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Resigning as top reporter from Ireland’s biggest newspaper in the middle of a corruption scandal that had made the headlines all over the world must have been the strangest career move ever. Why didn’t I stay and cash in on the glory and all that publicity? Why didn’t I write yet another book and make even more money than with the first one? Those were the questions people kept asking me, and I refused to answer. Simply because I couldn’t. Except that it had to do with something outdated called integrity and honour. Mine and Maureen’s, my then best friend and boss. We both resigned from the newspaper in an act of defiance, giving the finger to the establishment and their powers of persuasion. That gesture gave us a momentary buzz that was hard to beat.
The euphoria was swiftly replaced by a plunge into depression and binge drinking. Maureen retreated into her private life, learning to play golf and bridge, and looking after her daughters. But I had no family or even a love interest to cuddle up to. I was all alone with my regrets.
It wasn’t until my brother stepped back into my life that I woke up and took a good look at myself.
Seamus towered above me as I lay on the sofa flicking the remote.
“What are you doing, Finola?” he thundered.
“Watching TV,” I mumbled from the depths of the cushions.
“It isn’t even on.”
“Nothing worth watching.”
“Why are you still in your pyjamas at five o’clock?”
“Not going anywhere.”
Seamus took a deep breath. “Jesus, Finola, you have to wake up and get out of that pit you’re in. You have to eat.”
“I do.”
“All I could find in your fridge was half a bottle of vodka and a lemon. What do you call that?”
I shrugged. “Dunno. Dinner?”
He sat down beside me and pulled me up. “I’m worried about you. Sharon is, too.”
“Sharon? Worried? That must be the first time ever.”
“I know you two don’t get on. But that’s because you’re so different.”
“That’s the understatement of the year,” I muttered.
“She wants to help.”
“How? By giving me a make-over?” Sharon, Seamus’s wife, was a personal shopper at Brown Thomas, Dublin’s answer to Harvey Nichols, the department store where even the air was expensive.
“She said she’d treat you to a spa weekend.”
I let out a hollow laugh. “She just wants to turn me into a girl.”
He put his arm around me. “Would that be so bad?”
I sighed and put my head on his shoulder. Good old Seamus, my brother and comrade-in-arms as we grew up. We stuck together as our parents battled with each other, whimpered behind the sofa as our dad hurled drunken insults at our mother and helped each other and Mum when Dad died of a heart attack and we finally had peace. But Seamus stayed at home while I went out into the world to carve out a career as a hot-shot journalist. And look at us now. He, the solid, dependable accountant, and me, burnt out after my recent battles against corruption and dishonesty in the world of politics. Yes, I’d won, but the victory cost more than I could afford.
“Will you do it?” he asked. “For me?”
“What?”
“Go on that spa weekend with Sharon. Get yourself sorted. Stop drinking. Eat healthy food. Brush your hair and tidy yourself up a bit.”
I pulled away and noticed the concern in his eyes. “Okay. I will.”
He hugged me. “Thank you, Finola. I know it’ll be hard. But you’ll feel so much better in the end.”
“Yeah, sure. A massage and facial cure all ills.” But I got up and gave him a hug. “This will hurt me more than it’ll hurt you.”
It did hurt at first. Pulling myself together to take a shower was the first step. Looking in the mirror the second. I was not a pretty sight. Sharon was facing a huge challenge.
But she rose to it. Beautifully. Like a sergeant major pushing a new recruit through a drill, she dragged me to the spa hotel, where I was put through an agonising form of torture known as a ‘full body and face restoration programme’. I suffered through it all without complaining, even when the hairdresser cut my hair short and asked what colour I wanted the highlights.
“Purple,” I said in defiance. But as the dye seeped into my scalp, I had second thoughts. My hair had always been auburn. I was a woman with auburn hair. But when I saw the result, I was quite happy. The purple highlights were subtle and the short hair made me look funky. But whatever. Who cared what I looked like, anyway?
I slept for fourteen hours after that weekend and woke up feeling and looking annoyingly sparkly.
I looked at the shiny new me in the mirror.
