"I don't," Sean answered, matter-of-factly. He turned to her with a smile, "And neither will you when you get to California. Everyone says the same."
Suddenly the hopelessness of it all overwhelmed her and she burst into tears. "Oh Sean, why didn't you tell me first?"
His arm went round her as he tried to explain about telling the Da and everything happening so quickly. Maureen was sniffing and sobbing so hard that she barely heard a word. She wept uncontrollably while Sean muttered helpless words of encouragement. The more she cried the more desperate he became. He clutched wildly for words to comfort her, until finally he blurted out, "You'll just be sizing the place up for the rest of us, that's all. Sure won't I be over to see you soon enough myself."
She pulled away. Her blurred eyes searched his face. "Really?" she said, her voice full of hope. "Really, Sean? You'll be coming yourself?"
He hesitated. His father wanted him to be a great man in Ireland. There was the business of learning the rules. The Da wouldn't want him running off to America.
"I'll wait for you, Sean," she said with trembling intensity. "I'll wait for ever and ever ... if you promise to come."
He squirmed, not knowing what to say. Avoiding her eye, he glanced away, searching for inspiration. Then he saw Tomas on the far bank. "Here comes your Da," he said with stifled relief. "Come on, let's go and meet him."
But she held his arm, "Promise you'll come for me, Sean. Promise."
He felt trapped, frightened. Then he remembered one of the rules such a simple one that he almost laughed. Relief flooded through him. "Never tell a lie," Pat had warned him. "But sometimes the truth can be damaging, so avoid it altogether. Answer a question with one of your own."
"Promise me, Sean," Maureen pleaded, "will you promise to come?"
"Will you promise me something?" he countered. "Will you promise to eat lots and lots of those oranges. So you'll get all those vitamins. Oranges for tea -"
"Sean, I will. I will, I promise."
"And will you promise to write once a week?"
"I'll write every day," she answered, her eyes shining.
"And ... and will you promise to lay out in that lovely warm sun ... and get brown all over?"
"I'll get as brown as a berry. Oh Sean, I promise!"
"And ..." Sean laughed, sharing her excitement but for quite different reasons. The rule was working! Actually working. It was so easy ... once you knew the rules. Maureen was laughing with him now, wiping her tears away. But suddenly her eyes clouded with concern and she was gripping his arm tighter than ever. "And you're to promise me another thing," she said fiercely. "You're to stop seeing that Mrs O'Flynn while I'm away."
He blushed bright red, caught off guard. "Sure what's got into you? All I do is go up and pay Farmer O'Flynn -"
"She's a bad woman. I just know she is. I don't want you seeing her again. Promise me. You can send Mick on a Sunday ..."
Mercifully Tomas arrived to put an end to the conversation. Sean thought about it later that evening while walking up to Palmerstown. Sure what was the harm of a cup of tea on a Sunday? And Mrs O'Flynn was so interesting. And pretty. And she had a nice laugh ... and ... and he remembered the Sunday before when Mrs O'Flynn had been pouring the tea. She was bending over the table and there was a gap in her dress. He couldn't help looking. Her skin was so smooth that he wanted to stroke it. There was a channel, all peach-coloured shadow between the curving white mounds of her breasts. He longed to plunge his hands into her dress ... and was struggling with his feelings when she glanced up and caught the direction of his eyes. But she stayed as she was, leaning forward, her eyes finding his and dragging them away from that gap in her dress. Finally she straightened up with a small laugh of amusement. "Why, Mr Connors," she said in her smoky voice, "I've never seen that look on your face before." Then she did something to her dress, tightening a button or something, because both her hands were smoothing the material over her bodice, and Sean wished it was his hands on her body instead of her own. And all the while she had watched him with a contemplative look in her eye ... so that he blushed and felt his mouth go dry. But she had not seemed angry or mad with him, in fact the reverse, she acted as though he had pleased her in some way.
Pat went to a funeral in Lucan the following week. Padraic Riddell, a friend for twenty-five years, had been murdered by the IRA. Padraic had worked in Moreland's shop in the old days, and been a member of Mick's Squad. Now he was dead ... shot in the back, with a note pinned to his jacket, IRA WARNING.
