Part 15 (1/2)
Ryan started gathering sheets of script from around the room, pointedly placing them in a neat pile by the bed.
”Enough! Let's go eat,” Larry acquiesced, pulling off the marigolds.
The atmosphere, not five minutes away in Weathervane, was equally tense. Paul was using a game of tug of war with Monty as an excuse to avoid eye contact with Marianne.
Marianne was hoping that her all-engrossing tea-making might give Paul enough time to decide which words to use and in which order to use them. She gave up.
”How did you know where I was?” she asked.
”I remembered your Aunt and Uncle in Dublin. I rang them, they said Innishmahon.”
”You could just have phoned, no need to come all this way.” She indicated the ancient telephone on the table in the hallway.
”I needed to see you.”
”Obviously.”
Silence.
Marianne was saddened. When had things become so strained between them? They took their tea out to the garden. Marianne perched on what was left of the wall. An old pallet stood where the gate had been, to prevent Monty from wandering. Paul surveyed the devastation.
”Of course,” he said, ”the storm. Wow! Amazing. You were lucky. Everyone was, really.”
She looked at him over her cup, raising her eyebrows.
”Well, the thing is, I'm getting married.”
”Congratulations, again.”
”No, no, that's not what I meant. I meant, well, it changes things.”
”Of course.” She nodded, encouragingly.
”Well, you know, the wedding, honeymoon, deposit for a house, that kind of thing.”
”Paul, what is it? Do you need money? What?”
”No. Well, yes. Well, anyway, I've written a book. It's a series of articles, really, and I've sold it. Well, I'm about to sell it.”
”You want me to edit it, is that it?”
”Yes. Well, no, not now. But I wanted you to know.” He was turning a box of matches, repeatedly, between finger and thumb, the rattle of the wooden sticks inside the cardboard driving her to distraction.
”What's it about, the book? These articles?”
He pushed the innards of the box too far and the matches spilled over the ground.
”The 'Power 2 The People' Awards, the terrorist attack, the escape, rebuilding lives, you know, that sort of thing.”
”Interesting. Well, I suppose your account would be as credible as anyone else's.” She folded her arms. ”There's been some rubbish written, over-dramatised, sentimental tripe, a lot of it. What perspective?”
”Just personal, my own account.”
”I get a mention?”
”Of course, but not much, not lots of detail about you, you wouldn't want that.”
”And Ryan, he gets a mention?”
”Well, yes, sort of. Again, not loads.”
”Fair enough, is that it then?”
He avoided eye contact. Marianne took the cups into the kitchen.
”I need to shower before we go and eat.”
He stood in the doorway.
”Not quite it,” he said. ”I've been offered a new job. Your job, really.”
”Really? Jack never...”
”Jack's off the scene. Sick leave. The new boys have moved in on the top floor. Big changes. I've a letter for you. I believe they've put you on garden leave.”
She ignored the pale blue envelope he put on the table.
”You believe? And the series of articles about the bombing? Is that part of your promotion package?”
”Sort of.”
”They didn't waste any time.”
”The newspaper's losing a lot of money. They're restructuring.”
Marianne turned to look at him; she considered aliens had taken over her former colleague.
”Like I said, I need a shower.” She left him retrieving the now-useless matches from the sodden gra.s.s.
Oonagh had rallied, resplendent in a frilly yellow blouse and peac.o.c.k blue eye shadow. She was almost as technicolour as Miss MacReady, who wore a scarlet and purple gown; layers of tulle swirling around her knees, and American tan tights, teamed with a sensible pair of brogues, it was a wet old night, after all. The Donegal tweed cap, slapped on the back of her head, matched Larry Leeson's coat, perfectly.
”Perhaps you'd like to make me an offer?” Miss MacReady asked clipping and unclipping huge hoop earrings to her lobe, flirtatiously.
”One you can't refuse?” joked Larry.
”G.o.d, who could refuse that accent?” She pushed her empty gla.s.s into his hand, as she swished off to the ladies.
The pub was fairly full and there was a buzz to it. Quite a few people had taken the first ferry back to the island that morning to seek out relatives and friends, and to gauge the impact of the storm on the small community. There was a general sense of relief, things could have been a lot worse and, at times, the mood was bordering on celebratory, especially as no loss of human life had been recorded. And yet a tangible air of gloom seemed to hang over one particular table.
”Alright here, are we?” Oonagh could see this was far from the case. Miss MacReady had given Oonagh every detail of the telephone conversation with her sister earlier that day, the sister who owned the bed and breakfast on the mainland and who had in turn recounted Larry and Paul's sojourn at her guesthouse. Oonagh was intrigued. Marianne did the introductions.