That Summer at the Seahorse Hotel

by Adrienne Vaughan

  She heard this quite distinctly because it was said very loudly indeed.

  “We have no choice.” Again loudly. The second American accent she had heard that day.

  “This is our last chance.” Shouting now. It had to be him. Mia took a breath and rapped on the door. “Go away, this cubicle is engaged!”

  “Is there a little girl with you?” she shouted back.

  The door opened a crack.

  “I beg your pardon?” a man hissed.

  “Is there a little girl with you?”

  “Are you crazy?” he snapped, flinging the door open. “I’m in the bathroom!”

  The carriage fell silent, everyone looked at the young woman, the one with the wild red hair accusing a man of being in the toilet with a little girl.

  “I meant travelling with you, is there a child travelling with you?”

  “Christ!” A tall, dark bundle of frenzy whipped out and pushed passed her. “She was asleep. Where is she?” He was charging down the carriage. “Pearl …Pearl…” he called. Mia followed him.

  “Is there a child lost?” A woman got up from her seat.

  “It’s okay.” Mia stopped to reassure her. “She’s with my mother. She woke up and her uncle was gone, it’s fine, he was in the loo.”

  “At last,” said the man beside her, heading off to use the facilities. “No consideration some of these tourists, think the whole of Ireland is a theme park for their fecking convenience.” He stomped away.

  “Don’t mind him.” The woman opened a packet of Silver Mints. “He’s always giving out, should be glad of the tourists, we’d be four and a half million euro poorer without them.” She offered Mia a mint. “I hope the child is alright. Men! I wouldn’t leave a goldfish with my fella.”

  By the time Mia reached the carriage Fenella was wide awake, whiskey in one hand, business card in the other. The little girl and the shouting stress-head nowhere to be seen.

  “What happened?” Mia plonked down in her seat.

  “Pearl’s uncle, a most charming man, arrived to collect her just as the drinks trolley appeared. He paid for my drink and gave me his card, invited us to dinner, a thank you for child-minding, I suppose.” She gave Mia a smile. “Lovely little girl. They’d been to the zoo, she wanted to meet an octopus. We were chatting away while you were gone.”

  “Must have recognised you.” Mia’s mother received all sorts of invitations.

  “People often think they know me, because they’ve seen me before, you know that.”

  Mia looked at the card. Smartly embossed.

  Ross Power, Chief Executive, Harbour Spa Hotel, Rosshaven, County Wexford, Ireland.

  “Wouldn’t fancy dinner with him, jeez, he charged past me like a madman. Poor kid.”

  “Really?” Fenella sipped her drink. “I thought he was delightful. They’re Americans, bought the old hotel in the harbour. Spent a fortune on it by all accounts. Imagine, five-star luxury in our little fishing village.”

  “You’re up to speed.” Mia handed the card back. The Harbour Spa Hotel did not appeal to her one bit.

  “Pearl told me everything, proper little chatterbox, a bit like you at that age.”

  “I thought I was quiet,” Mia said. When had she stopped talking, asking questions, she wondered for the thousandth time?

  “Not when you were little.” Fenella finished her drink. “Are we nearly there yet?” she teased sitting back, smiling; her encounter with the Americans had cheered her up no end.

  Mia watched the glorious east coast glide past, the only sound the reassuring rumble of the tracks. The view, drenched in sunshine, had never looked lovelier, the landscape changing as the railway sliced through coastal towns melding into holiday villages with bunting fluttering in the breeze. She loved being perched on the very edge of the land as it fell suddenly away, watching mesmerised as the deep, dark sea filled every view to the horizon and beyond. She leaned against the window, drinking it in.

  Nearing their destination, Mia looked at her mother, eyes open at last.

  “I love this journey, I could never tire of it,” she told her.

  Fenella gave a small smile, the curve of coastline soothing her.

  “Seductive,” she replied. “I grant you that.” As the carriage slowed, they gathered their belongings. “I hope he’s still with us, it would be too cruel if …”

  Mia touched her mother’s hand. “He’ll be there, he’d never go without saying goodbye.”

  They waited as the other passengers disembarked.

  “Rosshaven Harbour,” called the guard. “Anyone else for Rosshaven?”