Against the advice of his friends, Pat insisted on going to a public meeting after the funeral. He knew he would face a hostile audience ... Lucan had long been a stronghold of the outlawed IRA ... but Pat was so sickened and distressed by Padraic's murder that it would have been a betrayal not to have spoken out. "To suffer in silence does no good at all," he told his companions.
The hall was far from silent. It was packed tight with a jeering crowd. Shouts of abuse thundered at Pat as he made his way to the platform. Men shook their fists, while others unfurled an IRA banner. Pat's appeals for order fell on deaf ears, and after ten minutes of bedlam the organisers were ready to abandon the meeting.
"I'll be telling you a story if you'll listen," Pat bellowed, "of Pearse and Connolly in the GPO."
Even mention of bygone heroes failed to gain a response. Pat shouted above the din, "There were few of us then. God knows never enough to beat the British, and didn't we know it. But that wasn't the point the point was it was a rallying call for Irish unity."
A murmur of agreement rose from a section of the crowd. Pat tried to capitalise on it. "That was nearly twenty years ago," he shouted. "But I'll tell you this ... I was proud to have Padraic Riddell beside me then ... at my side as we faced the English guns. And now Padraic has been murdered ... shot in the back by an Irish coward -"
Shouts of dissent thundered towards the platform. Someone shouted, "Shot by the IRA."
"Aye," Pat agreed. "And do you think Pearse and Connolly would have been proud of that? They'd be sick to their stomachs with shame. Them and Mick Collins -"
"Collins sold out. What about the oath?"
"What about it? Hasn't Dev abolished it?" Pat demanded, "or don't you even read the papers -"
"So what about the north?"
Pat fought to make himself heard above the rising uproar. "The same ... a step at a time. The oath's been dealt with ..."
"No thanks to you! Get out, Connors. We don't want the likes of you ..." the voice drowned in the baying of the crowd. Suddenly a stone was flung. It was like a signal. Chairs were upended as men rushed the platform. But Pat was as strong as an ox, despite his stiff leg. After an initial skirmish his assailants fell back. Their objective had been accomplished however ... the meeting was abandoned before it properly started. People spilled through the doors and out into the night, cheering themselves hoarse.
Pat took his bruised face back down the Quays and brooded in his room on Ammet Street. The ugly scene worried him deeply. The political situation was worsening again. "Dear God," he sighed as he poured himself a Guinness, "Mick Collins himself wouldn't have got a hearing tonight."
The night slipped by, hour after hour, but still Pat sat in his chair seeking a solution. "There must be a way, somehow ... they'll have to listen to someone." He ate some cheese with his stout ... and peered through the window to watch the sky lighten with the promise of dawn. Only then did he unlace his boots and slump onto his bed. Eventually he dozed off into an exhausted restless sleep.
But his eyes had hardly closed when footsteps scurried down the passage and fists hammered on his door. Part of his dream? The wailing outside was an echo of the despair which had haunted his night. A woman's screams finally roused him. He awoke in a sweat, calling out as he struggled upright. Somebody beat and kicked the door. The handle rattled furiously.
"For God's sake -"
"Pat, will you open this door!"
Brigid! A million fears rushed through his mind. He stumble
d as he crossed the room. Then the door sprang open and she was beating his chest with her fists and screaming, "It's your fault! Damn you, Pat Connors. Will you never listen to me!"
She flew at him like a fury, raking his face with her nails. "Damn you, Pat Connors. Damn you, damn you ..."
He pulled her hands from his face, "What in God's name -"
She shouted hysterically - shaking so violently that he could barely hold her. She wore her nightgown beneath her coat. He pulled a blanket from the bed and tried to wrap it around her, but she pushed him away, "Damn you to hell, Pat Connors. Damn you to hell for what's happened tonight!"
"Will you stop that!" he roared, forcing her into a chair. "For mercy's sake woman, tell me what's happened."
"Sean ..." she gasped, then dissolved into tears, hands at her face as she rocked back and forth.
More footsteps raced up the stairs. Pat swung round just as Dary burst into the room. Pat grabbed his shoulders, "What in God's name -"
"It's the donkeys," Dary gasped. "They're killing the donkeys ..."