“Holy shit, I’m a girl,” I said to myself, knowing this would only last a week or so if I didn’t stick to the healthy routine Sharon had drawn up for me. But hey, it was worth it. I didn’t know a purple tinge to my hair would suit me so well or that my skin could be this rosy. I was beginning to look quite attractive, which gave me a little spark of something new. Not drinking was hard and not bingeing on pizza, harder. My fridge was full of healthy stuff like broccoli and salad. I was drinking water as if I’d spent a week in the desert. And I was feeling weirdly energetic. I was even considering looking for a job.
But what kind of job? No newspaper in Dublin would hire me. I was too much trouble, too much of a risk. I might as well have tattooed ‘rebel’ across my forehead. No editor wanted that. But did I really want to go back to my old job? I asked myself. Did I even want to stay in Dublin? Or in this country? I was thinking of looking for something in the US when I got a tip from a journalist friend.
“How about applying for the editor job that has just come up in County Tipperary?” he asked over a coffee in Temple Bar one dreary Tuesday in late April.
“Tipperary? But I thought I might go somewhere foreign,” I said.
“It would be,” he quipped. “If you compare it to Dublin, I mean. It’s the real country, Finola. I bet you’ve never even been there.”
“Yes I have. I went to see the Rock of Cashel with my parents when I was ten.”
“I didn’t mean Tipperary per se, I meant the country. As in small villages, farms, fields, cows and horses.”
“Oh God.” I shuddered. “I’m a city girl. The countryside scares me.”
“It’ll be good for you. A break from everything. And you could do something fun, like a blog about city life versus country life. ‘The confessions of a city slicker’ or something like that.” He fiddled with his phone. “I have the details here. I’ll email them to you and you can take a look.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, thinking I’d delete the email as soon as I got it. Moving to the country seemed more alien than taking up a job in Kazakhstan. But a phone call from Sharon changed my mind.
“There’s a big sale at Kildare Village,” she said. “All kinds of designer stuff going for half price. You could get yourself some bargains there.”
“Thanks,” I said through gritted teeth. “But I’m not really into clothes and make-up.”
“Oh, come on, let’s go and have a look at least. It’ll be fun. I have the day off on Monday, and you’re not working. I’m dying to update your wardrobe. And then we can go to the Benefit shop where they demonstrate their great new line in make-up. We can have lunch at that new French place after shopping. I’ve already told my friend and her brother we’re coming. He wants to meet you.”
I knew instantly what she was up to. “Well, you’ll have to tell them I won’t be there.”
“Where will you be?” Sharon sounded annoyed.
“Away. I’m going off to...find myself.”
“Oooh.” I could nearly see the wheels turning in her brain. “I see. A mindfulness course, is it?”
“Something like that,” I said airily. “You know, like a detox for the mind. I’m going away to find myself.”
“I see. Well, give us a shout when you’re back.”
“I will,” I promised.
Everything happened very fast after that. I contacted the newspaper in Cloughmichael, County Tipperary, and set up a job interview for the following week. Not knowing if I’d get the job, I stuck my neck out and contacted a rental agency, who would let my apartment until further notice, packed my bags, loaded them into my trusty Mini Cooper Roadster and set off for the wilds of County Tipperary.
A long way to go. In more ways than one.
***
“Finola McGee, editor-in-chief,” it said on the gleaming brass plate.
I picked up my phone to take a shot of this amazing sight but put it back in my bag. No reason to celebrate or brag about it. Had it been The Irish Telegraph, where I had been the political reporter until recently, it would have been a big deal. But it was a tiny local rag in a little town in County Tipperary with a circulation of about four thousand. A bit of a come-down it would seem. But, ah well, I was taking a break from the hustle and bustle—to rest and recuperate among the rolling hills and green valleys of the Irish countryside. To breathe fresh air. To listen to the birds in the early morning. To enjoy silence, calm and bucolic country life. Running the Knockmealdown News would be fun and different, I told myself. I might even find myself a handsome farmer to marry and have five kids and a dog. My mother would be beside herself with joy.
“Why Knockmealdown?” I wondered when I applied for the job.
“Because of the mountain range,” Jerry Murphy, the owner and publisher told me during the job interview in his local pub, pointing out the window as he downed a pint of Guinness with impressive speed.
“Of course,” I said, feeling stupid as I looked out over the green slopes of said mountains. “I should have realised.”
Jerry nodded and raised a finger, which resulted in a waiter racing across the grubby carpet, coming to a screeching halt at our table like The Road Runner. I was impressed. I usually had to grab waiters by their throats to get them to take any notice.
