‘Daloo?’ She shakes her peroxide head again and then to my bigger surprise says, ‘No, can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.’ She looks genuinely puzzled. For a moment I freeze and then the penny drops. OK, very funny. It’s that Irish humour. I try and join in the joke and laugh good-naturedly.
‘Hey, John Joe,’ the barmaid calls over to the group huddled by the fire. Oh dear God, please don’t tell me this is happening, that it’s some sort of prank they pull on holidaymakers looking for the toilet.
‘Any ideas where Daloo is?’
An elderly man in a holey jumper shakes his head.
‘What about you, Evelyn? You’ve got kids living all over the place, any idea where Daloo is?’
Evelyn’s in an oversized anorak. She turns down her mouth and shakes her head.
‘Frank? Any ideas?’
Frank scratches the black spiral curls poking out from under his woollen hat.
‘Grandad? What about you? If anyone knows about this place it’s you.’
Someone nudges Grandad awake and he splutters.
‘Daloo! She’s looking for Daloo!’ Evelyn shouts at him. He shakes his head and goes back to sleep, resting his elbows on the arms of his wheelchair and letting his head fall forwards.
If there really is a God, would he just let the floor open up now and let me fall through it? I look up to the ceiling and shut my eyes in hope. Nothing. Just like my mother, He’s never been around when I’ve needed Him either.
‘I think …’ a voice pipes up next to me and makes me jump. My eyes ping open. Sean Thornton is standing beside me. The man in the shell suit is back at the bar, picking up his pint and shaking his head. ‘I think,’ he repeats slowly and quietly, ‘that the lady is looking for the bathroom.’ He puts down his cup and saucer on the bar. ‘Through there to the left,’ he points, and gratefully I put my head down and scuttle in that direction.
I grab hold of the porcelain sink and splash water over my face and then attempt to dry it with a stiff paper towel, which just inflicts pain. I look into the mottled mirror. The person staring back scares me. I hardly recognise myself. My eyes are swollen, my face blotchy and red, and I look as if I’ve aged ten years. A far cry from the blushing bride that left home yesterday.
‘Sean told me to put your food over there,’ the barmaid says a little sulkily as I return from the loo, like someone who’s been told off. She goes back to polishing the glasses.
On a table tucked round the other side of the bar a bowl of steaming orange soup and a huge doorstep sandwich is waiting for me. My stomach roars again in expectation.
‘Thought you might like to eat somewhere a little more private.’ Sean Thornton nods to the group on the other side of the pub.
‘Thank you,’ I say and go to sit down.
‘No problem. I’d like to say they mean well, but … I can’t,’ he says, throwing a look first at the locals on the other side of the bar and then at the two standing next to it. They pull down their hats and turn in towards each other. I realise I need to seize my opportunity.
‘Actually, are you Sean Thornton?’ I pick up the red paper napkin by my bowl and twist it in my hands. I try and smile but it probably looks more like a grimace.
‘I am,’ he says evenly and stares right back at me, making me feel nervous. There’s no humour in his eyes.
‘Good.’ My throat is drying again. ‘In that case,’ I say really quickly, with what feels like a tennis ball in my throat, ‘I’ve come about the job.’
Chapter Two
Just like the barmaid, he looks at me first in the face and then up and down, taking in the scuffed gold, kitten-heeled shoes, the dress with the newly fashioned, torn hemline, and the big baggy sweatshirt.
I flap my arms by my sides. ‘Sorry, didn’t have time to change.’ I feel as ridiculous as I no doubt look. When he says nothing back, I cringe and my toes begin to curl. Then my stomach roars again.
‘Sounds like your stomach thinks your throat’s been cut. Tell you what, take a seat, eat your soup and then we’ll chat,’ and he goes back to looking at his notes.
I sit down self-consciously, pick up the spoon and sip the soup. It’s warm and really tasty and I’m already feeling better. I look at the sandwich. I’m hungry but the knot in my guts won’t let me eat it. Besides, it’s hard to eat when you know you’re being watched.
I’m just finishing the bowl of soup when the man with the mass of unbrushed spiral ringlets comes over and stands in front of Sean Thornton, spilling some of the pint he’s carrying.
‘How are ya, Frank?’ Sean says politely, but there’s a stiffness in his voice.
‘Good, Sean, good. Now about this job. Evelyn says you advertised in theGalway Advertiserfor an assistant. And it’s been on the Face Book, or was it Twatter? On the world wide web, anyways. Well, reckon I could fit the bill.’ He has one hand in his pocket and is waving the pintaround with the other, spilling a little more. ‘I know my way around the farm and I’m local.’