  The two women alighted onto the sandy stretch of platform, the scent of sea wrapping quickly around them. They each took a long breath, neither realising that something deep inside had said ‘home’, as surely as if the breeze had whispered the very word.

  LAZARUS

  Bernice opened the door and peering into the gloom held her breath, fearing the worst. There was a huddle in the middle of the bed, no movement, no sign of life. The time had come and he was gone. She was suddenly weak with sorrow and disappointment, Fenella and Mia were only hours away; whatever their differences, she wanted Archie to see them and they him, before the end. Their relationship was precious, they should have their goodbye.

  “Aargh!” A shriek. Bernice clasped her breast in fright. A couple of thuds, a bang. “Fecking rats, feck off, feck off will ye!” A clatter, something flew through the air and landed at her feet. It wriggled. She screamed. A head poked into the room.

  “I thought you were dead!” She indicated the body-shaped bedclothes.

  “Good job you chose art over medicine,” Archie replied. “Never felt better in my life.” He stepped into the room. The rat looked at the man, twitched its nose and scurried away. “Everyone’s a critic!” Archie slipped his sister a smile, he had given her a fright. “And that cat needs drowning, useless thing.”

  Bernice tutted. Archie was trying to amuse, there was no cat. He had been a delicate child and fearing allergies or worse, pets had been banned, even goldfish. Or was that because Archie had swallowed the one they won at the fair, she could never remember.

  “Ready to greet your audience?” She pulled at the bedclothes.

  “The Flanagans? No need to stand on ceremony there, can’t wait to see them.” Archie went to the window, drawing back the curtains. Sun streamed into the room, dust dancing in shafts of light. He blinked sore eyes, searching past lawns, hoping to spot a taxi rolling along the lane but it was too early, his visitors were still an hour away. Bernice said Fenella was vague about which train and would not hear of a car being sent. Archie declared that was typical, she was sulking. They had argued the last time they had talked, some old not yet forgotten grievance they were picking over like a scab. It would be forgiven the instant they were in each other’s arms, it was always the same.

  “Come and look at the day, Bernice,” he called. “Going to be a scorcher, let’s lunch in the summerhouse.”

  Bernice was arranging pills and potions on the nightstand, Archie was far sicker than he made out and goodness knows what he had taken to give him today’s boost of anxious energy. A clutch of magazines fell to the floor.

  “It’s going to rain later.” She bent to retrieve the journals, spotting a pile of post under the bed.

  “No way, not a cloud in the sky.” Archie was struggling with the catch. Bernice went to help. They pushed it open together; despite his show of robustness, he had grown weak.

  “Have you invited Eamon to lunch?” She avoided the glare that would no doubt follow the question.

  “Have you?” Archie asked, sharply.

  “I may’ve mentioned he should drop by. Things need sorting, you know that.” She glanced towards the small mountain of unattended correspondence.

  Archie sighed. “I want today to be a celebration, Eamon’s such a killjoy.”

  “He’s our solicitor, we need him here.” Bernice was firm.

&nb
sp; “Very well, as you wish.” Archie waved her away. “But tell him it’s just lunch, not a consultation, he needn’t think he can send me a bill and eat my salmon.”

  Relieved, Bernice gave a small laugh. Archie, hopeless with money and generous to a fault, loved playing the curmudgeonly miser, fooling no one.

  The taxi man asleep on a bench had a copy of the Wexford People over his face. A smart 4x4 stood at the rank. It was the only car there, the other passengers had been scooped away by the courtesy coach from The Harbour Spa Hotel, the new resort along the coast. The owner of the shiny vehicle was hoping to mop up any stragglers but seeing the coach full, resumed his nap.

  “Taxi?” Fenella enquired of the supine figure stretched out in the sunshine. No response. “Taxi!”

  A languid hand withdrew the newspaper and bright blue eyes crinkled at her.

  “Ah, it’s yourself is it?” Local dialect with a hint of somewhere else.

  He swung his legs off the bench, rolled up chinos revealing tanned feet in deck shoes.

  “I told him not to send a car.” Fenella placed hands on hips but Mia noticed her eyes were sparkling too.

  “You told him not to send me, you mean.”

