The Restaurant Read online

  ‘She has a small house on the other side of the canal, not too far from here.’ He’s never been to Astrid’s home, but from the address he figures it can’t be more than a fifteen-minute stroll.

  ‘Her garden, her back garden’ – did she say back? He can’t recall – ‘it’s overgrown, and she needs someone to tidy it up. I thought you might be interested, since you and Mum used to like—’

  A wave comes at him without warning, cutting off the rest of his words. He swallows. He blinks hard, twice. Across the table from him, Christine continues to pick at her food, giving no sign that she notices his rush of emotion. He sets down his makeshift roll and clears his throat, and scrubs a hand across his chin, over and back, to rid it of the tremble he can feel in it. The rasp of his stubble seems indecently loud. He drinks milk, tries again.

  ‘I don’t imagine it’s a particularly big garden. I haven’t seen it, but it sounds small.’ Why hadn’t he listened properly when Astrid was telling him about it? ‘I wouldn’t think the job would take too long, a few visits only. She says it’s not strenuous work.’ Did she? Did she say that, or did he make it up?

  Christine pokes at the egg.

  ‘She’ll pay,’ he says, watching her fork. ‘She doesn’t expect someone to do it for nothing.’ He has no clue what the going rate is for gardening.

  ‘You could sleep here for the few days the job would take – only if you wanted – and you could leave again straight after. I wouldn’t put any pressure on you to stay if you didn’t want to.’

  The silence lengthens. He looks down at his plate, his appetite gone. He drains his glass. It begins to rain, drops pattering lightly onto the skylight, sounding like a polite little round of applause. He gets to his feet, needing to move.

  He crosses to the window and sees a pale-coloured cat sniffing its way around the lawn. Belongs to the couple in the bungalow at the end – he’s seen it sprawled on their gate pillar on sunny days, washing itself. Throwing him a disdainful look if he dares to interact with it. He has a respect for cats. He admires how they don’t give a damn.

  ‘OK.’

  He turns from the window, not sure if he heard or imagined it. He regards the back of her head. ‘Did you say something?’

  She turns to glance up at him. ‘I said OK. I’ll do it.’

  She’s agreed.

  She’s going to do it.

  He resumes his seat slowly. Go easy here. Don’t get carried away.

  ‘I’ll get in touch with her so. I’ll ask when it would suit her for you to start. I’ll come with you the first day, to introduce you.’ He’s got holidays coming to him from the nursing home, he must have. He can’t remember the last time he took a day off. He’ll make the introductions, he might sit with Astrid for a bit while Christine gets started.

  But she’s shaking her head. ‘Give me her address. I can sort it. I can go by myself.’

  She doesn’t want him to accompany her. She doesn’t want any reason to spend more time with him than she must. The only reason she comes here, the only reason, is that it’s a convenience to her. All he’s good for now is to provide hot water and clean clothes when she needs them. He tries not to let it hurt, but it does. It slices through his outer layer, pierces right to his core.

  ‘Would you spend the few nights here?’ he asks. Still trying, still unable to give up.

  ‘No. It wouldn’t work.’

  He opens his mouth to argue, and shuts it again. He’ll take what he can get, he won’t push.

  ‘Have you got her address?’

  Astrid’s address. Where? Where did he put it? He pulls out kitchen drawers, searches through the slips of paper attached with magnets to the fridge door. He empties his pockets: not there. He races upstairs and checks the rubbish on his dressing-table, opens more drawers, clatters hangers together in the wardrobe as he delves into other pockets. Where the hell is it?

  And then, on the point of giving up, he remembers. He finds it on a shelf in the utility room, still neatly folded, the restaurant serviette with Astrid’s address and phone number written in her small precise hand. He’d taken it from his shirt pocket before the shirt went into the wash, put it on the shelf for safekeeping.

  He hands it over, along with the filled toilet bag and the bundle of tens. He hands them all to her, all his useless gifts.

  ‘You’ll need to ring her before you go,’ he says. ‘Make sure she’s there, and that she hasn’t already found someone – I haven’t seen her in a while. Don’t ring too early, she mightn’t be up. Leave it till about ten.’

  She gets to her feet. She tucks the serviette into a jeans pocket and pulls on her jacket.

