Читать книгу A Grand Old Time: The laugh-out-loud and feel-good romantic comedy with a difference you must read in 2018 - Judy Leigh - Страница 22
Оглавление‘You have been on that laptop all evening. Why don’t you come through and watch TV with me?’
Brendan was engrossed in finishing his application to St Cillian’s. He pressed his lips together but no sound came out in reply. Maura tried again, her voice saccharine with effort.
‘I could open a bottle and we could share some cheesy nibbles?’
Brendan read through his application, adjusted a word or two and pressed send with a mixture of disbelief and satisfaction. ‘What was that?’ he said.
‘Wine and nibbles, darling.’
She had been using new endearments throughout the week. Her eyes had taken on a kind of bovine hopefulness and her lashes fluttered, heavy with extra mascara.
‘In a minute.’ He thought about calling her a new tender name, ‘sweetheart’ or ‘honey’ perhaps, instead of the usual placatory ‘my love’, but it felt awkward. He picked up his mobile and found his mother’s number, pressed dial and waited. Nothing, again, except an empty voice requesting a message. He wondered if she had discovered how to pick up voicemail.
‘Brendan, will I start the film?’
A sudden thought occurred to him. He started to search for something on the internet, his brows together, his eyes reflecting the moving screen. She was behind him, looking over his shoulder. He pressed the keys and waited. A white page flipped up, a timetable. Maura put her arms around his neck, looking over his shoulder. Brendan made the screen whizz up and down: Cork to Roscoff, Roscoff to Cork.
She leaned against the back of his chair and rested her face against his head. He could hear her breathing, her mind processing the details.
‘Is it a little holiday we’re having? Are we going to France?’ She twirled her fingers in his hair and her voice was light and girlish. ‘Oh Brendan, I’d love to go to France. Just you and me. The food and the wine – just think, and the beaches. You’d have a chance to practise your French – you’d like that. And we could enjoy some culture, the churches, the history. You could do a bit of canoeing perhaps and I could sit in the sunshine and get a suntan. I’m so pale at the moment. It would do us both good.’
Brendan put the laptop down and turned around. She was wearing a flimsy dressing gown. It was loose and he could see she had little on underneath, if anything. Her damp hair trailed across her forehead. He became aware he was staring.
‘Ah.’ He turned back to the laptop. ‘Maura. I was thinking of going by myself.’
He swivelled around again and was surprised to see that she was upset. The smile slipped down from her face and her eyes became soft, almost tearful, then colder and hard.
‘I thought I would bring my mother home. I’d just be away a couple of days. Not long.’
Frozen disbelief stared back at him.
‘She’s written to the Lodge and said she doesn’t want her place there any more. I need to go and get her, Maura, find out what’s happening.’
Maura exhaled. The dressing gown gaped and she pulled it across her chest, tying the belt firmly. ‘Why don’t you just call her? Tell her to come home?’
Brendan held up his mobile. ‘I just tried. She’s not picking up.’
‘But we don’t need to go after her. She’s a grown woman. She can come back by herself.’
He frowned. ‘But what if she doesn’t want to come back?’
‘Then let her stay.’
Brendan glanced over her shoulder and back to his hand, which was squeezing the phone. He glanced at the wedding ring on his finger. He had imagined himself going alone to France. It would be an adventure. He would be a sleuth. He wouldn’t tell his mother what he was doing; he’d text her, then catch up with her. Eventually, he’d phone, tell her where he was, and they’d meet in a nice restaurant, over some moules marinières. She’d be surprised to see him, delighted, and he’d persuade her to come home. She’d say, ‘I’m glad you came, Brendan. I’m ready to come back. I missed Dublin too much. But most of all, I missed you.’
‘Ring her, Brendan.’ Maura nodded towards the phone. ‘Then we can see the film.’ She raised her eyebrows hopefully. ‘And have some nibbles.’
Brendan hung his head. He wondered if his mother was having a great time in Brittany. It occurred to him that she mightn’t be missing him at all, that she might not need him. The thought filled like a raincloud and dropped damply across his shoulders. He groaned. ‘I’m going to France, Maura.’
‘Then text her and tell her we’re coming.’
He shook his head, looked at his hands for a moment and then glanced around the room. ‘I don’t like sending Mammy texts. She probably won’t read them. Anyway, she might not want to come back. I’ll go and surprise her. Tell her we miss her. Tell her she should be back here, in Dublin, with us. Persuade her to come home.’
‘Then I’m coming with you.’ Her lips made a straight line. ‘Book the tickets, Brendan. I’m owed a few weeks off work. You sort out the ferry crossing. I’ll go and start packing the cases. There. That’s it, all settled.’
Evie walked up the hill, one arm crooked through Maddie’s and the other through Kat’s. The music was audible, the light playing of pipes lifted on the wind, and the three women were already dancing on skipping feet. Maddie leaned towards Evie. ‘You’ve seen nothing of Pentrez until you’ve seen some Breton dancers. They come here every Friday evening in the summer, in costume. You’ll love it, Evie.’
Kat smiled and Evie grinned back. She had never seen the young woman so happy as during this past week and the three of them had worked hard in the gîtes together, chatting all the time. Evie had pretended to be shocked by Kat’s raucous renditions of various so-called traditional Irish songs. ‘Paddy McGinty’s Goat’ had been particularly rude. They had been telling tales and drinking brandy. Evie had entertained them with stories of her mischief at St Aloysius’ School and the responses of the angry nuns, and she had made them cry when she sang ‘Danny Boy’ in her high quavering voice.
They caught sight of the little night market. The aroma of crêpes hung on the air and costumed dancers were already in full swing, arm in arm with local people who seemed to know every step. Evie grinned as Kat and Maddie pulled her through the throng. They found themselves in a circle of dancers and they linked arms, following the moves and laughing at their mistakes.
The man who turned to Evie moved lightly on his feet, despite his solidity. He held her waist easily, his other hand slipping into hers in a practised dance move. His face crinkled, his cheeks concertinas of charm. Evie allowed herself to be turned, puzzled by the unfamiliarity of a stranger’s hands, and she looked over his shoulder at the musicians in black and white, smart in their tasselled hats. They were singing, playing lusty pipes which blew bubbles of music into the air. Evie turned again on the whisk of a gavotte and Maddie and Kat were dancing together, their eyes glazed with happiness, Maddie’s plait swinging in an arc. Evie’s partner tightened his grip on her waist. His forearms were muscled and his puffed cheeks reminded her of Popeye the Sailor.
