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Aisling made it down the stairs with fifteen minutes to spare before she was due to meet Una. The weather looked fierce outside and she’d decided to wrap up warmly. It had been hard going, but she’d managed to squeeze into her black jeans, throw on a sweater and wrap a scarf around her neck. Lastly, she’d pulled her black boots with the silver buckling detail on over her jeans. She’d fallen in love with them after spotting them in the window of Debenhams in last year’s sale. A quick check in the mirror that all those pesky mascara dots were gone, and she was good to go.
It was a relief to escape the apartment and her sister after the morning’s debacle. Moira didn’t look as though she intended rushing off anywhere; she was still in her pyjamas and in her happy place watching the EastEnders weekend omnibus. She’d barely looked up from the screen when Aisling said she’d catch her later.
‘Morning, James, everything under control?’ she said, descending the stairs to reception.
‘Hi.’ He swivelled around in his seat looking fresh faced, his dark hair artfully styled. Aisling wondered if he’d even started shaving yet. ‘Grand, Aisling. It’s been quiet, so far.’ He looked at her for a beat but was too polite to ask why she was late down. It was after all completely out of character for her. ‘Nobody’s checked out yet, though Room 3 is due soon.’
‘Yes, the Petersons are on the move today and the Prestons are leaving too.’ She wondered idly whether the company had sold the young couple on relocating.
James brought up the screen on the computer and nodded, ‘Mr Walsh’s checking out too.’
Of course he was! Aisling had nearly forgotten he was going back to Liverpool today. It would have been dreadful if she hadn’t said goodbye to him in person. It wasn’t like her not to know the comings and goings of O’Mara’s guests off the bat and especially a regular like Mr Walsh. It was this business with Marcus. He wasn’t good for business!
‘He’ll be down having his breakfast. I’ll go and say cheerio to him now. I’ll take that downstairs, shall I?’ She picked up the plate beside the computer. There was nothing left on it save a piece of bacon rind. Mr Fox would enjoy that later she thought.
The phone began to ring and James grinned giving her a thumbs up. ‘Cheers, Aisling. Tell Mrs Baicu it hit the spot.’
Aisling smiled back. His mam probably sorted his breakfast at home before he left to come here, and then he no sooner he sat down to do some work and Mrs Baicu served him up a second great helping. Ah well, look at the Australian brothers staying with them at the moment, the Freeman boys. Mrs Flaherty had been in seventh heaven seeing their heaped plates hoovered up each morning.
Branok and Emblyn Nancarrow were making their way gingerly down the stairs. Aisling paused at the foot of them as they reached the landing above her and called out a good morning. They both looked rather crumpled and still half asleep. Relics from a bygone era in their flowing tie-dyed ensembles. She hoped they had layers on under all that garb or they’d freeze today.
‘Thank you for your recommendation of Quinn’s, Aisling. We had the most divine Irish stew followed by a slice of gateau, but I don’t feel guilty,’ Branok patted his middle, hidden beneath his loose shirt, ‘because we worked it off after dinner by putting our dancing shoes on. The chap playing the fiddle had everybody up.’
‘Branok forgets he’s not in his twenties anymore and he was throwing himself about the floor like he was at Glastonbury or Woodstock. His body brings him up with a short shrift reminder the next day though,’ Emblyn said. ‘We’re both in need of a good strong cup of coffee I’m afraid.’ She yawned to demonstrate her point.
Aisling laughed, ‘Well, you’ll find a pot brewed downstairs. Mrs Baicu hails from Romania and her coffee is thick and strong. A bit like Turkish coffee.’
‘Just what we need, Emblyn.’ She nodded her agreement.
‘A cup of that and a plate piled high with bacon and eggs will see you both right.’ Aisling flashed them a smile before glancing at Una’s door on her way past Room 1. Perhaps she should knock in case she’d slept in. She hesitated but then decided to leave it and carried on down the stairs. She was more than likely getting dressed, or she may even be downstairs having breakfast. Either way, if she wasn’t in the guest lounge at eleven, she’d tap on her door.
The dining room was busy, and Aisling smiled and greeted the guests, pausing to check in with Mrs Baicu who had Geraldine beavering away buttering toast. They were a well-oiled machine, and she’d only get underfoot were she to linger in the kitchen so she made a beeline for Mr Walsh.
He was ever the gentlemen, dapper in his suit. There was no such word as casual in his world and getting up he pulled the seat out for her.
‘That colour’s becoming on you, Aisling.’
She glanced at the maroon scarf draped over her sweater. ‘Thank you. It’s a sad day to be sure, Mr Walsh, what with you leaving us again to cross the water,’ Aisling twinkled. She sat down opposite him shaking her head and putting her hand over the cup to signal that she was alright when he gestured to the teapot. ‘The weather certainly thinks so, it’s tipping down outside.’
