‘Katja? Why?’
‘The most exciting story of all.’ She smiled then. ‘Birdie, one of the names on my list, made a bet that she would live to the age of eighty-five and she turns eighty-five tomorrow. We’re driving to Cork to pick up her winnings.’
‘You’re kidding. How much winnings?’
‘Ten grand,’ Kitty grinned. ‘Or its euro equivalent, at least. So I need a photographer. It will be an overnight trip and there’s a couple of things along the way I’ll need her to do too.’
Steve thought about it. ‘I’ll let her know.’
‘Thanks. I’ll text you the pick-up details from the bus. If she can’t come let me know so I can organise someone else. I’d better go.’ They stood still in the allotment and Kitty all of a sudden very desperately wanted to be back in that embrace with him. Stunned by her feelings, she turned round and left awkwardly.
‘But, Eugene, I don’t understand why you told her about that?’ Ambrose shouted at her friend and colleague.
Eugene’s cheeks flushed. Ambrose’s temper was as fiery as her hair. He had faced her wrath before and wasn’t particularly good at dealing with it. It reduced him to a stammering wreck. ‘It just came up in conversation,’ he said meekly.
His meekness gave her more confidence to have a go at him. ‘How could something like that just come up in conversation? It has nothing to do with the business. Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have let you be interviewed by her,’ she fumed, pacing her kitchen.
However, they both knew the opposite was true. If Eugene didn’t speak to the reporter there would be no article, there would be no publicity for the museum, of which they were in dire need, and there would certainly be no better way to air their shared opinions and worries on the extinction of many butterflies. Eugene was better with people, everybody knew that. Apart from when she was with him, Ambrose had a complete inability to deal with most people. She became too conscious of her appearance, too obsessed by what they were thinking about her to be able to formulate a proper thought, never mind do business or promote her museum. She was okay over the phone but was all too aware of the local mystery surrounding her and so preferred not to deal with anyone at all. That way she couldn’t add to the whispers and tales of ‘the time they met Ambrose Nolan …’ Truth be told, she was getting worse. She shopped online for clothes and groceries, making sure that anything that needed to be signed for would go directly to the museum so that Eugene, or Sara in the shop and café, would take care of it. But the one thing that nobody knew was the very thing Eugene had splurged to the reporter. Well, there were two things really. The first Eugene had broken to Ambrose, thinking she would be mildly annoyed, but she had exploded when she’d heard, and the second was simply unforgivable. He’d known it as he was telling the reporter but he couldn’t help it, it had just come out. The reporter was good; she had a way of weaselling things out of him, which bothered him. He had said things he didn’t even know to be true until he heard them come out of his mouth.
‘I apologise about telling her about the operation,’ he stammered. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why I did, in fact, I’ll ask her to make sure she doesn’t write it in the article.’ He referred to the fact that Ambrose had been saving for a very long time to have the birthmark on her face removed. She had visited various doctors about it and it would take many laser treatments to have it removed, but it was possible. This piece of information was not something she expected to be shared. The idea that Eugene had discussed her appearance with anybody humiliated her. ‘But I didn’t know you didn’t want anybody to know about your report,’ Eugene said more firmly, confidence in his voice, and Ambrose believed him.
‘Who else have you told?’
‘Nobody.’
‘So you see, you did know not to say anything otherwise you would have told people.’
‘Look, Ambrose, calm down. What you’ve done is terrific. You should be proud. I’ve read your report over and over again and it’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever read. I’m proud of you; you should want to tell the world about your findings. The fact that the symposium has asked you to speak about it is a huge honour and confirmation that your studies are remarkable. This symposium is your golden opportunity and you know it. It’s not every day or even every year that it comes to Ireland.’ He was referring to the upcoming event in Cork University where Sir David Attenborough, President of Butterfly Conservation, was to open this year’s symposium. There would be reviews and news of the latest initiatives to reverse the decline in butterfly and moth numbers and how to conserve habitats. The symposium would also provide researchers from all around the world with a forum to present papers on practical conservation work. It would look at the future challenges, including the impact of climate change. Ambrose was one of the people who had been invited to speak. Eugene had confirmed the engagement on her behalf, much to her anger, but that had been another day’s argument. Whether she would bite the bullet and attend the conference was unknown at this point but Eugene wasn’t giving up on her.
