Joanna sat on the Cork–Dublin express staring at the rivulets of water streaming down the other side of the glass. It had not stopped raining since last night. The pitter-patter of the raindrops had kept her awake, and – like some kind of hypnotic torture – the faint noise had grown inside her head to become pounding hailstones. Not that she’d been able to sleep anyway. She’d been far too tense, spending most of the night staring at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to work out where the new information would lead her.
The situation with this gentleman is highly delicate . . .
What did that mean? What does anything mean at the moment? Joanna thought wearily. She crossed her arms and closed her eyes to try and doze away the remaining hours.
‘Is this seat taken?’
The voice was male and American. She opened her eyes to see a tall, muscular man dressed in a checked shirt and jeans.
‘No.’
‘Great. It’s so unusual to find a smoking carriage on a train. We don’t have those any more back home.’
Joanna was faintly surprised that she had sat in a smokers’ carriage. She wouldn’t have done normally. But then normally she wasn’t this tired or confused.
The man sat down across the table from her and lit up a cigarette. ‘Want one?’
‘No thanks, I don’t smoke,’ she replied, praying this man was not going to smoke endlessly and keep her talking for the next two and a half hours.
‘Want me to stub it out?’
‘No, you’re fine.’
He took another drag as he studied her. ‘You English?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was there myself before I came over here. I stayed in London. I loved it.’
‘Good,’ she said abruptly.
‘But I just love Ireland. You on vacation here?’
‘I suppose so. A working holiday.’
‘You a travel writer or something?’
‘No, a journalist, actually.’
The man studied the Ordnance Survey map of Rosscarbery on the table in front of her. ‘Thinkin’ of buying some property?’
It was asked in a casual drawl, but Joanna stiffened and regarded the man carefully. ‘No. I’m just investigating the history of a house I’m interested in.’
‘Family connections?’
‘Yes.’
The tea trolley came by next to them.
‘Jeez, I’m starving. Must be all this good ol’ fresh air. I’ll take a coffee, and one of those pastries, ma’am, and a packet of tuna sandwiches. Want anything . . . er . . . ?’
‘Lucy,’ she lied swiftly. ‘I’ll have a coffee, please,’ she said to the young woman in charge of the trolley. She reached into her rucksack to take out her purse, but the man waved it away.
‘Hey, I can just about run to a cup of coffee.’ He presented it to her and smiled. ‘Kurt Brosnan. No relation to “Pierce”, ma’am, before you ask.’
‘Thanks for the coffee, Kurt.’ She folded up the Ordnance Survey map, but he appeared to have lost interest anyway as he unwrapped the plastic from his tuna sandwich and took a large bite.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘So, you think you got some heritage over here in Ireland?’
‘Possibly, yes.’ Joanna resigned herself to giving up her nap for as long as this Kurt was on the train. Now that he was munching away on his sandwich and spraying crumbs over the table, she kicked herself for her earlier paranoia. Not everyone is out to get you, she reminded herself. And he was American after all, nothing to do with any of it.
‘Me too. Down in a li’l ol’ village on the coast in West Cork. It seems my great-great-grandfather hailed from Clonakilty.’
‘That’s the next town to where I’ve been based, in Rosscarbery.’
‘Really?’ Kurt’s face lit up like a child’s, happy with the small coincidence. ‘I was only there the day before yesterday, in that great cathedral. I had the best pint of stout I’ve had so far afterwards, in that hotel in town—’
‘The Ross? That’s where I’m staying.’
‘You don’t say! So, you off to Dublin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Been before?’
‘No. I have some business to do, then I thought I’d take a potter around the city. Have you?’
‘No, ma’am, my first time too. Maybe we should join forces.’
‘I’ve got to go to the Land Registry. It might take hours to find out what I need to know.’
‘Is that where they keep title deeds to homesteads?’ enquired Kurt, tucking in to a pastry now.
‘Yes.’
‘You tryin’ to find out whether you have an inheritance?’
‘Sort of. There’s a house in Rosscarbery. No one seems to know who owns it.’
‘It is a bit more casual here than at home. I mean –’ Kurt rolled his eyes – ‘no one has alarms on their cars, or locks their front doors. I was in a restaurant in town yesterday when the owner said she had to leave for a while and would I put my plate in the sink and shut the door behind me! It sure is a different way of life. So –’ Kurt indicated the map – ‘show me the house.’
