Second Hand Jane (27 page)

Jess slammed
the door shut and gave her friend a wave before sliding the gear
stick into drive and putting the pedal to the metal.

She only slowed
once during her journey, having been flashed a warning by an
oncoming vehicle that there were gardai up ahead. She took her foot
off the accelerator and by the time she spied their vehicle half
hidden on the side of the road by shrubs, she was driving at a
sedate pace. A sideways glance as she drove past revealed they were
far more interested in the contents of their sarnies than her.
Good, she thought, revving up again; the last thing she needed was
the holdup of being issued a speeding ticket. She doubted the
gardai would grasp the gravity of her circumstances if she were to
tell them she were speeding because she had to get to
Ballymcguinness lickety-split to see a sick pig.

The rest of the journey was a blur of
tarmac until she at last slowed to drive down the main street of
Ballymcguinness. It was like
Groundhog Day
, she thought, casting her eyes left and right, soaking up
the familiar sight of Katie Adams chuffing on a ciggy outside the
hairdressers and Billy Peterson arranging his fruit and vege
outside the grocers. Old Ned was sitting on the wall and he raised
his stick as she drove past in greeting. There was something
strangely comforting about the familiarity of it all, Jess thought,
driving past the school. It was deserted; class must be in, she
decided, as she wound her way out onto the country lanes that would
take her to Glenariff.

Owen must have
heard the car’s tyres crunching on the gravel, she thought,
wrenching the hand brake up and climbing out of the car. Either
that or he had been peering out the living room window in
anticipation of her arrival. She hoped it was the latter, comforted
by the sight of his rangy frame clad in a familiar Aran jumper and
cords tucked into his wellies as he strode toward her. Jess’s eyes
narrowed as something darted out behind him. It was Jemima. Arching
her slender white neck, she fixed her beady black eyes on Jess and
hissed.

Right, Jess
thought, slamming the car door shut, in no mood for the snotty
goose’s shenanigans; two could play at that game. She met Jemima’s
imperious gaze with her own flinty one and sent a mental message
that if she didn’t watch it, she’d fix it so she saw her on her
dinner plate this Christmas with lashings of stuffing and gravy.
There was a momentary standoff and you could have heard a pin drop
but it was Jemima who dropped her gaze first and, seemingly haven
gotten the message, waddled off round the back of the cottage.
“Just call me the goose whisperer,” Jess muttered under her breath,
turning her attention back to a bemused Owen.

“What was that
all about?”

“Oh, nothing.
Jemima and I just came to a private understanding, that’s all.”
Jess smiled sweetly at him, waiting for him to tell her that he was
glad she’d come. His face, however, had darkened.

“You didn’t
need to come all this way,” he growled and then gesturing at the
car, he asked, “Whose is that?”

“
My friend Brianna’s and yes actually, I
did need to come.” It wasn’t the greeting she had been looking
forward to as she risked life and limb driving up here and her own
mood dipped. What had happened to,
“Jessica, thank God you came!”
Followed by a tight bear hug
from which he would only break away to steer her over to the barn
where they would talk in grave and hushed tones beside Wilbur’s
sickbed. Huh! she thought, taking in his furrowed brow; it didn’t
look like that was about to happen. Trying to impress the drama of
the situation on him, she told him, “Wilbur’s sick—there was no way
I couldn’t not come. I have to see him. Where is he?”

It was a stupid
question, she admonished herself, beginning to head over in the
direction of the barn. Where did she think he would be—tucked up in
Owen’s bed with a hot-water bottle, a thermometer hanging out of
his mouth?

From behind
her, Jess heard Owen mutter something and she swung round, not
quite catching what it was he had said. By the look on his face,
however, she was fairly certain she wasn’t meant to have either.
Okay then, she told herself, if that was the way he wanted to
behave, he could sod off. Picking up her pace, she promptly stood
in something brown and squishy. She didn’t turn around to see
whether he had noticed; instead, she hastily scraped her trainer
back and forth on the grass before marching onwards. Asshole, she
said to herself, as though it was his fault she had trod in
whatever it was she had just smeared all over the grass. If he
wanted to be an ass, well, that was his problem. Besides, it wasn’t
him she had driven all this way to see. Nope, she decided, pushing
open the barn door; as far as she was concerned, Owen bloody Aherne
could just stick his bad mood where the sun don’t shine.