‘So you told her deliberately,’ she snapped, face hot, eyes bright, one green and burning bright, the other as fearsome though dull brown, ‘to force me to do it. If she writes about it then I have to do it, is that your plan?’
‘I think your work is something to tell the world about,’ he said firmly, trying to keep the stammer out of his voice. ‘I doubt anybody else in the world has studied the Peacock butterfly as closely as you have. You have the data, the experience to prove it. Why spend five years studying and writing a report if you’re not going to show it to anybody?’ He realised his voice had risen louder and louder. Ambrose seemed surprised. Amused, even.
‘You told her I was going to Cork and now she wants to come with us,’ she said, frustrated.
‘Correction. She wants us to go with her.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will soon. She’ll be here soon to talk to you. She wants to spend the afternoon with you.’
The doorbell rang.
‘That will be her,’ Eugene said. Shaking from his confrontation he left an open-mouthed Ambrose quickly pulling down her hair from its clip, covering her face in a panic.
He took a deep breath and smiled before opening the door. ‘Ah. Ms Logan, how lovely to see you. Please do come in.’
‘She ties her hair back when she’s around you,’ Kitty said to Eugene after her interview session with the increasingly intriguing Ambrose was finished.
Eugene looked up in surprise from his paperwork where he was sitting in a small cubbyhole office. ‘She told you that?’
‘No, I saw you two talking through the window before I rang the doorbell.’ Which translated to: ‘I was snooping before I rang the doorbell.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well then, I’ve nothing further to add to that.’
‘I’m not going to write about that,’ Kitty said, leaning against the doorframe, making him feel trapped. ‘It just must be nice for you to know that.’
‘Nice? Why would it be nice?’ He fidgeted with papers. His cheeks flushed and the colour ran down his neck and stopped at his bow tie.
‘Because she obviously feels very comfortable around you,’ Kitty smiled and watched the corners of his mouth twitch as he thought about it.
‘Well, I’ve never considered it. I mean, that’s no reason to … It’s not … She’s not, we’re not …’ he stammered, unable to finish a single sentence he’d started.
‘So I’ll see you both tomorrow afternoon,’ Kitty said.
‘She said she’d go?’
‘No, but I’ll leave it up to you to convince her. I have a feeling she listens to what you say.’ She winked at him and left the museum.
Ashford Private College was situated on Parnell Square beside the Irish Writers’ Centre, which faced the Garden of Remembrance and other such important venues as the Gate Theatre and Rotunda Maternity Hospital. It was a Georgian square and the college filled four floors of classrooms, advertising s
ubjects from cookery to technology, interior design, business studies, marketing and media. Part of that media course was a television presentation class that taught the student how to speak properly and slowly, how to speak to the camera, getting rid of any habits or tics they unknowingly had and becoming comfortable with presentation and the sound of their own voice. Kitty had taken the class five years ago and was now attending an interview to teach it. It didn’t escape her that she had no teaching credentials but she had gained plenty of experience actually working in the field, and in addition to being keen to share her knowledge, she really needed the money. Pay for two and a half hours a week would go a long way in her current situation.
She sat before Daniel Meara, the captain of the ship, former principal-turned-businessman, who had opened up the college to teach part-time and night courses, making money on handing out diplomas and certificates for employment opportunities that no longer existed.
‘Katherine,’ he looked down at her résumé and back up at her with a smile. It was an awkward smile, one that immediately had Kitty questioning why on earth she had come at all. If she didn’t believe in herself, how on earth was she going to convince this man that she was good enough for the job? She braced herself.
