Breakfast at Darcy's (16 page)

‘No,’ I say laughing, ‘because she’d missed seeing all the hunky firemen in their uniforms!’

Dermot shakes his head. ‘She needn’t worry about that here, although we do have all the appropriate fire equipment in place
should we need it, in the event of an emergency.’

‘You’ve been very thorough about everything, Dermot. I feel quite safe knowing you have it all under control.’

This is obviously the type of compliment that Dermot likes, because he smiles at me approvingly.

‘So,’ I ask him casually, ‘did you happen to see which direction everyone went earlier?’

‘Conor went that way down to the beach,’ Dermot says, his face taking on its usual disinterested expression again as he gestures
in the direction of the coastal path that leads around the outskirts of Tara. ‘But the other two went the opposite way, inland.’

I look in the direction Dermot’s pointing. ‘It
was
the coastal walk I was thinking of trying. The puppies would enjoy some time down on the sand.’

Dermot nods. ‘Whatever you like, Darcy.’

‘Right, well, I’ll see you later then,’ I say brightly, about to head off in the direction of the cove, then I pause and turn
back. ‘So what are you going to do now?’

‘Don’t worry about me, I’ve got plenty of things to be getting on with still,’ Dermot glances back at the cottages.

‘You’d be welcome to join us on our walk if you’d like to,’ I offer politely, hoping he’ll refuse.

‘I think you probably need some thinking time – to consider your dilemma,’ he adds when I look blank. ‘Plus,’ he calls as
he begins to wander away, ‘you know what they say about three being a crowd, and all that … ’

Inside I growl at Dermot as I watch him stroll nonchalantly across the grass.
Right, I’ll show you!

‘I thought you were going on the coastal walk,’ Dermot calls as I march past him in the opposite direction to the cove.

‘I can change my mind, can’t I?’ I yell back, not bothering to turn around.

‘You change your clothes often enough, so it wouldn’t surprise me if you changed your mind just as often.’

But Dermot’s taunts simply bounce off my departing back. *

*

We continue with our walk along a narrow rocky path that climbs away from the harbour and up one of Tara’s great hills. As
we climb, we find ourselves approaching an old derelict building that Dermot had been talking to me about at the barbecue
last night. He’d said it was massive in comparison to the other buildings on the island, and that he would be interested to
know what it might have been used for in Tara’s history.

When we finally make it to the top of the hill, I realise Dermot’s right – the remains are vast in contrast to the rest of
the tiny dwellings on the island. Woody and Louis immediately run to investigate the ruins for themselves, snuffling about
for smells and leaving their own scent when they find any areas worth marking. I follow them inside what’s left of the building,
moving from room to room, stepping over what’s left of the fallen walls and occasionally through a crumbling doorway, wondering
what this building might have been used for in the past. As I come back through to what would once have been an exterior door,
I stop for a moment under a large stone archway to admire the clear unobstructed view the weather is obliging me with this
morning.

From the top of this hill I can see easily all the way across to the mainland, and I realise that tomorrow the boats carrying
first our new furniture, and then hopefully our new islanders, will be sailing across here to Tara. I wonder how many times
people before me in the past have gazed upon this very view, watching boats cross the same stretch of water.

I feel incredibly safe and secure standing underneath this archway, in among all the greenery that spreads chaotically over
the surviving brickwork. In fact, looking around the rest of the
building, the ivy could be the only thing holding up some of the walls, they’ve disintegrated so badly. I rest my hands on
the abandoned building and am surprised to find it feels warm to my touch. ‘What were you once?’ I ask it, running my hand
along the entrance I’m standing beneath. ‘And what is it you would like to become?’

The puppies and I end up walking further than I’d originally intended, and find ourselves picking up the coastal path that
I walked around on my first visit here in January. I’m surprised at how much I remember of the landscape I’m passing, enough
to notice delicate differences in the flora and fauna that we pass on the way. Tiny white spring flowers are just beginning
to bloom, tucking themselves tightly against Tara’s giant craggy rocks for protection from the elements, and although we don’t
see any more dolphins, there are rabbits everywhere we look, their heads randomly bobbing up, then the whites of their tails
disappearing immediately when they see Louis and Woody bounding over in their direction. I can tell the difference between
rabbits and their bigger cousin, the hare now. There are seals basking in the warm morning sun on one of the tiny beaches
that we pass, and everywhere we go seagulls swoop and soar overhead, reminding me of the police outriders I used to see clearing
a path through the London traffic for VIPs.

