This Year's For Me and You, page 24
‘Celeste? Hi! How’s it going?’
He sounds completely normal, as if we’re old friends. It’s a little surprising but I’m glad that his odd mood, or whatever it was, back in Vik’s house seems to have subsided.
‘Are you still in UCD?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, I just got out of the pool. Do you want to meet for a coffee?’
I think for a minute. We could go to the Union Café, which is a favourite haunt. But there’s something about this weather that makes me want to see the sea.
‘Give me twenty minutes, I’ll pick you up outside the pool,’ I say.
I pull up outside the UCD pool in Mum’s Volkswagen Golf exactly nineteen minutes later. Patrick is outside, wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and trainers. He throws his sports bag in the back and gets in.
‘Why don’t you spread your swimmers out to dry?’ I suggest. ‘It’s such a hot day; they’ll be dry in minutes.’
‘Are you serious? I’ve never even met your mom. I don’t want to spread my smalls all over her car.’
‘I just meant on the back ledge thingy above the boot, but whatever. It’s up to you.’ I start laughing; it’s pretty odd that we’re discussing his smalls but it doesn’t seem to bother either of us today.
‘Well, I will if you are sure she wouldn’t mind.’ He goes to the back and rearranges everything neatly on the car’s back shelf. ‘I like your outfit by the way.’
‘I didn’t really pack for the hot weather. So I dipped into my old clothes – the archive.’ I’m wearing a black cotton slip dress that last saw action circa 2002, over a white T-shirt, and my ancient navy Converse. I’m a bit of mess, but at least I have my own sunglasses.
‘It’s a fabulous day, isn’t it?’ he says, as I turn the car around and set off down the drive. ‘I wanted to get some lengths in, hence the pool.’
‘Nice. Why don’t I drive you back towards Dalkey, and we can get coffee somewhere along the way?’
‘That would be cool, if you’re sure it’s not out of your way?’
‘I’m sure. Let’s take the coast road.’
Patrick laughs. ‘Is that what you call it? It’s not the Pacific Coast Highway.’
‘True. But it’s still a coast,’ I say, as I cross the dual carriageway and set off down Woodbine Road. I turn on the radio, which I set to Sunshine 106.8 earlier; they’re playing Hothouse Flowers’ ‘Don’t Go’. I love this song, which just means summer holidays, freedom and driving somewhere – who knows where – so I turn the radio up.
‘Great song,’ Patrick says.
‘Yeah, it is.’ I don’t know if it’s the fact that we’re both on holiday, or that we’re in our home town, but any awkwardness has dissolved as we slip into friendly chat as easily as I find fourth gear. I even find myself singing along as I turn right on to Rock Road, towards the sea.
‘You seem very upbeat,’ Patrick says, smiling. ‘Maybe this is a good day to show you the site. The site for the garden centre.’
‘Sure, I’d love to see it. Did you say Monkstown village? Parking is always a bitch there, but I know a place … the DART station,’ I say, as he joins in in unison. ‘Jinx,’ I add, laughing.
We’re speeding along the Rock Road now, past Blackrock Park. A glance to my left shows Dublin Bay, the water sparkling deep azure, splattered with the white sails of yachts. Across the bay, Howth Peninsula looks close enough to touch, patchworked in green and blue. You can even see Ireland’s Eye, the island silhouetted behind Howth that only appears on the brightest, clearest days.
‘Beautiful sailing day,’ Patrick says, and I nod, though I don’t sail. I don’t know why I never have, considering I grew up right here; just one of those things.
‘Are you going to join a yacht club?’ I ask. I’m half joking, but I’m also not surprised when he replies, ‘The George … I’m just waiting to have my membership approved.’
Soon we’re driving along Seapoint Avenue with nothing but the sea on our left, with the white painted Georgian terraces unscrolling on our right, until we reach the DART station at Monkstown.
‘Allow me,’ says Patrick, nodding towards the parking machine, and I say, ‘Cheers.’ He tucks the ticket in the front dashboard and we walk up the hill towards the village.
‘You know, no shade to Dalkey, but I think Monkstown is the prettiest village in Dublin,’ I remark.
