Happy People Read and Drink Coffee (4 page)

One last time, I snuggled up against Colin's side of the bed, my head buried in his pillow, and cuddled Clara's favorite soft toy; my tears made them damp. The alarm clock went off and I got out of bed, like a robot.

In the bathroom, I uncovered the mirror and saw myself for the first time in months. Swamped in Colin's shirt. I watched my fingers open each button; one shoulder was freed, then the other. The shirt fell from my body onto the floor. I washed my hair one last time with Clara's shampoo. When I got out of the shower, I avoided looking at the shirt on the floor. I dressed myself as Diane, in jeans, a sleeveless T-shirt, and a tight-fitting sweater. Immediately I felt like I was suffocating; I struggled to get the sweater off and grabbed Colin's hoodie. I put it on and could breathe again. I'd worn it often before his death, so I gave myself the right to wear it now.

I glanced at my watch and saw I had very little time left. A coffee in my hand and a cigarette between my lips, I chose a few framed photos at random from the living room and slipped them into my bag.

I sat on the sofa waiting until it was time to go, nervously wringing my hands; my thumb hit my wedding ring. I would surely encounter people in Ireland and they would see that I was married; they'd ask me where my husband was and I wouldn't be able to answer. I couldn't be without my ring so I had to hide it. I opened the chain of the necklace I was wearing, slipped the ring on it, and put it back on, hiding it under my sweatshirt.

Two rings at the doorbell broke the silence. The door opened to reveal Felix. He came in without saying a word and looked deep into my eyes. His face bore witness to the excesses of the previous night. His eyes were red and swollen. He reeked of alcohol and tobacco. He didn't have to say a word for me to know his voice was hoarse. He started taking down my bags. There were a lot of them. I walked around the apartment, turned off all the lights, closed the doors to all the rooms. My hand tensed on the handle of the front door as I closed it. The only sound was the click of the lock.

3

I stood in front of the rental car with my suitcases at my feet, my arms hanging down at my sides, holding the keys. Great gusts of wind swirled around the parking lot, making me lose my balance.

Ever since I'd left the airplane, I felt like I was drifting. I'd automatically followed the other passengers to the moving walkway to pick up my bags. Then a little later, at the car rental agency, I'd managed to understand the person I was talking to—in spite of his accent that you could cut with a knife—and I'd signed the contract.

But now, standing in front of the car, freezing cold, aching all over, exhausted, I wondered what kind of a mess I'd gotten myself into. I had no choice, I wanted to have a home, and from now on, home was going to be Mulranny.

I had to try several times before I could light a cigarette. The biting wind never died down and it was already starting to get on my nerves. It was even worse when I realized it was burning my ciggy down. I lit up another one before loading up the trunk. Then there was a powerful gust of wind and I set fire to a few strands of my hair that flew into my face.

A sticker on the windshield reminded me that here you drive on the left. I started the engine, put the car in first and the car stalled. My second and third attempt to get it started also failed. I'd been given a lemon. I walked over to the office where there were five strong young guys. They were smiling; they'd seen the whole thing.

“I'd like you to change my car,” I said annoyed, “It doesn't work.”

“Hello,” the oldest one replied, still smiling. “What's wrong?”

“I have no idea. It won't start.”

“Come on, boys. Let's help the little lady.”

I stood back while they went outside, impressed by their size. “Rugby players and mutton eaters” Felix had said. He wasn't wrong. They walked me to the car. I tried to start the car but no luck. It stalled again.

“You're in the wrong gear,” one of the giants told me, laughing out loud.

“No I'm not . . . not at all. I do know how to drive.”

“Put it into fifth, what you think is fifth, and you'll see.”

He was looking at me but he wasn't mocking me any more. I did what he said. The car started.

“Everything's backwards here. The side of the road you drive on, the steering wheel, the gears.”

“Are you all right now?” one of the others asked.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Mulranny.”

“That's a way off. Be careful and take care at the traffic circles.”

“Thank you very much.”

“A pleasure. Goodbye, have a good trip.”

They nodded to me and gave me a big smile. Since when were guys who rented cars so friendly and helpful?

I was halfway there and just starting to relax. I'd successfully passed the test of the highway and the first traffic circle. Nothing special along the way except some sheep and shimmering green fields. As far as the eye could see. No traffic jams, no rain on the horizon.

