by Paula Clamp
Chapter 29
A bar fight had far more appeal to the crowd than that of a very tall, tone-deaf English teenager, who didn't know the words. They immediately turned their backs on Ellie and formed a circle around the squabbling boys. Ellie could only manage to see a few snapshots of flailing arms as she jumped up and down on the stage, desperate to see what was happening.
"Why's nobody stopping them?"
Paddy was still at her side, "Because they're used to it. This is just round ten of a fight that's gone on for years. There's at least one scuffle a year – maybe, two."
"But why?" Ellie was panicking on both Ronan and Conor’s behalf.
"I dunno really. They just can't stand the sight of each other probably. This gets it out of their system."
"Couldn't they just talk about their differences?"
Paddy laughed.
"What?"
"Trust a female to come up with that one. This is much quicker and far less painful."
"It's barbaric." Ellie tried to balance herself on a speaker, "Who usually wins?"
"I think it’s two-a-piece. Ronan's got the strength, but Conor's a bit more astute - places his punches more effectively.
From what Ellie could see, in this particular battle, Ronan appeared to have the upper hand. Conor was having difficulty in making his punches connect as Ronan effectively ducked and dived. The crowd appeared to have no allegiances; one minute they were chanting for Ronan and the very next minute the same people shouted for Conor. Whoever seemed to be getting the worst beating, as a consolation, seemed to receive the support of the crowd. As the fight progressed, the name 'Conor' appeared to be getting far more use.
Ellie felt extremely uncomfortable with her role as a passive spectator. Only now she realised that whatever games they were playing with her emotions, or whatever their motivations were for toying with her, she actually cared about them both. She guiltily stepped down and watched the backs of the chanting crowd. Then, with genuine relief she saw Soupy, Cormac, Frankie and Father Daly, trying to pull the two apart. Ena and Rosie were nowhere to be seen.
"That's enough now lads!" Father Daly was just about audible amidst the baying for more.
Both Conor and Ronan attempted a pitiful, final swing as they were parted, but it was obvious there was no commitment behind either of the blows. Ronan had a few facial cuts and bruises, but Conor looked like he’d been in a real war; both his eyelids were black and swollen and his lips were bloody.
"Just keep him away from me!" Ronan snarled, as he wiped away the sweat on his brow and headed off in the direction of the bar.
"Chicken!" Conor shouted after him.
Ronan quickly turned back and lunged at Conor, who in turn instinctively raised his arms to protect himself. Bluffing that he was about to land the punch, Ronan then sniggered and continued back to the bar.
Rather than follow his son, Ellie was surprised to see Soupy grab hold of Conor's arm and lead him outside. As they walked, he wiped the blood away from Conor's mouth with his handkerchief.
"Okay, ladies and gentlemen and honoured visitors - the show's over!" Paddy called out, "So, who fancies a sausage roll?"
With a selection of snacks, all in various shades of orange, served on trays and circulating around the bar, Paddy now had the audience back on his terms and the fight was forgotten - until next time. The boy, who had earlier been looking up Ellie’s skirt, heckled Paddy, complaining that the vinegar had lumps in it.
"Those are pickled onions!" Paddy barked back.
Ellie didn't know what to do with herself. Should she go and comfort Ronan, or go and see if Conor was all right? Or would they both tell her to go and mind her own business? Instead, she went for the option least likely to embarrass her and went to search for Ena and Rosie.
Outside there was complete darkness and the July air had become sticky, with a liquid quality as if slowly releasing the moisture that it had been absorbing all day. The only figures she could see were those of Conor and Soupy, sat on a grassy bank to the left of the old building. Conor's head was bowed down, but Soupy saw her, stood up and walked over in her direction.
"He won't listen to me, Ellie, see if a female touch will make him see sense." Soupy shrugged his shoulders in resignation.
Before Ellie could ask how her touch could help in any way, Soupy had already disappeared; sucked back into the packed bar as the party had fully resumed. Ellie looked around for support, but there was none. The memory of their fractious parting earlier was still raw.
