‘That’s nice to hear,’ Lucy said as neutrally as she could manage – she’d been a bit shocked when she glanced at Mrs Clarke’s file. The woman had more antibiotics in her at this stage than the nearby chemist. She had a feeling that there wasn’t a lot wrong with Mrs Clarke that a regular walk and moving a few inches further from the table wouldn’t sort, but the woman was lonely. She needed to connect with people and feel that she had more to talk about than just her imagined ill health. ‘Is there a women’s group here in the village?’
‘A women’s group?’ Her mother smiled.
‘Not for me, but you know, I’m just interested in what’s going on in the village. It’s useful, when you meet people, to know what’s happening,’ she said managing to keep a slightly disinterested tone in her voice. The fact was, that there were four women who’d turned up to the surgery today and she had a feeling that if they had something productive to do with their time, they mightn’t notice the pains and aches that took up far too much of their attention.
‘There used to be one, but these last few years, it’s died off a bit. You know how these things go; someone starts them up and well… every dog has its day,’ her mother said gently. She looked across at Niall who had hardly said a word since she got home. With that, he pushed back from the table and left the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.
‘Oh dear,’ Jo said softly. ‘I’m afraid he’s not very impressed with Ballycove. I tried to get him out for a walk today, see if he could meet up with some of the other kids around the village? I’m afraid he wouldn’t go much further than the pier with Dora.’
‘Don’t worry about him, Mum, he’ll get over it; if anything, getting out of his comfort zone might be the best thing that ever happened to him.’ Although Lucy knew it would be better if she got to spend a little more time with him while he was adjusting to village life. She moved towards the kettle and took down a mug for each of them. ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you on our own anyway.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m worried about you.’ Lucy knew there was no point in beating about the bush with her mother. She’d see right through her. ‘When were you last at the doctor?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ her mother said sharply.
‘Well, there’s no denying that you’re fading away and I’ve heard you trying to catch your breath while you’re going about the house.’
‘I’m perfectly fine. I go swimming every day; I’m looking forward to seeing you do the same. Hah,’ Jo said getting up from the table, but she stopped when Lucy reached out and touched her hand.
‘Just let me do a blood test, okay? It’ll only take a minute and I’ll send off the samples tomorrow through the surgery.’
‘Fine, but just so you know I’m as healthy as an old trout,’ Jo said dropping into the chair and rolling up her sleeve for the inevitable.
*
The night was beginning to toss up a northerly icy wind and after Lucy had cleared up the kitchen and placed the blood samples in a bag for the following day, she figured she’d better get her walk with Dora over with before it decided to turn into a fresh storm. The village streets were empty as she wound her way back up and away from the pier. She wasn’t sure she wanted to walk all the way to the top. The wind would be biting and raw up there now. It was hard to believe as the rain began to fall in spiky barbs that it was only twelve hours since she’d walked along the beach, with a bright and cutting sun spitting into her eyes. Still, there was something in the silence, a fullness that held within it a treasure bigger than any city could ever hope to touch. It was a medley of community, small-town history and the rushing energy of the sea, collapsing together within the very fabric of this little village. There was something soothing about it.
She turned back when she reached the point that she’d always considered about halfway up the town. She was opposite one of the village’s three pubs. The Weavers was a small bar that had only shrunk as the years had passed. It was housed in what might have been someone’s front room once, but now the little terraced house had been given over entirely to the business of selling porter and making traditional music at the weekends. Tonight, the place was quiet. There would be the regular round up of patrons, sitting or standing at the bar, counting down the hours until they had to return home to their cold houses and perhaps neglected spouses.