“Yeah” I replied in a resigned, almost apologetic way, “I grew. I’m not fifteen anymore. Sorry to disappoint.”
Then he smiled and said how good it was to see me. He reached out to hug me, but then evidently thought better of the idea, for he pulled back as if to rethink the idea. I think he was baffled at what to do because of my breasts. He offered me his hand to shake, but he went to hug me again and I mimicked his movements, bobbing back and forth in an awkward sort of dance, never quite hugging though the intent was there.
Finally we reached a point of exasperation and he turned and picked up my carryon, never having the hug, and walked off with me following at a fast clip to match the his long legged stride.
After locating the rest of my luggage we were finally bound for Galway, where Simon had settled after his divorce. We were late arriving at his beautiful home as we stopped off at the City Hospital on Simon’s insistence, for my wrist was quite sore following my fall. There was a long wait, and when I was finally examined by a handsome young Doctor I was told I had a sprained wrist and would need to wear a sling for a week or two. Unfortunately, I had sprained my right wrist and I was right handed. Being dangerously uncoordinated even when all my parts were in working order, my plans for earning some of my keep by working on Simon’s farm were suddenly in need of revision, and Simon seemed to have similar thoughts, mumbling about having to be a nursemaid or something or other, just as the busy season had started. I was dangerously close to tears, again. I realized I hadn’t come to Galway just to learn more about cooking and wine. I’d come to see Uncle Simon again in the hope that we could recreate the closeness we’d had, and it had been a disaster from the moment I’d landed.
As we left the city and drove through the Irish countryside I did my best to concentrate on the scenery we passed and not recreate the scenes of failure that played in my head. OK, I thought, at least I’ve got to travel to Ireland, and I’m getting the most glorious tour of the beautiful West. So what if my host is disappointed with me, I’ll stay for the weekend and then go back home. Worse things have happened. I can get a job in a restaurant in Bristol. Some of the best chefs in the world are in England. And Greg might actually break down and fuck me proper. Who needs some cranky, middle-aged square? So the voice in my head soothed me into a calm enough state by which I could actually take in the beauty before me. It was just about as beautiful as anything I’ve ever seen. I think it’s the sky I remember most. The bloody, scarlet hues as the sun settled behind the Connemara hills was a joy to see. It was of so many different shades and moods, it was almost too beautiful. But then it goes dark and the stars come out, and wow!
In my prayers I often remember Anna and thank her for her many kindnesses. In a way, she is responsible for helping me create the life I now live and savour with such joy. When Simon and I arrived at the farm and Anna, the wife of the man who managed the house and grounds, came to greet me, she found me in tears and Simon sternly lecturing me about not having time to look after me and not to bother with the luggage as he’d be taking me back to the airport in the morning. Anna grabbed his finger as it pointed at me and shook it. She then let loose with a stream of Irish that I couldn’t begin to understand. But when she ended with a word I could translate, “idiot,” and put her arm around me, I caught the gist and knew that for at least one night, someone was on my side. Anna led me upstairs to one of the guest bedrooms and magically, as I was trying very hard not cry any more, my luggage appeared and Anna had found my pyjamas and toothbrush. She beckoned me into the bathroom adjoining the bedroom where she helped me wash away the grime of the journey, all the while murmuring odd bits and pieces of Irish mixed with English.
I felt mothered in a way I had never felt with my own mother. When she insisted on helping me out of my clothes, my wrist permitting only limited movement and obviously causing me pain when I tried to use it, I protested and tried to push her away. But she would have none of it. She laughed. She pointed at my breasts and hip region and then to her own and shrugged, as if to say, “Yes, we both have female bodies, now get into your pyjamas.” Somehow, I understood that I was in need of help and Anna was going to help me, that she meant me no harm. And when I was standing naked before her, she looked at me with approval, pointing to my large breasts and whistled cheekily. Dear Anna, with her deep understanding of life and sex and love and appetite, she helped me into my pyjamas and then into the lavender-scented sheets and into a summer of magic that would echo in me for years to come.
