Chapter 24
PATRICK
It was long after dinner, when Laurence began singing ‘The Irish Rover’ for the fourth time, that Patrick slipped out of the bar and into the garden, where he sat on the steps leading to the long lawn which ran to the cliff edge.
There were two lichen-covered urns on either side, and he nestled his glass of whiskey among the tumbling nasturtiums. The night was falling in, the sun fading slowly, the sky forty shades of grey.
He’d talked to everyone, caught up with Seán and Niamh, had the craic with their friends, told a few stories, laughed at a few more.
But Laurence’s sing-song had finished him off.
In Boston, he was anonymous, none of this chaos of family life, all the drama, all the emotion.
He’d spent the whole evening trying to avoid his father and pretending not to notice quite how miserable Sandra looked.
And there was Seán, trying to do the right thing and get married with as little drama as possible.
But when he was in Boston, he missed Ireland: Seán, a decent pint, the craic, the chats, sport… daily life.
He’d always believed life was simpler in Boston.
And it was, he supposed, without family and the emotional rollercoasters that often accompanied them.
And over there, he had few responsibilities, except to the business, and had so little to think about that his mind was clear to completely concentrate on Fitzgerald’s.
But being back here, seeing Seán and Niamh, meeting their friends, having to face his father again, had been a lot.
Except it was life and other people were able to deal with complicated families.
If he had run away to Boston, perhaps he was only half-living and not experiencing life’s full force. Perhaps he was merely existing?
He checked his phone and among the different messages from the staff at Fitzgerald’s, some of the lads from Boston, a group chat about the next Gaelic football match they were playing, there was also a text from Kerry-Anne, as there always was.
His life had been entwined around hers for so long now and she was part-sister, part-friend, partner, mentor.
Without her backing, support and belief, he wouldn’t have lasted over there.
He wished she hadn’t made her proposal to him but he also understood why she had. She wanted a baby and she was never anything but practical. He could totally see why she’d asked him and he wished it was easier to say yes to her. Who was he to deny her anything, after everything she’d done for him?
Kerry-Anne had texted:
Just in Paris for meetings. How is wedding going?
He typed back.
Mixed.
He saw she was online.
Mixed how?
Complicated.
Buttons being pressed?
I have resisted so far.
Need someone to talk to?
He heard footsteps behind him and he turned to see Kate walking towards him, holding a bottle of wine and two glasses.
‘Ah, there you are! I wondered where you had disappeared to. I thought, don’t tell me Patrick is having a secret romance with someone.
’ She laughed, sitting down beside him, and nearly toppling over.
‘But didn’t I say, you’re a silent type? ’
Appropriately, he didn’t know how to answer that, so didn’t.
She poured out two glasses of wine. ‘This is delishuss,’ she slurred slightly. ‘Like alcoholic fruit juice. Like, really nice. I love wine, don’t you?’
‘Depends on the wine. I prefer a decent pint, to be honest.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, you’re so funny. Like, hilarious.
My last boyfriend wasn’t hilarious. Was so serious,’ Kate went on.
‘Didn’t shut up. Had an opinion about everything.
He was a consultant cardiac thoracic surgeon so was used to people listening to what he had to say.
He could never understand why I didn’t hang on to his every word.
’ She picked up Patrick’s whiskey and sipped it.
‘You have the wine, and I have the whiskey.’ She leaned against him as she sipped his drink.
‘God, that’s… disgusssting. I mean, delishuss.
’ She smiled at him. ‘You don’t mind, do you? ’
‘Not at all…’
What he wouldn’t mind was heading to bed, he thought. Make a cup of tea in the room and hope he got a decent night’s sleep. He had been awake at 4.35 a.m. every morning, ready for the day, like a toddler.
‘You know how boring consultant cardiac thoracic surgeons are…’ Kate was saying. ‘Like so incredibly boring. I mean, it’s technically a very interesting job, but God, they don’t make it sound like that…’
About fifty metres away, a door at the side of the hotel opened, and out walked Rosie and Grace and a man in chef’s whites.
A couple of others too. They had mugs of tea and were eating out of bowls, perhaps some of the desserts, and were talking and laughing.
Rosie used to make him laugh a lot. Never took herself too seriously, always up for doing things, such as sea swimming on Sandymount Strand or out for a late-evening long walk and an ice cream.
‘Who are you looking at?’ asked Kate, following his gaze.
‘No one.’
‘Which one? The woman? The owner of the hotel? It’s a bit shabby, isn’t it? I mean, it’s clean, but it’s not exactly five-star.’
‘I like it. It’s got character.’ He’d dragged his eyes away from the scene at the door. ‘So, your last boyfriend was a thoracic surgeon…?’
‘Oh, let’s not talk about him,’ said Kate, drinking her wine. ‘Let’s talk about you. So Boston. I’ve always wanted to give the States a go, work in their healthcare system. Perhaps one of the teaching hospitals. There’s a lot to learn. What’s the city like?’
‘Huge. Some of it is nice, some not so nice.’
‘Is your restaurant in a nice part or horrible part?’
He laughed. ‘Nice. It’s called Fitzgerald’s. Named after my mother’s maiden name.’
‘I googled it. Looks very nice. Good menu. Impressive wine list.’
‘Thanks.’ He stood up, yawning. ‘I’m a bit jet-lagged. Can’t seem to shake it. I’m going to go to bed.’
She met his eyes and hung on for a while. ‘What star sign are you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You must know!’ She slapped his arm, surprisingly hard. ‘Everyone knows their star sign.’
‘Um…’ He tried to think. ‘My birthday’s October.’
‘A Libra?’ Her eyes widened, pleased. ‘Really? Well, well, well…’
‘Is that good?’
‘Let’s just say that Librans and Capricorns are good together.’ She smiled at him, her eyes slightly crossed, as though she was trying to see a spot on her nose.
‘I need a cup of tea.’ He managed to wrench his eyes back. ‘I’m wrecked. You coming back in?’
‘Pull me up?’ she said, holding out her hand.
He helped her to her feet and she gave a little jump as though to prove her athleticism.
‘I do love a gentleman,’ she said.
‘Really? Is that all it takes?’
‘It’s more than most of them out there. God, one guy I met totted up our bill at the end of the date and made me pay more because I’d had sparkling water and he’d only had tap.’
‘That’s what they call a red flag,’ said Patrick.
‘Exactly!’ said Kate with feeling. ‘And he was a consultant endocrinologist with his own private practice so pots of money. Divorced. Ex-wife hated him, he said.’
‘I can see why.’
She laughed again. ‘Oh, Patrick. You’re so funny.’
He smiled at her. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’
They walked back into the bar, where Laurence was now trying to get everyone to form a conga line. ‘Come and do the conga!’ he was singing hoarsely, as some of the guests began dutifully forming a line. ‘DA-NA-NA-NA! Come and do the conga!’
‘I’m going to bed,’ said Patrick to Kate, wishing he could just slip away.
‘You’re so boring,’ she said, tartly. ‘I thought weddings were meant to be fun.’
‘Well, there’s your fun,’ he said, motioning towards Laurence. ‘What could be more fun than doing the conga?’
‘Maybe.’ Kate looked unconvinced.
Patrick smiled at her. ‘We could organise a game of the hokey-cokey, if you like?’
‘Now you’re talking. If there is one thing parties need, that is the hokey-cokey. The problem is I would need to be a lot drunker before I do something like that.’ She looked at Patrick and sighed. ‘You go to bed. You’ve got the excuse of jet lag. I will try to resist the lure of the conga line.’
‘You sure you’ll be okay?’
She nodded. ‘If you can manage a weekend night shift at A & E, you can deal with a big a drunken conga line.’ She reached over and gave Patrick a peck on the cheek. ‘You sleep well, okay. Be nice and refreshed for even more excitement tomorrow.’
He nodded and gave her shoulder an affectionate tap as he left and walked into the lounge. And there were Rosie’s two children, half-asleep on the two sofas on the lounge. Should he go and find her or drag Laurence out of the conga line to mind them?
One of the staff was wheeling the dessert trolley from the dining room and into the kitchen. The wheels of the trolley squeaked a little as she went past.
