A Week in Winter(52)

‘Do you set out to avoid it, the love thing?’

‘No, but I do set out not to be made a fool of and not to compromise. I’ve seen too much of that. My mother and father have very little to talk about, supposing they ever had . . . My aunt Mary is married to a man who is about a hundred because he owns a big property, but he really doesn’t know what day it is. Chicky did marry for love, but then her fellow was wiped off the face of the earth in a car crash. Not much of a recommendation for love, any of this!’

‘Maybe you have a suit of armour up before they get a chance to know you,’ he suggested.

‘Maybe. I don’t want to be a ball-breaker or anything. That’s just the way it seems to turn out.’

‘No, I didn’t mean to suggest that . . .’

‘And I suppose the real irritation is my parents. They are much too interested in my life. It’s getting harder and harder not to show them how annoying it is.’

‘Oh, parents always get it wrong, Orla. It goes with the territory.’ John sounded rueful.

‘You seem to have it sorted though with your daughter.’

‘No way. I want so much for her. I want her to have the best but I know I’m not delivering it. I get it so wrong.’

‘And what kind of parents did you have?’

‘None. I have no idea who my father was, and my mother never came back to find me.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Orla reached out and laid her hand on his. ‘I’m such a clown. I didn’t know. Forgive me.’

‘No, it doesn’t matter. I’m just telling you why I’m so hung up and holding on to family,’ John said. ‘I never knew any one thing about my mother except that she spoke Italian and left me wrapped up at the door of an orphanage nearly sixty years ago. The hours, weeks and years I’ve wondered about her, and hoped she was all right and tried to work out why she gave me away.’ Orla’s hand was still on his. She squeezed it from solidarity.

‘I bet she was thinking of you all the time, too. I bet she was. And look what you did with your life! She would have been so proud.’

‘Would she? OK, I got to be famous but, as you say, I don’t get enough joy from it, enough fun. She might have liked me to have a good time and been happier, less restless.’

‘Let’s do a deal,’ Orla suggested. ‘I will have more of an open mind about men. I won’t assume they are all screaming bores. I’ll do that American thing of assuming that strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet!’

‘I don’t think it’s just American,’ John said defensively.

‘Possibly not. Anyway, I won’t vomit at the thought of going out with one of Brigid O’Hara’s awful brothers or uncles. I’ll give them a chance. Does that sound reasonable?’

‘Very much so.’ He smiled at her intensity.

‘You, on the other hand, are going to enjoy being who you are. People love to meet a celebrity, John. It does them good. We live dull lives. It’s just great to meet a movie star. Be generous enough to understand that.’

‘I promise I will. I didn’t think of it like that.’

‘Oh, and about your daughter; maybe you should tell her the kind of things you’ve told me about love. I’d love a father who could speak like that.’

‘I never have before,’ he said.

‘No, but you could start now and maybe tell her that you would love to see her and meet her friends, if it wouldn’t embarrass her or them. I bet she’d be pleased.’

‘I guess I’m afraid she’ll reject me.’

‘I’m going to face men who might reject me. This is meant to be a deal, isn’t it?’

‘Right. And will you cut your parents some slack too? They may be driving you nuts but they do want what’s best for you.’

‘Yes, I’ll try. I will probably be canonised in my own lifetime, but I’ll try!’ she laughed. They shook hands on the deal and began to drive back to Stone House.

On the way they passed Stoneybridge Golf Club. A few hardy golfer souls were out on the course. Outside the door was parked a violent pink van.

‘Oh Lord, Frank’s at the hot whiskeys already,’ Orla sighed.

John braked suddenly.

‘I’d love a hot whiskey myself,’ he said.

‘You can’t, you’re not a member of the Club. Anyway, you’ve only just had your breakfast.’

But John had parked the car and was striding to the main door.

Alarmed now, Orla ran after him.

Alone at the bar, on a high stool, peering at a newspaper with a magnifying glass, sat a tousled old man. He looked up when the door opened with a crash. A total stranger came through, a man in his fifties in an expensive leather jacket.

‘Well, if it isn’t Frank Hanratty, as I live and breathe,’ the stranger said.

‘Um . . . Yes?’ Frank was rarely approached by people who did know him, and scarcely ever by people who didn’t.

‘Well, how are you keeping, Frank, my old friend?’

Frank peered at him. ‘You’re Corry Salinas,’ he said eventually in disbelief.

‘Of course I am. Who else would I be?’

‘But how do you know me?’

‘We were only talking about you in the pub yesterday. I know you are a great film buff, and now today I find you in here.’