by Tara Hyland
‘Don’t you dare!’ she shouted, storming over to put herself between Cara and her attacker.
Liam glared at Franny, irritated by the interruption. ‘She attacked me.’
‘Only because you were killing Danny!’ The man was breathing hard, his face red with anger, but Franny refused to be intimidated. She knelt down in front of the little boy, pushing his dark hair back from his face. A purple bruise had already started to form on his forehead, and his lip was split and bloody. ‘Are you all right, love?’
Danny rubbed his stomach, where Liam had kicked him. ‘Yeah,’ he said. To prove it, he struggled to his feet and pulled up his trousers. He swayed a little at first, but managed to stay upright.
Satisfied that he didn’t need to go to the hospital, Franny turned back to Liam. ‘What in God’s name was all that about?’
‘The kid was giving me cheek.’
‘And that gave you a right to kick him and belt him, did it?’ Franny breathed in deeply, trying to calm herself. There was no point getting into an argument, that wouldn’t help anyone. She needed to try to reason with Liam, so that this didn’t happen again. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ she implored, ‘Danny’s just a child.’
But if she’d hoped to shame Liam into seeing the error of his ways, she was wasting her breath. ‘What business is it of yours?’ he sneered. ‘I’ll soon be the man of the house, and I’ll do what I damn well please if I see one of the kids defying me. So if you don’t want that animal of yours getting hurt, then make sure she stays out of my way!’
With one last glare at Cara, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him so hard that the whole house shook.
Later that night, when Liam went down the pub, Franny tried talking to Annie about what she had witnessed that day. But her friend didn’t seem to want to hear it.
‘Ah, you know what Danny can be like,’ she said dismissively. ‘Sometimes I think the devil and all got into that boy of mine. He could use a man like Liam around to knock some sense into that thick head of his.’
‘So you’re planning to have him move in here?’ Franny did nothing to disguise her horror. She’d hoped Liam had just been trying to get her worked up earlier, when he’d mentioned soon being the man of the house.
Annie shrugged. ‘Nothing’s settled as yet.’
Franny felt a chill pass through her. It upset her to see her usually sensible friend being so blinkered over a man. But it didn’t seem there was anything she could do to make a difference, and if Annie was determined to ignore Liam Earley’s quick fists and hard drinking and have him live with her, then there was no way that Franny could leave her daughter here alone, without any protection against that brutal pig of a man. It seemed she would have to give up on her Hollywood dream, after all. A wave of disappointment washed over her. It was too awful – to be handed what she wanted more than anything else in the world, and then to see it snatched away from her so cruelly. Hot tears sprang to her eyes. There had to be another way.
And then the solution came to her. There was someone else who could take care of Cara for her – someone whom she might not like, but whom she could trust. It wasn’t ideal, but it would serve as a temporary fix until she found a way to bring her daughter out to live with her.
That night, Franny sat down and wrote to her mother. Aside from giving birth to Cara, it was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. There was so much to say, and it was hard to explain in a letter. Telling her about Cara and their lives together over the past seven years, then explaining about the job offer, before finally asking if Theresa would agree to care for the granddaughter she’d never met.
Franny drafted and re-drafted the letter, before finally deciding to tell the story in the simplest way possible, with no embellishments, nor pleas for either understanding or forgiveness. At the last minute, she got Annie to address the envelope, since she feared her family might destroy the letter before reading it, if they realised it was from her. Her friend was good enough not to ask any questions.
‘Lord knows what scheme you’re cooking up, Fran, but best leave me in the dark,’ was all she said.
Once addressed, Franny posted off the letter, and then waited anxiously for the reply.
Chapter Nine
Forget the English and the famine, thought Franny as she huddled down with her daughter in the open cart. The bitter wind that blew across the bogs of Connemara was God’s curse on the Irish.
