The Moon Over Kilmore Quay

by Carmel Harrington

Genres: Friendship

Synopsis

‘A warm and beautifully evocative story of family and secrets, love and heartache, with a devastating twist’ Alex Brown, bestselling author of A Postcard from Paris

When your heart belongs in two places, can you ever truly find home?

Brooklyn, New York,
Bea has grown up in the heart of the Irish community, always hearing stories of home. When she discovers a letter from her younger self, written years before, it sends her deep into her own family history.

Kilmore Quay, Ireland.
Years earlier, Lucy Mernagh leaves her much-loved home and family in search of the New York dream. The Big Apple is a world away from the quiet village she grew up in, and the longing for home aches within her.

When Bea uncovers a shocking secret, it takes her back across the water to Kilmore Quay, where – finally – long-buried truths will come to light. But fate has one last twist in store…

Praise for The Moon Over Kilmore Quay

‘A heart-warming story which shows the power of friendship, family and heritage’ Independent

‘A life-affirming and emotional story on the importance of family and friends’ Woman

‘Unashamedly full of heart … takes the reader on an unputdownable journey between New York and Wexford. It is a story about family and identity, about legacy and secrets … a touching love letter to Ireland’ Hazel Gaynor

‘Love and laughter woven into a beautiful story brimming with Carmel’s trademark warmth’ Milly Johnson

‘A warm and beautifully evocative story of family and secrets, love and heartache, with a devastating twist that will break your heart’ Alex Brown

‘This fab dual-timeline story is full of secrets, love and all the emotions’ Fabulous

‘A charming, beguiling read, yet another winner from Carmel’ Belfast Telegraph

Release date: June 1, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

31 March 2020

Innisfree, Prospect Avenue, Brooklyn

I thought I had life all figured out. Yet it only took one letter and a devastating secret to turn my world upside down. But I’ve also learned that sometimes change can bring you to where you need to be.

If you’d asked me who I was before recent events, I’d have replied that I was Bea O’Connor. A proud daughter and granddaughter of Irish immigrants. (Yes, both!) Brooklyn-born and reared in a house called Innisfree – a three-storey brownstone that my Great-Great-Uncle Richard bought and planned to fill with a family of his own. But destiny had another purpose for him, one that didn’t include a wife and children, which in turn changed my grandfather’s life, because Innisfree became his home and he filled it with all of us instead.

Great-Great-Uncle Richard, my grandparents and my mom are all gone now. Grandad always said that when you leave a place that you love, you never really go. Your echo can still be heard if you listen closely enough.

Oh God, I hope so. There’s something so comforting in knowing that the people I love, both those here and those that are gone, are around me still. Loving me. Catching me when I fall.

My Irish heritage is a big part of who I am. I grew up listening to my grandparents speak of their birth country in revered tones. Ireland was a greener, friendlier, funnier, happier place than New York was. Every anecdotal tale they shared was cushioned in a cloud of nostalgia. It was the same for Dad and Uncle Mike too. As first-generation immigrant kids, most conversations at their dinner table included a trip down memory lane to our beloved Ireland. And then there were the ballads. I learned pretty quickly that these songs of Ireland went hand in hand with being a member of the Irish-American diaspora. And as we Irish tend to love a good sing-song, most of us have one special song where every lyric and note is a reminder of Ireland, family and home. A what might have been. ‘Danny Boy’, ‘The Streets of New York’, ‘The Mountains of Mourne’, ‘Spancil Hill’. For the O’Connor family, it has always been ‘The Isle of Innisfree’, the song that inspired the name of our home. At the many gatherings that were held in our large family room over the years, we’d sing about folks who were dreamers. Folks who were just like me.

I’ve dreamed of Ireland, the birthplace of my mother and grandparents, my entire life. And every time I sang ‘The Isle of Innisfree’ I felt, deep down inside of me, the siren call of home. But there’s the rub. How can I call myself a New Yorker if I’m not sure where my heart belongs? They say home is where the heart is, yet somehow my heart is split in two. The city I live in and love, and the home of my ancestors – somewhere I lived only in my dreams.

This is why I had no choice but to go looking… looking for the truth of who I really am, where I came from and where I belong.

It’s quite a story as it goes and, as I’ve got time on my hands for a while, I’ve decided to write it down. You see, I’ve had to hit the pause button on my life for a bit and there’s nothing like time on your hands to make you reflect on the events of the past couple of months. My story belongs to my parents too, because the ripples of their life pooled out wide to touch the lives of so many other people too.

