Page 58 of Chaos Theory
‘Yes. I sent him a quick message yesterday. Apparently he’s really into technology.’
As I say this, the door of the wooden hut bangs open and a small girl-child races towards us, pigtails bobbing. ‘They’re here, they’re here!’ she sings.
‘Alert, alert!’ says Kobi.
It suddenly strikes me that Kobi probably hasn’t encountered many – if any – children up close. I stand in front of him protectively, uncertain whether I’m protecting him from the child, or the other way round.
‘It’s okay, Kobi. It’s just a child – a small human. Just treat her like any other human.’
A rumpled man in corduroy and brushed cotton emerges from the hut and strides towards us.
‘Lizzie!’ he calls. ‘Calm down!’
He soon outpaces the child, scooping her up in his arms without breaking step. She giggles, clearly enjoying the drama of it all.
‘Well!’ he greets us as the child writhes in his arms. He sets herdown and she begins to skip circles around our delegation. ‘She never stops moving,’ he says, smiling at her.
‘You must be Matthew. I’m Maeve from Go Ireland, and these are the colleagues I told you about – Shane and Kobi. You can probably work out who’s who. We really appreciate you hosting us.’
‘Not at all.’ He looks at Kobi in the chair, eyebrows raised. ‘Fascinating. I’m very much looking forward to hearing all about ye. It’s always great to have visitors, isn’t it, Lizzie? That’s my daughter, as you probably guessed. She’s very excited you’re here.’ He lowers his voice and leans in a little. ‘Her grandfather died recently, so all distractions are very welcome at the moment.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I say, a sudden weight in the pit of my stomach.
‘Thanks. We’re doing okay. Come on, we can have a bit of lunch first. My wife, Claire, is making spag bol. Then I’ll bring ye on a tour of the farm.’ He gestures for us to follow him up the hill.
As Matthew walks ahead, Shane turns to me with a grin and whispers, ‘His wife is Claire Farmer. The farmers from Clare.’
I slap him gently on the arm and mouth the words, ‘Be good.’
THIRTY-THREE
Noon
The smell gets me as soon as we enter the farmhouse kitchen. Garlic, onions, a rich tomatoey tone that vibrates the back of my throat.Home.
Claire Farmer is busy clattering dishes around an Aga stove. She waves a spoon at us, tells the grown-ups to sit at the table, instructs Lizzie to set out the cutlery, and as for Kobi – well, all she does is raise her eyebrows at him, then at her husband, then returns to the business of pot-stirring.
For a moment I’m transported to another kitchen. Many kitchens, in fact, but with one thing in common – my mother and her ‘famous’ spaghetti Bolognese. Spag bol was always one of Mam’s staples, but it wasn’t until the family spent a year in Bologna that she really nailed the dish, switching to tagliatelle instead of spaghetti and braising the meat for hours on end.
Dad and I continued to call it spag bol, in spite of her attempts to make us sayragù. It was just too much fun to tease her. Dad would tell her she hadnotions. She’d withhold his dish until he agreed to sayragù, and he would – but only in his best Scooby-Doovoice. I never really got the joke, but the two of them would crack up. They always made each other laugh.
The Farmers’ kitchen is just the right size. Big enough to accommodate a family and guests for lunch; small enough to feel cosy. I sit, run my hand over the cotton tablecloth, smiling at the traditional red-and-white check.
Shane and Matthew are discussing the merits of various local hurling teams while Matthew makes minor corrections to Lizzie’s cutlery efforts, replacing plastic doll teaspoons with silverware.
Kobi manages to position himself at the table and Lizzie kneels up on a chair next to him, asking him question upon question. Topics range from the mechanical – ‘Can you poop?’ – to the existential – ‘Are you alive?’ I was like that as a kid – endless questions. Shane would probably say I haven’t changed much.
When everyone is seated and settled, I thank the hosts for their hospitality and taste the pasta sauce. My tastebuds think I’ve thrown them a birthday party. ‘This is so good,’ I breathe. ‘Don’t tell my mother, but I think she might have competition.’
‘Where are you from, Maeve?’ asks Claire. She passes around a basket of garlic bread oozing golden butter. ‘I can’t quite place your accent.’
I smile, but it’s an effort. I don’t want to tell them I’ve been hearing this my whole life. ‘That’s probably because we moved around a lot when I was growing up. I’m originally from Dublin, but I’ve lived in Boston, Chicago, Cape Town, Tokyo, Barcelona, Madrid, Italy’ – I nod at my plate – ‘including Bologna, actually. This sauce is wonderful.’
‘Impressive,’ says Matthew. ‘I can see why you like tourism then. And where do you call home now? Where do your parents live?’
I pause, my throat suddenly dry. I take a sip of water. ‘Well, my mam’s in Sardinia, actually. She and Dad wanted to retire early there, but it turns out Dad had – how can I put this – other plans.’ I nod at Matthew. ‘You know yourself.’
‘Ah, Maeve, I’m so sorry,’ he says.
