Free Breakfast at Darcy's by Ali McNamara Page B

there,’ the voice says again, and I feel a strong hand on my arm pulling me away from the cliff edge.
    Spinning around, I see a pair of cornflower-blue eyes, set deep within a weather-beaten face, gazing back steadily into my
     own wide eyes.
    ‘Thanks,’ I free myself from his grip and stand back to face him properly. ‘So, you knew my aunt?’
    Now the man has moved a little further away from me, I notice that unlike me he is dressed in faded neutral clothes that blend
     well with the colours of the land. This is in complete contrast with my attempt at island chic – True Religion skinny jeans,
     a white DKNY hoody, silver Nike puffa jacket and my now mud-stained UGG boots.
    ‘Yes, I knew her. A fine lady, so she was. I had no idea what had happened until I got her letter the other day.’
    ‘Letter?’ I’m intrigued by this. ‘What letter?’
    The man rummages inside the pocket of his tweedy jacket and pulls out two crumpled sheets of paper. ‘A Mr NiallKearney sent it to me.’ He squints at the top of the first page. ‘No glasses on me,’ he explains. ‘It says she requested I
     be sent this letter when she passed on.’ He pauses to cross himself. ‘Unfortunately I didn’t receive it until I got all my
     other mail and provisions last week. I get everything late over here, see? Otherwise I’d have made the effort to come across
     to pay my last respects.’
    ‘Of course,’ I nod, wondering what else my aunt had said in the letter. She seemed to have been very organised before she
     died.
    ‘I’m guessing you must be Darcy.’
    ‘Yes, that’s right, and you must be Eamon.’ I feel a bit awkward standing there as he appears to inspect me. Maybe the silver
     jacket was a bit much. But it hadn’t seemed like it in the shop. I’d bought it to go skiing – well, technically I wasn’t actually
     going skiing this year, but you never know: I might get offered the chance.
    ‘That’s me, Eamon Murphy.’ He moves his battered old walking stick to his left hand and holds out his right for me to shake.
     ‘I look after Tara. Your aunt said in her letter you’d probably be over for a visit.’
    ‘Did she?’ I ask, shaking his rough, bony hand.
    My aunt seemed to have been able to predict an awful lot. I wonder how much Eamon knows about everything else, though? Niall
     mentioned she’d employed this Eamon for a number of years to take care of the island, but it seems now they may have been
     more like friends.
    ‘Is that what I think it is?’ Eamon asks, nodding at the wooden box still clasped tightly in my hands.
    ‘It is, yes.’
    ‘Do you mind if I stay? Pay my last respects to Molly now, since I wasn’t at the funeral?’
    ‘Of course, Eamon, please do.’
    Eamon steps back a few paces, removes his cap and smooths down his white hair.
    Rather clumsily, I turn and look back out to sea. I hold out the box in front of me, trying desperately to think of what to
     say. But I’ve never done anything like this before, and having Eamon looking over my shoulder really isn’t helping much either.
    I turn back to him. ‘Do you have anything you’d like to say, Eamon? It’s just I’m not really very good at this sort of thing.’
    ‘Neither am I,’ he says, shuffling back closer to the cliff edge.
    ‘Don’t you know some sort of Irish send-off, perhaps – like a blessing?’
    Eamon thinks for a moment. ‘I know some traditional toasts, but you really need a bottle of the “little green man” for those
     to work.’
    ‘Little green man?’
    ‘That’d be a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey to you. You know, they’re drinking toasts.’
    ‘Oh, I see. Are any of them appropriate?’
    He thinks for a moment. ‘Not really.’ But then a fond smile breaks out across his tanned face. ‘You know something, Darcy,
     I might just have the perfect one.’
    ‘Are you sure?’
    He nods. ‘Now, are you ready with the box?’
    ‘Yes.’ I hold it up again and take a deep breath. This is so