Shortall The Lodgers

An uplifting and heart-warming tale of friendship, community and a mystery package...
Main
ISBN: 978-1-83895-191-7
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 464 Seiten

SHORTLISTED FOR POPULAR FICTION BOOK OF THE YEAR AT THE IRISH BOOK AWARDS 2023 'Heartwarming' Daily Mail 'A joyful read' Ruth Hogan One house, three strangers... Tessa Activist, 69 years young. Not ready to sell up her big seaside house, but she knows a little help around the place would do wonders. Conn Looking for a quiet place to heal after a family tragedy, this seaside escape would be the perfect haven if it weren't for... Chloe Arrives to drop off a package and leaves with a room. Her life is a bit of a mess, but this could be the start of a new chapter. She's ready for change. But is she ready for Conn? 'An ideal summer read ... by turns hilarious and heartbreaking' Irish Independent 'This moving, funny and charming novel is reminiscent of Marian Keyes' Louise O'Neill

Eithne Shortall is an author, columnist and occasional broadcaster. Her debut novel, Love in Row 27, was a major Irish bestseller, and the follow-up, Grace After Henry, was shortlisted for the Irish Book Awards and won Best Page Turner at the UK's Big Book Awards. Her third novel, Three Little Truths, was a BBC Radio 2 Book Club pick.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Shortall, Eithne

Leseproben

CHLOE

‘Chloe?’

‘Yes, hi. I’m here.’

‘Hello? Chloe?’

‘Yemi! Hi,’ I shout, louder this time, turning my head towards the passenger side dashboard, where my phone is wedged between a washbag and several balls of colourful wool. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘Just about. Where are you?’

‘I’m in the car. I’m driving. I have you on loudspeaker.’

‘So you’re okay, then?’ she asks.

I indicate and move to the next lane, which is riskier than it sounds because the farside mirror is obscured by the duvet and pillows that occupy the passenger seat. The back seat is filled with a large haversack, several boxes of books and a couple of plastic bags stuffed with clothes and more bright wool. A lamp, a wash basket, a tangle of cords and several pairs of shoes partially block the rear window, but there is just enough space to see out. I’m fairly sure there’s nothing coming.

‘Chloe? Are you still there? Are you okay?’

‘Yes, I’m still here. And I’m fine, I’m just navigating a tricky…’ I make it into the lane without being rear-ended. ‘Phew. Okay. You have my attention. What’s up?’

‘Shoot!’ I nearly miss the turn, but just about spot it in time.

‘Where you?’

‘I’m on a job,’ I reply. ‘Just picked up a package for delivery.’

‘So you’re okay then? Everything is okay?’

‘Yes, everything is okay. Why do you keep asking?’ Was I supposed to take that turn too? Since my mobile doesn’t have GPS, Delivery Dash provide me with a Satnav. It’s a relic from their storeroom – possibly the original Satnav prototype – and it is often several instructions behind.

‘Your mam phoned me,’ says Yemi.

‘’

I’m in the middle of changing gears and the car almost cuts out. I go to pick up speed again but there’s a ball of wool rolling around at the pedals.

‘Yemi, I’m so sorry,’ I say, reaching down and flinging the orange fabric into the back. ‘I can’t believe she did that. I’m mortified. How did she get your number?’

‘She said you gave it to her when you came on my hen.’

It’s easy to remember because Yemi’s hen party is the only night I spent away from home in the past two years. I only went because Mrs Sweetman from next door insisted upon it. She said she’d check in on Mam regularly.

‘Oh god, Yemi,’ I say, head turned towards the phone. ‘I really am sorry. I never thought she’d ring you.’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s fine. As long as you’re fine. Are you? Fine? She said you’re not answering her calls.’

‘I haven’t had a chance,’ I lie. There are already eighteen missed calls and a dozen texts that I can’t bring myself to open.

‘Did you guys have a fight?’

‘No.’

‘Because you never fight with your mam.’

‘Yes, well, it’s hard to fight with someone with stage three cancer.’

‘Especially if you’re you,’ agrees Yemi.

I am not known for my combative nature, it’s true, but I am also not the total pushover Yemi believes me to be. Just last week I returned fruit to the supermarket after opening the punnet to find two plums covered in mould.

‘She said she woke up from a nap looking for you but all she found was a note.’

My stomach twists. I bite down the guilt.

‘Which really doesn’t sound like you,’ adds Yemi.

‘What happened?’

Maybe we should have fought. Would that have made leaving easier?

