by Rachel Quinn
‘I think we all know what’s coming,’ Aileen says.
Niall reaches for his glass. ‘No point breaking an annual tradition.’
‘Okay,’ Aileen says, reaching for hers. ‘And I do like just a little corny sentimentality before I eat.’
‘Less of the sarcasm, little sister,’ Briana says. ‘A joint wedding was a pretty rare event, even in 1946. Call me a fool but I think it’s something to be proud of.’
‘It is,’ Aileen says, her tone matching her earnest expression. ‘I’m only fooling and you’re right.’ She reaches across and places her hand next to Niall’s. He covers it with his. They hold their glasses up and clink them together.
Marvin and Briana do exactly the same, and then all four glasses clink together above the centre of the table.
‘To the Leetown days,’ they all say.
It’s almost a quarter to eleven. Marvin and Briana have returned upstate, while Aileen and Niall are back home on Long Island, digesting the evening’s food and conversation with the help of a small cup of cocoa each.
‘Shall I put the TV on?’ Niall says.
Aileen shakes her head. ‘Don’t let’s spoil the moment.’
His eyes bob up to the ceiling.
‘And don’t be doing that thing with your eyes, please. One day they’ll stay up there inside your head.’
When Niall stops laughing he takes a careful sip of the steaming sweet liquid. ‘You know I’m joking.’
‘Of course I do, but you know me – any excuse for a traditional Irish nag.’
They exchange a look and a hint of a smile.
‘You know,’ Aileen says, ‘I never really did work out what I saw in you all those years ago. I guess I was just young and innocent. Didn’t know much about the world.’
‘Ah, well. That was your loss.’ Another sip of cocoa. ‘And my gain.’
‘You say such charming things.’ Aileen sighs and lifts her cup to her mouth.
Niall holds his hand out, resting it on her knee. She holds it. For a few minutes all they hear is the clock in the hall ticking, and their own sips and slurps.
‘If I can be serious for a moment,’ Aileen says. ‘Do you have any regrets?’
‘Mmm . . . Not going for the pizza?’
‘I said serious.’
‘I am being serious. That lasagne’s laying a little heavy.’ He swills the half-inch of cocoa remaining in his cup. ‘Regrets?’ he says. ‘You mean real big ones?’
‘Humdingers.’
He thinks for a few seconds, then says, ‘Only the two you know about. Not many people manage to miss both their parents’ funerals.’
She gives his hand a squeeze. ‘That’s pretty impressive, I have to admit.’
There’s a jolly angle to his voice as he adds, ‘I only hope I don’t miss my own.’
She giggles, almost spilling her drink. ‘Is that it?’ she says. ‘Is that the full extent of things you’d change if you could go around again?’
‘You know, Aileen, it is. It really is. I feel so lucky.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time I was in France, when the fact I was Irish saved my life?’
‘Not this year. But it’s only February.’
‘Ah, you’ve heard it?’
‘Come on. I’m whacked. Let’s drink up and go to bed.’
Ten minutes later, teeth cleaned, they get into bed. They both say, ‘Goodnight, dear.’ They kiss and turn the lights out.
A few minutes of silence follows. Then Aileen speaks.
‘There was something else I was getting at,’ she says.
‘What?’
She hesitates, then says, ‘Have you ever regretted . . . Oh, it sounds stupid.’
‘Go on. What?’
‘Well, Briana and myself have been back home a few times over the years. And I’m so glad we both made peace with Mammy and Daddy.’
He sniggers in the darkness.
‘What?’ she says. ‘What did I say?’
‘It’s just how you still call them that. I’m sorry. And I’m glad too. I know getting things straight with your parents was important to you. What is it you were going to say?’
‘Well, you never went back. Never. Not once. Did you ever regret being Irish?’
‘Jeez,’ he says. ‘Heavy question.’ He takes a moment to sigh. ‘Hell, my accent’s hardly recognizable now. I’m way more American than Irish.’ He pauses for thought again. ‘But honestly? No way.’
‘Really?’
‘You know as well as I do. That country made me who I am. I wouldn’t change it for anything. And when I think of us two back then, and how we are now, we’ve done okay, haven’t we?’
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘We haven’t done too badly for a couple who ran away together halfway round the world with hardly a penny between them and no parental backup.’
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Yeah, you’re right. And I haven’t done so bad for a cowardly deserter.’
Aileen reverts to her full – or slightly heightened – Irish accent. ‘Aach, will ye shut yer face, ye big eejit.’
In the darkness, he slowly leans across. She senses his warm breath on her face, feels his hand on the back of her neck, and then the tender flesh of his lips on hers.
But the most exquisite of these sensations is his hand on the back of her neck, his fingertips gently teasing those baby hairs. The thrill isn’t quite as delicious as it once was, but it’s there.
It’s still there.
AFTERWORD
Somewhere between fifty thousand and a hundred thousand men from the Irish Republic voluntarily joined the British Forces during World War Two. Women numbering around twice that figure left their country to work in UK armaments factories. Almost five thousand of those volunteers were men who deserted the Irish Army to join the Allied war effort.
Many of the men who went to fight alongside Great Britain freely admitted that their motives were either financial or the lure of adventure. Regardless, the Allied forces owe them a great debt: many returned home injured, some not at all.
However, these men were not treated well when they returned to the Republic of Ireland. Indeed, the five thousand who had previously been in the Irish Army were branded as traitors, denied pensions, blacklisted by state employers, and publicly ostracized. Even their wives and children were repeatedly told they should be ashamed of them.
In fairness, it has to be remembered that technically these men were indeed deserters, and in many other countries might have suffered a worse fate. But in hindsight, they were brave men who volunteered to risk their lives in battle when they could easily have chosen a far safer life away from the hostilities.
In 2012 the Irish government officially apologized for the way the government of the day treated them.
In 2013, even though only a few still survived, all 4,981 were granted official pardons.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The inspiration for this novel came from my memories of childhood family holidays in various parts of Ireland, so firstly I owe a huge thank you to my parents for taking me there.
Secondly, in terms of fine-tuning the manuscript, I have to thank Monica Byles for her excellent copyediting skills (the word ‘thorough’ isn’t enough here) and Elizabeth Cochrane for her equally excellent proofreading. I’ll also take the opportunity to thank the whole Amazon Publishing team, but especially Sammia Hamer, Victoria Pepe and Bekah Graham for their help and advice over the last few years.
But the most difficult parts of any book project are its conception, initial development and getting that crucial first draft produced. In that respect, I have to say that this book, more than any other I’ve written, owes everything to the encouragement and support of Maria, who told me it was the best thing I’d ever written. So an extra-special huge thank you is due to her.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rachel Quinn has published many novels under various pen names, most notably as Ray Kingfisher, and lives in Hampshire in the UK.
> An Ocean Between Us is Rachel’s first historical romance.
For more information on the author, please visit www.raykingfisher.com.