Second Hand Jane (21 page)

Getting up, she
retrieved the crumpled timetable from its home in the fruit bowl
and told him she could be in Malahide for mid-day and so before
they hung up, it was arranged that he would meet her off the train
at the station.

***

Jess lay in bed
that night thinking about him. She knew that beneath the taciturn
exterior there lurked an insecure soul and when he let his guard
down, she liked him. The man really was an enigma, she concluded
with a yawn before dropping off to slumber the deep, uninterrupted
sleep of the hungover.

***

The next day
dawned with a brilliant blue sky peeking through the crack where
her curtains didn’t quite meet in the middle. Jess was pleased the
weather suited the buoyancy of her mood and she tossed the duvet
cover aside. Sitting up and stretching, she was profoundly relieved
to find that physically she also felt like part of the human race
once more. Getting up, she bounced down to the shower, peering into
the mirror to see that the only remaining evidence of her cocktail
overindulgence was a set of slightly puffy eyes.

They’d have
gone down by lunch time, she thought before opening the shower door
and stepping under the hot water stream. For some reason she washed
her hair even though it didn’t really need it and shaved her legs,
although, she thought with a rueful glance down, they really did
need it.

She dawdled
over her hair, opting to wear it loose, and then fiddled around
with her makeup before taking an age to decide what she should
wear. Not that it really mattered, she thought; Owen wouldn’t care
if she showed up in a sack. He was a pig farmer, not a man about
town.

She wasn’t in a
casual kind of a mood, though, she thought, tossing her jeans down
on the bed and rifling through her wardrobe. A flash of green
amidst the rainbow of colours caught her eye and she plucked out
her classic 1930s sage green suit. She was getting a bit tired of
the whole 80s look—there was only so far she could go with a double
belt or leg warmers. Besides, she always got loads of compliments
when she wore her sage suit. The colour set off the gold flecks in
her hair.

Letting her
towel drop, she began to get dressed. The jacket had a cinched
waist that flattered her hourglass shape and the fitted pencil
skirt finished at a respectable mid-calf length. Standing back to
admire her efforts, she announced to her reflection, “Rita
Hayworth, eat your heart out!”

All she needed
to really look the part were a pair of elbow-length white gloves, a
pillbox hat, and a little handbag. That might be going a little
over the top, she decided, before grabbing her shoulder bag and
heading out the door.

It was a bit
hard mincing down the Quays as the skirt had definitely not been
designed and sewn in an era when women power walked but
nevertheless, lots of wiggling later, she managed to make it to
Connolly Station in time to sidestep onto the northbound Dart.

To her surprise
as Jess sat down in her seat and smoothed out her skirt, she
realised she felt nervous. Her stomach was churning with the sense
of anticipation she always got when she was going on a date. Which
was ridiculous, she told herself, because this was by no means a
date. If anything, it was a kind of business meeting and the only
reason Owen had wanted to meet up with her was because he was
probably worried about the quality of the old photos if he had
scanned them through.

In an effort to
distract herself, she decided to pass the time voyeuristically by
staring down into the handkerchief-sized gardens attached to the
back doors of the pebble dash houses they were now whizzing past.
They afforded their residences no privacy in the slightest, she
thought, noticing that some backyards were well tended while others
were slovenly. Some had lines full of washing—talk about airing
your dirty laundry. Imagine having your smalls on public display
like that. Mind you, she wrinkled her nose as they passed a pair
flapping on the breeze that could have set a ship a sailing, some
of them weren’t exactly small. Slowly, however, the residential
vista gave way to a more eye-pleasing rural one and Jess settled
back, enjoying the rest of the short journey.

As the train
slowed before finally coming to a standstill at the pretty coastal
town of Malahide’s station, Jess spied a man pacing outside the
newspaper kiosk. It was only as she stood draping her bag over her
shoulder that she realised it was Owen. She hadn’t recognised him,
not because he looked different but because it was so strange
seeing him out of context somewhere other than Glenariff or
Ballymcguinness.

