Page 104 of The Last Love Song
‘What about me?’
‘Would you not think it appropriate to come with me, at least for the funeral?’
Con looked at her in surprise. ‘Me? Go back to Ballymore for the funeral of the man who wanted to throw me in jail?’ Con shook his head. ‘No, Sorcha, I don’t think so.’
She bit her lip. ‘But, Con, remember how we said that one day we’d go back and everyone would want to know us in Ballymore? Surely this is the moment?’
‘I’m not a hypocrite, Sorcha. It would be wrong of me to attend the funeral of a man I disliked and who disliked me.’
‘And what about me? MaybeIneed you by my side.’
‘Be honest, Sorcha, you can’t be sorry he’s dead. You hated him.’
There was a pang in Sorcha’s heart. ‘That isn’t the point.’
Con was reaching for his cigarettes. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘No! If you can’t understand why I’d like you to be by my side when I return home after all these years, then forget it, just forget it.’ She shuddered, stood up and reached for her dressing gown. ‘I have a lot to do if I’m to leave this afternoon.’
‘Ah, Sorcha, please. Let’s not have another argument. If you’re sorry, then I’m sorry your daddy’s dead. But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t come to Ballymore today. You know the band’s deep in rehearsal for the Central Park gig next week.’
‘Rehearsals haven’t mattered a damn when you’ve had a sit-in or a protest to go to, have they? But then I suppose I have to accept that me and my feelings come bottom of your list of priorities. After all, I’m just your wife! You couldn’t give a damn how I feel, could you?’
‘Sorcha! Sorcha, please!’
She’d already left the room, slamming the door behind her.
With a sigh, Con sank back onto the pillows.
Sorcha heard Con’s car screech out of the drive on his way into the studio in central London. Then she went to Jenny’s office to organise her flights.
‘Con was looking for you.’
‘I popped out for some fresh air.’
‘Oh. Well, he said to say that he’d try and get home before you left, but if he didn’t, you’re to leave a number where you can be contacted. I’ve already called Aer Lingus. The direct flight to Cork is full. You’ll have to change at Dublin. The plane leaves Heathrow at two thirty, arriving in Dublin at half past four. There’s a ten-to-six flight down to Cork, which arrives in at ten to seven. I’ve held this afternoon’s travel, but the airline needs to know when you’re returning.’
Maybe never, Sorcha thought as she stared at the corkboard behind Jenny’s desk. She had stuck particularly funny fan letters onto it, along with promotional shots of Con and the band. She shrugged. ‘I’ve really no idea.’
‘Then I’ll organise an open return.’
‘Yes. Thanks, Jenny. I must go up and pack.’
‘Of course. I’ll order a car for you for half past twelve. That should give you plenty of time. And, Sorcha?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m really sorry about your dad.’
‘Thank you. I’ll see you later.’
Sorcha’s taxi arrived in Ballymore at just after half past eight that evening. She felt exhausted from the long day of travelling.
She hadn’t wanted to brood on either the situation she’d left behind or the one in front of her, so she’d spent the journeywith her head buried in the pile of glossy magazines that she’d bought herself at the airport.
Darkness had only just fallen in the village. She remembered going to bed as a child at nine o’clock with the sun just setting. There were only six hours of darkness in high summer.
Sorcha looked out of the taxi window at the familiar landmarks. Little seemed to have changed, apart from the odd shop closed up because its owner had presumably died, and a new tea room on the corner.
