Aisling Gayle (48 page)

“You shouldn’t have . . .” Aisling said, now feeling even more awkward. Her throat tightened with emotion as she took the gift from him. It was wrapped in paper decorated with silver stars and moons and tied with gold thread – the sort of details he knew she would like. “It’s so beautifully wrapped that I don’t want to open it.”

“Well,” he said, shrugging, “you can wait till you get back . . . back to Ireland.”

Then, just to fill the dark, empty silence, Aisling found herself carefully untying the gold thread and unwrapping the decorative paper to reveal a long-playing album. When she examined it, she recognised it as the Bob Dylan album they had listened to on the long, warm evenings back at Lake Savannah.

“Oh, Jameson . . .” she whispered, putting the record flat down on the table. And, when she looked up at him, and found his eyes upon her, the stranger from the shop had vanished. She was once again looking at the man she knew so well and loved so much.

He gripped both her hands across the worn table – a serviceable, formica-topped table that had undoubtedly witnessed countless emotional goodbyes.

“I wanted to buy you something real special,” he said, a hint of self-consciousness in his voice. “Jewellery or something feminine like that – the kind of thing you could keep. But I knew it might cause you a problem, having to explain where it came from.” He lowered his gaze. “I reckoned that the album would let you take a few memories back without anyone else knowing what it meant.”

“The memories the music will bring
back,” she said, “are worth much more than jewellery to me.” Then, she reached into her bag and gave Jameson the gift-wrapped, leather-bound poetry book.

He opened the package and looked at the cover, then opened the pages, halting to read a line here, and to examine an illustration there. Then, he closed the book and just held it in his hands. After a few minutes he lifted his head, and his eyes were shining with tears. “It’s not too late,” was all he said.

“Please,” Aisling said in a quivery voice, “don’t say it . . .
please.”

He slowly nodded his head. “OK,” he said quietly, “I’ve made a deal with myself that I won’t cause any big scenes here, although I really want to just pick you up in my arms and take you back home with me.” Then he took a small blue card from his shirt pocket and laid it out on the table in front of her. It had his address and phone number in Lake Savannah, and on the other side he had handwritten his parents’ address in New York.

“If – or when – you get things sorted out,” he told her, “contact me any time.” He gave a wry smile. “Don’t worry about the time difference, just call when it suits you. The same invitation as before – middle of the night, breakfast time –
any time
. I’ll be waiting.”

“Thank you,” Aisling whispered, “thank you.” She dropped her head, her blonde hair closing over her face like two pale wings.

“We could have a good life together, the three of us,” he went on, “and if you got homesick for your family, Jean is just a few minutes’ walk away.”

Aisling reached across the table and very gently pressed her finger to his lips. He caught her hand and held it – kissing it for a final time.

Then, it was time to go.

Aisling led the way, head down and heart aching, with Jameson following silently behind with her bags. They walked out of the restaurant and into the concourse, and then out into the departure area. And there – sitting on the first bench inside – were Maggie and Declan.

“Aisling!” Maggie was on her feet, running towards her daughter and hugging her as though she hadn’t seen her for years. “Thank God you’ve come! Thanks be to God and his Blessed Mother, you’ve come!”

Surprisingly, both her parents managed a civilised and fairly warm welcome to Jameson, immediately asking for Thomas. He told them that he was making a good recovery, but that it would be several more weeks before he was ready to come out of hospital.

Then, he faced them both squarely. “Thank you for loaning us your daughter for the last week,” he said in a polite, almost formal tone. “She was a wonderful support to Thomas and to my family. I know it was difficult for you letting her go off with strangers – and I’m mighty grateful to you both.”

Maggie’s eyes darted from Aisling to Declan. “She’s a married woman, you see . . . that was the difficulty. How it looks to people . . . and how it would sound back home. And of course there’s the Church’s views on these things . . .”

“Maggie – “ Declan hissed, pulling at her sleeve.

