Laurence clutched at his arm. ‘Jesus! I think I’ve pulled it out of its socket.’ But the blow had caused Rosie to stagger backwards, slipping on the soaking sand and falling down.
There was a hand in front of her, pulling her to her feet. Patrick. His voice in her ear. ‘You okay? That looked like a fair whack.’
‘No, I’m grand, honestly. Lost my balance.’ She wanted to tell him that she normally wasn’t this incompetent and that normally life in the hotel was a lot more ordered and calm. ‘We haven’t done a wedding before,’ she said, trying to explain herself.
He smiled. ‘It’s all fine, it’s going really well.’
Beside them, Laurence was still moaning, clutching his right arm. ‘I think I’m going to have to go to A & E…’
‘Let me have a look…’ Kate squeezed through the rest of the guests and began pressing Laurence on various points on his shoulder and then quickly lifted out his arm and twisted it right back behind him. He emitted a blood-curdling scream and then silence. Everyone waited to see what would happen.
Laurence looked puzzled, and then amazed, before beginning to smile. ‘My arm!’ he said. ‘It’s better!’
And then the rain stopped, the world born again, and everyone began cheering, rushing from the gazebo onto the sand.
‘More drinks everyone?’ shouted Laurence, lifting the keg of beer above his head and dancing around. ‘May the party recommence!’
And then everyone joined him, moving down onto the saturated sand, their shoes off, and Laurence placed the keg on the ground. Everyone kept dancing into the sea, still singing and cheering. Rosie smiled at Patrick, who was looking from her to Laurence and back again, as though he was confused about something.
22
PATRICK
At the end of the barbecue, when they were all getting into the minibus, Patrick had seen Rosie and Grace loading up the back of the Land Rover. Laurence was already half-cut and seemed oblivious to their struggles. The gazebo was ready for the bin and it lay in bedraggled pieces at Rosie’s feet. He knew how it felt.
The party had continued on the minibus on the way home. Rosie’s husband had sung old Irish songs all the way, a cocktail in either hand. But Patrick couldn’t understand why he hadn’t helped her up when he had hurt her? Was he so selfish and self-obsessed he hadn’t even noticed? And Laurence had piled on to the minibus with the rest of the guests and hadn’t stayed to help Rosie and Grace. Patrick had begun to collect the glasses but Grace had shooed him away.
Patrick couldn’t work it out at all. Rosie had obviously made a terrible mistake marrying him and by her non-reaction today she was fully aware of how little she could depend on her husband.
They all piled back into the hotel, some carrying their shoes, their clothes wet, sand in their hair, smiles on their faces. And then he saw his father. He’d almost forgotten about him, in all the craziness of the barbecue, but there he and Sandra were.
‘Oh, here they are,’ said their father, Brian. ‘The prodigal sons. My heirs… ha! Heirs to nothing these days. What’s an old farm in East Cork going to fetch?’ When their mother had died, the farm had gone to their father because they had been still technically married. The fact that he’d moved out and had lived in the town years before meant nothing.
Seán held out his hand. ‘Hi, Dad, thanks for coming.’
‘The drive was even longer than it should have been,’ grumbled their father. ‘The traffic trying to get into Dublin was woeful. Who’d be wanting to come to Dublin? Who’d actually want to come here?’
Patrick wished he was back in Boston, in Fitzgerald’s, the low lighting, the low voices, chatting with Johnny in the kitchen, or Elaine on front of house, and he realised he missed Kerry-Anne. They were good together, a great team. She was reliable and intelligent and fun, in her own way. And he liked the rhythm of their days, her calling into the bar to see him and check up on business; he always needed to know what she thought and he always took her advice. In Boston, life was simpler. There was no family dragging you down or complicated emotions. He just needed to get through the next few days and play his part now for Seán’s sake.
He stepped forward, hand outstretched. ‘Dad, good to see you again.’
‘Is it? Really? You think it’s good to see me? Ha!’ Brian looked around at his audience, poking Sandra to make her react. ‘This one, pleased to see me. He turned his back on us long ago.’
Patrick smiled blandly, showing no emotion, and then Seán cleared his throat.
‘Dad,’ Seán said, ‘this is Niamh, my fiancée.’
‘Well, it’s so nice to finally meet you.’ Niamh was holding out her hand. ‘You’re very good to come all this way…’
‘Sure, it’s not that far.’ His father had shifted, Patrick noticed, from that cantankerous curmudgeon to the charming version of himself. ‘It’s only Midleton. It’s not Mars. Ha?’ He looked around to see if anyone had heard his joke. ‘And anyway,’ went on Brian, ‘aren’t we Corkonians always up to Dublin for the All-Ireland finals. We know the road well, so we do…’
Niamh laughed encouragingly. ‘Sure you do, you lot are always winning…’
Brian was ignoring Sandra completely, but Seán had reached past Brian and grasped her hand, pulling her slightly into the group. ‘How’s it going, Sandra?’ he said. ‘Good to see you again. This is Niamh, my fiancée.’
Sandra looked embarrassed to be there. ‘Hello, Seán, good to meet you, Niamh. Congratulations. You both must be excited.’
‘Oh, we are,’ said Niamh. ‘We can’t believe it’s our actual wedding weekend.’