Franny might have happily sung nostalgic songs of home while she was in London, but the reality of her country of birth was nothing like the romanticised version she’d created in her head. And if there was one place that she hated even more than her hometown of Glen Vale, then it was Connemara in Galway. A remote region of the country, famine and emigration had made it one of the most sparsely populated areas of Ireland. It was at the heart of the gaeltacht, the Irish-speaking part of the country. To Franny, it was the most backward place in a backward land, and one she would have happily never seen again, if it hadn’t been for her mother.
Post took around five days to get from London to Ireland in 1954, and it had taken nearly three weeks for Theresa to reply. Franny had almost given up hope. But then it had arrived: a brusque, unforgiving letter. There had been many changes in the eight years that Franny had been away: the most significant being that her father had died four winters ago, after his tractor over-turned into a ditch. It was hard for Franny, discovering that her father had gone, and that she would never be able to get his forgiveness. Whatever their differences, she’d still loved him. She’d always imagined that one day she would go home in triumph, having made her fortune, and that he would be able to see that she’d come good in the end. Now it was too late, and she hated herself for not having got in touch sooner.
After she’d dried her tears, she’d read on, and found there’d been other changes, too. After Michael Healey had died, Maggie and Conrad had married, and he had moved to the Healeys’ farm. Theresa had lived with them, along with Conrad’s mother, until her elder sister, Agatha, had caught a chill that developed into pneumonia. Theresa had travelled to Agatha’s isolated cottage in Connemara, staying with her until the end came. Feeling that she was a burden on Maggie and Conrad and their new family – for they had two daughters now – Theresa had decided to stay put in Agatha’s house for the time being.
That’s why it took me a little longer to reply, she wrote. Maggie had to forward your letter to me here.
The tone of Theresa’s letter had been cool, but she had agreed to take in Cara and that was all that mattered. The one condition was that they should come to Connemara, allowing Cara’s existence to remain a secret from family and friends. Although Franny didn’t like the idea of hiding her daughter away, it would only be for a few months until she could get Cara out to America, so she’d decided to go along with her mother’s plan. What other choice did she have?
It had been a long day for Franny and her daughter. They had been travelling for eighteen hours now: eight hours by train from Euston to Holyhead, then four hours crossing the rough Irish Sea to Dun Laoghaire docks, followed by the train journey to Galway. Outside the station, Franny had found a horse and cart to take them to the village of Recess, the closest point to where her mother now lived. Remembering just how cold the open valleys could be, she had made sure that both she and Cara wrapped up warmly for the journey. But now, as the trap trundled along the rocky path that took them through the blanket bogs that typified this mountainous and rainy area of Western Ireland, Franny realised that two jumpers and a coat were still not enough to keep out the Galway winter.
It was after midnight by the time they got to Recess. By then, the streets were empty, the houses all in darkness.
‘Here we go.’
The driver pulled his horse up in the square. Assuming mother and child were staying in town, he pointed out a couple of bed and breakfasts. Franny pretended to take it all in.
Cara had fallen asleep during the journey. No
w, her mother turned to her.
‘Sweetheart?’ Franny peered down at her sleeping child. Cara stirred, mumbling indistinctly, reluctant to wake. ‘Come on now, darling,’ her mother urged. ‘Be a good girl, and do what yer mam wants.’
Throwing her bag down onto the cobbled street below, Franny got down from the cart, before turning back to lift her daughter out. Franny buckled a little under the girl’s weight. Cara was a skinny little thing, but at seven she was still heavy enough that her mother rarely carried her these days.
‘Slán leat,’ the driver said in Gaelic.
Franny glared at him. ‘And goodbye to you, too,’ she replied, deliberately speaking in English. That was one of the things that irritated her most about Connemara, its inhabitants’ obsession with using the outdated Gaelic language.
Taking her daughter’s hand, Franny picked up the suitcase. She didn’t want the driver to know where they were going, so she made a show of heading in the direction that he’d pointed. But as soon as the horse had clip-clopped around the corner, she turned and headed in the other direction, out of the village.