It all begins with a letter I wrote to my future self, when I was ten years old…

December 2003

Innisfree, Prospect Avenue,

Brooklyn, New York

Dear future me

Hello from the past! This is Bea. You. Me!

If you are reading this, then it means that my teacher Ms. Dryden did post our letters as she promised she would! We’ve been working on a project in school on how we think the world will look in the year 2020. That gave Ms. Dryden the genius idea that her students would all write letters to our future selves. She will hold them in a time capsule until New Year’s Day 2020. She also made us spend hours practicing our handwriting. Not so fun. Jimmy Del Torio, my least favorite person in school, reckons there will be flying cars in 2020. While I’d love to own a car that could fly me over the Statue of Liberty, I hope he’s wrong. I sometimes daydream that Jimmy trips up and falls down a manhole. I don’t want him to die or anything, but a few months without him in school would be nice. He is “so good” all the time—or at least that’s what he wants everyone to think. When we were in first grade I saw him kick a tiny baby bird who’d fallen from its nest. He only stopped when I launched myself at him, knocking him to the ground.

I ran home and told Grandad what he’d done and Grandad said, ‘His halo is held up by the devil’s horns. Watch out for boyos like that Bea.’

I told my family that I never want to leave Innisfree. Grandad says why would I? The park and subway are a minute’s walk away, the church and school up the road. He says when he lived in Ireland he lived in the arsehole of nowhere, which makes Gran laugh and give out, because it’s not nice to say. He says he had to cycle his bike for hours to get anywhere. I told him that I want to go to Innisfree in Ireland one day, but Gran says that Innisfree is actually anywhere in Ireland that your heart desires it to be, because it represents home. I love them both so much. They say that I am the light of their lives. And they are my favorite people too, except for when they make me do a jig or sing because they want some entertainment and there’s nothing on the T.V. I mean, come on, we have seventy-five channels! And when I do give in and sing for them, Gran always cries. But Grandad says they are happy tears.

We did a project last week about the dangers of cigarettes. I gave my project to Uncle Mike to read, because he is always sneaking out the back of our house to have a smoke. But I don’t think he appreciated my efforts. I worry about Uncle Mike. We all do, because he nearly died two years ago during the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Uncle Mike is an NYPD police officer. He says that it’s his job to help people, but I still get nightmares thinking about that time. We didn’t know where he was for hours and all we could do was pray and wait. Uncle Mike doesn’t like to talk about it much, but sometimes he gets this look on his face and I know he’s remembering all his cop friends who died. Grandad used to smoke but he stopped because of a wheeze. I told Uncle Mike that people can die from a wheeze. And lots of other horrible diseases like pneumonia, emfisina emphysema and lung cancer. I will never smoke. Because I plan on living till I’m one hundred years old so that means I have to be careful what I put into my body. If I do have to die young, I want it to be from a parachute jump that goes wrong. Or in the line of duty when I save the president from the clutches of a dastardly villain. I’m very concerned about President Bush’s safety. I told Uncle Mike about my concerns and he said he would talk to the president personally to make sure he takes extra precautions. Because of Uncle Mike’s job, he knows everyone. Grandad says it is very handy having a police officer in the family.

Oh, and I have most definitely decided that in 2020 I will never, ever, cross my heart and hope to die, eat Brussels sprouts. So gross. While I don’t hate school, I’m not overly fond of it either. My favorite subject is recess, when I get to play with my best friend forever Stephanie. I’m not too keen on math, English or geography. And judging by my test results, they are not too keen on me either. When I’m older I’m going to be a world-famous detective. I will solve all the unsolvable crimes. People will pay me huge sums of money to find the president when he is kidnapped by the Russians or the Chinese. I will speak at least four languages, to help solve all the crimes. I have a brand-new friend who is Serbian – Katrina Petrovic. I think I will be fluent in Serbian pretty soon. She starts school tomorrow and will be in my class. She is very cool. Gran said she’s a little too cool for her liking. Her family moved into the house next door to us yesterday. Katrina was wearing a cropped top over a pair of leopard-print skin-tight leggings, listening to music on her headphones. I’ve never seen a cooler person in my life.