Tottering awkwardly across the uneven grass towards Conor was not the best way to make an entrance. The art of sitting down on the ground, without revealing more than she would have liked, was an even harder task to master. She managed it, eventually, by adopting a peculiar yoga-type position. This at least appeared to draw Conor out of his morose trance.
Neither spoke for a moment, as the dull thumping of the party, followed by the occasional explosion of drunken laughter, filled the void.
"Are you comfortable sitting like that?" Conor asked, eventually.
"Not really." Ellie groaned with relief as she released her long legs and the muscles retracted back to their natural position.
Self-consciously Ellie looked down at her feet, clanking the heels of her sandals together, "You're not going to tell me what that fight was all about, are you?"
"No."
"I thought not.” Ellie took a closer look at some of Conor's more gruesome battle wounds.
"Didn't you know that black and blue was the new black." He attempted to make light of his sorry predicament.
"Does it hurt?"
"Not really. Last year he broke my ribs. That was sore."
"Crikey, Conor."
"The year before, I bust his nose."
"That's just stupid. What will it take for you two to stop all that nonsense?"
"Probably, one of us will have to end up there." Conor nodded to the cemetery besides the chapel.
Ellie's jaw dropped open.
"I'm joking!"
This close to his face, Ellie really didn't like the look of some of Conor’s gaping wounds, "I'd better go and see if I can find someone to help clean your cuts."
"No, I'll be fine. I just need a minute or two. I'll be fine.”
“Maybe, someone should phone your Mum and tell her what’s happened.”
“No.” This ‘no’ was far more assertive than the first. He then softened slightly, “Part of the deal for me coming back here this summer, was that I kept my Ma out of any of the usual carry-on here.”
“What usual carry-on, Conor?”
“My Ma wants no part of small village life. She’s managed to disengage herself completely and who could blame her. But me, I don’t know why – but I just can’t quite manage it.”
Ellie sensed from Conor’s tone that this was one strand of conversation that was over. At some point during the fight, he had rolled up his sleeves to signify that he meant business, so Ellie gently pulled them down for him.
"How's the date going?" Conor added in a 'by the way' tone.
"It’s not a date.”
Conor fixed his puzzled gaze on Ellie, "Of course, a date at Doherty’s shows a lack of class on his part. That goes without saying. Now, if it was me, I'd have taken you to somewhere special, where I'd spread white rose petals…"
Ellie was beginning to understand Irish boys a little better now and knew that the best way to save face was to play along, "Stop, I'm going to be sick."
"And there’d be butterflies…"
"Watch out!"
"And I’d look up into your eyes..."
"Aargh!" Ellie pretended to throw up all down Conor's hoodie.
"Now that's a first for me - I've never made a girl do that before."
"Are you sure?" She laughed playfully.
"Okay, now that I think about it, I do seem to have that effect on the opposite sex. But I've usually known them a bit longer than, what is it?" Conor looked at his watch
, "Thirteen hours and 6 minutes."
Now that she’d accepted her role in the game, Ellie was beginning to enjoy the camaraderie of a boy who was a friend. She’d never had this before and was beginning to realise that she’d been missing out. Of course, the irony was that she would have preferred that this particular boy was much more.
“I must have made a big impression on you, Conor." She joked, pretending to clean up her imaginary vomit.
Conor didn't reply. He inspected the grazes on his knuckles, opening the wounds as he clenched and unclenched his fists. For a second, Ellie thought back to when those same hands were entwined with her own. She was embarrassed by the recollection.
"I'd better be heading back in." Ellie began to heave herself up.
"I'm sure your pathetic boyfriend can wait a minute or two." Conor now had a bitter tinge to his voice.
"Why do you do that?"
"What?"
"That. You go from being really nice to just…annoying."
"Really nice?"
"I said ‘annoying’." Ellie managed to stand up again whilst retaining some of her dignity.
"No, you said ‘really nice’ first."
"I didn't say it in any hierarchical order."
"Okay, then how much of me is ‘really nice’ and how much 'annoying'?"