‘I don’t really want to talk about it,’ I reply eventually. ‘Not yet. I just need to get through this job. I’m sorry, Yemi. I know you’re trying to help.’

‘Well, if you want to talk, I’m here. And if you don’t want to talk, I’m also here.’

I’m so lucky to have Yemi. Truly. It’s not easy being friends with a carer. I say no to things far more often than yes, and I frequently cancel plans at the last minute. Even if I do make it out, I rarely have anything interesting to say. My only news is related to the state of my mother’s health. And that’s never good.

‘Chloe? Are you crying?’

‘No.’

‘Oh my god, you crying. Where are you? I’ll come and meet you right now.’

Yemi thinks I’m not a crier because she never sees me do it. But actually, I am. I cried so much as a baby that my dad left. He couldn’t take any more wailing, which is why my tears give Mam PTSD. They remind her of being abandoned. So by nature, I’m a crier. But by nurture, I’m stoic. I’ve learned to keep my blubbing for when I’m entirely alone. Not when I’m about to make a delivery, in the middle of the day, on the phone to Yemi.

But then all the rules are out the window today. I’ve been swinging between crying and giving myself ‘first day of the rest of my life’ pep-talks since 9.30 a.m.

‘I’m fine,’ I insist. ‘You just had a baby. You are not going anywhere.’ I shake my head and force a smile until the happiness makes its way into my voice. ‘I’m .’

I catch my reflection in the rear-view mirror and the car jerks again. Blotchy face, manic grin, mascara splodged under my eyes, hair in desperate need of a wash, and car full of all my earthly possessions. Thank Christ my phone isn’t capable of video calls. I look like the Joker – if the Joker was suddenly homeless and a secret knitting enthusiast.

‘Your mam phoned me because she didn’t know where you were. You didn’t mention it in the note.’

My ‘note’ was all of five words long. So no, a forwarding address didn’t make the cut.

‘She’d no idea who else to phone. She thinks you moved out, Chloe. I told her that wasn’t the case, that you probably just needed to blow off some steam or whatever and you’d be back. I mean, you wouldn’t move out. You wouldn’t just leave her. Right?’

‘Why am I asking? Of course you wouldn’t. But it might be worth phoning to let her know. Or I can phone if you don’t want to speak to her just yet. I know she can be difficult, but, well, you know…’

As I veer off the roundabout, something topples from the backseat onto the floor and makes a loud clatter.

‘What was that?’

I glance in the mirror, careful to avoid the horror that is my face. ‘Record player. I hope it’s okay.’

‘You have your record player in the car?’

‘I have everything in the car.’

‘Shit, Chloe, seriously? You really did move out?’

‘It’s a break,’ I say. ‘I’m just taking a break.’

‘What…’ begins Yemi, before trying and failing again: ‘Why…’

I sympathise. If someone had told me this yesterday, I’d be equally lost for words.

‘Where are you going to go?’ she manages eventually.

Every change, wanted or not, is an opportunity. I read that recently. Given that I’ve just made the biggest change of my life without an iota of forward planning, I have got to believe that this will be one hell of an opportunity. ‘I’ll figure it out,’ I say, readopting the manic grin. .

‘Well, you can stay here. Peter and I would love to have you. And Akin.’

‘Oh, Akin! I didn’t even ask how little Akin was doing! Did the public health nurse call? Was everything okay?’

‘Yep, all good. He’s great. Looks more like his dad every day. But forget about the baby – he has somewhere to live. Come and stay with us. Please.’

‘Thank you, Yemi, but I am not about to arrive in on top of you three weeks after you’ve given birth.’ I glance at the Satnav. I must be nearly here now.

‘Where are you going to go?’ She doesn’t say it because she is a good friend, but she knows what my mother knows: If I’m not at home, and I’m not with Yemi, I don’t have anywhere else to go.

‘I’ll be fine. More than fine. This is a good thing,’ I say, telling her what I told myself this morning, as I drove around the same roundabout so many times that I started to feel seasick, tears streaming down my face, a mixed CD from over two years ago – the only CD I own – blaring Adele through my tinny car speakers. ‘I’m actually excited about the possibilities,’ I add. ‘This is going to be good for me. Great, even. Probably. Definitely!’

‘You have no idea, do you?’

‘Wow.’ I slow the car further, as I gawk out the window. ‘These houses…’

‘Don’t change the subject, Chloe.’

But I’m not. Nevin Way is a quiet...