Saying goodbye to Felix went round and round in my mind. We hadn't exchanged a single word between my place and the airport. He'd smoked one cigarette after the other without looking at me. He only spoke at the very last minute. We were standing opposite each other, looking at each other and hesitating.

“You'll take care of yourself?” he asked.

“Don't worry.”

“You can still change your mind, you don't have to go.”

“Don't make this more difficult. It's time. I have to board now.”

I've never been able to stand goodbyes. Leaving him was more difficult than I'd imagined. I crushed myself against him; he took a few seconds to react, then held me in his arms.

“Take care of yourself,” I said, “Don't do anything stupid. Promise?”

“We'll see. Get going now.”

He let go of me. I picked up my bag and walked towards security. I gave him a little wave. Then I took out my passport. I could feel Felix watching me throughout the whole process. But I didn't look back once.

I was here. I was in Mulranny. In front of the cottage whose photos I'd hardly looked at on the ad. I had to drive through the entire village and take the twisting road along the beach to get to my house.

I'd have neighbors. Another house was next to mine, a few yards away. As I tried to decide how I felt about neighbors, a tiny little woman in her mid-sixties came pedaling up the road on a bicycle. She dismounted and came towards me with a wave. I forced myself to smile.

“Hello, Diane. I'm Abby, your landlady. Did you have a good trip?”

“Very pleased to meet you.”

She looked at the hand I stretched out to her with amusement, then shook hands.

“You know, everyone here knows each other. And you're not on a job interview. Please don't get it into your head to call me Madam all the time. Same goes when it comes to consideration and good manners, OK?”

She invited me into the place that was to become my home. I found it warm and cozy inside.

Abby never stopped talking; I only listened to half of what she said, nodding in reply with a dumb smile on my face. She treated me to a description of all the appliances in the kitchen, the cable channels, the times when it was high tide, and when Mass was held, of course. That was when I cut in.

“I don't think I'll be needing that, I have no interest in the Church.”

“Then we have a serious problem, Diane. You should have done some research before coming here. We fought for our independence and our religion. You're going to be living with Irish Catholics who are proud of it.”

This was turning out to be a good start.

“Abby, I'm very sorry, I . . .”

She burst out laughing.

“Relax, for Heaven's sake! It was a joke. It's just how I am. There's no obligation to go with me on Sunday mornings. On the other hand, one piece of advice: never forget that we're Irish, not English.”

“I'll remember that.”

She quickly continued her guided tour. Upstairs, my bathroom and bedroom. I'd be able to lie sideways across my bed; it was an extra-large king size. Normal in the land of giants.

“Abby,” I cut in, “thank you. It's perfect. I have everything I'll need.”

“Forgive my enthusiasm, but I'm so happy that someone is going to live in the cottage during the winter; I've really been looking forward to having you here. I'll let you get settled in.”

I walked her out. She climbed onto her bike and turned toward me.

“Come and have a coffee with us. We're on the other end of Mulranny; you have my address. You'll meet Jack.”

On my first night, as a welcome gesture, a storm broke out. The wind raged, rain lashed against the windows, the roof creaked. Impossible to get to sleep in spite of my weariness and the comfortable bed. I thought back about the day I'd had.

Emptying my car was even more of a task than loading it up; my suitcases were scattered all over the living room. I'd been this close to giving up when I'd realized I had nothing to eat. I hurried into the little kitchen. The cabinets and fridge were full to bursting. Abby surely must have told me and I hadn't thanked her. Shameful. How rude of me. I'd certainly run into her some day to apologize. As she'd said,
Mulranny was a really small place: one main street, a mini-market, a gas station, and a pub. There was no chance I'd get lost or burn out my credit card in the boutiques.

The welcome I'd received from my landlady left me puzzled. She seemed to expect some kind of close relationship, which wasn't at all what I had envisaged. I would put off accepting her invitation as long as I could; I wasn't here to keep an old couple company and I didn't want to get to know anyone.

I held out for a week without leaving the cottage; Abby's supplies and the cartons of cigarettes I'd brought had kept me going. It had also taken all that time to unpack everything. It was difficult to feel at home, nothing reminded me of my former life. Streetlamps didn't light up the night and there were none of the noises you hear in the city. When the wind died down, the silence became oppressive. I wished that my neighbors (still away) would hold a big party so the sound would lull me to sleep. The heady aroma of the potpourri was totally different from the smell of the polished parquet floor in our apartment, and the anonymity of the Parisian shopkeepers was definitely very far away.

