"I wonder if we could talk?" she said, in clipped London tones. She was tall and elegant, with high cheekbones, and cropped strawberry blond hair, possibly dyed - he found it hard to tell. The lady opened the car door and alighted. "Can I help you?" he said, wondering if maybe she had some sort of engine trouble. A lady sat in the driver's seat of the English car. He got out of the car and heard Rosie barking at the back of the house.
He wondered who could have poked him out, on a country road like this, with grass growing down the middle. He preferred the solitude of his workshop, the satisfaction of seeing a project come to fruition.Īs he approached the farmhouse a strange red car with English number plates was parked outside. There was an ease with which women could meet up and chat. They had often invited him, but he always declined. Now they were into the consecration, and Bill was on his knees, praying silently for Rita –“Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, may perpetual light shine upon her.” He didn't go to Communion.Īs he crossed the yard to his car, the women huddled by the holy water font, making arrangements to go for coffee. The first part of the Mass passed in a blur. The priest did the readings, not like on Sundays, when there was a rota. The nine o'clock was a quick Mass - no sermon, no singing, no trimmings. He went in and took his pew a few rows from the back.įr McMahon appeared on the altar and began intoning the prayers. Mrs Duillea, queen of the back seat and all she surveyed. Mrs Kane, who preferred the centre aisle, and kept herself to herself. Mrs O'Reilly, who sat up the front, and had a poisonous tongue. The usual suspects were crossing the churchyard when he arrived. Sure it will give me a break from the sawing and chiselling.” "I'll be in about twelve, but I can get a cab." "What bus are you coming back on and I'll collect you?" "There you are now," he said, pulling up at the bus-stop outside Shanahan's pub. In a matter of minutes they had reached the village. She was waiting at the front door of her cottage when he pulled up. It was ironic that Hilda depended on him, because he was a poor driver, and old age only made the manoeuvre more tricky.Īs he wound his way to Hilda’s place, he admired the profusion of bluebells in the hedgerows, swaying in the gentle breeze.
He sat into the car and started her up, turning with difficulty in the narrow space in front of the house. She and Rita had been good pals, both obsessed with gardening and cooking, liking nothing better than to swap geranium cuttings or risotto recipes.īill shouted goodbye to Rosie and pulled the front door behind him. Bill never minded bringing her into the village. Hilda, never having learned to drive, was marooned in her house since her husband died. Glad to oblige," Bill said, "I'll pick you up shortly." I was wondering could you drop me down to the bus-stop on your way to Mass? Such a curse to be living out the country." He made his way down the stairs to the hall table. When Rita was alive they used to collect the pension and do a big grocery shop together on a Friday.Īs he came out of the bedroom the landline pealed. Fridays were the hardest days to get over. He thought of the weekend ahead - nothing much on the agenda. He climbed the stairs of the old farmhouse to the bedroom and ran the electric razor over his cheeks, chin, and neck. He made a present of his creations to charity auctions, or to friends and neighbours, but sold the odd bit, when approached to make a unique piece. It was hard to remember a time when he wasn't fashioning wood into pieces of furniture. Still, the carpentry kept him going, a hobby now, rather than a means to make a living. It constituted social contact of a sort, which he sadly lacked, alone in the workshop for hours on end. He had started going to the nine o'clock since Rita passed away, two years ago now. The Mass crowd would be quick to notice if he turned up looking rough. He would need to get a move on and shave. Rita was gone and poor Rosie was only doing her best. Rosie got up, wagged her tail and nudged open the back door in order to take her morning frolic around the back meadow.īill chided himself for allowing her to sleep at the end of his bed. "No, you're right, I'd have withdrawal symptoms if I had to go without." The sheepdog shot him a quizzical look, hoping for a crust of bread or some other titbit from the table. "What do you think, Rosie, pet? Should I organise a media blackout?" Bill was finding it harder and harder to watch the news. bulletin flashed on the little television perched on the worktop.
0 kommentar(er)