Despite her initial misgivings, the journey to Dublin passed pleasantly enough. Kurt was good company and entertained her with stories about his native Chicago. As the train pulled in to Heuston station, Kurt pulled out a small notebook and a gold pen from his pocket.
‘Give me your number in Rosscarbery. When you get back there, maybe we could get together for a drink.’
Joanna wrote down her mobile number on a slip of paper and passed it to him. He tucked it into his jacket pocket with a pleased grin.
‘Well, it sure has whiled away a journey talkin’ to you, Lucy. When do you travel back to West Cork?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure. I’m leaving it flexible.’ She stood up as the train came to a halt. ‘Good to meet you, Kurt.’
‘And you, Lucy. Maybe see you again soon.’
‘Maybe. Goodbye.’ She smiled at him, then followed the other passengers out of the carriage.
Joanna took a taxi to the Land Registry Office near the river by the Four Courts building. After endless form-filling, she queued at the counter and was eventually handed a file.
‘There’s a free desk over there if you want to study the deeds,’ said the young woman.
‘Thanks.’ Joanna made her way towards the desk and sat down. Disappointment filled her when she saw that the coastguard’s house had been handed over from HM Government on 27th June 1928 to become the property of ‘the Free State of Ireland’. After taking a photocopy of the deeds and the plans, she handed the file back, thanked the woman and left the office.
Outside it was still pouring with rain. Opening up her puny London umbrella, she walked until she reached Grafton Street, and the myriad of small lanes off it, filled with enticing-looking pubs. She dashed into the closest one, and ordered a glass of Guinness. She took off her jacket, which, although labelled ‘waterproof’, had belied its description, and brushed a hand through her damp hair.
‘Fine, soft day out, isn’t it?’ said the barman.
‘Does it ever stop raining here?’
‘Not often, no,’ said the barman without irony. ‘And they all wonder why so many of us end up raving alcoholics.’
Joanna was just about to order a cheese bap, when a figure she recognised came through the door.
He saw her, then waved at her in delight. ‘Lucy! Hi there.’
Kurt came to sit next to her at the bar, the water on his jacket making a puddle on the floor below him. ‘I’ll have a Guinness, please, and another for the lady,’ he said to the barman.
‘I . . . I’ve already got one, thanks,’ she said, attempting to hide her disbelief at the coincidence.
He seemed to catch her tone. ‘Hey, it’s not really so weird. You are in one of the most famous pubs in Dublin. The Bailey is on every tourist’s “must go” list – James Joyce himself used to drink here.’
‘Really? I didn’t notice the name. I ran in here to get out of the wet.’
‘So, how did your research go?’
‘Nowhere.’ She reached for her Guinness.
‘Yeah, well, I’ve had a morning pretty like that. It’s so darned wet out there you need a set of windscreen wipers to see anything. I’ve decided to give up, spend the evening drinking and the night in the lap of luxury. I booked myself a room at the Shelbourne, supposedly the best hotel in town.’
‘Right. I’ll have a cheese bap, please,’ Joanna indicated to the barman.
‘Say, why don’t you come have dinner with me tonight at the hotel? My treat, to cheer you up.’
‘Thanks for the offer, but—’
Kurt held up his hands. ‘Ma’am, I swear, no funny business. Just strikes me you’re alone, I’m alone, and maybe we’d enjoy the night better if we kept each other company.’
‘No thanks.’ Joanna stood up, seriously rattled now. Kurt’s face appeared earnest enough, but Joanna was still shaken by his sudden appearance.
‘Okay.’ Kurt looked very put out. ‘So when do you head back to West Cork?’
‘I . . . er . . . don’t know yet.’
‘Well, maybe I’ll see you when I’m back that way.’
‘Maybe you will. Bye now, Kurt.’
‘Sign there,’ Margaret indicated to the young man standing in front of her reception desk.
‘Thanks.’ He looked up at her. ‘By any chance, has a young Englishwoman called Joanna Haslam crossed your path in the last few days?’
‘And who’d be wanting to know?’
‘I’m her boyfriend,’ he said with a warm smile.
‘Well, yes, there has been a girl by that name staying here. She’s gone up country today, though. Back tonight or tomorrow,’ she said.
‘Great. I don’t want her to know I’m here. It’s her . . . birthday tomorrow and I thought I’d surprise her.’ He put a finger to his lips. ‘Mum’s the word, eh?’
‘Sure, Mum’s the word, so.’
Margaret handed the man his key and watched as he went upstairs. Oh, to be young again, she thought fondly, before going to the cellar to change the barrel.