“Well,” says Michael, as we return to the city center. “That was unpleasant. I feel like I need a long soak in a bath of hot mojitos.”
Belinda is uncharacteristically silent. I can feel her staring at the back of my head, and finally give in.
“Out with it, then,” I say, turning to look at her. I am prepared for a tirade, but all I get is a sad smile.
“That was good,” she says eventually, “what you did for Mona. Not telling her about the Crazy Bunch and what really happened to Joe while she was dope-fiending it back here. I wanted to tell her . . . I felt so angry. But I’m glad you stopped me. It’s what Joe would have wanted. Somehow, despite what he came from, he managed to be a much better person than me.”
“Yeah,” adds Michael from the driver’s seat. “How is that? Everything I hear about this man suggests he’s perfect. Everything about his childhood suggests he should be a monster.”
“He wasn’t perfect,” I reply, smiling. “He just . . . I don’t know, seemed to have his own moral compass? I know they tried to mold him into another one of them, the Crazy Bunch, but he wasn’t having any of it. Too much . . . compassion, I think.”
“They did,” says Belinda, her voice sad. “When we were kids, they sent him shoplifting. First few times, he did it—but then gave all the stuff away, he felt so bad. Did a bit of a Robin Hood. After that he refused, and he paid the price for it.”
I’d seen the marks on his body, and know exactly what she is talking about. I feel angry again, until Belinda bursts the small bubble of rage.
“Anyway. I’m glad you didn’t tell Mona the truth. You’re a good person too, Jess—just like him.”
I am moved by this, and don’t really know what to say. I blow her a kiss, and Michael laughs out loud.
“What a touching moment,” he says, as he drives. “I feel like I’ve just witnessed a small miracle. Now, who wants to come up with a list of fancy hotels? Though I have the suspicion that Mona’s concept of ‘fancy’ might include the YMCA . . .”
Belinda and I start to sift through booking.com looking for ideas, and then checking if they were also open in 2004. By the time we get back to town we have decided on an initial list of three, with a backup of a few more if we come up with nothing at those. I suggest we take one each, as I am secretly yearning for half an hour alone.
We leave the Fiat at our own less-than-fancy hotel, and go our separate ways. I completely strike out at the Shelbourne, but do enjoy the marble columns and impressive chandeliers in the lobby. The staff are polite and helpful, but nobody there can remember that far back.
I bump into Belinda on her way from a similar fail at another grand lodging nearby. She has enjoyed it less than I have, saying she always feels like she should be saying “yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am” and serving the canapés when she’s anywhere too posh.
We decide to head back to the last hotel together, to collect Michael if he’s there, and possibly to double-check just in case he forgot why he was there and went straight to the bar instead.
“That’s not really fair,” I say, as we climb the steps of the Grand Circle Hotel. “He’s a very conscientious soul.”
The lobby of the hotel is indeed grand, its nooks and crannies filled with exotic plants and potted palm trees, blissful air-conditioning washing my face with a cool breeze. Belinda spots a sign for the cocktail lounge, and as we enter through stained-glass doors, I hear Michael’s laughter floating out toward me.
He is perched at the edge of the horseshoe-shaped bar on a velvet-backed stool, a drink that looks suspiciously like a mojito in his hand. He is chatting to—nay, flirting with—a much older lady who is working behind the bar. There are a few other customers dotted around at tables, but Michael has her complete attention.
I ignore the “I told you so” look that Belinda is giving me and join my cousin. Truth be told, a mojito really wouldn’t go amiss right now. He lets out another peal of laughter as I settle beside him and Belinda sits on the other side.
“I’ll have what he’s having!” I say, wondering if anyone will catch the When Harry Met Sally reference.
“Oh, that’s one of my favorite films!” exclaims the bar lady, clutching a tea towel to her ample chest. “That bit near the end, at the New Year’s party, where he says he loves the little crinkle above her nose? Makes me cry every time!”