Jess’s mind
went into overdrive once more as, feeling as though she were in a
scene from a wartime movie, she sidestepped down in what she hoped
was an elegant manner from the train onto the platform in order to
meet her beau just returned from the war. Except, she told herself
sternly, he wasn’t her beau and in the movies it would have been
Owen getting off the train, not her. Even when she was having a
fictional fantasy, the journalist in her liked to keep it fairly
factual.

“Alright?” he
asked in that gruff manner of his, and Jess crashed back to the
present millennium. That was definitely not the way a returned
soldier would greet his sweetheart and she was definitely not his
sweetheart.

His eyes
twinkled as he looked her up and down and she sensed he was
laughing at her choice of outfit. She’d felt so good when she’d
left home, too; now she felt vaguely ridiculous. There was
something about Owen that made her own mood swing from good to sour
smartly.

“So how was
Wilbur when you left him this morning? I hope he’ll be okay on his
own,” she asked tartly.

“Wilbur will
probably outlive us all. He was fine. I should have him off the
bottle soon.”

“That’s good
news—he must be piling the weight on.”

“Yes, he’s
getting quite porky.”

Jess looked at
him, startled—had he just made a joke? His deadpan expression gave
nothing away.

As they got
farther down the road, Jess began seriously regretting her outfit.
She was beginning to feel like an un-dainty version of a Japanese
woman in a kimono trying to keep up with Owen’s long-legged stride.
He glanced over at her and again she spied that hidden amusement
lurking behind his eyes but at least he slowed down. Why the hell
hadn’t she gone with the acid washed jeans and leg warmers? Then
she spied Malahide Castle and completely forgot about her choice of
clothes.

“I went to a
great Radiohead concert there. It was such an amazing venue,” she
said, pointing through the established greenery of the grounds to
where eleventh-century stone ramparts peeked through the
foliage.

“You wouldn’t
have struck me as a Radiohead fan.”

“I’m not but
the tickets were free.”

He laughed.
“Fair play to you. So what sort of music do you like then?”

“All sorts,
really; it depends on my mood. If I am doing housework, then I like
a bit of ABBA or if it’s really heavy-duty stuff like window
cleaning, then I always play my AC/DC CD. ‘Thunderstruck’ really
gets my arms going.” She made a circular motion with the palm of
her hand to demonstrate. “If I am out with the girls, though, I
like to relive my misspent youth and listen to anything from the
nineties. Oh, and I love my New Zealand music collection, as well
as anything by Coldplay. What about you?” She really hoped he
wouldn’t say Country and Western.

“I like all
sorts too.”

“That’s a very
evasive answer and one that won’t do. Who is your all-time
number-one favourite band?”

“That would
have to be the Stones.”

“The Rolling
Stones?”

“You sound
surprised.”

“Hmm, it’s just
that now that you mention it, I kind of had you down as a Billy Ray
Cyrus type of a guy.”

Owen snorted
and looked at her aghast. “Why on earth would you think I would be
in to that shite? I don’t wear a Stetson or cowboy boots, and I
most certainly do not have a mullet.”

“I don’t know.
Maybe because you are a country boy, I kind of assumed you’d be
into the whole line dancing culture and don’t knock Billy—‘Achy
Breaky Heart’ was a classic.”

He stared hard
at her and she paused in her shuffling along to grin slyly. It was
payback time for his silent mocking of her. Realising she was
having him on, he laughed again and Jess decided she liked his
laugh. It was warm and genuine and that harsh worldliness etched
into his face lifted when he smiled. She wished he would laugh more
because it suited him.

Malahide Marina
came into sight with its surprisingly large number of gleaming
white launches moored up to the jetties. Expensive apartments
flanked either side of it. The smell of serious money wafted over
toward them on the early afternoon breeze. Somehow Jess never
visualised Ireland as a boaties paradise but then again when the
rain finally stopped and the sun came out, its harbours were as
beautiful as anywhere in the world so why shouldn’t it be? Owen
interrupted her thoughts.

“What do you
fancy for lunch? And just so you know, I am not a quiche sort of a
guy nor do I always have to have steak.”

It was Jess’s
turn to laugh. “Fair enough. What about some good old pub-grub
then?” She pointed halfway down the block to where a sign depicting
a regal-looking cockerel was swinging gently back and forth out the
front of a sprawling stone building.

