Finding Tom Connor

by Sarah-Kate Lynch

  She lay back down on her pillows and shook her head at the plate of thinly sliced sandwiches the priest offered her.

  ‘The first time Paddy committed adultery with me right here in this very bed, he told me straight up he could not or would not leave Maeve and I agreed with him. But we both decided that we deserved a little happiness and were most likely to get it with each other and that by the same token we should not be denied that.’

  The priest’s stomach rumbled and he reached for a sandwich. Fresh white bread, butter, and thinly sliced tomato with salt and pepper. Delicious.

  ‘Are you with me, Father?’ the old lady demanded. ‘You’re not receiving the spirit of Father Cahill, now, are you?’

  ‘Well, I appreciate your sarcasm,’ the priest said, when he finished his mouthful, ‘but as I thought it was the last rites I would be administering this morning, I didn’t pack a lunch and without having had any breakfast I don’t want to risk missing any of the details of your confession, Mary. I’m eating strictly for strength and stamina.’

  ‘Yes, well. If you skipped a meal it’s definitely not the spirit of Father Cahill inhabiting you,’ she said. ‘Now, where was I?’

  ‘You were not wanting to be denied a little happiness with Paddy O’Riordan.’

  ‘Ah, right. Now, what we decided was that Paddy would visit me every afternoon for a little bit of this happiness I was telling you about, but what we needed to do was spare Maeve — and anybody else for that matter — the pain of knowing what was going on. I don’t think she would have cared too much herself, Father, not being much of a fan of happiness, but Paddy, God rest his soul—’ she fought tears again, ‘Paddy didn’t want to make things any more miserable than they already were.’

  She stopped and searched under the bedclothes for a handkerchief, then dabbed her eyes.

  ‘So what did he do, Mary?’

  ‘He bought a brand new delivery van, Father Kelly, that’s what he did. Oh, the first day he drove it to my door, how I laughed!’ she started to chuckle at the memory of it. ‘It was a side-splitter, all right,’ she said. ‘A real side-splitter.’

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ said the priest, ‘if I don’t see the humour myself in a fish delivery van.’

  ‘Oh, but it wasn’t any old fish delivery van,’ Mary said. ‘He’d had it made to his very own specifications by some ironmonger up in Cork. Not the actual van, you understand, just the fish on top.’

  ‘You’re going to have to talk me through this, Mary,’ Father Kelly cajoled, completely lost.

  ‘The van, Father, had a fish running the length of its roof — a big, long, fat thing, the funniest fish you ever saw, painted up all silvery like in blues and greens. Actually, some people thought it was a mermaid and from certain angles they could have been right. Paddy himself said it was whatever you wanted to make of it.’ She started cackling again.

  ‘Every time someone laughed at his precious fish or had a go at him for wasting his money, he just smiled and carried on with his business. Then every afternoon that mermaid or whatever it was would bump and jiggle up this lane and Paddy would drive the van around the back, park it half a mile up the valley behind the house and then come here to me.’

  The priest was still mystified, and must have looked it.

  ‘There was a lot about that fish people didn’t know, Father,’ Mary said cryptically. ‘And Maeve O’Riordan was a very religious woman,’ she added.

  She’s lost her marbles, Father Kelly thought to himself. Otherwise I’ve dozed off and missed the important bit.

  ‘What exactly are you telling me here, Mary?’

  The woman shot the priest a withering look.

  ‘What I’m telling you, Father,’ she said with dramatic patience, ‘is that when you combine a clever man, his miserable wife, the woman he loves, a strange mermaid-like creature hidden in a valley and a complicated system of well-placed mirrors, you’ve got yourself a Virgin Mary, Father. Every sunny afternoon around as close to four o’clock as he could manage it.’

  Chapter 23

  Saturday, 20 February 1999

  Molly careered off the dance floor and slumped, laughing, into a chair behind the round table that she and Pohraig had made their base for the evening.

  It was almost midnight and the stiff once white tablecloth was now littered with empty glasses, half-full bottles, overflowing ashtrays, plus an arrangement of discarded ties, a wilted bouquet and a woman’s shoe.

