The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley (24 page)

The tide was going out now, leaving pools deep and wide for her to negotiate her way around, and the light was fading. With her hands rooted deep in her pockets, she turned herself towards the cottage and her thoughts to a painting of a man in a dark suit and bowler hat, with a gentle heart and a burgeoning affection bubbling beneath his funereal veneer.

—

THE VIEW FROM
the open doorway is a perfect one. Endless acres of green fields peppered with poplars and giant oak trees, lending shelter to the horses and cows that graze there under the morning sun. The French countryside has always appeased my soul, particularly in Nantes, where I now stand, cradling a whiskey in my hand, and breathing in the moistness of the dewy air.

Patrice and Blandine, Eva's parents, are behind me at the kitchen table doing their post-breakfast ritual: he puffing his pipe, she gathering the plates. The whiskey is Patrice's idea, to warm us for our morning walk. It reminds me of the days I used to go fishing with my father on Lough Mask, casting our flies back and forth, waiting for a rise. Whenever my attention would wane and turn from the fly on the water, Shay would say, “Any minute now,” which always brought me back to the fly. And when the weather was harsher than usual, we'd pass Shay's hip flask between us, the taste of Bushmills never failing to give my mouth the touch of a smile.

Patrice knows his whiskey, and for the occasion, he's pulled out a bottle of Midleton Very Rare, which he rubbed reverently while displacing it from its spot beside the Pernod in the cupboard. I know that my coming here has meant the world to them. It's the first time they've seen me since the funeral. They knew I'd crumbled under the loss of their daughter, and while dealing with their own grief, they'd worried deeply about mine. To have me turn up on their doorstep during the run-up to Christmas, unannounced, has gladdened their hearts and opened their wells of kindness.

For me, it's the ultimate safe house. And one where I can now breathe in deeply the memories and smells of all things Eva without cutting myself on the blades of my grief. I'm stronger now than I've ever been, and with a bit of distance from those last days of October, I decided to come home. To Eva.

Since Chris O'Donoghue let me off the hook at the ferry terminal, I haven't looked back. With the help of Kershaw, I'd put paid to all my problems: my shoulder, Cullen, and beautiful Brigid Wright.

I miss Dublin, there's no doubt about it. I miss the gray skies, the quick wit, the daily chance encounters, and Gallagher's yard. And I miss the funerals. But even if I could go back, I wouldn't. Dublin will remain a dirty shirt to me now. I'm finished with it, and it's finished with me, too. There's nothing there for me anymore.

Standing by the fair fields of France now, considering Lucy Wright while her distant laughter echoes in my mind, I think if ever I met someone who was in charge of her life it was Lucy. And wouldn't someone who knew what to do know when to go? Could she have stopped taking her warfarin tablets on purpose and then, when serendipity smiled, abandoned herself to the act of love with me as recklessly as she did, knowing her heart wouldn't be up to the task, to follow her husband elsewhere so their love could continue? Having learned what I know about her from Brigid and Shay Mac Giolla, it seems well within the scope of her character and a fitting end to a class act.

I've come to call my last days in Dublin my crazy days, for never before have I skirted so close to being killed or to permanently breaking someone's heart. Through my own wishes, I brought about my exit from the dark womb I'd been living in, and in the throes of labor, I grabbed at anything within reach to mollify the pain of being expelled. The greatest casualty, of course, was Brigid and our impossible love.

Our love was doomed the moment my lips touched Lucy's and I'd known it all along. Any notions I harbored of spending a life with Brigid were simply reflections of her own desires, which, coming from a base of purity and truth, were diametrically opposed to my own. While Cullen had been unnerving me throughout the week, the stolen moments I shared with Brigid were the perfect antidote to my fear. It kept me level. There was no denying the caliber of our attraction, and under more normal circumstances, it could possibly have run a successful course of love. The circumstances, however, were far from normal, and the further I drove from Holyhead, the clearer my thinking became, and it wasn't long before I fully appreciated its futile nature.

There was also the more pressing matter of Vincent Cullen to deal with. I didn't fancy a life on the run. Much better to put an end to it all and sleep easy. So, with the tools and powers of two funeral companies at my disposal, I puppeteered the play of my own demise. Kershaw went one better than merely facilitating my funeral and awarded me the princely sum of twenty thousand pounds for sticking my neck out in the first place.

I put the twenty grand down, ante post, along with every other penny I had, on a horse called Liberty Girl, running down the Curragh at fifty-to-one and afterwards deposited a hundred grand of my winnings into Christy's bank account. I never doubted Vincent's word on the horse, but I couldn't help smiling at the irony of it, either: the man responsible for making me being the very man bent on my undoing.

Patrice and I have taken to walking the surrounding fields in the mornings, sharing our stories and memories. And I'm in no rush away. Blandine has been helping me with my French in the afternoons, and the evenings I've been spending eating out, getting to know the area and the people.

There are still times I find myself thinking of Brigid, like when I fleetingly catch her scent when out walking, and the pictures of her I keep in my head linger and walk with me. But they pass, and my thoughts drift away from Brigid to where I am now, the world of Eva. And I like it here, now that my heart has healed.

Patrice gets to his feet behind me and puts his coat on.

“Ready, Paddy?” he says.

“Ready,” I say. And I am.

The keys given and graces shown to me by friends and family throughout this book's journey have been plentiful and greatly appreciated. Very special thanks to my parents for their ceaseless love and support; to my father, Conor, who opened my heart to the treasures and joys of what a great story can be; to my mother, Anya, for always believing; and to my brothers, Angus, Zeb, and Paddy, and my sisters, Samantha and Alyanya, for being my co-conspirators.

I'm eternally grateful to Professor O'Donoghue of Roscrea for lighting the fire; to Jonathan Philbin Bowman and Eoghan Harris for fanning the flames; to Kieran Ring for suggesting I write the novel in the first place; to Paddy Brady for being as wide as a kite and for being such a great inspiration; and to Lorcan Walshe and Mannix Flynn for paving the way.

A special word of thanks to Adam Hyland for his invaluable reports. Massive gratitude and big love to Mića Bikicki for doing the first edit, and for his ingenious understanding of story. Thank you, David Bateman, for being a reader like no other. Thank you to my in-laws, Bill and Jill Barham, for the shelter and love in Melbourne. And thank you, Niel Vaughan and Miin Chan, for the esoteric advice.

Heartfelt thanks to Julia Lord, and to my amazing agent, Ginger Curwen, for believing as she does, and for bringing Paddy Buckley to the Promised Land. I'm deeply indebted to the team at Riverhead, who have been an absolute delight to deal with. In particular, I'd like to thank my editor, Jake Morrissey, whose wizardry will never be forgotten; and special thanks to assistant editor Alexandra Cardia, eagle-eyed copy editor David Hough, and designer Grace Han for making such a beautiful jacket.

And finally, to Holli, my love and story consultant, and to my richest treasures, Lughnasa, Finnegan, and Coco, who all made the telling of this story possible.

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