Aisling Gayle (30 page)

“Now that,” Pauline said, turning to Charles, “is why my father keeps Peenie Walshe on here. He’s great with the customers – and he has a good heart.”

Charles’s hand came up to his chin. “True,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose he has his good points, like everyone else.” He decided that he would elicit Peenie’s opinion on another visit out to Mrs Lynch’s this evening.

Peenie came back, rubbing his hands together. “Ah, God be good to her – but isn’t the poor oul’ divil very bothered? She’d put years on ye, when ye’re tryin’ to serve her, and her not understandin’ a word of it.” He gave a shrug in Pauline’s direction. “I’ve spent nearly a half a blidey-well hour trailin’ round the shelves with her, tryin’ to make out what she’s pointin’ out – and then tryin’ to ask her how much I need to weigh out of cheese and rashers and so on. No harm to her now – for she’s a nice oul’ soul, but it’d feckin’ wear ye out – no word of a lie.” He shoved the cap back and scratched his head. “Wouldn’t you think the family would take her, and sort her out with some class of a hearin’ aid or some feckin’ thing like that?”

Pauline laughed, turning towards the back of the shop. “Oh, you’d have everything sorted out if it was left up to you, Peenie,” she told him.

“You have me in one,” Peenie said, taking the compliment as serious and sincere. “And I’d sort a lot of others out an’ all, if I had the chance,” he said.
And I’d well and truly sort you out, Miss Pauline Kearney,
Peenie thought, as he watched her trim little figure disappearing through the door into the house part of the building
, if God was only good enough to give me the chance.

* * *

Later, Peenie came back through to the shop having enjoyed a ‘good feed’ of Mrs Kelly’s bacon and cabbage and new potatoes, along with home-made rice pudding adorned with a generous tablespoonful of strawberry jam. He brought his mug of tea to finish in the shop along with a couple of digestives that he had stowed in the top pocket of his overall.

“So what do you say, Peenie?” Charles asked. “If you were me, would you take the risk of another visit out to Mrs Lynch?”

Peenie dipped a digestive into his steaming mug. “It all depends,” he said, taking a bite of the softened biscuit, “on whether that madman’s been put behind bars or not. I wouldn’t go near the place if there was any chance of him being in the vicinity, like. Who’s to know what he might do next?”

Charles looked startled. “Do you think,” he said fearfully, “that he might be around Mrs Lynch’s locality, on a regular basis?”

Peenie shrugged, taking a slurp of the tea. He hadn’t a clue what Charles was going on about – he’d been
rambling on for the past week about the madman that had leapt on his father’s car outside Mrs Lynch’s house. Who knows what it was all about? For all Peenie knew, it might all be in Charles’s head. He might finally have gone completely mad altogether, and was now imagining things. You just never knew with over-brainy lads like Charles Kearney. They didn’t see things the way other people saw them. Always going on about weird things like planets and
Nostradamus,
and carrying library books around the place. Mind you – there wasn’t an ounce of harm in Charles. All in all, as Peenie often told customers and the other fellas in the pub at the weekend – Charles Kearney was the finest.

Pauline and little Bernadette came into the shop through the front door now, Pauline humming happily to herself.

“Uncle Charles!” Bernadette said, rushing over to him with a brown package. “Look at the jigsaw that my Uncle Oliver bought me.”

Peenie’s eyebrows shot up. So that’s where Pauline and the little one had been – dining with the bold Oliver Gayle. Peenie had missed them at the table at dinner-time today. He’d had to dine with Mrs Kelly and Charles on his own, and it wasn’t the same at all. Peenie enjoyed the female company and the childish nonsense that Bernadette came out with. Things had been grand these last few weeks – much more lighthearted altogether than when the real bossman and the missus were at home. Things would soon change back to normal, when they got back home from their trip to America.

Charles examined the jigsaw – a picture of some cartoon or other. “I’ll help you with that this evening,” he said, looking at the back of the box to see which company had manufactured it. It had the look of an American design about it. And he was right. He could just make out the blurred stamp of
Seattle, USA.

“Any calls while I was out?” Pauline asked, as she passed through the shop to the house.

“Not to my knowledge,” Charles said, his mind now floating back to Mrs Lynch.

“What about the phone call earlier?” Peenie said, lowering his brows in thought. “You wrote something down on a bit of a notepad inside there.” He motioned to the back shelf at the door to the house.

“Oh, right . . .” Charles said vaguely, adjusting the leg of his glasses. “Now that Peenie mentions it – I believe there might have indeed been a call . . .”

“Charles!” Pauline snapped. “Would you ever pay attention to what’s going on around you?” She rolled her eyes in Peenie’s direction. Then she went over to look at the note. Her face softened as she read the message – the call was from Jack Byrne.

“So your advice is that I should steer clear of Mrs L
ynch’s house?” Charles said, when Pauline and Bernadette had gone through to the house and were well
out of earshot.

Peenie drained his tea with a last noisy slurp. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, wiping his mouth with the end of his overall sleeve. He banged the empty mug on the counter, and reached into his top pocket for the Woodbines and matches. A cigarette might just help him to come up with a suitable answer, plus – it would prolong the nice, easy dinner-break that had gone on for well over the appointed hour. As long as he was dealing with Charles’s romantic problems or
imagined
romantic problems – Peenie was able to dodge getting down to actual work for a little while longer.

“Well . . .” said Charles, looking perplexed. “Do you advise me to go to see her – or to stay away?”

“I reckon,” Peenie considered, “that that particular fella is probably in the Portlaoise asylum by now. I reckon that he’ll have been picked up by now, and they’ll be sorting him out.”

“Do you think so?” Charles said, suddenly feeling a weight lifting off him.

“Oh, definitely,” Peenie said in an authoritative tone. “If there had been any more shenanigans, I would have heard about it by now. Sure, I know all the lads in Tullamore, and that kind of lunacy would have been reported back here in no time.” He took a drag on the Woodbine. “Even the Gardai would have mentioned it, and I heard nothing from that quarter either.” He clapped a hand on Charles’s shoulder. “Ah, I’d say ye’re safe enough, Charlie boy! The madman has gone!”

Chapter 23

Lake Savannah

“What an awful waste of time,” Maggie said to Aisling and Jean in the railway station. “All this time travelling down to New York, and then back again at the weekend. And then travelling all the way back down to New York again to fly back home the week after. It’s an awful lot of travelling when we hardly know the people.”

“Don’t look at it that way,” Jean told her. “Since they’re going away you have no choice but to go this week. And anyway, remember what you told Declan – when you all get home, you’ll be glad that you got to see his cousin.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Maggie said, not looking sure at all. She turned to Aisling. “What will you do to fill the time while we’re away?”

“Oh, we’ll look after her well,” Jean said, putting a protective arm around her niece.

Maggie cast an anxious glance at Jean, and then back to Aisling. “Don’t be going into any shops on your own or anything like that. After what happened the last time we all separated.”

“I’ll be fine, Mammy,” Aisling reassured her.

“It’s just that anybody seeing you out here on your own might get the wrong impression,” Maggie went on. “You know . . . they might think that you’re a single girl.”

“Mammy!” Aisling hissed. “I’ve already said that I’ll be fine.”

“I know you think I’m only an ould fuddy-duddy,” Maggie persisted, “but don’t forget that half-cracked lad that followed you round the shops . . . and you’ve not been in touch with Oliver since you came over. I thought you’d be writing him letters every day.”

“For goodness sake, Mammy,” Aisling sighed, “I’ve sent him a postcard, and I’ll be phoning him next week to sort out times for us arriving home.

“Oh, well,” Maggie sniffed, “I suppose you know your own business best.”

“I do,” Aisling said firmly, but with a smile. “Now, away you go, and enjoy your few days with Martin and his wife.”

At the mention of the relatives, Maggie pulled a face. “I hope she’s not as odd as she sounds.”

