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 favour 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 realise that by the time this journey ends, I’ll probably have a long list of all of the people who want to send Joe their love. Me included.
Chapter 19
The south-eastern part of Ireland is breathtakingly beautiful. There are endless seas – the Irish, the Celtic, the Atlantic, St George’s Channel – and endless views. It feels like the edge of the world, with its wild pathways and hidden coves.
We drive the scenic route, because Michael insists we need all the uplifting that Mother Nature can throw at us. When we stop for lunch at a tiny seafood place in Curracloe, I have to agree.
The sun is shining, children are playing, seagulls are wheeling, and if I breathe deeply and forget why I’m here, it feels like a perfect moment.
Michael, in full-on tourist guide mode, tells us that Saving Private Ryan was filmed here. Belinda has taken off her boots and had a paddle. I am trying to put off wondering what happens next, as we head for the cottage Michael has booked for the night.
We have the postcards on the table in front of us, and I enjoy tracing the words written on them with my fingertips. We have scanned copies as well now in case of disasters, but touching the originals reinforces my sense of connection to Joe, and my determination to find him.
We have a postcard of Hook Lighthouse, striped black and white, with the words ‘Greetings from Wexford’ printed at the side of it. That’s from March 2005, which fits with Bernadette’s recollection of daffodils.
We have the postmark of Wexford for Gracie’s sixth birthday card, which is an especially pretty one featuring a baby elephant blowing the words ‘Happy Birthday’ from his trunk, from October 2005.
We have a postcard of Enniscorthy Castle, and a way-past-its-sell-by-date pack of gum in my birthday card in September the same year. The postmark on the envelope is smudged past recognition, but then we also have a postcard of the Kennedy Homestead, which is apparently the birthplace of JFK’s great-granddad. That one is from January 2006, which fits the timeline.
What doesn’t quite fit is the postcard from the Giant’s Causeway, which is in Northern Ireland, from December 2005. Michael points out that it’s entirely probable that he simply took a trip to see it, sounding worried that we are about to up sticks and drive north again.
I agree with him – all the signs point to him having been here, in this part of the world, for just under a year. It doesn’t change again until he seems to relocate to Cornwall early in 2006.
Michael, who has become our designated internet guru, has been digging up information on pubs in the area. Bernadette was quite right when she said there were a lot, but she also came up trumps with a surname for the couple Joe worked for. Unfortunately it’s Doyle, which is about as rare as a pub around here.
Still, I have a bizarre and possibly misplaced faith that this will work out – that the ancient spirits that allegedly abound in this place are on our side. For now, I am content to sit in the sunshine, watching the children play on the beach.
There’s a small group of them, maybe fifteen or so, primary school age. They’re all wearing yellow T-shirts that say Smilez Summer Club. It’s not teaching them much in the way of spelling, but they all seem spectacularly entertained building sandcastles and chasing each other with crabs and filling holes with buckets of water.
‘You look strangely happy,’ says Michael, peering at me over the top of his sunglasses. ‘In fact you’ve seemed strangely happy for this whole trip. Are you on Valium?’
I laugh, and consider telling him that I have an ample stock of various pharmaceuticals at home in the bathroom. Drugs for relaxing me. Drugs for anxiety. Drugs to make me sleep. They’re probably all out of date now, left over from darker times.
‘I know,’ I say, smiling at him. ‘It’s weird, isn’t it? I recently lost my mum. I’m tracking down my lost love. I’m letting myself think about my dead daughter a lot more than I have for years. By rights I should be having a breakdown. But I’m not … I just feel, I don’t know, like I’m actually doing something positive. Like my life has been on hold for so long, and now it’s not.’
He makes a hmpphh sound and thinks about it for a few minutes. Belinda appears to be reading the Guardian, but I know she’ll be listening.
‘I can see that makes a funny kind of sense,’ he admits, taking the glasses off and perching them on his head. ‘So while you’re sharing, can I ask you something else I’ve been wondering about?’
I nod, and Belinda looks up, apparently interested.
‘It’s about your career choice. I mean, I get that your life was interrupted, so you never quite got to uni and all that. But why do you work in a school? Isn’t it hard, after Grace, I mean, to be surrounded by children all the time? Don’t they remind you of her?’