A published poet coming to stay? It’d be like hosting a celebrity. He was a big deal in the Dublin literary scene when his debut collection came out. That’s what Kim said. A big deal. I tried to read it but wasn’t fully sure what was going on. The line breaks were weird and there was a glossary at the end of each poem.
But I could help him out of his funk. All the places I could bring him to release the clutches of his anxiety; the mountains, the sea, lakes, forts, fairy trees, old grottos, castle ruins, the holy well, the white strand, the waterfall.
I collect him at the train station and show him around my hometown from the car.
‘I work there.’ I point out the leisure centre. ‘There’s the library, it’s lovely inside. Converted old town house. We could visit it tomorrow after the lake.’
‘Cool.’
‘I’d my first kiss behind it. A slobbering, dreadful affair but memorable too, I suppose. I spent most of it with my eyes open, looking at him. We weren’t together, just set up to go and kiss, then come back to Supermac’s for curry cheese chips or strawberry sundaes, and let the next pair go for their turn.’
‘A rite of passage.’
‘Yeah, was yours romantic?’
‘My first kiss was with a girl, believe it or not. She was a neighbour and a friend. Our mothers worked in the same restaurant. We were in my room, watching The Thing, I remember it clearly. She was afraid so I put my arm around her and we ended up kissing. We laughed about it after. I was pretty certain, at age thirteen, that I liked boys. We’re still good friends to this day.’
‘That’s kind of romantic.’
‘I might write about it, actually.’
I smile. He’s already inspired here.
‘There’s where I went to school. They say it’s haunted by old nuns and boarders who died on the grounds. Before them, the Irish peasants hanged by the local Protestant landlord. Those spirits knocking around.’
‘Did you ever see them?’
‘Nah. It was eerie at dusk. When I’d be doing supervised study after school or whatever and there wasn’t much activity, in some rooms you’d get chills but that was the central heating’s fault more than ghosts.’
I park in the square and bring him to my local, a small two-roomed bar. The bartender greets me warmly. We sit on stools at a table beside the fireplace.
The trad band are setting up.
‘Do you like trad?’
‘It’s cool, I guess,’ he says.
‘This band are decent. Otherwise I wouldn’t torture you with it. The fiddle player was in that group that toured the States all the time. Big in America. The woman on accordion is also a world champion Irish dancer.’
‘This is what I’d expect from the west of Ireland. This and mist rising from fields.’
‘Wait till the morning for that.’
He has three pints to my one. I drive us back to my gran’s place.
‘Natalie,’ he says, ‘I’m buzzing here. It’s been fun to see your town, to hear the stories. To taste what I’d have called the countryside. I’m excited, I think I’m going to go in and write. I can feel my words galloping home to me. Thank you.’
‘That’s great, Fionn. Tomorrow we can go to the lake and the library and then I was thinking we could climb some of the mountain. It’s not too strenuous but the views are pretty sweet from it.’
‘Sounds good, but if it’s okay with you, I need the morning hours for studying, undisturbed. I have a routine.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Sorry. Yes, of course.’
‘I’ll be out of the room by lunchtime, hunger will get to me.’
‘I can leave some breakfast outside on a tray so your creativity isn’t disrupted.’
‘Natalie, you’re too good.’
I go to bed smiling.
On Saturday, when Fionn’s writing routine finishes, I take him to the local sites. We walk around bogs and go to the waterfall.
He explains the pleasure it gives him to be writing.
‘It’s the only time I know that I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing.’
I show him the white strand beach at sunset and then we return to Gran’s. I offer to bring him for another night out in town after we’ve eaten but he says he’ll go to his room and work for the night now he has his flow back.
Gran sits in her chair beside the fire, propped up by a cushioned back-support. ‘Will we go to mass this evening?’
‘No, Gran, mass is only on Sunday mornings anymore. Church is too empty otherwise.’
‘Yes, I remember that now. Will you have something to eat?’
‘Gran, we had our tea? You made us grilled cheese sandwiches.’ I look at the clock. ‘We had it fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Of course, of course. My memory is getting worse. Can I ask a favour, will you drop me to mass this evening?’
I take a deep breath. ‘No, Gran, mass is only on Sunday mornings. I’ll bring you in the morning. Maybe Fionn will come too.’
‘Who?’
‘The poet. The one staying with us? You made him food? Tall thin fella with the curly black hair?’
‘Yes, of course. A nice lad. He’s like that fella out of the play. The Prince.’
‘What play?’
‘The Prince of Denmark. No, Hamlet. He’s like Hamlet, all in the black and the moping. A nice lad though.’
On Sunday, Fionn shows no sign of leaving all day. I wait to drop him back to the station but he never asks me for a lift into town.
At 10 p.m., I realize he’s staying so I go to bed.
On Monday morning, I knock on his door and offer him a lift before I start work. He says he’s grand.
Confused, I drive to town.
Andrea clocks in and asks how the weekend went.
‘Good. It was lovely. I had a guest stay.’ I tell her all about him. ‘He’s still here,’ I say and scratch my forehead. ‘He showed no sign of leaving and now he’s stuck out in the countryside with my gran for the day. I’m a bit worried.’
‘Give her a buzz sure and see if it’s okay.’
I dial Gran from the office phone. ‘Hi, it’s me, Fionn is still there. That’s okay with you, is it?’
Gran crunches on her cornflakes. ‘Who?’
‘Fionn, the poet fella. He’s in the spare room.’
‘Ah yes. Your little writer friend? He’s working away. I gave him a cup of tea. Grand lad.’
‘Okay, well, I may go for a swim at lunch instead of after work so you don’t have to be entertaining him.’
‘He doesn’t take much effort, Natalie. He’s like a wee ghost.’
‘Okay, Gran, if you’re sure?’
‘He’s grand.’
After work, Gran has dinner ready for us and Fionn thanks her.
He asks me how my day went.
‘It was good. You?’
‘Brilliant day. Wrote loads. I’m mad inspired here. I’m going for an amble after dinner if you’d like to join. Your gran gave me a torch for walking on the boreens.’
Gran’s watching the telly and ignoring our conversation.
When Fionn leaves, I ask, ‘Is it okay him still being here? I can tell him to go if he’s inconveniencing you?’
‘Who?’
‘Fionn, Gran, the poet fella.’
‘I don’t mind him at all. We do have lovely conversations.’
My eyebrows lift. ‘About what?’
‘Patrick Kavanagh.’
Andrea gives me a tour of the gym floor as I’ve never used it. She explains different moves that can be done with free-weights and on the mats. Her body is super toned and muscular.
‘Did you always enjoy all this?’
‘All what?’
‘This fitness craic.’
She rubs some red lip balm on her lips. ‘I suppose I did. I love it even more now that I’ve the kids. Teaching classes here, I get to unwind. Go home in great form for them. It’s a good life.’