Read Online The First Time I Said Goodbye by Claire Allan - Free Book Online
Authors: Claire Allan
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front of the masses.”
I pulled a face which expressed just how completely terrified I was and he laughed wickedly. “I’m only teasing, but just a little bit. Don’t think me mean – I just like it when the focus is not on me for a change. You know, the only single in the village. They would have an arranged marriage in place for me if they could.”
“I’m single,” I muttered and he looked at me quizzically.
“Do you not have a man, back home in the US of A?”
I blushed. Of course I had a man. But we weren’t married. Technically I was single but I didn’t know why I had said it and I wasn’t quite sure how to unsay it.
“Oh yes,” I muttered, mortified. “But we’re not married or anything. So . . .”
“On a technicality?” Sam finished my sentence. “Okay, fair enough.”
But I knew he thought I was a bit odd. Christ alone knew I felt a bit odd myself – about to go to a big party dressed in jeans, sipping wine and telling my cousin I was single when I had been living with Craig for the last three years. I didn’t even know why it had slipped out. So I took perhaps too large a gulp of wine, put my glass down on the granite counter and asked Sam if it was time we should be leaving.
* * *
My mother was wearing make-up. Her hair was curled and set and she was wearing a pale blue dress which showed off her slim figure. She was even wearing a pair of modest heels – two inches at most – but I did a double take when I saw her all the same. She looked younger – it seemed with every day she was back on home soil a year or two of worry melted away from her. I was almost envious of how well she looked when I was hopelessly underdressed and feeling a bit like a butch lesbian in my fairly utilitarian jeans and blouse, while my mother glided up the stairs into the function room like a woman half her age who was a perfect advertisement for ageing gracefully.
When we reached the room itself Sam whispered in my ear that I should brace myself, but even his warning could not have prepared me for the blast of noise, colour and cheering which greeted us. I was vaguely aware of ‘Welcome Home’ blasting over the sound system and a gaudy arrangement of balloons and banners marking both our American and Irish heritage. Several trestle tables in a corner were heaving with yet another Hegarty special buffet, I assumed.
Crowds of cheery-faced people waved at us, some with glasses sloshing overfilled drinks in our direction, and let out a chorus of cheers, shouts, exclamations of great joy and the odd stifled sob. Some of it I understood – some of it, well, I wasn’t even sure it was being said in English.
My mother was enveloped into the crowd so that I could just about see her hair bobbing in and out of great big hugs every now and again. I half-expected them to lift her above their heads and encourage her in a bit of crowd-surfing.
A glass of wine was thrust into my hand by a gruff-looking man in a starched white shirt, which groaned at the buttons. His head was bowed and he was grimacing as if he was trying to force a smile on his face when, clearly, smiling was alien was to him. “Cheers!” he barked and turned to return to the mêlée.
“You should consider yourself honoured,” Sam whispered in my ear. “That’s Uncle Peter. Never known to have bought a drink for anyone in his entire life. This may go down in the family legend book.” He was smiling and I couldn’t help but smile back.
“Let’s get a seat before this crowd are finished with their grand big welcome and there isn’t a seat to be had.”
I followed him across the room, largely ignored by the crowd around me – word clearly not having got out there beyond Peter that I was the prodigal daughter’s daughter. I was glad of the vague anonymity and was only too happy to slip behind a table and sip at my drink while Sam sauntered off to the bar to buy his own.
Such a family gathering was, it has to be said, a little
I pulled a face which expressed just how completely terrified I was and he laughed wickedly. “I’m only teasing, but just a little bit. Don’t think me mean – I just like it when the focus is not on me for a change. You know, the only single in the village. They would have an arranged marriage in place for me if they could.”
“I’m single,” I muttered and he looked at me quizzically.
“Do you not have a man, back home in the US of A?”
I blushed. Of course I had a man. But we weren’t married. Technically I was single but I didn’t know why I had said it and I wasn’t quite sure how to unsay it.
“Oh yes,” I muttered, mortified. “But we’re not married or anything. So . . .”
“On a technicality?” Sam finished my sentence. “Okay, fair enough.”
But I knew he thought I was a bit odd. Christ alone knew I felt a bit odd myself – about to go to a big party dressed in jeans, sipping wine and telling my cousin I was single when I had been living with Craig for the last three years. I didn’t even know why it had slipped out. So I took perhaps too large a gulp of wine, put my glass down on the granite counter and asked Sam if it was time we should be leaving.
* * *
My mother was wearing make-up. Her hair was curled and set and she was wearing a pale blue dress which showed off her slim figure. She was even wearing a pair of modest heels – two inches at most – but I did a double take when I saw her all the same. She looked younger – it seemed with every day she was back on home soil a year or two of worry melted away from her. I was almost envious of how well she looked when I was hopelessly underdressed and feeling a bit like a butch lesbian in my fairly utilitarian jeans and blouse, while my mother glided up the stairs into the function room like a woman half her age who was a perfect advertisement for ageing gracefully.
When we reached the room itself Sam whispered in my ear that I should brace myself, but even his warning could not have prepared me for the blast of noise, colour and cheering which greeted us. I was vaguely aware of ‘Welcome Home’ blasting over the sound system and a gaudy arrangement of balloons and banners marking both our American and Irish heritage. Several trestle tables in a corner were heaving with yet another Hegarty special buffet, I assumed.
Crowds of cheery-faced people waved at us, some with glasses sloshing overfilled drinks in our direction, and let out a chorus of cheers, shouts, exclamations of great joy and the odd stifled sob. Some of it I understood – some of it, well, I wasn’t even sure it was being said in English.
My mother was enveloped into the crowd so that I could just about see her hair bobbing in and out of great big hugs every now and again. I half-expected them to lift her above their heads and encourage her in a bit of crowd-surfing.
A glass of wine was thrust into my hand by a gruff-looking man in a starched white shirt, which groaned at the buttons. His head was bowed and he was grimacing as if he was trying to force a smile on his face when, clearly, smiling was alien was to him. “Cheers!” he barked and turned to return to the mêlée.
“You should consider yourself honoured,” Sam whispered in my ear. “That’s Uncle Peter. Never known to have bought a drink for anyone in his entire life. This may go down in the family legend book.” He was smiling and I couldn’t help but smile back.
“Let’s get a seat before this crowd are finished with their grand big welcome and there isn’t a seat to be had.”
I followed him across the room, largely ignored by the crowd around me – word clearly not having got out there beyond Peter that I was the prodigal daughter’s daughter. I was glad of the vague anonymity and was only too happy to slip behind a table and sip at my drink while Sam sauntered off to the bar to buy his own.
Such a family gathering was, it has to be said, a little
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