Breakfast at Darcy's (19 page)

‘Niall?’ I look across to where Niall is just organising the last of the new islanders into their accommodation. Conor and
Paddy are assisting him by helping to carry all their belongings, and I suddenly feel quite protective of him. ‘Aw, don’t
be mean to Niall, Roxi. He can’t help that he’s a bit shy with women.’

‘I’m not being mean to him. I love Niall, he’s wicked, you know that. OK, then, who else if not him?’

I look towards Caitlin’s cottage and grin.

‘No, no
way
!’ Roxi insists. ‘Not Mr Cowell.’

‘Why not? I thought you liked Dermot when you first met him.’

‘It’s not that. He’s quite a good-looking chap as it goes, if you like that type.’ Roxi considers this for a moment. ‘But
he hates me, doesn’t he? Have you any idea how hard it would be for even me, Roxanne Whitney Reynolds, to try to kiss him?’

‘Your idea to have a bet,’ I remind her. ‘Plus, if you’re so sure you’re right, then you won’t have to kiss him, will you?
Anyway, Dermot doesn’t hate you, it’s just his way.’

Roxi’s dark eyes narrow. ‘Hmm, you drive a hard bargain, Miss McCall. But do you know what?’ she says, fluttering her long
eyelashes at me. ‘I’m not as mean as you and because, obviously, I’m so going to win this bet, I’m going make this easy for
you.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Yep, so when
I’m
right, you, Darcy, well, this is hardly a forfeit, more a pleasure, you have to kiss Conor.’

I look now at Conor effortlessly carrying bags and cases just like Dermot.

I think I’m onto a winner, whether I win or lose.

‘Deal,’ I say, holding out my hand for Roxi to shake on it. ‘But how will we know who’s won?’

‘Oh, we’ll know all right, Darce. On an island this size you’re not going to be able to keep anything secret for long.’ Roxi
watches me smiling shyly at Conor, as he waves casually in my direction. ‘Maybe you weren’t the only one that got pally with
Eros that night in Piccadilly Circus.’

Barbecues aren’t something you’re invited to that often in London. It’s considered a rare treat to go to someone’s home that
has a big enough garden to house one. But now that I’ve eaten barbecued food two nights running, it’s becoming a bit much
to stomach for a third night in succession.

Or maybe it’s because I’m nervous that I’ve lost my appetite tonight, I wonder, watching everyone starting to tuck in to the
mountains of sausages, burgers and chicken legs that were delivered along with the furniture today, and are now being expertly
cooked on our two barbecues by Dermot and Conor.

Perhaps I should just get what I’ve got to say over and done with – at least I’ll be able to relax then, once everyone knows
the truth.

I climb up onto one of the wooden benches and take a deep breath.

‘Ahem, if I could just have everyone’s attention, please,’ I
call out into the throng of people milling around the fires holding plates of food, cans of beer and glasses of wine.

‘Excuse me, everyone!’ I try again, when no one responds to my request.

‘Oi, you lot, quiet!’ Dermot shouts, holding his barbecue tongs aloft. He points them in my direction. ‘Darcy has something
to say.’

‘Thanks, Dermot.’ I smile gratefully. ‘Now, first, I’d like to welcome you all properly to Tara. I hope you’ve been able to
settle into your cottages this afternoon without any trouble.’

‘The decor’s not quite what I was expecting,’ one of the men calls. ‘I’ve got shamrocks all over my bedroom curtains.’

‘Think yourself lucky! Ours are covered in pints of Guinness,’ one of the women shouts back, who I think is Kathleen, Aiden
the baker’s wife.

The new cottage decor has finally been outed.

When we’d gone over to the Emerald Arms Hotel, we’d discovered that Mary’s idea of traditional Irish hospitality had extended
far beyond the reception rooms of the hotel, and that each of her twenty bedrooms was individually designed with its own Irish
theme.

There was a Guinness-themed room, a leprechaun room, a room devoted to Irish rugby and a room filled with traditional Irish
musical instruments such as harps, tin whistles, fiddles and bodhráns – a traditional Irish drum. An almost life-size Molly
Malone statue stood proudly in the Dublin-themed blue and white room, and there was also a room dedicated to the delights
of Jameson’s whiskey. The only one I’d quite liked was a room inspired by Celtic symbols. The bed in that
room had a wooden bedhead with a large Claddagh symbol carved into it.

