The Restaurant by Roisin Meaney

Author:Roisin Meaney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000; FIC044000; FIC071000, FA; FRD
Publisher: Hachette Books Ireland
Published: 2020-06-04T00:00:00+00:00

And a day later, the reply comes:

Dear John,

I hope fervently that it works out. Let me know, one way or the other.

Your friend,

Claire

Astrid

‘MY FATHER TOLD ME TO COME,’ SHE SAYS, IN A LOW-PITCHED monotone. She’s wearing a jacket that is too large for her, all rolled-up sleeves and slipping-down shoulders. A child in her parent’s clothes. ‘He says you’re looking for someone to work in your garden.’

So pale, her skin; an unhealthy pallor to it. Dark hollows beneath her eyes. Her face thin, too thin, sunken cheeks. Light brown hair pulled back into something. Twenties, Astrid thinks. Somewhere in her twenties.

‘Forgive me – but who is your father?’

‘… Bill. Bill Geraghty.’

Bill Geraghty? She’s Bill’s daughter?

I might know someone, he’d said. Not ‘My daughter might be interested.’ How peculiar not to identify her – and how unlike him to send her around without a phone call beforehand to let Astrid know. Perhaps he meant to ring, and forgot. They haven’t met lately in the restaurant, although Emily did mention that Bill had been asking about the garden on his last visit there.

She studies the girl’s face – and yes, now she can see the quiet dilution of his features. The eyes a shade lighter, but brown like his. The mouth, the chin, yes. Bill’s daughter, in an oversized jacket, baggy corduroy trousers and scuffed brown boots.

I don’t have a number for her, Bill had said, or words to that effect. Isn’t that also a bit strange, not to have your child’s contact details?

‘What’s your name?’ Astrid asks, and is told Christine, and is not asked hers in return. She’ll already know it, of course, from Bill – but still Astrid feels a proper introduction is called for, so she gives her name and extends her hand, which Christine, after the briefest of pauses, touches for an instant. The iciness of her fingers is a shock, although the day is mild. Something is not right here, something feels amiss. She wants to talk to Bill, ask him to clarify things, but without his number – why hadn’t she thought to take it? – and with the girl on her doorstep, she’ll just have to manage the situation alone.

She hasn’t found anyone else to carry out the work. She stopped asking people after Bill said he had someone in mind. She pinned her hopes on him – and he has sent along his daughter, this strange, reticent creature. Is she robust enough for the work needed? So petite she is, so frail-looking. Nothing like the sturdy female gardener Astrid had been anticipating.

Still, she must at least give her a chance.

‘Let me show you the garden,’ she says, and leads the way through the hall and kitchen. ‘I’m afraid I’ve let it go. I used to do it myself, but it’s too much for me now. I should have got someone else long before this.’

She opens the patio door and they both step out. Bill’s daughter regards the mess of weeds and overgrown shrubs, the mossy lawn, the hedge that straggles down the side.

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