Edward stared at her as if she had just made a statement in ancient Hebrew. ‘Yes. Just down here.’ He began to walk again. Patricia wondered what he would do if she didn’t follow him, but she did.
They walked down to a metal bridge. On the other bank of the river buses were shuddering their way in and out of the station. The people on the pavement brushed past them, all seeming in a great hurry. Lives being lived all around her while she was lumbered with this strange man who didn’t seem to have the slightest interest in her.
Halfway across the bridge Edward stopped and looked over the balustrade down into the murky water. Patricia did the same. There was a strong wind off the river and her hair blew around her face. She knew she must look a right state but she didn’t care. She heard something and looking at Edward realised he was speaking quietly. She leaned in to hear him.
‘I loved her dearly both true and sincerely. There is no one in this wide world I loved so much as she.’
What in God’s name was he talking about?
‘Every bush, every bower, every wild Irish flower, it reminds me of my Mary on the banks of the Lee.’
Of course. Now she understood. Her head bowed, she began to speak and their two voices found each other on the wind.
So I will pluck my love some roses, some wild Irish roses
I will pluck my love some roses, the fairest that ever grew
And I will place them on the mound of my own darling true love
In that cold and silent valley where she lies beneath the dew.
The lyric ended, their voices silent, he turned to look at her and smiled. His face was kind. Patricia smiled back. She tried to think of something to say, a way to keep the momentum going, but she couldn’t. When he turned and began to walk again, she followed.
The lunch was torture. He slurped down his vegetable soup without comment while she sipped at her small glass of grapefruit juice. When the young waitress was clearing their starters away she gave Patricia a small smile of encouragement and sympathy. A series of questions about his journey, the farm, his mother, all failed to ignite anything that resembled conversation. The solitary question he asked her during the whole day was when he enquired if her chicken was dry.
‘No. No, it’s fine, thanks.’
‘Looks dry,’ he commented as he sawed a thick slice of lamb.
Somehow the fact that he was right, and her meal had the texture of chalkboard, only made things worse. It was as if it was his fault.
Finally, they were back at the station, half an hour too early for her train but Patricia really didn’t care. She just wanted the day to end. They stood facing each other at the entrance and she was just about to shake his hand and thank him for the lunch when he thrust his head forward like a cuckoo exiting a clock to announce the hour. Before she knew what was happening he had pecked at her lips. She let out an involuntary yelp of surprise.
‘Oh sorry, I …’ He searched for one of his few words.
‘No. It’s …’ Patricia too was struggling.
‘Well.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll leave you, so.’
‘Right. Thanks for the lunch.’
Now he was staring at her, his shoulders hunched, his hands knotting and twisting his fingers. Patricia longed for him to go but still he stood there. ‘Go!’ she silently screamed at him in her head. Surely he wasn’t enjoying this either? His face looked as if he was thinking about something else, remembering a great sadness. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered and turned quickly to walk away.
Patricia suddenly wanted to call after him, to somehow reassure him, make him feel better about how the day had gone. She thought about the man who knew all the words of ‘The Banks of the Lee’。 Why hadn’t she been able to spend the afternoon with that man? How had the man who had written her such sweet letters been turned to stone in her presence?
Patricia walked beneath the large station clock, confident there wouldn’t be a next time.
NOW
Carefully, as if her mother might discover she had read them, Elizabeth folded the letters and returned them to the dusty oblivion of the box. Who had her mother been back then? She couldn’t imagine the strict, dispassionate woman who had raised her replying to these sweet, coy notes. The mother she had known had almost sneered at any hint of romance. A little knot of sadness and regret tugged at her heart. She would never know the young woman who had hoped for a different life. She thought of the old photographs downstairs that she had pored over as a child. Uncle Jerry in short trousers holding her mother’s hand before she went off for her first communion. Two teenage girls standing outside the front door of Convent Hill, their arms Irish-dancing stiff by their sides while a summer breeze whisked their hair around their laughing faces. A smooth, unblemished forehead framed by a pale blue satin hairband that matched her bridesmaid’s dress as she stood beside Aunt Gillian on her big day. The smile on her face, her eyes that glinted with a mixture of hope and excitement. Not a hint of concern or care. Elizabeth had never known that woman.