Melissa Kite

The man in the phone repair shop smiled all too confidently and told me that there was nothing I could present him with that he couldn’t fix. ‘That’s good,’ I said, holding out my smashed phone. But what I wanted to say was: ‘I am a hapless person who jinxes things. You may think this is just another straightforward job, but I want to give you fair warning before you take me on that nothing to do with dealing with me will be straightforward, and you will probably end up throwing me out of your shop. I am neurotic, added to which I have an otherworldly curse on me when it comes to technology, which makes everything malfunction.’ I did not say this, because I badly wanted my smashed phone screen replacing.

The estate agent said that they would send someone round tomorrow and I had to calm them down. Come in two weeks, I told them, because the builder boyfriend is still painting the hallway with the yellow paint I don’t much like any more because it’s taken so long. The new laws leave us paranoid about having anyone step foot in our house for longer than three weeks They love selling these old country piles in Ireland because they change hands so often it’s a licence to print money – not for the owners, but for the agents who keep selling them year after year, after the owners have not been able to afford to keep them going. Usually, it’s the lack of plumbers and tradesmen, but now there is another problem.

The dog café had a pretty pink sign describing its many services and I stood outside it mesmerised as I realised what it was. This was not a café where dogs were allowed. This was a café for dogs. I peeked inside and there were dog baskets for the customers to lounge in as they drank their puppuccinos. There are so many things about Britain that are too subtle for me when I re-enter the atmosphere as an expat My friend and I were on our way to dinner on the Fulham Road and we ended up standing by this café as I stared with my mouth open and asked her repeatedly how this could be. There are so many things about Britain that are too subtle for me now when I re-enter the atmosphere as an expat.

The panic of another season bore down on me as the builder boyfriend painted the breakfast room with the green paint I’d chosen. But he couldn’t paint fast enough for my liking and we started to have the most terrible rows. Despite us being fully booked last summer, I had come to the view that the whole thing wasn’t viable and we were bound to go under. I started looking up estate agents who market big old piles in Ireland to stupid people in America. This house is like a monster devouring my money faster than I can feed it. I fed the beast by filling the oil tank to the brim at Christmas and it was a quarter gone by the new year.

The woman in the queue behind us in the supermarket glared angrily as my mother tried and failed to tap her credit card. We had tapped it in the chemist successfully, but she must have been on her last tap, again, and now she was out of taps. I felt my chest tightening. Here we go. My mother started arguing about why her card should be working, and when I got my card out, she said: ‘No, don’t be silly! I’m getting this!’ A few years on from a vague diagnosis of some sort of vascular dementia to do with blood flow to the brain, she has no idea what a PIN is, never mind what her PIN is.

After two weeks of us heating the house to the temperature my nearly 90-year-old father wanted it, the door to the guest bedroom would no longer shut. The central heating had swollen the wood so much that it had to be planed down. The builder boyfriend and I had been lying in bed each night with the radiators in our bedroom off and the windows wide open. I’d venture out into the hallway at 3 a.m. to investigate why we were still too hot and a wall of heat would hit me. The thermostat I had left on tick-over was rammed to the far right once more and the boiler was at warp speed.

We spent an hour in the Garda station trying to explain ourselves to a flame-haired police lady. She sat with her pen poised over a statement pad on the desk in the interview room. Her uniform was extremely smart and emblazoned with gold emblems. At least the police dress nicely here, I thought. The builder boyfriend shifted uncomfortably in his seat in the claustrophobic room and started explaining that he really didn’t want to press charges. But many weeks on from a crash in which a young driver crossed a solid white line to speed down the wrong side of the road and plough into the BB’s truck head on, demolishing it and his own car, the boy still hasn’t filled in any of the insurance forms admitting liability.

As we reached the top of the hill and saw the view in front of us my heart thumped so hard I slammed my foot on the brake and declared that we had to turn back. A wind- and sea-battered piece of terrain jutting out into the Atlantic ocean told us very loudly to go away. I heard it in my head, as clear as a person saying it, and I pretended I hadn’t, but I had. So I stopped the car above that desolate valley and sat there, frozen, not knowing what to do or even how to turn the car in the narrow space. Having climbed a steep hill on this grass-covered road, we balanced almost on the summit of it, with the road falling away in front of us. Into the distance ahead twisted the road through the rugged landscape but we couldn’t see the place we sought at the end.

The smashed pick-up truck was delivered back to us after I burst into tears and began wailing at the recovery man. When all else fails, men usually cave in to what I like to call tear pressure. Their brains scream ‘Make it stop!’ and they’ll do pretty much anything. The tears gushed out of my eyes very easily as I stood in that recovery yard two days after the builder boyfriend had been hit head-on by a driver speeding down the wrong side of the road who smashed into him at such force that he took apart the entire driver’s side and undercarriage of his Mitsubishi L200. The truck was still on the low loader that had brought it back from the crash site as I stood there demanding its return. This was odd, I thought. Wouldn’t they have taken it off the truck by now?

The garage owner came at me with an angry expression as I pulled on to his forecourt, which was the last thing I was expecting. His employee had just crashed head on into the builder boyfriend while driving a sales car and, in my naivety, I was expecting the garage owner to cover the cost of the removal of the resulting wreckage – the written-off pick-up truck belonging to the BB and the totalled car driven down the wrong side of the road by the garage worker. But for some strange reason, which I hoped would become clear, he had let me pick up the bill for the recovery. I had just come from the yard where a bad-tempered man had taken my money and grudgingly given me a receipt.

