“That’s never stopped them before,” Liam said grimly. “Is the charge legitimate?”
Deirdre nodded miserably. “I think so. Kevin has acquired some new friends with bad habits.”
“What does your mother say?”
“I don’t think she knows he’s as bad as he is.” Deirdre fought the tears forming behind her eyelids. “She’s in some sort of denial. I don’t understand it. It’s almost as if she’s afraid of Kevin.”
“Kevin would never hurt your mother.”
“Of course not. But Mum doesn’t like arguments and Kevin is very good at arguing.”
“Is he now?”
“It’s been hard since Da—” Her voice broke.
Liam squeezed her arm encouragingly. “I know, lass. Perhaps I should drop by a bit more, make my presence known. A half-grown boy is too much for a woman with no man in the house.”
“We have Grandda.”
Liam’s bottom lip tightened. “He’s old.”
“Kevin loves him, and I do, too,” she added, anxious to make her uncle understand.
“He’s no part of your father, Deirdre.”
Deirdre kept silent. The words that sprang automatically to her lips should not be voiced. No one could replace her father, not Grandda and not Liam. There was no one in the world like Patrick Nolan and the thought that she would never again experience that exquisite lightness terrified her. That the memory of one person could bring with it such a mix of joy and pain, lifting her spirits and at the same time freezing the blood in her veins, sucking the air from her lungs and pounding in the hurt over and over again, was a mystery to her.
People lost family members. Deirdre didn’t know many in the Six Counties who hadn’t. What was wrong with her family that they couldn’t manage like everyone else?
She wouldn’t think of it now. Her uncle had come to keep her company. Pasting a smile on her face she asked, “How is the antique business, Uncle Liam?”
Liam chuckled. “Well enough to buy you a decent meal.”
“Thank goodness. I was afraid you were going to make me pay.”
“Not on your life. That kind of thing isn’t done by a good Irish croppy.”
Deirdre laughed. “It happens more than you think. Boys don’t have any more money than girls. We can’t be expecting them always to be paying for us.”
“I suppose not. Times are changing even in Ireland. Is it for the better, do you think?”
He grinned. He was charming her and Deirdre was grateful. This was her uncle, her father’s younger brother, and she loved him.
The food was everything he’d promised. Over a glass of foaming Guinness, spring lamb, potatoes and peas, she relaxed, leaned into the flickering candles and gave herself up to the mournful notes of the Irish pipes. She’d heard them infrequently during the last few years. The whistle, fiddle and harmonica were preferred instruments. But the Uilleán pipes were rarely heard outside of the remote coastal towns of the Gaeltacht. Only a true musician could coax the sweet, haunting, melancholy notes from the odd amalgamation of reed, leather, bellows and drone.
The last time she’d heard the pipes Uncle Liam had been there, too. Both sides of the family had gathered for Kevin’s tenth birthday. Endless numbers of aunts, uncles and cousins as well as most of the town of Sligo descended upon their home. Da loved company and he loved music, fast, lovely, heel-clicking music that filled the air and moved the long grass and set the tree leaves swinging.
He invited everyone who crossed his path to Kevin’s party. Mum did all the cooking herself. Banquet tables fairly groaned with roast beef, carved ham, baked chicken and fish, salads, potatoes, cabbage, turnips, beans and peas. Desserts were Mum’s specialty but she’d outdone herself with Kevin’s cake. He’d been fascinated with fire lorries ever since he’d been a baby. Deirdre remembered how he would run out of the house to see one pass by. He would stand in reverent silence, mesmerized, until the singsong sound of the siren had completely died away. For his birthday, Mum baked a cake, a full meter high in the shape of a lorry, frosting it with fire-engine red icing, even going so far as to painstakingly design the ladders, the wheels, the hoses and the slicker-coated figures of men at the wheel and in the back.
Kevin had been ecstatic. Only when Da assured him that he’d taken several pictures of the monstrosity had Kevin allowed Mum to cut the cake and serve the guests.