‘Need more oil,’ she said as she sailed past him.
‘This jalopy is now back in service.’ She gazed down at the trolley, which was now full of half-demolished cakes, the chocolate mousse nearly all gone, the pavlova now just an avalanche of white.
The woman spotted the twins. ‘Oh, good Lord, the children are still here.’ She and the trolley squeaked over to them, the sound rousing the twins.
‘Am I in heaven?’ said the boy, sleepily, sitting himself up. ‘Maureen is bringing us cake.’
‘Maureen, thank you,’ said the girl. ‘Is this for us?’
Maureen nodded. ‘I don’t see why not, considering you are here, out of hours, with no one to look after you. Your father is too busy in the bar, socialising. Now, take a saucer each and take what you fancy. It’ll only go to waste.’
The children beamed at her and then at Patrick. ‘Isn’t Maureen the best?’ said the boy.
‘When Maureen is in a good mood,’ said the girl, putting her arm around the woman’s waist, ‘she’s the best in the world. When she’s in a bad mood…’ She paused, looking up at Maureen. ‘…she’s still the best!’
Maureen laughed. ‘You two are divils, you are. You know how to get around me. Go and help yourself before I change my mind.’ She sat down on the sofa. ‘My legs are only killing me,’ she said, turning to Patrick. ‘I’ve been on the things all day.’
Isabelle handed her a saucer of chocolate mousse, which she had scooped from the bowl. ‘You need this, Maureen,’ she said.
‘It’ll fix your legs,’ said the boy.
‘Thank you,’ said Maureen, accepting it and a small spoon. ‘I think it might be just the ticket. And a portion for our guest. But first, have you introduced yourselves?’
‘We haven’t had time,’ said the boy, turning to Patrick. ‘I’m Killian and this is…’
‘Isabelle.’ The girl held out her hand and shook Patrick’s very firmly, as Killian passed him a portion of chocolate mousse and some pavlova.
‘Patrick Power,’ he said. ‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘Very pleased to make yours too.’ The children giggled and sat down on the sofa, beside Maureen.
‘And I’m Maureen O’Driscoll. Housekeeper.’ She smiled at Patrick. ‘Had enough merriment for one day?’
‘For today,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long one.’
‘Join the club,’ said Maureen.
‘We’re in the club too,’ said Killian.
Maureen nodded, while scraping her saucer with her spoon, and finishing her dessert. ‘These two’s eyes are hanging out of their heads. They need a story and into bed.’
‘Will you tell us one, Maureen?’ said the boy.
‘Yes, tell us about when you were small,’ said the girl, ‘and you had all ten of your brothers and sisters to look after and your brother hid his sweets so he would eat them in front of you all. I love that story.’
But Maureen was getting to her feet and held the trolley. ‘I can’t. I have to bring this old thing back to the kitchen and then get myself home. Who’s looking after you? Where are your mother and father?’
‘Dad is meant to be looking after us,’ said Isabelle.
‘But he’s in the bar,’ said Killian. ‘Singing.’
For a moment, right on cue, Laurence’s voice was heard shouting, ‘Who wants to play beer pong?’
‘Where’s your mam?’ asked Maureen.
‘She’s at book club,’ said the boy. ‘But they don’t read books.’
‘Book club?’ Patrick was surprised because he had just seen Rosie outside the kitchen.
‘Would you like me to call her?’
‘She’ll be so angry,’ said Isabelle.
‘She’ll have our guts for garters,’ said Killian, equally seriously.
Patrick was a little surprised. He wouldn’t have thought that Rosie was one of those furious parents, but perhaps she had changed since having children. It must be stressful running a hotel with two children and a husband who was more carouser than caregiver.
They settled back down, looking at him expectantly. Maureen laughed. ‘Now, don’t plague poor Patrick, begging for stories. He needs his sleep as well. And I’ll see if I can find your aunt, okay?’
Before he left the children, Patrick found two soft lambswool rugs which had been folded at the end of the sofas, which he draped over them and then told them a story that he remembered his mother used to tell him and Seán.
And then, when their eyes were closed and their breathing deep, he went upstairs to his own room.