Chapter Twenty-Five
‘So Sean likes the festival idea?’ Margaret claps her hands together.
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say “likes”,’ I say cautiously to Margaret the next day, as we pull up in the car park of one of Galway’s smartest hotels.
‘But he’s in?’
‘Well, let’s just say he’s coming round to the idea.’
‘Hi, how can I help you?’ says the tall blonde woman on the hotel reception.
Margaret takes charge. ‘Hi, we’re looking for Dan Murphy. I believe he’s staying here?’
The receptionist doesn’t smile. She turns to her computer screen while I look around the foyer.
Modern and minimalist. Out of the hotel, across the busy road, is water, more water, no doubt leading to the harbour where I went with Sean the day I thought I was going to be getting on a plane and leaving Ireland.
The day I finally accepted my marriage had been a fake.
‘Who shall I say wants him?’
I spin back round. The receptionist is holding the phone and her hand is hovering over the dial buttons.
‘We’re …’ Margaret misses a beat.
‘Work colleagues. We have some news about the family tree he’s working on.’ I smile. The receptionist doesn’t, but dials the number. She speaks in such hushed tones that I can barely hear what she’s saying.
Margaret is giving me a ‘WTF?’ look.
‘Well, you probably know his relatives. You know everyone,’ I whisper.
‘He’ll be down now. Take a seat,’ the receptionist instructs.
We do as we’re told and shuffle shoulder to shoulder over to the soft seats in the huge window and watch the traffic pass by. Margaret finds a magazine and turns straight to her horoscopes.
I watch the steps and see an old red Skoda pull into the drive.
I recognise the driver and passenger. A large delivery truck is in their way and they honk the horn.
I’m about to point them out to Margaret when I notice the large bag of oysters in a black mesh bag on the back seat.
The truck moves on and the Skoda carries on round the back of the hotel.
It couldn’t be, could it? I could just be putting two and two together and coming up with seventeen, but it does seem odd.
I don’t even know if they are Sean’s oysters, but my gut feeling is shouting at me that they are.
‘It’s him!’ Margaret hisses from behind her magazine. I spin round quickly to see the receptionist pointing towards us.
‘Hi, I’m Dan Murphy, you wanted to see me—’ His smile drops as soon as he registers who we are. He looks from me to Margaret, peeping out from above her magazine.
‘Hi again,’ she says brightly.
‘Hi,’ I say with a little wave.
Now he’s looking quite irritated. ‘What is this, some kind of joke? Come to set the Garda on me again, have you?’ He turns to leave. A couple in their sixties in matching Irish shirts, checking in at reception, turn to stare.
‘No, nothing like that,’ I try to say, but thankfully Margaret steps in. She jumps up, practically bouncing with enthusiasm.
‘Actually, we’ve come to do you a favour.
You’re tracing your family tree, right?’ she asks.
I’m a bag of nerves. ‘If you want to trace your family tree then you should come back and meet Grandad. I could introduce you. He knows everyone who’s everyone.
’ Margaret’s still beaming. I stand up and look out of the window as the old red Skoda reappears.
Seamus and Padraig are smiling away like a pair of cats who have got the cream as they pull out into the traffic.
‘Isn’t that right, Fi? Fi?’ I suddenly spin back to Margaret who is looking at me to back her up.
‘Oh, right, yes …’ but I’m not sure what she’s said.
He’s looking at us warily, like we’re the last people he wants to see.
‘You want me to come back to Dooleybridge with you?’ he says slowly.
‘Yes.’ Margaret is beaming.
‘Yes,’ I add.
He looks sideways at us as if he’s being lured into some kind of trap.
Dan looks round in disbelief as he steps into the café, pushing past the hanging dressing gown, now reduced to 50 cents.
He takes in the umbrellas in the bucket by the door, all at 20 cents each, and then slowly looks at the other goods on sale: the bulging make-up bag, the worn slippers and the slow cooker.
Gerald is creating steam with his new urn. Dolly Parton is playing on the stereo.
‘Grandad, wake up!’ Margaret nudges Grandad who shakes himself into life. Dan puts his man bag on the chair next to him.
‘So, this is Dooleybridge’s coffee house?’ He’s still looking like he’s landed on Mars, and I remember that feeling. I push a nylon nightie off the table and onto the shelf beside us. Dan looks at it like it’s going to bite him.
‘It was his wife’s,’ Margaret whispers.
‘Is she dead?’ Dan looks as if he’s going to run or be sick.
‘No, she left him. Went off with a Father Dougal lookalike after Tedfest and never came back. So he’s selling all her stuff.’
Dan’s eyes practically pop out of his head. I’m pretty surprised too; I always wondered what all this stuff was.