Deirdre remembered the cars parked along the road that day. Most belonged to relatives who’d come from various parts of Ireland. There were other cars as well, more than she’d ever seen on the narrow, country roads of Sligo, even during tourist season. The picture was as clear in her mind as if it were yesterday. She hung on to it. Small, dark, innocuous cars carrying only men, driving slowly past, not quite stopping. Da would go out to them. Windows would roll down. He would walk beside the cars. Sometimes he would lean into the window, sticking his head all the way inside.
For all his gregariousness, he never invited the men inside the cars to join their party. At the time, Deirdre was twelve, old enough to notice but not curious enough to wonder why. Now she did and it was too late to ask.
Da had long since satisfied her curiosity about his work. He’d explained in great detail about the law and a person’s right to a fair trial. He’d explained that a fair trial in the North of Ireland meant one thing for Protestants and another for Catholics and he was meant to balance the difference. Never once had he alluded to the risks involved. Deirdre hadn’t known about the men in the black cars. It was her mother who told her, later, much later, when she’d demanded to know why.
Kate had reluctantly explained it, understanding her daughter’s need to make sense out of what had seemed a random act. Oddly enough it helped, knowing there was a reason, that men in ski masks didn’t just walk through doors and snuff out a life without cause.
Liam struck a match, bent over the flame and lit his cigarette. “You’re quiet tonight. What’s on your mind, lass?” he asked. The flickering light from the match illuminated his features, the sharp jawline, the arched nose.
Deirdre was struck by the resemblance to her father. Words that sprung to her mind stuck in her throat. She shook her head. “Nothing, really. The music is lovely.” “
Aye,” agreed Liam, inhaling deeply. “It is.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Tell me more about Kevin,” he said at last. “Who made the arrest?”
Again Deirdre shook her head. “I don’t know. Mum spoke with someone named Anderson.”
Liam’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. “Neil Anderson?”
“I don’t remember.” She thought. “Maybe. Who’s Neil Anderson?”
Liam composed his features, calling up the crooked Nolan smile. “A man I wouldn’t want to tangle with. I think I’ll pay a visit to your mum.”
“If you wait until the weekend, I’ll go with you.”
“I’ll see what I can do. If you don’t hear from me, we’ll make it another time.”
Deirdre nodded. She was accustomed to plans set aside. The Nolans were all unpredictable, a family flaw, her mother said.
Kate Nolan was nothing if she wasn’t predictable. Deirdre could set her watch by her mother’s familiar routine. Only once in all the memories of her childhood had her mother faltered. She wouldn’t think of that now.
“It’s time I was seeing you home, lass,” Liam announced, throwing a twenty-pound note on the table. “You need your beauty rest and I’m for bed.”
Deirdre slid out from behind the table and walked toward the door and the row of coats on hooks along the wall. She found hers and was slipping her arm into the sleeve when someone jostled her from behind.
The young man from her political science class smiled down at her. “I’m sorry, miss. It’s Deirdre isn’t it? How are you?”
“Well, thank you.”
“Are you coming or going?”
“Going.”
“May I walk you back?”
Deirdre shook her hea
d. “I’m here with my uncle.”
He pulled his cap down over his forehead. “That’s all right then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Liam’s voice interrupted them. “Are you ready, Dee?”
She took his arm and addressed the boy. “This is my uncle, Liam Nolan. I’m sorry but I don’t know your name.”
“Peter,” he said after a brief pause. “Peter Clarke.” Liam extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Peter. How do you know my nice?”
“We have a class together. We had a few last term as well.”
Deirdre stared at him. How had he remembered that? She’d barely recognized him. He was rather decent looking in a normal sort of way, not bad at all, but nothing that would make him stand out in a crowd.
“What are you studying?” Liam asked.
“Archaeology.”
Liam looked impressed. “An ambitious lad, are you?”
Peter grinned and Deirdre’s eyes widened.
“Not ambitious enough for my father,” he said. “His preference would have been law or business.”
