“Great. Thanks,” I mumble already bracing myself for Ridlee’s reaction when she sees this hunk of junk.
“Be careful on the motorways. I’m not sure her top speed is enough to maintain in the slow lane. You might have to go the long way round. But sure, they don’t call it the scenic route for nothin’.” And with that he drops the keys into my hands and disappears back inside the port-a-cabin that he uses for an office.
Ridlee arrives a minute or two later with one of the boys from the office dragging her suitcases behind. “What’s that, a golf buggy?” she asks, genuinely, I think.
“No, that is a Fiat Bambino. Our Fiat Bambino, actually.”
Ridlee looks from me to the car and back to me again. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
I’m kind of relieved that little-miss-perfect-for-the-parents-Ridlee has been jostled aside and replaced by my ball-breaking friend.
“Be right back,” she says, and marches off in the direction of the office.
I go back to staring at the ancient, baby pink Bambino. Knowing Ridlee’s mission is probably hopeless, I move to the driver’s side door. It takes an age to get the tiny key into the little lock to get it open. A moment later, Ridlee returns, huffing a little.
“No joy?”
“None whatsoever. He gave me these.” She holds out her hand to show me a knotted clump of bungee rope.
“What are they for?”
“My luggage.”
I have to bite my cheek not to burst out laughing, she looks so angry.
Forty-five minutes later we’re on the road and heading west. The luggage on the roof rack is almost the same size as the car itself.
“Did you put the address into the GPS?” I ask anxiously, because contrary to what my mother says, I can barely recognise Dublin anymore, and getting on the motorway is proving a bit tricky. The device has been way too quiet for way too long.
“There! There!” Ridlee waves frantically at a big blue sign indicating that those wishing to go west should get off the motorway now.
”Recalculating," intones the annoying bitch on the GPS, “in sixteen kilometres make a u-turn.”
“Gimme that!” I grab the device and punch some buttons on the menu. There’s a beep and the voice changes.
“Ar aghaidh leat…”
“Fuck.” I let out a long sigh as I realize I’ve made it worse. Irish school did nothing to prepare me for this.
“What have you done, Erin?” Ridlee’s tone is playful, but I don’t think she’ll be laughing in a minute.
“The stupid thing’s stuck on Irish,” I say jamming my finger onto the touch screen again.
“That’s okay. You’re mom said that you speak Irish fluently,” Ridlee offers, unruffled.
I glance at her and then back to the road.
“You do speak Irish Erin, don’t you?” Suspicion laces her tone.
“It’s been a while, Rid, but hopefully it’ll come back to me.” I focus hard on the road in front of me. Everything looks and feels so different and I barely recognized the streets I grew up on as Dad drove us home from the airport. Now it seems I can’t remember a word of Irish and Dublin city has undergone so many major changes that I’m feeling pretty lost. I’m a stranger here. Still, probably best not to share this information with Ridlee; I don’t want to make her nervous.
CHAPTER SIX
RIDLEE
I RUB MY STOMACH AS we tool down the highway. “Black pudding. What exactly is it that makes the pudding black? And can I just assign penalty points right now for calling something that tastes like dinner food pudding? Because pudding is supposed to be sweet and goopy and something that you eat for dessert.”
“Did you like it?” Erin looks at me sideways as she grins. It’s that grin that has me suddenly very worried.
“I’m not sure.” I rub my midsection again. “Something’s not right in here.”
“In your belly?”
“Yes. Or maybe it’s in my intestines. Ugh.” I look out the window, trying not to see that blob of black non-pudding that was on my breakfast plate earlier today. I ate the whole thing. The whole, black, mushy, gushy, gloopy and slightly lumpy thing. “I change my mind. Don’t tell me what’s in it. I don’t want to know.”
“Ye sure?” She’s taunting me now.
I glare at her. “If you tell me it’s sheep testicles, I’m gonna yack it all up in this Bambino, I swear to God, Erin. And I’m not going to be the one cleaning it up, either.”
“Sheep testicles? Nah. Are they black? I’ve never looked that close.”
She sounds genuinely curious, so I laugh. “No, I am not going to allow you to pull over so you can go look at that sheep’s balls.” The hillsides are dotted with the puffy white-ish grey-ish color of their fleece. They all look like they could use a good bath.
“It would only take a sec.”
“No. Keep driving. I need to get a pint in me.”
She frowns at me and then leans over, putting the back of her hand across my forehead. “You’ve caught the disease, haven’t you?”
“What disease?” I push her hand away. She’s blocking my view of all the green grass everywhere, and I think this ridiculous excuse for a vehicle is making me carsick, so I need as much of the view as I can get.
“Uncle Miley-itis. The disease that causes you to think a pint’ll cure anything.”
“In the U.S. we call it hair-of-the-dog. It’s not exclusive to your uncle.” Honestly, a pint is the last thing I need, but I’m anxious to get to Lisdoonvarna to find out what we can do to salvage Erin’s inheritance. I’m nervous that I’m not going to have enough time to navigate the Irish legal waters that await. Maybe that’s why my stomach is in knots. This is so important to her; I do not want to screw it up. “I need something in my belly that’s not a fake pudding and not animal body parts that weren’t meant to be eaten.”
“Parts such as …?”
“Intestines, reproductive organs, … actually any organs …, eyelids, ears, tongues, tails,…”
“You’ve cut out half the animal.”
“Exactly. Give me meat. That’s all I want.”
“You like hot dogs.”
“So?”
“Hot dogs have all that stuff you just listed in ‘em.”
“They do not.” I stare at her horrified. She knows how much I like hot dogs.
“Google it.”
Now I’m just cranky. I have to scratch hot dogs off my list? Another penalty point shall now be assigned to all of Ireland. It has to be Ireland’s fault. I don’t know anyone in the U.S. who cooks intestines for dinner. What the hell am I going to eat at Fenway Park now? They can’t possibly expect me to eat nachos.
“What’s wrong?” Erin asks.
“Nothing.” I wave her off. “Let’s change the subject.”
“To …?”
“To what we’re going to do when we arrive. What’s the game plan?” Forcing myself to ignore my churning guts, I put on my business face and wait for Erin’s reply. Hopefully she has it all worked out, since I’ve been too distracted by all the crazy Irish things to do much in that area.
“Well, first thing is to check into the B&B. Then …”
“B&B? What happened to the hotel?”