When she
stepped inside, she was greeted with a cacophony of squealing from
an overexcited mummy pig and her piglets housed inside the first
stall. “Hello girls, calm down. It’s only me, Jessica. I’ve come to
see young Wilbur again.” They paid no attention and carried on with
their ruckus. Making her way down the barn, she saw the light under
which sat Wilbur’s little box and, raising her eyes heavenward, she
asked that he, “Please, please be alright.” Kneeling down next to
the box, she was oblivious of the hardness or the cold of the
concrete floor as she reached in and gently stroked the piglet’s
little tummy. Beneath her hand, she could feel his body trembling
with the effort it took to raise his head to see who it was that
was rubbing his tummy. “It’s me, Wilbur—Jess. I’ve come back to see
you.”

He dropped his
head back down apathetically and Jess watched his laboured
breathing for a moment before sensing Owen’s presence behind her.
“What’s wrong with him?” she asked, her own voice tremulous.

“Like I told
you over the phone, I am fairly certain it’s just a cold. There was
no need for you to come all this way.”

“
Well, I’m here now, aren’t I? So stop
going on,” Jess snapped. “And what do you mean when you say that
you’re
fairly
certain
it’s only a cold? Have you not had the vet out? What if it’s the
flu?” A thought crossed Jess’s mind then and her hand shot off
Wilbur’s quivering stomach as though she had been scalded. What if
he had swine flu? All her maternal instincts were momentarily
forgotten because—and this caused her to break out in a sweat—what
if she now had it! She cast her eyes around the barn, half
expecting the men in white space suits to appear, announcing they
were now in a no-go zone and that the barn had been cordoned off
until the risk of infecting the outside world had
cleared.

Owen must have
read her mind. “It’s not the flu. I am not going to be responsible
for a pandemic across all of Ireland, so you can relax.”

“Well, how can
you be certain if you haven’t had the vet out?” she asked, her
mouth setting in a stubborn line.

“I do have some
experience in looking after pigs, you know.”

Jess knew she
had reached a crossroads. She could continue to pursue the subject
by stating that yes, he was a pig farmer but that did not make him
a vet or she could have a bit of faith in him and concentrate on
why she had come. She decided to let it go and turned her attention
back to her reason for coming in the first place.

“Come on,
Wilbur; rally round, mate. Do it for me, please.”

“If it makes
you feel better, I’ve given him the equivalent of paracetamol to
take his temperature down and he’s been having plenty of fluids.”
Owen shrugged. “Aside from keeping him warm, that’s all I can
do.”

“What about
chicken soup?”

“What?”

“Chicken
soup—that’s what you’re supposed to feed people with fevers, isn’t
it?”

“You do know
that Wilbur’s a pig, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course
I do. I only thought…” Actually, she didn’t know what she had
thought. It was the shock of seeing Wilbur so poorly, that was all.
She felt tears beginning to sting her eyes and was annoyed with
herself. The last thing she wanted to do was show weakness in front
of Owen. He wasn’t a tea-and-sympathy sort of a guy.

True to form,
though, he decided to prove her wrong and his perma-frown softened.
“Why don’t we go up to the house? I’ll make you a cuppa. You
probably need one after the drive up here.”

Jess swiped
angrily at her eyes. Why did he always have to turn around and be
nice just when she’d decided once and for all that he was a total
arse? Standing up, she picked the bits of hay stuck to her elephant
pants off. He was right; she was parched but not quite ready to
defrost. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” she stated with
a formal sniff.

“Aye, it’s no
bother. A spot of company would be good,” Owen replied, walking out
of the barn without a backward glance.

Jess stood there for a moment longer,
thinking back to the last meal they’d shared. He could have fooled
her. And did he mean he liked
her
company or just company in general? “The man’s a complete
mystery to me, Wilbur,” she muttered, bending down to give him one
last scratch behind his ear. “I’ll come back down to see you in a
little while; rest up now, little one.”

