kitchen drinking a coffee.
“You look lovely in casuals, Siobhan,” he said, appreciatively grabbing my backside. “In fact, you look lovely in everything, but best naked,” he continued, trying to undo the buttons of my shirt. I lightly slapped his hand away.
“I thought we were going for lunch,” I admonished, my breath quickening. “If you start that, we’ll be going nowhere.”
He accepted defeat and we went back to the car. God, this trip was so much easier than our first together. He had the same ‘80s music playing, but today it was a background noise, not the main feature.
“Where’re we going?” I asked as he took the turn for the M40.
“Oxford. There’s a place I want to bring you to, it’s lovely on a summer’s day.”
“ Oxford, why there? That’s a long drive.”
“I went to college there and I love it.”
“Ooh, brain-box,” I teased. “What did you read?”
“Master’s in Business Management. It’s a great city, have you been?”
He was disappointed to learn I had indeed been, quite a few times. It was unarguably a lovely place, just perfect to stroll around on a warm summer’s day. To my surprise he drove to a country pub, out in the rural environs, somewhere I’d never been before. The sweet smells of honeysuckle and clover filled the air. I closed my eyes. It could have been a summer’s day in Ireland. The sounds were the wind rustling in the trees, the buzz of bees collecting nectar from the clover, and the birds busily chirping their daily report. It was magical. I felt a kiss and opened my eyes.
“Sorry, I was miles away,” I apologised.
“Mmm, I can see that. Where were you, somewhere nice?”
“Home. Come on, let’s go in, I’m starving!”
We ordered the dish of the day, which was pheasant casserole, and two mineral waters, and sat outside in the sunshine. The food was a gourmet delight, with apples and wild mushrooms permeating the gamey pheasant flavour. Michael was quizzing me about home.
“I grew up in Easkey. It’s a fishing village about forty minutes from Sligo City; well, what we call a city—to you it’d be a small town. The village has one main street, a couple of pubs and shops, and that’s about it, but I love it. It’s home. The best thing about it is the surfing.”
“Do places like that really still exist?” he asked, looking as if he didn’t quite believe me.
“There are loads of them in Ireland. They’re impossible to visualise if you’re from a city. They’re great in one way, but there’s no future for most of the young people there; that’s why we nearly all leave.”
“And what about your family? Have they all left?”
“God, no,” I laughed. “I’m the eldest, there’s two still at school and my brother’s in college.”
“ Four children. And what about your parents, tell me about them?”
“Dad works in Sligo; he’s a lecturer during the week and a hobby farmer at the weekend. Mam quit working when I was small; she was a recruitment consultant when she lived here and there wasn’t much call for that when she moved back to Sligo in the eighties. The country was in the middle of a massive recession. Anyway, with four kids, it wouldn’t have paid her to work.”
“So what’d you do in your spare time growing up?”
“Surfed, read, went to Foroige—that’s a youth club—hung out in a café, went to discos, normal stuff teenagers do. Played camogie. If we were lucky, we got into Sligo once in a while.”
“What on earth is camogie?”
“Ha ha, of course,” I checked myself. “It’s kinda like hockey, but rougher, faster, and you can hit the ball in mid-air. Anyway, what about you?”
“I moved to France at eleven. Gaston, my stepfather, wanted to go and run his father’s vineyard. It was great, really rural but close to Paris. I grew up swimming and horse-riding. It was strange starting school there though, because I didn’t speak a lot of French, but I soon got the hang of it. Then I
“You look lovely in casuals, Siobhan,” he said, appreciatively grabbing my backside. “In fact, you look lovely in everything, but best naked,” he continued, trying to undo the buttons of my shirt. I lightly slapped his hand away.
“I thought we were going for lunch,” I admonished, my breath quickening. “If you start that, we’ll be going nowhere.”
He accepted defeat and we went back to the car. God, this trip was so much easier than our first together. He had the same ‘80s music playing, but today it was a background noise, not the main feature.
“Where’re we going?” I asked as he took the turn for the M40.
“Oxford. There’s a place I want to bring you to, it’s lovely on a summer’s day.”
“ Oxford, why there? That’s a long drive.”
“I went to college there and I love it.”
“Ooh, brain-box,” I teased. “What did you read?”
“Master’s in Business Management. It’s a great city, have you been?”
He was disappointed to learn I had indeed been, quite a few times. It was unarguably a lovely place, just perfect to stroll around on a warm summer’s day. To my surprise he drove to a country pub, out in the rural environs, somewhere I’d never been before. The sweet smells of honeysuckle and clover filled the air. I closed my eyes. It could have been a summer’s day in Ireland. The sounds were the wind rustling in the trees, the buzz of bees collecting nectar from the clover, and the birds busily chirping their daily report. It was magical. I felt a kiss and opened my eyes.
“Sorry, I was miles away,” I apologised.
“Mmm, I can see that. Where were you, somewhere nice?”
“Home. Come on, let’s go in, I’m starving!”
We ordered the dish of the day, which was pheasant casserole, and two mineral waters, and sat outside in the sunshine. The food was a gourmet delight, with apples and wild mushrooms permeating the gamey pheasant flavour. Michael was quizzing me about home.
“I grew up in Easkey. It’s a fishing village about forty minutes from Sligo City; well, what we call a city—to you it’d be a small town. The village has one main street, a couple of pubs and shops, and that’s about it, but I love it. It’s home. The best thing about it is the surfing.”
“Do places like that really still exist?” he asked, looking as if he didn’t quite believe me.
“There are loads of them in Ireland. They’re impossible to visualise if you’re from a city. They’re great in one way, but there’s no future for most of the young people there; that’s why we nearly all leave.”
“And what about your family? Have they all left?”
“God, no,” I laughed. “I’m the eldest, there’s two still at school and my brother’s in college.”
“ Four children. And what about your parents, tell me about them?”
“Dad works in Sligo; he’s a lecturer during the week and a hobby farmer at the weekend. Mam quit working when I was small; she was a recruitment consultant when she lived here and there wasn’t much call for that when she moved back to Sligo in the eighties. The country was in the middle of a massive recession. Anyway, with four kids, it wouldn’t have paid her to work.”
“So what’d you do in your spare time growing up?”
“Surfed, read, went to Foroige—that’s a youth club—hung out in a café, went to discos, normal stuff teenagers do. Played camogie. If we were lucky, we got into Sligo once in a while.”
“What on earth is camogie?”
“Ha ha, of course,” I checked myself. “It’s kinda like hockey, but rougher, faster, and you can hit the ball in mid-air. Anyway, what about you?”
“I moved to France at eleven. Gaston, my stepfather, wanted to go and run his father’s vineyard. It was great, really rural but close to Paris. I grew up swimming and horse-riding. It was strange starting school there though, because I didn’t speak a lot of French, but I soon got the hang of it. Then I
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