One Hundred Names (31 page)

She found Steve in the allotment, alone with a rotavator, noise so loud he couldn’t hear her call out to him. She stood at the fence and watched him, his face etched in concentration on the soil ahead of him. To her surprise his skin was visible. He’d lost the leather jacket and instead wore a T-shirt and jeans, thick work boots on his feet. He was entirely covered in mud and grass, stains that she couldn’t recognise, his hair even more of a tangled mess than usual as he’d worked outside all day. Finally he lifted his gaze from the soil and saw her.

She smiled and waved. He turned the machine off immediately.

‘Kitty,’ he said, surprised.

‘Thought I’d come down and surprise you.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘A few minutes. I was watching your concentration face.’ She frowned and pouted, the same way his lips went when they were studying in college or when she caught sight of him in exams.

He laughed.

‘Dad greet you at the door?’

‘The best welcome committee a girl could have.’

‘Sorry about that,’ he said, genuinely concerned.

‘Don’t worry, I’d rather that than manure on my front door any day.’

‘They’ve done more?’

‘Just that. It’s stopped since Sunday, actually,’ she said, realising. ‘Maybe they got into trouble. And speaking of trouble,’ she made her way round the fence and inside the allotment, ‘I came here to give you this.’ She opened her arms and threw them around Steve, wrapping him so tight and squeezing him. She could tell he was shocked, his body stiffened, not comfortable with human contact, but she didn’t care, she needed to thank him for what he had done for her. Finally his body relaxed and he surprised her by wrapping his arms around her waist. It felt oddly comfortable. She hadn’t expected him to react that way, she had expected him to push her away but appreciate the gesture anyway, but now she found them both in the allotment hugging tightly and she was suddenly self-conscious. She loosened her grip and he did too, but he didn’t pull away from her. Their faces were close when they looked at one another. His blue eyes bored into hers. She swallowed.

‘That was supposed to be a thank you,’ she said quietly.

He frowned. ‘Thank you for what?’

‘For cleaning spray paint off my apartment door, for cleaning dog shit off the steps, for giving me your bed, but most of all for making Richie’s face look like a rotten tomato.’

‘Oh. Right.’ He let go suddenly and took a few steps back – a lot of steps back – and then separated them entirely by standing behind the machine. Back to his usual self. ‘So you found out about that.’

‘He came to my flat to get his jacket. He thought you were my boyfriend and that you’d caught me out. He was thrilled.’

Steve’s face hardened. ‘That fucker. I swear I could hit him again.’

Kitty was surprised by his reaction. Steve wasn’t that kind of guy. He was never aggressive. He wasn’t soft but his first method of defence was to get out of a situation because he was never that bothered by anyone, not to pounce.

‘Well … you did it once and I appreciate that.’

‘Twice, actually,’ he smiled. ‘Almost broke my fist too.’ He lifted his hand and that’s when Kitty saw the swollen bruising on his knuckles.

‘Oh, Steve, I’m so sorry.’ She went towards him to touch it but, true to character, he pulled it away.

‘It’s fine. No big deal.’

‘I thought you weren’t speaking to me.’

He looked confused.

‘Just the way you hung up the phone the other day, I thought you were angry at me. About the story in the Sunday paper. About messing up again.’

‘No, no, Kitty, no,’ he said gently. ‘No way. I was so angry. At him. Why would I be angry at you?’

She shrugged and looked around, suddenly feeling so vulnerable in his company, so eager to please, so … no! She couldn’t be feeling like this
with Steve
?

‘So how are you, how’s the story going?’

‘I am
loving
it,’ Kitty said, pushing her feelings to one side and responding ecstatically.

He laughed.

‘I have met the most amazing people and I can’t wait to tell you all about them.’

‘Sounds good,’ he smiled. ‘It sounds like you’re back to your best.’

‘Does it?’ she said, genuinely touched.

‘Yeah. Back to all the stuff you used to bore me with before. It’s good to see you so …’ he looked at her ‘… happy.’

Happy
. She thought about it. Yes, she was happy. Despite all the crap going on in her life, she was actually happy.

‘Do you want to go for something to eat or drink, or …?’

