Cecelia Ahern 3-Book Collection: One Hundred Names, How to Fall in Love, The Year I Met You. Cecelia Ahern
Bernard Carberry; I don’t work in that department. My mentor and friend, Constance Dubois, has once again had the great foresight to find another person of interest to the public, a person that the country needs to read about, the kind of person who is inspiring and warm-hearted and who has a long and wonderful story to tell us all. Your mother is helping me with my story.’
Kitty realised she wasn’t just trying to give Birdie’s family a kick up the backside but that she genuinely meant what she was saying. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t yet find the link between the people she had so far met, their stories alone were interesting to her. She saw they were all staring at her in silence. Confused, she looked at Birdie and back at them, unsure what they were waiting for.
‘So don’t leave us in suspense,’ Caroline finally spoke. ‘Who is it you’re writing about?’
‘But …’ Kitty turned to Birdie with a frown. Birdie’s cheeks had pinked and she was looking down at her skirt, fixing the hem. Kitty thought she had made it perfectly clear. Anger filled her heart. ‘I’m here for the same reason as you are.’ She reached out and took Birdie’s hand. ‘To spend time with this wonderful woman.’ And when they still didn’t get it, she said, ‘I’m writing about your mother.’
‘That was a nice thing you did for Birdie,’ Molly said as Kitty was leaving the home that evening. They had sat outside in the sun most of the day, spending a few hours with Birdie and asking her more about her life, delving a little further, getting a little more personal as they grew to know one another better and as Birdie learned to trust her. Kitty felt she had a good insight into Birdie’s life growing up in the chapel town with her father as principal and only teacher of the local school. With no mother for Birdie to turn to her life was strict, regimented. Her father took care of the family in every way he could but there was no physical love. No hugs at bedtime, no whispers of affection. Birdie came from a prominent family in the village and as the daughter of the principal she had a certain sense of duty and expectation. As soon as she could, she left for life in Dublin. Her one caution to herself had been not to marry her father’s type and, to her credit, she hadn’t. She had married a kind and supportive yet traditional man in Niall Murphy, a civil servant, and they in turn had bred a family of doctors.
‘What do you mean?’ Kitty asked.
‘You know what I mean,’ Molly replied. ‘Word gets around here quickly.’
‘I meant it, you know. She’s an interesting lady.’
‘That’s an understatement.’
This comment intrigued Kitty and she wanted to find out more about Birdie from Molly. ‘Are you heading back to the city, by any chance? Fancy splitting a taxi?’
‘I’m going the other way, but I can drop you to Oldtown, if you like.’
Kitty would take whatever she could get.
‘It’s Birdie’s birthday on Thursday,’ Kitty said. ‘I overheard her family asking her out for dinner.’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘She says she won’t go.’
Molly shrugged and a smile appeared briefly on her lips.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Something I should know?’
‘No.’
Kitty didn’t believe her. ‘She’ll be eighty-five. Eighty-five. She should celebrate. Is there something you can do for her here?’
‘We usually have a cake. A chocolate one with candles. We bring it in during dinner and everyone sings. It’s nice. Birthdays don’t go unnoticed.’
‘I’d like to do something for her.’
Molly looked at her. ‘You’re growing fond of her, aren’t you?’
Kitty nodded.
‘Well, she won’t be here that day,’ she said, grabbing her leather jacket. ‘She’s taking a trip.’
A swarm of residents arrived through the front door, conversation buzzing, and more piled out of the bus parked out front. The bus, an eighteen-seater, had St Margaret’s stencilled across the side.
‘They won the bowling match,’ Molly explained. ‘They play against teams from surrounding homes once a fortnight. You wouldn’t believe how serious they take it. I love being on driving duty, just so I can hear their tactics, and because I always wanted to be a bus driver when I was a kid, but they rarely let me. Fancy a lift to town?’
Kitty took her up on her offer and as she sped along the potholed roads that led to the small village of Oldtown, on the back of Molly’s motorbike, she quickly understood why Molly wasn’t often allowed behind the wheel of the bus.
Sitting in Oldtown, Kitty had over an hour to wait for a bus to the city. Pulling out the list of one hundred names, she pored over it and set to work.
Magdalena Ludwiczak did not speak enough English to enable Kitty to have a decent conversation with her so she struck her off her list. Number five, Bartle Faulkner, was on holiday for the next fortnight, and she could hear the water lapping on the beach in the background. No, he hadn’t heard from Constance at all, and yes, he could meet up in two weeks when he was home, by which time it would be too late for Kitty’s story. Eugene Cullen, an old man, by the sound of it, told her in no uncertain terms never to call him again, and she left a message for Patrick Quinn.
Kitty went back to the seventh name on her list.
‘Hello?’ The phone was answered in a whisper.
‘Is that Mary-Rose Godfrey?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I’m at work. I’m not supposed to be on the phone.’ The girl sounded about sixteen.
‘Okay,’ Kitty whispered, and then realised she didn’t need to and cleared her throat. ‘My name is Kitty Logan. I’m a journalist for Etcetera. Perhaps my editor Constance Dubois was in touch with you?’
‘No, sorry,’ the girl whispered.
Kitty sighed and cut straight to the chase. ‘Can we meet?’
‘Yeah, sure. When?’
Kitty straightened up, surprised. ‘Tonight?’
‘Yeah, cool. I’ll be in Café en Seine at eight. Good for you?’
‘Great!’ Kitty couldn’t believe her luck.
Mary-Rose hung up before they could arrange anything further like what Mary-Rose looked like or what Kitty looked like. When the bus arrived, Kitty jumped on with a spring in her step. Sitting down next to a man picking his nose and rolling the snot on the ball of his fingers couldn’t even dampen her mood. She examined her phone and contemplated sending Richie a message. She thought of the fun they’d had the night before and she smiled, then used her hand to block her face so that she wouldn’t look like a lunatic. But then she remembered how she’d felt that morning, awkward and cringing at the sight of his naked body. She decided against texting him. She took her notebooks out again; there was much work to be done. Though she had done it before, she Googled Archie Hamilton again, knowing a bit more about him now and what to focus on.
By the time she reached Café en Seine, she knew exactly why he didn’t want to speak to her, and exactly why she wanted to speak to him more than ever.
Kitty kissed the list before she entered the pub and thanked Constance again. She was beginning to enjoy this.
Café en Seine on Dawson Street was a series of bars spanning three floors, a three-storey atrium with glass-panelled ceilings with forty-foot trees reaching to the