Catherine O’Flynn - Mr Lynch’s Holiday

He was trapped in a corner with Henri, Danielle and Raimund all enthusing about a sausage, or possibly a beach, he couldn’t quite understand the Frenchwoman’s accent and hadn’t liked to ask her for clarification. He looked across the terrace again and saw Eamonn. He seemed highly animated now, his facial expressions exaggerated, his laughter false. He stood talking to Simon. At a pause in the music, his voice rang out loud above the others: ‘For example I never shaved my scrotum and maybe that might have made a difference. Would you recommend it?’

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ muttered Dermot, he started to head in Eamonn’s direction, but his exit was blocked by Roger.

‘Henry, could I have a quick word?’

Henri gave an unconvincing smile. ‘Of course.’

‘It’s a polite request.’

‘Please go ahead.’

‘I was wondering if there was any chance of you giving up the nocturnal joy rides?’

‘I’m sorry? What are “joy rides”?’

‘The little drives you take in the middle of the night.’

‘Drives?’ He looked at his wife, who in turn shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know …’

Roger smiled and shook his head. ‘Look, we all know you have a big, manly BMW 4x4 and I’m sure we’re all very impressed by it, but I for one would prefer it if you didn’t drive it around in the wee small hours, because it’s a noisy bugger and it wakes me up.’

‘My car?’

‘Yes. Your car.’ He raised his hands in a mime of driving. ‘Brum, brum, in the night.’

Henri laughed. ‘What a strange accusation.’ He looked at Dermot and Raimund. ‘Maybe it is a joke? I don’t know what it is you think you hear in the night, but it is not me. Or my car.’

‘Look, I’m sorry if this is getting you into trouble with your wife, but wherever you’re going to or coming from, if you could just do it more quietly.’

‘What has this got to do with my wife?’

‘You tell me.’

‘What? This is making no sense.’

‘I’m just telling you to pack it in.’

Henri’s face changed. ‘I’m not sure if you are deaf or stupid, but I will say it again: I’m not doing anything. And, excuse me, you’re “telling” me? You? Are you the mayor? I don’t remember you being elected.’

Dermot had heard enough. He excused himself as the two men continued to squabble and went looking once more for Eamonn. Throughout the evening he had caught glimpses of him. At one point he seemed to have taken command of the music, which was a relief at first, but Dermot noticed later that it was just the same song he kept playing over and over. Later still he’d seen him talking to Jean, and Dermot had got the distinct impression that Jean had been trying to get away from him. Another time he’d heard him shouting in the distance. Each time Dermot had tried to get to him but Eamonn had either slipped away or Dermot had been pulled aside by someone else wanting to know how he was enjoying his stay in Lomaverde. Now that he was free there was no trace of Eamonn at all. Instead he found Inga sitting on her own by the pool. She pointed to the chair next to her:

‘Hello.’

He sat and closed his eyes for a moment.

‘Are you as drunk as everyone else seems to be?’

He opened his eyes. ‘I don’t think I am, no. I was just listening to an argument about engine noise which made me think I’ve not nearly had enough to drink.’

She laughed. ‘Oh yes, Roger. He is a funny man. He is always very cross with me because I feed the cats.’

‘I think I heard him mention that.’

‘I’m sure you did. I told him this evening that he should be happy, as they seem to be leaving.’

‘Is that right?’

‘There’s nothing for them here, the few scraps I give them aren’t enough to stop them starving. I told him I’d noticed their numbers declining. I thought he’d be delighted but it just seemed to offend him. He said: “Bloody charming. Like rats leaving a sinking ship!” He was so hurt by their disloyalty.’

Dermot smiled. ‘So, are you enjoying the do?’

She nodded. ‘I didn’t really expect to, but it’s nice. I don’t speak to my neighbours much. With some’ — she looked over at Roger — ‘that’s maybe a little intentional, but with others, well, it’s strange to say in such a small place, but our paths don’t really cross so often and it’s pleasant to speak to them properly and remember that there are good people here.’ She looked at him. ‘How are you finding being the centre of attention?’

‘Is that what I am?’

‘Of course. A new face. Fresh blood. A new audience for the old stories.’

‘Oh, there was I, thinking I was charming company, but I just have novelty value.’

She smiled. ‘Oh dear, I’ve said the wrong thing.’

‘No. I think you have it right …’ He stood up suddenly, his gaze directed at the far side of the terrace. Eamonn was slumped on the floor, his head buried in his hands. Dermot turned to Inga: ‘I’m sorry, can you excuse me?’

He knew then that he should have taken him home hours ago. He didn’t know what had set him off. He’d been fine that morning when he left him and then seemed a changed man when he returned. He hadn’t been right from the moment they’d arrived at the barbecue, and God knows how much he’d had to drink since then. Dermot walked over and crouched down, as best as he could, beside him.

‘Eamonn?’

Nothing.

‘Eamonn, get up, you can’t stay here like this.’

A long sniff.

‘Eamonn, come on, son, people are looking.’

A muffled response.

‘What? I can’t hear you.’

‘Please go.’

‘Come on, son, let’s get you home.’

Suddenly Eamonn shouted: ‘It’s not my fucking home!’

The terrace fell silent. Dermot felt everyone’s eyes upon them. He turned and tried to smile. ‘I think he’s had a bit too much to drink.’ He turned back and spoke quietly. ‘Come on. You’re causing a scene now. Get up.’ He braced his back and reached out to try to lift Eamonn off the ground, but Eamonn hunkered down.

‘Dad, please, just leave me alone.’

Becca laid a gentle hand on Dermot’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, Dermot, happens to everyone sometimes. Roger! Ian! Come and give Eamonn a hand.’ Dermot was well able to lift his son by himself, but he deferred to the younger men, thinking Eamonn might be persuaded by them.

As they approached though he started shouting louder than before: ‘Don’t fucking touch me! I’m not going back there.’

They ignored him and tried to grab an arm each.

‘Get off me!’

‘Eamonn, don’t be a prick.’

‘Ow! He hit me!’

Ungainly tussling and slapping broke out with all three men at varying stages of drunkenness; a bottle was dropped and smashed on the stone tiles and then a voice rang out.

‘Get your hands off him!’ Cheryl appeared, the setting sun igniting the colours in her tropical-print maxi dress, her pearlized eye make-up shimmering. Ian and Roger stepped back obediently and she stood over Eamonn.

‘Eamonn. What are they doing to you, sweetheart?’

He looked up at her with ceramic-puppy eyes. ‘Cheryl. Help me.’

‘It’s OK, honey, I’m here.’ She turned to Dermot. ‘I’ll take him back to ours for a bit, give him some coffee and a shoulder to cry on. He’ll be fine.’

Dermot hesitated. ‘If that’s what he wants.’

‘Come on, Eamonn, let’s go next door.’

He struggled to his feet, resisting the assistance of Roger and Ian. As Cheryl linked her arm through his to steady him, she turned and whispered something to Roger.

Dermot watched her lead his son away. He wished he’d carried him home when he’d had the chance.