‘What’s Tedfest?’ he asks, getting out a notebook and pen.
‘A festival on the Arran Islands, over there.’ Margaret points in the general direction of the islands. ‘They all dress up as Father Ted characters for a weekend. It’s a great craic.’ Then she sighs. ‘See, even the Arran Islands have people going there.’
I touch her arm.
‘So this is where my family is from then.’ He looks around, still adjusting to his new surroundings. ‘This is where the Murphys worked the oyster beds,’ he says, warming to his theme. ‘From poor and humble beginnings …’
Margaret smiles and nods at me. It might be working; he might just want to spend more time here and get involved with the festival. I’m beginning to feel a bit better about getting him out here on false pretences.
‘I’d love to meet some of my family. It would make a great end to the book.
Travelling across Ireland, all the food I’ve tasted on the way, the meals I’ve had, to finally end up here, coming home to meet my family.
’ I swear his eyes have gone all misty. Margaret claps her hands together in glee.
Dan has an eager expression on his face.
‘It would be great to actually interview one of them, some old aunt or something?’
Grandad suddenly sits up and cuts across him. ‘Oh, there hasn’t been a Murphy round here for years.’
Margaret and I freeze. Gerald comes over to take the orders.
‘Tea for me, please,’ I say quickly.
‘Coffee please, Gerald,’ says Margaret.
‘Macchiato,’ Dan says, and Gerald gives him a wary look.
‘That’s two coffees, Gerald,’ Margaret says helpfully. Gerald nods.
‘Anything to eat … scones?’ His pen is poised. Margaret and I shake our heads, but before we can warn him Dan says, ‘Oh, a scone, lovely.’
Gerald hurries away, happy to have made a sale, and Grandad chuckles.
‘So, about my relatives …’ Dan holds up his phone to Grandad, obviously recording him. Grandad gives the phone a suspicious look and gently pushes Dan’s hand away.
‘There haven’t been Murphys around here for years.
Sold up, moved out. Their land went to developers.
It used to be a great mussel farm but then developers tried to put in an executive estate looking out to sea.
Those were the last Murphys I remember around here.
Moved on after the last oyster festival. ’
‘Executive estate, you say?’ Dan cuts into the scone and both Margaret and I watch worriedly. It falls open, pale and dry. Dan looks disappointed.
‘Ghost estate, more like. The houses were never finished. I think they got the plumbing in but after that they had to stop. Just by Sean Thornton’s place.’
‘Who’s he? Perhaps I could interview him’ Dan looks at us and we look at each other. I can’t see Sean agreeing to that one.
‘Just by the farm you were at the other day, where I work – where he set the dog on you,’ I add helpfully, hoping to put him off.
‘Oh,’ says Dan. ‘And the Murphys? Where did they go?’
‘America I think.’ Grandad reaches for his tea with unsteady hands. ‘Or was it New Zealand …?’
‘Like most people round here. There’s no work, nothing for them,’ Margaret joins in.
‘But you’re still here,’ Dan points out, putting butter on the scone.
‘Let’s just say I feel my destiny is here,’ Margaret says with a smile.
Just then Sean walks in and Margaret’s face lights up, proving to herself and everyone around her that she is right.
‘Sean!’ she says brightly. ‘This is Dan, Dan Murphy. We were just talking about you.’ She’s smiling so much I wonder if it’s making her face ache.
‘Coffee, please,’ he says to Gerald.
‘Do you want to join us? We’re just discussing … planning things,’ I say.
‘No, you’re all right. Just on my way into town.’ He takes the coffee, pays for it then turns back to us.
‘A Murphy, is it?’ he says to Dan.
‘Yes, I understand our families were once neighbours. Look, sorry about that misunderstanding the other day …’ Dan goes to stand up.
‘Take my advice and stay away from my land,’ Sean growls. I sigh. The pair hold each other’s stare for a moment and then Sean stalks out and Dan sits down. This is going badly wrong. Very badly wrong.
‘So, no family to speak of,’ Dan says flatly.
‘No, but I might be able to help you with some photos. Why not come up to the pub and we can see if there’s any of your family pictures on the wall.
They might’ve taken part in the oyster festival.
Talking of the festival, I do have another idea for the end of your book …
’ Margaret hooks her arm through his and leads the way.
In the empty pub we look round the pictures on the wall. Grandad’s bright as a button, as though the pictures have transported him back to happier times.
‘So, are these all from past festivals?’ Dan asks as we study them.
‘That one was the year it went to sudden death,’ Grandad says, remembering each picture as if it was yesterday.
‘That’s Sean’s uncle, isn’t that right, Grandad?’ Margaret points out a picture of a short man with a white apron tied around his middle.