Pat's mind blurred as he struggled to understand. Brigid wailed and sobbed in the chair. Dary bent double in an effort to draw breath. Pat swung the boy off his feet and carried him out to the landing, "Now tell me ..."
Dary gulped wildly, "The Da's gone up there with Sean an' Mick. We had this woman screaming outside an' when the Da went down she wanted Sean -"
"What woman?"
"From the farm," Dary panted, then turned to hang over the balustrade.
But Pat was no longer listening. Instead he was tying his boots. He stumbled down the stairs with Brigid's sobs and curses still ringing in his ears.
Sean ran all the way, leaving Tomas and Michael far behind. Through the half-light of dawn he raced, his shadow dancing over the Quays, footsteps clattering on the cobbles to echo back from darkened doorways and deserted alleys. Up the hill towards Palmerstown, gasping for breath, running blind, his mind full of the picture of Mrs O'Flynn standing in Brigid's kitchen. He had been stunned, disorientated, dragged half awake from his bed. Mrs O'Flynn there - at Brigid's place - white-faced with her hair all wild, sobbing, "They're killing the donkeys. We couldn't stop them ..."
"Wait," Tomas begged as Sean threw on his clothes. "We'll get your Da and a few others ..."
But Sean could not wait.
Maureen appeared at Brigid's elbow, "Sean wait... please wait..."
But Sean had not waited.
Michael was dressing, "Give me a minute. Wait for me ..."
But Sean had waited for no one.
He had plunged out into the darkened street and started to run. He lengthened his stride, then shortened it again up the hill, then lengthened it when he reached the outskirts of Palmerstown. The stitch in his side faded with his second wind. The grey light of a new day sketched the outline of trees across the skyline, and suddenly Sean realised it was raining.
He was half a mile away when he heard it. He charged up the lane towards the farmhouse, his heart full of dread. The braying was pitiful.
He knew all of their voices. It was Molly, but Molly as he had never heard her before. Molly in terrible agony. Molly in monstrous pain. Then he rounded the bend and saw the smouldering wreckage of his stables.
He found Molly in the end stall. He had to climb over Garth and Merlin to reach her. She had fallen awkwardly in the corner, prongs from the steel fork so deeply embedded in her neck that the blood-covered tips were through to the other side. Terrible wounds marked the rest of her body. Her soft brown eyes accused him as he appeared in the doorway. The sound of her pitiful braying broke his heart. He knelt before her, not daring to touch the fork for fear of worsening her agony. He felt sick and nearly vomited. Tears stung his eyes and blurred his vision. He sobbed harshly, "Dear God. Molly what have they done to you?"
Her liquid brown eyes pleaded with him. He turned and ran, covering -his ears with his hands to shut out her cries.
Farmer O'Flynn was slumped at the kitchen table. Sean saw the blood-soaked rag clasped to the old man's head, but little else registered.
"I'm sorry," O'Flynn began, "I tried -"
"Have you a gun?" Sean demanded.
The old man's eyes widened in alarm, "They've gone ... besides they were too many."
"Can't you hear Molly?" Sean screamed. "For God's sake, put an end to her misery."
O'Flynn tried to stand, but almost passed out. "Next room," he said weakly, "shells are in the drawer ..."
Sean had already left the kitchen. He had never handled a gun before. He rushed back with the shells and asked the old man to load the rifle. Then he ran back to the stables. His hands were shaking. He distrusted his aim. He rested the muzzle against Molly's ear. Then pulled the trigger.
Tomas arrived as the shot rang out. He was out of breath and terribly afraid. He lurched off in the direction of the shot, fearing something dreadful. And his worst fears were realised as Sean staggered towards him, clutching the rifle and covered in blood. But it was Molly's blood, not Sean's ... though it took Tomas some time to realise that.
After that everyone arriving fresh to the scene met a vivid first impression. Michael was overcome by the smell - the thick heavy stench of blood and excreta which clung like a cloud of poison gas. He vomited violently, then wandered through the carnage in a state of shock. Every animal had been slaughtered. Part of the stables was burned to the ground.
Even the professional eyes of the Garda Siochana - the police - were shocked by the savage brutality.
