On the Edge of the Loch: A Psychological Novel set in Ireland Read Online Free Page B
Author: Joseph Éamon Cummins
Kate, definitely, around ten-thirty.’
‘I can’t wait to see you, Tony. It’s been a long time.’
He grabbed the water-proof cape and sou’wester he thoroughly disliked, and threw on his backpack. This day he’d be baptised in County Mayo rain, the first he’d seen. On Aranroe Hill the climb offered no vistas. Colours previously alive now hid, and sea and sky mixed into grey union. Intermittently his melancholy deepened, sank his thoughts into this fog of oneness that he could so easily belong to. But his mind denied him reflection; he had a pressing purpose in front of him, at the top of the hill.
Shrouded in vapour, Claire Abbey looked like an old photograph, colourless except for smudges of amber in the Tudor-style windows. It was his first time to see it. It was a castle alright, that much was fact. Inside the portico he paused on the weather mat. An ornate world: antique furniture, tapestry sofas, oriental rugs, paintings, sculptures, a log fire scenting the air, and everywhere the look of wealth. A set to which he would never belong, he felt. So removed from the poor streets of his early life, from the land and the people it shaped; he’d take the unspoilt Sheffrey Hills and craggy Nephin Begs, any day.
‘Gloomy day out there,’ a friendly female voice said. ‘But we can’t complain.’ From beyond the marble-topped reception desk a young woman’s green eyes stared, black ringlets framing her bone-white face.
He tried to hide his reaction but was already returning her warmth. ‘I’m here to see Miss Quin, please.’
The woman smiled with unease, as though offering an apology.
‘Leonora Quin.’ He inflected the words with as native an accent as he was able.
She leaned toward him, but pulled back as voices filtered out from an open office behind her. ‘I’ll just get the manager. Won’t be a moment.’ She paused conspicuosly, then left.
‘Something we can do for you?’ A tall, middle-aged woman spoke with a you-shouldn’t-be-here tone. ‘Is there something we can do for you?’ On her navy blazer a gold badge read: Ms C VanSant, Manager.
‘Yes, there is,’ he said, his voice an octave higher than he intended. ‘I’m Tony MacNeill, from the U.S. I’m here to see Miss Quin.’
‘She’s not in town today. Is there something else we can do?’
He paused. ‘She’s due back?’
‘I have no way of knowing. A while, I would think.’
‘What does a while mean? Minutes? Hours?’
‘Sir, I’ve told you what I know. Now if there’s nothing else?’
‘Nah. Know what? I’ll wait. Here.’ He switched his gaze to the girl, her countenance still troubled.
‘Time to get back to your duties, Miss deBurca,’ the woman said, prompting the girl to move away, but not before her hand half-gestured to him.
He removed his rain gear and sat onto the edge of a paisley sofa. In an open area to his left three elderly women reclined before a log fire. And from somewhere within earshot the buzz of celebration filtered through. He set out to investigate, finding a large group of well-attired revellers. None Lenny.
He returned to the lobby. But soon the sleepless nights began exacting a toll. And he had yet another journey ahead of him, down to Dublin, to Kate. He opened the adjacent credenza and found what he wanted, Claire Abbey notepaper and envelopes. His third battle with the words satisfied him, as much as satisfaction was possible:
Tuesday, October 5 1993. 5.45pm
Dear Lenny:
I have not been able to stop thinking about you. Please call me: Dublin 830 4744, just to talk. I ’ ll be there until 7am tomorrow, then I leave for America.
If I could put off going, I would. I can ’ t. If you cannot call me (please try) call me in Arizona, 602 231 3490.
Or write me, 7070 North Wesleyan Drive, Phoenix, Arizona 85281, USA.
I ’ d love to hear from you. I really would.
Tony MacNeill.
He wrote Lenny Quin – Personal on the envelope and placed it on the inner counter of the
‘I can’t wait to see you, Tony. It’s been a long time.’
He grabbed the water-proof cape and sou’wester he thoroughly disliked, and threw on his backpack. This day he’d be baptised in County Mayo rain, the first he’d seen. On Aranroe Hill the climb offered no vistas. Colours previously alive now hid, and sea and sky mixed into grey union. Intermittently his melancholy deepened, sank his thoughts into this fog of oneness that he could so easily belong to. But his mind denied him reflection; he had a pressing purpose in front of him, at the top of the hill.
Shrouded in vapour, Claire Abbey looked like an old photograph, colourless except for smudges of amber in the Tudor-style windows. It was his first time to see it. It was a castle alright, that much was fact. Inside the portico he paused on the weather mat. An ornate world: antique furniture, tapestry sofas, oriental rugs, paintings, sculptures, a log fire scenting the air, and everywhere the look of wealth. A set to which he would never belong, he felt. So removed from the poor streets of his early life, from the land and the people it shaped; he’d take the unspoilt Sheffrey Hills and craggy Nephin Begs, any day.
‘Gloomy day out there,’ a friendly female voice said. ‘But we can’t complain.’ From beyond the marble-topped reception desk a young woman’s green eyes stared, black ringlets framing her bone-white face.
He tried to hide his reaction but was already returning her warmth. ‘I’m here to see Miss Quin, please.’
The woman smiled with unease, as though offering an apology.
‘Leonora Quin.’ He inflected the words with as native an accent as he was able.
She leaned toward him, but pulled back as voices filtered out from an open office behind her. ‘I’ll just get the manager. Won’t be a moment.’ She paused conspicuosly, then left.
‘Something we can do for you?’ A tall, middle-aged woman spoke with a you-shouldn’t-be-here tone. ‘Is there something we can do for you?’ On her navy blazer a gold badge read: Ms C VanSant, Manager.
‘Yes, there is,’ he said, his voice an octave higher than he intended. ‘I’m Tony MacNeill, from the U.S. I’m here to see Miss Quin.’
‘She’s not in town today. Is there something else we can do?’
He paused. ‘She’s due back?’
‘I have no way of knowing. A while, I would think.’
‘What does a while mean? Minutes? Hours?’
‘Sir, I’ve told you what I know. Now if there’s nothing else?’
‘Nah. Know what? I’ll wait. Here.’ He switched his gaze to the girl, her countenance still troubled.
‘Time to get back to your duties, Miss deBurca,’ the woman said, prompting the girl to move away, but not before her hand half-gestured to him.
He removed his rain gear and sat onto the edge of a paisley sofa. In an open area to his left three elderly women reclined before a log fire. And from somewhere within earshot the buzz of celebration filtered through. He set out to investigate, finding a large group of well-attired revellers. None Lenny.
He returned to the lobby. But soon the sleepless nights began exacting a toll. And he had yet another journey ahead of him, down to Dublin, to Kate. He opened the adjacent credenza and found what he wanted, Claire Abbey notepaper and envelopes. His third battle with the words satisfied him, as much as satisfaction was possible:
Tuesday, October 5 1993. 5.45pm
Dear Lenny:
I have not been able to stop thinking about you. Please call me: Dublin 830 4744, just to talk. I ’ ll be there until 7am tomorrow, then I leave for America.
If I could put off going, I would. I can ’ t. If you cannot call me (please try) call me in Arizona, 602 231 3490.
Or write me, 7070 North Wesleyan Drive, Phoenix, Arizona 85281, USA.
I ’ d love to hear from you. I really would.
Tony MacNeill.
He wrote Lenny Quin – Personal on the envelope and placed it on the inner counter of the
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