‘Woah,’ said Sue, ‘should I leave you two alone?’
‘No, please, I need to know. I discussed it with my therapist. And I think you’re flirting with me. I’m not sure, though. I’ve never had this kind of attention from a man.’
Before Mark had a chance to reply, Caroline from the Texaco was banging her fist on the window and shouting something at me.
‘What the hell?’ said Sue as Caroline barged her way through the door and straight over to our table.
‘You bitch!’ she snarled. ‘I’ve been fired from my job, because the woman who fucking incinerated her own father told my head office that I was racist.’
‘I called your head office,’ said Mark. ‘I was there when you said those things about our friends. Don’t blame Sally. It was me.’
‘I rang them to confirm the details,’ I said.
Sue looked uncomfortable. Caroline glared at her.
‘I see you’ve latched on to another one.’ Caroline spat the words at me. The smiling waitress was no longer smiling. She appeared behind Caroline. ‘Caroline,’ she said, ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave. We don’t tolerate abusive behaviour here.’
‘Oh right, but you’ll serve that one?’ she said, pointing at Sue.
Mark jumped up, but the unsmiling waitress put her hand on his shoulder and spoke calmly. ‘Get out of here, Caroline, you’re barred.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she screeched, ‘I’m going to move out of this village anyway. I’m not staying with all of you freaks. I’m sick of this place. I’ll go back to Knocktoom. And by the way, Valerie,’ she said as she got to the door, ‘your quiche is shite.’ There was a silence after she slammed the door, and all eyes were either on Caroline as she stomped off down the hill or on the three of us. Then, they all looked towards Valerie and began to clap, including Mark and Sue, and then me. The mood turned festive in an instant. There was laughter. A number of people came to our table and assured Sue that she was most welcome in Carricksheedy. An old man said that we needed to mix up the gene pool as the complexion of Carricksheeders was pale blue. As he left a few moments later, he shouted, ‘Best quiche in Ireland!’ and there were cheers and laughter from the remaining customers.
Mark asked Sue, ‘Are you okay?’ and she wiped tears from her eyes.
‘I guess I hoped it wouldn’t happen here.’ She was upset.
The waitress, whose name was clearly Valerie, approached us. ‘I’m sorry that happened in my cafe. Your meals are on the house.’
Mark and Sue protested and insisted that none of it was Valerie’s fault. She was awfully kind. We thanked her and paid the bill, splitting it three ways (like Tina had suggested). Mark and Sue had to get back to work and left in a hurry.
As I exited, I thanked Valerie.
Mark hadn’t answered my question.
Aunt Christine rang and told me that Uncle Donald was seriously ill.
‘Is he going to die?’ I asked.
‘I think so,’ she replied and broke into tears.
I thought about the right thing to say. ‘I’m sorry. I hope he isn’t suffering.’ I tried to feel sad about Uncle Donald. It didn’t work. But I did feel sad for Aunt Christine.
‘They are keeping him comfortable for the moment but he’s going downhill fast.’
I judged that this would not be the right time to tell her about my anger issues. ‘I hope he dies peacefully in his sleep like my dad.’
‘I think that’s the best we can hope for.’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Almost forty years.’
‘That’s a long time.’
I wanted to ask her how often they had sex, if she enjoyed it, if she was going to have him cremated, if I was expected to go to the funeral, but I didn’t.
‘I can’t imagine life without him. It’s stomach cancer, with secondaries in the lungs and liver. There’s no hope. I thought we’d have more time together.’