  ‘So, you’ve managed a tiny wee glimmer of enjoyment, then, Molly?’ Pohraig asked, clinking wine glasses with her.

  She laughed and again and nodded. Who would believe it? On the night when she should have been at her own wedding on one side of the world, she was at somebody else’s on the other side. And having such a good time she couldn’t imagine how her own wedding would have been better.

  ‘It’s like the scene in Titanic where Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet are going like the clappers at the steerage party,’ she said, flushed with enjoyment — or was it the shock of so much exercise after what amounted to a three-day drinking binge?

  ‘I must have danced twice with every man here! And that includes Ngila’s Uncle Luke with just the one arm,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘From what I could see he is no slouch with the arm he has left,’ Pohraig pointed out.

  ‘I think he thought we were made for each other — what with both being handicapped in the upper torso limb department,’ Molly said. ‘Imagine the carpark stickers we could get, the two of us.’

  Pohraig watched her as her eyes followed the goings-on around the room. Of course Ngila and Andrew had been surprised but, he thought, not unhappy that he’d brought Molly along, although he could see they were suspicious about his story of her being an old friend from Dublin.

  ‘It’s easier this way,’ he had whispered to Molly before he made the introductions, and she was certainly in no rush to advertise the fact that she was present only by virtue of gatecrashing the nuptials.

  Ngila, of course, had noticed the pretty stranger crying in the back of the church, but anyone who put a smile on Pohraig’s face was welcome as far as she was concerned.

  In fact, Molly was amazed at how little fuss her presence had created. And to think that Jack had planned to employ four security guards to make sure no riffraff sneaked their way into her wedding party. What a joke, she thought as she sat now and watched a young couple twist and turn around the hall, laughing their heads off. Jack probably would have had his real work cut out for his stopping wedding guests from escaping early.

  How had she lost touch so badly with her life? When she thought about it, most of the people she would have been celebrating her big day with were people she’d met through Jack’s work. Ad men and their trophy wives.

  Thank God for Bobs, she silently cheered her mother.

  Actually, had a bruised and bedraggled bride-type person gatecrashed Molly’s own wedding she was pretty sure Bobs would have reacted exactly the same was as Ngila’s mum.

  Upon meeting the mystery guest from New Zealand, the bride’s mother had kissed her warmly on both cheeks and said it was lovely to have her there, and Molly was sure a gentle but unmistakable pat on her rump could be attributed to the bride’s father, saucy old goat.

  Not long after the dancing started Pohraig had had a twirl with the still over-emotional mother of the groom, but when Molly quizzed him afterwards, he had simply swept her to the floor for a rousing chorus of ‘Love is in the Air’.

  Molly raised her glass to the bridesmaid, Ngila’s sister Maria, who across the tables was sitting in the lap of a drop-dead gorgeous if slightly pie-eyed friend of her new brother-in-law.

  Maria, upon being introduced to Molly, had spirited her away to the ladies’ room and done a great patch-up job on her bruised face, piling her hair all on top of her head in a Brigitte Bardot style.

  Well, she was a ‘beauty technician’ after all, she’d said to Pohraig as she’d held herself too
close to him on the dance floor later in the evening, once she’d found out that Molly was just passing through.

  ‘You’re certainly a lot happier than when I first saw you,’ Pohraig broke into Molly’s reverie, following her eyes to the dance floor where Ngila and Andrew were in what appeared to be the advanced stages of foreplay.

  She took a deep breath and turned to him. He still didn’t know why she’d been crying in the church. He still didn’t know anything about her. He had just recognised in her the need for a bloody good time and shown her one. But now it was confession time.

  ‘I was supposed to be getting married today too,’ she said, amazed at the dry nothingness she felt in saying the words, ‘in New Zealand. But just a few days ago I found out that my fiancé Jack was having an affair with a very small blonde woman with unfeasibly large breasts and that she wasn’t the first, probably by about 400.’

  She took a breath and checked Pohraig’s reaction. He hadn’t moved a muscle.

