caught my arm. ‘Not so fast. How can you want to throw away twenty-five years of marriage just like that? I thought we had a good, strong marriage!’
‘It was good in parts, Paul. I’m not throwing the past away. I’m just moving on. It feels like the right thing to do. For me.’
‘Not bloody right for me though, is it? Who’ll cook my dinner if you’re not here? Who’ll clean the house?’
‘Buy ready-meals and employ a cleaner,’ I replied, yanking my arm out of his grasp. That confirmed it. All he wanted me to stay for was to be his housekeeper. The sooner I left the better. I ran out of the room and upstairs, and began moving my things into the spare room. Paul hollered up the stairs after me, something about I’d regret it and come back with my tail between my legs, but I ignored it.
In the spare room I sat on the bed and let the tears come for a while. Paul did not come upstairs. I heard the TV being turned up. After a while I pulled myself together, took out my phone and texted the boys – It’s done. Told him. He’s not happy.
Jon texted back within minutes – Well done. Xxx. Love you.
And Matt rang me. ‘You OK?’
I sniffed. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I’ll be moving to Ireland as soon as I can.’
‘You can stay with me if you need to. I can sleep on my sofa.’
‘It’s OK. I need to be here to pack anyway.’
‘Here if you need me,’ he said, and once more I rejoiced in my strong, supportive and loving sons.
Next day I booked a car-ferry crossing from Holyhead to Dublin for Friday morning, then spent the rest of the day packing. Paul had been silent in the morning before work, barely acknowledging my presence. I knew it had been a shock for him, and I understood that he was hurting, but I had to do this. It’d be better for both of us in the long run. He’d find another Angie, sooner or later. As I thought this, I realised I didn’t care if he did. In fact, if it helped him let me go, it’d be better if he did take up with someone new quickly.
I came upstairs in the evening with a basket of clean washing, and caught Paul standing at the door to the spare room, looking at the half-packed boxes and suitcases I had strewn all over the floor.
‘You’re really doing this, then?’ he said, his voice flat and tight.
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm. You’ll come running back to me within a month, I’ll bet.’ He turned and pushed past me, downstairs, and a moment later I heard the front door slam. I breathed a sigh of relief and got on with sorting out the washing. Much of it was mine, but some was Paul’s and I folded it neatly and put it away, just as I had done for the past twenty-five years. Who would do this after I’d gone? I’d never known Paul put anything away. To him, cupboards were for taking things out of.
At last Friday arrived. It had always been my day to have the car for shopping, and Paul took the bus to work. I had told Paul I would leave on Friday, and he’d rolled his eyes but said nothing. I don’t think he really believed I was going.
After he’d left for work, I loaded the boxes and cases I’d packed into the car, washed up the breakfast things, wrote Paul a note, had a last look around the house I’d furnished and decorated and lived in for twenty years, and left. On a whim, that I wondered if I might come to regret, I posted my keys back through the letter box. It would show Paul I was serious if nothing else. The house was in his name only, after all. I wanted, and needed, nothing more of it.
It was a long and tedious drive to Holyhead, but I put the radio on loudly and sang along to any tunes I knew, to take my mind off what I was actually doing. It was a big step. A huge one. I wasn’t sure yet that I would be able to cope on my own. The car had Bluetooth capability, and both sons called me while I was driving to wish me well. Their encouragement lent me strength, and despite having to wipe a few tears away if I thought too deeply about what I was doing, I felt strangely elated. This was it. The start of a new adventure. Whether it turned out well or not remained to be seen.
It wasn’t till I was on the ferry that I realised I’d never told Paul I was taking the car. My car, I reminded myself.
It was a smooth crossing, and I amused myself with a puzzle book until we passed Ireland’s Eye. Then I spent the rest of the time on deck, gazing at the land that was to be my new home. It was a bright April day, the sun glinting off the waves and the hills of Howth resplendent in green and purple heather. I smiled. Perfect weather for starting a new life.
Once docked in Dublin, it was less than an hour’s drive out of the city and north-east into County Meath and on to Blackstown. We’d done this journey many times when I was a child, but that was before the motorways were built, before the Irish building boom of the Nineties and early Noughties. Nothing looked familiar to me, until I turned off the motorway and onto the smaller roads into Blackstown, which I’d driven with Paul in the hire car when we came to view the farm. As I passed a signpost I noted the Irish form of the town’s name – Baile Dubh. Maybe I’d try to learn some Irish, although I knew that the Gaeltacht areas, where Irish is the predominant language, were all further west.
I’d arranged to collect the keys from the solicitor, Mr Greve, and once they were in my handbag, I decided to call in at the coffee shop I’d been to with Paul. This time I ordered a large piece of chocolate fudge cake with cream. No one to stop me now! So this was freedom. Boy, did I enjoy it! I noticed the waitress grinning at me, clearly delighted I was enjoying my cake so much.
As I left the café I noticed a bookshop opposite, the type that sells a mixture of second-hand and new books. A man of around 50 or so, with a sweep of grey hair across his forehead, was just leaving and locking up. I made a mental note to check it out next time I was in town. Hours rummaging around second-hand bookshops was one of my favourite pastimes. Needless to say, it wasn’t something I got the chance to do very often when out with Paul.
I remember once coming home from a rare Saturday out with friends, to find he’d ‘thinned out’ (his words) my bookshelves. All my favourite novels had been thrown out, and the empty shelves filled with piles of car and computer magazines that had previously been stacked on the floor in Paul’s home office. I felt a wave of contentment wash over me as I realised that now I could rebuild my book collection, in my own home, and no one could stop me. A visit to Blackstown bookshop was high on my list of things to do.
As is so often the case in Ireland, the bright clear day didn’t last long. By the time I reached Clonamurty Farm the sky had clouded over and the first spots of rain had begun to fall. I dashed round to the back door, unlocked it and fell inside before it got too heavy. It was gloomy inside so I reached for the light switch, but it didn’t work. I tried another. Nothing. No electricity.
I felt an irrational wave of panic rise up, but quickly squashed it down. Must be just that the house had been unoccupied and the electricity company had cut off the supply. It’d only need a phone call to get reconnected. But who should I call? I realised I didn’t even know the name of any Irish electricity companies. I could look it up online, I supposed, or phone Matt and ask him to look it up for me. Yes, that would be easier.
I pulled out my phone to call him and discovered it was out of charge. Out of charge and no electric in the house. That wave of panic rose up in me again. Was there a call box anywhere near? Or should I drive back to Blackstown and ask at the café – maybe the waitress would let me borrow her phone.
I glanced at my watch. It was gone