  ‘Won’t you stay a bit longer?’ he asks. ‘It’s raining again. Won’t you just stay until it stops? You don’t want to get another cold.’

  But she pulls on her hat and says she must go, so he and Sherlock see her to the door as they always do, and she waves a hand to avoid having to hug him, and walks off into the wet evening.

  And then, when it’s too late to undo it, he thinks about what he’s done.

  She’s an addict and he’s sent her to Astrid, a frail, trusting woman. He’s let his overwhelming desire to reach out and help her cloud his better judgement – and now he won’t be accompanying her as he’d planned, to make sure things start off on the right foot.

  He should have made a note of Astrid’s phone number, and her address. Was it Cedar Terrace or Grove? He could ring her if he had the number. He could tell her on the phone what he hadn’t been able to say to her face. He could say Christine had gone through a rough patch but was trying to sort herself out. He could let her know that much before Christine makes contact, but now he can’t, unless he meets her by chance at the restaurant.

  Then again, maybe it’s as well that he can’t. Maybe he should trust his daughter to do the right thing. He wants so much for her to do the right thing, to rise to this challenge he’s set her.

  What’s the worst that can happen?

  She won’t turn up, or she’ll turn up without phoning ahead, and Astrid will either accommodate her or she won’t. She may already have got someone to do the job. Or Christine will be taken on, and she’ll do the work but won’t do it well, and Astrid will be disappointed but will pay her as promised, because she’s Bill’s daughter.

  Or she might turn up and do a good job. She might astonish Astrid with her gardening know-how. A neighbour might see what she’s doing and ask if she’d like more work. It might turn into—

  No. Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself.

  He closes the door and returns to the kitchen. He tips congealed egg and cold beans off her plate into the bin. He washes up as Sherlock whines softly beneath the table.

  And later in the evening, on impulse, he sends another email.

  Dear Claire,

  I’ve done it. I’ve put it to my daughter, and she’s agreed to take on the job. I appreciate your advice, but I can’t be cautious here. This is something I have to try. We’ll see how it goes.

  John

  And a day later, the reply comes:

  Dear John,

  I hope fervently that it works out. Let me know, one way or the other.

  Your friend,

  Claire

  Astrid

  ‘MY FATHER TOLD ME TO COME,’ SHE SAYS, IN A LOW-PITCHED monotone. She’s wearing a jacket that is too large for her, all rolled-up sleeves and slipping-down shoulders. A child in her parent’s clothes. ‘He says you’re looking for someone to work in your garden.’

  So pale, her skin; an unhealthy pallor to it. Dark hollows beneath her eyes. Her face thin, too thin, sunken cheeks. Light brown hair pulled back into something. Twenties, Astrid thinks. Somewhere in her twenties.

  ‘Forgive me – but who is your father?’

  ‘… Bill. Bill Geraghty.’

  Bill Geraghty? She’s Bill’s daughter?

  I might know someone, he’d said. Not ‘My daughter might be interested.’ How peculiar not t
o identify her – and how unlike him to send her around without a phone call beforehand to let Astrid know. Perhaps he meant to ring, and forgot. They haven’t met lately in the restaurant, although Emily did mention that Bill had been asking about the garden on his last visit there.

  She studies the girl’s face – and yes, now she can see the quiet dilution of his features. The eyes a shade lighter, but brown like his. The mouth, the chin, yes. Bill’s daughter, in an oversized jacket, baggy corduroy trousers and scuffed brown boots.

  I don’t have a number for her, Bill had said, or words to that effect. Isn’t that also a bit strange, not to have your child’s contact details?

  ‘What’s your name?’ Astrid asks, and is told Christine, and is not asked hers in return. She’ll already know it, of course, from Bill – but still Astrid feels a proper introduction is called for, so she gives her name and extends her hand, which Christine, after the briefest of pauses, touches for an instant. The iciness of her fingers is a shock, although the day is mild. Something is not right here, something feels amiss. She wants to talk to Bill, ask him to clarify things, but without his number – why hadn’t she thought to take it? – and with the girl on her doorstep, she’ll just have to manage the situation alone.

