by Paul Cuddihy
There was nothing on the horizon but he kept staring at it, knowing that somewhere out there, beyond the vast body of water that seemed to stretch into infinity, lay America. Many people must have stood on this island and thought the same thing, only they viewed it as a means of escape. There was no escape for Thomas. This was his prison and here he would see out the rest of his days amidst the crashing waves and howling winds and desolate nothingness.
Slipping his coat on and grabbing his hat, he ventured outside. Immediately the wind rushed in from the ocean, sensing a fresh victim, and it began its relentless onslaught. He stuck his hat tightly on his head, still keeping one hand pressed firmly down on it, and stepped away from the front door. The cottage had given him some measure of protection from the elements but now, as he struggled down the path, he was cruelly exposed and it took all his strength to make it the two hundred yards to the church, where he quickly pulled the door open and scurried inside, slamming it shut behind him and grateful for a moment of peace.
He patted his breast pocket just to check that the letter was still there. It had arrived that morning. Roddy the postman had delivered it almost as soon as the boat had dropped off the weekly mail.
‘It’s from the city,’ he’d said, hovering in the kitchen in the hope that Thomas would open it. He recognised the handwriting straight away. It was from Monsignor Dolan. Normally he would have opened it there and then but he liked the idea of keeping Roddy waiting. Eventually, when there was no movement on the letter and no offer of a cup of tea, the postman left, though Thomas knew he’d be back tomorrow, hoping to satisfy his curiosity.
Thomas wanted to read the letter alone and thought he’d have more chance of some solitude in the chapel. He was tempted to bolt the door but if anyone tried to get in and discovered they couldn’t, the news that the church was locked would race round the island faster than the vicious Atlantic wind that kept him feeling permanently cold. He had been an object of curiosity since his arrival, some of it friendly and some of it hostile. It helped that he spoke Gaelic; his Irish version was close enough to what they spoke on the island that he was able to communicate, and he was picking up their language with each passing day. He knew that, eventually, they would become used to him and he to them. After all, he was going to be here for a long, long time.
It was probably the safest place for him to be, far from people who would want him to answer for what he’d done. He knew Dan Foley had been caught – that had always been the deal – though the bonus for Walsh was that he also found the guns. Thomas had presumed the crates were already safely hidden in Ireland rather than stacked untidily in the kitchen of a flat just a few streets from St Alphonsus’. It was Padraig who’d set up the meeting. He’d been suspicious but Thomas had managed to convince him he had information that only he could tell Foley. Padraig gave him a time and a place when his comrade would be expecting him and Thomas passed it on in return for his brother’s release.
The Brotherhood didn’t forget. Thomas knew that and he only hoped when it came time for him to answer for all his words and deeds, it would be to his maker rather than facing the barrel of an unforgiving gun.
Padraig Clarke would never forget either. He’d fled to Ireland, just managing to evade capture, which would probably have resulted in him suffering the same fate as Dan Foley. It would be a while before he’d venture back to Glasgow, even though his family remained there. Thomas was glad of the distance between him and Padraig, thankful of the isolated protection his island home offered him.
Thomas knew that reading Monsignor Dolan’s letter would probably make him feel homesick and he feared it might take him days to shake it off, but at the same time, it would be nice to hear from his old parish priest. No doubt there would be more apologies for what had happened back in Glasgow but Thomas did not hold a grudge against the old man. He walked to the front of the chapel, genuflecting before the altar and then sitting down in the first row. He slipped off his jacket, draping it over the back of the chair and placed his hat on the seat beside him. Then he reached into the coat pocket and took out the letter, opening the envelope and sliding out a single sheet of white paper, smiling as he saw the familiar handwriting that covered most of the sheet.
Dear Thomas,
I had to get Monsignor Dolan to write this for me since I’m not very good at writing and I will probably have to get him to read your reply if you send one, even though I won’t be in Glasgow if you do.
I thought you should know that Mick is dead. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you and I wish it could have been to your face. Duffy killed him. I always thought that he’d kill me but this is worse and maybe that’s what he wanted. I miss him all the time and it hurts so much that sometimes I wish I could go to sleep and never wake up. I’m glad Monsignor Dolan is writing this letter otherwise the paper would be covered in tears by now.
I know this news will hurt you because he was your brother, but he was going to be my husband. He had asked me to marry him, just after we said goodbye to you at the train station.
The funeral was a lovely service. There weren’t many people at the church but Monsignor Dolan said some really nice things about Mick and I’m sure you would have been pleased.
By the time you read this, I’ll be back in Donegal. I can’t bear the thought of staying in Glasgow because I see him round every corner and hear his voice on every street.
I know you’ll say a prayer for Mick but will you say one for me too, even though I don’t really deserve it after I chose your brother. I loved him and I miss him all the time.
You are in my prayers, Thomas, even though I’m not sure if God ever listens to me, and I hope that you will find some happiness in your life.
All my love,
Kate
Thomas sat for a long time inside the chapel, ignoring the howling wind that swooped and swirled round the building. He knew he should say a prayer for his brother’s soul and in the fullness of time he would, but for just now his head was filled with images of Mick, fresh ones rushing into his mind every few seconds, some of them from when they were boys in Galway, running and shouting and laughing through the green fields that seemed to stretch forever, or ones of the two of them together in Glasgow. Each memory seemed to make him smile.
When he had stepped onto the train, he had resigned himself to the fact that he might never see his brother again, but he hadn’t imagined it would be because Mick was dead. The news was taking some time to sink in and he read the letter again.