‘Ah, Aisling, as much as it pains my heart, I have to leave. I’m a man with commitments. I’ve a dog needs picking up from the kennels and a garden that will be due some attention,’ he bantered back.
‘We’ll miss you.’
It was true. Aisling had a lot of time for Mr Walsh. She could tell he had a kind heart. She wondered about his life in Liverpool. She had a vague idea he’d been a salesman or something like before he’d retired. He certainly had the necessary charm for that line of work. Her eyes strayed to his left hand and she wondered if he had a lady friend. There was no ring on his finger to signal he’d ever been married and was perhaps widowed. Then again, he could be divorced, the ring tucked away in a drawer forgotten about. It was none of her business either way.
‘Be sure to tell Bronagh I said goodbye now won’t you. She’s a good woman that one.’
Aisling might not have had much in the way of sleep the night before and her brain may have only been running at half capacity but there was something in his tone of voice. It was the way his expression seemed to lighten and lift when Bronagh’s name rolled off his tongue. It had her matchmaking antennae all a quiver. She did the maths. Bronagh had never married, she lived with her ailing mammy. Mr Walsh would appear to be something of a bachelor. If she were a few years older, quite a few years older she’d have him pegged as a catch. One plus one equalled three! It was a match Moira would wholeheartedly approve of.
‘I’ll pass it on to her, Mr Walsh. You know we’re only a phone call away. Keep in touch, won’t you? Don’t leave it a whole year until we hear from you again.’ She wanted to add that Bronagh’s hours were eight am until four pm Monday to Friday, she was single so far as Aisling knew, and if he wished to correspond with her, Aisling would happily forward all mail on. She thought that might be a little obvious however and refrained. She caught sight of his watch face, the time had ticked over to eleven o’clock. She couldn’t sit here any longer pondering subtle ways in which to orchestrate further contact between this dapper gent and her receptionist but as she made to get up from her seat, she had a brainwave.
‘Mr Walsh, I’ve got to dash, I’m due to meet a friend but, you know, I just realised you’re not on our Christmas card list. That’s a sin, so it is, what with you being our favourite guest and all. Why don’t you leave your address with James at the front desk?’
Mr Walsh nodded and at that moment Mrs Baicu, her dark hair silvered with grey scraped back in a bun, burst through the kitchen doors and marched toward them. An efficient, angular woman who always reminded Aisling of a Liquorice Allsort, she put this down to her multi-coloured voluminous peasant skirts. She wore the same style of skirt no matter what the season and, if it was cold she pulled on woollen tights. Today was definitely a woollen tights day. Her accent still echoed strongly of her Eastern European roots. ‘Mr Walsh you can’t leave without this.’ She thrust a glass jar at him, its contents a dark and syrupy jam secured by a twist-top lid. ‘It’s what we Romanian’s call magiun, plum jam. A speciality of mine. It would give me great pleasure to know you were enjoying this on your toast each morning once you are back in Liverpool. You spread the word the Romanian jam is good, yes?’
Aisling’s mouth twitched. It was a good job Mrs Flaherty wasn’t here. The two cooks were fiercely competitive over their jam making skills. If she were to get wind Mrs Baicu was giving their regulars samples of her traditional plum jam to take home, there’d be a good deal of fecking. It would be followed by a shortage of oranges in Dublin as she set about whipping up her marmalade for all and sundry staying at O’Mara’s.
Aisling wished Mr Walsh all the best for his journey home and leaving Mrs Baicu fussing over him she made her way up the stairs and through to the guest lounge.
Una was perched on the same chair she’d been sitting in only a few hours earlier. The green quilted dressing gown, however, had been replaced. She was wearing the same cardigan and skirt combo as yesterday along with the blue blouse Aisling had complimented her on. Somehow, she looked less severe this morning. It was down to the splash of subtle colour from the lipstick and blush she’d applied, Aisling realised. For a woman who’d been up half the night, she looked surprisingly well although her anxiety was palpable. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap her knuckles were white. Aisling tried to put her at ease.
‘Did you manage to get a little more sleep, Una? You certainly look rested.’
‘I did, thank you, I went out like a light. I’d still be asleep now if I hadn’t set the alarm. Yourself?’
‘Me too. Have you had time for breakfast?’ It dawned on her she’d been too busy battling Roisin and Moira off earlier to grab anything. She could have helped herself to what was on offer in Mrs Baicu’s kitchen, but she’d gotten caught up chatting to Mr Walsh. Ah well, it wouldn’t do her any harm and her stomach was beginning churn on Una’s behalf, anyway.
‘No, I couldn’t, dear, not this morning.’
They were a right pair. Aisling gave her a smile to say she understood. ‘I’ll get James to call us a taxi, shall I? Oh, and if you’ve a coat with you it might be an idea to put it on. It’s a miserable old Sunday out there.’
Una nodded, ‘I’ll go and get it now, shall I?’
‘Grand.’