Sitting beneath the looming darkness of the unfinished ceiling of Westminster Cathedral, I found myself praying. I didn’t even know why, but I was walking past during a trip to London and I decided to go in, and I sat down, and then a priest came and began to say mass so I stayed, not knowing what was about to happen back in Ireland to the builder boyfriend, and not having any real feeling that you could call premonition – unless you count an overwhelming urge to be sitting in a cathedral praying, when I have passed there many times on similar trips and never once gone in. It was a lovely experience, except it seemed to me that it was shameful that we Catholics were allowing Jesus to hang on the cross in the dark.

‘Where are you off to now?’ I asked the fellow from Hong Kong as he and his wife stood in the hallway ready to leave, their many suitcases beside them. At first it sounded like he said ‘Ukraine!’ very cheerfully, but he couldn’t have said that, obviously, so I asked again. ‘I mean, now you’re leaving West Cork, where are you off to next on your holiday? The Ring of Kerry? Killarney? The Cliffs of Moher?’ He stared at me like I was stupid. ‘Ukraine!’ he said, and then when I stared back he shouted: ‘U-KRAINE! You know Ukraine? Big war Russia Ukraine! Ukraine?’ ‘Yes, I understand you keep saying Ukraine, it’s just that I was under the impression you were on a road trip around Ireland.’ ‘Yeah we go Ukraine now!

As I was showing a couple from Lincolnshire to their room, I smelt a rat. I don’t mean metaphorically, about them. I mean that halfway down the hallway, as I walked two paying guests from the front door towards the staircase, the most overwhelming stench of rotting carcass wafted upwards from the floor, right next to the fancy dresser displaying the tourist leaflets. I glanced at them nervously to see whether they had noticed. They were telling me about their house-hunting. They wanted to move to West Cork to go off grid and get in touch with nature. That’s handy, I thought, because nature is currently rotting under the floorboards. Trust the darn critter to conk out beneath the main entrance hall just in time for a B&B arrival.

Hanging a pair of gates at the rear of the house gave us so much satisfaction, it suddenly seemed strange that we had waited so long to do it. When we first moved here, I fell so in love with the place, and was so lost in a dream about rural Ireland, that I left the back of the property ungated, even though the rear of the house almost adjoins a small public road. Not a road, a boreen. A lovely little lane with grass down the middle. What possible hostility could occur on that? I was enjoying such naive notions about how relaxed our existence was going to be that I completely overlooked the fact that people are the same wherever you go. I should have known never to disregard the lyrics of Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder.

The thoroughbred looked cross, with flared nostrils and a pinched expression, so I should have known what was about to happen. It’s always bad news when the mare’s serene beauty drains out of her face and she affects a look like a female daytime television panel member. She turned round and bit me as I led her in from the field, and she only ever does that when she’s trying to tell me something. In the barn, she nibbled a strand of hay from her net, and spat it back out. Then she turned herself round in circles several times, before buckling her knees and collapsing herself like a folding sun chair. With a big exhalation she hit the shavings, stretched out on one side with her head on the ground, and stuck her four legs out straight, absolutely senseless from overeating.

‘Data-free vegans incoming by taxi,’ I texted the builder boyfriend, to alert him to the possibility of triple trouble. Quadruple really, for they were also American. The young eco-tourists from the West Coast didn’t want to switch on roaming on their phones, for they were interrogating me about the route by text while at the airport. I knew they were lefty environmental types because when the girl booked she told me she was travelling to Europe to learn about ‘natural building’. After the course, she and her boyfriend would be heading to Ireland for what she called ‘some misty time’. I don’t know whether that was a euphemism for sex. She would be too young to remember the jazz standard by Erroll Garner, or the Clint Eastwood film Play Misty for Me.

The house fell silent as the last of the tourists took their oat milk and pretend cheese from the guest fridge. Winter came in the nick of time. I’ve bitten my lip for six months while the B&B guests have forced their pro-Palestine, anti-Trump views on me, while refusing to eat normal food or use the dishwasher because, in leftie parlance, dishwashers cause neurological damage. ‘What does the shower cause?’ I wanted to ask some of them, who didn’t even use one towel or open one wrapped mini-soap in a week-long stay. Is soap carcinogenic now? Are you staging some sort of Gaza protest by not washing? The bookings dried up just before I lost it completely with the next long-haired hipster asking for coconut milk or declaring themselves gluten-free.

The solar panel fitter was eating his fried breakfast when the talkative vegans came into the kitchen. They surveyed his plate of bacon, eggs, sausage and black pudding with a look of disgust before helping themselves to cereal, which they doused in the soya milk they had gone to the supermarket to buy, because I refuse to stock milk alternatives. What people eat is now a political issue hotter than the Middle East. It would be easier and safer for me to ask a B&B guest’s views on a two-state solution than say: ‘What would you like for breakfast?’ When I ask a guest what they want for breakfast, the vast majority tense up, flush red and begin listing what they will and will not eat, with their myriad complicated reasons.

The singer sped past me out of the gate, sending me flying as I tried to say goodbye. We’ve been through some ordeals this summer, but we’ve never had a B&B guest so unhappy that they’ve tried to run me over. We had been hosting performers for a music festival and by the time this singer arrived, we had welcomed quite a few celebrities with no problems. The first to stay with us was a TV star who had driven down from Dublin and insisted we come with him to his gig that night to have pizza in the bar with him before he went on stage. No good ever comes from upgrading people. It makes difficult customers worse, somehow The next to arrive in the boondocks of West Cork was a musician used to working with the likes of Van Morrison.

The Americans wanted an argument and they weren’t going to take no, or indeed yes, for an answer. They arrived late at night and parked their car width-ways across the driveway, blocking it, while ignoring the parking area a few feet further on where there is space for about ten cars around a central fountain. I went out and asked them politely to move and they said they would, when they were ready. But first they wanted to stand on the driveway and complain about the cost of the hire car, the narrowness of the Irish roads, and the fact that their flight had taken nearly two days with three changes because they didn’t want to pay extra for a direct one.