"I'd say you're about one-fifth ‘really nice’ and the rest, just annoying."
"A fifth, hey? As much as that?"
As Conor continued to joke about, Ellie just assumed he hadn’t given the subject of their embrace at the big house anywhere near as much thought as she had.
"I really do have to go." Ellie felt unable to continue the carefree charade any longer.
"Ellie, will you promise me one thing after this weekend, when you go back home?"
Ellie looked at him despondently, anxious for at least one serious, heartfelt comment.
"Never, ever sing karaoke again!"
With a half-attempt at a smile, Ellie bent down and stared closely at Conor's swollen face, "I only said a fifth because I felt sorry for your busted lip." She stood up and turned back in the direction of the bar.
"So how much then?" Conor yelled back.
Looking back at him over her shoulder, she forced a reply, "About this much."
Ellie held in index finger and her thumb apart by a fraction of an inch. He laughed, but she couldn’t find the strength to join him. Always the figure of fun, Ellie should have been used to it by now; but it hurt every time.
Back at the entrance to the bar, a movement in the cemetery, suddenly, attracted Ellie. She shaded the light from the bar with her hand and in the darkness, could just make out two figures holding hands, with heads bowed. Standing directly in front of what Ellie instantly recognised to be the headstone of Roisin and Ciaran's baby, stood Rosie and Ena.
Ellie couldn't make out which of them it was, but one of the women was sobbing softly.
Chapter 30
The two women began to walk down through the cemetery in Ellie's direction and she crossed over to join them. Even though they were similar ages, no two women could be so different. Everything about Rosie was carefree and organic, from her shoulder-length crochet wrap and her waist-length tawny grey hair, down to her ankle length, beaded dress. Ena's style was more ostentatious, with her rock-solid, tidy bob, designer wire-rimmed glasses and a complete outfit of Mulberry signature tartan. Rosie wore nothing more than a smear of mascara, Ena nothing less than the full works.
"Is it safe to go back in there yet?" Ena was the first to speak.
"Has the fighting stopped?" Rosie held Ellie's right hand between both of hers and kept it there.
"I think so. They both look really…"
"Ssh, don't tell us," Ena held her finger to her lips, "As long as neither of them was badly hurt, we don’t want to know."
Ellie smiled softly, "I think they're both okay."
"Good." Rosie and Ena replied in unison.
Both the older women exchanged a brief look of relief.
Rosie still had a firm hold of Ellie's hand, "And what about you, Ellie? How is Lusty treating you?"
"Lusty is treating me good, thank you. How are the brambles?"
"Are they still giving you grief, Rosie?” Ena interjected, “Why don't you ask our Ronan, or Conor, to give you a hand tomorrow?"
"No, it's okay."
"It's no problem."
"Really, it's okay."
There was a peculiar stand-off between the two women. Ellie, yet again, was caught awkwardly in the middle.
“I’m sure Cormac wouldn't mind helping to prune your bushes." Ena’s cheeky chuckle had a husky quality.
“Ssh!” Rosie nodded over to a large granite tomb, slightly tilted on the grassy slope right beside them, “You’ll wake up the Old Man.”
Ellie moved closer to inspect the plain finish and to read the inscription. The names of deceased Sullivan-clan members, stretching back as far as the 1820's, were carved into the granite plinth at the base of the tomb. The most recent inscription read:
'David (Davy) Sullivan
2 February 1930 - 26 March 2006
Aged 76.
There were no terms of endearment, or reference to any immediate family.
"The last one buried here, Rosie, was that Conor's grandfather?"
"Aye."
"Where's his grandmother?"
"I never met her. Story goes that she did a runner years ago and never came back. They say she was a Protestant from a well-to-do family and she just couldn't hack it here. Broke the Old Man's heart."
"If he had one." Ena added coldly.
"Of course he had one." Rosie unexpectedly turned on Ena.
"Sure, everyone knows he was tight-fisted."
"So?"
"So, Rosie, if he'd been a bit fairer with his money, then maybe…"
"Then maybe nothing, Ena. He had his own way of doing things."
