Roisin mumbled, ‘I wish I hadn’t now.’
‘Ah well, good sense is as important as good food and since you obviously had no sense last night it’ll have to be the good food. A rasher sandwich do you?’
‘Oh, yes please, Mrs Flaherty, nobody makes a rasher sandwich as good as yours and do you think there’s a chance of a fried egg going in there too?’ Roisin tried her luck and, watching Mrs Flaherty puff up proudly at the compliment, she knew her luck was in because there was nothing Mrs Flaherty liked more than her food being enjoyed.
‘Sit yourself down and tell me what’s been happening since I last saw you,’ she said, wielding the fry pan with expertise as Roisin brought her up to date with how she and Noah were getting on in London. Roisin felt better already. She was at home in the kitchen with its delicious smells that always transported her back to her childhood. Mrs Flaherty’s kitchen, as they all thought of it, had always been a place of sanctuary where something tasty usually got passed their way. By the time she’d brought the cook up to speed, the rashers were being placed between two thick slabs of buttered, real butter mind, soda bread. The finishing touch was an egg cooked on both sides. She plopped it on a plate and Roisin took it from her reverently.
‘Thank you. Food of the Gods this is, Mrs Flaherty.’
Mrs Flaherty wiped her hands on her apron. ‘You can earn your keep by helping clear the tables when you’re finished.’
Roisin nodded, her mouth too full to speak. She ate in silence, greedily gobbling the sandwich down and already beginning to feel like there was a real possibility she may be able to rejoin the human race after all.
‘That was wonderful, thank you.’ She made herself a milky, sugary cup of tea, which she gulped at before stacking her dishes in the dishwasher, while Mrs Flaherty began to tackle the frying pan and other pots in the sudsy sink water. She hadn’t forgotten her promise and she felt capable of nattering politely with the guests now she was fed and watered, so she ventured into the dining room. The tables were laid with white cloths and the walls of what once would have been servants’ quarters were adorned with black and white prints of the Dublin of old. A handful of guests were still enjoying the remains of breakfast, mopping up the last of their yolk with a slice of bread or enjoying a leisurely cup of tea. She smiled and introduced herself before asking an older couple if they were enjoying their stay.
‘We are thank you, dear,’ the woman, who looked a little older than Mammy in her sensible cardigan and blouse, replied. She would not be the sort to come home from a holiday in Asia with her hair braided, Roisin decided, smiling back at her. Nor would she be likely to get about in trousers three sizes too small!
‘We go home tomorrow, in time for Christmas.’
‘And where would home be?’
‘We’re from Sligo,’ the woman added, beaming proudly.
‘Oh lovely.’ Roisin had never been there. The only thing she knew about Sligo was Westlife came from there.
Her husband put his teacup down. ‘The wife here, wanted to do her Christmas shopping in Dublin. We’ll have to hire our own bus to get home with the amount of parcels she’s been after buying. Spoils the grandchildren rotten. In my day it was an orange in the stocking if you were lucky.’
‘Don’t believe a word of it, he’s worse than me when it comes to the grandchildren and it wasn’t just an orange. I remember your dear old mam telling me you got a peashooter when you were ten and menaced the village with the thing.’
They smiled across the table at each other with the warmth of a life lived well together.
‘My son’s five and he’s the only grandson and nephew so I expect his stocking will have more than an orange and peashooter in it too.’ She smiled from one to the other. ‘A Merry Christmas to you both and safe journey home.’ Roisin moved on. The table at the far end of the room was ready to be cleared but as she made her way toward it, she spied a dapper gentleman who seemed lost in his thoughts as he sat with a plate of toast in front of him. He had sandy colouring, the sort that didn’t show the grey hairs, and she guessed he would have had freckles in his youth. Either way this wouldn’t do, Roisin thought. Mrs Flaherty would have conniptions if the toast were returned to the kitchen with her homemade marmalade jam untouched.
‘A penny for them?’
The man blinked. He had bright, intelligent blue eyes, framed by neatly trimmed eyebrows. He looked surprised and mustn’t have seen her approach the table, Roisin thought. It was then she spotted the book on the table. When We Were Brave, by Cliona Whelan, the book she’d had signed by the author just the other day for Aisling. She gestured toward the book and told the man she’d met Cliona Whelan, the author, at a signing. At the mention of her name his face seemed to transform as he looked at her keenly. ‘You met Clio you say?’ He was American with a clipped, cool accent.
Roisin nodded, her curiosity piqued. ‘I did, well insomuch as she signed the copy of the book I bought for my sister as a Christmas present at Easons.’ No need to tell him about the Christmas photo debacle.
‘Have you read it?’
‘No, although I read a review of it in the paper and it sounds very good.’
He nodded. “It is. It’s brilliant but Clio always was brilliant.’
‘Oh, you know her?’
‘I do, yes, from a long time ago.’
‘Is that why you’ve come to Dublin? To catch up with her again?’
‘I’m hoping to, my dear. I’ve invited her to Christmas