“Those are every father’s preferences.” Liam lifted an eyebrow. “Shall we walk back to Queen’s together or are you staying for a bit?”
“I came for the music. Michael Flynn plays a grand whistle.”
“That he does,” Liam agreed.
Deirdre studied the boy’s face. “Do you live at Queen’s, Peter?”
“Not this year. I did last term.” His glance moved beyond her. He nodded and waved. “Pardon me,” he said, his eyes on her again. “I’ve friends waiting.”
“Do you live in Belfast?” she persisted.
“Aye. But that’s another subject. I’ve kept the lads waiting long enough.” Once again he shook Liam’s hand. “A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Nolan.”
Deirdre watched him walk away.
“He seems a pleasant enough lad,” Liam said thoughtfully.
“I suppose.”
“He’s taken with you.”
Deirdre frowned. “How do you know?”
“He was nearly incoherent whenever he looked at you.”
Ordinarily she would have been pleased, or at least embarrassed. But for some reason she wasn’t. Instinct told her that her uncle’s observation wasn’t entirely accurate. Peter Clarke had been coherent enough before Liam had joined them.
After her uncle dropped her at her door, she pushed Peter from her mind, checked over her French essay, showered and called her mother. Kate’s voice, serene, predictable, warm oil on chapped hands, never failed to soothe her. It was only when Deirdre mentioned Liam that she detected a small change, a hesitation, as if Kate were holding her breath. Then she smoothed over the silence.
“Does he come around often?” her mother asked casually.
Deirdre thought a minute. “Every few weeks. He doesn’t want me to be lonely.”
“Why should you be lonely, Deirdre? Surely you have friends your own age, friends who would be more suitable companions than Liam.”
“They aren’t family, Mum.”
“I see.” Again Deirdre sensed a brief holding back, a small microscopic note of disapproval. Her stomach tightened. Her mother’s acceptance had always been unconditional, as unrelenting and sure as spring rain. She hurried to fill in the gap, grasping at the first thing that came to her mind. “We met someone at dinner, a boy from school. His name is Peter Clarke.”
“How nice.” The warmth was back in Kate’s voice. “Tell me about him.”
“He’s nice enough. Liam said he was taken with me.”
Her mother’s musical laugh relaxed the knot in Deirdre’s stomach and her words dissolved the last of it. “Of course he is. How could he not be?”
“You’re biased, Mum.”
Again that delicious gurgle, Kate’s laugh. “I should hope so.”
Deirdre closed her eyes and gripped the phone. She was luckier than most. No one had a mother like Kate. “Good night, Mum. I’m going to bed now.”
“Deirdre?”
“Yes.”
“Be careful, love.”
Deirdre’s forehead puckered. “Why?”
“We’ve come a long way but things still aren’t all they should be, not even in Belfast.”
“I don’t understand.”
Her mother hesitated.
“Tell me.”
“I don’t think Clarke is an Irish name.”
The words slammed into Deirdre’s stomach. She managed to end the conversation, replace the phone and crawl beneath her comforter. The possibility that she could have made such an error horrified her. She’d never had a Protestant friend. Protestants attended Queen’s University although they were in the minority. She knew who they were, sat beside them in class and occasionally nodded to them in passing. She did not study with them, eat with them or share their conversation. The glass curtain separating Nationalists and Loyalists, Catholics and Protestants, was a way of life, solid, inflexible, permanent. The enormity of her mistake swept through her. She, Deirdre Nolan, daughter of civil rights attorney, Patrick Nolan, had introduced her uncle, a man who’d spent time in Long Kesh for Nationalist political activities, to a Protestant.
Everyone knew of Patrick Nolan and his untimely death. Everyone knew he was her father. Peter Clarke could be no exception. How dare he approach her as if they were the same, as if it made no difference. Deirdre’s back teeth locked. She was coldly, furiously angry.
Six
Kate kept her hands on the steering wheel and leaned over to kiss her son’s cheek. He stared straight ahead, through the windshield, barely tolerating her lips on his skin.