The Aga was on
as Jess stepped inside the kitchen and the warmth made her feel
instantly at home. Owen was bustling around at the kitchen bench, a
study of domesticity as he asked, “White and one? That’s how you
take your tea, isn’t it?”

“Yes please,”
Jess replied and not waiting to be asked, she pulled out a chair
and sat down at the table. Her nose twitched as she realised it
wasn’t just the warmth from the Aga that gave the kitchen such a
homely feel; it was the smell of fresh baking permeating the room.
When Owen turned round a moment later, he had a plate of buttered
scones in one hand and her cup of tea in the other.

“You didn’t
make those, did you?” Jess asked, her mouth dropping open.

“Aye,” he
replied, placing the tea down in front of her and the scones in the
middle of the table before pulling a seat out opposite her and
sitting down.

“How on earth
did you learn how to bake scones? They are supposed to be a Kiwi
staple right up there with pikelets and I can’t even bake them.”
Mind you, thought Jess, helping herself to one, that wasn’t saying
much.

“Me Ma. Amy
wasn’t interested in cooking and the like, only licking the bowl,
but I used to follow Ma round the kitchen like a shadow. She was
forever telling me to get out from under her feet.”

Jess soaked in
this information, trying to imagine a much younger version of the
man before her trailing around after his mother as she whipped up
wholesome treats for her family. She couldn’t so she bit into her
scone instead. The butter dribbled down her chin; it was delicious.
There was nothing so comforting as a cup of hot sugary tea and a
scone, she thought, wiping her chin with the back of her hand.

“Not quite
chicken soup but I think it will do the trick,” Owen said with a
smirk.

“They’re
fantastic,” Jess mumbled between bites. “My Mum’s a great baker,
too. She makes these biscuits called Yo-Yos that are my absolute
favourite. They’re horrifically fattening, though, and a complete
cholesterol nightmare but so, so yummy. I didn’t inherit her baking
gene, I’m afraid.” She shrugged. “I’m a lost cause. I couldn’t even
get my fudge to set in third form home ec.”

“It’s not hard;
it’s basic science. I’ll show you sometime.” Owen’s normally tan
colouring turned ruddy and before Jess could respond, he changed
the subject. “Any word for definite on when the article will
run?”

“Niall, that’s
my editor, said it will be going in the weekend paper this
Saturday, October the twentieth. I was going to ring you and let
you know that it was definitely going ahead but you beat me to
it.”

“Thirty years
to the day.”

“Yes, thirty
years to the day. I think I mentioned that Niall felt running it on
the anniversary of Amy’s death made her story all the more
poignant.” Jess cringed, seeing his face, and instinctively reached
across the table to rest her hand on his arm. “Sorry, poignant
sounds so trite, I know, but it does seem right somehow to run it
then, don’t you think?”

“Aye.”

Her hand resting on his arm suddenly
seemed a trite gesture in itself and removing it, she busied
herself picking at the remains of her scone. “I’ve arranged for a
copy of the
Express
to be couriered to you on the Saturday
morning.”

She desperately
wanted to ask how
he
really felt
about having it all raked up but his expression didn’t invite the
question, so they sat in silence for a few moments, each lost in
thought. For Jess’s part, she was surprised to realise that on this
visit, she hadn’t felt the ghost of Amy between them until now. In
fact, she hadn’t thought of her at all and she hoped that didn’t
make her disrespectful in any way; it was just that her purpose for
coming had nothing to do with Amy.

It was true
that life did go on but it startled her to realise that perhaps for
Owen his sister’s shadow was always there. When he looked up from
his teacup, he had obviously decided to change the subject. “So
what have you been doing with yourself since I saw you in
Malahide?”

It was a poor
attempt at small talk, Jess thought, gazing at the bottom of her
own cup. “Oh not much—working, catching up with my girlfriends.”
She was reluctant to mention Nick, deciding it was none of his
business anyway. “What about you?”

“Looking after
the pigs.”

Well, if ever
there was a conversation stopper, that was it. Jess shifted
uncomfortably in her seat before helping herself to one last scone.
As she hoed it down, “Barracuda” erupted from the depths of her
handbag. Owen’s eyes widened as she fished it out and put a stop to
the blaring tune: