Chapter 17
ROSIE
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.’
‘You can’t buy it in Boston?’ Their eyes met for a moment. ‘I would have thought you could,’ she finished.
‘You can. And I do. But the water’s different. The milk’s weird. It’s never… you know that perfect cup of tea, you never get one of those. It’s always dishwatery and never…’
‘Golden?’
He laughed. ‘That’s exactly the word! Golden. The perfect cup of tea. Well, that’s completely unachievable in Boston.’ His face was suddenly the same as it used to be, relaxed and open. ‘Jet lag. It’s always bad when I fly home…’
Home. So Ireland was still home.
‘I’ve heard it’s bad… jet lag. Flying west… east…’ She smiled at him. ‘Can’t think properly at this time. And I don’t have your excuse.’
‘East.’ He half-smiled back.
‘It must be torture,’ she said, still smiling back at him.
‘You get used to it. You can drink more coffee. But it’s…
’ He looked rueful now. ‘But yes, it’s torture.
It’s the curse of the Irish expat, you miss tea and all the small things, or the things you thought were small actually turn out to be the things you loved most about your life.
’ He smiled at her. ‘What’s your excuse? Did the children wake you?’
‘Children?’ She was confused. Which children? Did he mean Nessa’s? ‘No, I just woke up. Too much to think about.’ She glanced at him. ‘You must be happy your brother is getting married…’
He nodded. ‘He’s happy. And Niamh is really lovely.’ He smiled at her.
‘And everyone else well? Your mother?’
He looked suddenly startled. ‘She…’ He stopped. ‘She died. I wanted to tell you… I thought of telling you because you…’ He stopped. ‘I don’t know why I wanted to tell you but… I thought you’d… understand.’
Rosie’s heart went out to him, suddenly so completely aware of his pain, his hurt, those early years of grief where the whole world is turning normally and you want it all to stop so you can try to catch up.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss…’ She remembered how much he adored his mother and how often he’d spoken of her. ‘How are you doing?’
He shrugged. ‘Keeping on. No choice. But sometimes I forget she’s dead and go to call her.
Or I think about a film and want to tell her to go and see it and all sorts, what she would think about various political situations.
I want to hear her opinions. And then I remember…
’ He sighed. ‘She was ill for a while, before she died. I flew back and forth, straight into Cork. So we had time together. Not enough…’
‘There’s never enough.’
‘No. But thank God for technology. We had breakfast together every day on video call. Well, hers was lunch, mine was breakfast. And we played online chess together. We never finished our last game. Which is just as well, as I was losing.’ He smiled again.
‘Anyway, you know how it is. And I’m glad Seán is happy because we need happiness in our lives.
’ He nodded at her. ‘And you’re well? The family? Your father?’
She nodded. ‘Dad is out in the garden pretty permanently. And very happy. Nessa lives next door. The hotel is going well.’
‘That’s great to hear.’ He hesitated. ‘Rosie, look…’ He stopped. ‘I wanted to say sorry. I’ve wanted to say sorry for ten years now.’
She didn’t say anything, just waited for him to speak.
‘It’s one of those things that still has the power to jab me awake at night. Or I can just be getting on with my day, and then I remember…’
‘What do you remember?’
‘How cruel I was. In the airport.’ He looked at her. ‘Perhaps… perhaps you’ve forgotten?’ He looked almost hopeful.
‘I haven’t forgotten.’
‘Now I might be able to explain more. But there was so much going on then. And I couldn’t see a way forward. And I think I panicked.’
Rosie laughed. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to marry me!’
‘No, no, of course not. I wasn’t suggesting that. It was just that I panicked about me. And what I needed and nothing added up.’
What did he want? Absolution? Forgiveness?
‘I’m glad you’ve moved on,’ he said.
‘Of course I have. It’s been ten years.’ She sounded more annoyed than she actually felt. He was looking pained, as though it had burdened him.
‘Anyway, I just wanted to say sorry.’
‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘It’s not as though I’ve been pining.’ I have though, she thought. Broken hearts take time to heal and you go through so many stages waiting to heal, and you’re never the same again.
‘The hotel is beautiful,’ he went on. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job. Last time I was here, it was a lot…’ He tried to find the right word, obviously not wanting to annoy her again.
‘Shabbier?’
He laughed. ‘A bit. But now it’s really lovely. You must be pleased?’
She nodded. ‘It doesn’t end, though. There’s always something more to be done.’ She paused. ‘You must be pleased too? With everything in Boston? Life has worked out for you too?’
‘Oh yes. The bar is going well.’ He nodded. ‘And life… well, you know. Busy and all that.’
‘Patrick, it’s all a long time ago. Don’t worry about what happened at the airport. I’m long over it all.’ She couldn’t let him know that she was only barely over it, she didn’t want him to know how much she’d suffered, not when he seemed to have agonised over it so little.
He smiled at her. ‘I always thought about writing and saying sorry. But I just didn’t know what to say. And it’s only the last few years, I’ve understood myself more. But I was cruel and thoughtless. We could have talked it out.’
Rosie shrugged. ‘Well, we didn’t.’
‘No.’
‘Let’s just forget it now. Thank you for apologising. As you can see, I didn’t wither away or make voodoo dolls of you or put curses on your head…’
‘You might have done. It might explain that persistent cold I have every winter.’
She laughed. ‘If only I was that powerful.’
He had stretched out his legs, as though he was about to get going.
Don’t go, she thought. Stay and talk to me. But he was standing up.
‘Time for a run. Think I’ll head down the coast. Best to go early before it gets too hot.’ He smiled at her. ‘Good to see you, Rosie.’
‘And you, Patrick.’
‘Sorry about your cup.’
‘I’ll fix it.’
‘Will you? Or I can? I could buy some superglue today?’
‘Don’t worry. You’ve got a wedding to think about. And the barbecue.’
‘You sure?’ He hesitated, either because he didn’t want to leave or because he felt bad about leaving her with her broken cup, but then he turned and was gone, along the path, back towards the hotel.
Rosie was alone, her broken cup in her hand, her heart stretching away after his retreating form.
She wished they were at least friends, but they’d never be friends.
He’d be gone in a few days and there was little time for conversation – and even if there was, it would be polite, restrained, so much to say and so much unsaid.
And there was nothing she could do about it.
She lingered a while longer, listening to the birds but thinking only of Patrick.