‘Did I not tell ya to put yer trousers on, silly man?’ Esther scolds.
‘Ack, I’ll be sitting down, stop fussing, woman.’ Michael puffs on his unlit pipe.
‘Sit down, please, will you have some tea?’ Esther wriggles herself down into a chair.
‘No, thank you, I’d another huge breakfast up at the castle.’ I pat my stomach as I remove my damp wool coat and remember the big Irish fry-up I’d had this morning, bacon, sausage, pudding, poached eggs, and mushrooms. It was a stark contrast to the wilted fruit breakfast Amanda had served me a few days ago.
‘And it’s the castle you want to talk to us about, is it not?’ Michael asks, extending his hand to me now.
‘Hello Michael, yes, I’m Maggie .?.?.’
‘Give the girl a second to sit down,’ Esther butts in, as the old couple hold intense eye contact for a moment.
‘It’s alright. Yes, so I work for a wedding magazine calledUltimate Locations Wedding Magazineand we’re based on Fifth Avenue in New York .?.?.’ I rummage in my bag and pull out my card.
‘Our son just brought us back a bottle of Crafty Cask whiskeyfrom New York,’ Esther tells me.
‘I don’t drink it but I’ve heard it’s a good whiskey. It’s a personal favourite for my mom. So, I’m writing a story about the legend of the castle, the long-lasting unions of marriage, and you both come highly recommended to talk to.’
‘Ahhh, I see, I see.’ Michael puts his pipe down on the table and reaches for a phone that is sitting in a bowl with a TV remote control and a box of matches. He’s oddly familiar in his mannerisms, how he picks things up.
‘Not now,’ Esther tells him and gently slaps his hand away. ‘Now, ask away.’
‘Is it okay if I use a Dictaphone recorder and type as we chat?’ I flip open my cracked MacBook, they both nod. ‘So, how long have you been married?’
‘Sixty years, last week just gone.’ Michael puts his old hand over Esther’s. Her skin seems like paper and translucent under his.
‘Oh, yes I did know that, Kate told me. Oh, sorry!’ I reach forward for the plate on the table. ‘Your lunch! Gráinne’s given me your fish and chips, shall I serve it up first? It will go cold.’ Annoyed with myself for not doing this first thing, I stand up.
‘If you’d be so good? Our plates are on the sideboard there. Mine’s the white one, his is the brown with the pheasant pattern. Gráinne always leaves the salt and vinegar in the drawer on the dresser.’
‘A holy saint that girl is, they all are. The Heartwell community minds us so well, don’t they, darling?’ Esther says as Michael sits beside her. They seem so small squeezed in alongside each other at such a massive table.
