And on and on it went, all pretty lucid until: I’ll start a pigeon carrying service, that’s what I’ll do. First the closure of the transatlantic cable communications, that chased my family away from this island, and now the post office. What next. No car ferry. Will the islanders have to swim next. No no. I have to do something about this. No wonder the rats and mice are all moving in, they think the place is deserted, it’s like the scavenger birds on a hunt. They’re circling, Allegra, they can smell the rotting of community and of human decency … And so on.
After I’ve pressed the snooze button, I just lie there. I can’t move. I don’t want to move. My head is heavy and my body is weary. I’m physically and mentally drained. I want to stay in bed all day. I want to hide from the world. I want it to leave me alone. I’m trying, I really am, to get my shit together and be someone. Someone that I like. But I can’t even do that. I’ve messed up at home, nothing there to return to. I’ve messed up with Daisy. With Paddy. I’m afraid to step outside in case I’m confronted by Becky about the alarm being set off yesterday. I have to babysit tonight and how can I face them. I’m afraid for Pops. I’m relieved the mouse hunt has ended, happy he has found a new goal. Joining a group means human interaction, even if it’s a small fringe group. But I don’t know. I’m exhausted from it all. My careful life that I always worked hard to have under control is turning to shit.
It’s Monday morning. Maybe everybody has the same fear. Maybe everybody wakes up and moves around with the same dread that this isn’t what they had in mind. This life isn’t going to plan and what was the fucking plan anyway. And then a cup of coffee and it’s fine, a news story and it’s fine, a favourite song and it’s gone. An online purchase and it’s no longer there. A chat with a friend and it’s buried. A scroll through social media and remind me what was the problem again.
I check the postbox even though I know the postman hasn’t been yet. You never know, Amal Alamuddin Clooney, Katie Taylor or the Minister for Justice and Equality could have quietly hand-delivered their replies during the night. There’s nothing in the postbox and I feel the rejection three times. Boom, boom, boom. In the gut.
My sluggishness leads me to missing the man in the business suit, the jogger, Tara and her human, and the old man and his son. Missing them doesn’t knock me off as it usually would, it seems fitting to my current mood. As I walk over the humpback bridge into the village I realise that I feel different. Lighter, but not spiritually. I’ve forgotten my backpack with my lunch and my wallet. I picture it sitting on the counter where I left it. I don’t have time to walk back before my shift begins. Maybe I can go back at lunch but for now, no coffee. No waffle. No sugar-coating. No Band-Aid. My mood worsens.
Every driver will feel my wrath today, there will be no mercy. I do feel vengeful, I do feel hate. After all this work on myself, I’m back to only having one of five. It’s pathetic that I ever thought I could control my life. Pathetic that I could ever be the person I want to be. Pops was right, I shouldn’t have let that stupid phrase get in on me.
I don’t hit James’s Terrace until lunchtime and by then I’m so hungry my head is pounding. The yellow Ferrari has a pay-and-display parking ticket that ended an hour ago. His parking angels have let him down again. Instead of being angry at Tristan as I would have been – progress – I’m annoyed with his staff. His good-for-nothing lazy staff all riding on his coat-tails. I feel Andy and Ben’s eyes on me as I storm up the steps. The door opens before I have to chance to press the bell.
Allegra, Jazz says with a disarming smile. Come in, she says cheerily.
I step inside. Her welcome replaces my anger with suspicion. Perhaps he had a word with his staff. I’m proud. I was looking for Tristan, I say.
Rooster is in a meeting, she says, emphasis on the Rooster. How can I help you, she asks.
If there are problems, for whatever reasons, with posting the business parking permit forms, I say, trying not to sound catty, then there’s an app that Tristan can use. He can pay for parking from the app on his phone. He’d probably prefer an app.
I’m trying to sell it to her. I’m trying to make her do something for Tristan. Something that will actually benefit him.
It’s called Parking Tag, I continue, with a registered debit or credit card it will text him to remind him when his parking is going to expire.
Mmm. She’s thoughtful. Come on upstairs. He’s in a meeting with Tony so we can’t disturb him, but we can set it up on his phone right now.