Bernadette, as her name tag tells me she’s called, is easily into her mid-sixties, but clearly still has a girlish side. Her hair is dyed black and piled into a huge bun, and her eye makeup is perfectly smoky with heavy black liner. I’m guessing she was quite a party girl in her heyday, and can probably still party me under the table now.
She starts to gather together her mojito essentials, patting Michael on the wrist as she walks away.
“So,” I say, tapping my fingers on the bar top as though I’m angry, “working hard, are we?”
“Or just getting pissed?” adds Belinda.
He looks from me to her and back again, with his very best haughty expression.
“One can both get pissed and work hard at the same time,” he replies seriously. “It’s simply a matter of multitasking, which my generation has mastered by using their phones to google answers during pub quizzes. Now, mommies dearest, are you going to let me speak before you send me to bed without any supper?”
Belinda pokes him in the ribs, and he continues: “Bernadette here has worked at this hotel since 1982, when she was fresh from being named the winner of the Miss Tiny Irish Town Whose Name I Can’t Remember beauty pageant. She’s had an interesting life—but the part you might be most interested in is that she remembers Joe. And she’s happy to talk about him.”
He takes in our surprised expressions, smiles smugly, and adds: “You’re welcome.”
Bernadette returns with our drinks, and lays them in front of us with napkins and a small bowl of peanuts.
“This is my cousin Jess, the one I was telling you about,” he says, grabbing a handful of nuts and nodding in my direction.
She looks at me, and immediately grins.
“Oh! You’re the lucky girl then, are you? The one Joe was still mooning over?”
I nod, and think it is weird, being called a girl in my late thirties—and even more weird to think of Joe being here, in this very building, mooning over me.
“He was a cracker, that Joe. He never did tell us what had gone wrong between you, but he always carried a bit of sadness with him, you know? All tortured and mysterious. Had us ladies in a bit of a tizz, he did.
“I was old enough to be his mother and I did feel a bit maternal toward him . . . but he couldn’t half flirt as well. I could walk in here with a hangover, looking like the bride of Frankenstein, and he’d still always find something nice to say, a way to cheer me up. He was good with his hands as well. That’s how he got the job, isn’t it?”
I am momentarily dumbstruck by the last comment—something about the way saucy Bernadette delivers it manages to imply that he worked as a masseur who specialized in happy endings.
“He worked with the maintenance team, didn’t he?” she clarifies, happily wiping glasses, her eyes sparkling at the memory. “He wasn’t here long, but he was the kind of man who leaves an impression. He showed me the ring as well—lovely, it was.”
She glances at my fingers, obviously checking to see if I’m wearing it.
I only found out myself that Joe was intending to propose to me over the last few days, from Belinda. She’d told me carefully, as though worried I might break. Told me how he’d been meaning to do it that night—the night of the accident. I didn’t think it was possible for that night to be any sadder, but I realize now that it was.
I’d obviously not been in a fit state, physically or mentally, for him to go ahead with that plan. Undoubtedly he wasn’t either. He’d been treated for cuts and burns at the scene, and I’d been in hospital, sedated. I’d dislocated my shoulder trying to get to Gracie in the back seat, and the impact of the crash had damaged one of my kneecaps. It didn’t help that I became hysterical and started thrashing about every time I was clear-headed enough to remember what happened.
Once I was physically well enough to come home, the longer-term effects started to show up, and the rest is very sad history.
Now, all these years later, I bizarrely find myself chatting over mojitos to a complete stranger about the engagement ring I never saw.
“I’m sure. He always had great taste, and knew exactly what I liked,” I reply, reminding myself that this bright and breezy lady has no idea of the tragedy that led Joe to this hotel, where he was good with his hands and cheered the bar staff up. “Do you have any idea where he went after he left?”
She leans forward, elbows on the bar, face resting in her hands, frowning as she delves into her memory banks.