‘I appreciate you coming in to us today. And here is the thing,’ he said, placing the palms of his hands down flat on the surface of the table. His fingers were sweaty and made a sticky sound each time he lifted them from the table, which he did to emphasise certain words. ‘You are a past student of ours, which we appreciate greatly, and so that’s why I told Triona to ask you in, so I could see you myself.’ He moved his fingers and they made that sticky noise. ‘And you have gone on to work in the field you studied, which we admire greatly and are most proud of.’ He cleared his throat. ‘However, under the current circumstances, your current circumstances …’ They were the only words Kitty needed to hear to understand where this was going, and the rest disappeared before it reached her head apart from the memorable: ‘The students are studying your case in Media Law and we feel this would be a conflict of interest and very uncomfortable for you.’
She would have preferred to have heard it over the phone. She had spent time getting dressed up, doing her make-up and hair, wearing shoes that cut off her circulation, and was now being smiled at patronisingly. At least with the phone she wouldn’t have had to cycle home with tears streaming down her face. The one thing she could be grateful for was Sally’s predicted torrential rain, which suddenly fell as she made her way through the miserable dark night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Kitty couldn’t sleep the night before Birdie’s excursion. She couldn’t even close her eyes. She had pushed the humiliation of the job interview to the back of her mind, to be dealt with at another time on another day when she had the resources, and right now her mind was on the story, on the people and the trip. She felt nervous. Excited tingles rippled through her stomach, and then the all-too-familiar negative thoughts would immediately follow. What if she had made a mistake in throwing them all together? What if her entire plan of action regarding the angle she was taking was wrong? She felt an overwhelming duty to Constance, and also to Bob, to get it right. Her desire to please Pete no longer existed. He would have to employ some of Constance’s belief and spirit and trust that his writer knew what she was doing. The thing was that she felt that she knew what she was doing; she was back to following her instincts instead of reacting to somebody else’s. That outcome alone from this entire process was enough to celebrate. She had found the confidence to listen to herself again, she was simply worried that her instincts were wrong, that this trip would be a disaster.
As she lay in bed looking at the apartment bathed in blue moonlight she began to think about having to leave it. She had lived there alone for five years, and for four months with Glen. She loved her apartment, was so fond of the space and didn’t want to leave it. She had been lucky to find it, cheeky to threaten her landlord into giving it to her cheaper and now her dastardly ways had come back to haunt her. She was going to be out on her ear in less than a fortnight. Wide awake at the thought of her uncertain future, she threw off the bedcovers and immediately began packing, afraid about the impending trip and afraid to be moving on. By three thirty her clothes were all in suitcases; by 4 a.m. she was fast asleep dreaming of her adventure with six of the one hundred names.
The plan was for Kitty to collect Birdie from the nursing home in a taxi, where the battle-axe had been informed she would be taking Birdie away to stay overnight with her family. In the meantime, she saw the Oldtown Pistols return right on cue, victorious from their win against the Balbriggan Eagles. While on duty, Molly had arranged for the bus to be serviced, concocting a lie about hearing it make a funny noise and that a ‘Pistol’ had reported a funny smell and noise. This was taken seriously and the nurses had agreed to Molly’s arrangements of local man Billy Meaghar to take the bus for a check-up, with strict instructions that it be returned for the Pink Ladies’ bridge night the following evening. For an extra fifty euro Billy had agreed that Molly could take the bus and have it back on time for him to return it to the nursing home the following day.
So far so good.
Birdie and Kitty waited anxiously in the Oldtown café for Molly to arrive with the bus, both waiting for their plan to be overthrown by the battle-axe in the nursing home.
‘How are you feeling?’ Kitty asked Birdie.
‘About the bus?’
‘About the trip,’ Kitty smiled. ‘About going home.’
She sighed, long and hard, and Kitty couldn’t tell if it was contented or loaded with anxiety, or both.
‘I feel excited, but I feel nervous. I only went back there once, for my father’s funeral, and that was forty years ago. This trip has got me thinking. Funny, really, how the mere thought of going back has me disappearing into the memories …’ She trailed off as if getting caught in another web of thoughts of the past. ‘There are so many things I’m remembering that I had completely forgotten.’