  She hasn’t found anyone else to carry out the work. She stopped asking people after Bill said he had someone in mind. She pinned her hopes on him – and he has sent along his daughter, this strange, reticent creature. Is she robust enough for the work needed? So petite she is, so frail-looking. Nothing like the sturdy female gardener Astrid had been anticipating.

  Still, she must at least give her a chance.

  ‘Let me show you the garden,’ she says, and leads the way through the hall and kitchen. ‘I’m afraid I’ve let it go. I used to do it myself, but it’s too much for me now. I should have got someone else long before this.’

  She opens the patio door and they both step out. Bill’s daughter regards the mess of weeds and overgrown shrubs, the mossy lawn, the hedge that straggles down the side.

  ‘As you can see, there’s quite a lot to be done,’ Astrid says. ‘It’s all so overgrown. Have you done much gardening?’

  ‘Yeah, a bit.’

  Telling Astrid nothing at all. ‘Some of the shrubs will have to go. They’ll need to be dug out.’ No reply. ‘So what do you think? Are you interested? I’ll understand if it’s more work than you realised.’ Giving her the option to back away from it. Hoping, she has to admit, that the girl will turn it down.

  But she doesn’t turn it down. ‘I can do it,’ she says, looking directly now at Astrid. ‘How much will you pay?’

  The question, posed so casually, so bluntly, catches Astrid off-guard. She hadn’t thought as far as payment, has no idea what to offer. She would have done her homework, asked someone like Emily or Heather to advise her, if she’d had some warning of this girl’s arrival.

  ‘I’ll have to check—’

  ‘Twelve euro an hour,’ Christine says. ‘That’s the minimum wage.’

  Is it? Heather charges twenty in total to clean Astrid’s windows – how long do they take her? Hard to say: she always stays for tea afterwards.

  ‘You’ll have to leave it with me. I’ll need to—’

  ‘Ten. I’ll do it for ten an hour.’

  It’s almost harassment. Astrid prickles with annoyance. The girl appears to be plucking figures from the air. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t keep interrupting me,’ she says, a little more sharply than she intended.

  Silence. Christine continues to stare at Astrid with those pale brown eyes. There’s something hunted in that stare, some hunger in it. It’s almost, Astrid thinks, as if she’s desperate for the work. But how can that be? How can Bill’s daughter need a casual gardening job so badly?

  ‘Are you working at the moment, Christine?’ she asks.

  A beat passes. ‘Bits and pieces.’

  No, this won’t do. ‘Christine, I must be honest. I don’t think you are the right person for this work. It’s quite physical. It will take rather a lot of energy – and forgive me, but you don’t look all that able.’

  ‘I am able,’ she says. ‘I’m stronger than I look.’

  Maybe she is. She’s certainly keen. And really, how could Astrid face Bill again if she turned away his daughter without at least giving her the benefit of the doubt?

  ‘Let’s start with a two-hour trial,’ she says. ‘If I’m happy with your work, you can come back and do more. How does that sound?’ Bill can’t possibly object – and two hours might be more than enough for the creature.

  ‘So will you pay ten an hour?’

  ‘If I’m happy, I’ll pay you twelve.’ For outdoor physical work, she decides, it seems reasonable. ‘So if we say—’

  ‘I’ll start now.’

  Again, Astrid is brought up short. Again, she is conscious of a dart of irritation. Today is Wednesday, her day to visit the library – and even if it wasn’t, she’d refuse. Bad enough that the girl turns up unannounced: she’s certainly not going to dictate terms and conditions.

  ‘Today is not convenient,’ Astrid says firmly. ‘I have plans. You can come back tomorrow, at ten o’clock.’

  ‘OK. Can you give me an advance?’

  Unbelievable. Astrid stares at her. The girl’s expression doesn’t alter – and again, Astrid senses a kind of desperation in the intense gaze. ‘You want me to pay you before you’ve done any work?’

  ‘I could use twenty euro. I’m a bit short.’

  A new note in her voice now, a softening, a wheedling. Astrid’s instinct is to say no – how cheeky to ask for money from someone she’s only just met. Why can’t she go to her father, if she’s in such dire straits?

  But there’s some trouble between them, isn’t there? There must be, if he has no phone number for her. And yet he proposed her to Astrid as a gardener, and gave her Astrid’s address. The whole thing is mystifying.

