I’ll have to take my chances and stay, just for a while, until I can work out where to go next. I take a deep breath and make my way unsteadily across to the path leading to the cottage. The ground’s uneven, on a slope with lots of tiny stones. I’mstill wearing gold mules. I feel ridiculous, cold and very alone.
The cottage is small and white with a grey slate roof. The paint on the red front door is peeling. I take a good look at the place that’s to be my home, maybe for the next few months. Home. I feel a twist of sickness in my stomach as I remember our flat: a modern, purpose-built block. Not like the room I’d had above Betty’s when I first met Brian. The flat had all mod cons … not like this place, with its peeling paintwork and pebble-dashed walls. At home we were right in the town, everything was close by – shops, banks, restaurants and pubs. I look around me. There’s nothing here. But at least something’s finally working in my favour. No one’s ever going to find me here, no one at all.
A noise like a fog horn makes me jump,
Eeee awwwww! Eeeeee awwwww!I look out to sea but there’s nothing. I turn back and look the other way, beyond the cottage to the fields behind it. Two small donkeys are standing by a stone wall. One has his head held high and is rolling back his lips, making him look like Mick Jagger. He’s the source of the noise. I wonder if it’s some kind of battle cry, like a guard dog. I grip the neck of my hoodie. Beyond the donkeys, or mules, or whatever they are, there’s another field with some kind of wooden hut that’s fenced in. Another noise shatters the silence. A huge bird is stretching its wings and joining the donkey in its chorus with a loud ‘Honk! Honk!’ The closest I’ve ever come to farm animals was a day trip to the city farm when I was a kid. Since then it’s been a chicken wrapped in cellophane at Tesco’s checkout. I hurry on to the cottage door, quickly glancing back at the sea and wondering how on earth I’m going to cope with the fear it fills me with.
I’m desperate to get in out of the wind and to meet Sean’s wife and kids. Getting lost in a family could be just what I need right now. I force a smile, run my hands over my dress and step inside, bracingmyself for the fuss that my arrival would inevitably create.
Inside, there’s a dampness in the air. I give a little involuntary shiver. It’s colder than I was expecting. And a lot more quiet.
Sean’s gathering up what appears to be washing hanging on the backs of mismatched chairs. The kitchen table is pushed up against a big window looking out to sea.
‘Sorry. I’m not used to guests.’ He grabs a final T-shirt and adds it to the pile spilling over in his arms.
‘Oops.’ I catch a dark blue woollen jumper before it falls and put it on top of the unruly heap. He heads to a door at the far end of the room, leaving me to look round the kitchen-cum-dining-room-cum-living-room-cum-office, by the looks of the paper pile in the corner. To say it’s not what I was expecting is an understatement. There’s a small kitchen area, a red settee and a black pot-bellied stove. There’s a pile of washing-up in the sink and dog food on the table next to a pile of thick rope. There’s a guitar and a leaning tower of CDs beside the sofa. The window looks down the stream to the sea beyond, making it feel as though you’re on board a ship. It’s cold and unwelcoming.
‘I’ll get a fire going now and we’ll be grand,’ he says, busily gathering up sticks and matches and throwing open the doors on the stove. ‘Like I say, I’m not used to guests.’ He picks up some more sticks from the basket beside the fire and feeds them into the grate. He’s still in his coat and pulls a lighter from his pocket. He makes a few attempts before it throws up a little flame and he holds it to the paper in the fire’s belly. The paper catches and the fire suddenly erupts into life. He shuts the doors, letting the orange and yellow flames roar upwards inside. I’m still rooted to the spot, shell-shocked.
‘I’ll show you your room then I’ll rustle up some supper,’ he says, taking off his coat and hanging it on the heavily laden hooks by the front door. ‘You’re just through here,’ he says, pointing to a room by the front door. ‘Bathroom’s to your left. I’m through there,’ he points back through the living room to where he dumped the washing. ‘And that’s Grace’s place.’ There’s a large box filled with blankets by the guitar. In the other corner, by the doorway to Sean’s bedroom, is what I think is a desk, but it’s hard to tell underneath the precarious piles of paper that are threatening to spill over. Some look as if they already have.
‘Will your, um, wife be joining us?’ I croak in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine.