‘That young wan will catch her death,’ Gran said, tutting and sighing as her eyes moved up and down Katrina’s scantily clad body. I half expected her to run out and put a coat over her. I would have literally died if she had.

‘I think she looks cool,’ I said quickly, and moved my body closer to the door in case Gran did decide to do anything mortifying. Dad and Uncle Mike both spluttered that over either of their dead bodies would I ever wear a cropped top like the one the girl had on. Good job they don’t know that I spent last night cutting up my new green T-shirt.

Is Dad still a famous author? He won’t let me read his books yet. There’s probably bad words in them. Like the F word. When I am twelve, Dad said he will think about letting me read them. Yesterday Dad collected me from school and we spent the afternoon at the American Museum of Natural History. He is researching a new storyline for his next novel. I helped him find the right trees and plants that would be found in the forests in the 1890s when his book is set. Dad says I’m really good at finding things. It’s my number one favorite thing to do. I just wish there was a way to find my mom.

I have so many questions about her and her life in Ireland. Like, did Mom have Spock ears same as I do? I can’t tell from the photographs because her hair is covering them. All of the O’Connors have perfect round ears. So I think it must be a thing from her side of the family. I haven’t told Dad this, but I sent my aunt, my mom’s sister, a card today to wish her Happy Holidays. Maybe she has the same ears as me too.

Sometimes I pretend Mom didn’t die. I ask her to help me choose my clothes when Gran tells me to wear something “nice” for Mass. I can never work out what “nice” is, because my jeans and T-shirts are all lovely as far as I’m concerned. I know Mom can’t hear me in heaven. I’m not crazy. But I can hear her voice in my head when I need her.

I wonder if Mom is annoyed that Dad has a new girlfriend? If he’s still with her now, as you read this, it means my plan to split them up has failed. Gran says it’s time that Dad met someone new and that I should be a big girl about it. It’s been seven years since Mom died. But why did he have to choose my teacher out of all the people who live in New York? I mean, it’s mortifying because he’s making a spectacle of himself, as Gran would say. When he came to the school gate yesterday to pick me up, he was all over Ms. Dryden. Everyone was watching. I put salt in her coffee last week, but she just took a sip, made a face, then put the cup down and never said a word. I mean, what kind of a person doesn’t try to find out who put the salt in? I was all ready to declare my innocence and make Dad take my side. But Ms. Dryden is very very tricky.

I thought I’d put Uncle Mike’s police officer handiness to the test. So I told him to run a full background check on her. See if Ms. Dryden has any hidden husbands. Uncle Mike wasn’t too keen, he said Corinne was a fine-looking woman and to leave them be. But what would he know? He’s single and always ready to mingle as he forever tells everyone. Gran says Uncle Mike has the worst taste in women. If she’s a bad’un, he’ll pick her, she says. He doesn’t seem to mind. He told me he’s having the time of his life picking up the bad and the good’uns, saying the women love the uniform. Maybe it’s the shiny buttons.

Stephanie and I love to watch Full House. Sometimes I daydream that I’m married to someone who is as handsome and nice as Jesse is. But NO children, thank you very much. They seem like a lot of work. Stephanie is the prettiest girl in our class. But she reckons that title belongs to Tiffany. I am not a fan of Tiffany. She cries too much. Yesterday she cried because she spilled her milk at lunchtime – literally cried over spilt milk. Stephanie on the other hand is made of sturdier stuff and rarely indulges in any boohooing. We met on our first day in St. Joseph’s School. She didn’t want to go inside the classroom and begged her mom to take her home again. So I opened my new pencil case and found my new unicorn eraser that Dad bought me. And I gave it to her. Her mom said, no, you can’t give away your new eraser, but I didn’t mind. I had a rainbow one too. Dad often buys stationery. He says it’s the curse of all writers. Anyhow, on that first day, Stephanie linked arms with me as we walked into the class. I hope we link arms with each other for the rest of our lives.