“Another one, please, Paddy,” Jerry said. “How about you, Finola? Will you join me in a pint? They pull the best one in Ireland here.”
Mentally salivating at the thought of a well-pulled pint of the black stuff, I toyed with my glass of Ballygowan. But the new me only drank alcohol at weekends.
“No thanks. I’ll stick to water.”
He studied me with his bird-like pale-blue eyes. “You’re not a pioneer, are you?”
I faked a jolly laugh. “Not at all. I do like a pint now and then. But...” I hesitated. “I gave it up for lent.”
“It’s the end of May.”
“It’s a kind of detox thing.”
He eyed my bag of bacon crisps. “Right. Okay. Just the one then, Paddy,” he said to the waiter, a tall man with teeth like a horse.
“Righty-o, Jerry,” Paddy chortled and prepared to leave.
Jerry stopped him. “Before you go, I’d like you to meet our new editor.”
Paddy’s eyes widened as he noticed me. “Jesus Christ, if it isn’t Finola McGee.” He wiped his hand on the back of his trousers and grabbed mine in an iron grip. “The famous Finola!”
“How did you know?” I asked, trying not to wince.
“I’ve seen you on the telly a couple of times. No mistaking that freckly face and the wild hair. Except now it’s short and purple. Suits you.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s an honour to meet you. You sure know how to wipe the floor with them politicians. Good on ya, Finola.”
I eased my hand out of his grip. “That’s all in the past, Paddy.”
“In the past?” Paddy looked deflated. “You mean you’re not going to dig up the dirt of the goings-on in the local County Council? Or make a bit of a stir during the election campaign?”
I glanced at Jerry. “Not really. I’m taking a bit of a sabbatical. I’ve had enough of politicians.”
Paddy rolled his eyes. “Haven’t we all? Anyway, it’s great to meet you, Finola. I’ll get that pint for you, Jerry.” Paddy picked up the empty pint glass and disappeared.
Jerry turned back to me. “So, there you go. You’ve got the job.”
I smiled. “I kind of figured that out about ten minutes ago. But thanks. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
He nodded and ran his hand over his sparse black hair. “I won’t interfere with you a lot. As long as you stick to what you just said, you’re free to run the paper on your own.”
“What I just said?” I tried to remember if I’d said anything about how I’d run the paper.
He nodded. “That thing about not digging around in the affairs of politicians.” He leaned forward and fixed his eyes on me. “The Knockmealdown News is just that—news. We stick to facts and leave the rest alone. I know you’ve solved crimes, exposed corruption and got people arrested and convicted. But we don’t want sensationalism. This paper was started by my great-grandfather in eighteen eighty-five. We’ve weathered some pretty bad storms all through the nineteen sixteen rising, the civil war, the troubles and the recent austerity, and still kept going. It’s a paper our readers trust and enjoy. We’ve kept a positive, feel-good vibe. And that’s the way we want to continue.” He drew breath and took a long pull of the pint Paddy had just placed by his elbow.
“So, by keeping your head under the blanket, you stayed out of trouble?” I couldn’t help asking.
His eyes turned cold. “We’re neutral.”
“I see.”
“There will be no ‘Finola Reveals’ in this paper,” he continued. “I hope you understand.”
“Absolutely,” I said, taken aback by the fire in his eyes. “I’ve left all that kind of reporting behind. I just want to enjoy country life and get to know everyone around here. I don’t have the energy to stir up trouble anymore.”
He leant back. “Good. I have to confess I hesitated when I saw you’d applied for the job. But then my wife told me not to be a wimp. ‘If you can get Finola McGee, grab her,’ she said. She was a huge fan of your column. She thinks you can give us a push by updating the paper a bit. ‘Sexing it up,’ she said, but that was after a few glasses of wine. I decided to hire you despite my slight hesitation. Well, we needed someone fast, as our last editor left suddenly for...health reasons.”
I was going to ask him to elaborate, but his face had that closed look that meant he wasn’t going to say anything else.
As I stood there, admiring the brass plaque on the door of my new office, I wondered why my predecessor had left. I didn’t know much about him, only that he’d been the editor-in-chief for twenty years but had then resigned, leaving no forwarding address. Strange career move. But who was I to talk?