Typically of Connemara, there was no one about. During the day, if you walked for long enough, you might come across locals out cutting turf, or farmers herding cattle or sheep, but now, in the dead cold of the winter’s evening, the place was deserted. With no one to ask directions, Franny had worried that she might get lost. But to her surprise, even in the dark she easily remembered the way out to her aunt’s. Memories of childhood holidays floated back on the five-mile walk. There had been some good times, such as when her brother had taught her to swim. Maggie had been too cowardly to join in, so it had been left to her and Patrick to have diving competitions, daring each other to climb to a higher rock and dive into the choppy waters below.
At first, Franny and Cara passed by houses and cottages at regular intervals, but they gradually thinned out the further they got into the countryside, until any of the abodes they did pass were ruined and overgrown, their inhabitants long since departed for America. With the path lit only by the pale glow of the half-moon, it was hard to see. Franny had to take care where she stepped so she didn’t end up knee-deep in a watery marsh. Connemara’s most distinguishing feature was its dramatic and varied landscape, and the walk took them up over a mountain, and down into a wooded, boggy valley; even in the dark, Franny could make out the white of the bog cotton, blowing gently in the breezes. She wondered what Cara would think of all the fresh air and space after a life lived in the confines of Whitechapel.
An hour and a half later, they finally reached their destination – the cottage where Franny’s aunt had once lived. The house was, if anything, in worse condition than Franny remembered. Made out of uneven grey stones, its best feature was the carefully thatched roof. At the front, there was a scratched wooden door, the knots showing its age, and four small, ragged windows – no bigger than two handspans or the cold would get in; one didn’t even have any glass in, no doubt because a strong wind had blown it out. The oil lamps were on in the downstairs portion of the house, which meant Theresa had received her second letter, with their planned arrival date, and had decided to wait up for them. Did this welcome mean that she had been forgiven? Now that Franny was here, about to confront the mother she’d abandoned, she suddenly felt nervous. Steeling herself, she knocked on the door.
She heard shuffling inside, and then a round of mumbled curses before the light went on in the porch. A second later, the front door flew open.
Franny stood frozen in shock. The past eight years had not treated her mother kindly. The death of Michael, her husband, had taken its toll on Theresa, turning her hair completely white and leaving her with a stoop, as though she was burdened by the hand that life had dealt to her. At sixty, she was already an old woman.
Franny felt tears gather in her eyes. ‘Oh, Mammy.’ She took her mother’s thin, bony body in her arms, wanting to make up for the years she’d missed.
But Theresa, never one for big emotional displays, held her daughter for just a few seconds before pulling away. ‘Now don’t be getting silly on me, child.’ Her tone was low and gruff.
It wasn’t exactly the greeting Franny had been hoping for, but she hid her disappointment.
‘Here, Mam,’ Franny said with forced joviality, trying to pretend this was some happy family reunion. ‘It’s about time you met your granddaughter.’ She turned to where her child hovered a little way behind. ‘And here she is, hiding. This is Cara.’
Cara stood shyly by her mother’s side. The old woman looked down at her with disinterest.
‘So this is the girl.’ It was said dismissively, a cold statement of fact. There was none of the interest and curiosity that Cara had been expecting. On the train and the boat over, strangers had petted her and given her sweets. She’d expected more of the same from her grandmother. But instead, the old woman simply stood back and said, ‘You’d best come inside out of the cold. The last thing I need is a week nursing a sick child.’
Feeling frightened, Cara looked up at her mother, hoping that they could leave now and go home. Instead of being warm and welcoming, her grandmother was old and mean. With her wild white hair, hard eyes and slight stoop, she reminded Cara of a witch from one of her fairy stories. The thought made the girl give an involuntary shiver, and she gripped her mother’s hand tighter. If she’d known that it was going to be like this, she never would have agreed to come.
It had been a little over a week since her mother had asked if she’d like to go on a little adventure. Cara had listened with interest as her mother outlined the trip. They were going to Ireland, she explained, to visit her grandmother. Cara, who had always wondered what it would be like to know more of her relatives, thought it sounded like a fine idea.
