Page 17 of Boomerville at Ballymegille

She couldn’t wait to get started!

The flight landed smoothly and Jo found her case and wheeled it out to the taxi rank. Feeling slightly giddy, she crossed her fingers as she waited for a cab. She forced herself to stay calm as a driver pulled up and she settled in the back of his vehicle.

‘Good day to you,’ he said. ‘I’m Finbar Murphy, at your service. Where would you like to go on this glorious afternoon?’

‘Good morning, Finbar,’ Jo replied. ‘Do you know a place called Flatterley Manor?”

‘Oh, to be sure.’ He grinned as he stared at Jo through the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s a grand old place in the hamlet of Ballymegille. I’ll have you there in a jiffy.’

He started the engine and pulled off at speed.

Cork to Kindale was a pretty journey of approximately twenty miles and the countryside whizzed by as Finbar negotiated the road. Jo looked out of the window at hills and fields recently bathed with rain. The green grass, rough and shaggy in places, contrasted sharply with the rich tones of dark damp earth. Every now and again, high hedges and a long driveway would suggest a property tucked away in the undulating countryside and Finbar took pains to inform Jo of the occupants beyond the gated communities. Hamlets, like Ballymegille and the surrounding area, he explained, were home to an abundance of private and corporate wealth and many famous people had made this area their permanent residence, including a rock star named Long Tom Hendry who, much to the disappointment of the locals, had sold up and moved to Los Angeles.

Jo tensed at the mention of Long Tom’s name. Thank goodness he was on the other side of the world and no one here need have any knowledge of their brief affair.

‘Everyone liked Long Tom,’ Finbar continued, ‘an ex-alcoholic, he was a recluse until, out of the blue, he had a massive hit again, got his rocking shoes back on and toured.’

Jo remembered the hit.

No More Warhad a reggae theme and was Long Tom’s reason for come-back concerts in the Caribbean. When they’d met in Barbados, he was relishing his reincarnated status.

‘But everything changed when he married and bought his wife here.’

‘In what way?’ Jo leaned forward, curious to know what had happened to her ex-lover.

‘We never liked the wife, she didn’t fit in, but Long Tom was a hero, ploughing money into schools and charities.’

Finbar slowed down as he turned off the road and pulled up on a private drive. He lowered his window and reached out to an intercom hidden in the wall. ‘He’s stayed sober though, by all accounts.’ Pressing a buzzer, he sat back. ‘We miss the fella, he was a great guy to have around.’

The gates swung open and the vehicle edged forward.

Jo was wide-eyed as she stared out at the shrubberies and trees that surrounded the drive and remembered the information on the sales details. The manor was built on the lands of Flatterley Friary, a derelict monastery of the Franciscan order, whose slender mediaeval church tower could be seen from the avenue that led to the house. Long Tom Hendry had rescued the property from dereliction and restored it, in keeping with its historic character. Jo could see that the garden was overgrown and wondered if the house was in a bad way too. Perhaps that was the reason she’d got such a great deal on the purchase price.

She bit her lip as the car stopped at the front of the building.

Ivy climbed around a honey-coloured stone façade and Jo noticed shrubs nestling under ground floor windows. The house stood tall, an impressive building with a lake to one side.

‘Welcome to your new home,’ Finbar said and opened the taxi door.

‘How did you know I was the one who’d bought it?’ Jo asked and she felt a fluttering in her stomach.

‘We knew you were coming from the moment your plane touched down.’ Finbar leaned forward and winked.‘Tis the fairies that told us,’ he whispered and took the money that Jo held out, bundling it into his pocket. ‘I wish you happiness here,’ he said, ‘and whatever you do with this fine manor, remember one thing…’

Finbar’s fiery green eyes met hers and he began to sing.

‘May the Irish hills caress you.

May her lakes and rivers bless you.

May the luck of the Irish enfold you.

And may the blessings of Saint Patrick behold you.’

His voice,clear, melodic and beautiful, stunned Jo. She stared as Finbar squeezed her hand, then with a cheery wave, leapt into his taxi.

Welcome to Ballymegille, she thought as she stood alone on the driveway and watched Finbar leave. The sun was low in the sky, silhouetting his vehicle against the lush countryside.

She looked at the garden at the front of the manor and saw an untidy hedge. The lawn was long and a mass of brilliant yellow as buttercups burst through the grass. Jo made a mental note to find a gardener as soon as possible. She picked up her cases and began to walk, her boots crunching across the gravel.

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