‘Seán and Niamh…’ began Rosie.
Laurence had his face screwed up. ‘Seán and Niamh? Does he go to a gym called Six-Pack Central?’
‘That wasn’t on my pre-wedding questionnaire,’ said Grace witheringly.
‘If it’s him, I know him,’ said Laurence. ‘We’ve got the same PT. He said he was getting married to his fiancée, Niamh. I mean, how many other Seáns and Niamhs are there?’
‘Uh, it’s Ireland,’ said Grace. ‘So quite a lot.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Tall. Big muscles. Broad shoulders. Cork accent,’ said Grace.
‘Cork accent? Then it is him. I’ll come and say hi,’ said Laurence, rubbing his hands together. ‘Things are looking up! Finally! Some excitement to be found. So, tell me, what’s the plan? Foam parties are back in. Wiggy went to one in Killarney and almost drowned.’
‘We’re not doing anything like that,’ said Grace. ‘Ours is a little more civilised.’
Laurence visibly wilted with disappointment. ‘So it’s just a boring wedding, then?’
‘No, we have a garden picnic, a beach barbecue…’ listed off Grace.
‘Beach barbecue? Nice one!’ Laurence looked happier at this. ‘Last time I had a barbecue was in Queensland with Rocky. Jesus. Never allow fifteen twenty-somethings in charge of a barbecue. Let’s just say we started not only a fire but an international incident. We almost had roasted dingo for dinner.’ Laurence got to his feet. ‘Well, I suppose I had better take the twins home and feed them.’ He paused. ‘Do you think I could give the twins cereal for lunch? It is fortified with vitamins and things.’
‘Why don’t you give them a scoop of protein powder and a few vitamin pills?’ said Rosie.
‘Shall I?’ Laurence looked quite pleased. ‘That would be easy enough. And Nessa surely couldn’t complain. It’s a properly balanced meal.’
‘I was joking, Laurence,’ she said. ‘Give them normal food: a sandwich, pasta, fish fingers, things children like.’
‘Yeah, but that’s cooking. And I’m learning that it’s a skill I am yet to perfect.’
‘Sandwiches aren’t cooking.’
He pondered. ‘Can jam be a sandwich?’
‘Technically…’
Laurence nodded thoughtfully. ‘I think jam works,’ he said. ‘Think of the vitamins. Niacin again probably. God, it’s everywhere. Thank you for the culinary advice. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ He smiled at Rosie. ‘And I’ll call in and see how the wedding is going. You might need my advice as manager of the golf club and all that.’
‘We’ll call you,’ said Grace sweetly.
‘Do that,’ said Laurence. ‘I’m only over the hedge and it will give me something to do.’ He smiled at them. Laurence might be a little feckless and not the most industrious of humans, but he was rarely in a bad mood and always tried to cheer everyone up. He went to leave, just as Aunt Lucinda was coming in. ‘Morning, Lucinda,’ he said. ‘Ah, and there’s the charming Pedro.’ Lucinda’s dog exploded into a violent attack of snarling and snapping and Laurence jumped back. ‘Every fecking time. I’ll never win him over.’ And he was gone, hand intact, to make jam sandwiches for the twins.
8
PATRICK
Patrick had been to Cliff Top before, for that one afternoon ten years earlier, when the sun blazed as hot as it was now and there was an arch of pink flowers over the gateway, the yellow sandstone of the house and then a stretch of grass and then the sparkling sea.
For a while, for the first couple of years he was in Boston, he was consumed by thoughts of Rosie, wondering what she was doing, how the hotel she had prized above everything was going and whether she had moved on with someone else. Hollowed out with loneliness and his empty bed, he agonised over leaving her behind, saying those things he’d said in the airport, believing what Rosie’s aunt had said, that he wasn’t good enough for Rosie. He couldn’t work out why she would say such a thing, seeing her niece’s obvious happiness, but it niggled at him, bringing to the surface lingering feelings he had about his own inadequacies. Now he’d have told her where to go and to keep her nose and opinions out, but back then he was still finding himself.
And then, with everything else, Rosie’s insistence that she was staying, the call from Kerry-Anne to say that she wanted to mentor him, and his need to leave Ireland behind, he’d walked away. And for years afterwards, he wondered if he’d done the right thing. At the end of a long day at Fitzgerald’s, he longed to talk to her. Sundays were the worst; an empty day yawning ahead. He used to wake up and wonder how he was going to fill the hours. Paperwork, gym, reading the papers, walking the length of South Boston. But, eventually, the loneliness lifted and he gained and retained friends, and he slowly, mostly, forgot all about Rosie. Until now.
It seemed the memories had only been put on ice and now flooded back. Perhaps he wouldn’t see her, perhaps she was no longer at the hotel? The thing he was most afraid of, he realised, was not seeing her. What if she wasn’t there? He almost couldn’t bear it.
That Rosie summer had been wonderful and brilliant and then it was over. Like all summers, the brief flashes of sunlight, the warmth in the air, the long, stretchy evenings, the whole country basking, like dairy cows, the heat on their bones. You think the summer will last forever and then there’s an unmistakeable shift in the air, and before you can grab on to it, it’s all gone.
As they drove along the coast, he chatted amiably away to Seán, asking the right questions, half-listening to the answers but looking intently out of the window.I remember this, he thought.I remember the village, the beach, the sea. I remember Sandycove.
