I was the first person he had sex with. He wasn’t mine. That happened when I was away on a sun holiday with Pops at fifteen. He kept putting me in a kids’ club that I was too old for while he explored the island that I’d no interest in seeing because I was fifteen and eternally cranky. So I ended up helping the kids’ club teachers. We’d do the kids’ club morning dance on stage by the pool at 11 a.m. to welcome children, dancing with Geluk the mascot, a giant blue fish with skinny yellow legs.
Sometimes I could see when Geluk had a phone in his pocket, one time as he was doing ‘Agadoo’ at the kids disco, I could see a packet of cigarettes against the bright yellow spandex. I asked Geluk for a cigarette one day and that was that. I slept with Geluk, who was really Luuk from Amsterdam. Anyway it wasn’t when Jamie and I were going out that I popped his cherry, that happened earlier, when I was sixteen. We were friends for years, then it became serious between us when I was nineteen until I left for Dublin.
I study his profile. His acne has disappeared. His roaring angry spots and nasty whiteheads have faded from his face and only a trace can be seen on his neck. He must have finally found the right cream after trying something new every week. He’s better dressed, less scruffy, a new haircut. Tom Breen is more than a taxi company. To really make a business he acted as chauffeur, driving rich American golfers from course to course around the country. I can’t imagine Jamie acting like the tour guide, pointing out places to Americans, pretending to care about old ruins and repeating the stories his dad could tell in his sleep. Maybe he’s good at it. But other than that, he’s the same old Jamie. I find myself smiling fondly at him. He catches me in the mirror.
What, he asks.
Nothing.
What.
Just remembering things.
We hold each other’s stare in the mirror.
Killarney to Killorglin, and then the N70 to Cahirciveen. He turns off for Reenard’s Point.
It’s April, I say, as if just realising.
Yep.
Car ferry season. Jamie and I were deck attendants for years during the season. I loved that job. I loved both the feeling of coming home and leaving the island. Watching it disappear behind me, so I could see it in its full glory, but never leaving it behind completely, just getting a hint of what it would be like, before coming back in again. Two of my favourite feelings every ten minutes from morning to night. It never got boring, something always happened, at least one incident a day.
Is it busy yet, I ask him.
Yeah. Easter.
Right about now everyone starts working two or three jobs until November. Tourist season starts, you’ve got to make hay while the sun shines because it will be dead, dull and quiet from November on.
Remember the time the bull got stuck when the tractor was unloading, I say. In the middle of summer, holding up the traffic on both sides.
I grin as I recall Jamie running around with the farmer trying to catch a bull who went wild on the ferry. It had taken a few brave men from the line of cars to volunteer and surround the bull, guide it back to the box, reattach it to the jeep. While I stood back and almost peed myself laughing.
Remember the time I organised the Easter egg hunt on the ferry for you, he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice without needing to even look at him.
Thirty Cadbury’s Creme Eggs. I was nearly sick, I say.
You still a chocaholic, he asks.
I’m into waffles now.
Birds Eye.
Belgian. A fella at the local bakery makes them fresh every morning, I tell him, and he makes a face as if that’s so fancy and I’ve changed with my other island fancy ways.
We join the queue of cars at Reenard’s Point. Not too many in front. Maybe ten, we’ll make the next trip. The ferry is coming towards us, drifts in on calm waters. I feel butterflies in my stomach. Home. I open my seat belt and move to the middle, between the front seats, like an excited child. Closer to Jamie.
You seem happy to be home, he says.
I am. Even I hear the relief in my voice.
Dublin not what you thought, he asks.
I shrug.
Did you do what you set out to do.
Yes and no.
What’s that supposed to mean, he asks. He turns to look at me.
All of a sudden I feel emotional, like I’m going to cry. If it was the old me and Jamie I’d tell him about Becky, all over my sheets, invading my space. And I’d tell him about Tristan and how he’d ripped up the ticket and called me a loser. And we’d slag them both and I’d feel better after it. And I might even tell him what else is on my mind. About the quote about the five people. How it’s lingering in my head and what does that mean. Why can’t I let it go. And you know, maybe I will tell him. Because he’s looking at me like he cares.