‘I’d love to but I have to get to Kildare, to the butterfly woman. I really need to learn more about her. She is so fascinating, like a creature from a Tolkien novel or something. And then I have a job interview,’ she winced.

‘Where?’

‘Ashford night school for their media studies course. Though I’m half-thinking of cancelling.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ he warned. ‘You’ll knock them dead.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘Kitty,’ he fixed her firmly with his blue-eyed gaze, ‘you’ll be wonderful.’

She was genuinely moved by that and felt ridiculous as tears sprung to her eyes. She hadn’t received any praise lately, particularly not from Steve, and she hadn’t realised how much she desired his praise. She looked down at her feet in the soil and cleared her throat. ‘So I’m going on a trip tomorrow and I was wondering if I could use the assistance of your girlfriend.’ The words felt like chalk in her mouth but she was trying, she hoped that he could see she was trying.

‘Katja? Why?’

‘The most exciting story of all.’ She smiled then. ‘Birdie, one of the names on my list, made a bet that she would live to the age of eighty-five and she turns eighty-five tomorrow. We’re driving to Cork to pick up her winnings.’

‘You’re kidding. How much winnings?’

‘Ten grand,’ Kitty grinned. ‘Or its euro equivalent, at least. So I need a photographer. It will be an overnight trip and there’s a couple of things along the way I’ll need her to do too.’

Steve thought about it. ‘I’ll let her know.’

‘Thanks. I’ll text you the pick-up details from the bus. If she can’t come let me know so I can organise someone else. I’d better go.’ They stood still in the allotment and Kitty all of a sudden very desperately wanted to be back in that embrace with him. Stunned by her feelings, she turned round and left awkwardly.

‘But, Eugene, I don’t understand why you told her about that?’ Ambrose shouted at her friend and colleague.

Eugene’s cheeks flushed. Ambrose’s temper was as fiery as her hair. He had faced her wrath before and wasn’t particularly good at dealing with it. It reduced him to a stammering wreck. ‘It just came up in conversation,’ he said meekly.

His meekness gave her more confidence to have a go at him. ‘How could something like that just come up in conversation? It has nothing to do with the business. Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have let you be interviewed by her,’ she fumed, pacing her kitchen.

However, they both knew the opposite was true. If Eugene didn’t speak to the reporter there would be no article, there would be no publicity for the museum, of which they were in dire need, and there would certainly be no better way to air their shared opinions and worries on the extinction of many butterflies. Eugene was better with people, everybody knew that. Apart from when she was with him, Ambrose had a complete inability to deal with most people. She became too conscious of her appearance, too obsessed by what they were thinking about her to be able to formulate a proper thought, never mind do business or promote her museum. She was okay over the phone but was all too aware of the local mystery surrounding her and so preferred not to deal with anyone at all. That way she couldn’t add to the whispers and tales of ‘the time they met Ambrose Nolan …’ Truth be told, she was getting worse. She shopped online for clothes and groceries, making sure that anything that needed to be signed for would go directly to the museum so that Eugene, or Sara in the shop and café, would take care of it. But the one thing that nobody knew was the very thing Eugene had splurged to the reporter. Well, there were two things really. The first Eugene had broken to Ambrose, thinking she would be mildly annoyed, but she had exploded when she’d heard, and the second was simply unforgivable. He’d known it as he was telling the reporter but he couldn’t help it, it had just come out. The reporter was good; she had a way of weaselling things out of him, which bothered him. He had said things he didn’t even know to be true until he heard them come out of his mouth.

‘I apologise about telling her about the operation,’ he stammered. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why I did, in fact, I’ll ask her to make sure she doesn’t write it in the article.’ He referred to the fact that Ambrose had been saving for a very long time to have the birthmark on her face removed. She had visited various doctors about it and it would take many laser treatments to have it removed, but it was possible. This piece of information was not something she expected to be shared. The idea that Eugene had discussed her appearance with anybody humiliated her. ‘But I didn’t know you didn’t want anybody to know about your report,’ Eugene said more firmly, confidence in his voice, and Ambrose believed him.

‘Who else have you told?’

‘Nobody.’

