‘She’s the Jackson woman,’ is what I hear from locals, whispering when I walk past them in the village. ‘You know, the couple who—’
They all whisper and nudge and look on in pity.
It’s like a label that I wear now, a label that replaced ‘she’s the northerner who came here after her mother died and never left’ or ‘she’s the one that Matt Jackson, the architect, fell for the moment he saw her in the Beach House Café.’
I am used to the whispers of a small town and I always did like to overhear the one that connects me to Matt. He is the best thing that ever happened to me.
My aching cries turn into more gentle sobs and I stretch my legs out, knowing that my breathing will soon steady and the tears will stop. I make myself a mug of coffee to drink out on the balcony that looks over Galway Bay where I can feel the sun on my face. I know I will soon be almost okay again. I need to be okay again. I can’t go on like this. I need my life back and I need to find the strength to move on.
It is raining outside, so I open the French doors and let the sea air soothe my soul. I focus on the lighthouse in the distance and stare at it. I sometimes pretend that Lily is there in my mother’s arms, both of them waiting for me, and if I wave out to them they can see me. I wave across and blow a kiss then close the doors.
I try again with my make-up and I plait my hair just like I automatically do every day. Then I grab my coat and keys and make my way out of the house, reminding myself that every little step I take is an achievement and that I will get through this day no matter what it takes.
Juliette
When it rains in the West of Ireland, it really does creep under your skin – a fact that the other tourists who wander the colourful streets of my beloved Killara seem to have copped on to as they’re all in waterproofs and branded umbrellas in comparison to my light blouse and floaty skirt. And as for the sandals I’m wearing – well my toes are floating in a sea of mud and rainwater and the smell of the sea, oh how much the smell of the sea takes me right back to the heady days of that youthful summer when I last walked the streets of this picturesque paradise.
We left home this morning and almost ten hours later, after a car journey to the ferry port with Helen, a ferry from Holyhead to Dublin and a bus journey across Ireland, we are finally here. I don’t yet believe this is real. Maybe it’s because of Dan and our conversation this morning which I can’t seem to shake off.
‘You are killing me,’ he said to me when I told him I was coming here. I couldn’t bear to tell him how ironic his words were. It’s not him who is dying, it is me and this is exactly the reason why I need to create some space between us. He can’t cope with my illness, he never could and the more he drowns his sorrows in drink and self-pity, the more I feel the need to run. I love him, I need him, but right now I don’t have the energy to prop him up when I need to focus on what will become of Rosie.
‘So, what do you think?’ I ask her as we stand in a puddle on the pavement.
‘It looks boring,’ she says. ‘I don’t understand why you wanted to come here to mark your birthday. Why couldn’t we have gone to Spain or Paris or even London like you said we would? Somewhere exciting! You’re such a weirdo.’
Weirdo I can live with. Boring I can definitely live with. I am just delighted I convinced her to come with me in the first place, because believe me, it wasn’t easy. There were so many more important things to do at home like hang out with Josh and Sophie and the new kid on our block, Brandon whose father does security for some Disney pop princess whose name I can’t remember. But I just know that Rosie will love it as much as I do, even if she never finds out the very important, but very much secondary, reason I decided on here over any other more exotic location.
Apart from the weather, I must admit that nothing seems very different about Killara from that summer all those years ago. I recognise the pubs of course – the bright pink exterior walls of O’Reilly’s with the nightly Irish trad music sessions’ the Beach House Café on the pier, that boasts the best seafood chowder in the country; and the bright blue Brannigan’s Bar and B&B, the place I met Skipper on that hazy, drunken night when my daughter was conceived.
I’m not staying in Brannigan’s this time but I decide I will pop in just for old times’ sake while we wait on our check-in time at our cottage, a funky little rental right by the harbour which is the only thing that Rosie seems excited about.
‘Aunty Helen has such good taste,’ she said when my sister emailed us a link to the cottage rental website last night. We couldn’t believe that it was available but the owner had had a last minute cancellation – a little whitewashed two bedroom cottage with a bright yellow door, fully equipped with surf boards and wet suits and the owner offers boat rides out to the famous Cliffs of Moher, which I’ve promised Rosie will be on our agenda. The very thought of doing even half of what I’ve planned to do here exhausts me but, as promised, my list is made and I can’t wait to get stuck in and make some memories with my girl.
We stop outside Brannigan’s and I take a deep breath and bite my lip.
‘Do you mind if we pop in here, just for a look around?’ I say to Rosie. ‘We have half an hour until our cottage is ready.’
Rosie shrugs and shivers a little, then follows me inside to the steamy heat of the bar and it really is like stepping back in time. Its interior smells like home-cooked dinners and alcohol, there’s a patterned navy and beige carpet on all the floors and despite being only just after lunchtime, there is already a crowd gathered in the poky bar, all glued to some sort of sport on the giant TV in the corner.
In my head it’s the summer of sixteen years ago, and despite the noise in the bar I can hear his voice, I can see Birgit dancing, I can smell the booze and the sweat and his aftershave on my skin and—
‘Sorry about the noise!’
‘What? Sorry, I was miles away,’ I tell the barman. ‘I’m just thinking how … it doesn’t matter. What were you saying?’
‘I was apologizing. About the noise. There’s a big game on today,’ he says to me with a smile. He’s cute and if I wasn’t so sick I might try and flirt with him. My sister would kill me if she could read my mind. He looks about twenty-five years old at the most.
‘Who’s playing?’ asks Rosie, who all of a sudden has taken an interest in Irish sport and seems to have forgotten how dull this place just seemed to her. ‘You’ll have to forgive my ignorance, being English. Foreign and all that.’
The man-boy winks at her and then smiles at me. Oh, how I wish I was in a position to flirt back – if my teenage daughter wasn’t here to compete with me of course. And if I was fit enough to even contemplate having some fun. I am wearing my favourite blonde bobbed wig on this trip and apart from my bloated, puffy face and slightly podgy frame from the steroids, to the outside world it’s not at all obvious that there’s anything wrong with my riddled body. I almost feel sorry for the lad who definitely has a twinkle in his eye and doesn’t realise the pitiful truth in front of him.
‘Galway are playing Mayo,’ he says but our faces tell him we’re clueless. ‘Gaelic football? A derby. A bit like Manchester United playing Liverpool, only a little bit rougher and tougher.’
‘Ah, I get it now,’ says Rosie. ‘I hope you win. My great-grandad is from Waterford. Is that near here at all?’
He shakes his head and laughs, then whispers.
‘I’m secretly cheering for Mayo,