“Humph, bit late now,” I retort looking round the bathroom in dismay. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, there aren’t even any towels in here. Ridlee, could you get me one from the airing cupboard?”
My friend stares at me blankly, as though I’ve just spoken to her in Elvish or something.
“The hot press?” Still, nothing. I heave out a sigh, “The closet in the hall where the linen and towels are kept.”
“Ohhh, the linen closet. Why didn’t you just say so? Sure.” She winks at me before disappearing out into the hall.
I stand in the bath shivering. Looking down at my bush, I realize it’s beginning to encroach on my tattoo, just above my bikini line. The tattoo is of an American road sign shaped as an arrow, with the words One Way written on it. I’m sure you can guess which way it points. I had wanted to get one saying Downtown instead, but Ridlee thought it was too obvious.
I reach for my ladyshave razor and began to tidy myself up a bit when two raps come at the door. I don’t know why Ridlee’s knocking now. “Yeah, yeah, come in already.” I look up to make sure she has my towel.
Uncle Miley walks into the bathroom and looks right at me and my ladyshave.
I scream.
He screams.
Then he turns and rushes out of the room, but not before getting an eyeful of my tattoo.
“Great!” I swear as my whole body blushes. Uncle Miley just saw me shaving my minge. “Ew, yuck, nasty!” I shiver involuntarily.
“S’up?” asks Ridlee, reappearing with a towel.
“Nothing, it’s too horrible to explain.”
Ridlee looks at my nether region. “Girl, you’ve got some hedge trimmin’ to do. There may be some hotties waiting for us in county whatyamaycallit, so you’d better get busy.”
“Yeah, got it. And it’s County Clare. Lisdoonvarna, to be exact. And, I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you. It’ll just be a very big band of mucksavages lookin’ for sex.”
I re-rig the shower and attempt to wash the shampoo out of my hair finally. “Will ye tell Mum that we don’t have time for breakfast, Rid? We need to get going and collect the car from the car rental place. I’ll be down in ten.”
Thirty minutes later I enter the kitchen to a chorus of laughter. Uncle Miley is hiding behind a cup of tea he’s holding to his lips. My da is finishing a story, and my best friend is sitting up all alert, like a Jack Russell about to get a treat.
“Well, the handlebars of this cyclist’s bike have attached themselves to Erin’s passenger wing-mirror. The driving instructor, the feckin gobshite, is gobsmacked and can say nothing, so Erin has to decide what she should do, and quickly. She’s worried that if she stops the car the cyclist will be hurt, so instead she swerves a couple of times tryin’ to dislodge him.”
“Get outta here!” exclaims Ridlee.
“I kid ye not,” my dad continues, delighted to have a captive audience. “The first swerve does nothing, so she goes again. The fella’s on one of those racing bikes, all hunkered down, so his face is level with the driving instructor’s. They eyeball each other, equally panicked. Erin swerves again. Again, no joy — he’s a tenacious bugger. The third swerve proves successful, and he’s freed. Erin glances in the rear-view mirror to make sure he’s okay and then goes full welly on the accelerator, getting through the traffic lights just before they turn red.” Peals of laughter fill the air. I’ve heard this retold many times; it’s one of dad’s favourites. It was bloody scary at the time; I thought I was going to kill the guy.
“What did the driving instructor say?” asks Ridlee.
“That’s the funniest bit.” Dad sits up straighter and puts his mug of tea down. “The instructor said nothing that day. Not a word. And the next time Erin saw him for her lesson, he told her that he had looked it up and couldn’t find any rule of the road that she had violated. They never spoke of it again.” More laughter. I smile at my dad. He looks younger when he’s laughing.
He finally looks up to where I’m standing in the doorway. “There ye are, Pet,” he says warmly. “Ridlee was just telling us that ye’re off to hire a car.”
I know he’s disappointed that we’re leaving so soon. Mum jumps up to refill the teapot in the hope that yet another cup of tea will keep us riveted to the kitchen table a while longer at least.
“Yeah, sorry.” I ram my hands in the back pockets of my jeans and shift from one foot to the other. “Stuff to do, ye know?” I hate doing this to them—arriving home out of the blue like this and then disappearing after a day or two. Mum and Dad were both hoping that it might be a longer visit, but I just can’t afford to leave the bar for any longer than necessary right now. Guilt tugs at my conscience— yet again.
My dad gets up and walks over to me, putting his arm around me and squeezing hard. “Yeah, I know. But sure it’s been grand seein’ ye and young Ridlee here.” He drops his voice to a stage whisper and looks to my friend. “Sorry about the food poisoning, Ridlee.”
“Get away with ye, Jack O’Neill! I heard that!” yells my mum from the other end of the kitchen. “She had a bad pint. We all ate the same, so it must have been the Guinness.”
“Really, Mrs. O’Neill…” says Ridlee.
“It’s Una, Ridlee.” Clearly my parents have found their lost child. They love Ridlee.
“Una.” Ridlee smiles beatifically. God, she’s good. “I’m sure it was the airplane food.”
Mum smiles warmly at her.
Ridlee didn’t eat on the plane; she never does.
Pulling two dinner plates out of the oven Mum ushers me to take a seat at the table. “Well, if ye’re going all the way to County Clare, ye’ll need a good breakfast. No arguments.”
It really is almost impossible to think that my mother grew up in the States; I sound more American than she does. But then converts are always the most fervent, aren’t they?
I sit down next to Ridlee. I actually love a full Irish breakfast: rashers of bacon, sausages, baked beans, soda bread, and pudding — the other part of the pig. I’m not going to tell Ridlee that Irish breakfast pudding is made from pig’s blood. It’s delicious; she’ll love it if she gives it a chance.
“What’s that?” whispers Ridlee, subtly pointing her knife at her black pudding.
“Pudding. Now eat up; it could be a long day.”
“Now, Erin, do ye know which way to go to get to County Clare?” asks Uncle Miley, emerging from his newspaper for the first time, winking at me.
“Sure, it’ll be sign-posted all the way,” offers my helpful mother. “Erin’s very good at navigating, aren’t ye, Erin? And sure, ye can always get one of those GSP things, can’t ye?”
I stare at my plate, a full blush beginning to tingle my toes. The tattoo had seemed like such a cool thing to do when Ridlee and I were tipsy, but it has given me no end of trouble since. I cannot believe Uncle Miley saw me naked.
“Yeah, Mum, we’ll probably get a GPS, in case.”
“Cause ye know there’s more than one way to get to Clare,” says my uncle, his bushy eyebrows dancing.
I push back my chair so quickly that it almost overturns, and stand up. “Time to go!” I drag Ridley from her chair and force her out the front door with me, grabbing my purse from the couch as we stumble by.
“What’s the big hurry?” Ridlee asks, snagging her purse too.
“I had to get out of there. Needed some fresh air.” I act distracted so she won’t ask me any more questions. If she finds out about the Uncle Miley incident they’ll both start teasing me and I’m liable to start swinging then.
We pick up the car from the ‘rental’, if you could call it that, that Uncle Miley has directed us to. Seems Miley forgot to tell them we were coming today, so all they have left for us is a Fiat Bambino from the 1970s.
“She goes,” the manager assures me as I stare crestfallen at the tiny pink car. “A classic. Guzzles petrol, mind, but sure that’s to be expected isn’t it?” He scratches his head and looks impotently around the now empty car lot. “If only your uncle had told me when you were comin’, I could have put something special aside for ye. The good news is that the cigarette lighter still works so I’ll throw in a GPS for free.”