‘It’s a Celtic symbol of love,’ Conor had informed me as I inspected the carving of two hands holding a crowned heart.

‘Yes, the crown stands for loyalty, the hands for friendship and the heart for love.’

‘That’s right, how do you know?’

‘My aunt used to have a ring with the same symbol on.’ I ran my hand lightly over the wooden carving as another memory stirred
within me. ‘She never took it off.’

‘According to tradition, the hand the owner wears their ring on, and the way the ring faces on the hand, conveys their romantic
availability,’ Conor explains. ‘How did your aunt wear hers?’

‘I can’t remember,’ I’d had to admit. ‘Oh, that’s so awful, Conor, I can’t actually remember.’

‘Hey, don’t feel too bad. I guess it must have been a long time ago now.’

‘I know, but I should still remember these things about her. I’m a poor excuse for a niece, aren’t I?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Conor had stood back and pretended to examine me. ‘I think you’re a pretty fine specimen, actually.’

I glance at Conor now as I stand in front of the assembled crowd; he smiles up at me encouragingly and gives me a little wink.
I take a deep breath.
I can do this. I can handle these people. I’ll do it for you, Aunt Molly.

‘Ah, that, yes. Perhaps I should explain. I know it’s hardly what you’d call traditional decor,’ I can feel my cheeks beginning
to turn their usual shade of red when under pressure, but
this time I desperately try to bring them under control. ‘Unfortunately there was a slight mix-up in the furnishings department,
and we were very lucky in finding a local hotelier that was closing down. We’re extremely pleased at what we’ve been able
to get, in the circumstances.’

One or two of the new islanders glance at each other dubiously.

‘Anyway,’ I continue in a bright voice. ‘I’m very pleased to have you all here at last, and to begin what I hope will be an
exciting adventure for us all living and working here together on Tara.’ I pause to clear my throat. ‘I know when we advertised
for people to come and live on the island with us, we said that it would be a “grow-your-own”-type existence, with a farm
and animals and so on. Unfortunately there’s been a slight hitch with that side of things too.’

A murmur of discontent rumbles through the crowd, and there are more dubious looks and some raised eyebrows this time as well.

‘Is this your way of telling us you’re getting the animals from a zoo that’s closing down now, as well?’ a red-headed man
shouts across the others. ‘So we’re looking after elephants now, instead of sheep?’

There’s a ripple of laughter from the new residents of Tara.

I look closely at him. I’m pretty sure he was one of Dermot’s choices.

‘Oh, no, nothing like that!’ I’m desperately trying to keep a confident tone to my voice as I address the new islanders. ‘It
seems – and I knew nothing of this until I arrived myself a couple of days ago – that the conditions here on Tara are just
not suited to keeping the usual type of farm animal, or growing
many of the basic crops we’d need to survive on. That, apparently, is one of the main reasons the communities here died out
in the past.’

One or two of the people in front of me look a bit panicky when I use the phrase ‘died out’.

‘Obviously there are many more ways to get food over to us now than there were in the past,’ I hurriedly remind them. ‘We
won’t starve or anything. We’ll be able to survive in a lot more comfort than our ancestors did. We have fridges and freezers
to store our food. No seal blubber and raw potatoes for us! A couple of trips to Tesco and we’re sorted for a week. You know
what the advert says: “That’s why islanders go to Iceland!” I smile at my own joke, hoping it will lighten the mood a little.

It doesn’t.

‘Don’t believe all this blarney she’s trying to fob youse off with,’ the same angry man waves his hot dog in the air for added
effect. ‘What you’re actually trying to tell us is that you’ve brought us all here under false pretences, is that right?’

‘No,’ I’m trying to remain calm, but it’s becoming increasingly harder with this man’s constant barrage of criticism. ‘Like
I said, I didn’t know anything about this until a couple of days ago. It was only when one of the locals pointed it out to
me that I learned the facts.’

‘But you let us all arrive anyway?’ he says accusingly, jabbing his hot dog in my direction like a sword delivering its final
blow.

I resist countering his challenge and knocking his ketchup-covered sausage out of his hand. ‘The truth of the matter is that
I didn’t have any choice. There aren’t exactly a lot of ways to communicate with the outside world once you’re here, if you
haven’t already noticed. And most of you were already on your way by then.’

