Before she moved into the house, I was prepared to resent her for interrupting my concentration with the necessities of hostessing. But Tim knew the way I worked and had evidently explained the process at length to Trish. She fitted into the household routine as if she'd always been there. In the five days Tim allowed her to get synchronised to Irish time before they took off on their bike hike, there was never a dirty cup, plate, spoon or pot in the kitchen. The laundry disappeared the moment it left the body and reappeared neatly ironed and hung, or folded carefully away. She was also not obtrusive in her efforts to help efficiently. I liked her very much, but I worried. She was obviously the sort who made marvellous wives for busy men, but she wanted a career in music. All right, so teaching a school or church group. Tim was just turned 20 and in no position to marry. Maybe they'd be happy to live together for a while? They certainly acted married to my prejudiced eye.
One consolation occurred to me: youth wasn't being wasted by Tim and Trish.
She also got on extremely well with Tim's friends. I presume that Tim had briefed her, or she had extraordinary recall, because she knew exactly who was who, and doing what from the first evening on.
In those five days, my evenings were quiet - all too bloody quiet alter three weeks of Tim and his friends. But they had to take Trish to every singing pub in the two counties. And that took some pub crawling.
Trish had not brought her guitar since she allowed that Tim's was a very good instrument. She had brought, in the lining of her anorak (I wonder who advised her on that?) nine skillion tape blanks. If the typewriter and computer were Tim's favourite appendages, the tape recorder and mike were hers. I wondered if she slept with them. No, cancel that, Dana.
The day before their scheduled departure was madsville: tents, the campers' dehydrated and flash frozen, vacuum packed food arrived and were admired, haversacks, bike packs, boots, pans, all the paraphernalia occupied my living room. Everything was weighed so that no one carried more than was bearable. There was a huge argument between Trish and Tim because she wanted to carry as much weight as he: she was just as fit, wasn't she, and not a scrawny wight. He was being a male chauvinist pig, that's what, and she wouldn't permit it. I think Sheevaun and Mary wished she'd be quiet about equality: they were quite willing for Eamonn and Pat to take the heavier loads.
Tim solved the problem by saying Trish could carry their tent one day, and he the next.
We had a huge feast and booze-up the night before, though it ended, on Tim's orders, at midnight, to allow for a good sleep and an early start. They'd have to take it easy the first day, possibly the second, but an early start would mean they could have more rests the first day, to limber muscles unused during the winter. (After those hills in Lehigh, I wouldn't have thought he needed any limbering so I think he meant Eamonn and the girls. I knew that Pat had biked to Belfield from Shankill every day.)
Mairead and her new man came, on Tim's invitation. Nick had done a good deal of cycling so he fit into the evening far better than Mairead, to judge by her bemused expression, had anticipated. Nick Hewlett was a sort of nondescript looking person until he smiled or until you had talked him up a bit. He tended to hold his own counsel, which must certainly recommend him to Mairead who resented gratuitous advice, but he knew a great many things about travelling in Ireland. Not surprising when I finally asked him what was his business and found he'd been chauffeuring for one of the big hire-car firms. He often took on assignments with film companies and he had a store of amusing tales to tell about driving this or that big name film star. He'd been assigned to the Rafferty's Daughter crew so he had a good deal of pertinent information to give Trish, with names of people to look up for more than the average courtesies.
'Where'd you find him?' I asked Mairead on the side.
'Let's just say, we found each other.'
'Did you know all that?'
'No, but then,' and she shot it back at me, 'we didn't talk about us.'
That set both of us off laughing and neither of us could explain to the others.
The evening was great fun and I tried not to think of tomorrow. As I'd dreaded, the house was all the more empty for their leaving. Tim's a good organiser and despite my attempts to stuff everyone with pancakes enough to last the week, much less the first morning, they mounted their bikes, festooned with oddments of equipment at exactly seven o'clock. They looked mighty ungainly, bending over the handlebars, their backpacks bulging, as they pumped down the road, two by two, and out of my sight.
Tim had promised to give me a shout now and then, so I'd know they hadn't come to any grief. I'd that much to look forward to.
I occupied that day with housecleaning: I couldn't leave all the bits and pieces out or Mrs. Munday would hide them on Tuesday when she came and we'd never find anything. I also restocked the freezer which had been severely depleted.
Mairead phoned me as I was sitting down to a lonely dinner of chicken wings, and she and Nick took me out for a few jars. Nick had enough stories to fill a book of 'Timmy's' if such stories had been fit for young eyes. I'd never realised that film stars could be so… so… human?
I crawled into bed that night, too well oiled to care about anything except closing my watering eyes. They could have a smokeless room in some of the bigger pubs, couldn't they, for the people like me? They have smokeless sections of airplanes, don't they?
The next morning was worse. I marched myself back upstairs at nine-thirty and sat dutifully at the typewriter. The story absented itself as if Tim's presence had been responsible for its progress and it was suspended until he returned in three weeks.
Three weeks in a doubly empty house? And Mairead far too involved with Nick to want to share his company? I would go absolutely stark raving bonkers.
I noticed glumly that the calendar said it was D-Day. Deserted Day, I grembled to myself. I was on my fourth cup of coffee. Mr. Murphy had brought only circular mail, sent surface from the States. It was fund-raising time for colleges so I didn't even have anything palatable to browse through with my coffee. Or answer later, thus disposing of more heavy time. Injury upon insult!
The doorbell purred and then' someone applied the knocker vigorously to the door as if they didn't trust mechanical devices.
'I'm coming! I'm coming.'
I wondered who the hell would be so insistent. And then ran, because, maybe something had happened to Tim and Trish, and it was the Gardai…
I hauled open the door and stared.
Leaning indolently against the doorjamb was Daniel Jerome Lowell, his mouth twitching in echo of the pure devilment in his serge-blue eyes.
'What are you doing here?'
I clung to the door handle so as not to throw my arms about his neck, sternly telling myself that I'd've been glad to see anyone who wasn't the bearer of bad tidings.
The light went out of his eyes. I know I had sounded shrewish with relief, but I was trying not to sound over-joyed, too. Nothing more certain to put a man off…
I grabbed his hand and pulled him over the threshold.
'Tim and Trish left yesterday on their bikes…' I said in a rush of explanation. 'And the way you… summoned me… I was scared stiff it was the Gardai reporting an accident. Don't stand there! Come in. When did you get here? Oh, you've a car. Why didn't you phone? I'd've picked you up at the airport. Are you staying long? I didn't mean to sound inhospitable or…'
Baggins came charging out of the bushes to inspect the newcomer and the awkwardness of my greeting was covered by necessary introductions. I wasn't surprised that Baggins liked Dan and lick-kissed him. I'd've been more surprised if Baggins had been aggressive.