This Irish House

by Jeanette Baker

  Neil watched her breathe. Her sleep was deep, trusting. He was grateful for that. Whatever the future held he would remember this night and know there had been nothing held back between them. His arm ached. He would cut it off before he disturbed her. She would have her sleep. Instinct, and the dark bruises below her eyes, told him there had been little enough of that for her.

  He must have slept as well. He woke to find her smiling at him.

  “Hello,” he said.

  She blushed. “Thank you.”

  “The pleasure was mine.” He lowered his head to her lips and lingered there.

  “Ours,” she said when she could speak again.

  He nodded. “Ours.”

  Again she smiled. “Ours.”

  He watched her sit up, find her clothes and pull them on, wondering if she had any idea how lovely she was.

  “I need to ask you about Kevin.”

  Neil’s heart sank. He zipped up his trousers and waited.

  “He’s changed.”

  Neil frowned. “How?”

  “Until now, he’s been grateful for my visits and anxious to come home. When I saw him today, he was angry and sarcastic, just like he was before this whole thing blew up.” She sat very still, her hands in her lap. “Has something happened?”

  Neil tugged his shirt over his head. He would tell her. She had a right to know. “Kevin has been in contact with his uncles. I imagine they’ve convinced him that they have his interests at heart. More than likely his attitude has everything to do with his level of confidence. He feels invincible.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “These are terrorists, Kate. They do what they have to do.”

  “Are you telling me that Kevin is in danger?”

  “There is a risk. You knew that.”

  He watched her swallow. She was pale again and obviously terrified. Her hands shook and she concentrated to control her breathing.

  “It can’t be like that, Neil. What do we have to do to get him out of this?”

  We, she’d said we. “As a matter of fact, I was thinking the very same thing.”

  The brightness in her eyes was worth his admission.

  Quickly he moved to clarify his thought. “It has to be done carefully, Kate. Kevin has already been seen. I can’t just pull him out. It would be too dangerous.” He hesitated. “There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “He still has the terms of a drug conviction to fulfill. He won’t be sent home scot-free.”

  The light died in her eyes. “What will he have to do?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not experienced with this sort of thing. I’m sorry.”

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “There’s an arms shipment he told me about. His time and location are wrong, of course. A lad like Kevin would never be trusted with accurate information. I can make it seem that he’s unreliable. He’ll be pulled.”

  “What has an arms shipment to do with Kevin?”

  “We’re after the paramilitaries’ weapons arsenal. Drugs are only a front. The same people are involved in both.”

  Her hand was at her throat. “My God. You have my son involved with paramilitary weapons? Kevin can’t do that, Neil. He’s a boy, not even a boy from the streets. He hasn’t been raised like that.”

  “I realize that now. It was obvious the first time I sent him off by himself.”

  He watched her struggle to gather herself, to remain calm. Whatever was between them was forgotten for the moment.

  “Won’t it be obvious if you pull him out after only one attempt?”

  “What else can I do, Kate?” Neil was feeling desperate. “We both want him out.”

  She stared at him, her face innocent of makeup, her eyes huge and hurt. “I have to trust you, Neil. There is no one else. I can’t take much more. Please understand that if anything happens to my son, it will destroy me.”

  “What about us?”

  She smiled. “This was lovely. Thank you.”

  He forced himself to speak calmly. “That’s it?”

  “Did you expect—” She stopped and started again. “Did you want something more?”

  “You know damn well that I want something more.”

  Kate wet her lips. “What about who we are? I believe you called it our positions.”

  “We’re beyond that and you know it.”

  “I’m a Catholic, Neil. This is Northern Ireland. I can’t fraternize with a police officer. My credibility would be ruined.”

  “You’re home is in the Republic. When this is over, that’s where you’ll be. I’m not Protestant, Kate. Religion hasn’t been part of my life for a long time, but if that’s important to you, it will be.”

  “This won’t be over for years and years. We’re not making any real progress. The sticking point for us is a new government, a new policing force. You could very well be out of a job if those demands are met.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” he said dryly. “Quite frankly, if I never see Northern Ireland again, it won’t disappoint me.”

  “Do you feel that way about all of Ireland?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Our timing is poor.”

  “Better that than not at all.”

  Kate stood and stretched. “I have to think about this, Neil. I didn’t expect it. There are so many unresolved matters.”

  “Such as?”

  “Kevin, for one.”

  “I’m going to fix that.”

  “There’s Patrick.”

  “He’s dead.” His words were honest, brutal, powerful.

  “Not for me,” she said. “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know the truth.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  She turned to him eagerly. “Will you?”

  He nodded. “It may not be what you think, Kate. There is the possibility you may be hurt very badly.”

  “Will you help me?” she repeated.

  “Yes,” he said wearily, wishing he had another choice.