Pat Connors loomed out of the morning mist to find glassy-eyed men wandering through the debris like victims of shell-shock. He ran to his son and clasped him in his arms, running his hands through the boy's hair and over his face, in a mute gesture of thankfulness to find Sean still in one piece. Father and son clung to each other, sharing their strength. Then Pat held him at arm's length, studying his white face. Gently Pat led him across to the farmhouse, telling him to go inside and wash the blood from his arms and face. But it was an excuse, Pat wanted to spare him further sight of the mutilated carcasses.
As Sean walked slowly away Pat turned his attention to the stables. One wall still stood upright at the far end. The message ira warning had been written in red letters three feet high. Pat groaned at the memory of Brigid screaming at him. He touched the lettering, and his finger came away sticky with blood.
When Maeve O'Flynn returned to her farmhouse, her first thoughts were not of her husband ... a man thirty years older than her ... but of Sean Connors, a mere boy. She found him alone in the kitchen, standing at the big sink, stripped to the waist. Shirt and jacket were flung over a chair. He was washing his chest with water brought in from the yard.
"They killed the donkeys," he whispered, shock in every line of his face.
She put a finger to her lips, "Hush."
He stared with unseeing eyes. "They killed the donkeys," he repeated blankly.
She crossed to the door and locked it - then pulled the curtain across the window, so that only the glow of the turf fire lit the room. She shed her coat and returned to where he stood. The water was barely warm to her touch. She collected the kettle from the hob and emptied it into the sink.
"The donkeys ..." he whispered.
She soaped the flannel and used it on his chest, massaging warmth into his skin. After which she sought to comfort him in the only way she knew. Her arm slid round his neck to draw his face down to hers. The kiss made her tremble so violently that she fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. She watched his eyes as she guided his hands onto her breasts.
"There, Sean," she whispered into his hair. "Isn't that what you wanted on Sunday?"
His muffled reply was lost on her cheek. She let him hold her while she undid his belt. She reached behind him and soaped his back ... and his chest... and his stomach. And when she reached lower Sean Connors was kissing her not with the timidity of a boy, but with the intensity of a man.
Chapter Six
Th
e knackers arrived at eight o'clock. Some were physically sick at the sight. It took them half an hour to recover nerve to face Sean. Each tipped his hat and murmured shocked regrets. "'Tis an act of terrible wickedness, Mr Connors," said Old Seamus, and he spoke for everyone there.
Pat, talking to the Garda, looked up, expecting to see a man addressing him. Instead he saw his son being spoken to with such respect that Pat was astonished, even more so when the whole line of knackers shuffled past Sean ... each with his hat in his hands and a crumpled look on his face ... each conveying condolences to Mr Connors. Pat glowed with pride, despite the circumstances. Then the farmhouse door opened and a young woman appeared whom Pat took to be the farmer's wife. Younger than he expected, she looked flushed enough to have just risen from bed. She handed a mug of tea to Sean - and a puzzled Pat tried to identify his son's answering look. The boy's eyes widened with wonder, as if she had performed a miracle instead of making the tea, which Pat dismissed as nonsense, and he was trying to be more precise when the policeman at his side asked what was to be done with the carcasses.
Inevitably Sean decided. If it was all right with Farmer O'Flynn he would bury them at the bottom of long meadow. Mrs O'Flynn hurried away to consult her husband, who emerged a moment later with a bandage around his head. Permission was quickly given and the old man shuffled back to the house and into his bed.
The rest of the men spent the whole morning digging a pit deep enough to accommodate the animals, with Pat Connors working harder than any man there. He was consumed by a terrible rage - an anger so violent that just to wield a spade was a relief. He swore continuously, cursing the unknown enemies who had struck in so cowardly a fashion, while searching his mind for a way to make things up to his son. Pat lacked the money to buy some more donkeys. Had he had the cash he would have bought replacements there and then. Poverty weighed heavy on his shoulders for the first time in his life. He had never considered himself poor. His ambitions had been for Ireland, not to amass personal wealth. It came as a shock to realise that Sean had accumulated more assets than Pat had ever known. By Ammet Street standards Sean had been rich - now, Pat thought bitterly, he has nothing, and all for being my son.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 88