Page 8 of One More Day
‘And don’t even think about doing your usual trick and disappearing on me when we get there, OK?’ I tell my bouncy springer spaniel. ‘It’s one thing roaming around the fields at home, but this is brand-new territory for us both. I promised you’d be on your best behaviour, you hear?’
Max’s brown and white tail is wagging like a pendulum on speed. I reach across to pat his downy coat as we make our way out of the city and onto the motorway that will take us west in the direction of Donegal to the ‘secluded retreat’ where I plan to do nothing but wallow in the silence of my own misery, walk a beach or two and hopefully let the sounds of silence be my only friend. It will be like Christmas doesn’t even exist when I get there, and that’s exactly what I’m hoping for.
Chris Rea sings on the radio about driving home for Christmas, and since I’m drivingawayfrom home for Christmas, I flick stations immediately.
Frosty the Snowman? No thank you. I flick again. Michael Bublé?
‘No, no, no, I’m not in the mood for you, Mr Bublé, no offence.’
I hit Classic FM, confident I won’t be force-fed festive offers from an orchestra or quartet, but a few seconds later I realise they’re performingThe Nutcracker, so I hit Bluetooth and kick off my own playlist, which is what I should have done in the first place to spare me from Christmas cheer.
It’s lashing rain outside. I’ve the wipers on full blast and as I cruise along, Max snoozes while I do my best not to overthink the fact that this is the first Christmas in all my thirty-seven years that I’ll spend totally alone.
Charlie Sheerin, therapist and life-fixer for all, is running away from hisownlife for two weeks in the hope that it might give him some direction on what to do next.
Over halfway into my journey, I stop at a huge supermarket where I’m nabbed by carol singers rattling their charity buckets at the doors.
‘Cheer up, it’s Christmas, darling,’ an older lady says. I could say so much in return but I know she means well. My furrowed brow and determined stare, no doubt, say it all.
I throw in some loose change, then grab some groceries and wine for my solo stay, doing my best to push past trollies as shoppers panic-buy and stock up on ridiculous amounts of food as if the end of the world is coming.
‘Bah humbug,’ I say to the cashier who flashes me a hearty smile as she scans each item, then laughs so hard that her whole upper body jiggles.
I didn’t think it wasthatfunny.
‘Oh, I feel exactly the same,’ she replies mid-giggle, as if I’ve broken some secret seal. ‘I’m so glad you said that. Bah bloody humbug. Bah humbug!’
And then she whispers.
‘What a load of over-hyped nonsense! Loathe entirely! My children call me the Grinch!’
She is still laughing when I lift my bags, which makes me smile too, and when I get back to the car to load up the boot, I pause to remember how previous trips to the north-west coast of Ireland were once so different.
They weren’t last-minute Christmas escapes like I’m doing now. They were summer holidays filled with a million childlike questions likeAre we there yet? Can we please get ice cream on the way?
The music was never my choice in those days, but I secretly loved it. A bucket and spade were used as a drum kit to chant along to in the back seat, with Rebecca telling me to sing louder and louder.
Do the funny voice again, Daddy! Sing just one more time.
I feel my skin tingle at the thought of how much I miss her. Every single minute of every single day, I miss her so badly.
‘How about a cheery rendition of “The Wheels on the Bus”, Max?’ I ask my dog who doesn’t seem too bothered with what season it is, or that Rebecca is no longer here to make it magical again. ‘Let’s pretend we’re going on our summer holidays and the sun is shining instead of this miserable sleety rain.’
And so to pass the time I sing it, loudly beating my hand on the steering wheel as I drive.
The wheels on the bus go round and round.
My stomach is going round and round too, but the journey goes smoothly. My mind eventually stops galloping through a journey of regret as we pass through tiny villages and towns decked out with fairy lights in windows. Umbrella-wielding shoppers criss-crossing the street laden with too many bags, dodging cars eager to get through.
We drive on long stretching roads with overtaking lanes and green fields that go on for as far as the eye can see. The sat nav takes us along some scary hairpin bends and narrow roads where approaching the crest of the hills and valleys is like taking some crazy gamble of roulette, and even though it’s miserable outside, everyone drives slowly and with consideration. They even wave as they pass.
This is what I love about Donegal. The friendly wave of a stranger, the sheep dotting the rust-coloured mountains that line the roadsides. The vast skies that meet forty shades of green. The sense of freedom and wide-open spaces with the sea in the distance.
This is a place called Fanad Head – the very place I’ve longed for. I feel my shoulders relax already.
‘Uh oh, someone’s in trouble,’ I say to Max when I come across a car with the bonnet raised on the narrow roadside moments later. I’m glad for once it’s not me, especially not in this cutting cold weather. It gives snow later too. Sleet, then snow, then more snow for the next few days.
I wonder at what age do you start becoming obsessed with weather forecasts? Am I having some sort of mid-life crisis by trying to pretend it’s not Christmas and watching weather forecasts like my dad used to do?