Patrick gasps and pretends to clutch his heart. ‘Seriously? Actually, I kind of agree with you,’ he adds. ‘Especially in summer.’
We walk up the hill from the station and emerge on to Monkstown Crescent, a little arc of mews buildings, now housing boutiques, cafes and restaurants, all nestled behind granite walls with flower-filled gardens outside. The crescent is overlooked by the pepperpot church with its mock-Moorish architecture, and further along is another parade of Georgian buildings: a pub, a restaurant, a florist, all with outdoor seating beside a little area planted with palm trees. On a hot day like today it’s positively Mediterranean. Everyone is marvelling at the weather; the tanned, wealthy-looking retirees and yummy mummies are all exchanging spontaneous remarks about it in the street.
‘You’ll certainly have the right kind of footfall,’ I tell him.
‘I know – recession, what recession?’ he says. ‘OK, this is it. Check it out.’
He’s stopped outside a long low building on a corner, empty except for a bare counter and a few wooden crates.
‘What was here before?’ I ask, peering in the dusty window.
‘It was a wine wholesalers. The owners retired to the south of France. They’ve left a few barrels behind them, which, of course, we’ll use for planting.’
To my surprise he takes out a key and opens up. ‘It’s yours already?’
‘Well, I’m renting it. I have to, to start the building work.’
I walk around, admiring the proportions and the light; it’s deceptively big.
‘But the best part is out the back – come and see.’
He leads me through the empty space to the back, where he unlocks a stiff wooden door that protests initially but then budges with a kick. It opens on to a long narrow yard sheltered by tall granite walls covered in greenery. There’s nothing above the walls but deep blue sky. A wood pigeon coos from somewhere nearby; the air is hushed and cool after the heat of the streets.
‘I had no idea that any of these places had so much space behind them,’ I say, marvelling at it.
‘They don’t. This is a real gem.’
‘You could have a little coffee spot even,’ I say, looking around. ‘Just half a dozen tables.’
‘I think Monkstown might be at peak coffee, but it’s an idea.’ He looks at me. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s gorgeous, Patrick. It’s the perfect place for a garden centre – I can’t believe there isn’t one here already.’
He exhales, looking pleased. ‘I’ll have a lot to learn. I have no retail experience, so I’ll have to make some smart hires.’
‘But why a garden centre then? I mean, why not stick to garden contracting – wouldn’t that be more straightforward?’
He leans back against the counter, running his hand along its wooden length. ‘Good question. It might just be vanity, but I liked the idea of having somewhere to hang my hat. A place to be, and to stay and be part of the community. Instead of just doing projects and piloting out.’ He smiles and nods back at the dilapidated yard behind us. ‘Plus, I love a fixer-up. As you might have guessed.’
‘I might have,’ I agree, smiling. ‘Seriously – they’ll be queuing out the doors.’
‘Thanks.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Speaking of queuing – do you want to get lunch? Or do you want to go for a bit of a walk first?’
‘It’s such a gorgeous day; it seems a shame to waste it. Let’s walk?’
‘Good thinking,’ he says. We set off down the crescent, out of the village and past the Purty Kitchen pub until we’re beside the seafront and the marina of Dún Laoghaire Pier. I can hear the clanking of the yachts’ masts, the cry of seagulls and the slap of the waves on the sides of the wharf. Though it’s only a Friday the pier is thronged with walkers and joggers, and there’s already a queue at the ice-cream van. I breathe in the sea air, feeling my blood pressure drop, as it always seems to in Dublin. In London I’m happy but I’m always on a very slight edge of alertness: amber or faint yellow. Whereas in Dublin I’m always on green. Strange.
‘Where do you stand on ice cream?’ Patrick says. ‘Teddy’s or Scrumdiddly’s?’
‘Teddy’s all the way.’
‘It’s like that, is it?’ he says. ‘I’m not sure we can be friends after all.’
‘Maybe we’ll have to do a taste test,’ I suggest.
We walk on towards Sandycove, where the James Joyce Tower overlooks the tiny beach, thronged with swimmers today. On the other side of the bay I see Dalkey Island, crowned with its Martello tower, shimmering in the haze.
‘I saw Dervla last night,’ Patrick says, referring to Hannah’s mum.