Eventually we find a beach with a narrow path that leads down onto the sand. The puppies make a much better job of clambering
down the path than me, but for the first time since I bought them, I do actually feel the benefit of the expensive walking
boots I’m wearing. I can’t remember ever spending so much money on shoes that are so ugly, but I have to admit
that, as I scramble down the sandy path, they do stop my ankles from twisting over and my feet from sliding from beneath me,
as they take me safely all the way down to the beach below.

Woody and Louis simply adore the sand. Their soft paws have never touched anything like it before, or experienced wetness
like the sea. They immediately try chasing the frothy white waves as they wash in and out onto the beach. And very quickly
learn to keep their long pink tongues inside their mouths during this game, when they both get mouths full of salty water.

Except for its three new visitors, the beach is completely deserted
.

So this couldn’t have been the one Dermot meant that Conor was fishing from
, I think, feeling a little disappointed. Ah well, perhaps he’s right, maybe I should spend some time mulling over my latest
problem before the others get here tomorrow. As I stand gazing out to sea, with the dogs splashing about in the waves next
to me, I begin to think again about what I’m going to tell everyone when they arrive.

But as hard as I try, no answers are immediately forthcoming.

I look up into the cloudless sky for inspiration.

‘I need help,’ I call up to it, cupping my hands. ‘What do you suggest?’

A gull circles high over my head, giving nothing away.

I look at Woody and Louis galloping around on the sand. ‘How about it, guys?’ I call. ‘Any ideas?’

They wag their tails in my direction, but continue with their game of trying to chase the waves as they roll along the sand.

‘Oh, come
on
!’ I call out into the vast, never-ending expanse of grey sea. ‘Give me some clue … a hint, at least?’ I spin around and look
at the island behind me. ‘What about you, Tara?’ I ask. ‘This is for your own good, too. Can’t you help?’

But all I hear is the wind whistling over the hills and across the sea as Tara chooses to keep a dignified silence on the
matter.

‘Right, that’s it. Woody, Louis,’ I call, gathering the puppies up to head back to the cottage. ‘Time to go. This is getting
us nowhere. Looks like I’ll just have to keep on thinking myself. Or hope one of the others has come up with something by
the time we get back.’ But as Woody comes running down the beach, I notice he’s proudly carrying something in his mouth. ‘What’s
that?’ I ask, wrestling it from his jaw. ‘Give it, there’s a good boy.’ In my hand I now hold a child’s red plastic spade,
a bit battered and chewed – probably as a result of Woody’s sharp little teeth.

‘Where on earth did you get that?’ I ask, giving it back to him. ‘There are no children playing on these beaches. Oh, it could
have been washed up by the sea, I suppose.’ As I stand there still thinking about the spade, I feel something tapping against
my foot. I look down to see a yellow plastic bucket strewn with seaweed being drawn in and out by the tide. ‘What on
earth
?’ I wade into the waves a little way to pick it up as the sea pulls it away from me again. ‘Anyone would think people used
to holiday here, or something. What’s next, a beach ball?’

Louis, jealous of Woody’s find, tries to grab the bucket from me.

‘No!’ I tell him sternly. ‘Now you
sit
, Louis.’ I push his bottom down a little to encourage him. ‘That’s it, good boy.’
And I give him the old bucket as his reward. He runs off happily to show Woody his prize while I watch them.

Then, as I’m about to turn around to make my way back across the sand towards the cliff path, I stop suddenly in my tracks.

‘Wow, that’s it!’ I exclaim, suddenly realising. ‘That
is
it! You know, it might just work.’

‘What might work?’ I hear a voice next to me enquire.

I jump in fright, then relax slightly as I turn to see Conor standing grinning at me. He’s got a large canvas bag slung over
his shoulder and a fishing rod in his hand.

‘I think I might just have come up with an idea on how we can make this island work for all the new people arriving tomorrow.’

‘Grand,’ Conor says, lifting his bag from his shoulder. ‘Do you want to share it with me?’

