A Keeper(21)

The Foley farm! Why had her mother said nothing? She knew this day was going to come and what if Elizabeth hadn’t found the letters?

‘Does it come with much land?’

‘No. Looking at this, the title deed is fairly new.’ He studied the papers again. ‘Yes. Just six years ago, so my guess is the house was split from a farm and somebody else got the land. The map here just shows a house, with a farmyard to the rear and a strip of garden at the front.’ Ernest seemed delighted for her. He held out his smooth pink hand again and Elizabeth shook it. She was dumbfounded. Her father, who had never existed, never been spoken of, was in death suddenly very present in her life. She had read his heartfelt thoughts and now she owned his house. She felt like she might cry, so quickly made good her escape with the envelope in her hand.

On the street, she hesitated. What should she do? Where should she go? She stepped beneath a tree to avoid a large group of Japanese tourists following their guide back towards the bus from whence they had come, like spawning salmon dressed in Burberry raincoats. Elizabeth reached for her phone. She had to share this news with someone. Zach? Yes, she would call Zach, but when she opened her phone she saw that she had received a text message. It was from Elliot.

Hi, Liz. Did you mean to call me? Zach isn’t here. No plans to see him this holiday.

Her knees buckled and she steadied herself against the rough grey bark of the tree. A father found, and a son lost.





THEN


Castle House,

Muirinish,

West Cork

11 Feb 1974

Dear Patricia,

I just wanted to say thank you so much for coming down to visit us in Castle House. I hope you got home all right and the journey wasn’t too boring. I know I get very quiet in the car. Sorry. I think it is half my nerves, and half making sure I don’t have a crash with such precious cargo!

It was a real pleasure showing you around the farm and seeing everything through your eyes. Sometimes I forget how lovely it is here with the sea on our doorstep. Mam wanted me to tell you how much she enjoyed meeting you as well. She has talked of little else since your visit. Were your ears burning?

I’ve been thinking about you so much since you left. It sounds silly I know, but I miss you. That time we spent together sheltering in the old ruins keeps turning around in my mind. The memory of you in my arms and your softness under my hand won’t leave me. I know I’m probably not the man of anybody’s dreams but I can tell you for sure, that you are the woman of mine.

When do you think you might visit again? The thought of seeing you is all that is getting me through these dark cold mornings. Let’s plan another trip as soon as possible. I want to touch you and put my lips on yours so badly it hurts.

I have never felt like this before. Please write back soon.

Warmest regards,

Edward

*

Patricia didn’t know what to think when she finished the letter. The things he talked about had happened but it was just that he had experienced them in such a different way from her. For every flash of connection between them, a shy glance or a hand touched accidentally, there had been hours when Edward seemed completely oblivious to her existence. Her memory of the weekend was spending most of her time with Edward’s mother or hiding in her room. She knew she hadn’t much experience of men, but surely they weren’t all as confusing as this one. Then she wondered if she was being unfair or if her expectations were too high. She had read horrific stories about men and at least Edward was sweet and hadn’t tried to stick his fingers in her knickers the way she heard fellas did the second you let them kiss you. Patricia folded the letter and put it in the small pile with the others. She would write back but she wouldn’t encourage him. Edward Foley, she decided, was not the man for her.

The next day, a Thursday, Patricia was taking advantage of the dry weather by hanging a few things out on the washing line that sagged between the walls of the small yard at the back of the house. Her efforts were interrupted by the doorbell. She hurried through, still with a couple of clothes pegs in her mouth. Patricia opened the door to find a slim, oily-haired man almost obscured by the largest bunch of flowers she had ever seen outside of a funeral procession.

‘Patricia Keane?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, the pegs falling to the floor. She found herself backing away from the large collection of red and white blooms.

‘These are for you,’ the man said, thrusting the bouquet into her arms.

She tried to protest. ‘But who are they from?’

‘There’s a card.’ The man was already heading back towards his van emblazoned with an enormous Interflora logo.

Patricia’s hands were trembling with excitement as she ripped the card from its doll’s-house envelope.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day, Lonely Leinster Lady, from your Munster admirer!’

It was Valentine’s Day! Patricia had completely forgotten. In her life she had received two Valentine cards, both of which had come from her uncle after her father had died. When her mother discovered who had been sending them she asked him to stop and he did. Now she was holding a huge bunch of flowers from a real man who had actual feelings for her. The scent of them filled the hall and their sweet fresh fragrance banished all her negative feelings. She wasn’t a spinster. She was a woman who was desired by a man. He wasn’t perfect, well, he was so very far from perfect, but he was kind and worked hard and he had sent her flowers!