Page 12 of The Women at Ocean's End

Everything about the island had wrapped itself around her since the day she arrived. It felt as if she was meant to be here, after all half the country was screaming out for the want of housing and here she was, landed in a cottage all to herself for the whole winter. Admittedly, it wasn’t the Rockefeller mansion. She’d had to learn to build a good fire in the ancient stove to combat the biting frigidness in winter. She even chopped up her own firewood. She’d taken easily to wearing extra layers to combat the random chills that seemed to haunt the placein unexpected niggling draughts. True enough, it mightn’t be everyone’s idea of landing on their feet but Ros had lived in worse. She’d surfed sofas of friends of friends for almost eighteen months when it seemed Dublin hadn’t a flat to let within her price range, and at least now she was in charge of when the fire went on and what time the lights went out.

And she had the kid goat. It had only been two days but it felt as if he’d been with her forever. He was the last thing she checked at night, the first she raced to in the morning. She was happy that he was eating, or at least trying to drink the baby formula, but his leg was no better, in fact, if anything, he was making even less of an attempt to stand or move about. Already, it seemed they were getting used to each other. She’d given him a name; well you had to, hadn’t you? George, mainly because her mother had adored George Michael. It suited him perfectly.George the goat. Her phone was filling up with images of him, he was so cute, she couldn’t help it. She spent hours online, learning as much as she could about the native Irish goat and how to care for him, and now she knew it was best to release him as soon as he could walk safely.

Constance had been enraptured with the notion of George. Ros promised she could come and see him, but then it turned out that she’d never be able to walk as far as the ranger’s house and neither of them owned a car.

‘So, this farmer who helped you take him home?’ Constance asked, almost as wide-eyed as the goat.

‘I think he thought I was deranged. He was definitely the sort who would have believed it kinder to finish him off there and then and leave his body in a ditch out of the way…’

‘Oh, well, that’s farmers for you, I think they work off everything in the same way they do with their own livestock, it’s all weighed up in terms of the chances of survival against the cost of it not working out if you call the vet. But aren’t youmarvellous to know what to do. I wouldn’t have had a clue and I’ve lived here almost my entire life.’

Constance was a dear sweet thing. Sometimes, Ros felt a little sorry for her unlikely new friend as they sat there in her faded mansion. She had a feeling that apart from a new fridge freezer, nothing much had changed there in forty years or maybe more. Ros had even spotted iodine tablets in the cupboard when she’d washed up their cups and plates one evening. That first morning they’d met, she had been momentarily stunned when she climbed through the upstairs window. It was beyond shocking in its neglected shambolic state.

‘Perhaps I could come back and oil that door for you?’ She wanted to come back again and check on Constance. God knew how long she’d been wandering about in her nightdress. Ros knew better than anyone what it was to pretend that everything was not so bad as it appeared. ‘Maybe put a hook up somewhere outside so you could leave a spare key handy in case it slips closed on you again?’ she’d offered as she’d been leaving. The truth was, she felt even those two things were a lot less than Constance needed. A blind man could see she was lonely as hell and maybe as much at risk of tripping over on those mossy paths as she was of locking herself outside and freezing to death.

‘Oh, you can’t be doing that, I’m sure it’s far too much trouble to go to just for me…’ But Constance couldn’t stop smiling. ‘Are you sure? You really wouldn’t mind?’

‘Not a bit. To be honest with you, once I’ve done my rounds, the time can drag a bit in that cottage by myself.’ It wasn’t strictly true, especially since George had arrived on the scene. These days she was actually relishing just mooching about or wandering down to the village if there was something on. She’d even gone to a few yoga classes in the community centre, although she still wasn’t convinced they were her bag, but at least she’d made some friends. Now, she wasn’t an outsider;when she went into the supermarket or walked across the marshes, she said hello to people and they knew her. It felt as if she was becoming one of them.