‘My wife?’ He shakes his head and laughs as he feeds turf on to the fire. ‘No. No wife. It’s just me and Grace here.’ He straightens up and turns to me. At that moment Grace barges in through the door, letting in a huge rush of cold air. Sean rubs her head as he passes to shut the door. ‘That’s one of the reasons I need some help. I need someone to look after Grace when I’m not here. I’ve got some work, just summer work, but it helps pay the bills, so I need someone to be here for Grace.’ He wipes his hands on a tea towel. ‘And the other animals.’
My eyebrows shoot up. The closest I’ve ever had to a pet was a goldfish called Fred that I won at the fairground, and he died after three days.
‘Other animals?’ I try to swallow.
‘Yes, there’s the hens. They’re laying pretty well so there’s loads of eggs. And the geese, great guard dogs. And then of course there’s Freddie and Mercury, the donkeys. I kinda inherited them from my uncle. They lived here before me. But apart from that it’s just me.’ He nods apologetically at the mess.
‘It’s just you,’ I repeat. I’m slowly processing my situation. I’m miles away from anywhere, with a man I don’t know, who’s told me he’s an oyster farmer. I swallow hard. The full stupidity of my situationis beginning to sink in.
‘Do you want to see your room?’ He puts out a hand to show the way. There’s a single bed, an old dark wood wardrobe, a small dressing table that looks as if it was once someone’s pride and joy, and a chair.
‘Make yourself at home. I’ll call you when supper’s ready.’ He pulls the door to behind him. ‘And don’t mind Grace. Tell her to go to her bed if she comes calling,’ he shouts back. I hear him in the kitchen; music goes on and he’s singing. I sit on the bed, pull off my sweatshirt and then my ruined wedding dress. I hold it to my face, breathing in the smell of my former life, before folding it and putting it at the bottom of the wardrobe. Then I sit back on the bed and let the tears that have held off all day finally fall. Great big blobs of them. What on earth have I got myself into?
Later, after an erratic shower – hot, cold, dribble, fullforce – I go back into my room to find some joggers and a T-shirt on my bed. I put them on and return to the living room feeling drained but clean. The smell coming from the little kitchen is surprisingly delicious. Sean looks up from his hot frying pan.
‘I thought you might need some more suitable working clothes. Hope they’re OK. They were the smallest things I could find. We can pop into town tomorrow if you need to pick up a few bits.’
‘They’re fine. Thank you. It’s very kind of you.’ I know it must seem odd that I have absolutely nothing else with me.
‘I’ve got a spare toothbrush. Like I say, we can pick you up some more stuff when I go to work in Galway.’ He goes over to the pot-bellied stove where a pan of cubed potatoes is frying on the flat top. He shakes them and releases another mouth-watering explosion of garlic, rosemary and olive oil to fill the little cottage.
‘It’s just omelettes,’ he says, almost apologetically. ‘Could you put the bread on the table?’ He points to a large round loaf on the side. I pick up the board with the knife and the butter dish as well.
‘What shall I do with …?’ I pick up the coil of rope and the bag of dog food.
‘Oh, on the floor. Well, maybe not the dog food.’ He takes that from me and puts it high on top of a cupboard. Then he puts two plates on the table with yellow omelettes on them, gets the potatoes from the stove and divides them between us and we sit down to eat. It’s dark outside, which in a way helps. I can’t see the sea. Sean slices bread and I find after 48 hours or more of living on Diet Cokes and Jammie Dodgers, my appetite has suddenly returned. It’s delicious. I cut into the fluffy omelette and let the melted cheese stretch between my mouth and the plate.
After supper we clear away the plates, neither of us saying much, for which I’m grateful.
‘Right, now off to bed,’ he claps his hands. ‘The spring tide starts tomorrow at around ten and we have work to do.’
‘Fine,’ I reply, suddenly feeling dead on my feet. Not only have I not eaten properly since I left the wedding, apart from the soup earlier, but I haven’t slept properly either. I pulled out the bed in the camper van and hid there on the ferry, but I didn’t actually sleep. With luck, everything will look better tomorrow after a good night’s rest.
‘Thank you for the meal.’ I stand and tuck in my chair. I even manage a small smile. ‘And thank you for …’ What could I say – for the clothes, for the job, for not asking me why I’m here?
