Oh, Kerry-Anne. Something else to think about. It would be so much easier if you could control who you fell in love with, but if there was one thing he knew about love, it found you and, when it did, you shouldn’t ever let it go. It was a lesson he’d learned too late.
Rosie was the one person he’d wanted to talk about his mother, the only person he wanted to open up to. He owed her an apology, he knew, but would that just make things worse or unearth past feelings and resentment? What would be best for Rosie? Would she even want him to apologise? She was married with children, he lived an ocean away. But it intrigued him that that bond that one creates with someone doesn’t ever break, you’re always connected, there’s always that ribbon holding you together, meaning you take a special interest, and will always have something of agráfor the other, something of a love for them.
He looked out of the window at the garden, the dew on the grass, the birds singing, the flowers half-open in this early light. And he saw a figure down below, a china cup in her hand. He pulled on his shorts and sweatshirt and left his room, tiptoeing down the corridor, and headed for the garden.
17
ROSIE
There was a sound from the garden, a broken twig, the sound of feet. Someone was walking along the curved path. This was why she didn’t get up at 5a.m., Rosie remembered. It was the most likely time you would be murdered by an interloper. She shrieked and dropped her cup, the shatter echoing in the trees.
And then she realised it was Patrick.
‘Jesus Christ! What the hell?’
‘Sorry! Sorry!’ He was half-smiling, his hands over his mouth, and tiptoed exaggeratedly towards her. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘I can’t believe I screamed,’ she said, bending down to pick up the pieces of her mother’s cup. Great, another thing of hers Patrick had broken. First her heart and now her cup. It wasn’t too bad, she noticed. The handle could be glued on. Maureen was very good at things like that and had an actual glue collection and would know the exact one to use.
‘Sorry about the cup.’
‘I have an entire set,’ she said. ‘It’s fine.’
‘I don’t normally have that effect on people,’ he replied. ‘You know, screaming and all that.’
‘When people are screaming out of fear, it’s usually a sign that you’re doing something wrong.’
He laughed. ‘You’re right. They’re definitely not screaming out of joy to see me.’
‘You should go round with a cowbell around your neck, so people know you’re coming.’ She paused. ‘Would you like to sit down?’ She gave the impression that she didn’t care whether he did or not, but she glanced at him, curiously, wondering if he had sought her out deliberately.
He slipped on to the other end of the bench, his long legs sticking out of his shorts, his feet across the path, nestled among the bank of lavender. ‘The bell is a brilliant idea. I think I will.’ He smiled at her. ‘But actually, true story this, but we used to have a cow who had a bell. She was really aggressive for some reason, just bad-tempered, always getting out of bed on the wrong side.’
‘You should have moved her bed,’ said Rosie. ‘So she got out the right side.’
‘We never thought of that. Genius idea. Anyway, her name was Mrs Robinson and she would quite stealthily creep up to other cows, just as they were chewing away in the field, and she would frighten the living bejesus out of them. In the end, Seán put a bell around her neck and the other cows saw, or rather heard, her coming.’
Rosie laughed. ‘Are you sure that’s a true story?’
He held up his fingers in some kind of formation to his head. ‘Scout’s honour. Not that I was ever a scout. But, anyway, it’s true.’
They gazed at each other for a moment. Gone was the frowning Patrick of yesterday, and he was looking at her almost shyly, pulling on the cuff of his sweatshirt. His hair, which had been softly quiffed yesterday, was a little out of place, his face a fine layer of stubble, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep.
‘Couldn’t sleep?’
He shook his head. ‘You? Or perhaps you always get up this early?’
‘No… I should,’ she said. ‘Because it’s lovely. The birds are beautiful.’
He held his head up for a moment, tuning into the wall of sound. ‘They really are. Birds are different in Boston, for some reason. You don’t hear them like this. There isn’t all the greenery. Or whatever birds need. Hedges and…’ He seemed to be grasping for a word.
‘Trees?’ Rosie suggested.
He smiled, finally. ‘That’s the word. Jet lag has mushed my brain.’
She smiled too and they looked at each other for a moment, their faces softening.Please don’t leave, she said to herself.Please stay and talk. There’s so much I want to ask you.But she stayed silent, half-smiling, wondering what to say.
He broke the silence. ‘Sorry for ruining your morning tea. It’s one of the things I miss most. Irish tea.’