“Well, like I say, he was popular, and good at his job. He could’ve made a go of things here, but I don’t think he ever planned to stay. He had that look, you know? Like he needed to wander. Heal his broken heart maybe—but that’s probably me being over-romantic. I’m told it’s one of my many flaws.”
“No such thing as being over-romantic,” Michael intercedes, reaching forward to pat her cheek. She blossoms with his attention, and I can just imagine how much she enjoyed Joe’s company. Joe was knee-tremblingly good-looking—at least in my opinion—and did indeed always know what to say to make a woman feel good about herself.
“Bless you,” she replies. “The next round’s on the house!”
I’m feeling slightly impatient by this stage—unbearably excited about almost finding something important out—but I tamp it down. Michael’s flirting and charm has got us this far.
“I think,” she says slowly, as though dragging sleepy thoughts into daylight, “that it was County Wexford.”
I sigh out loud. I can’t help it. We knew that much already, because of the postmark on Gracie’s birthday card in October 2005, my birthday note just before that, and some of the other postcards. I’d been hoping for more, and look at Bernadette expectantly.
“It was a pub he moved to, wasn’t it?” she says, continuing her habit of asking me questions I can’t possibly know the answers to. “It was, yes. There was this couple who worked here, Geraldine and Adrian. I really can’t recall the surname, but I could try and ask around for you if it would help . . . Anyway. They had a wee boy called Jamie who was about two or thereabouts. Geraldine worked here in the bar, and Adrian was the restaurant manager. It’s long hours, as you can imagine, and they were often on different shifts, and, well, long story short, they decided to leave. I heard rumors, there’d been some trouble with one of them playing away, whatever—and they needed to start over.”
She sips her own drink, and thinks some more, and continues: “It’s a long time ago, and I didn’t know them well, but I think it was a pub in Wexford they went to. Bought it cheap, fresh start. And Joe went with them. I don’t remember when exactly, but the daffodils were out on the green—I know that because he pinched one for me, the devil! So spring maybe?”
Belinda frowns, and looks as confused as I feel, and asks: “But why? Why would he go with them?”
“Because he was so good with his hands, wasn’t he? The pub was apparently a bit of a fixer-upper, and he needed a change, and they said he could live there with them and get a wage in return for working on the building, you see?”
She says this as though it makes perfect sense and is absolutely obvious to anybody but those she might term a bit of an “eejit.”
“Right,” I say, nodding. “So. A pub in County Wexford. I’m guessing there’s quite a few of those?”
Bernadette laughs, long and hard, confirming my guess.
“As many as there are stars in the sky!” she replies, still amused. “I’m trying my very hardest to remember the name of it, but it won’t quite come . . . it was something to do with sailors. Or boats. Or the sea. Maybe a fish, or a dolphin. Something a bit nautical but nice.”
She gives Michael a cheeky wink as she says that, and he immediately sings: “What should we do with the drunken sailor?”
“Depends on the size of his tackle!” she cracks, and the two of them descend into giggles. I find myself thinking that the joke makes no sense—surely a tackle pun would work better if it was a drunken fisherman, not a sailor? I shake my head. It doesn’t really matter. I’m no fun at all, I decide.
“So,” says Michael, once they’ve calmed down, “my darling Bernadette. It’s been a blast, and I can’t tell you how helpful you’ve been. I’m going to write my number down for you here, on this napkin—do stay in touch, won’t you? Are you on Insta?”
“More of a Facebook girl,” she replies. “Put your details down and I’ll send you a friend request.”
“Splendid. Would you be able to ask around the other staff for us, do you think? See if anyone can remember the name of the pub, or Geraldine and Adrian’s last name? Or even if anyone is still in touch with them?”
“Of course. Anything for you, sweetheart.”
She turns to me, and adds: “Now, if you do go and find that handsome Joe of yours, do me a favor and tell him that Bernie sends her love, will you?”
I promise that I will, and as we leave, her refusing to take any cash at all for our cocktails, I realize that by the time this journey ends, I’ll probably have a long list of all the people who want to send Joe their love. Me included.