The day after...

THE AFTERMATH

The day after D Day I was back in work. Nothing had changed and everything had changed. My office looked the same; my desk was where it always was. But I was not who I had been. I was now a divorcee.

It was a Friday, so that evening I packed some clothes and on Saturday morning drove to the west of Ireland, to the northernmost tip of Galway. I was on my own, there to lick my wounds but I also knew there was a Bridge Club Holiday going in that hotel that particular week. Saturday I drove the length and breadth of Connemara, sobbing all the way along the winding roads leading to places that had previously soothed me and landscapes that always had wrapped themselves around my soul. On to Roundstone and down to Inverin. Cried my way back past the solitude of Lough Inagh. Stopped at the heart-breaking beauty of Kylemore Abbey. Lit a candle in Our Lady of the Wayside, the little church that sits at the junction of four winds. Nothing helped. Back at the hotel in the late afternoon, I had a shower, washed my hair and sat in my room reading. To my surprise, the ‘phone rang; they were short one person for the Bridge tournament, would I oblige? I would. So down I went, wet hair and all. I had tea and the loveliest scones and jam I’d ever tasted delivered to my table. Hastily swallowed them and as play began noticed every table held wineglasses, shot glasses, glasses of crème de menthe and what have you. Arsenic and Old Lace all over again… As play progressed and I had no clue what my partner held or what she was doing, I realized Partner was three sheets to the wind, so to speak. The tournament continued as did the merriment. Our score continued downwards in inverse proportion to the amount of wine consumed by Partner…My reward for coming down and playing? After the session ended Partner suggested I should take “Improver Lessons”… The fact that she was so well on that she could hardly pronounce the word “Improver” was obviously not germane to the fact that we’d probably finished last…  At dinner I sat with the Bridge players. Then it was time for drinks in the bar and a pianist who played old chestnuts and music hall stuff. No traditional Irish music. When the sing-song finished, I went to bed, hoping that my room in the old part of the hotel wasn’t in the area rumoured to be haunted. I had the heebie-jeebies already… However, the exhaustion not to mention the drinks put me out like a light.

Next morning, showered, dressed and ready for breakfast, I searched for the room key. Searched everywhere. Every drawer, every bag, every crevice of my handbag. Decided to just pull the door behind me and inform Reception that I had mislaid the key. I had indeed. I’d left it in the door. All night.

After a solitary breakfast, I went to Reception to book a ticket for the ferry to the island of Inishbofin. A conversation with two older ladies ensued when they overheard my request. It seemed they’d never been to the island and would love to go. There was no day trip to the island organized as part of their Bridge holiday…Run and get ready, I’ll get your ferry tickets, hurry, I have to leave in 10 minutes to make the ferry, I said. So three went to the island.  The entrance to the little harbour is difficult but the ferry was high-tech; when we were virtually on the rocks and myself and the foreign tourists were looking round for the  lifejackets and bracing ourselves against the rails, the deckhand was hanging over the prow and shouting up to the bridge; “You’re grand, Paddy, you’re grand!” By some miracle we were. Once landed, I walked the little paths, climbed stiles and drank in the beauty of the place. I had to beat a hasty retreat when a ram threw shapes at me.  At the other side of the island, for the first time in my life, I heard a corncrake. I knew immediately what it was. What a privilege.  The two ladies had a lovely time, and thanked me profusely for bringing them to the island.  Why wouldn’t I? I was going anyway and they had no other way of getting there. Isn’t that what life is about?  

Back at the hotel, it was dinner and a play about emigration staged in the bar. A two-hander based on true testimonies. It is true; the west of Ireland has been repeatedly emptied. But enough remain to keep the fire lit and the Irish spoken. We owe the people of the Gaeltacht a great debt. At least I feel I do.

Driving home, I was glad I’d gone. No burden had been lifted, but I’d heard a corncrake. And been advised to take Improver Lessons. And the ghost had not manifested.