Under the Hill(3)

The next day I took a different route for what had become my daily walk, and the woman—I realized suddenly she’d never given her name—was there again, this time coming toward me on the lane I’d chosen. “Good morning. Grand day, isn’t it?” she said with a smile.

“It is. Hey, you want to come back to the house, maybe have a cup of coffee?” I thought I might be able to make up for my abruptness with Catherine yesterday. And maybe there was such a thing as too much solitude.

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself. But I’d love to see what Catherine did with the place—her husband was after fixing it up, wasn’t he?”

“That’s what she told me. Didn’t Catherine ever show it to you?”

“We had a . . . I’d guess you’d call it a falling out before it was finished. Are you sure it’s no trouble?”

“Of course not,” I said firmly. “I’d be glad of the company.” She fell into step alongside me, and we were back at the cottage in under five minutes. “Do you know, I don’t think I got your name yesterday.”

“Nor I yours. I’m Honora.”

“And I’m Ellen.” I extricated the house key from my jacket pocket and opened the door, leading the way inside.

Honora walked a couple of paces in and turned slowly. “Nice. He did good work, didn’t he then?”

“Catherine told me that she and her husband had been renting it out for a while. So they never lived here?”

“Ah, no. Patrick’s family had lived on this piece of land for generations. But he’s gone now.”

So Catherine’s husband was dead? She hadn’t said, but then, why would she tell me? “She told me that she’s living in town now. Can I get you some coffee? Or tea?”

“No, I haven’t the time. I was just wanting to see what was changed, but I’ll be on my way.”

“Well, thanks for saying hello—I haven’t seen many people to talk to. I’ve almost forgotten how.”

“Don’t I know the feeling! Thanks for letting me in, Ellen.” And then she was gone.

I pottered around the kitchen, throwing together a meal and thinking about how I was—or wasn’t—talking to people around here. Maybe I’d finished the first part of the post-John healing process, and it was time to go back to the world of people. But it was dark now, and I wasn’t sure of my way along the lanes—they all looked the same, particularly after dark. And I’d never been one to hang out in bars at night back home. Maybe tomorrow, during the day. I could visit one of the local pubs and talk to some people.

I took my walk in the morning without running into Honora, then I drove into the nearest town after my lunch. There were a couple of pubs and a couple of cafés, and I chose a pub based on the roomy parking space in front of it. Besides, I could visit a café anywhere, but how often could I visit a real Irish pub? Inside there were no more than five people—this was definitely not tourist season.

“What can I get yeh?” the bartender asked. He was thirtyish and needed a haircut, but he had a kind of scruffy good looks that were appealing. And a nice smile.

“A pint of Guinness, please.” I’d allow myself one but no more, since I was driving. As he filled a glass, I studied the photos that were layered on the walls over and around the bar. “What’s the story on all these?” I asked, pointing at them.

“People come in, they like to leave something. Kinda like a reverse memory, you know? Or maybe they’ve got the same picture tacked up back home because they like to feel the connection. I haven’t seen you in here before,” he said.

“You remember everybody who comes in?” I countered, reluctant to reveal too much.

“Pretty near. There are fewer than you’d think. Not so many Americans as there were a few years ago. What brings you to this end of the world?”

“The peace and quiet,” I said, more sharply than I intended. He gave me a long look, then retreated to the other end of the bar, leaving me alone with my drink. Had I been rude? Did I care? When I finished my pint, I left the pub and walked to the nearby market to stock up on supplies, then drove back to my cottage in time to admire the sunset.

The next day it was raining, which made me even more restless. I recalled that there was a cheerful fire at the pub—and a bartender I’d brushed off more sharply than I intended. I really had to stop doing that to people who were only trying to be nice to me, a stranger. I found my rain jacket and set off at midday.

The same bartender was there, and there were no more people than before. Maybe the same ones, maybe not—I couldn’t tell. The bartender came over when I sat on a stool at the bar. “A pint?”

I smiled. “You remembered.”

He smiled. “It’s not so hard—that’s what most people ask for here.” He set about pouring one for me.

“I apologize if I kind of snapped at you yesterday,” I said. “I’ve been staying in a rental cottage for the last few days, and I guess I’m out of practice talking to people.”

“Not to worry. If you’re here for the peace and quiet, you’ve come to the right place.”

“Thanks. Good to know.”

“Where is it yer stayin’?” he asked. When he saw my look of dismay, he said, “I’m not about to rob the place, you know—just making conversation.” He slid my full pint across the bar. “But I’d guess it’s Catherine McCarthy’s place—I’ve heard she lets it out now and again.”