Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Across The Lough

A New Life

LOTL
























Is the rainbow over Samson and Goliath an omen?
The yellow cranes soar above the glittering new Titanic museum and I imagine the doomed ship sailing out of the Lough filled with cheerful optimism as I sail into the port with a heavy heart.
Is it all a symbol? 
The vibrant colours like a painter’s canvas will they cover my pain and shame?
I have crossed the Irish Sea leaving my past behind. I stand on the deck. My heart is lodged in the dark cavern of my empty stomach like a heavy boulder in the Garden of Eden. A bitter wind bites my cheek and I turn away from the voluptuous clouds that taunt me like heavy breasts.

Auntie Annie’s house in Holywood overlooks Belfast Lough. From the floor to ceiling windows I look across the water to Belfast’s Castle, a church spire in Jordanstown and the white port of Carrickfergus all nestling under the green hill that the locals call Napoleon’s Nose.
            In the kitchen are swirling rich aromas of cinnamon, turmeric, frying onions and garlic. Auntie Annie is tall and thin with teasing blue eyes. She has spent the past few hours cajoling me into good humour but when she sees my face she says I can take my Harley Davidson and my grumpy mood and go back to London.
            It’s my welcome party dinner.
            The academic and bearded Mike McGee talks incessantly about his tedious travels; namely his camping experience when a French student sexually exploited him. His bespectacled wife smiles indulgently and I sense she will go home and compete with an invisible French woman, resplendent only in Mike’s imagination, from forty years ago.
            The other couple, equally as dull, are the Morrisons; grey hair, grey voices, and grey suits. The only difference between them is his grey moustache - but only just - she is working on hers.
            The remaining couple Simon and Louise Tavner are mid-thirties, tall, and good-looking. His first words to me are.
            “Your Aunt has told me all about your incredible marketing skills. She’s very proud of you.” His handshake is firm, his eyes soft brown and intense.
            After dinner Louise asks me about the star tattoos on my neck just under my earlobe. I like her sitting with me on the sofa, her leg touching mine and her cool finger on my skin. I am relaxed after eating extra helpings of succulent lamb tagine and copious amounts of red wine, so I open my blouse to show her the wave of inky letters that undulate across my left shoulder.
            Not all who wander are lost.
            “Are you wandering, Elly?” she asks. Her eyes are deep purple.
            Simon Tavner says to me. “You worked for Gower and Proctor in London. They’re one of the best.”
            I am looking at her but listening to him.
            “My business is IT. We write specialist software for companies and provide online data storage and websites. Does that make sense?”
            “I can barely work a mobile,” I reply.
            Mike McGee begins a laborious story about how he lost his mobile in Bulgaria. His wife produces a shiny new one from her bag as evidence like Miss Marple. When he gets to the part about the sexy hotel receptionist who detours with him en route to the police station, my eyes begin to close, his voice fades and I nod off.
            When the guests are gone I help stack the dishwasher and dry pans. I think Annie is going to berate me for my behaviour but instead she says.
            “Louise is a lovely girl. It's such a shame they can't have children.” I am crouched on the floor stacking pots in a cupboard. “I think it's his problem not hers but he won't adopt. She’s very upset. But he has immersed himself in his business.”
            We sit in the lounge. I stare at the flickering lights across the Lough while Annie pours us a nightcap and says.
            “I'm not sure of the reason you came over here but don't be in a hurry to move on. Think of this as your home. Stay as long as you like.”
            Perhaps it is the warmth of the alcohol, the kindness of her smile or because I didn’t make more effort at dinner but I cannot speak. I am frightened my lips will shake, tears fall and my resolve will crumble. I nod my thanks and focus on the swirling whiskey in my glass.
            I cannot tell her how grateful I am.

On Saturday morning Simon Tavner rings. I’ve got a job. Start Monday!


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