  “No, but I heard you were back.” She gave a smile, she was stunning when she smiled. “Where’ve you been thrown out of this time?”

  The man just grinned.

  “Don’t tell me, this gorgeous creature … not Maeve?”

  He was well-built, with a ‘yachty’ look about him; thick silver-fair hair curled at the collar of his polo shirt.

  “Mia,” she told him. Maeve had been ditched long ago.

  “I’m Dominic Driscoll, an old friend of your mother’s.” He twinkled his eyes at her.

  “Old, without doubt,” Fenella agreed. “Friend? Questionable. Now, can we get a move on please, I’m desperate to see Archie. How is he? Do you know?”

  The man strolled to the car, zapped it and placed the bags inside.

  “Not dead yet, anyway.” He cast about. “Is this all there is?”

  “Yes.” Fenella climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Ah, I get it. The truck with the ball gowns and state jewels is following behind.” He opened the door for Mia. “She never did travel light,” he stage whispered.

  “We’re not here to party,” Fenella pulled the visor down against the sun. The vehicle swung out of the car park towards the crossroads, village to the right, coast road on the left.

  “Straight there? Or can I buy you ladies a drink at the new resort first?”

  “Is that the Harbour Spa Hotel?” Mia asked, remembering the card the shouty stress-head had given her mother.

  “One and the same,” Driscoll told her. “Very upmarket, not everyone’s cup of tea, though. A lot complaining about the size of the development, impact on the coastline, marine life, all that kind of shite. Others saying, it’s not ‘real’ Ireland. But sure, isn’t it bringing in the tourists and jobs too? If they’re coming to Ireland looking for The Quiet Man, they need to cop on, those days are long gone. Would you like to check it out?”

  “Straight there, please, Driscoll, I’ve already said, we’re not here to party.” Fenella was snippy.

  “Really? Anyone told Archie that?” he laughed, turning the wheel slowly towards the sea.

  Ten minutes later they rounded a bend leading down to a large gateway flanked by crumbling stone pillars. Driscoll took the winding driveway carefully, avoiding clumps of weeds sprouting from potholes although the expansive lawns had been freshly mown, grass gleaming. Mia sat up, eager to catch a first glimpse of the house, basecamp for all her childhood holidays, lengthier stays too if Fenella was in a long run or filming somewhere exotic. It had been a while.

  A glint of sunshine bounced off the summerhouse and as the car turned into the courtyard there it stood, the Fitzgerald country pile, Galty House, a glorious Georgian mansion, regal and resplendent on this perfect June day. The windows winked in welcome and as wheels crunched across the gravel, the huge hall door was flung wide and a lanky individual, clad in jeans and white shirt came charging down the steps, arms flailing wildly.

  “Look, it’s Archie!” Mia laughed.

  “Good lord, so it is!” Fenella exclaimed, lifting her spectacles to check.

  “Told you he wasn’t dead yet,” Driscoll confirmed, as Bernice appeared waving from the top of the steps. Fenella was out of the car before it stopped. The man and woman flew into each other’s arms and clamped together began a little dance of delight. Mia was soon beside them and with Archie released, threw herself into his embrace. He felt wonderful, soft and sinewy. She stood back to look at him. Definitely thinner, freckles bright against his pale skin but it was all Archie, breathing and laughing, every inch of him alive.

  “You old fraud.” Fenella punched him in the chest. “I thought you were …”

  “Dying?” Archie smirked, making the creases around his eyes deeper, cheekbones sharp.

  “Dead,” Driscoll told him, unloading the bags. “She thought you were dead.”

  “No, thank God, but if he doesn’t stop chasing around he soon will be. Doesn’t give his medication a chance.” Bernice smiled, kissing Fenella on both cheeks.

  Mia watched the women curiously, as close as sisters yet so very different. Bernice fair as Fenella was dark, with never a hair out of place, highly organised, pedantic. Fenella, on the other hand vague and dreamy, always changing her mind, unfathomable. Bernice pushed her sleek bob behind her ears, Mia watched the shrewd hazel eyes taking everything in.