It was Anna who found a place for me in her kitchen and taught me the intricacies of country cooking. She shouted down Uncle Simon and simply pushed him out the kitchen door and then placed a potato peeler in my left hand and I was on my way. Somehow, with Anna, I found a grace of movement I never knew I had. I learned to use my left hand for millions of tasks and by the second day, I was picking basil and berries in the morning and kneading bread in the afternoon. By the end of my first week I began helping out in the herb garden, packing the fragrant mix of dried basil, lavender, rosemary and thyme and summer savoury, that Uncle Simon exported in small clay pots. I was frequently exhausted but had never felt so included in any venture. Because Anna accepted me, the workers, all of them female and all big, sturdy farm women like her, accepted me also. Though I still could only use my left hand, I managed to do at least enough to cover my room and board and I also managed to stay out of Uncle Simons way, and he returned the favour, only appearing for meals at which he remained polite but distant.
We saw each other at dinner every evening. Simon was always unfailingly polite and frequently commented on the food. Anna accepted his praise with her usual shrug as if to say, of course, and what did you expect? I usually blushed and smiled. I was still shy in his presence, but little by little I was learning to adapt to our distant sort of relationship. If I noticed how his fingers stroked his wineglass or how his mouth looked so succulent and kissable, I tried not to let my gaze linger. I tried to keep my inner emotions to myself. Or at least till I was alone in my bedroom and could give myself the pleasure I longed to feel from his fingers and his mouth. I had grown very adept at left-handed self-pleasure.
Once, Uncle Simon and I had bumped into each other in the moonlit upstairs hallway, long after everyone was asleep. I was tip-toeing my way down to the kitchen to make myself some warm milk and lavender honey, a sure-fire cure for insomnia, according to Anna. Simon was just coming to bed, it seemed, and it was obvious he’d been drinking more than his usual glass of wine with dinner. He swayed gently on his feet in front of me, a slow smile spreading across his face and he stared at me as if he didn’t recognize me. And then he seemed to see that it was me, and made an abrupt turn around. Without a word, he headed back down the stairs and went out the front door, slamming it shut behind him with a bang. I just couldn’t understand why he disliked me so much. But as he was civil at every other occasion and Anna and everyone else seemed to like having me around, I just figured it was something I’d have to live with for the summer. If Uncle Simon was to be just a fantasy, well, it was still a pretty damn hot fantasy.
My summer might have passed quite happily that way, working with the women in the garden and helping Anna with the cooking, if Anna’s daughter hadn’t had her baby six weeks early. The morning I came down and saw Anna and her husband driving off I almost cried, again. Uncle Simon reluctantly translated Anna’s parting flurry of Irish. I still was slow in learning to actually communicate in her native language, my only language skills being those of the kitchen. I found that I was in charge of the cooking and the kitchen garden for the next few weeks. Uncle Simon looked positively morose and I’m sure I looked pretty much the same. Still, I felt fairly confident that I could handle the responsibilities. I would only be cooking for Simon and a few of the vineyard crew, and I still longed to show Uncle Simon that I was worth the trouble of my visit. And I’ll be honest; I thought maybe he might warm up a bit toward me if I could coax him into it with his favorite foods. It was a great plan, but it turned out much differently than I had ever imagined.
Breakfast had been easy. That first morning after Anna had left, I served the usual croissant with lavender honey that Uncle Simon ate every morning. I made several pots of coffee and a spinach quiche as well. I packed a lavish lunch and dinner for the four remaining farm workers and Uncle Simon, as they would be staying out in the fields all day. I was heartened somewhat when I learned that it would only be Uncle Simon returning for dinner, as his farm hands would be out late hoping to bag the foxes that had been causing havoc amongst the fowl sheds. There was also some wine-making venture that they wished to partake in, and this, I must say, cheered me no end, for the wine they produced was really wonderful. I had grown quite partial to red wine during my stay, and found it a constant companion at dinner. So I went about my day in relative calm and happy industry, till just before dinner, I reached for the bottle of cordial and promptly spilled the sweet, sticky, deep purple liquid all over myself. I had planned to serve perfectly ripe blackberries and custard, topped with the cordial, for dessert. But somehow, I had managed not only to cover myself with the entire bottle of cordial, but I also knocked over the bowl of blackberries and stomped all over them while trying to locate a towel for my cordial-coated face. My temper lost, cursing at the top of my lungs in utter fury, I must have looked quite a sight when Uncle Simon came in from the vineyard, ready for wine and dinner.
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