Cecelia Ahern - Lyrebird

Silence.

‘Why did you stay at the cottage? You’re twenty-six years old now, Laura, you could have left a long time ago. At this adult age you wouldn’t have had to worry about being taken away.’

Laura looks at Solomon. Bo registers this. Solomon’s eyes don’t leave Laura. He doesn’t care, to break her gaze would be rude, after they’ve listened to her story. Besides, his pull to her is magnetic, not normal.

‘I stayed there for the same reasons as my mum and Gaga did what they did. Because I was happy to stay. Because I was afraid to leave.’

‘You’re not afraid to leave now. Is it because Tom died? Is it because you’re ready for change?’ she asks question after question to help her along.

‘Change happens all the time, even on the mountain. You have to change with change,’ she says, her voice going deeper again, as she mimics Gaga. It’s the first time Bo and Rachel have heard it and their eyes widen as it seems another person takes over her body. ‘I was looking for what Gaga and Mum had with each other. Tom had it with Joe. You just need one person to trust.’

She raises her eyes to Solomon, whose heart is pounding so hard he’s afraid his boom mic will pick it up.

On Saturday morning, the four sit together in the hotel restaurant for breakfast. Laura looks around, not exactly as a Martian would, but with the eyes of someone who hasn’t been around this kind of social situation before, if ever.

‘Good morning, are you ready to order breakfast?’ a waitress asks.

She can’t pronounce her R’s, pronouncing them as a W sound instead.

Laura studies her, fascinated, her lips moving to make a W sound.

Solomon watches, hoping she won’t make the sound aloud.

‘Yes,’ Rachel says loudly, ready to eat the leg of the table. She fires off her order first.

‘So let me just read that back: two sausages, two eggs, two tomato, mushrooms, two rashers… the rashers are from Rafferty’s, local farmer. They’re excellent. Award-winning.’

‘Washers,’ Laura says suddenly, mimicking the waitress perfectly. She’s not even looking at her, she’s buttering her toast and speaking as though she doesn’t notice the words are coming from her mouth. ‘Weady… bweakfast.’

The waitress pauses her order-taking and stares at Laura.

Bo feels no sensitivity towards the waitress who thinks she’s being mocked, just watches, amused and intrigued, as hungry for this scene as Rachel is for her double Irish breakfast. Solomon of course feels the sweat trickle down his back from the discomfort of the situation.

‘Wafferty,’ Laura says.

‘She’s not teasing you,’ Solomon says awkwardly, and he can tell the others are surprised he’s even addressed it.

The anger that flashed in the waitress’s eyes calms as she looks at Laura differently. Then Solomon realises that she thinks something else of Laura, that there’s something wrong with her.

‘No, she’s not… you know… She’s learning. It’s a new sound to her. She…’ he looks at Laura to explain her further, and she’s looking at him, amused. As if the joke’s on him.

‘Okay, folks, if there’s anything else you need, let me know. I’ll get this to the kitchen really fast.’ The waitress grins at Rachel.

Laura can’t help herself, she mimics ‘really’ as ‘weally’, an exact copy of the waitress’s voice, and Rachel looks to be in serious pain trying to keep her nervous laughter in.

‘Stop,’ Bo says quietly.

‘I know, I can’t, I’m sorry,’ Rachel says seriously and then starts again, doing a Jekyll and Hyde as she goes from serious to laughter in an instant.

The waitress leaves the table, uncertain as to whether Laura is simple, or if she’s being mocked.

‘She’s going to spit in your cappuccino,’ Solomon says, buttering his toast.

‘Why were you laughing?’ Laura asks Rachel.

‘I can’t help it.’ She wipes the sweat from her brow with a napkin. ‘I do it at awkward moments. Have done since I was a kid. Funerals are the worst.’

Laura smiles. ‘You laugh at funerals?’

‘All the time.’

‘Even at Tom’s?’

Rachel looks at her sombrely. ‘Yes.’

Solomon shakes his head. ‘Unbelievable.’

‘Why did you laugh?’ Laura asks, wide-eyed with curiosity and not at all insulted that Rachel laughed during her dad’s funeral.

‘Bridget farted,’ Rachel explains.

‘Ah now, come on,’ Solomon says, shaking his head.

‘Rachel,’ Bo says, disgusted.

‘Laura asked me a question and I’m telling her the honest answer. I was right behind Bridget. When she got off her seat to kneel down, there it was, a little parp.’ Rachel makes the sound.

Laura imitates Rachel’s fart sound perfectly, which makes Rachel laugh even more. Bo and Solomon join in, against their better judgement.

‘It’s called rhotacism,’ Solomon says when the laughter has died down. ‘Or de-rhotacisation.’

‘What is?’ Bo asks, confused, searching through emails on her phone.

‘The waitress’s “r” sound. I had it as a kid,’ he says to Laura.

Bo looks up, surprised. ‘You never told me that.’

Solomon shrugs, cheeks going pink with the memory. ‘I had to go to a speech therapist till I was seven to sort it out. My brothers have never let me forget it, gave me a horrible time about it. To this day my brother Rory is still called Wawwy.’

‘I was wondering why they always say that,’ Bo laughs. ‘I thought it was because he was the baby.’

‘He was. He was my baby Wawwy,’ Solomon says, and they laugh.

Suddenly a cappuccino machine fires up to steam the milk. Laura jumps at the sound, she looks around for the root of the sound while mimicking it.

‘What is she doing?’ Bo asks quietly.

‘I’d say percolating,’ Rachel replies.

‘Wow,’ Bo says, picking up her phone and recording.

The diners at the table beside them turn to stare, two kids watch Laura, open-mouthed.

‘Don’t stare,’ their mother says calmly, quietly, all the while keeping a close eye on Laura over the rim of her teacup.

Solomon fights the urge to tell more people that there’s nothing ‘wrong’ with Laura.

‘It’s the coffee machine,’ Solomon says, reaching out and placing a hand on Laura’s shoulder, to centre her, calm her.

She looks at him, pupils dilated, scared.

Solomon points behind the counter across the room. ‘It’s a coffee machine. They’re steaming the milk for the latte or cappuccino.’

She watches it, imitates the sound again before becoming comfortable with it and turning her attention to the table again. The children go back to playing on their computer games.

Laura zones in on them, imitating the beeps, the shooting. The little boy puts his game down and kneels up on his chair to peer over the top at her. She smiles at him and once spotted, he sits down quickly. Their mother orders them to switch the sound off.

The waitress brings their food to the table. The full Irish for Solomon and Rachel, a grapefruit for Bo, who doesn’t acknowledge it as she taps away on her phone, and two boiled eggs for Laura.

‘Thank you,’ she says to the wary waitress.

There’s silence as they dig into their food, then Laura looks at Rachel’s plate, examines its content and mimics the waitress so perfectly, innocently and without any cynicism or sarcasm. ‘Wafferty’s Washers.’

The three of them crack up laughing.

‘I really think I should go to Galway with you,’ Bo says suddenly as they’re checking out. Laura is helping Rachel carry the bags to the car and Solomon and Bo are alone at the desk.