‘Oh, did you? Good for you,’ I say, thinking that I must do the same.
‘Yeah. She asked me a sort of favour … Can I tell you about it?’
‘Of course.’
‘She wants Hannah’s ashes to be scattered on Dalkey Island. She doesn’t want to do it herself … I’m not sure why. So she’s asked me to do it.’
‘Oh gosh.’ I take a minute to marshal my thoughts. One of which is that this seems a strange job for Patrick, who wasn’t a family member. But Hannah had no siblings, and very little relationship with her father. It doesn’t surprise me a bit that she asked Patrick to do this for her rather than me, for instance. He is obviously that boy, the neighbour you ask for help when you need it. And, of course, the island is on their doorstep, so to speak.
‘What do you think?’ Patrick asks.
‘I think it’s a nice idea,’ I say finally. ‘It’s appropriate. She loved that place.’
‘I think so too. I was surprised that she asked me, but it’s – I don’t know what the right word is. An honour, I suppose.’
‘Yeah.’
He takes a breath. ‘Would you want to do it with me?’
‘Oh.’ Again, words fail me for a minute. Then I say, ‘We should ask Vik.’
‘I did. He’s OK with it.’
‘Let’s check with Dervla too. But in principle, yes. Thanks for asking. When does she want you to do it?’
‘She’s not ready to give them to me just yet. She’ll tell me when she is, she said.’
I nod, thinking of what Peter the astrologer said, of Hannah’s death being like a stone, casting its ripples forever – and for so many people. We pause for a minute to lean on the railing and look out at the island, and I think of Hannah arriving there on New Year’s Day, 2000, with no idea what was in store for her. Not that we ever know, of course.
I look back up at Patrick, suddenly thinking of something. ‘I’m sorry about you and Angelika by the way,’ I say. ‘I should have said.’
‘That’s OK.’ He looks off into the distance. ‘It was complicated, as you probably were able to tell.’
‘Well …’ It’s hard to disagree.
‘I kept telling myself she’d just had a bad week at work … but then I realized it was always going to be a bad week at work. Or a fight with her family. Or something. And it wasn’t good for me to be supporting her though these endless crises.’
I’m tempted to ask what on earth the attraction was, but, of course, that’s not something I can say. To my surprise he adds, ‘What can I say? Being needed is a powerful drug.’
I’m still absorbing this when he says, with a change of tone, ‘On a different note.’
‘Yes,’ I say, happy to change the subject.
‘Fish Shack?’
‘What?’ I almost laugh before I realize he’s talking about lunch. ‘Yes. Sure.’
Patrick leads me back across the road to a little place I’ve never noticed before. It’s perched on the side of the road opposite the sea, with wood-panelled walls, fishing nets hanging from the ceiling and a tank full of lobsters. It’s already pretty busy, but luckily we score the last table outside.
‘How did I not know this was here?’ I ask, and he just shakes his head.
We order beers – non-alcoholic for me as I’m driving – and Dublin Bay prawns for me and fish tacos for Patrick. My prawns are delicious, sweet-fleshed and delicate, but the fish tacos also look so good that Patrick lets me have a bite. Seafood, beer, fresh air and sunshine; I feel as if I’m on a beach holiday. I stretch my feet out, and breathe the sea air in again.
‘It’s not the worst place in the world, is it?’ Patrick asks, dragging his chip through mayonnaise.
‘I never said it was,’ I say, smiling.
‘But you still couldn’t imagine living here?’ he asks.
We’re interrupted at this point by the owner, who turns out to be a buddy of Patrick’s from sailing and has come out to say hello. As we all smile and chat, I wait to feel the claustrophobia that sometimes descends on me in Dublin – the feeling that everyone knows your business, the small-town attitude. But it doesn’t come. Instead I feel a sense of space, and peace and security, but also what is that odd feeling? Freedom.
‘To answer your question,’ I say, once the friend has gone. ‘Yes, I probably could.’
‘Yeah?’ he asks, and I nod.
This surprises me, but the answer came up as easily as a bubble in the water. Not now, of course, with my work – and Eddie. But some day.
‘Do you have time for one more detour?’ Patrick asks, when we’ve finished our lunch.
