A Bed For The Night
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Kathleen was home on holiday from Perth in WA. We decided to have a few days’ away – A wee stayover – girls only – Gertie, Kathleen, Helen and Yours Truly – in Donegal Town Co Donegal. Eamon Mc Colgan, our cousin, may God be good to him drove us, as he frequently did. As we drove through Barnesmore Gap he asked did we want to stop at Biddy’s for a drink and a bite to ea. There was a chorus of “Does a cat drink milk?” Biddy’s – some said it was the smallest pub in Ireland – (I think a lot of places claim that title). That day a Hen Party was in full swing. As the bride-to-be gathers all her hens around a table, the craic was mighty. It was a very good start to our few days away.
The Diamond in Donegal Town was crowded with late summer visitors. Eamon drew up behind a line of tourist buses spilling their passengers on to the narrow footpath.
We had a large family hotel room. Four beds in a row – like Goldie Locks and the 3 Bears. Like Goldie, while the others were checking out the bathroom – shower or bath? – I tried out the beds. Bed number one was a no-no – too near the bathroom –Kathleen, Helen and Gertie would have to pass it during the night if they needed to go.
Bed 2 was in the middle between bed 1 and 3 (as it would be) – . Not a good position to be – every time I’d turn I’d be looking into either a face or an ass…you get the picture!
Bed 3 was furthest from the toilet but nearer the window.
I bounced on bed number 4. This was the one – last in the row – nearest the window. If there was a-stirring in the night or a queue for the bathroom it would not have to pass my bed.
Next stop was to check out the foyer, the dining room menu and the night’s entertainment .I was under the usual rules – No book shops. definitely no shoe shops. And top of the ‘DONTS “don’t be encouraging complete strangers to tell me their life stories.”
Well, I never was a very obedient child – many a day I felt the swish coming off the ‘sally rod’ our mother kept behind the ornamental china dog with the hole in its head on the mantelpiece as I flew like the wind out of her reach and the stinging rod on the backs of my legs.
Everything was going to plan until we emerged from the dining room and decided to relax for a while on the cushy squishy armchairs in the foyer. As we settle in, the glass door of the hotel opened and in struggled a woman weighted down with an assortment of handbags and an eclectic collection of other types of baggage. Immediately my curiosity was piqued. Had she just got off one of the many tour buses sporting Dutch, American, Irish, English and Scottish named coaches parked outside in the street
Where had she come from and where was she going to next? My antenna was well and truly up.
The staff hailed her by name as if she was a regular. So, she hadn’t come on the tourist buses.
Kathleen and Gertie were looking relaxed and discussing the pro and cons of what we had just eaten. Helen was working her way out of her deep cushioned chair with the intention of going outside for a smoke.
The woman who had just come in sank gratefully into the chair Helen had just vacated; her bag, baggage settling in a semi-circle around her feet.
Of its own accord I heard my voice ask her had she come far just as a pleasant face staff member placed a beautifully laid tea tray on the table at the woman’s elbow. By now my antenna was emitting loud bleeps of interest. Who was she? I had to know more about her. As she poured tea into the fine white bone china cup and scooped in three heaped spoons of sugar and topped it up with a generous splash of rich full throttle cream I noticed her cardigan was clean but shabby and her shoes were more for country wear than town wear.
I tried and failed to push down my rampaging imagination. Surreptitiously I chanced a quick glance of my sisters. They were still deep in conversation with each other. Flinging caution to the wind I smiled at the woman and offered to refill her teacup.
That was all it took. Without preamble she began to tell me her life story. ..
Her story is not mine to tell. Sufficient to say she entrusted her most precious child to the authorities on a temporary basis on the advice of a politician she trusted and was almost destitute because all her monies had been spent paying solicitors fighting to get her much loved child back.
I left her there sipping her tea from the delicate china cup. My sisters had long gone fed-up with waiting for me and Helen, sitting opposite me, was ready for another smoke.
We found Kathleen and Gertie in a crowded, noisy pub at the bottom of the street. The thump of traditional Irish music blasted through the open window and door and into the street making the windows vibrate.
We pushed our way inside. There was standing room only and barely enough space to raise the glass to your mouth or clap your hands to show your appreciation for the many singers and musicians.
We had a great night. At closing time we made our way back to the hotel planning what we were going to do the next day. My plan was to visit the shoe shops. The other decided we’d catch the local bus into Bundoran, the nearest seaside town.
It was late now and the foyer of the hotel was quiet. The chair where the woman had sat finishing the dregs of her tea surrounded by her many bags, was empty.
As we waited for the elevator I wondered where she was sleeping tonight. My fussing about being disturbed as the others went to the toilet seemingly of no consequence now
Gemma Hill © January 2021
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