by Jean Moran
She saw the refugees beaming and clapping in time with the tune and, touching her most deeply, the children dancing.
His eyes were closed as he concentrated on the song, the one she’d sung with him on that night they’d met in a bar in Kowloon.
Just as they had back then, her feet began to tap in time with the fiddle’s merry notes, her voice seized the melody and she sang the words:
‘At the harvest fair, she’ll be surely there,
And I’ll dress in my Sunday clothes,
With my shoes shone bright and my hat cocked right,
For a smile from my nut-brown rose.’
She stepped out from the shade and, still singing, went to stand at his side.
His eyes were full of wonder.
Hers were full of tears.
They went on to the end, him playing the fiddle, her singing as she always seemed to do when they were together.
‘No pipe I’ll smoke, no horse I’ll yoke,
Till my plough it is rust-coloured brown,
Till my smiling bride by my own fireside,
Sits the Star of the County Down.’
He joined her in the final chorus, his voice as strong as it used to be, the pair of them standing close so each could feel the warmth of their bodies.
‘From Bantry Bay, unto Derry Quay,
From Galway to Dublin Town.
No maid I’ve seen like the brown colleen,
That I met in the County Down.’
There was more warmth in their embrace than there had ever been, yet they were not alone but standing in the midst of a crowd of humanity.
Fiddle hanging by his side, he clung to her tightly. ‘Your voice is still as clear as a bell.’
‘Your playing still stirs me to sing. And them to dance,’ she said, indicating the people who had made a home of Kim Pheloung’s garden.
‘You kept my fiddle.’
‘I hid it in the boiler room at St Stephen’s.’
‘You’re a fine girl, Dr Rossiter.’
‘And you’re a fine man, Connor O’Connor.’
A ripple of approval ran through those watching as he kissed her deeply. ‘It was quite a journey that brought me back here,’ he said, his lips pressed into her hair, his eyes closed, as he breathed in her scent. ‘Quite a journey. Back more or less where we started.’
‘So we start all over again?’
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
‘Will you stay in Hong Kong?’
‘Will you?’
‘I have a lot of work to do.’
‘So do I. It’s been suggested that I should open a bar. What do you think of that?’
‘Mummy!’
A small figure disengaged her hand from Luli’s and ran to her mother. Rowena picked her up, hugged her close and kissed her. ‘This is Dawn. My daughter. Named at the dawn of a new day.’
He cupped the child’s cheek. ‘And now hopefully the dawn of a new world. Peace at last.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘But you still haven’t answered my question.’
‘What question was that?’
‘The one I asked you before she was born.’
‘You’re a persistent man, Connor O’Connor.’
‘And I won’t take no for an answer.’
‘You don’t need to.’
About the Author
Jean Moran was a columnist and editor before writing full-time. She has since published over fifty novels and been a bestseller in Germany. Jean was born and brought up in Bristol. Her mother, who had endured both the depression and war years, was a natural born storyteller, and it’s from her telling of actual experiences of the tumultuous first half of the twentieth century that Jean gets her inspiration. She now lives in Bath.
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