  ‘He told me he didn’t love me and—,’ she started to falter, ‘and so I came here.’

  She stopped and looked back across the floor at the bridal couple smooching under the chaotic lights of the disco globe, blinking back the tears and pasting a frozen smile onto her face.

  ‘Molly, I am so sorry,’ said Pohraig eventually, and she knew he meant it. ‘The man’s a fool,’ he added, softly. Then: ‘I’m sorry. You didn’t have to tell me. I don’t want to spoil your fun.’

  Slowly, she turned and looked at him.

  ‘How could you spoil my fun?’ she asked, smiling.

  I’m flirting, she thought to herself. I’m bloody well flirting!

  ‘Now, that’s the spirit,’ Pohraig said, leaping enthusiastically to his feet. ‘Wait right there, I’ll be back in a moment.’

  He disappeared across the dance floor, which was slowly emptying as the wobbliest of husbands were being led home by their wives, and the singles were drunkenly talking about reconvening somewhere else.

  Not for the first time, Molly noticed the way the wedding guests looked at Pohraig as he passed through them. Not with fear, exactly, or was it?

  What did she know about him? About any of these people?

  The several glasses of wine Molly had drunk during the evening suddenly caught up with her and a thousand scenarios flashed through her mind. They could be prison escapers or rapists and murderers — every one of them.

  She leaned over and pulled on the suit jacket of a passing inebriate, who leaned boozily over towards her. ‘Your man Pohraig?’ she said, realising she sounded pretty over-tippled herself. ‘He’s not an axe-murderer at all, is he?’

  ‘Wha?’ her friend said disbelievingly, staggering sideways slightly. ‘Man’s a saint. A saint,’ he said, as his ever-so-slightly hatchet-faced wife pulled him by the opposite elbow and launched him out the door.

  Those who remained in the dance hall stood and clapped as the bride and groom spun to a halt, extricated themselves from each other, kissed their parents goodbye and departed the hall amid a bevy of lewd comments from the men, followed by a round of scoldings from the women.

  You see, thought Molly, that’s the way to do it. Stay until the end and have the fun yourself. At her wedding, she and Jack had planned to leave the reception relatively early in the evening — a chopper waiting to take them to plush Huka Lodge at Lake Taupo for the night, their honeymoon flight to Hawaii scheduled for the next day.

  But if she ever did get married, which she definitely wasn’t ever going to, she would now party until the end with all her real friends (when she got some) and relatives (when she got some of those, too), she decided.

  Pohraig (was that a swagger on him?) was now coming back towards her, navigating his way thought the dregs with a grin from ear to ear.

  ‘Come with me, Miss Molly,’ he said reaching out a hand, and as it was the only hand being offered her at that exact moment, she took it.

  The music had slowed down to emulate the mood of the party and suddenly the melodious tones of Celine Dion singing, of all things, the theme song from Titanic reverberated around the room.

  Pohraig stopped and looked Molly in the eyes, then pulled her close to him, one strong hand in the small of her back, the other gently clasping her broken one.

  Molly relaxed into him, feeling his warm body press against hers as they moved together in tiny rocking steps, smelling that he didn’t wear aftershave, which endeared him to her even more.

  ‘Do you know what?’ she leaned up and whispered into Pohraig’s ear.

  ‘What, Molly?’ he replied, pulling back and searching her eyes.

  ‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ she said, trying to avoid his look.

  ‘What is it?’ he whispered, drawing her closer. ‘You can tell me.’

  ‘You’re not going to like it,’ she said.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Pohraig held her. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘It’s just that …’ Molly couldn’t get it out. ‘It’s just that …’ She stopped and stared at him. ‘It’s just that I really hate Celine Dion!’

  They looked at each other for a split-second, then both roared with laughter, Molly doubling over with hysterics.

  ‘Me too!’ said Pohraig, staggering around the floor. ‘Me too. I’m so glad you said that.’

  They stood up straight and wiped the tears of laughter from their eyes, the odd unleashed giggle escaping here and there.

  ‘Come with me,’ Pohraig said. ‘I was trying to show you this before that banshee interrupted us.’ Laughing again, he led Molly to the corner of the hall, down the corridor past the rest rooms to another door.

