‘How’re ye, Bronagh,’ she trilled. She had the paper she wanted her to type and print off the computer clutched in her hand. In her other was a brown paper bag in which she had two fresh, sugar topped ginger-snap cookies. They were so fresh they were still warm and she knew Bronagh was partial to anything ginger—anything sweet, more to the point. She was easy to please was Bronagh.
Bronagh jumped, she’d been so engrossed in the letter she was reading she hadn’t heard the door open. She swiftly tucked the piece of paper away in her top drawer beside the replenished biscuit stock. Its arrival along with this morning’s post, which in Aisling’s absence she was taking care of, had done wonders to lift the fug that had settled over her these past few days. The letters had been arriving like clockwork once a week since Christmas; she wrote back with equal regularity. It had all begun with a Christmas card addressed to her personally which had been sent here to the guesthouse. These letters warmed her and lifted her spirits during the bleak wintery weeks. She hoped hers were having the same effect across the water there.
‘Grand, Maureen. Yourself?’
‘Oh, I can’t complain.’
‘No, I hear not.’
Maureen appeared around the side of the desk with narrowed eyes. ‘Moira?’
‘Moira,’ Bronagh confirmed.
‘Jaysus wept, that girl! Shall I make us a cup of tea so we can enjoy our morning treat?’ She held up the paper bag.
‘A grand plan, Maureen,’ Bronagh said as the gently spiced aroma of ginger teased her.
The guests’ lounge was deserted and Maureen set about making the tea and running an eye over the place. She’d tell Ita it could do with a dust. Bronagh was on the telephone when she came back in and placed the cups and saucers carefully down on the front desk. She disappeared again and returned a moment later with two side plates for their biscuits. The door burst open before she could take so much as a bite or sip and, with Bronagh still on the phone, Maureen snapped back into her old role.
‘Good morning and welcome to O’Mara’s.’ Her eyes widened at the sight of the tall, thin man, clad in tweed with a matching cap on top of his head. He had a clipboard in his hand and looked like he’d just got off the bus from the Village of Back of Beyond. His smile, revealing a missing tooth, cemented her first impression. The more she stared the more she thought he had a look of Colm, one of her Brother’s Grimm about him.
‘Ruaraidh’s the name,’ it came out as a lisped, ‘Rory.’
‘And a grand name it is too. What can I be doing for you today?’ All that was missing was a piece of straw between his teeth.
‘I’m here to pick up a couple from America.’ He looked at the clipboard he held in his hand. ‘The Claremonts from Virginia. I’m their tour guide.’
Sweet and Merciful Jesus! What impression would the couple take home of Ireland with him as their guide? Maureen thought, with a shake of her head.
Bronagh put the phone down and finished scribbling the message she’d taken before peering over at Ruaraidh. ‘I’ll ring their room and tell them you’re here.’
‘Where’s the pretty red-headed girl?’ Ruaraidh leered about the place.
Yes, he definitely reminded Maureen of her brother, Colm. ‘On her honeymoon,’ she said in a clipped voice, to quell any ideas he might be having under that tweed cap of his. A huffing and puffing akin to a train pulling into its stop sounded behind her and she spun around to see their breakfast cook, Mrs Flaherty. She was even redder in the cheeks than normal, if possible.
‘Maureen, I thought I heard your voice.’
Holy God Above Tonight! The woman had better hearing than a bat, Maureen thought, taking a step back as Mrs Flaherty drew breath before launching into her speech.
‘It’s no fecking good. Something’s got to be done about that fecking fox!’
Ruiraidh’s eyes popped at the apparition in the apron as he thought to himself, surely she was a woman who should be baking apple pie not cursing like a sailor?
At least it had stopped him poking his head about the place to see if Maureen was only teasing when she’d said Aisling was away because she was in fact hiding behind the sofa. It was either that or he was checking for dust.
The Claremonts appeared on the landing, each clutching a suitcase. Poor Mrs Claremont was holding the cross around her neck as if to ward off the spectre of the swearing Irish cook.
Maureen went into damage control. ‘Mrs Flaherty, come back downstairs with me and we’ll see if we can’t sort this out. Good morning to you, Mr and Mrs Claremont. You’re in for a grand day to start your tour of our fair isle today so you are, there’s definitely a hint of blue under those rain clouds. Mark my words, the sun will be shining in an hour.’
The forecast was for rain and more rain followed by rain but they didn’t need to know that, she thought, beaming up at them before herding Mrs Flaherty back to the kitchen. Bronagh better not eat her ginger snap as well as her own, was her last thought before she began to pacify the cook who was threatening to storm the Iveagh Gardens behind them where the little red fox was holed up, her rolling pin her weapon. Foxy Loxy had paid a visit the night before by all accounts and left a telltale trail of debris all the way to his
