Patrick had spotted Rosie behind the wheel of an old, battered Land Rover, shooting out of the drive as though fleeing a robbery.
He walked around the side of the hotel and onto the long terrace, where Seán, Niamh and Kate were still lingering after breakfast in the shade of the large parasols, a pitcher of fresh orange juice in front of them, along with fresh coffees, everyone dressed casually, in shorts and T-shirts. Niamh had her legs swung across Seán’s lap, looking happy and relaxed. So was Seán, he was pleased to see. He was just relieved that Seán had met someone, which meant Patrick had to worry less about his little brother.
‘Been for a walk?’ asked Niamh.
Patrick nodded. ‘There’s a greenhouse and beehives and everything. It’s like a film set.’
‘I didn’t know you were into gardens,’ laughed Seán. ‘You’ll be wanting a dovecote next and what are those thingamajigs? A fountain?’
‘No, but I can appreciate a nice greenhouse,’ said Patrick, smiling back at him. ‘I like a vine tomato as much as the next posh city dweller.’
Niamh swiped at Seán. ‘Stop it, Seán,’ she said. ‘Honestly, you’d think he wasn’t obsessed with avocado toast. He puts chia seeds into his smoothie every morning and he drinks coconut water.’
‘Okay,’ said Seán, ‘so I’ve crossed the Rubicon from dairy farmer to someone with notions. I can’t help it.’
Patrick had missed so much about Ireland and it was only now, sitting here with Seán, did he even begin to acknowledge it. Other lads he got to know in Boston had returned home after a year or so, the pull had been so strong. He’d carried on, his drive to remain coming from a different place.
Kate was telling stories from her most recent marathon.
‘So, I’m running past, about to smash my PB…’ She paused. ‘Which for me would have been amazing. I’d been training for the year for this. And anyway, there’s the finish line. I’m pushing on. And then, I run past a man who’s in a crumpled heap. Destroyed. A quivering mass. But, you know, there’s always people like that in a marathon. But I look. And then, I look again, and think, oh my God, it’s only fecking Tony Maloney!’
Tony Maloney had been a television hero to millions of Irish children when they’d been growing up, and every week on his show he would play a tune on the tin whistles and tell a story about magic trees and fairies and then his sign-off, just as it was bedtime, would be, ‘That’s it from me, children. Leave the day behind and off you go…’
Patrick was half-listening to Kate but really thinking of Rosie. Perhaps they wouldn’t talk again while he was here and, for the next three days, they would breathe the same air and yet not run into each other? As manager, she would be busy with other things.
‘And so I ran past thinking, poor old Tony. And then, of course, I couldn’t leave him. So I stopped and ran back. Remember, I was done in myself, but there’s Tony with his legs gone from under him because of postural hypotension. So, I managed to get his arm around my neck and there were two lads running past. “It’s Tony Maloney!” I shouted. “We can’t leave him.” And they were quick as a flash helping him up. “Come on, Tony, we’ll get you over the line.” And we did. We practically carried him over the line, and he got his medal and everything. I was very pleased to be able to help a living legend.’
‘Without you he would have been a dead legend,’ said Niamh. ‘You deserve an award.’
Kate preened. ‘Well, it’s all part of the job.’ She looked over at Patrick, and caught his eye.
‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Great work. Who’s next to save? Crow fromWanderly Wagon? Elmo?’
Kate lifted up her glass of Buck’s Fizz, laughing more heartily than his line warranted. He had to stop thinking of Rosie, but the memories kept flooding back about their first and last summer together.
‘Dad’s on his way,’ said Seán quietly to him. ‘Sandra texted when they were leaving Midleton.’
Soon, thought Patrick, the old man would be here showing off and talking in that loud voice of his and Patrick would be standing there, seething and wanting to give him a piece of his mind, but of course he would have to be the smooth, unruffled version of himself. Except why since being here had he felt like that sixteen-year-old version of himself, the one who had so much energy to burn that he was up at 5a.m. and down to the milking parlour, a whole day of school, game of football on the way home, back to the shed, jobs for his mother and then homework, and then hurling practice back in the town, and not a bother on him?
Kerry-Anne had seemed to understand when he’d told her a little bit about himself. ‘I was the same,’ she said. ‘All my family stuff I had to deal with and I had to be such a good girl. Like, the best good girl. Like the best, best girl there had ever been. And my mother would say, we’re all Dalys and people will judge us. And I felt such rage and there was my mother with the bottle of vodka in her purse and my father travelling all the time and no one giving a hoot about me or my sister…’ She had paused, looking at Patrick. ‘Therapy. It’s the only solution.’
‘Or running away,’ he had said. ‘That helps too.’
And they had laughed, but Kerry-Anne seemed to understand him better than most people and she never asked questions about anything that she knew might bother him. Boston was his running-away place and, by going to a therapist, he would be bringing the dairy farm with him to Boston, and he wanted to keep all those memories back where they belonged on these fields of green, this island on the other side of the Atlantic.
Back on the terrace, Kate caught his eye again. This time he smiled. He needed to get out there, back into dating, risk being hurt, risk his heart again. It had taken time to start dating in Boston. He’d been so busy with the business, but that was an excuse. Other people managed it, but when he did start meeting women again, he kept himself back. No wonder they all soon tired of him.
He looked at his watch. They had a couple of hours before the beach barbecue and he needed to stretch his legs again. He was feeling so restless.
He stood up. ‘I’m going for a walk to the village,’ he said. ‘Anyone want anything?’
‘Don’t be late back,’ warned Kate. ‘The minibus is picking us up here at 1p.m. And bring your togs. We’re all going for a swim.’
It sounded like an order. ‘Promise,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there.’
21
ROSIE
