He moved slowly towards the coffee pot. To Elizabeth’s utter annoyance Joe’s sold only one kind of coffee. And that was the instant kind. Elizabeth missed the variety of flavours that she used to get in other towns; she missed the smooth, sweet-tasting French vanilla in a Paris café, the creamy full-bodied flavour of hazelnut cream in a bustling café in New York, the rich velvety masterpiece of the macadamia nut in Milan and her favourite, the Coco Mocha-Nut, the mixture of chocolate and coconut that transported her from a Central Park bench to a sunbed in the Caribbean. Here in Baile na gCroíthe, Joe filled the kettle with water and flicked the switch. One measly little kettle in a café and he hadn’t even boiled the water. Elizabeth rolled her eyes.
Joe stared at her. He looked like he was going to say –
‘So what has you so late then?’
– that.
‘I’m five minutes later than usual, Joe,’ Elizabeth said incredulously. ‘I know, I know, and five minutes could be five hours for you. Sure don’t the bears plan their hibernation on your time?’
That made Elizabeth smile, despite herself.
Joe chuckled and winked. ‘That’s better.’ The kettle clicked as it boiled and he turned his back to make the coffee.
‘The coaches delayed me,’ Elizabeth said softly, taking the warm mug from Joe’s hands.
‘Ah, I saw that.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘Jaimsie did well to get himself out of that one.’
‘Jaimsie?’ Elizabeth frowned, adding a dollop of cream. It quickly melted and filled the cup to the top. Joe looked on with disgust.
‘Jaimsie O’Connor. Jack’s son,’ he explained. ‘Jack, whose other daughter, Mary, just got engaged to the Dublin boy last weekend. Lives down in Mayfair. Five kids. The youngest was arrested there last week for throwing a wine bottle at Joseph.’
Elizabeth froze and stared back at him blankly.
‘Joseph McCann,’ he repeated, as though she were crazy for not knowing. ‘Son of Paddy. Lives up in Newtown. Wife died last year when she drowned in the bog. His daughter Maggie said it was an accident but sure weren’t the family suspicious on account of the row they’d being having about not letting her run off with that troublemaker from Cahirciveen.’
Elizabeth placed her money on the counter and smiled, no longer wanting to be a part of his bizarre conversations. ‘Thanks, Joe,’ she said as she made her way to the door.
‘Well, anyway,’ he concluded his rambling, ‘Jaimsie was the one driving the coach. Don’t forget to bring that mug back,’ he called to her, and grumbled to himself, ‘Takeaway coffee, have you ever heard something so ludicrous in your life?’
Before Elizabeth stepped outside she called from the door, ‘Joe, would you not think of getting a coffee machine? So you can make lattes and cappuccinos and espressos instead of all this instant stuff?’ She held up her mug.
Joe crossed his arms, leaned against the counter and replied in a bored voice, ‘Elizabeth, you don’t like my coffee, you don’t drink it. I drink tea. There’s only one kind of tea I like. It’s called Tea. No fancy names for it.’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘Actually, there are lots of different types of tea. The Chinese—’
‘Ah, be off with you.’ He waved his hand at her dismissively. ‘We’d all be drinking tea with chopsticks and putting chocolate and cream in our coffees like they’re desserts, if you have your way. But, if you’re at it, why don’t I make a suggestion too then: how’s about you buy yourself a kettle over there for your office and put me out of my misery?’
‘And out of business,’ Elizabeth smiled, and stepped outside.
The village had taken a big stretch and a yawn and was wandering sleepily from its bed to the bathroom. Soon it would be showered, dressed and wide awake. As usual she was one step ahead of it, even if she was running late today.
Elizabeth was always the first in; she loved the silence, the stillness that her office brought at that time of day. It helped her focus on what lay ahead before her noisy colleagues rattled around and before the major traffic hit the road. Elizabeth wasn’t the chatty giggly type. Just as she ate to keep herself alive, she spoke to say only what she had to say. She wasn’t the type of woman that she overheard in restaurants and cafés, chuckling and gossiping over what someone said someday about something. Conversations about nothing just didn’t interest her.
She didn’t break down or analyse conversations, glares, looks or situations. There were no double meanings with her; she meant what she said at all times. She didn’t enjoy debates or heated discussions. But sitting in the silence of her small office she supposed that was why she didn’t have a group of friends. She had tried to be involved before, especially during her college days with her attempts to settle in, but, just as she did then, she would quickly tune out of the mindless nattering.
Since childhood she hadn’t pined for friendship. She liked her own company and liked her own thoughts, and then later, in her teens, she had Saoirse as a distraction. She liked the orderly way in which she could depend on herself and manage her time more effectively without friends. When she returned from New York she had tried to host a dinner party in her new home with the neighbours. She thought she would try a fresh beginning, try to make friendships, like most people did, but Saoirse as usual burst into the house and in one fell swoop managed to offend every single person at the table. She accused Ray Collins of having an affair, Bernie Conway of having a boob job and sixty-year-old Kevin Smith of looking at her in a sexual way. The result of Saoirse’s ranting and raving was a crying nine-month-old Luke, a few red faces at the table and a burned rack of lamb.
Of course her neighbours wouldn’t be as close-minded as to think that Elizabeth was responsible for her family’s behaviour, but she gave up after that. She didn’t desire company enough to be able to cope with the embarrassment of having to explain and apologise all the time.
Her silence was worth more to her than a thousand words. In that silence she had peace and clarity. Apart from during the night, when her own jumbled thoughts would keep her awake, sounding like a thousand voices jumping in, out and interrupting each other so much that she could barely close her eyes.
She was worried about Luke’s behaviour right now. This Ivan character had been hanging around her nephew’s head for too long. She had watched Luke all weekend walking, talking and playing games by himself. Laughing and giggling as though he were having the time of his life. Maybe there was something she should be doing. And Edith wasn’t there to witness his odd behaviour and deal with it in the wonderful way she always succeeded in doing. Perhaps Elizabeth was supposed to know automatically what to do. Once again the mysteries of motherhood reared their ugly head and she had no one to ask for advice. Nor had she any example to learn from. Well, that wasn’t strictly true – she had learned what not to do, a lesson just as good as any. So far she had followed her gut instinct, had made a few mistakes along the way, but overall thought Luke had turned out to be a polite and stable child. Or maybe she was doing it all wrong. What if Luke ended up like Saoirse? What had she done so wrong with Saoirse as a child that had caused her to turn out the way she was? Elizabeth groaned with frustration and rested her head on her desk.
She turned on her computer and sipped on her coffee while it loaded. Then she went to Google, typed in the words ‘imaginary friend’, and hit Search. Hundreds of sites came up on her screen. Thirty minutes later she felt much better about the Ivan situation.
To her surprise she learned that imaginary friends were very common and not a problem as long as they didn’t interfere with normal life. Although the very fact that having an imaginary friend was a direct interference with normal life, it didn’t seem to be an issue with the online doctors. Site after site told her to ask Luke what Ivan was thinking and doing as it would be a positive way of giving Elizabeth an understanding into what Luke was thinking. They encouraged Elizabeth actually