A few moments later Declan returned with the tickets, and they hurried to join the queue to get on the train. As they reached the ticket barrier, Maggie turned to look back at her daughter and sister with a panic-stricken face. “I hope that Martin and the wife are waiting for us at the other end,” she said woefully. “It would be just like the thing, for us to be left wandering about New York on our own! We could be robbed or even murdered and no one would be any the wiser, for they wouldn’t know where we were!”

“Don’t worry,” Jean reassured her. “If anything goes wrong, just give us a ring and we’ll come and get you – or we’ll tell you what train to catch back up here.” They had been over this scenario numerous times already.

“Declan,” Maggie said, pulling at her husband’s sleeve, “have we got Jean’s phone number?”

“In the little notebook in your handbag,” he sighed, losing his patience. “You wrote it down yourself. Now, come on – or we’ll miss the damned train, and then it will be Martin and the wife who are wandering about looking for us!”

“No need to lose the rag,” Maggie told him. “It’s better to be safe than sorry.” She looked back at Aisling and Jean. “Please God we’ll all be together this time next week.”

With a final wave and painful smile pinned on her face, Maggie went through the ticket barrier like a condemned woman heading for the gallows.

“Thank God!” Aisling said with a loud sigh and a weary smile as they got into the car. “I nearly thought Mammy was going to change her mind at the last minute.”

Jean gave a grin. “When she was younger, that’s just the thing she would have done. She was quite capable of changing her mind if it suited her. Let’s just hope that there are no emergency phone calls waiting for us when we get back home!”

When Jean had negotiated the traffic out of town, they relaxed into the journey home. Jean was in a talkative mood, and she launched into an energetic discussion about how things had changed in Ireland since she had left. Then she mused out loud about all the things she still missed about Ireland, and the things she preferred about America. After a while, the conversation quietened down, and they listened to the radio in companionable silence. Following a string of Country numbers on came one of Bob Dylan’s songs from the album Jameson had – and Aisling hummed lightly to the music while she listened to the words.

Inevitably, her mind drifted to the endlessly difficult situation they were in. She wondered for the hundredth time whether it was madness to keep this holiday romance going. Were they merely torturing themselves with something they could never have?

The soulful words dug deep into her heart.

As the song came to a close, Jean slowed up the car to point out an unusual building. When she got no response, she turned her head and caught sight of the tears trickling down Aisling’s cheek. “Are you feeling homesick, honey?” she asked worriedly. “Are you missing Oliver? You know you’re welcome to ring home any time – ring as soon as we get back. It won’t be too late Irish-time.”

Aisling shook her head. “Thanks,” she said, gulping back the tears. “I honesty don’t want to phone home. There’s no reason to get in touch – Oliver will manage perfectly well on his own. He doesn’t really depend on me for anything.”

“OK,” Jean said, wary of saying the wrong thing. “Is anything else wrong?” she ventured. “Has anyone upset you . . . is there something you’re not happy about?”

“No, no,” Aisling reassured her. “I’m grand – honestly.”

“If you want to talk about anything, honey,” her aunt said carefully, “I’m a real good listener. Anything you tell me will be entirely confidential. You needn’t worry about me telling your mom, or that sort of thing.” She slowed the car down again, taking her eyes from the road to have a good look at Aisling. “I promise you that I’m not easily shocked.”

Aisling looked out of the car window, wondering if she had the courage to tell her. A few moments passed, and then she found herself searching for the words to start. “I don’t know where to begin,” she heard herself say feebly.

“Wherever you feel like to begin, honey,” Jean said. “We have all the time in the world.”

“Well . . .” Aisling started, her voice a little hoarse, “things at home with Oliver aren’t as perfect as my mother makes them sound.”

“She has kind of contradicted herself a few times,” Jean admitted, “and I did wonder about things. But I think I get more a feeling about it from you . . .when Oliver’s name is mentioned.”

“Is it that obvious?” Aisling whispered.