Page 4 of The Elements

Soon, I find myself embroiled in an argument.

It’s late morning and I’m reading one of the books I brought with me, a biography of Joan of Arc, when a loud, aggressive rapping sounds on the front door of the cottage.

Before I can rise from the sofa, it’s flung open, revealing a person of around sixty who, I think, might be a woman, although it’s not immediately obvious.

She must pay as little attention to her appearance as I do.

While my decision to neglect my looks is still new, however, hers seems to have been a lifetime’s work.

“There you are, you wee scut,” she barks, although she is not looking in my direction. “I knew I’d find you here.”

“Who are you?” I say, jumping to my feet, alarmed by this extraordinary intrusion. “What do you want?”

“I’ve come for bananas,” she says, turning to me now, her face red with rage. “You’ve been feeding bananas, I know you have, so don’t deny it.” She raises a thick finger and jabs it in the air. “You’re not here a wet weekend and you think you can just do as you like?”

I stare at her in bewilderment and glance toward the kitchen area in search of a weapon, should this belligerence turn violent. Unfortunately, there’s nothing there but an empty cup and a teaspoon, neither of which seems likely to prove useful should I need to defend myself.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I protest. “I don’t have any bananas. I don’t even like bananas.”

“Bananas!” she roars, before pointing at the cat, who has risen to her feet, and appears to be considering a quick dart out the front door. “You’ve been feeding Bananas!”

“Bananas is the cat?” I ask, understanding now.

“Of course Bananas is the cat! What else would Bananas be?”

“Well, I don’t know her name, do I?” I say, raising my voice for the first time. “She didn’t introduce herself when she invited herself in.”

“Bananas is a tom,” she grunts, and the cat descends from his throne before strolling nonchalantly over to his mistress, delighted to be the center of an argument between two women, thus establishing his sex beyond any doubt.

“I’m sorry,” I say, hoping to defuse the situation. “I thought she—he—was a stray.”

“There are no strays on the island,” she says. “Everyone and everything is accounted for.” She glances toward the kettle now. “Well, are we having a cup of tea or not?”

I scurry over to the sink and fill the kettle, not daring to protest. The woman has already removed her coat and gloves and is settling herself into the armchair, Bananas’ erstwhile retreat.

“You can’t feed him,” she tells me. “He has irritable bowel syndrome.”

“He wasn’t wearing a medical bracelet,” I reply. “Anyway, I’ve only given him a few bits and pieces. Some leftover chicken. A few saucers of milk.”

“And he’s lactose-intolerant.”

A cat with such refined notions seems absurd to me but I choose not to argue. The sound of the water bubbling to a boil fills the room and I take down two mugs from the shelf.

“How do you like it?” I ask.

“How do I like what?”

“Your tea.”

“The way God intended. Milk and three sugars.”

I wait by the sink, deciding that when I sit, I will take my place at the table, which is a comfortable distance from this extraordinary creature. I glance over at Bananas, who is licking his testicles. How did I never notice them before? I wasn’t looking, I suppose.

“Well, I’m sorry,” I say, putting a couple of tea bags into the pot and filling it with hot water. “I didn’t know. But I do now. So I’ll stop.”

“He’s a wee scut,” she insists. “The lads who stayed here before you, they used to feed him too, so he marches over every morning in hope. I’d say he couldn’t believe his luck when you showed up.”

“What lads?” I ask, bringing the pot over and setting it down on the table. “I thought the cottage was empty before I arrived?”

She waves this away, her expression suggesting that she can’t quite believe how stupid I am. “It was three years ago,” she says. “They only stayed a month. Queer fellas. We ran them.”

“Do you mean strange?” I ask, uncertain how contemporary her vocabulary might be. “Strange in what way?”

“Strange enough,” she replies. “Partners, as they say.” She makes inverted-comma symbols in the air and rolls her eyes. “Did you ever hear the like?”

“Then you mean they were gay,” I tell her. “Not queer.”

“Oh, is that what I mean, is it?”

“It is,” I tell her. She unsettles me, this woman, but I’m not willing to let her away with such language. There’s a lengthy pause while she stares in my direction, getting the measure of me, I suppose, before she replies.

“Gay, then,” she concedes, and I realize that I have no reason to be frightened of her, after all.

She’s just a bully. And like all bullies, one only has to stand up to them and they fall like dominoes.

