It’s 7.34 a.m. My iPhone shows that I turned the alarm off at 7 a.m. but I don’t remember. This has never happened to me before. In shock, and feeling shaky from being knocked off my usual routine, I shower quickly. The water barely washes over me and the soapy shower gel sits on my skin when I step out of the shower. I’m still damp when I dress. I’m feeling panicked and hassled. It’s thirty minutes of a difference and the day feels off. The light is different, as are the sounds. The birds are quieter. I’ve missed their performance. I’ve lost my time to do what I usually do. I’m a few steps behind. In a contradictory twist I stop moving for a second to try and catch up with myself. I’m out of sync.
There was such order in boarding school, everything accounted for, no minute wasted: 7.30 a.m. rising followed by breakfast and study; 9 a.m. school; 1.05 p.m. lunch; 1.50 p.m. school; 3.40 p.m. games/other activities/cuppa; 4.30–6.30 p.m. dinner; 6.30–7.30 p.m. recreation; 7–9 p.m. study; 8.55 p.m. night prayer; 9–9.30 p.m. night cuppa and recreation; 9.30–10.15 p.m. lights out. Freckles. Constellations. A regimental life was the very opposite to living with Pops, a free spirit who seemed to exist on his own time, who made the world bend around him. I thought life was normal with Pops, but something clicked in me when I reached boarding school. The routine, the discipline, the knowing what was around the next corner settled me. Never bored or suffocated me, the way it did some of the other girls.
I leave home late. Head down, I ignore the action in the house. Once in Malahide Castle grounds I pass by the man in the suit with the headphones. He’s far further than he’d usually be. I’m way behind. I walk faster. I don’t pass the leaning jogger, and I expect to at some stage. The man walking the Great Dane is nowhere in sight. How could that be, did he take another route. Where is the old man and his son, and did the earth fall off its axis this morning. It’s Wednesday. No. It’s Tuesday. I’m confused. What kind of hex has Ferrari fella put on me.
I arrive at the bakery at 8.15, by which time it’s crowded and I can’t get inside the door. Spanner doesn’t even see me because I’m faced with a line of backs. I’m late. My shift may have begun but I have a routine to keep to. I feel shut out of the party, staring in at the steamed-up windows like a child who hasn’t been invited. I walk away, unsure of where to go. I’ve been there every morning for three months. Where to now.
Feeling disoriented, a little dizzy, I keep walking. I feel like everyone is looking at me because I don’t know where I’m going. I stop and start. Turn around and then go back the way I came, before going back the other way again as my mind runs through the possible places to go. I’m like an ant whose line has been broken. It’s his fault. I join the line in Insomnia and examine the counter of unfamiliar muffins and cakes. I hear Spanner giving out about them. They don’t have Belgian waffles. Only packaged Stroopwafels by the till. I can’t decide on anything so I leave. Outside I meet Donnacha.
Good morning, Allegra.
His jeep is right out front. The engine is running, the hazards are on and the kids are active inside. He’s parked on double yellow lines. The keys dangle from the ignition. I wonder how he will react to me telling him to move. I haven’t seen him since I caught Becky out. I wonder if he suspects anything, if I need to watch what I say. I’m more concerned about his parking.
I saw a fox last night in the garden, he begins.
My eyes wander as he talks. The kids are screaming in the car, I can hear them from here and he keeps talking about them being nocturnal hunters. Solitary hunters. Scavengers, not a threat to dogs or cats so Barley and Rye should be fine.
A nimble snout of flood, licks over stepping stones and goes uprooting, he says.
Ah he’s spewing poetry already and so early in the morning.
Heaney. The hedgehog and the fox, he says.
Oh. Right. We studied his stuff, I say. Something about potatoes.
That was ‘Digging,’ he says.
Right. I don’t remember. It was a while ago.
It’s about work, ritual and the desire to craft, he says.
One of those deep looks at me, like I know what the hell. I can’t do this today. Not with how my head is.
I just thought it was about potatoes, I kind of mumble.
You know the hedgehog was Hume, and the fox was Trimble.
He takes my non-answer, my lack of eye contact and my general air of disinterest as encouragement to continue.
John Hume. SDLP. David Trimble. Ulster Unionist. Hesitant progress with assured movement.