In Virginia Deep

Bus Eireann should invest in toilets on buses. Really. As soon as I got to Baillieborough in front of the Bailey Hotel I pulled my suitcase overhead barely stopping to check if I had left anything behind, jumped off the bus, and ran across the calm country road into the hotel. I gave a verbal deluge to the receptionist along the lines of "CanIpleaseyourtoiletImpressed?" The receptionist nodded, pointed me in the direction of the bathroom, and when after I'd come out looking hopefully slightly less frazzled, asked me if there was anything she could do to help me further. "No, thank you", I said, and hefted my suitcase away to allow her to deal with the next person in line. Opposite the reception was the bar, homely with red couches near the windows with mahogany tables and smelling of Guinness and fish and chips. I dragged my suitcase over to the bar and ordered a shandy. "On the rocks", I emphasized. When I was meeting this lawyer fellow, I'd be doing it with a clear head. The former owner of the house I had bought was going to sign off on some last-minute papers. We had agreed to meet at the house in Virginia to sign them there. His lawyer, one Michael Stowell was supposed to meet me in the Bailey in Baeilieborough. I had met him before but our conversations were mostly actually only about the house that his client was selling. If I didn't know any better during that period, I would have thought that he was against Ruari, the former house owner, selling. As far as I could tell Ruari though 79 going on 80 had no problem understanding, yet Michael Stowell found some need to reiterate points that Ruari and I had already agreed on. "But Ruari, you do understand that..." "But Ruari, you told me that..." "Come on Ruari be reasonable." Not all this was said in my presence. Just after the first agreements were drawn up and I was leaving the room, was when these seeds of doubt were scattered but Ruari O'Donoghue was not good soil in that regard. "Michael, it's time", he said, "It's not like it's a family house, and it's a hassle to keep it up by myself. What do I need a five-bedroom house for now? No, I'm better off with Sarah in Kells. You remember Sarah my youngest? Lovely girl, you remember? I'll stay with her then I may go off to Spain or Portugal. You see have this friend, Oscar..." So in spite of Micheal Stowell's pandering and his ridiculous interfering, Ruari and I signed on the dotted line and it was done. Yew House was mine. I took a long sip of the tangy liquid, the citrus taste latching onto my tongue as I thought of the five-bedroom cream walled detached house along a grassy private road just a few miles out from Virginia town, where I spent my childhood Summers. Childhood. The only time I felt safe in my entire life. This an e was an easy choice for me. Buying the house, having one room to myself, rent the other three out during the holidays, or as needed. Foolproof. It would be nice to be away from the lethargic hustle of the Dublin streets, where I first started to doubt myself. I took another swig to stave off the dark feelings in my chest. When I swallowed my drink the darkness subsided. What happened before would never happen again. My phone rang, mercifully breaking me out of my thoughts. I scrambled for it in the four-year-old handbag which was fraying this way and that. My stupid phone had fallen into the lining. I saw the faint light and snatched at it immediately. I pulled it out and saw it was the lawyer. "Michael?" "Audrey." I grimaced at the coarse baritone. The man's very voice oozed disdain. "I'm in the bar in the Bailey", I said, looking at the stubby men throwing darts in the far corner of the bar. "I'm parked outside", Micheal replied crisply. I nodded stupidly. "I'll be out." He didn't answer as he hung up. Lovely Michael. I gulped down the last of my shandy, stuffed my phone back in my bag, avoid the torn linings, and picked up my suitcase. "Thank you", I called back to the man at the bar before heading outside to the Bailieborough main road, quaint and quasi village as ever. I turned both ways along the line of parked cars in front of the Bailey. I turned to see the hairdresser having a smoke and the stationery shop owner overseeing a truck full of supplies. "Audrey Harrods?" I turned quickly to see a man in a dark suit with a white cotton tie. He was at least a head taller than me, slender with brown hair swept into an enviously elegant side parting. His grey eyes were fixed as if tearing down whatever they were looking at. He still had his signature scent of self-importance. "That's me", I said. His face didn't move. You wouldn't think he was the one who offered to drive me to the house but oh no, he did. "Well", Micheal Stowell said finally, "Welcome back to Cavan."