“As long as it helped the poor lad,” she said, smiling all round, “then it was all worthwhile.”

They made small talk for a few minutes, then, unable to bear the awkwardness that would inevitably descend on them, Jameson made his goodbyes. He shook Declan’s hand, and kissed Maggie’s cool paper-dry cheek. Then, he gave Aisling the lightest kiss on her cheek. So light, she missed the familiar feeling of his beard and moustache.

And then, without a backward glance, he was gone.

A tall, confident figure, striding off into the crowds of strangers.

Chapter 37

Tullamore, County Offaly

The flight to Dublin passed in a blur. The plane was not as busy as their trip out, and Aisling managed to get a row of three seats to herself, giving her parents the excuse that she was tired and wanted space to stretch out to sleep. For the first half of the flight, sleep was actually the last thing on her mind, as she went over her whole holiday in her mind – from the first moment she set eyes on Jameson, until the last glimpse she had of him heading off out of the airport.

After something to eat, accompanied by two glasses of wine, eventually her body and mind gave in to several hours of peaceful oblivion.

When she wakened, she freshened up as best she could in the tiny aircraft toilet, and then she joined her parents for the last lap of the journey. Maggie was not as anxious as she was coming out, as there was little or no turbulence, and her humour was much better now she had Aisling winging her way back home to Ireland.

Winging her way back to the arms of her waiting husband.

No reference was made to Jameson or Thomas, and Maggie filled the time by giving Aisling a blow-by-blow account of all the things herself and Declan had done while she was away. Apart from nodding when Maggie said, ‘Isn’t that right, Declan?” or ‘You wouldn’t have believed it, would you, Declan?” Aisling’s father said very little. He dozed on and off and in between had a couple of whiskeys which made him even quieter.

In what seemed no time at all, the air-hostess was coming along the aisle asking everyone to fasten their seat-belts and prepare for their landing in Dublin airport.

Prepare for Dublin, and prepare for Oliver
, Aisling thought to herself.

He was there as promised. Waving to them as they came in through the doors in the arrival area. Although it was little after seven in the morning, he was there looking bright and breezy, a beaming smile on his smooth, handsome face. He held a small coloured bunch of freesias in his hand, which he presented to her with a hug and a kiss.

There were few men in Tullamore who would have stood holding a bunch of flowers without feeling like the proverbial pansy. But Oliver Gayle was not one of them. And no one, on seeing him, would have made more than the odd lighthearted passing remark. He was the kind of man who made men wish they had the nerve and the charm to buy a bunch of flowers, and not care a damn what anyone said.

Oliver chatted away on the drive home, in turn giving them local news of who had died or given birth while they were away, and asking all the right questions about the flight, the wedding and America in general.

To which Maggie happily supplied all the answers.

“Oh, it was marvellous,” she enthused to her son-in-law. “We had a grand holiday altogether, but the one thing I have to say is I won’t miss their tea!”

“Is that right, Maggie?” Oliver asked on cue.

“Indeed it is. The Americans don’t know how to make a decent cup of tea. It was lucky that the priest warned me to bring a few packets out with me, otherwise we would have been poisoned in the house as well as in the restaurants.” She shook her head. “How Jean has got used to the food and drink over there, I’ll never understand. What d’you say, Aisling?”

Aisling found something suitable to say, although she felt as though her brain was operating on two different levels. One part was back in New York with Jameson Carroll, reliving – over and over again – every minute she spent with him. The other part was like a robot. She was asked a question, and she automatically smiled or looked serious according to the subject – then she hopefully gave some kind of appropriate answer. Never – even at her lowest points with Oliver – had she experienced this weird kind of thing.

* * *

They pulled up at the shop first, and Maggie insisted that all four went through into the house for a decent cup of Irish tea and a bit of breakfast to revive them after the journey.

Charles was up and about to greet them, and stood in the middle of the kitchen smiling with embarrassment, one hand cupping the area under his eye.

