Page 77 of A Second Chance Summer in Dublin
‘There’s so much to find out about each other. Think of all the dinners, the walks, the takeaways and staying-in-curled-up-on-the-sofas we have to look forward to—’
‘The movies!’ I butt in.
‘Travel?’
I nod enthusiastically.
I’m nervous and excited to see Donal’s place. He’d asked me as we all stood up and finished singing ‘Amhrán na bhFiann’, the Irish National Anthem, hands across our chests, resting on our hearts, in patriotic pride.
‘Would you come back with me tonight to my place?’ he’d said.
‘Yes, I’d love to.’ I hadn’t missed a beat as Stevo started rounding up the less-than-sober guests who were taking the bus provided back home. Ties opened loosely around necks, high-heeled shoes swinging in hands as they mounted the steps of the bus that would drop them all to their hall doors.
‘I’m in town so we’ll call a taxi, be quicker. That bus is going all around the world.’
I knew he lived in town, but I didn’t know where exactly. I didn’t care if it was a smaller flat than mine, I just wanted to see him in his space. See the books on his shelf and the pictures on his wall. See the bed he sleeps in, the pillow he rests his head on.
Now, timely, Adele sings ‘Someone Like You’ on the cab’sradio and we both recognise the moment and just sit back and listen.
‘Left here, that’s great. You flew in, thanks a lot,’ Donal says slowly to our driver moments later.
‘Can I give you some money for the cab?’ I bend my head to rummage for my purse in my white bag, already knowing his answer.
‘No. Thank you, though.’ Exactly the response I expected.
‘Well, I’m buying breakfast in the morning, and I won’t take no for an answer.’
Breakfast. With Donal. My heart flutters as I zip my purse back up. Donal pays, opens his door and folds himself out. He comes around and opens the back passenger door for me. It’s only when the orange street lamp from above catches my eye that I look around – I’m on one of the most famous squares in Dublin, Fitzwilliam Square. Donal takes my hand and walks me across the road to the most magnificent, towering red-brick house.
It’s in darkness. The red door is framed by a white arch with an oval window above. We take the six granite steps up to the door, our legs in perfect rhythm. I gaze up as Donal keys four numbers into a code pad on the wall. The paned windows above me have black rail balconies and then two more windows above them, then another two.
‘It’s massive,’ I whisper, in awe of the building as the red door clicks opens.
Inside, I’m hit by the welcoming smell of fresh paint as he rummages and then flicks on a light switch. The hallway is totally bare, in a neutral off-white colour with stripped back original floorboards and two white floor-to-ceiling Roman-style pillars. It’s vast. It’s breathtaking. Donal puts his index finger over his mouth and I nod in understanding as he takes my hand again. We walk across the noisy floorboards and my heelsunfortunately click-clack, then through a tall door at the end. This room is much longer and has a huge, panelled window that looks out onto the famous road. A long chandelier that hangs low, and a black granite fireplace, are the only other things in the room.
‘Why’s it so empty down here?’ I speak in hushed tones. But Donal just points to the ceiling and I look up, in awe, at the intricate work.
‘Follow me,’ he whispers. I bend to slip off my silver heels so as not to scuff the floors. We take the swirling mahogany staircase up and he opens the door to a bedroom. We step inside and he shuts the door. The room is illuminated by the streetlamp.
‘Now .?.?.’ He talks normally, the volume startling me.
There is black-and-white tree-patterned wallpaper on one wall, the other three walls pure white. A wrought-iron double bed rests square in the centre of his bedroom, beside it a black Eames lounge chair with a MacBook resting on it. There is a scattering of books on the floor, a broadsheet newspaper, a chest of drawers and an iron rail with clothes hanging on it. His work boots are overturned in one corner beside his oxblood Doc Martens and a pair of Adidas runners. It’s sparse. But it’s clean, classic, and it really appeals to me.
‘What a place,’ I exhale as I loosen my ponytail, wrap the bobbin around my wrist and shake my hair out.
‘Something else, isn’t it? Want the story?’
I’m like a deer in the headlights taking it all in. ‘Do I!’
‘The square was developed by Richard Fitzwilliam, and this house was built in seventeen-eighty-two. Shootings took place in the square during Bloody Sunday in nineteen-twenty.’
I can’t stop looking out the window at the square. Imagining the Irish history, I actually get a shiver up my spine.
‘I used to deliverThe Irish Timeshere when I was a kid. I’dspend hours looking up at this building. I know it gave me my first love of old buildings, hence my tosser Trinity College print socks! And it gave me my career to boot. Saved my life, maybe. The old man who lived here, Pat Kiely, always brought me in on Christmas Eve and gave me a hot chocolate and a coffee éclair.’ I smile, suddenly remembering his sisters waxing on about the coffee éclairs. ‘He was a huge influence on my life. God, how I looked up to him, and he made me believe that with hard work and determination, I could be anything I wanted to be. He saw himself in me. He started off with nothing but an old pram full of apples and a dream. Pat worked day and night and he ended up running a nationwide chain of supermarkets. Self-made millionaire. I still miss him. I can’t eat cream to this day without that memory, thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I’d never tasted anything quite like it. The open log fire would crackle and the smell of a turkey roasting in the oven .?.?. It felt like I was in a movie. And he’d have those old films playing,The Wizard of Oz,E.T..?.?.’
I smile. ‘They were the impressions you did at my door last week!’
‘They’d a lasting impact.’ Donal sits on the bed, seems lost in thought.