  “You must be jaded tired.” Bernice took Fenella’s arm, steering her towards the house. “And when is the last time you had a decent meal, young lady?” she said over her shoulder to Mia. Archie put his tongue out at Bernice’s back. “I saw that!” she said, making Mia giggle.

  “Am I invited for lunch?” Driscoll was hopeful.

  “Have you ever been invited?” Archie pretended to look surprised.

  “Nope.”

  “And don’t we always give you lunch?” Archie rolled his eyes at Mia taking her by the hand. “Come with me, lovely girl, I’ve something really exciting to show you.”

  “Where are you going?” Fenella called from the steps. But Archie was running, towing Mia behind him.

  “I’ll bring the bags in, so,” Driscoll said, as everyone disappeared.

  Eamon Degan was worried. He put his ‘out of office’ message on, diverted the phone to his mobile and locked the door at the top of the stairs. He glanced at the lettering on the glass. Degan, Daly and Partners, Attorneys at La. The letter ‘w’ was long since rubbed away by an over-zealous cleaner trying to impress the charismatic Daly – now retired. Eamon knew he needed a new sign yet begrudged the cost of it, so few clients visited his tired little office these days, why bother? Yet it did bother him, bothered him every time he saw it and he saw several times a day. But Eamon was one to let things fester, always had been.

  Checking his watch, he clattered downstairs and out into the brightness of a busy June day. It was the week before the bank holiday and the town was buzzing. Nothing brought the hordes to Rosshaven like a holiday weekend. Desperate to leave town as quickly as possible, he ran straight into Leela Brennan.

  “Eamon, the very man.” Leela lowered diamanté-framed shades. “Are you away to Galty?”

  Eamon gave a grunt. “A lift, is it?”

  Indicating the shopping bags, she bent to rub swollen ankles.

  “Guests for lunch, I’m a bit behind schedule.” She flashed what she hoped was a beguiling smile, the glare of her newly-whitened teeth nearly blinding him.

  He shoved his briefcase under his arm as he helped load the shopping into the ancient Subaru, a temporary replacement for his beloved Mercedes. Things had been tight for some time, he was just waiting for a big deal to come in, then he would buy himself something decent, nothing flash, he had his reputation to consider. He sighed, the traffic was horrendous.

  “Take the ba
ck road,” Leela advised, checking her lipstick in the mirror. The way Eamon drove, the back road was by far the safer option. “This place is a total madhouse getting ready for the holiday.” Leela had been Galty’s housekeeper for as long as anyone could remember and considering she should have retired years ago, maintaining her job and her image at the same time was admirable.

  “How did you know I was heading to Galty House?” Eamon asked, once they were on the road.

  “I didn’t want to say anything in town, you know how people love a bit of gossip about ‘The Seahorse Hotel’.” Leela was referring to Galty’s wartime codename, the name locals still used when discussing ‘goings on’ up at the big house. “But the Misses Flanagan are on their way and with Archie not in the best of health, I’m guessing the Fitzgeralds will need their attorney in attendance.” Leela, perspicacious as ever, never missed a trick.

  Eamon allowed himself a smile.

  “That’s very astute of you, Leela.”

  “Ah, I’m very acute, me Auntie Eileen always said that, avaricious too, she loved me, Auntie Eileen.”

  That word did not sit happily with Eamon. He crashed the gears.

  “Vivacious, Leela, I think that’s what she meant.”

  “That’s what I said,” Leela replied, pressing straying lashes to her eyelid as they bounced along the road.

  Bernice was trying to prepare lunch ‒ difficult without the ingredients ‒ when Leela staggered in, Eamon bringing up the rear.

  “At last!” She looked at the clock. “I did say lunch, Leela.”

  “Sorry Bernice, but with the traffic and the bus only running hourly because Jimmy Kenny is away on a stag … thought it best I came with Eamon but he was late.”

  Eamon plonked the bags on the kitchen table.

  “Tut, tut, Eamon.” A sultry voice drifted out.

  He swung round. “Fenella Flanagan, look at you, gorgeous as ever, not remotely changed and it’s been years.”

  “It has not, Eamon Degan, and stop trying to make me feel guilty for abandoning you to a life of debauched bachelorhood, pretending to be an overworked and underpaid lawyer of the parish.”