  When he opened it, Molly was staggered at the sight. It was an anteroom of some description, obviously used to store equipment for the hall’s many uses.

  Along one side, with a musty red velvet curtain thrown over half of them, were stacks of folded-up chairs. Along the opposite side were large cardboard cartons of what looked like basketballs, skipping ropes, baseball bats and other assorted kids’ gym gear.

  Against the back wall, though, a nest had been made on the floor out of some sort of squabs and a load of tablecloths. On one side, perilously close, Molly thought, to the ancient velvet curtain, a candelabra burned six candles and at the foot of the sleeping arrangement stood a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

  The little tableau had sex written all over it.

  Molly felt her face redden and turned stiffly towards Pohraig.

  ‘Well, hello, hello, hello, just what do you think is going to go on in here, then?’ she said, unsure whether to joke or be disgusted. She was stunned that he could be making such assumptions and furious with herself for not being entirely opposed to the idea. Shouldn’t a girl sleep with someone on her wedding night, after all? one half of her asked. Should it be some presumptuous doe-eye that you met approximately five minutes ago? the other side countered.

  Pohraig’s face fell and instantly took on a look of complete panic.

  ‘Oh, Jesus, Molly you’ve got it all wrong,’ he said, stricken, realising what it looked like. ‘No, God, no. Jesus, you probably think I’ve arranged some sort of lair in here to drag you in and — and — but no, God, no. It’s not like that. I’m not — ask anyone and they’ll tell you. Oh, Jesus,’ he said, before attempting to pull himself together. ‘Molly, look.’ He put his hand on her shoulder. She let it sit there but he could feel the tension in her body and dropped it to his side. ‘Molly,’ he continued. ‘I know the fellow who looks after the hall, is all. I asked him could you stay here for the night as we’d not arranged anything else and you’re leaving so early. There’s no-one coming to clean up until later tomorrow morning so it will be fine. He said you were welcome to stay. He obviously got the wrong impression about—’ He faltered, looking at the champagne. ‘Molly, I’m staying at Andrew’s parents’ place,’ he said. ‘In fact I’ll go there right now if you want me to.’ He looked at her, so mortified at his blunder that Molly couldn’t real
ly believe he was harbouring dishonourable intentions.

  ‘Well, since we’re both here and there’s bubbly in the room, I don’t suppose a snifter or two before you go will ruin my reputation,’ she said. ‘Someone who hates Celine Dion as much as you do can’t be all bad,’ she added in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. She swept into the room and scooped up the bottle, handing him the glasses.

  ‘I am really sorry, Molly,’ he said. ‘I can see how it looks.’

  She ignored him and ripped the foil and wire cage off the bottle, then expertly twisted the cork and poured the wine into the two waiting glasses. Taking one from Pohraig she raised it in the air.

  ‘Here’s to the non-wedding day of Molly Brown,’ she said.

  ‘The non-wedding day of Molly Brown,’ Pohraig repeated, then took a sip of the champagne. ‘Sweetest drop I ever tasted,’ he said, with a smile.

  ‘Come on, we may as well sit down on this little love slab you’ve created,’ said Molly flippantly, flopping down onto the tablecloths, which, she had to admit, made a remarkably comfortable nestling spot. She wriggled her way up the nest so she was sitting leaning against the wall, and Pohraig flopped down beside her.

  ‘Has it been a good non-wedding day, Molly Brown?’ he asked, and she realised that up until then she hadn’t even told him her last name.

  Had it been a good non-wedding day? Well, if you weren’t going to end up marrying the man you thought was the one of your dreams, then dancing the night away on the other side of the world with a gorgeous bloke who treated you like a beautiful princess despite your many bangs and lumps was a pretty good alternative.

  ‘Mmmmm. Let me think about that,’ she said, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the world.

  Did I just refer to him as ‘gorgeous’? Molly thought about Pohraig’s hand on her back, the green of his eyes, the infectious laugh, the way she knew he watched her, his incredible tenderness.