She swallowed and waited for the digital clock to move forward one digit. “It’s time, Kevin,” she said gently. “You’ll be late for school.”
He nodded, opened the door and stepped outside, all without saying a word. Not bothering to close the door, he walked across the grass to the entrance.
Kate sighed, released her seat belt and reached across the passenger seat to pull the door shut. Motherhood hadn’t turned out quite as she’d expected. For that matter, nothing had turned out as she’d expected.
The nagging unease that rode on her shoulder whenever she had a moment to think resurrected itself. Life wasn’t supposed to be this way. Everything had run so smoothly when Patrick was alive. She would never get used to the frightening sense of anxiety that never left her, or the pressure of knowing that everything now depended on her alone, a terrifying realization for a woman who’d never, before the death of her husband, balanced her own checkbook, called for an airline reservation or filled her car with petrol.
Turning back through town, Kate followed the signs to the B47. Her lunch meeting with Robbie Finnigan was scheduled for one o’clock in Belfast, enough time for her to pass through the government buildings and finish her report on the dismal progress of integrating the police force.
Kevin ducked his head, avoided eye contact with the group of boys standing near the water fountain and walked quickly down the long hallway to the open door of his first class. If he moved fast enough, with purpose in his step, perhaps no one would stop him.
“Kevin,” a voice called out from behind him.
Damn. He’d almost made it. Reluctantly he turned. A sandy-haired, freckled boy ran to catch up with him.
“I called you last night,” John Gallagher said. “Did your mother tell you?”
Kevin stared straight ahead, maintaining his pace, making no concessions. “Aye.”
“Why didn’t you call me back? It’s my birthday today. I wanted you to come for the party. Mam’s making a cake and my sisters are home.”
“I can’t,” Kevin mumbled.
“Why not?”
“I have school work.”
“How do you know? You haven’t been to school in two days.”
“That’s how I know. Have you ever been gone and not had work to finish when you came back?”
John considered the question and then nodded his head
reasonably. “I suppose so. Still, you’ll have time to finish. No one will ask for it by tomorrow, not when you’ve been away two days.” He clasped Kevin’s shoulder. “Hold on a minute. Were you sick?”
Kevin shook his hand off. “Aye.”
“What about tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
John stopped in the middle of the hall. “What’s the matter with you?”
Kevin threw back his head and faced his friend, his expression defiant. “Nothing’s wrong. Just leave me alone, will you?”
The other boy’s face stilled. “I’ll leave you alone, Kevin,” he said quietly, “if that’s what you want.” Then he brushed by him and walked into the classroom.
Kevin groaned, leaned against the wall, and breathed deeply. Why couldn’t he ever get it right? A minute passed. The bell rang. He waited another minute. Mustering a semblance of self-control, Kevin walked through the door, wove his way through the maze of tightly packed desks and students and sat down in the back of the classroom. Brother Andrew was writing on the board. Kevin’s breathing normalized. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a pen and notebook and focused on his paper.
The teacher turned. “Kevin Nolan.” Brother Andrew’s sonorous voice called out.
His stomach twisted. “Yes, Brother,” he managed to reply.
“You’re wanted in the headmaster’s office. Take your belongings with you.”
Kevin’s legs froze. He tried to move them, but they wouldn’t cooperate.
“Now, Kevin.”
Shakily Kevin got to his feet. Swinging his pack over his shoulder he walked out the door and down the hall toward the administrative offices. What could the master want with him? Only the most serious of offenses was brought to the attention of the headmaster. He racked his brain. What could he have done that anyone here at St. Anthony’s would know about?
Drawing a deep breath, he paused a moment before the intricately carved door, then pulled it open. He inhaled the smell of varnish and old dust. Thick books lined the shelves, their spines bare, titles worn away long ago. A counter separated the waiting area from the desks where two women typed soundlessly on late-model typewriters. Behind the desks were offices, one large and one small.
This Irish House Page 6