  She regards the girl, so wan – and frankly, malnourished-looking. For all Astrid knows, she might be badly in need of a square meal. ‘I can give you ten,’ she says. ‘That’s all the cash I have with me now. I don’t like to keep it in the house.’

  This is not the truth. She has sixty euro and some change in her purse – she always knows, almost to the cent, how much cash she has to hand – and some more in the locked drawer in her bedroom in case of emergencies, but ten is all she’s prepared to hand over.

  ‘One moment,’ she says, and leaves the girl on the patio while she goes inside. In the kitchen she takes a tenner from her purse, and gets out her writing pad. Received ten euro from Astrid Carmody, she writes. She adds the date and tears out the page. Best to keep it official, no matter whose daughter she is.

  ‘Would you sign this please?’ she asks, setting the receipt on the patio table. The girl accepts the proffered pen and silently puts her name on the paper, and stuffs the money into her pocket with mumbled thanks. ‘I’ll let you out the side passage,’ Astrid says, and again leads the way. They walk in silence: the short distance feels longer than it is.

  ‘Goodbye, Christine,’ Astrid says. ‘See you at ten in the morning.’

  ‘See you.’ Astrid watches as she scurries to the gate. Lacking in the social graces, none of Bill’s warmth or humour about her. Then again, not everyone is blessed with good communication skills. Hopefully she’s a better gardener than conversationalist. Hopefully she’ll return wearing more appropriate clothing for the task in hand. Really, it’s all a bit of a disappointment.

  But she vows not to berate Bill when she meets him again: there’s more to this situation than she can possibly know. She’ll bide her time and see how the girl gets on tomorrow – hopefully the result will be gratifying, and she’ll be thanking Bill next time they encounter one another.

  But the disappointment continues. The following day, ten o’clock comes and goes with no sign of her, and by noon she still hasn’t appeared. Astrid’s collection of garden tools, retrieved one by one from her sh
ed last evening, wait on the patio with nobody to use them.

  She sits with a cup of tea and tries to puzzle it out. First, there’s Bill’s failure to identify her from the start as his daughter. Then there’s her unannounced arrival, and the mystery of her, with her dishevelled clothing and her taciturn, almost sullen manner, and her blunt request – demand? – for money in advance.

  Astrid will have to be honest with Bill, or as honest as she can be, when he asks – because of course he’ll ask, next time they meet. She’ll have to tell him that his daughter turned up unannounced, and didn’t come back as arranged. She won’t make any mention of the money that changed hands: poor man would die of mortification. He’d insist on reimbursing her, the last thing Astrid would want.

  The girl must be unemployed. That may well be the bone of contention, the thing that drove them apart. A common enough theme, Astrid imagines, between parents and children. Bill possibly trying, like any concerned father, to get her some work, even if it’s only a few hours of gardening. Christine resentful, seeing his actions as meddling, going along to Astrid’s under duress, determined to be uncooperative.

  But to take cash like that, to take a person’s money given in good faith, and then to break her word. It’s not the ten euro, it’s the soulless, calculated element to the act that Astrid finds disturbing. And Christine must surely realise that there’s a chance Bill will get to hear of it. Doesn’t that bother her at all? Doesn’t she care what her father thinks of her?

  At lunchtime Astrid spreads peanut butter on crackers, and tips a spoonful of blueberries into a little dish of yogurt. She eats on the patio, with the kitchen door open so she can hear the radio. The news, as always, is bleak: yet another mass shooting in America, more bombs in Syria, an Irish tourist drowned while holidaying in Spain. So much tragedy, so difficult sometimes to hold fast to her belief in the goodness of the world, particularly today, but she must continue to cling to it. Every day she must remind herself of the many kindnesses, the many truly good deeds she’s witnessed and experienced over the years.

  After washing up she goes for the nap that has become part of her daily routine. Waiting for sleep, trying to keep her thoughts from the disappointment of Christine’s actions, she visualises her mother’s pearls, tucked safely in their locked drawer. She imagines holding them in her hand, tracing their cool smooth roundness with her fingertips. The exercise soothes her as it always does. She closes her eyes and surrenders.