‘Are you sure that it’s okay for me to bring others on this journey? I know it’s a very personal one for you.’
‘Kitty, I’m more than happy to meet these people,’ Birdie smiled. ‘It will be intriguing to see who else has been “listed” with me.’
‘Intriguing is one word for it,’ Kitty laughed nervously.
‘You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?’ Birdie asked. ‘The thing that links us all.’
‘Yes,’ Kitty replied, ‘I think I have.’ She respected Birdie for not asking.
‘That’s okay, I have a little secret of my own,’ Birdie chuckled, her eyes sparkling mischievously again. ‘Molly doesn’t know it yet but we have one extra stop to make along the way.’
That stop was Trinity College, Dublin where Birdie’s grandson, Edward, was studying for a law degree. Kitty remembered seeing him visit as she was leaving one time. He was a handsome man in his twenties, responsible and diligent, by the sounds of it, and a fine match for Molly in Birdie’s eyes, though they couldn’t be more like chalk and cheese in Kitty’s.
‘You little romantic,’ Kitty teased.
‘Molly will kill me, no doubt, but Edward needs a kick up the backside. He’s Caroline’s son,’ Birdie said, as if that explained it all. ‘His head is so far in those books, he wouldn’t see a good thing in front of him if it stripped naked and writhed in front of his eyes.’
‘I wouldn’t put that past Molly,’ Kitty said, and Birdie laughed heartily.
Suddenly there was a loud honk of a horn, which made them both jump in their seats, along with the other customers, and they looked out the café window to see Molly behind the wheel, two enthusiastic thumbs up.
‘That’s nice and subtle,’ Kitty mumbled as they made their way out to the bus.
‘I love doing that,’ Molly said happily, closing the doors again and savouring the feeling. She pulled a lever and the doors opened again and then she closed them.
&nb
sp; ‘Please stop playing with the bus,’ Kitty said nervously, looking around the town. ‘I don’t want to be arrested for theft until after we’ve completed the trip.’
Birdie and Kitty sat in the front row behind Molly, though Kitty had no intention of staying there very long if Molly’s driving skills on the motorbike were anything to go by.
‘There’s even a microphone,’ Molly said excitedly. ‘Next stop,’ she said into the mic, ‘the foothills of the Boggeragh Mountains.’
‘Actually, we also need to stop at Trinity College,’ Kitty interrupted her announcement.
‘I thought we were collecting your gang under the clock at Clerys and going straight to Cork,’ she frowned. ‘Oh, don’t tell me …’ She looked back at Birdie.
‘Keep your eye on the road, child!’ Birdie exclaimed. ‘I want to make it to my eighty-fifth birthday. He doesn’t know he’s coming yet, but he is.’
Molly rolled her eyes and they left Oldtown before anybody else could report seeing them.
They pulled in at Clerys department store on O’Connell Street, and numerous cars and buses behind them sounded their horns in protestation of Molly’s irrational driving.
‘Oh, shut up,’ Molly muttered, putting her hazard lights on. ‘Are they here, Kitty?’
Kitty’s stomach churned as she surveyed the pathway outside of Clerys and spotted them all, some standing in small groups and others alone. Her heart lifted when she saw Ambrose and Eugene standing together, Ambrose’s mop of wild red hair covering her face as she stood side on, looking at her feet, and Eugene lifting his face to the sun happily, no doubt doing his best to distract Ambrose into forgetting she was out in the big bad world surrounded by strangers, distanced from her precious butterflies.
Eva Wu was the first to notice Kitty standing at the open door of the bus. She looked at ‘St Margaret’s’ boldly emblazoned across the side of the bus and threw her a quizzical look. Despite the fact she had numerous gifts to give people at the wedding, she had only an overnight bag and one small carrier bag with her. Kitty guessed the presents would be arriving in another way.