When I go to Irish dancing classes, Stephanie comes with me. To be fair, because as Gran says, it’s not always all about me, when Stephanie goes to her piano classes, I sit outside on the wall waiting for her to come out. She’s getting really good and yesterday she played LeAnn Rimes’s ‘How Do I Live’ from start to finish, without a single note wrong. I was so proud of her. When I get sad about Mom, Stephanie always listens to me. Like last year, on Mother’s Day, she knew I wasn’t really sick when I cancelled going to the Kings Plaza mall for a class outing. I couldn’t face all of the banners that hung from every shop window talking about a mother’s love. The problem is, I don’t know what a mother’s love is. I’m not sad about that all the time or anything. But sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if she was still here. At holidays, it feels like I have a hole in my heart. Dad tries to fill the hole, and most days he does a really good job. He tells me how much she loved me, how she used to sing to me every day and loved to brush my hair and put it into pigtails. I feel so bad that I don’t remember any of that. She loved me and even though I don’t remember her, I love her too. Stephanie knew the real reason I didn’t go to the mall that day. And she wanted to make me feel better. So she collected photographs of Mom from Dad. Then she made a scrapbook for me. She glued pictures of me in Mom’s arms in all sorts of places. The mall, the park, the movies, the school gates. Stephanie said that way I could pretend they were real memories. That’s why she’s my BFF. She always always ALWAYS thinks of me first. And we’ll never stop being BFFs. Not till the day we die.

I have written nearly eight pages now, which I think is enough. Ms. Dryden said she wanted at least four. Stephanie has only written half a page and I bet most of that was about Full House.

I hope that you are living your best life. And that every day is full of fun and love for you, for us.

I can’t wait to meet/be you…

With love from Bea, You, Me! X

New Year’s Eve 2019

Innisfree, Prospect Avenue, Brooklyn

‘Ten, nine, eight…’

I wasn’t sure I could bear to hear one more number being called out. I reached over to the remote control and considered switching the television off. The temptation to curl up into a ball on my sofa and pretend that time was not ticking on was strong. The ball glowed, purple, gold then pink into the dark sky.

‘Seven, six, five…’

I’ve never been any good at pretending.

‘You wear your heart on your sleeve,’ Grandad always said. Only because I learnt that from him. My kind grandad, who was always the first to suggest we help neighbours, friends and strangers alike. His heart was so big we were forever doing good deeds for all and sundry. One weekend when I was eleven or twelve, we were on our way back from this French guy, Christophe’s, apartment, where we’d just dropped off cups and plates, a saucepan and a blow-up mattress. My grandad didn’t really know him – he’d only met him in Sidetracks restaurant earlier that day. They got chatting and he learned that Christophe had nothing in his apartment but a blanket for the floor. Then when we were on our way back from his apartment, we passed a dumpster on Windsor Place. Grandad stopped and made us all rummage through it on the hunt for more gems we could give to our new French friend. ‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,’ he loved to say. But I’d had enough of being a Samaritan, so I refused to get out of the car.

‘I hope you never need a help-out from your neighbours, Bea.’ He looked so disappointed in me, it broke my heart into tiny pieces.

‘People are looking at us. Don’t you care what they think?’ Shame made me belligerent.

‘I couldn’t care less what people think. But I do care about that poor wee lad Christophe. He doesn’t know anyone. He’s in a strange country, away from family and friends.’ Grandad pulled out a mirror, the frame a little battered, but otherwise perfect. ‘This will look grand over that mantelpiece for him. Care more about what you think about yourself Bea, less about what others think. Remember that.’

I’ve never forgotten that lesson.

On the TV screen in front of me, the countdown continued. Every second marched me closer to a new year and an uncertain future. A pain sharpened inside my head.

‘Four, three, two, one… Happy New Year!’

Fireworks exploded into the sky on either side of the tower. Confetti streamed over the revellers who cheered and screamed with joy in Times Square. I smiled, despite my dark mood, as the camera zoomed in on a couple who were dressed in matching plastic see-through anoraks. They wore funny hats with the year 2020 emblazoned across them. And then they snogged, as if it were their last kiss. Good for them.

Journalists and TV presenters, dressed in their best overcoats and scarves, smiled for the camera as they danced awkwardly with each other. Mayor Bill de Blasio waltzed with a brightly dressed pretty blonde. Without warning another pain pierced me, so sharp this time it made me jump up and cry out.

I should have been out there, dancing with Dan.

Cheek to cheek, slow, slow, quick, quick, slow.

Instead I shouted ‘Happy New Year’ to my empty studio apartment. The haunting melody of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ echoed around the room.

‘We’ll take a cup of kindness yet…’ I sang in a whisper. I couldn’t finish the line. It would be the end of me.

