the latest Wednesday call from home.
‘Orla? It’s Ma. Can you talk?’
‘Howaya Ma?’
‘Grand. Grand. Lookit. I had a queer owld conflab with your headmaster outside the butcher’s.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, madam. Oh indeed. Says he, Orla’s staying on in London. Says I, No no no, Orla wouldn’t make a decision like that without telling me.’
‘Ma, I’m sorry.’
‘So am I. That I raised a chit with no manners.’
‘Ma! No, don’t cry! Please, Ma.’
‘What makes you want to be sofar away, amongst strangers?’
‘You don’t say that to Caitlin. Or when Brendan went backpacking.’
‘They weren’t bereaved. Grieving. Half mad with—’
‘Ma! I can cope.’
‘You’re half dead, Orla!’
‘I know! I bloody know, but we mustn’t say it.’
‘Oh, love. I’ve made you cry.’
‘I hate crying, Ma. Eighteen days tear-free and now I’ll have to start at day one again. How’s everybody?’
‘Grand. Deirdre’s suing the man who put up her conservatory.’
‘Good for her. She hasn’t sued anybody for ages.’
‘And her little Roisin is after winning a prize for reciting poetry.’
‘She sent me the clip. It was almost as long as Titanic .’
‘Don’t. We shouldn’t laugh. But Jaysus, there’s only so many times you can watch a child recite a Viking saga. You’re coming home for Christmas, aren’t you?
Maude’s reaction to the job offer had been to toast Orla’s burnt boats. It had troubled Orla, who preferred to imagine a serviceable bridge behind her rather than a flotilla of burning wrecks. True, she thought as she checked an old edition of A Sentimental Education for marks and scuffs, this new job was to her liking. The students would be more motivated than the summer schoolers, less privileged, champing at the bit to embed themselves in UK society. To enable them would be satisfying. Yet despite it all, a little line of seven-year-olds snaked through her thoughts, with all their credulity, their enthusiasm, their need. They were in the boats she’d torched.
The bell above the door soundedagain; this was a busy Saturday by Maude’s standards.
‘Not you,’ snarled Bogna.
Orla looked up, a tut springing to her lips: three times today she’d had to chastise Bogna about her people skills.
‘I don’t finish until five, Marek.’ Bogna was scowling at her brother. ‘Come back then and drive me home.’
‘I have no intention of driving you home,’ said Marek. ‘Orla, come for a coffee with me.’
Maude looked up from her accounts, ears pricked, like a dachshund who’s heard the fridge door squeak.
‘Now?’ Orla stalled.
‘Yes.’ Marek held the door open. He regarded her squarely. He didn’t elaborate.
‘OK.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Bogna loudly as the door closed behind them.
‘I’ve never noticed this place before.’ Orla took a corner seat in the unpretentious café two streets away, with its fluorescent lighting and a beehived proprietress.
‘It’s Polish.’
Marek sat opposite, slid a laminated menu across the checked plastic cloth.
‘Ah.’ Orla smiled. ‘Good. I’ve never tried Polish food.’ Shut up , she counselled herself. Don’t fill the gaps. The walk to the café had proved that Marek didn’t do small-talk; a bonus, in Orla’s view. There was too much small-talk in the world, filling up each nook and cranny, leaving no room for contemplation. She scanned the offerings, stumbling over G’s and S’s and Z’s.
‘Do you likebiscuits? Cake?’ asked Marek.
‘I do.’
‘OK.’ Marek stood. ‘What sort of coffee do you like?’
‘White, thanks.’ Orla had withstood the siren call of coffee chains, and stuck to ‘old-fashioned’ coffee.
At the counter, Marek ordered in Polish, his deep bass voice rumbling over the hard edges of his mother tongue like a tank. Orla watched him, noted that he didn’t turn and smile at her. She wasn’t sure he’d smiled at all on the way, just strode on as she scuttled to keep up.
‘Orla? It’s Ma. Can you talk?’
‘Howaya Ma?’
‘Grand. Grand. Lookit. I had a queer owld conflab with your headmaster outside the butcher’s.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, madam. Oh indeed. Says he, Orla’s staying on in London. Says I, No no no, Orla wouldn’t make a decision like that without telling me.’
‘Ma, I’m sorry.’
‘So am I. That I raised a chit with no manners.’
‘Ma! No, don’t cry! Please, Ma.’
‘What makes you want to be sofar away, amongst strangers?’
‘You don’t say that to Caitlin. Or when Brendan went backpacking.’
‘They weren’t bereaved. Grieving. Half mad with—’
‘Ma! I can cope.’
‘You’re half dead, Orla!’
‘I know! I bloody know, but we mustn’t say it.’
‘Oh, love. I’ve made you cry.’
‘I hate crying, Ma. Eighteen days tear-free and now I’ll have to start at day one again. How’s everybody?’
‘Grand. Deirdre’s suing the man who put up her conservatory.’
‘Good for her. She hasn’t sued anybody for ages.’
‘And her little Roisin is after winning a prize for reciting poetry.’
‘She sent me the clip. It was almost as long as Titanic .’
‘Don’t. We shouldn’t laugh. But Jaysus, there’s only so many times you can watch a child recite a Viking saga. You’re coming home for Christmas, aren’t you?
Maude’s reaction to the job offer had been to toast Orla’s burnt boats. It had troubled Orla, who preferred to imagine a serviceable bridge behind her rather than a flotilla of burning wrecks. True, she thought as she checked an old edition of A Sentimental Education for marks and scuffs, this new job was to her liking. The students would be more motivated than the summer schoolers, less privileged, champing at the bit to embed themselves in UK society. To enable them would be satisfying. Yet despite it all, a little line of seven-year-olds snaked through her thoughts, with all their credulity, their enthusiasm, their need. They were in the boats she’d torched.
The bell above the door soundedagain; this was a busy Saturday by Maude’s standards.
‘Not you,’ snarled Bogna.
Orla looked up, a tut springing to her lips: three times today she’d had to chastise Bogna about her people skills.
‘I don’t finish until five, Marek.’ Bogna was scowling at her brother. ‘Come back then and drive me home.’
‘I have no intention of driving you home,’ said Marek. ‘Orla, come for a coffee with me.’
Maude looked up from her accounts, ears pricked, like a dachshund who’s heard the fridge door squeak.
‘Now?’ Orla stalled.
‘Yes.’ Marek held the door open. He regarded her squarely. He didn’t elaborate.
‘OK.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Bogna loudly as the door closed behind them.
‘I’ve never noticed this place before.’ Orla took a corner seat in the unpretentious café two streets away, with its fluorescent lighting and a beehived proprietress.
‘It’s Polish.’
Marek sat opposite, slid a laminated menu across the checked plastic cloth.
‘Ah.’ Orla smiled. ‘Good. I’ve never tried Polish food.’ Shut up , she counselled herself. Don’t fill the gaps. The walk to the café had proved that Marek didn’t do small-talk; a bonus, in Orla’s view. There was too much small-talk in the world, filling up each nook and cranny, leaving no room for contemplation. She scanned the offerings, stumbling over G’s and S’s and Z’s.
‘Do you likebiscuits? Cake?’ asked Marek.
‘I do.’
‘OK.’ Marek stood. ‘What sort of coffee do you like?’
‘White, thanks.’ Orla had withstood the siren call of coffee chains, and stuck to ‘old-fashioned’ coffee.
At the counter, Marek ordered in Polish, his deep bass voice rumbling over the hard edges of his mother tongue like a tank. Orla watched him, noted that he didn’t turn and smile at her. She wasn’t sure he’d smiled at all on the way, just strode on as she scuttled to keep up.
Similar Books