I was beginning to regret not having gone out earlier; perhaps I would have avoided everyone staring at me when I went into the mini-market. No need to try to work out what people were saying. Everyone was talking about me—the stranger, the foreigner. The customers turned toward me as I walked past, smiling and nodding at me. A few of them spoke to me. I mumbled some reply. It wasn't part of my routine to say hello to people I came across in the stores. I slowly walked around the aisles. There was a bit of everything, food, clothes, even souvenirs for tourists. Though I must have been the only madwoman to risk coming here. One thing was a permanent feature: there was stewing mutton on the butcher's shelves and sheep everywhere, on china cups and in the knitted sweaters and scarves, of course. Here, they raised these little animals for food and clothing. Like they did with mammoths in prehistoric times.

A hand fell on my arm. “Diane. I'm so happy to run into you,” said Abby. I hadn't seen her come in.

I was startled, then said “Hello.”

“I was thinking of stopping by today. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Have you found everything you need?”

“Not really, they don't have everything I'm looking for.”

“You mean your baguette and cheese?”

“Uh . . . I . . .”

“Hey, I'm just teasing you. Are you done now?”

“I think so.”

“Come with me; I'll introduce you.”

With a dazzling smile on her face, she grabbed hold of my arm and took me to meet everyone. I hadn't spoken to so many people in months. Their kindness was almost disturbing. After half an hour of small talk, I finally managed to make my way to the register. I could lock myself away for at least ten days with all of the supplies I'd purchased. Except that I was going to have to go out since I couldn't find an excuse to refuse Abby's invitation; I'd simply negotiated a few days to prepare myself.

My landlords had a nice home. I was comfortably settled on the couch, in front of a large fireplace, with a steaming hot cup of tea in my hand.

Jack was a giant with a white beard. His calm demeanor tempered his wife's permanent liveliness. With disconcerting ease, he had poured himself a pint of Guinness at four o'clock in the afternoon. Rugby players who eat mutton and drink stout, I mused, to complete Felix's description. And the dark ale immediately made me think of Colin.

In spite of this, I managed to hold up my end of the conversation. I first talked about their dog, Postman Pat, who had jumped all over me when I arrived and who never left my side. Then I talked about the rain and the nice weather—well, mainly about the rain—and how comfortable the cottage was. After that, I started to run out of things to say.

“Are you from Mulranny?” I finally asked.

“Yes, but we lived in Dublin until I retired,” Jack replied.

“What did you do?”

“He was a doctor,” Abby cut in. “But tell us what you do, that's far more interesting. And I'm especially curious to know why you would come to bury yourself in this place.”

Bury myself, exactly; the answer was in the question.

“I wanted to see some new places.”

“All alone? How come a pretty girl like you isn't with someone?”

“Leave her be,” Jack scolded.

“It would take too long to explain. Well, I have to get going,” I said, stony-faced.

I stood up, picked up my jacket and handbag and headed to the door. Abby and Jack followed behind. I'd put a damper on things. I tripped over Postman Pat several times, then he ran outside as soon as the door was opened.

“Such a big baby must keep you very busy!” I said (and then thought of Clara).

“Oh, Good Lord, he's not ours,” Abby told me.

“Who does he belong to?”

“Edward. Our nephew. We take care of him when Edward's away.”

“He's your neighbor.”

I was disappointed. I'd thought that the house next door would remain empty, which suited me down to the ground. I didn't need any neighbors. I already felt that my landlords were too close by.

They walked me to my car. The dog started to bark and run around in circles. A black Land Rover spattered with mud had just parked in front of the house, rolling to a halt in front of my car.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Jack exclaimed.

“Wait a few minutes,” said Abby, taking my arm to hold me back, “we'll introduce you.”

The nephew in question got out of the car. His rugged face and scornful expression made me feel no warmth towards him. Jack and Abby went over to him. He leaned against his car's door and crossed his arms. The more I looked at him, the more unappealing I found him. He didn't smile. He reeked of arrogance. The kind of guy who would spend hours in the bathroom to work on looking like a nonchalant adventurer. He made it clear he didn't want to socialize.