“One of them called himself a painter and the other said he was writing a play, but I didn’t believe a word of it. ”

“Why not?”

She shrugs her shoulders and mutters something that I don’t catch.

“They were the last ones to stay here,” she says, clearer now. “I don’t know if Peader told you.”

“He didn’t,” I admit. “But then, it’s none of my business really, is it? Why would I care?”

“I like to know where I’m sleeping,” she says.

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. Perhaps I’m being narrow-minded, but I suspect this woman has never slept in any bed other than her own, on this tiny island, since the day she was born.

“Right,” I say, thinking about my small bedroom and wondering how two young men could have slept in that single bed, because it has clearly been a fixture of the cottage for many years, and not something purchased in advance of my arrival.

Maybe they enjoyed the closeness of it. Maybe it made them love each other even more.

In all my years of sleeping with Brendan, after a brief cuddle when the lights were turned off, we tended to keep as much space between us as possible.

“And how did you run them, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Do you have a slice of cake to go with this, no?” she asks as I pour the tea and hand her a cup.

“I don’t,” I say.

“Very hospitable.”

“How did you run them?”

“A delegation showed up at their door,” she says.

Now it’s her turn to challenge me. She’s not going to let a blow-in like me look down her nose at her.

“That door there, if you please.” She nods in the direction of the front door.

“And they were told what was what. We couldn’t be having it. Not here. Not on the island.”

“Disgraceful,” I say. “A mob bullying two young gay men away? What is this, the 1950s? Don’t they have as much right to be here as anyone?”

“You make a very weak cup of tea,” she replies, ignoring my question. “You should let it brew longer. Did your mammy never teach you that?”

“No,” I say. I want to learn more about the bullying of the two boys but find that I haven’t the energy to ask any more questions.

Rebecca, if she was here, would be dragging the woman out by her ears, but she’s young and doesn’t yet recognize that life can get in the way of principles.

We grow too tired to fight. And so, I limit myself to this: “We have a gay Taoiseach, of course. I’d imagine he’d have something to say about that sort of thing. ”

“He can say what he likes, that fella,” says the woman, and I can tell that she’s only a heartbeat away from spitting on the floor at the mention of his name.

“But he’s never set foot here, has he? I’d say he’d have difficulty finding the island on a map.

Go on so. Tell me your name. If you’re going to be living here, we might as well be acquainted. ”

“Are you the census taker?”

“That’s a joke, is it?”

“I’m Willow Hale,” I tell her, sighing a little, exhausted by her belligerence. “And you?”

“Mrs. Duggan.”

“No first name?”

“Mrs.”

“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Duggan. Tell me, do you always break into houses unannounced? Most people prefer to be invited in.”

“Only vampires,” she says and, again, I’m surprised that she would know such a thing.

Will I spend my time on this island realizing that all my presumptions about people are wrong?

“And I didn’t break in, did I? Sure, didn’t I see you sitting there through the window?

Reading your book. You’re one of those, I suppose. ”

“One of what?”

“Readers.”

I don’t know how to respond to this remark, which appears to be some form of accusation.

I enjoy books, yes, but I’m far from a bibliophile.

In Terenure, I was a member of a book club, but that was mostly because I could find no way out of it.

My friends were involved, and Brendan liked the idea of the National Swimming Federation wives socializing in civilized or philanthropic ways.

We ran fundraisers. Spent a night out on the streets before Christmas to support the homeless.

And, yes, we read contemporary novels and sat in each other’s living rooms and discussed them.

It was never something I enjoyed, if I’m honest. In general, I don’t like talking about books. I prefer simply to read them.

“Willow Hale,” she says when I haven’t replied, mulling over my assumed identity. “You know Nora Hale, I suppose?”

“I don’t,” I tell her.

“Ah you do,” she says irritably, as if I’m just being difficult. “Nora Hale. From Galway. You’re one of her people, I’d say?”

“I’m not. I’ve never heard of her.”

“A nice enough woman,” she says, considering it, and I suspect this is the greatest compliment she can pay anyone. “But her husband is the devil incarnate.”

I say nothing, even though it’s obvious that she wants me to ask.

But I have no interest in the misadventures of strangers’ husbands.

I have enough on my hands dealing with the misadventures of my own.

Tired of being ignored, Bananas, from the corner, meows, and Mrs. Duggan informs him, in no uncertain terms, that he would be well advised to hold his tongue.