Slowly he stood up and walked to the little altar at the side of the main one. It sat unobtrusively below a picture of Our Lady holding the baby Jesus. He took out a packet of matches from his statue and lit one of the candles, and when the flame began to dance nervously, he pushed the paper close to it until it caught fire. Then he held it delicately at one of the edges until the flame raced across the page, devouring all in its path. He dropped the crumbling remnants of the letter on the floor and quickly stamped on it.
There was no point replying to Kate since she would now be in Ireland, and he’d never know how to find her, while there was nothing he wanted to say to Monsignor Dolan. He looked up at the crucifix on the wall behind the altar and made the sign of the cross, offering a quick prayer for his brother. Then he picked up his coat and hat and prepared himself for another battle with the elements to get back to the cottage.
31
A SORT OF HOMECOMING
The woman shuffled up past a couple of men who stood leaning on the side of the boat, looking out at the choppy waters and silently smoking, then dropped onto the wooden seat next to Kate. Kate didn’t glance round at the woman, who was now hauling a bag onto her lap and rummaging in it, muttering to herself and occasionally clearing her throat and spitting out the contents at her feet.
The boat had broken out into the open sea now and the spray from the waves which buffeted the vessel would occasionally shower them. Kate found it strangely refreshing though she heard other pe
ople complaining every time it happened. The boat was busy, though not as full as the ones that headed in the opposite direction and she was grateful for the welcome space on the deck. She didn’t know whether she’d be able to cope if she’d been packed onto one of the cattle ships. Her case was jammed between her legs and she would rip the hand off anyone who dared try and touch it since it contained the few mementos she had of Mick. There wasn’t much. His bloodstained shirt, with the hole in the back; a few coins that were in his pocket; his cigarettes and a holy medal that Thomas must have given to him before he left – St Michael the Archangel. It hadn’t done him much good, and it seemed he’d been abandoned by his guardian angel as well, Kate thought, but those few things were more precious to her than just about anything else in the world.
Occasionally she had lit one of his cigarettes just so that the smoke would remind her of him but she didn’t want to use them all up. Once they were gone, that smell would be lost forever, and she wasn’t sure her memories would be enough to sustain her. She could still smell him on the shirt, which she clutched every night when she slept. It didn’t matter to her that it was covered in his blood, because that was still part of him. When she couldn’t sleep, haunted by pictures of him dying in her arms on the street, she would spread the shirt out and run her fingers round the hole where Duffy’s knife had sliced through the material and then his flesh, trying to imagine how he had felt in those last few seconds, and she’d do that until her eyes stung from the tears which were falling onto the shirt and she finally fell into an exhausted but restless sleep.
‘I’m Molly Flannigan,’ the woman beside her said, holding out a silver canister. Kate shook her head. She could smell the whiskey, from the canister and the woman’s breath, and she felt like she was going to be sick; there had been more than enough of that already.
‘Suit yourself,’ Molly said and took a deep gulp before wiping her mouth on her sleeve. ‘It makes the journey shorter, darling.’
Kate knew her parents would be surprised when she turned up on their doorstep but she didn’t know what else to do or where to go. She just wanted her mammy to hug her, letting her cry into her bosom, while her daddy would stand awkwardly in the room before muttering something by way of welcome and then heading off to the pub. Secretly he’d be delighted that his little Kathleen was home again. There’d probably be a few drinks bought that night.
Would they even recognise her? It had been a long time since she’d left Donegal and she had changed. For one thing, she felt old now, weary, and her face already wore the tell-tale signs of a hard life. Would they still be alive? For all she knew they could have both passed away and she’d be none the wiser. She shook her head. It was better not to think like that. And she felt sure that her mammy would recognise her in the middle of a snow storm, so she knew she wouldn’t be a stranger to them.
‘And what’s your name?’ Molly asked.
‘Kate.’
‘Just Kate.’
Kate looked at her and smiled. ‘Kate Costello.’
‘Nice to meet you, Kate Costello,’ said Molly, holding out a dirty hand, which Kate shook. ‘Are you going home then?’
Kate nodded.
‘So am I. It’s always nice to go home, so it is.’
Kate stared ahead of her, though only the clear and vast sea was visible, but she had resolved not to look back. She didn’t want to set eyes on Scotland ever again. She bit her tongue to stop a tear escaping. She didn’t want Molly to see her crying because she knew it would only bring more unwelcome questions. There had been too many tears already anyway, enough to fill up the Irish Sea ten times over, and they never made her feel better or change what had happened.
Her hands rested on her belly. She knew it was too early for her to be showing and it would be another few months before she’d be able to feel it kicking, but there was a baby growing inside of her at this very moment. She knew it would be a boy – a son who would grow up and look after her in her old age. He would remind her of his father and sometimes that would make her happy. Other times it would make her sad. And he would have the name she chose for him just so that he would always know where he came from. Thomas Michael Costello would be born and raised in Ireland, and she’d make sure he never set foot in the country that had taken his father from her.
Everything happens for a reason, her mammy used to tell her, and she had to believe that was true.
COPYRIGHT
First published 2010
by Black & White Publishing Ltd
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www.blackandwhitepublishing.com
This electronic edition published in 2014
ISBN: 978 1 84502 814 5 in EPub format
ISBN: 978 1 84502 301 0 in paperback format
Copyright © Paul Cuddihy 2010
The right of Paul Cuddihy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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