Was I ready to share it with anyone? I’d only just thought of it, and I wasn’t quite sure how it would work myself yet.

‘I thought you were fishing this morning?’ I ask him, stalling for time.

‘I am,’ he says, beginning to feed his rod with line. ‘I wasn’t getting any pulls on the other beach, so I thought I’d come
down to this one, and then I saw you standing here and I knew right away my luck would be in.’

I smile at him and shake my head. Conor’s certainly got the Celtic charm going on.

‘What?’ he asks, his blue eyes wide with innocence.

‘Nothing, I’m just not used to men like you, that’s all.’

‘What do you mean, men like me? There’s only one Conor Fitzgerald, that you can be sure of.’

‘And I can well believe it!’

‘You wanna go?’ Conor asks, passing me the rod.

I shake my head.

‘Go on,’ he encourages, ‘Look, I’ll show you what to do.’

While Woody and Louis chase each other around the huge expanse of pale yellow sand, Conor patiently tries to explain to me
the basics of fishing for salmon in the sea.

‘That’s it,’ he says, as I manage to cast the line out into the water this time, instead of getting it tangled around the
rod, myself or on one occasion, Louis. ‘You’re away with it now. Now reel her in.’

I’m not really that interested in learning how to fish. But when Conor had offered to show me, he’d immediately wrapped his
arms either side of me to demonstrate how to cast the line out properly, so that had been an unexpected and rather pleasant
bonus to the lesson, and suddenly fishing has become a lot more interesting.

In fact, I probably could have cast the line out much better quite a few attempts ago, but it seems a shame for Conor not
to share his ‘expertise’, or his wonderfully toned arms for one last time …

As I slowly wind the spool of fishing line back in again, I suddenly remember what I was going to ask him this morning when
I’d set off from the cottage. ‘What do you know about dolphins, Conor?’

‘Dolphins – not a lot, why do you ask?’

‘I saw two this morning down in the bay at the back of my cottage.’ I lift the rod again and cast the line back out into the
sea. ‘Is it considered lucky to spot a dolphin?’

‘That’s grand, Darcy,’ Conor says, looking out to sea. ‘I don’t
know about lucky in general, but I’m sure there’s an old wives’ tale about dolphins and this island.’

‘There is?’ My eyes immediately dart from the fishing rod to Conor as I furiously wind the handle of the spool. ‘What is it?’

‘Darcy, your line?’ Conor nods at the rod as I wind my spinner in as far as it will go, almost snapping the line in the process.

‘Oh sorry, shall I throw it out again?’

‘Cast it, yes,’ Conor grins.

I throw my arms back and cast the line out again, while Conor watches it go sailing out to sea.

‘The tale, Conor?’ I remind him. ‘What is it?’

‘That’s a great cast, Darcy, you should be proud of that. Oh, sorry, I’m not too sure; I just remember something to do with
a dolphin. There are so many myths and legends associated with Tara, you wouldn’t believe.’

‘Are there? Like what?’ I look across at him again. This is much more interesting than watching a bit of string bob about
in the sea. I’d kind of lost interest in the fishing side of things when he’d taken his arms away.

‘Aren’t you going to wind that line in?’ Conor prompts.

I turn back out to sea and begin to wind again.

‘Eamon’s the man to talk to about all that stuff,’ Conor continues, happy now that the spinner is moving again. ‘He’s the
expert on all Tara’s Celtic connections.’

Suddenly as I’m winding I feel a sharp tug on my line.

‘Conor, I think I might have caught something,’ I panic, as the line starts to feel very heavy to wind in. ‘Quick, help me!’

Conor looks out to sea at my taut fishing line. ‘That you sure have, Darcy,’ he grins. ‘Come on now, let’s be landing you
your first fish.’

Rather than grab the fishing rod from me as I’d rather hoped he might, Conor expertly coaches me through the ‘landing’ process
– which turns out to be much more complicated than I ever realised. I thought you just pulled in the fish and that was it
– it would certainly be a lot easier. But oh, no: I have to keep slowly reeling in my line a bit at a time to make sure the
fish is kept tight on the hook. I frequently offer Conor the fishing rod to see if he wants to take over, but he declines,
saying I must land the fish myself. The whole process takes so long, and the fish seems so heavy, that I’m feeling quite exhausted
by the end.