Summer at Castle Stone. Lynn Hulsman Marie

sheets started to feel scratchy. The sprawling bed was now a tight hospital cot and my spine scraped against the metal bedrail. Mom’s skin felt cold against my hand, so I smoothed back her hair. It came out in a clump. I couldn’t shake it off my hand. Her skin felt waxy. I pressed her shoulder to wake her up, but she wouldn’t rouse. I sobbed. Pip stood up, pinning my leg with his front paws, and barked. “Yip! Yip! Yip!”

      “Miss…Miss. Miss!”

      I opened my eyes to see my seatmate holding out a package of tissues and a concerned flight attendant holding out a steaming paper cup.

      “There, there, love. Wipe your eyes.” The heater had been aimed in my direction and I was covered in an Aer Lingus blanket. “You were shivering, so I took the liberty of covering you up. Hope you don’t mind. The air hostess here has a cup of strong tea for you, with lots of sugar. Sure, it helps the shock. Drink up.” The flight attendant was looking at me with such warm concern, I immediately felt better. .

      I dabbed at my eyes with a tissue. I sipped the hot, sweet tea. The fragrance and the taste seeped into me, the warmth soothed the back of my throat, and lit a path down through my chest to my gut. It was so good. I finished the cup in greedy gulps. It was like that cup of tea was what I’d been waiting for all my life.

      “Better now?” asked the pretty girl in the crisp, white blouse and green scarf.

      I nodded.

      “You wouldn’t have an aul snack for the girl in the back there, wouldja?” my seatmate asked. “It’s only that dinner’s not on, and she’s under the weather.”

      “Gotcha. Back in two shakes,” she said.

      On what planet are people this nice? I wondered. Certainly not planet New York City. Back in the office, I’d dragged myself in with the flu for a mandatory staff meeting on the coldest day of the winter. Not only did Matty refuse to get me a cup of tea citing “very real SARS concerns,” Lizbeth tagged me to run down to Pick-A-Bagel to check on the breakfast order. And I’d grown up with Hank. From an early age I’d learned to rely on myself or do without. Apart from Maggie, I hadn’t experienced people falling all over themselves to help me out of sheer kindness in forever. Since Mom. Since Grandma.

      “Brian Lynch,” the man said, holding his huge hand out for me to shake. I blushed, thinking of the mean things I’d said in my head about him. I had a wild moment thinking he could read my mind, but judging from his genuine smile, I could see that he expected the best from me.

      “Shayla Sheridan,” I replied.

      “Good to know you, Sheila. I have a daughter near your age, and two married ones, a bit older. Pretty girls, all, just like you. Now, don’t let me trouble you. Go and get your rest.”

      “No,” I said. “I just had a rough morning. And,” I paused. He was looking at me with really kind eyes. I dropped my defenses and sighed a cleansing sigh, “I had a bad dream. I’m good now.” I rolled my head around on my shoulders. The tightness had subsided. I took a moment to check in with myself. Was I OK? I really was.

      “Then tell me, Sheila, what brings you to Ireland?”

      Maybe it was that loneliness that comes along with flying far above the oceans that spurred me on, but I broke my own rule about never talking to strangers on a plane, and told Brian Lynch the whole story. An excellent listener, he interjected with “Say it’s not so!” and “You’re joking!” and “Too right!” at all the appropriate intervals. In mid-story, Moira — that’s the flight attendant — brought me two scones, a tiny jar of jam, and a pot of clotted cream. “Put that inside you, it’ll do you a world of good” she said. “And here’s something to wash it down with.” More tea. I didn’t object.

      I tried to imagine any young, hip girl in New York insisting that I eat a dense sugary bread roll spread with the creamiest, fattiest, sweetest ambrosia anyone’s ever tasted on this earth. For those of you who’ve never had clotted cream, I can only tell you that it must be mother’s milk from an angel. When I’d dug out all I could from the little foil cup using my plastic airline knife, I couldn’t stop myself from licking it clean.

      “Good girl,” was Brian’s response.

      My tray was cleared and I came to the end of my story. I took out the folder to show him Tom O’Grady’s photo.

      “Ah, sure I know Tom O’Grady. He was in the papers not long ago, shaking hands with your president, and the prime minister, and all the rest. The missus and I stayed in Castle Stone on our silver wedding anniversary, back before they refurbished the place. Lovely then, of course, with the horses trotting the paths, and the manicured gardens, and the old chapel for mass, but I’ve heard it’s splendid now.”

      “Care for some dinner?” Moira interrupted. “Would you like the pasta, the chicken, or the beef? Pasta, chicken or beef?” The cart had made it down to our row. Brian took the beef, so I figured, “when in Rome.” We arranged our trays and tore the tops and wrappers off of all our little packages. The second the smell of the gravy hit my nose, I was ravenous. It was like the scones never happened. I was thrilled to see chunks of carrot and potato nestled in with the cubes of roast.

      “Care for something to drink? Sparkling water, beer, wine, a cocktail?”

      “Orange juice for me, please,” Brian said. “Car’s parked at the airport. I don’t live far, only on the north side of Dublin, but I never risk it.”

      I almost ordered a vodka and soda with lemon, just out of habit, but I really didn’t want a drink. I liked chatting with Brian, and I was feeling sharp. I felt better than I had in weeks. “Orange juice for me, too, please.”

      “Full of vitamin C,” Brian declared. “Won’t do you a bit of harm.” I liked the way he said ‘vit-amin,’ rhyming ‘vit’ with ‘bit’. We ate our meals companionably.

      “I understand your man Tom gave up the high life in London to go home and help out the old Lord.”

      “He’s not my man!” I corrected, shocked. “I’ve never even met him.”

      “Turn of phrase,” Brian explained. “Anthony Stone, Earl of Wexford’s the name. I read something in one of my girls’ tabloids about the place falling to ruin, the family not being able to keep up with the taxes or what have you. You see that kind of thing more and more these days. The titled losing vast tracts of land that’s been with them for centuries.”

      “So what does that have to do with Tom? Tom O’Grady, I mean.”

      “That part I can’t tell you. The magazine was one of them girly jobs. Only paper I had with me on the train one day, so I read it cover to cover. It talked more about him splitting with that girl he had the television show with. Something about her demanding a yellow diamond for an engagement ring, and him leaving London heartbroken, barely able to lift his head. Said he took to the drink. To tell the truth, I’m embarrassed to know all this. Those papers are pure gossip and lies, all. I shouldn’t be repeating what they say.”

      I finished every scrap of my dinner, including the little Bakewell tart in a cup, topped with custard. Brian and I chatted comfortably while the meal was cleared. We took turns excusing ourselves to go to the lavatory, and stretched our legs by standing in the galley with Moira for a while. He showed me pictures of his wife and daughters and I told him what it was like to grow up with a famous father. “But don’t tell anyone, please,” I entreated.

      “Your secret’s safe with me, pet.” When I thought about it, it kind of was. Brian though my name was Sheila. He hunkered down in his seat, and in that way old men have, dropped off to sleep almost immediately, snoring softly. This time I didn’t mind his arm on my armrest.

      Careful not to awaken him, I took out my journal and cracked the stiff spine open to the first creamy blank page.

      Dear Mags, I watched my hand write. Strange. I’d kept journals over the years, but I’d never written “to” anyone. I’d never even used the salutation “Dear Diary.”