‘So you see, you did know not to say anything otherwise you would have told people.’

‘Look, Ambrose, calm down. What you’ve done is terrific. You should be proud. I’ve read your report over and over again and it’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever read. I’m proud of you; you should want to tell the world about your findings. The fact that the symposium has asked you to speak about it is a huge honour and confirmation that your studies are remarkable. This symposium is your golden opportunity and you know it. It’s not every day or even every year that it comes to Ireland.’ He was referring to the upcoming event in Cork University where Sir David Attenborough, President of Butterfly Conservation, was to open this year’s symposium. There would be reviews and news of the latest initiatives to reverse the decline in butterfly and moth numbers and how to conserve habitats. The symposium would also provide researchers from all around the world with a forum to present papers on practical conservation work. It would look at the future challenges, including the impact of climate change. Ambrose was one of the people who had been invited to speak. Eugene had confirmed the engagement on her behalf, much to her anger, but that had been another day’s argument. Whether she would bite the bullet and attend the conference was unknown at this point but Eugene wasn’t giving up on her.

‘So you told her deliberately,’ she snapped, face hot, eyes bright, one green and burning bright, the other as fearsome though dull brown, ‘to force me to do it. If she writes about it then I have to do it, is that your plan?’

‘I think your work is something to tell the world about,’ he said firmly, trying to keep the stammer out of his voice. ‘I doubt anybody else in the world has studied the Peacock butterfly as closely as you have. You have the data, the experience to prove it. Why spend five years studying and writing a report if you’re not going to show it to anybody?’ He realised his voice had risen louder and louder. Ambrose seemed surprised. Amused, even.

‘You told her I was going to Cork and now she wants to come with us,’ she said, frustrated.

‘Correction. She wants
us
to go with
her
.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will soon. She’ll be here soon to talk to you. She wants to spend the afternoon with you.’

The doorbell rang.

‘That will be her,’ Eugene said. Shaking from his confrontation he left an open-mouthed Ambrose quickly pulling down her hair from its clip, covering her face in a panic.

He took a deep breath and smiled before opening the door. ‘Ah. Ms Logan, how lovely to see you. Please do come in.’

‘She ties her hair back when she’s around you,’ Kitty said to Eugene after her interview session with the increasingly intriguing Ambrose was finished.

Eugene looked up in surprise from his paperwork where he was sitting in a small cubbyhole office. ‘She told you that?’

‘No, I saw you two talking through the window before I rang the doorbell.’ Which translated to: ‘I was snooping before I rang the doorbell.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well then, I’ve nothing further to add to that.’

‘I’m not going to write about that,’ Kitty said, leaning against the doorframe, making him feel trapped. ‘It just must be nice for you to know that.’

‘Nice? Why would it be nice?’ He fidgeted with papers. His cheeks flushed and the colour ran down his neck and stopped at his bow tie.

‘Because she obviously feels very comfortable around you,’ Kitty smiled and watched the corners of his mouth twitch as he thought about it.

‘Well, I’ve never considered it. I mean, that’s no reason to … It’s not … She’s not, we’re not …’ he stammered, unable to finish a single sentence he’d started.

‘So I’ll see you both tomorrow afternoon,’ Kitty said.

‘She said she’d go?’

‘No, but I’ll leave it up to you to convince her. I have a feeling she listens to what you say.’ She winked at him and left the museum.

Ashford Private College was situated on Parnell Square beside the Irish Writers’ Centre, which faced the Garden of Remembrance and other such important venues as the Gate Theatre and Rotunda Maternity Hospital. It was a Georgian square and the college filled four floors of classrooms, advertising subjects from cookery to technology, interior design, business studies, marketing and media. Part of that media course was a television presentation class that taught the student how to speak properly and slowly, how to speak to the camera, getting rid of any habits or tics they unknowingly had and becoming comfortable with presentation and the sound of their own voice. Kitty had taken the class five years ago and was now attending an interview to teach it. It didn’t escape her that she had no teaching credentials but she had gained plenty of experience actually working in the field, and in addition to being keen to share her knowledge, she really needed the money. Pay for two and a half hours a week would go a long way in her current situation.