‘Come on, sit down – don’t make me get a crick in my neck looking up at you! My, you’re a big one aren’t you?’
I sit, barely fitting on the damn stool. ‘I guess so. Just the way I was born.’
‘Oh, your poor mother!’ she replies, her eyes twinkling with mischief. She doesn’t seem all that broken to me, but I know appearances can be deceptive. ‘Now, what can I do for you both? I’m intrigued – it’s not every day I get such exotic guests!’
Joanne bustles into the room in a flurry of flour and disapproval. She lays out a tea tray on a small table, glares at me, then leaves. She pauses on the way out of the room, adjusting one of the mugs with faces – now it’s looking at me with dead ceramic eyes, and I wonder if there’s a spy cam hidden in there. I shiver a little, and hope nobody noticed.
‘They’re called Toby jugs,’ Moira tells us, obviously noticing. ‘Horrible aren’t they? Joanne and her late husband used to collect them for some reason. Anyway. You two look like you have a story to share, and I have nothing else to do, so why don’t you pour us some tea and we’ll get started?’
She’s looking directly at me as she says this, and I feel the power of her command. She might be old, and she might use a wheelchair, but she still packs a punch. Kate tries to hide a snigger as I stand up and deal with tiny porcelain cups that look like a doll’s tea set in my hands. I’m more of a coffee guy, but saying that here would be like announcing I worship Satan.
As I sit back down on the stupid chair, cup balanced on my knees, Kate rummages around in her purse, and produces her card.
‘Moira, both of us found these cards hidden inside books. And both of us… well, both of us came. We went to the bookshop, but…’
‘It was closed,’ Moira finishes for her, a world of sadness in her voice. ‘Oh dear. I suppose I’d given up hope. We sent those cards out four years ago now, and to start with I expected someone to arrive every day. Every time the bell tinkled and the door opened, I’d think it was somebody like you, taking us up on our offer. I was trying to pay it forward, you see.’
The phrase sounds odd on her lips, in her accent. It’s the kind of thing you’d hear on a self-help show in the States.
‘It was Angus’s idea,’ she continues, sipping her tea, hands trembling slightly. ‘My husband. Before he died, we came up with this silly plan. Invite people to Bonnie Bay. Offer to host them, put them up in our wee cottage, with no expectations of anything in return, just for them to enjoy this beautiful place. And after, I wrote the cards, and my grandson Robbie and I sent them out into the world. Robbie… well, he doesn’t live here any more. There’s not a lot here for the young folk, and he got a jobin Australia a few years ago. I wish he was here to meet you. And I wish you’d had a different welcome – I’m so very sorry!’
She’s on the edge of tears, and it breaks my heart. So much for the interrogation. Kate jumps up and runs over to her, wrapping her up in a hug.
‘It’s okay!’ Kate says, keeping hold of her papery-skinned hands as she backs off. ‘We’ve had a great time so far! We met Ginny, and I drank Guinness, and Brody got humped by a spaniel, and there was this guy called Xander…’
‘Oh, aye, he’s a treat for the eyes isn’t he?’ Moira replies, gathering herself. ‘And Betty only does that to people she really likes, I can assure you. But still, I’m sorry. It’s a cruel trick that fate has played on us, eh? I spend years waiting for a lost soul to turn up with one of those cards, and then I get two at once – just when I can’t do anything to help you!’
‘We’re not lost souls,’ I say, hating the whole concept.
‘Speak for yourself,’ Kate snaps back, frowning at me. ‘I am, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. And if everything in the garden of your life was rosy, Brody Quinn, then what are you doing here? Why didn’t you just put that card straight back between the covers of that book?’
I glare at her, but frankly I’m all out of answers. Am I a lost soul? Jesus. Maybe I am. My pals at the precinct would laugh their fat asses off.
‘What did you mean by pay it forward?’ I ask, keen to shift the attention away from me, and my potentially lost soul. ‘And isn’t that a risk, inviting complete strangers to stay in your own home?’
Moira shakes her head, composing herself but still distressed. ‘What is life without a little risk, eh? I choose to believe that most people are good.’
I’ve had different experiences, but I don’t press the point. Even if you do think they’re good, it’s a big leap from that toletting them into your life in such a personal way. I suppose maybe I’d imagined some kind of apartment at the bookstore, not moving in with the owner. I suppose maybe I hadn’t really thought it through, which isn’t like me. I’ve been infected with stupidity ever since I found that card.
‘As for paying it forward… that was how he described it. Angus,’ she continues. ‘We’d had such a good life together, so many blessings, and he wanted to share them. He was like that – the kindest man you could ever wish to meet!’
Her eyes are swimming with tears, and she sucks in a big breath. I can see the effort it’s taking for her to pull herself together, move away from the memories that are threatening to derail her. I could push for more, but I’m not that heartless.
‘Tell me all about yourselves,’ Moira says. ‘Absolutely everything!’
She looks different now, more energised, leaning forward towards us. The tears are gone, the sadness chased away. It’s like she’s found her purpose again. And maybe that’s enough – maybe if all that happens as a result of this trip is that we give an old lady some joy, that’s enough. I stretch out my legs, knowing that Kate will jump right in, that I’ll have time to prepare.
‘You first, Mr Quinn!’ Moira insists, pointing a bony finger at me. ‘And don’t be lying now, because I can assure you that while I might be old, my bullshit detectors are all still fully functional!’
The look on her face leaves me in no doubt of that. I suck in a breath. Just the facts, ma’am, just the facts. Except me being here isn’t just about the facts, is it? It’s about the words that this woman wrote on those cards – the words that felt like she’d written them for me. I still remember them, etched onto my heart:Sometimes we’re in so much pain that we can’t ever imagine feeling normal again. Sometimes, we’re so lonely we can’t ever imagine reaching out again.Now I’m sitting right here in front of her, still struggling to reach out.
‘I’m from Chicago,’ I say, starting easy. ‘The middle brother of five. Mom stayed at home, dad was a cop, like me. I… uh, I retired recently, after picking up an injury.’
My back tweaks, like it knows I’m talking about it. ‘An injury’ always sounds so tame, so harmless. I bite down on a flashback: falling through space, arms and legs flailing, air whooshing past my face as I plunged. The terror when I thought I was going to die. When I thought I was going to leave Shannon all alone.
‘I have one daughter,’ I say, settling myself. I didn’t leave Shannon all alone. Shannon is safe and well and so am I. ‘She’s twenty-two and at college in Oxford. My… my wife Sandy passed five years ago. She was only forty-six, and I miss her every goddamn day.’
Shit. I didn’t mean to mention all of that. There was no need to. They’d have assumed I was divorced, a typical dysfunctional law enforcement guy who couldn’t make a marriage work. Now they’re both staring at me in a way I can’t stand. Kate looks surprised and sympathetic, Moira is nodding with understanding. Even the freaking Toby jug seems sad.