“Aye, sounds
good.”

The weather,
although sunny, wasn’t overly warm and deciding it was too cool to
sit out in the beer garden where they’d spied a few diehard
smokers, they opted for a nook near the fireplace instead. The log
burner was only just ticking over but it was enough to warm the
room to a comfortable level. Jess shrugged out of her jacket and
draping it over the back of her chair, looked around.

Yes, this would
do, she decided; it was the kind of pub she liked, being cosy and
traditional. A proper pub with none of that flashy chrome crap or
couches made for perching in sight. Owen asked her what she’d like
to drink and returned a moment later with a glass of wine in one
hand, a pint of Guinness in the other, as well as a couple of menus
he’d managed to tuck under his arm.

“Well, well,
well, who’d have thought? A man who can multi-task.”

“Aye, I am a
man of many talents.” He placed her drink down on the mat in front
of her and handed her a menu.

It didn’t take
Jess long to decide what she was going to have: scampi in a basket.
They were in a coastal town, after all, so it should be super fresh
she thought, unconsciously licking her lips and oblivious of the
startled look Owen gave her. He announced he was opting for the
roast of the day, which Jess was relieved to see was beef and not
pork. In her opinion, it would have been almost cannibalistic on
his part were he to tuck into a helping of pork and crackling.

As he headed up
to the bar to place their order, she spied the landlord, who was
propping it up for the first time. He bore an uncanny resemblance
to Rick Stein and she wondered whether they were related.

“Don’t you
think he looks like Rick Stein?” she said, inclining her head over
toward the bar when Owen returned.

“Aye, he does a
bit and he likes a drop of the old wine like Rick does too, by the
look of him. I quite like his show.”

“Yeah, me too,
though I like the scenery as much as I enjoy the actual
cooking.”

“Ah, that’s
right—cooking’s not your thing.” He took a deep drink of his
pint.

“That stuff’s
like a meal in itself; you won’t eat your lunch,” she admonished
and saw that familiar gleam in his eyes as this time he took a
deliberate slurp followed by lots of aahing.

“You sounded
just like my Ma then,” he stated, swiping his foam moustache with
the back of his hand.

Jess frowned.
“Well, it’s true. I never quite acquired a taste for Guinness,” she
said. “For me, it is right up there with oysters, even though I
only live a hop, skip, and a jump from the Guinness factory and
Glendalough’s Guinness Lake is one of my most favourite spots in
all of Ireland.” She was babbling, she realised, so forcing herself
to shut up, she took a sip of her wine instead. It was just that if
she didn’t make small talk, she was worried he might lapse into
that moody melancholy of his, and she didn’t want that to happen,
not when she was actually enjoying his company.

“So despite
your aversion to a good old pint of the black stuff, you live near
the Guinness factory? That’s fairly central.”

She nearly
said, “Aye, it is” but stopped herself just in time. “I do, yes.
It’s a great spot to live down on the Quays. I can walk everywhere
I need to go. Do you know Dublin?”

“Aye, a bit. I
had a few nights on the tiles there that I woke up worse for wear
from.” He rifled through the breast pocket inside his jacket and
produced a couple of photos, handing them to Jess. The first she
saw was a classic school portrait of Amy. She really had been a
pretty girl despite the missing two top front teeth she was proudly
displaying with a broad grin. She looked so young; peering closer
at her, Jess was sure she could detect that same glimmer she
spotted in Owen’s eyes sometimes when he found something amusing.
Flipping it over, she saw someone, probably their mother, had
written “Amy aged 6” on the back.

Six was the age she had been when she got
her
Snow
White and the Seven Dwarfs
book, Jess realised and turning it back over, she stared at
the photograph, feeling the little girl whose name had been
scribbled on the inside cover of her book come to life.

She would have
been a popular child. Pretty girls always were, she thought,
remembering Melanie Cox, who had set the trends at Hillsborough
Primary where she had gone. If she wore her long blonde hair in
pigtails, all the other girls arrived the next day at school with
their hair in pigtails. She had pestered her mother for weeks about
getting a pair of sneakers the same as Melanie’s but her mother had
been unable to grasp the enormity of having pink sneakers with blue
trim and not plain old white ones.