CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ERIN
“WELCOME TO BUNRATTY CASTLE, THE most complete and authentic medieval fortress in Ireland. Built in 1425 it was restored in 1954 to its former medieval splendor and now contains mainly 15th and 16th century furnishings, tapestries, and works of art which capture the mood of those times…Sounds perfect,” says Ridlee snapping the guide book shut as I throw the Bambino in and out of pot holes that pepper the country road we’re on.
“How’s that?” I glance over at her to see if she’s needling me again. The Bambino slams into another pothole.
Ridlee clutches the dashboard and grits her teeth. “Well, I imagine they were all a little moody back in the 15th and 16th centuries, what with it being so cold in the castle, so you’ll fit right in.” She smiles at me but it’s more of a grimace, really.
“I’m sorry.” I look at her with puppy-dog eyes. It’s time to mend some bridges. The statute of limitations on moodiness in our friendship is about half a day and my mood’s been pretty rotten since last night.
“Eyes on the road, eyes on the road!” she screams.
I swing my gaze back just in time to swerve as a big, wooly, black-faced sheep jumps out in front of the car and scampers across the road and into a nearby field. The Bambino wobbles and then rights itself before skidding to a halt on the other side of the road.
“Are you ok?” I realise that my left hand is on Ridlee’s chest, presumably to prevent her from going through the windscreen.
“Fuck me, Erin, that was close.” She’s gripping the dashboard, legs ramrod straight as though pushing an invisible brake.
“I know…,” I say in a low voice. “Is the sheep ok?” I look out the back window.
“Fuck the fucking sheep, Erin. We could have been killed!” Her face is ashen.
I have to stifle a giggle that I feel rising. Nerves. This often happens to me when I hear of a tragedy, or sometimes even when I’m on the brink of one, or have just dodged one. Ridlee, on the other hand, is not amused.
I put my hand back on the steering wheel and look ahead. “Shit,” I mutter, as all threat of laughter evaporates. “We’re on the wrong side of the road.” I turn the key in the ignition but the Bambino just lets out that grating sound it makes when it doesn’t want to drive.
“Out! Out! Out! Everybody out!” I shout, unclipping my seatbelt and bounding out of the car. I quickly lean back in and put the gear stick in neutral and start pushing from the driver’s door. Ridlee totters round the rear and starts pushing with everything she has. We manage to roll the car over to the left hand side of the road and up onto the verge just as a huge tractor pulling a trailer full of manure comes round the corner, taking up both sides of the road. The driver barely clocks us.
I lean against the door, spent. Ridlee drops onto the grass verge. I look at her and she looks at me, and we burst into peals of laughter.
“That’s twice in two days, my friend. You are a freakin’ liability!” she says, but at least she’s laughing now.
I laugh too, but cautiously; in Ireland we firmly believe that bad luck comes in threes. I look around me uneasily. “Hey, Rid, do you wanna drive?”
“Sure!”
We get back in the Bambino and it starts for Ridlee without so much as a groan of complaint. She beams at me, “Guess I’ve got the touch.”
Once we’re on the road again, I open the guidebook for directions and to plan the rest of our afternoon. All we can do is wait to see what the solicitor says when he calls with an answer to my offer on the bar. It was my idea to get out of Dodge, otherwise known as Doolin, today so that I wouldn’t run the risk of bumping into Micheál, or be tempted to rush out to find him and confess everything. Ridlee’s right. He is a holiday fling. I barely know him, and if he hasn’t done his homework properly on the sale, then he isn’t much of a businessman. Sure, he saved my life yesterday, but surely he would have done the same for anyone. And I would have done the same for him, wouldn’t I?
I shake my head to get rid of that particular thought. I don’t want to go down that path — my mother’s favourite — put yourself in their shoes, how would you like to be treated in the same situation, etc., etc. My mother has no head for business; she’s too nice. I can afford to be nice when I’ve made my money.
“Right. Guidebook,” I say aloud, forcing myself to focus on something else.
Ridlee pipes up with, “There’s a cave around here somewhere with a great big stalactite. We could go and see that.”
“Are they the giant phallic things that grow out of the rock? I told you, Rid, I don’t want any reminders of Michaél today!” I say vehemently.
“Nooo, that’s stalagmite. Theses are the ones that flow from the ceiling of the cave like stone icicles.”
I look at her suspiciously. “What did you do, swallow the guidebook or something?”
“No, Jeremy was into caving,” she says primly, two hands gripping the steering wheel in a perfect ten-to-two hold.
“I’ll bet he was,” I mutter under my breath. I close the guidebook purposefully. “No, I don’t think I’ll be entering any caves today. I only have one life left. Besides, that cave is back in Doolin, which is only 6km from you-know-who. We’ll just go to Bunratty Castle and then find a pub and go and get drunk.” I don’t add that we will be either celebrating or commiserating because I don’t know which result — to get word that Micheál is going to sell or not — will make me happy or depressed.
I look down at the guidebook again for inspiration. “Mmm… apparently at Bunratty Folk Village people mill about dressed in traditional clothing, and the village has been restored so that all the little shops are selling their wares, much as they would have hundreds of years ago. That sounds like fun, doesn’t it, Rid?” I close the book on my lap.
“Going back in time?” she crinkles her nose. “Nah, I like the 21st century. The technology’s better.”
“Mmm," I say absentmindedly. I wish I could go back in time. I’d have conducted this business deal over the phone from Boston … But then you would never have met Michaél, says the angel or devil on my shoulder; I can never tell who’s who…
“Shut up!” I say aloud. My hand flies to my lips and I smile sheepishly at Ridlee who is now glaring at me.
“Are you alright, Erin?” she asks in a matronly tone.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” I mumble and look out the window, concentrating deeply on the passing landscape.
“That’s the famous Burren,” I say a little too brightly, to distract Ridlee from my momentary lapse into madness. She smiles politely so I’m encouraged to go on. “The rolling hills of Burren are composed of limestone pavements with criss-crossing cracks known as ‘grikes’, leaving isolated rocks called ‘clints’.”
Ridlee’s brow furrows which I interpret as, ‘Really, how interesting. Do go on…’ So I do.
“In 1651-52, Edmund Ludlow stated, ‘Burren is a country where there is not enough water to drown a man, wood enough to hang one, nor earth enough to bury him...... and yet their cattle are very fat; for the grass growing in turfs of earth, of two or three foot square, that lie between the rocks, which are of limestone, is very sweet and nourishing.’ That’s interesting, isn’t it, Rid?”
“Fascinating, Erin. Where’d you learn all that?” she asks, somewhat impressed.
“I just read it in the guidebook.”