The ghost of my mom seemed to be everywhere. She was never far from my head and heart, even though she’d been gone for twenty-three years. Holidays made me feel her loss more acutely, although I missed her every day in some way. Only yesterday I had seen a mom wipe a child’s face with a handkerchief, and the gesture, the caress, had been a déjà vu moment for me. A forgotten memory, buried deep, of my mom doing the same for me – or was it just me wishing for a memory like that? Either way, it hurt.

My phone had been going non-stop. When I looked at the screen, it was Dan again. I opened his text.

Happy New Year. I can’t stop thinking about this time last year. Do you remember? Please, Bea – don’t keep shutting me out. We can talk it through. I know you are upset and scared. But we have something special. I can’t believe I imagined all of that. I’d give anything to see those blue eyes of yours right now. Please call me. Or text. Just don’t ignore me.

With tears blurring my vision, I typed a response.

Dan, I can’t stop thinking about you either. I remember everything and I love you…

I paused. Then deleted the message word by word. If only I could erase my feelings with a tap of a button too. There were good reasons why I had to stay away from Dan. Nothing changed just because ‘Auld Lang Syne’ had made me sentimental. I felt another wave of tiredness hit me. Before Grandad died, he used to say his bones ached. I understood that sentiment tonight. I looked at my bed and contemplated falling into it. Why not give in to the tiredness? But I was too stubborn for that. I caught a glimpse of my face in the long, tall mirror that was propped up against the wall. I looked miserable, not a good look for me. Gran’s voice rang in my head. Her childhood warning to me, often given, whenever I made a face. ‘Take that look off your face, Bea O’Connor! You need to buck up, young lady. Because, mark my words, however you feel at midnight on New Year’s Eve is how you’ll be feeling for the rest of the year. That’s a fact known to all.’

I’m not sure what scientific evidence backed up Gran’s old wives’ tale, but when I was a kid I believed everything she told me. Mind you, I often used her advice to my own advantage too. I made it my business to kiss the best-looking fella I could find at midnight every New Year’s Eve. Hoping to ensure that the rest of my year would be spent making out with a good-looking man.

No good-looking man for me this year. No Gran and Grandad.

I raised my bottle of Corona and toasted my image in the mirror. While my reflection looked like a right old killjoy, she was all I had for company. ‘Looks like we’re in for a pretty shit year, Bea.’

The thing is, I chose to be here on my own, so if I was grumpy, sad, morose and talking to myself in a mirror, it was my own fault. Dad practically got down on his knees begging me to go out with him and Uncle Mike. They’d be milling out of Farrell’s about now, onto Prospect Park, with paper cups of beer in hand. Uncle Mike would be leading the conga. In another hour he’d be singing old Irish ballads. I hoped he was having fun tonight. Uncle Mike had worked throughout Christmas, pulling the short straw, holiday shift-wise. The NYPD had unsocial hours. He’d paid a hefty price for that. About six months after he married a woman called Eugenie, she’d found solace from her loneliness with a guy she met at the gym. They divorced before their first anniversary. She got their house and Uncle Mike moved home again. I’m glad he did. It’s good to have him here with Dad and me. I thought about moving out a few years back. The need for privacy was strong. But rent is high in New York, which put paid to my need to be alone. Compromise was reached, and Dad converted the basement into a self-contained studio for me. They had planned on doing the same for him and Mom, one day. But before they got the chance, she died. It had a bathroom, a small kitchenette (that I rarely used), and a sitting room with a Murphy bed you pull out of a wall. It also had its own entrance, albeit one that most ignored. Somehow, it worked.

Katrina was pissed with me too, because I hadn’t gone out with her – the first time in over ten years of New Year’s Eve shenanigans that we were not together. We didn’t always come home together, but that was another story. She’d even promised that we would steer clear of Saints and Sinners bar, so there would be no chance of bumping into Dan.

Bloody Dan Heffernan. It always came back to him. Why couldn’t I forget him? It had been a few weeks now. Surely that was enough time? Adulting was so hard. The irony wasn’t lost on me that when I was a child all I wanted was to be old enough to go out partying instead of staying at home. And now that the world was my oyster, or at least New York was, I chose to stay in my little studio apartment, in the basement of Innisfree.

