to design a nightclub, over. She had loved it there. Loved that no one knew her name, her face or family history. She could buy a coffee, a thousand different types of coffee, and not receive a look of sympathy for whatever recent family drama had occurred. Nobody knew that her mother had left her when she was a child, that her sister was wildly out of control and that her father barely spoke to her. She had loved being in love there. In New York she could be whoever she wanted to be. In Baile na gCroíthe she couldn’t hide from who she was.
She realised she had been humming to herself the entire time, that silly song that Luke was trying to convince her that ‘Ivan’ had made up. Luke called it ‘the humming song’, and it was annoyingly catchy, chirpy and repetitive. She stopped herself singing and spun her car into the empty space along the road. She pushed back the driver’s seat and reached in to grab her briefcase from the back seat of the car. First things first: coffee. Baile na gCroíthe had yet to be educated on the wonders of Starbucks – in fact, it was only last month Joe’s had finally allowed Elizabeth to take away her coffee, but the owner was growing increasingly tired of having to ask for his mugs back.
Sometimes Elizabeth thought that the entire town needed an injection of caffeine; it was as though some winter days the place still had its eyes closed and was sleepwalking. It needed a good shake. But summer days like today were always busy with people passing through. She entered the purple painted Joe’s, which was virtually empty all the same. The concept of eating breakfast outside their own homes had yet to be grasped by the townspeople.
‘Ah, there she is, the very woman herself,’ boomed the singsong voice of Joe. ‘No doubt spittin’ feathers for her coffee.’
‘Morning, Joe.’
He made a show of checking his watch and tapping the clock face. ‘Bit behind time this morning, aren’t we?’ He raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Thought maybe you were in bed sick with a bout of the summer flu. Seems like everyone’s got it this week.’ He tried to lower his voice but only succeeded in lowering his head and raising his voice. ‘Sure didn’t Sandy O’Flynn come down with it right after disappearing the other night from the pub with P. J. Flanagan, who had it the other week. She’s been in bed all weekend.’ He snorted. ‘Walking her home me arse. I’ve never heard such nonsense before in my life.’
Irritation rose within Elizabeth. She didn’t care for tittle-tattle about people she didn’t know, especially as she was aware for so many years that her own family had been the root of all the gossip.
‘A coffee, please, Joe,’ Elizabeth said crisply, ignoring his rambling. ‘To take away. Cream not milk,’ she said sternly, even though she had the same every day, while rooting in her bag for her wallet, trying to hint to Joe that she hadn’t time for yapping.
He moved slowly towards the coffee pot. To Elizabeth’s utter annoyance Joe’s sold only one kind of coffee. And that was the instant kind. Elizabeth missed the variety of flavours that she used to get in other towns; she missed the smooth, sweet-tasting French vanilla in a Paris café, the creamy full-bodied flavour of hazelnut cream in a bustling café in New York, the rich velvety masterpiece of the macadamia nut in Milan and her favourite, the Coco Mocha-Nut, the mixture of chocolate and coconut that transported her from a Central Park bench to a sunbed in the Caribbean. Here in Baile na gCroíthe, Joe filled the kettle with water and flicked the switch. One measly little kettle in a café and he hadn’t even boiled the water. Elizabeth rolled her eyes.
Joe stared at her. He looked like he was going to say –
‘So what has you so late then?’
– that.
‘I’m five minutes later than usual, Joe,’ Elizabeth said incredulously. ‘I know, I know, and five minutes could be five hours for you. Sure don’t the bears plan their hibernation on your time?’
That made Elizabeth smile, despite herself.
Joe chuckled and winked. ‘That’s better.’ The kettle clicked as it boiled and he turned his back to make the coffee.
‘The coaches delayed me,’ Elizabeth said softly, taking the warm mug from Joe’s hands.
‘Ah, I saw that.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘Jaimsie did well to get himself out of that one.’
‘Jaimsie?’ Elizabeth frowned, adding a dollop of cream. It quickly melted and filled the cup to the top. Joe looked on with disgust.
‘Jaimsie O’Connor. Jack’s son,’ he explained. ‘Jack, whose other daughter, Mary, just got engaged to the Dublin boy last weekend. Lives down in Mayfair. Five kids. The youngest was arrested there last week for throwing a wine bottle at Joseph.’
Elizabeth froze and stared back at him blankly.
‘Joseph McCann,’ he repeated, as though she were crazy for not knowing. ‘Son of Paddy. Lives up in Newtown. Wife died last year when she drowned in the bog. His daughter Maggie said it was an accident but sure weren’t the family suspicious on account of the row they’d being having about not letting her run off with that troublemaker from Cahirciveen.’
Elizabeth placed her money on the counter and smiled, no longer wanting to be a part of his bizarre conversations. ‘Thanks, Joe,’ she said as she made her way to the door.
‘Well, anyway,’ he concluded his rambling, ‘Jaimsie was the one driving the coach. Don’t forget to bring that mug back,’ he called to her, and grumbled to himself, ‘Takeaway coffee, have you ever heard something so ludicrous in your life?’
Before Elizabeth stepped outside she called from the door, ‘Joe, would you not think of getting a coffee machine? So you can make lattes and cappuccinos and espressos instead of all this instant stuff?’ She held up her mug.
Joe crossed his arms, leaned against the counter and replied in a bored voice, ‘Elizabeth, you don’t like my coffee, you don’t drink it. I drink tea. There’s only one kind of tea I like. It’s called Tea. No fancy names for it.’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘Actually, there are lots of different types of tea. The Chinese—’
‘Ah, be off with you.’ He waved his hand at her dismissively. ‘We’d all be drinking tea with chopsticks and putting chocolate and cream in our coffees like they’re desserts, if you have your way. But, if you’re at it, why don’t I make a suggestion too then: how’s about you buy yourself a kettle over there for your office and put me out of my misery?’
‘And out of business,’ Elizabeth smiled, and stepped outside.
The village had taken a big stretch and a yawn and was wandering sleepily from its bed to the bathroom. Soon it would be showered, dressed and wide awake. As usual she was one step ahead of it, even if she was running late today.
Elizabeth was always the first in; she loved the silence, the stillness that her office brought at that time of day. It helped her focus on what lay ahead before her noisy colleagues rattled around and before the major traffic hit the road. Elizabeth wasn’t the chatty giggly type. Just as she ate to keep herself alive, she spoke to say only what she had to say. She wasn’t the type of woman that she overheard in restaurants and cafés, chuckling and gossiping over what someone said someday about something. Conversations about nothing just didn’t interest her.
She didn’t break down or analyse conversations, glares, looks or situations. There were no double meanings with her; she meant what she said at all times. She didn’t enjoy debates or heated