‘That’s so kind and…’ Constance looked around the kitchen as if for inspiration, ‘I’ll tell you what, in return, I’ll cook lunch for both of us…’

‘Ah, you don’t have to do that, there’s really no need,’ Ros said, although she’d never turned down a plate of food in her life.

‘It’d be my pleasure, you just let me know when you’re coming up and I’ll have something prepared for us,’ Constance said and, as she walked Ros towards the door that day, it seemed that she looked a little younger than she had just an hour or so earlier.

Since there had been no more news from the mainland in terms of when the new ranger would be appointed, Ros put all thoughts of having to leave from her head for the next few days. She was on her way back from checking on an area of beach with a history of having stranded whales, when her phone rang. Well, she couldn’t bury her head in the sand forever.

‘Hah, so you’re still there?’ Keith Duff said –it was one of his default greetings when he rang her.

‘Of course I’m still here; I filed my weekly report last night.’

‘Oh, you did, did you?’ It sounded as if he was looking around his desk for the online update that she sent in each week about various vulnerable sites on the island. She hadn’t mentioned the goat of course, why would she? It would be something else he could lecture her on and she didn’t need that. With a bit of luck, soon she’d be able to release George back into the same area she’d found him in and Keith would be none the wiser.

‘Of course, how’s life on the mainland?’ she asked, stopping to admire the sea beneath her. It was breathtaking today, a mixture of coral blues and green patches under the unyielding greyness of the water.

‘Like it always is, neither as cold nor as wet as over there, I suppose.’ It was another familiar refrain. ‘Now, I’m not calling you to find out about the weather or to compare notes on island living, but I wanted to check in with you. We put up that advertisement for the ranger’s job on the island and it’s hardly a shocker but, of all the jobs going out there this week, it’s the only one no-one has actually applied for yet.’

‘Oh!’ That actually came as a pleasant surprise to Ros, even if it sounded as if it was giving her boss heartburn.

‘So, I’m just double-checking, you’re grand with staying on there until we find someone to come along and fill the post?’

‘Of course, I’m more than happy to stay for as long as I’m needed, I’m looking forward to seeing the…’ She was going to sayspring hatchings, but of course, he had already moved on.

‘Thank St Blaise for that. My desk is already groaning with the amount of paperwork on it, the last thing I need is to be organising rosters for that place out of the boyos here. They’re crosser than stickler hens when it comes to having to put themselves out.’

‘Consider it a problem solved,’ Ros said and she breathed an almighty sigh of relief. Actually, she felt like celebrating except she wasn’t sure there was a pub open on the island on a Monday night this early in the year. And then, she thought, maybe she could take a bottle of wine to Constance Macken’s house and they might have a glass each to celebrate what felt like a glorious reprieve.

8

Constance

‘How lovely.’ Constance was sitting at the kitchen table poring over an old photo album when Ros arrived and placed a bottle of wine on the table. She’d heard on the radio earlier that day that people didn’t have photo albums any more, the presenter and his guest talking about storing photos on acloudof all things and having a million images but nothing in a frame. Ocean’s End was filled with photographs. They stretched from the first days here on the island, documenting many of her mother’s great triumphs, and later, they catalogued that short time in Constance’s life when it seemed as if everything had worked out perfectly. Pride of place in the sitting room, a faded photograph of her wedding day hung above the fireplace and on every surface stood some reminder of glorious memories of a past that had fleeted by too quickly. Her darling Oisin forever young while she carried on in Ocean’s End without him. There was a photograph of Constance and little Heather Banks, standing on the beach, with the sun glaring against their backs. Stupid, really, when she thought about it now, Ocean’s End had become a catalogue of lives that had only passed through it, but even all these years later meant the world to Constance.

‘Sorry, am I interrupting?’ Ros was standing there now; had she asked her something?

‘Not at all, I don’t know when I last had a glass of wine. Of course, the cupboards here are bursting with booze, betweensherry and brandy and all sorts of disgusting liquors, but it’s not the same when you’re here alone, there hardly seems any point. I generally stick to tea.’

‘If they’ve been there a while, you might be better off.’

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