The house might have been empty apart from me, but it was full to the brim with memories. The small kitchen at the back of the main house had served hundreds of meals, all from a small stove. A fridge covered in magnets that clung to photographs of three generations of O’Connors, celebrating seven decades. Our living room was spacious – two rooms knocked into one by Grandad when Uncle Mike was born. The O’Connors were a social lot. Neighbours and friends were always welcome. As Grandad said, we’d made our own little village in Brooklyn over the years, with songs and tall tales spun in our living room. Grandad with his bodhran on his knee. Chairs pushed back against the wall so that I had room to perform an Irish jig.

I was the only grandchild and youngest in the house. The adults were all at my beck and call. As Katrina often remarked, I had it sweet.

Now though, I returned my attention to the television. The camera paused on the face of a woman. She was in her sixties, I guessed, standing on her own and crying. She dabbed her tears with a handkerchief. Her face, like something out of an Edvard Munch painting, was twisted and pierced with pain. I felt angry at the camera for zooming in on her personal grief.

‘Move on!’ I shouted at the TV screen. And as if the camera person heard me through the airwaves, it did. I hoped this year would be kinder to that woman. For many, this time of year came with the black dog nipping at their heels, their hearts and their heads. People often did crazy things over the holidays. I never understood what that was like until recently. But when the black dog came by to visit, it was hard to shake him off. Persistent bugger. I’d never suffered with depression before. In fact I’d always been one of those irritating people that were happy and optimistic. Dan used to say that’s why I was forever ten minutes late: I assumed I’d have time to get from A to B in less time than it took. He was right too. Since he told me this, I’d noticed that the majority of optimists were the worst timekeepers.

And there I was again, bringing it back to Dan. No matter how hard I tried not to think about him, he was there. And no matter how many times I told myself that no good comes from looking back, it seemed impossible to stop my mind drifting to the same time last year.

It took me twenty-six years to find Dan.

That night one year ago was the happiest I’d ever been in my life.

But a lot can happen in a year.

I decided to go upstairs to the main house, hoping a change of scenery would knock this mood I was in. I picked up a bundle of post that sat on the hall table. Rifling through the bills, late Christmas cards and junk mail, I was surprised to see a letter addressed to me. A pretty pink envelope with neat handwriting. It was thick too. A memory nipped at me but then it went, before I had time to grasp it. I brought the letter with me into the kitchen.

April 1992

The Three Amigos apartment, Maynooth, Dublin

Three letters sat on the small square pine table in our kitchenette, my eyes focused on the one addressed to me, Ms Lucy Mernagh.

I looked at my sister Maeve and best friend Michelle. Their faces mirrored mine. We knew that the contents of these letters could be life-changing.

Only a couple of months ago Maeve had told us about Bruce Morrison, an American congressman, who’d allotted 48,000 American visas to the Irish.

‘Visas for America! Imagine,’ Maeve had screamed. She bounced around our flat in excitement at the mere possibility. ‘All we have to do is apply and, if we’re chosen, we get a green card. We can follow our dreams! We can go live in the States, like we used to talk about when we were kids.’

I looked at her eyes, bright with excitement and enthusiasm, and couldn’t help but get carried away with her. In her mind’s eye, her bags were already packed and the flight booked. She was always the same when she got an idea in her head.

‘We’ve as much chance of winning one of those as getting into the audience of The Late Late Toy Show,’ Michelle said, topping up each of our glasses with Blue Nun wine, our drink of choice. It was cheap and gave us a decent buzz. Michelle was our neighbour from home in Wexford. We’d shared this same flat in Dublin for the past three years while we went to college. We called ourselves the Three Amigos, a nickname we gave ourselves one night when we were kids and Michelle came for a sleepover. We’d rented the Steve Martin, Chevy Chase and Martin Short movie from Blockbuster’s and we laughed so much as we watched it that we missed half of the one-liners. So we immediately watched it a second time and that still didn’t feel enough. I think we ended up owing about twenty pounds in overdue fines for that movie. When Mam and Dad went to Blockbusters to rent My Left Foot, they had to settle our fine before they got out of the store and there was hell to pay! But Mam calmed down eventually and even bought us a copy of The Three Amigos for Christmas that year. Since then it’s been our go-to feel-good movie to watch. We knew all the catchphrases and thought we were hilarious when we quoted them in random situations. I dated a guy a few months back who ‘forgot’ to disclose that he was also dating another girl from college. When Maeve found out, she walked up to him and shouted, ‘You dirt-eating piece of slime. . . .