The one drawback was that it meant being away from Danny for a little while, but Cara’s sadness about that was compensated by her excitement over the impending trip. And there was so much to see and experience along the way. Euston station was busy, noisy and hot. Then there was the long train journey from London, with all its sights and sounds and smells. For a curious child like Cara, it was heaven.
Now, having arrived at their destination, the excitement had waned. Even though her mother kept smiling, Cara sensed that deep down she wasn’t very happy about the whole situation either.
As soon as they got inside, Cara wrinkled her nose. The house had that distinctive smell of old people and cats. As if on cue, a thin black cat wound its way around Cara’s legs. She bent to stroke it, but the animal drew back in anger. Green eyes flashed, back arched, it hissed a warning to stay away.
Hearing the noise, her grandmother turned and glared. ‘Leave her alone, child. She’s for catching mice, not playing.’
Cara wanted to say that she hadn’t done anything to the cat, but decided not to.
Franny frowned at her mother’s harsh words. ‘Do you want us to go?’ she demanded. ‘Say the word, and we’ll be out of here.’
‘I said I’d take care of your child,’ Theresa said evenly, ‘and I won’t break my promise.’
Cara looked between the two women, her eyes round and large like saucers, taking everything in. She didn’t understand a lot of what was being said, but it was clear that her mother and grandmother didn’t get on.
Aware of Cara’s eyes on her, Theresa looked over sharply. ‘And what would you be staring at?’
Cara swallowed hard, too scared to answer. Her mother put a protective arm round her, drawing her close. ‘Leave her, Mam,’ she said wearily.
The old woman gave a loud, ‘Humph,’ and then shuffled from the room. Once she was gone, Cara looked up at her mother.
‘You’re leaving me here?’ Her voice was little more than a squeak.
‘Oh, Cara.’ Franny sighed deeply. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, my darling – you’re right, I am leaving you.’ Seeing the distressed look on her daughter’s face, she added quickly, ‘It’s just for a little while, though, I promise. And – ’ she
glanced towards the kitchen ‘– and your grandmother isn’t as bad as she seems.’ The last part wasn’t said with much conviction.
From the kitchen, there was the sound of saucepans being knocked together, followed by muttered cursing. The turf on the fire hissed and crackled. Cara felt her heart beating faster. ‘Mummy?’ she said in a small voice. ‘I don’t think I want to stay here.’
Cara watched as her mother’s eyes filled with tears. She dropped to her knees, and hugged her child tight to her breast. It almost hurt, but Cara didn’t want to say so. ‘I know,’ she said at last, her words muffled against her daughter’s hair. ‘I don’t want to leave you here, either. But I have no choice.’ She released Cara and looked into her eyes. ‘You do understand that, don’t you, my darling?’
Cara didn’t understand. But she hated to see her beloved mother upset, so she tried to be brave as she said, somewhat solemnly, ‘Yes, Mummy.’
She was rewarded with a smile. ‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ her mother said, a few tears leaking out again. ‘Thank you for making this easier.’
It had been a long, hard day, so it didn’t take long for Cara to fall asleep. Franny sat for a moment in the tiny bedroom, watching her daughter slumber. Exhausted herself, she longed to climb into bed beside her child, but she needed to speak with her mother. Theresa’s anger and hostility had been apparent tonight, and Franny knew they had to clear the air, if only to make sure that the old woman didn’t take her resentment out on Cara these next few weeks. With a heavy heart, she went to face her mother.
Downstairs in the tiny sitting room, Theresa was dowsing the last embers in the hearth. Already the room was growing cold. Franny drew her shawl around her shoulders and prepared to make peace.
‘Would you like me to make some tea, Mam?’
Theresa grunted. ‘If I drink any more I’ll be out in the privy all night.’
Behind her mother’s back, Franny rolled her eyes. She didn’t particularly want any tea herself – it had simply been a pretext to get them to sit down together. But it was just like her mam not to notice an olive branch. She decided to be more direct. ‘Can you stop tidying up for five minutes and talk with me?’