“How was the flight and everything,” he said, “and the weather out there in the States?”

“Grand, Charles,” his father said, dropping a case on the kitchen table, “and everything’s grand back here at home and in the shop?”

“Oh, grand – grand, the finest,” Charles said, digging his hands deep in his pockets, and rocking back on his heels.

“Are Pauline and Bernadette still in bed?” Aisling asked, putting her bag of presents down in a corner near the radio.

Charles crossed his arms, one hand still up to his eye. “Oh, they’re moving . . . I heard Pauline only a few minutes ago.” He looked up towards the ceiling. “I’d say they’ll be downstairs shortly. Bernadette likes to have her breakfast as soon as she’s up and moving.” He smiled and nodded his head, the hand still hovering around his eye. “Cornflakes it is at the minute – cornflakes every morning.”

“Well, make yourself useful and get them out of the press,” Maggie said briskly, finding her son’s latest mannerism more than a little irritating, “and don’t be standing there in everyone’s way. Get the cups and plates out, and then go and check that Pauline and the child are moving.”

“Indeed . . . indeed,” Charles said vaguely, turning towards the cupboard.

Maggie suddenly halted. “What’s the plaster for? What’s wrong with your eye?” she asked, her own eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And your ear is swollen too!”

Charles’s hand moved up to cover the orangey-coloured sticking-plaster under his eye. “Ah – it’s nothing,” he said, darting a glance over in Oliver’s direction. “I hit it . . . probably carrying in a sack of potatoes.”

Maggie clucked her tongue and turned back to the whistling kettle. “It’s more attention you need to pay to things,” she said. “If you’d keep your mind on what you’re doing, instead of all the other things you do be thinking of.”

Charles moved to the press at the side of the fireplace where all the dry goods were stored. He lifted out the packet of cornflakes, and just as he was closing the door, reached back in for a packet of porridge oats.

“Anyone?” he said, holding them up.

“Oh, we’ve no time for making porridge now,” she said. “Bread and butter will be fine. Have you a fresh loaf for us, Charles?”

“I have,” he said, handing the box of cornflakes and a bowl to Aisling, “I’ll just go through to the shop and get it for you. I left it under the counter yesterday evening, knowing that the bread van probably won’t appear until after ten this morning.”

“Wouldn’t you think,” Maggie muttered to no one in particular, “that he would have brought it through into the house and had it out on the table for us?”

“Oh, leave the lad alone,” Declan said. “Hasn’t he kept things going for us while we’ve been away?”

“True,” Maggie said, sounding surprisingly chastened, “true enough.” She poured water from the boiling kettle into her beloved old brown china teapot. “Sure, I was only saying . . . I meant no harm.”

“Granny!” a little voice called from the door, and in came the curly-headed Bernadette in her pyjamas, followed by her mother in her pink, candlewick dressing-gown. The child ran across the floor and threw herself squarely at her grandmother.

“Hello, my little chicken!” Maggie said, scooping the child up into her arms. “Did you miss your oul’ granny and granda? Did you think we were never coming back?”

“My mammy said you were coming back this morning,” Bernadette said in a clear voice, “and she said you had presents for me.”

“Bernadette!” Pauline warned. “Now, don’t be bold . . .”

“Oh, she’s fine,” Maggie said, coming to sit down with the child on her knee. “Pour those cornflakes out into the little bowl there for her, will you, Aisling? And put a drop of milk in it for her and a good spoonful of sugar.” Then she turned to Pauline. “Everything all right while we were away?”

Pauline got a cup for herself from the hook on the dresser. “Fine . . .” she said quietly. “Everything was fine.” She reached for the teapot. “Charles was up at the crack of dawn every morning – he saw to the bread deliveries and everything.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Maggie said, taking the bowl of cornflakes from Aisling. “Now,” she said to the child, “let me see how big you’ve got while we’ve been away. Let me see how you can eat all the cereal up on your own.”