Kate looked a little taken aback. ‘It’s my favourite drink,’ she said. ‘Everyone loves an Aperol spritz. It’s the perfect summer drink…’ She looked at Patrick for backup. ‘Don’t they?’
He shrugged, motioning towards his father. ‘Obviously not.’
Kate took this as a personal slight and turned to Sandra. ‘Do you like them?’
Sandra nodded. ‘They are very nice. Like Red Lemonade. Remember that? You used to be able to buy big bottles of it. We’d take it down to Garretstown Beach and it would be as warm as tea by the time we were allowed to drink it, and there was always a mouthful of sand to go with it…’ She smiled nervously at them. ‘I don’t think they’re allowed to sell it any more…’
Brian was looking at her as though she’d gone mad. ‘Sell what?’
‘Red Lemonade. The EU banned it, I think. It was all E-numbers and carcinogens and all sorts…’ She smiled again, and Patrick again felt his heart go out to her. All this time, he had blamed her, but she was just someone caught up in his father’s charms. She’d made a mistake falling for him, she knew that now. She deserved better. He knew his mother never blamed Sandra either, and wouldn’t hear a bad word from the boys about her. And he admired her valiant effort of small talk under trying circumstances.
‘I remember that,’ he said. ‘It was delicious. And it was better served boiling hot on Garretstown Beach.’
Sandra suddenly smiled at him gratefully.
‘That’s because you culchies are from Cork,’ said Kate, laughing. ‘We wouldn’t drink that shite up here in Dublin. We had proper drinks, like Coke and 7 Up and Sprite.’
‘I need another drink…’ said Brian again, looking around.
‘I think you’ve had enough, Dad,’ said Patrick, evenly. ‘You look like you’ve been on it for some time…’ He turned to Sandra, who nodded.
‘He’s got a bottle in the room,’ she said, quietly.
‘I think you need to sleep it off.’ Patrick used the tone of voice he used for particularly obstreperous customers, the ones who had drunk so much that they forgot not only where they were but who they were. The men with the big expense accounts and big wallets who then couldn’t handle their drink. Patrick always thought of their wives and girlfriends and pitied them. His mother had lived with someone determined to drag her down, and now Sandra was the same. ‘I’ll bring you to your room,’ he said, fixing Brian with a look. ‘Come on, walk with me.’ He reached for his father’s elbow, hoping to steer him away from the guests and into the hotel. ‘Have you got the key, Sandra?’
But Brian shook him off. ‘Get your fecking hands off me, big man. Get them off me!’
Suddenly, everyone in the garden stopped talking, turning to look at Patrick and Brian.
Patrick smiled, stood back, his hands up in surrender. ‘No problem. It’s all grand.’
Seán was beside him. ‘What’s going on?’ he said, quietly. Kate had moved away, but Sandra, as though she realised that this was her problem, and one she couldn’t ignore, stayed.
‘Brian, come on,’ she said.
‘Dad’s drunk,’ said Patrick to Seán, quietly, but their father had heard him.
‘It’s a fecking wedding, is it not?’ he said, angrily. ‘We’ve driven all this way, have we not? Left Cork and come to Dublin for my son’s wedding and we’re not allowed to drink? Is that what ye’s telling me?’
‘No, you’re allowed to drink and get drunk,’ said Seán. ‘But not be aggressive. That’s not on.’
‘Sleep it off, Dad,’ said Patrick, calmly, icily. ‘No harm done. Get yourself to bed. And we’ll say no more.’ He went again to take Brian’s elbow, but this time Brian swung back so violently that he lost his balance and staggered before falling on Sandra. The two of them fell to the ground. Patrick saw Rosie standing close by, her eyes full of concern. She ran to help Sandra, pulling her to her feet, brushing off the grass from the back of her dress, smiling broadly.
‘Are you okay? Do you need anything?’
Behind them, Grace was racing over with a fold-up deckchair, the two children, bless them, carrying a cushion each.
Brian held up both arms. ‘I am fine! I am fine!’ He swivelled between them as though playing the buzz game where you can’t touch the sides, and then he made his way along the grass, a little unsteadily, and back towards the hotel. The other guests were trying to look away, and pretend it wasn’t happening, so as not to embarrass them further.
Patrick’s blood was pumping so hard. His head was about to explode. He could feel the sweat on the back of his neck, his palms were sticky. He thought,I am still that sixteen-year-old.All these years of adulthood, being in charge, being my own man, and nothing’s changed. I am still under his control.
He looked up and met Rosie’s eyes.
‘Sorry,’ he said to her.
‘For what?’
‘Hope that wasn’t a scene.’
