Ruth Ryans, who was an intelligent bright spark and who Nicholas followed eagerly, thoroughly enjoying her words of wisdom and her sometimes quick-witted responses.
Nicholas had met Ruth’s father once and he automatically realised where she got her talent and wisdom from. Anthony Ryans was a fine-spoken, highly regarded and well-respected university lecturer who Nicholas had performed for at one of the Concert Hall’s most prestigious events. The Concert Hall days had been the best days of his life, but he wasn’t needed there any more. Everyone he knew had moved on, happy to spend their days in the garden or travelling with their families as they enjoyed their winter years in life.
Nicholas would have loved a garden, but Rosemary had cleaned him out in the divorce proceedings and the most he could afford since then was this tiny, fourth-floor apartment that looked out onto the City Tower and from where he could hear three sets of church bells ring at the same time every hour, on the hour. The baby next door didn’t like that sound either, but Nicholas loved it and he also loved to visit all three churches, keen to watch how each denomination celebrated their different elements of faith. It was his favourite thing to do at Christmas, but after the services he’d have to come back to Boris and the radio and he’d eat a turkey breast fillet, wear a Christmas paper hat and wonder how the hell he’d ended up, after such a colourful, vibrant and wonderful life, in this darn apartment with no one to talk to.
He caught sight of Ruth Ryans’ smiling profile picture from the newspaper that sat beside him on the sofa. Then he made his way to the piano and hovered his fingers over the keys, pretending to play ‘O Holy Night’, his favourite Christmas tune, but only hearing it in his fuzzy old mind that he feared someday soon would let him down too.
Nicholas felt familiar tears roll down his cheeks as his fingers lightly tipped the keys, just enough to let him feel the ivory but not enough to make a sound.
The church bells rang in the distance and the baby cried next door as Nicholas cried too, wondering how he was going to face another Christmas Day with his solitary turkey breast for one, the bleat of the radio and good old boring Boris.
Ruth Ryans caught his eye again. He’d often thought of writing to her to see if she had any solutions to his loneliness and his longing to play his music somewhere once more, but he always thought that someone like her would be way too famous and important to write back.
Wiping his weary eyes, Nicholas sat on his sofa and looked at the email address that stared back at him in black and white.
He pinched his eyes and considered what he might say. Maybe he could give it a try? Maybe she could help? Anything, after all, would be better than this.
Ruth
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s Michael,’ he replies. ‘My name’s Michael.’
‘Sorry?’
I look up, but the waiter is gone already, too far across the busy café floor to hear any sense of apology I may have to offer. I didn’t mean to be rude but I barely made eye contact with him when he served me my cinnamon latte as I’m so lost in thought.
Now I’ve offended Gloria’s precious new waiter. Brilliant.
Gloria is right. My self-belief is dwindling away and I’m not sure if my words are enough to help anyone any more. In fact, I seem to be doing the opposite these days. I stir the creamy top of my drink with a long spoon, staring out the window as I think of some of the clients I’ve tried to help down the years and I wonder if my advice even made any difference to their lives at all. I wonder if Agatha, the shop manager from Ballydoo, ever did run away with the sailor she fell in love with online. Or did Deirdre the hairdresser manage to dump the rat who maxed out her credit cards and ‘forgot’ to pay their rent for almost a year and almost left her homeless? Or poor old Ernie, whose wife was going to die and who desperately needed someone to talk to about his fears but didn’t know where to turn. I wonder did he ever go to the support group I advised him to check out? I really hope he found a friendly ear.
And most of all I wonder about Bernadette from Dublin who, after many years of battling severe mental illness, wanted desperately to get in touch with her adult children who she’d lost contact with a long time ago. It took me a while to think of what to say to Bernadette as her words hit me right in the heart, reminding me of my estranged relationship with my own mother that has torn me apart all this time. I wanted to help her so badly, and I really hope that I did and that someday she’ll get the courage to finally make that move and reach out to them, reminding her that it’s never too late to make that move and try again.
I often wish I could tell my own mother the same thing.
Old Arnie is ordering more tea, the barrister Bertie and his wife seem to still be arguing, the bunch of youths have got fed up stuffing their faces and have moved on. No one is even looking my way as I sit here, tears rolling down my cheeks and, despite the warmth of the glass that nestles in my hands, I can’t even bring myself to drink the coffee in front of me. I don’t want to go home to that empty house, I don’t feel strong enough to do my work and I’m absolutely exhausted with all this pretending that I’m coping when I’m absolutely not. I’m tired, I’m crippled with loneliness and it’s almost Christmas when families and friends get together in celebration and I have no one. My sister and her own family are miles away, my dad is gone and my mother abandoned us, and no matter how much I deny it and try to paint on a smile, I’m crumbling inside. My throat hurts with the ball of stress that sits there, choking me and making my tears squeeze out and the heat in this café is suffocating me. I need to get out of here. I shouldn’t have stayed so long. I lift my phone and keys, then reach down to get my handbag quickly, determined to slip out without making a fuss.
Just as I’m getting up, my head collides with an elbow and soon there’s a crash and a mess and I’m covered in someone’s lunch while Michael, the waiter, stands frozen beside me, his apron soaked through with fruit juice, and a gravy boat drips hot brown liquid onto the sodden floor.
‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry!’ I gasp, feeling dozens of pairs of eyes on me, then I hear them whisper when they recognise who I am and see the state that I’m in.
Michael is stunned, too stunned to speak and I don’t know what he is muttering as he makes an attempt to fix up what was on his tray as Suzi brings a mop to soak up the puddle on the floor.
‘I didn’t see you, I was in another world, I’m really so sorry,’ I say again, taking napkins from a nearby table and dabbing up the mess, trying to help, but clearly I’m making things worse judging by the look of horror on Michael’s face.
‘You never do see me,’ he mumbles, and his words hit me like a punch in the stomach.
‘I beg your pardon?’
The onlookers have had enough of staring and have gone back to their own lunch as we fuss and clean and talk under our breath to each other. I’ve never really spoken to this man before, apart from a friendly hello or a polite thank you so what on earth does he know about me to say such a thing?
‘I’m soaked through,’ he replies. ‘I’d better go and get changed. Excuse me.’
I stand there in the middle of the floor, feeling naked and exposed as Michael walks away, almost bumping into Gloria who comes out from the kitchen,
