Page 103 of To Hell With It
‘You’re not a mess, you’re just you that’s all.’
‘Well, if me is what I am then me is a mess.’ I sniffed and Bunty chuckled.
‘And a beautiful Irish mess you are then,’ she concluded.
‘What are you doing here? What about the festival and your sister?’
‘Ah, the festival was only for two days and my sister was boring me, so…’ She shrugged and I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘There’s only so much conversation an old woman can have with her dead sister, and besides, talking about Omanu Beach with you got the old girl twitching. I wanted to come back and I had hoped I’d see you again. I don’t think I got around to telling you about my time in Wanaka did I? Oh I had many a night out here. Had to come back and relive it at least one more time.’ She winked.
‘I went to Omanu Beach,’ I said. ‘I found the car park you told me about and swam in the sea.’
‘I was hoping you would, did you give it a kiss from me?’
‘I did.’
‘Ah, I’m delighted.’ Bunty beamed. ‘So why the tears? Did you not meet your man?’
I shook my head.
‘He’s engaged.’ I sighed. ‘But that’s not why I’m upset,’ I added, because I didn’t want Bunty for one minute to think I’d cry over Jack.
‘He’s a fool is what he is.’ Bunty reached out and took my hand. ‘A fool and nothing more.’
I didn’t pull my hand away. Not because I didn’t want to because I’m ashamed to say that I did, but because I didn’t want to offend Bunty. I glanced down at her hand. Her crooked fingers looked like twigs and I wondered if she might be as old as the broccoli trees. The lines and creases were spread across her skin like roots embedded forever, each one telling a story I would never know. I imagined her young and free, swimming naked and dancing around a campfire at night by her van, not a care in the world. No counting, no cleaning, no obsessive thoughts.
‘I don’t know how to stop my mind sometimes,’ I said, and I didn’t worry how it sounded or what Bunty would think because somehow I knew she’d understand.
‘Ah that’s easy, dear,’ Bunty said.
‘How?’
‘You just sayoh to hell with it!Works every time.’
‘To hell with it?’
‘That’s right, dear. Send it to hell, whatever it is.’ She chuckled. ‘I used to say that a lot when my husband was alive and annoying me. It was quite effective.’
‘Sometimes I just feel so trapped, I don’t know how to set myself free.’
‘My dear Pearl.’ Bunty squeezed my hand. ‘You always have been.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, confused.
‘Free.’ She smiled. ‘You’ve always been free.’
And her words hung in the air between us, lingering long enough for me to want to grab them and never let them go.
* * *
We sat together at our table for the rest of the evening. Bunty told me more about her life in Ireland, how as a girl she used to creep out of her bedroom window and run along the streets of Dublin in her nightie and bare feet just to feel alive. How her father caught her once and scolded her so hard she had a sore bottom for a whole day afterwards, but it only made her more determined to do it again. How she’d left home the minute she could because she was so desperate to see the world, how she worked as a housekeeper and nanny for a wealthy family, who took her with them every time they went abroad and how grateful to them she was for showing her the world and giving her her travelling feet.
And I told Bunty about my OCD, about Mairéad and how she’d been helping me, how I never left the village, until now. But Bunty didn’t make me feel silly. She didn’t make me feel ridiculous.
By the time we had finished talking, the sky had turned from blue to black, and I promised Bunty that I would keep in touch and visit her in Dublin the moment I could.
‘You take care of yourself now.’ She smiled as we said goodbye. ‘No more tears, get out there and see it all – and rememberto hell with it!’
‘I will,’ I said, and I was crying again. What was with all the crying?