‘Is it something to do with the telly people?’ a woman calls out from the crowd.

‘The what?’ I ask in confusion.

‘The telly people,’ she continues. ‘Have they changed the format of the programme, is that why we’re not keeping animals and
stuff now?’

‘Sorry,’ I shake my head. ‘I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.’

A few of the new residents exchange anxious looks.

‘That is what we’re here for, isn’t it?’ another man asks now. ‘Look, I know you’re probably not supposed to say anything,
‘cos that’s the format of the show ’n’ all, but most of us have guessed what’s going on and that’s why we’re here.’

‘What show? What format?’ I ask. ‘I really don’t have the faintest idea what you mean.’

‘So … we’re not being secretly filmed?’ the other woman chips in again now. ‘This isn’t a new island version of
Big Brother
?

Oh, now I get it. They think they’re part of some secret reality TV experiment.

‘I’m sorry to break it to you, but no, you’re not. This is not a TV show, and we’re not going out live on Channel 4.’

Audible sighs of disappointment fill the air over Tara as the wannabe islanders realise they’re not going to be offered a
magazine deal with
OK!
or
Heat
at the end of their time here.

‘But there’s a bonus to us not being filmed,’ I say cheerily. ‘Unlike the lovely Davina, I’ll allow you to swear as much as
you like.’

Other than Roxi’s lone squeal of laughter, my joke falls on stony ground as most of the faces look up at me with derision.

‘So,’ I swallow hard. ‘Out of interest, how many of you thought this was being secretly filmed for TV?’

About a dozen people raise their hands.
Ouch.

‘I’m really sorry to disappoint you, but we can still make this work, can’t we? Tara is a beautiful place to come and live.’

They don’t look very convinced.

‘All this is beside the point,’ the red-haired man pipes up again. ‘Just because some of this lot were gullible enough to
think this was being filmed for TV, we were still brought here on false pretences, and I for one think we have good grounds
to sue.’

Oh, God, this isn’t going well. I look to Niall for help.

‘Mr Bradley, Seamus. Please calm down,’ Niall says in his Dublin solicitor’s voice, walking towards the front of the crowd.
‘I’m sorry some of you seem to have been under a misapprehension as to the purpose of your time here on Tara. I can assure
you that it was never suggested by any of us that a television company would be involved in this project in any way. And there
is certainly no need to talk about suing anyone.’ Niall firmly pushes his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. ‘And
even if there was a need,’ he says in an even more assured tone, glancing at Angry Seamus, ‘I can assure
all
of you that you’d have no grounds whatsoever, since Miss McCall has alternative arrangements for you in hand.’ Niall flashes
a warning glance in my direction.

‘What sort of alternative arrangements?’ Angry Seamus asks, narrowing his eyes. ‘I mean, if we can’t keep animals and we
can’t farm, and there’s no TV involved, what the feck are we going to do while we’re here?’

‘Yes,’ Daniel the ex-GP asks, ‘How are we to earn a living? We can’t just live on fresh air.’

‘Perhaps Miss McCall expects us to go on one long extended vacation?’ Kathleen pipes up again.

‘No, of course I don’t just expect you to come here on holiday. But I can imagine a lot of people would like to spend time
here getting away from it all just like you are.’

‘How do you mean, Darcy?’ Orla, a teacher, asks. She’s looking extremely puzzled, as is everyone else who’s standing around
waiting expectantly for the next instalment of nonsense to spring from my mouth – including Niall, Dermot, Conor, Paddy and
Roxi. (Eamon has wisely chosen to stay away from this gathering.) They’re all wondering just what I’m going to say next, too.

I take a deep breath. ‘You all know how keen
you
were to get away from it all and come and live here on this island. Imagine how many people might like to experience just
a small part of it too? But not for a year, like you – for a short break instead.’ I let this thought penetrate their minds
for a moment before I continue. ‘What I would like to do is to open Tara up as an exclusive holiday resort,’ I say proudly,
sharing my idea for the first time since it popped into my head on the beach yesterday morning. ‘We’ll rent out small, exclusive
cottages on the island to holidaymakers who want to escape for a while, and we’ll also develop a few other leisure facilities
here too, so there’ll be plenty for you to do.’ I look around at them all, still staring up at me with a mixture of bewilderment
and doubt on their faces. ‘I know this idea will work: you’re just going to have to trust me.’