Page 47 of One More Day
It was a humble tradition, but it was ours. I’ve never been back to the lighthouse since Michael died, but I’m going to go there in his honour before I leave Donegal. It’s the least I can do.
I wonder where Charlie has gone to spend his day.
Maybe he has some sort of mysterious connection to this place too, or maybe he has friends who live nearby that he can go and visit. He’ll be glad to have use of the living room and the fire for a change this evening, even if it means giving up the bed. I notice he changed the sheets already before he left, and has opened the windows to let some fresh air in.
Maybe he’s off for a secret rendezvous with Helena for the day. But no, he said he would see her when he got home, so that can’t be right. I wonder where she lives. I try to imaginehis type. I bet he goes for smart, studious girls who are highly intellectual and say the right things at the right time.
But anyhow, it’s none of my business and I’ve my own day to fill and make the most of.
‘Fancy another ramble around, George?’ I ask the dog, who jumps to attention with a wagging tail. I miss having the car. Without it I’m limited to how much we can explore while we’re here, so apart from walking around there’s not much else to do.
Unless … unless I could cycle?
I remember how there used to be an old bike in the shed for visitor use, and even though I haven’t ridden a bike in quite a while I wonder if I could manage a quick ride around the forest. I’ve planned an evening in the hot tub beneath the stars and an early night in that comfy bed which I’m so looking forward to, but first I need to blow off some cobwebs.
Yes, a cycle would be fun.
I race upstairs, change into some comfy soft leggings and a hoodie, then I go out to the little brick shed which has a red tin roof and a proper barn door to have a root around. It smells of paint and petrol from the lawnmower that sits neatly against the wall. Shelves are filled with pots and tubs holding everything from screws to small tools, and an old box of washing powder that has faded in the sun. Sure enough, right at the back, pinned behind a stack of old baskets, there is a battered yellow bicycle with a matching helmet hooked over the large handlebars.
After some careful manoeuvring, I push the bicycle outside onto the grass and listen as the chain squeaks and squealsa little to begin with before the oil kicks in. By the time I get it off the grass, it moves along the gravel smoothly.
I remember this bike.
I was on it during youthful, happy, sun-kissed summer days when I rode around the forest with the wind in my hair and not a care in the world. I wonder if I could relive that feeling today. Could I go back to the days when I was welcomed here, before this all happened, and my life came crashing down around me?
‘I’m sorry, George, but I’m going to have to leave you here for just a little while,’ I say, feeling immediately guilty. Charlie never leaves Max here alone. At least he hasn’t done so yet.
He whimpers and tilts his head to the side.
‘George, really?’
Another whimper.
‘OK, OK, you can come with me then, but stay by my side as always, won’t you? I hope you can keep up. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, George.’
I put on the helmet and fix it round my chin which sends George a bit crazy as he doesn’t recognise me at first, but I won’t be put off by his fussing. I’m looking forward to this little adventure. I know every nook and turn of the forest, so there’s no way I can get lost, particularly as the snow has almost melted away. It looks like it always did, and I’m excited to relive my youth on a bicycle ride around a place I love so well.
I lock the doors of the cottage, making sure to keep my key in a safe place to avoid the wrath of Charlie, and I setoff – a bit wobbly at first – in the direction of the forest that lies behind Seaview Cottage.
Boy, this really does bring back memories. I tilt my head back and bathe my face in the winter sun as George trots along beside me, his panting the only sound in the air apart from some distant birdsong. This is heavenly. This is the reason I came here. This is fate. This is the feeling I’ve been chasing for so long, so far away from the rat race of Dublin, so removed from clients chasing results or number crunchers needing answers on the spot. Being here is a million worlds away from phones ringing and late nights at my desk or having to be dressed for occasions and putting on a brave front. Being here feels so close to being at home.
I let tears stream down my face, unsure if they’re tears of sadness or happiness, or a mixture of both.
I feel like screaming so I do just that amongst the dizzy heights of the trees above me, knowing there is no one near enough to hear me. It feels so liberating, so refreshing just to let it all out. I can scream if I want here. I can cry if I want here.
I scream again, and just when I’m about to breathe in this momentary sense of escape, George runs out in front of the bike.
I’m forced to brake suddenly, which sends me tumbling onto the ground, and the heavy steel crossbar of the bike lands on my hip with a thud.
Now I scream again, but for a very different reason.
‘Ow! My leg! George, you silly boy!’
His big dripping tongue hangs out of his mouth and I want to shake him for ruining my moment of tranquillity, but more so for making me fall off the bike onto a bunch of twigs that feel as though they are piercing every inch of my lower body.
I try to push the bike off me but its weight is digging into my thigh and the pain sears through me. Thank goodness there is no one else around to hear me moan and groan where I lie in melted snow, my leg injured along with my ego, which has also taken a bashing. George tries to lick my face in sympathy, but I shoo him away, not in the mood just yet for his apology.
I slowly climb up from the wet ground, my leggings sticking to the grazes on my knees. I lean on the bike for support then limp my way back to the cottage, which takes what feels like an eternity. It’s dark by the time I make it back. Tears are silently rolling down my cheeks and the pain in my knees is a good match for how sorry I feel for myself.
