‘Anything to eat … scones?’ His pen is poised. Margaret and I shake our heads, but before we can warn him Dan says, ‘Oh, a scone, lovely.’
Gerald hurries away, happy to have made a sale, and Grandad chuckles.
‘So, about my relatives …’ Dan holds up his phone to Grandad, obviously recording him. Grandad gives the phone a suspicious look and gently pushes Dan’s hand away.
‘There haven’t been Murphys around here for years. Sold up, moved out. Their land went to developers. It used to be a great mussel farm but then developers tried to put in an executive estate looking out to sea. Those were the last Murphys I remember around here. Moved on after the last oyster festival.’
‘Executive estate, you say?’ Dan cuts into the scone and both Margaret and I watch worriedly. It falls open, pale and dry. Dan looks disappointed.
‘Ghost estate, more like. The houses were never finished. I think they got the plumbing in but after that they had to stop. Just by Sean Thornton’s place.’
‘Who’s he? Perhaps I could interview him’ Dan looks at us and we look at each other. I can’t see Sean agreeing to that one.
‘Just by the farm you were at the other day, where I work – where he set the dog on you,’ I add helpfully, hoping to put him off.
‘Oh,’ says Dan. ‘And the Murphys? Where did they go?’
‘America I think.’ Grandad reaches for his tea with unsteady hands. ‘Or was it New Zealand …?’
‘Like most people round here. There’s no work, nothing for them,’ Margaret joins in.
‘But you’re still here,’ Dan points out, putting butter on the scone.
‘Let’s just say I feel my destiny is here,’ Margaret says with a smile.
Just then Sean walks in and Margaret’s face lights up, proving to herself and everyone around her that she is right.
‘Sean!’ she says brightly. ‘This is Dan, Dan Murphy. We were just talking about you.’ She’s smiling so much I wonder if it’s making her face ache.
‘Coffee, please,’ he says to Gerald.
‘Do you want to join us? We’re just discussing … planning things,’ I say.
‘No, you’re all right. Just on my way into town.’ He takes the coffee, pays for it then turns back to us.
‘A Murphy, is it?’ he says to Dan.
‘Yes, I understand our families were once neighbours. Look, sorry about that misunderstanding the other day …’ Dan goes to stand up.
‘Take my advice and stay away from my land,’ Sean growls. I sigh. The pair hold each other’s stare for a moment and then Sean stalks out and Dan sits down. This is going badly wrong. Very badly wrong.
‘So, no family to speak of,’ Dan says flatly.
‘No, but I might be able to help you with some photos. Why not come up to the pub and we can see if there’s any of your family pictures on the wall. They might’ve taken part in the oyster festival. Talking of the festival, I do have another idea for the end of your book …’ Margaret hooks her arm through his and leads the way.
In the empty pub we look round the pictures on the wall. Grandad’s bright as a button, as though the pictures have transported him back to happier times.
‘So, are these all from past festivals?’ Dan asks as we study them.
‘That one was the year it went to sudden death,’ Grandad says, remembering each picture as if it was yesterday.
‘That’s Sean’s uncle, isn’t that right, Grandad?’ Margaret points out a picture of a short man with a white apron tied around his middle.
Grandad nods. ‘Tom.’ He tuts and shakes his head and I don’t know if it’s because he blames him for the trouble in Dooleybridge or because he misses a friend. Tom’s standing in the middle of five other men in the photograph, holding a large silver cup.
‘But none of Sean?’ I ask absently.
‘No, he was always busy entering competitions everywhere but here,’ Margaret says. ‘All over Europe from what I’ve heard. Was quite a champion shucker, until he came back—’