"I was just saying…"
"Well, don't."
"I was just…"
Rosie's icy stare halted Ena mid-sentence. But just as quickly, Rosie softened again, "Do you remember the way the daft old eejit was always wandering off?”
Ena rolled her eyes, "The best, Ellie, was when he was found trawling through the village shouting, 'I've lost my marbles! I've lost my marbles!' They were all set to have him sectioned. That was until three wee lads sheepishly arrived up at the big house, confessing that they'd won the Old Man’s glass marbles fair and square in the street game they’d all been playing that afternoon."
The two friends laughed. Ellie felt awkward, as if she was overhearing a private joke.
Ellie decided that this may be a good opportunity to put some of the jigsaw together, "What happened to the old man's son, Bernard – Conor’s father?”
Rosie and Ena were no longer laughing.
"You’re a determined wee thing, just like your…” Ena appeared angry at first, but she quickly checked herself, “Sorry.”
“See the huge stone cross over there, right beside the chapel wall?" Rosie pointed, "That’s his, Ellie. Maybe, you’ll find some answers there."
Ellie turned to make her way over to the cross, but when she looked back, she could see that Rosie and Ena were already heading in the opposite direction, back towards the bar. They hadn't followed her.
Feeling slightly unnerved in a cemetery all alone, in the dark, Ellie stepped around the randomly sited graves, until she was tight against the south-facing wall of the chapel. The black stone had soaked up the sun's rays and now emitted a gentle heat. The cross that Rosie had directed her to was easily one of the largest of all the headstones in the cemetery. The stone was white, speckled with flecks of silver. Jet-black engravings of Celtic-inspired spirals were carved deep into the stone. Dead flowers lay rotting in a rusty vase at the base. A cluster of wild daisies had burst through the freshly cut grass, underneath the long shadow cast by the cross.
Ellie read the inscription:
óglaigh na h-éir
eann
Volunteer Bernard David Sullivan
6 July 1965 - 1 January 2006
Aged 40
Ellie's first question was why a son and father, who had died within three months of each other, were not buried together in the family plot. Was the inscription 'volunteer' a clue and why were there special plots for people who did voluntary work?
In the distance, Ellie could see Conor, still resting on the bank at the side of the bar. She was tired and she was emotionally drained by the half-told stories and the games she was caught up in. Ellie decided that she would just have to ask Conor outright if his father, the Liberty Tree and her mother, were all connected somehow.
Conor still held his head in his hands and hadn't heard her approach. For this, Ellie was thankful, because instead of heading straight towards him as planned, Ellie found herself turning right, towards the front door of the bar. The reason behind her change in plan had been her equally sudden memory of a particular history lesson at school, when British politics had been discussed.
How could Ellie have forgotten that there was a gulf of difference between a 'volunteer' at the local branch of the Red Cross, for example, and a 'volunteer' for the Irish Republican Army?
Chapter 31
Ellie thought it best to keep her distance from Conor; if his father, Bernard Sullivan, was involved with the IRA, who was to say that there weren’t others in the Sullivan family who had a role too. Back inside Doherty’s Bar and Lounge, Ronan was yet again centre of attention. Only this time, rather than being involved in a brawl, he was orchestrating Cormac and Frankie to stand on a table and hold a wine bottle between them. Balanced on the top of the empty bottle was a one-pence coin. Surrounding them all was a group of eager onlookers, including the girl Ellie had earlier seen Ronan talking to.
"Okay, Frankie and Cormac - you have to hold tight. We must ask the genie in the bottle to give us a sign." Ronan looked back up from the table and caught sight of Ellie in the doorway. He winked and beckoned her over to him, "Hold tight now, lads."
By now Ronan had captivated the entire room and the bar was eerily silent - until the coin moved. A delicate tapping sound, as it moved on the rim of the bottleneck, was followed by a few chuckles and 'oohs' and 'aahs' from the crowd. The tiny coin then, suddenly, appeared to dance by itself, to the sound of its own clinking. Terrified, Cormac pulled his hands away.