‘Sure,’ I say, surprised. We split the bill and retrace our steps up the road and away from the sea until we’ve reached one of the back streets of downtown Dún Laoghaire. We walk uphill to a pretty row of terraced cottages, one of which has a sign saying UNDER OFFER. It has what looks like an original Georgian front door, sadly peeling now under its fanlight, and two sash windows overlooking a small gravelled area behind railings.
‘You?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘It used to belong to a boatbuilder,’ he says. ‘That was his yard –’ he points to the right, to a small garage. ‘When the boats were built they would be wheeled straight down to the harbour. This was about a hundred years ago. But one of his boats is still sailing out of Howth.’
I follow his gaze down to the bay, a blue glimpse at the bottom of the hill. You can hear the seagulls, smell the sea. ‘That’s lovely. What, um, state is it in, though?’ I can see some missing tiles on the roof and, in one grimy corner of the window, a sign saying DO NOT ENTER. This looks even worse than Vik’s place.
‘Well, it’s another project,’ Patrick says. ‘But it’s got potential. It’s a Tardis – a hundred square metres. The best thing about it is the yard. I can’t show it to you but it’s like the one in the garden centre. Much bigger than you’d expect and completely sheltered with the granite walls.’
‘I’m sure you’ll make it beautiful,’ I tell him sincerely, though renovating a place like this would be high on my list of worst nightmares. Then I can’t resist adding, ‘But, Patrick, what happened to the cottage in Wicklow?’
He smiles. ‘OK. No need to gloat, but I realized that actually I don’t want to live all that remotely. I want to be able to walk to the pub, or the cinema or the library. Or to work, or to the sailing club. I’m not ready to retire to the country like Vik.’
‘Good decision.’ I grin at him. ‘Now, how about an ice cream?’
‘After that lunch? You’ll have to roll me down the hill,’ he says. ‘But sure.’
We stroll down the hill, past the little parade of shops; I’m surprised to see, alongside the old-timey shops, a Korean street-food place and a very appealing-looking Italian called Zero Zero Pizza. Patrick, seeing a hardware store, wants to go inside for some widget or wodget, so I tell him I’ll stay outside to enjoy the sunshine.
I’ve just found a little bench to sit down on when I hear a voice. ‘Celeste? Oh my God! Hi!’
I look up. She looks older, but my first thought is that her hair is a big improvement released from its tight ponytail. It’s my old school friend Bronagh, pushing a buggy with shopping bags in one hand.
‘Hi, Bronagh,’ I say, taking off my sunglasses. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m grand! Just out doing some shopping … Are you living here now?’
We exchange five minutes of slightly sticky small talk (yes, I’m still in London; no, no plans to move back) and I admire the baby – Fiadh, nine months, the youngest of three, Bronagh says. Then she walks off – she’s here for Baby Pilates apparently – leaving me to reflect that for all the sunshine and sea air there are downsides to Dublin and this is one of them.
Then she turns around again and walks back towards me. ‘Celeste?’
‘Yes?’
‘I just meant to say – look, I’m really sorry for what happened. At the end of school. We had our differences but we shouldn’t have … dropped you the way we did. We weren’t nice. I see it now and I’m sorry.’
‘Oh,’ I say, startled and touched. ‘It’s OK. It was a long time ago.’
‘I mean it, though. And, listen, if you’re ever back and wanted to meet up, I’d love to meet you for a coffee. Oh, hi.’ Now it’s her turn to look startled, for Patrick has just emerged from the hardware store and greeted us both. I see him through Bronagh’s eyes – golden and tanned and almost startlingly handsome in the dark little street – and I can’t help but feel this isn’t the worst timing ever.
Introductions made and small talk done, I tell Bronagh it was nice to see her and we stroll back down towards Marine Road. That was nice of her, I think. It was a long time ago. And I was probably a bit of a pain myself.
‘I have a feeling there was a story there – was there?’ Patrick says, as we pass St Michael’s Church and head down towards the town hall.
‘You know they say you should never meet your heroes? Well … meeting your villains is probably not a bad idea,’ I tell him. ‘They’re not so bad after a few years go by.’
‘I get you,’ Patrick says. ‘People mellow.’
