Page 10 of A Second Chance Summer in Dublin
That’s when I see him.
‘There’s no way .?.?.’ I blink rapidly, unexpected goosebumps rising in a wave.
His gait is unmistakeable. His hair hangs down over his shoulders in uneven strings, then sways in a jaunty bounce as he moves. The wild beard. I haven’t consciously realised this, but he hasn’t been far from my mind all day. He was just so nice. I whip my feet down and lean forward. He’s wearing a grey T-shirt now, with knee-length khaki shorts and, I squint, those oxblood-red Docs. He’s carrying a brown paper bag and what looks like that black iron bike lock. I jump up and peer cautiously over the edge. He’s sauntering towards my flat. I wonder where he’s going? Is his date over already? He meanders across the road like a car could never hit him. Then he stops outside MacMan’s Arcade. He’s not a gamer, is he? He checks his phone. Then he lifts the bag to read something on a long, flapping, white piece of paper stuck to it and I do a double take. Suddenly realising it’s my food. Donal is delivering my Chinese order!
I leap back and stuff my feet into my flip-flops. I run my fingers through my bushy wet hair and locate a bobbin halfway up my wrist, fling my head upside down and catch it up in a top knot just as my buzzer sounds. I take the rickety stairs two at a time, and as I reach the last one, the buzzer sounds again. I expend a quick breath and for some reason, I do what they all do in the old black-and-white movies, I pinch my cheeks.
‘G-Gr-Grace!’ Donal stutters, eyes wide as soon as I pull back the old door. Like always, it catches on the edge of the torn brown patterned carpet.
‘Donal? This is mental!’ I say, tugging harder, wearing the same surprise as him, as our eyes meet again. He really has the warmest expression; those green eyes dip down and quicklyback up. They open slightly wider, and I cop I’m still in a bra top.
His heads moves from side to side. ‘How the hell?’ He makes his claw with his hand and scoops his hair back.
‘Bizarre,’ is all I have as I wrap my arms around me.
He clears his throat, but his body language becomes withdrawn, slightly awkward, as he steps back then forwards again, clears his throat repeatedly. ‘Well, good evening, Grace .?.?.’ He flicks the white receipt. ‘Algar .?.?. your prawn crackers, beef and black bean with mushroom, and egg fried rice, I believe – and an extra portion of curry sauce.’ He pulls himself together, holding the bag up, still reading the flapping, white label receipt. The aroma of the food is intoxicating and I’m praying my stomach behaves. That must have been a very quick date he had this evening, is all I’m thinking.
As though he reads my mind, he says, ‘She was a quick-show.’ He lifts his left foot a few inches off the ground, then his right as I narrow my eyes in confusion. ‘She saw me, sat down, excused herself to the bathroom, came back, minutes later her phone rang and her granny’s cat was stuck up a tree, so she had to run.’ It’s like some kind of embarrassed tribal dance move he’s doing with his feet.
‘Ah, no way, that’s terrible.’ I expend a sharp breath and my mouth drops open as a rowdy bunch of lads make their way into the arcade. For a second, we’re smothered in the overpowering scent of Lynx, weed and raw testosterone. I glance down and see up-close that they aren’t Doc Martens he’s wearing, but dusty, well-worn, unlaced workmen’s boots.
‘I was hungry. I ate anyway. Surprisingly good food for such teeny portions. The burgers were so small I ordered five but I got some work done on my phone. It’s all good. Small problems, ya know.’ He shrugs, smiles and I want to reach out and pull him into a tight hug.
He reaches his long arm out to full stretch, holds the bag forme to take with a steady hand.
‘Oh. Right.’ I take the bag from him and hold it underneath as the heat seeps through to my palms. The brown paper is moist beneath my fingers. I get the potent smell of honeysuckle soap and see his hands are red raw from being scrubbed clean. My stomach decides to take this very moment to rumble again, even louder this time. A continuous growl like an angry Alsatian dog guarding a premises.
Donal does a double take over his shoulder. ‘Wow, did you hear that noise? That motorbike was going fast,’ he jokes as he puts the bike lock down on my step and stuffs his hands into his pockets.
‘Wasn’t it?’ I play back, smile at him, hold the bag to my stomach.
He steps back. ‘Well, enjoy.’ He directs his gaze downwards.
I don’t know what to say. My stomach flutters. It must be the hunger.
‘I enjoyed our chat this afternoon, very much,’ I blurt.
He looks up quickly, steps forward. ‘Yeah? God, so did I. It was really lovely, you were great company.’
I let that hang. ‘I really wasn’t. I was all me-me-me. I thought on the walk home I barely let you get a word in, I’m sorry for being so needy .?.?. and the stomach rumbling. I’ve been up to my eyes since I left you, flat out. Actually this is my flat, and place of business and .?.?.’ I raise my finger in the air. ‘Hooommme.’ I drag out the word and it doesn’t even sound like me.
‘E.T. phone .?.?.hommmmmeeeee.’ Donal raises his index finger to copy my move, doing a remarkably accurate E.T. impression.
I laugh, loudly. ‘Very good. Funny.’ Bending my back leg at the knee, I rest it halfway up the frame of the rusting green door.
He tries not to look anywhere but my face. ‘Sorry, I do that a lot .?.?. can’t help it .?.?.’
A silence falls between us. Donal scratches his beard, I scratch my chin.
‘I .?.?. better go up .?.?.hoooommmmeeee.?.?.’ I trail off, dipping my eyes to his dirty boots.
‘Well, there’s no place like home.’ Donal clicks the heels of the workman’s boots together three times and dust rises in the hot night air.
I applaud him, clapping my hand off the brown paper bag. ‘Wow, you’re on fire tonight.’
‘Toto, I’ve got a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.’ His head jerks from side to side then freezes mid-jerk; he narrows his shoulders, hunching them up under his ears. ‘Sorry. I’ll stop now. Morto. I do this when I’m nervous .?.?.’
I wonder, under that big bushy ginger beard, are his cheeks flushing red? Those green eyes are so very expressive and with this apparent awkwardness of his I don’t hesitate to make him feel better. I put the bag down on the step in case it rips.