  Kate stood in front of the double doors that had served as a small upstairs office and retreat when Patrick was alive. This was the room Kate and the children had known not to disturb without permission. He had ordered sliding doors to separate it from their bedroom and close out the light when he worked late. Kate had never felt quite up to clearing it out, even down to the scattered papers on his desk and the heavy coats and parka in the closet. Someday, she had promised herself, when she could smell remnants of his scent without breaking down, she would organize and give away the last of his belongings. Weeks became months and months, years. She always seemed to find something else to do that could not be postponed. She refused to put it off any longer. Instinct told her the answers to her questions would be found in this room.

  She stood in front of the closet, closed her eyes and opened the door. His coats were hung according to season, heavy wools first, tighter wools and windbreakers for spring and summer. So far, so good. She fingered a dark gray tweed, moved it across the rack so that a tighter gray wool was exposed. Suddenly it hit her, the faint, familiar smells of tobacco and aftershave, old leather and wool, Patrick’s smells.

  Kate picked up a sleeve, buried her face in it and inhaled. It was different, this time. Somehow it felt right to be standing in Patrick’s closet with her cheek pressed against the sleeve of his coat. She smiled into the wool, running her hands down the expensive fabric, then inside over the lining. Humming to herself, Kate slipped her fingers inside the pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, a bookmaker’s receipt. How odd. Patrick had been one of few Irishmen who had no interest in racing. Pencil marks hid some of the numbers. She flicked on the light, squinting to decipher the faded writing. It looked like a phone number, but there were too many digits.

  On a hunch, Kate carried the paper downstairs to her study, opened the top drawe
r of the desk and pulled out her address book. 011 was an international code and 212 was the area code for numbers in the city of New York. She relaxed. Patrick knew people in New York. He hadn’t been specific about all aspects of his work but, to be fair, she had never shown much interest. She stared at the receipt and thought of the restaurant in Belfast. On an impulse, she picked up the phone and dialed the number. No answer, nor was there a machine. Slowly Kate replaced the receiver and looked at her watch. It was five hours earlier in New York, four o’clock in the morning. She would try again later.

  Pocketing the receipt, Kate grabbed a jacket and locked the door behind her. Maeve would have a fresh perspective. She would beg a cup of tea from her friend.

  Maeve answered the door in a multicolored Hawaiian sarong tied in a double knot around her tanned hips and a brief white spandex top. She had a half-finished martini in her hand. Kate stared at her in amazement. “It’s ten o’clock in the morning and we’ve hail on the way.”

  Maeve shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve been on the treadmill. If I get cold, I’ll change.” She pulled Kate inside and closed the door. “Half of Ireland is drunk by this time of morning. You know that.”

  “Times have changed, Maeve. People are working now. Drink isn’t such an important part of our lives.”

  Maeve shook back her red mane and snorted. “I’m too old to change and I’m not working.”

  Kate didn’t take off her jacket. “I didn’t come here to argue.”

  “Then don’t criticize me.” Maeve’s tone was sharp. She looked at Kate and was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, love. Pay no attention to me. I’m always a witch when I’ve had a few too many.”

  Kate followed her friend into the drawing room and slowly removed her jacket. “Is something troubling you, Maeve?”

  Maeve’s laugh was brittle. She sat down beside Kate and crossed her legs beneath her. “I’m forty years old, single, childless and my prospects aren’t at all good. On those rare occasions when I take stock of my life, I wonder what I’ve done with it.” She lifted her glass and swallowed the last of her drink. “I’ve accomplished nothing, Kate, absolutely nothing.”

  “That isn’t true,” Kate protested. “You’re an accomplished artist. Your work is wonderful and you’re a dear friend. What would I do without you?”

  Maeve’s yellow-green eyes were very bright. “You’re a love, Katie, but in the end, perhaps you won’t think I’ve been such a dear friend.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m gone most of the time and I’m close to inebriation when I am here. What kind of friend is that?”

  “I don’t remember your drinking that much, Maeve.” Kate was obviously troubled.

  “Let’s not talk about me anymore,” Maeve said. “Isn’t today a workday?”

  Kate smiled. “I should be working. Instead I came for a cup of tea and some conversation.”

  Maeve’s hand flew to her lips. “God, I’m hopeless. Follow me into the kitchen and I’ll brew a pot of Bewleys.”

  Ten minutes later, fortified with steaming cups of tea and a pot that promised more between them, the two women sat across from each other at Maeve’s solid oaken table.

  “Tell me your troubles, Katie,” she began.

  The urge to tell Maeve about Neil Anderson was strong, but she decided against it. Her own feelings regarding Neil weren’t settled. Until they were she would wait. “I went into Patrick’s room today to clean out his things,” she began.

  “Good,” Maeve broke in. “It’s about time.”

  “I found this.” Kate reached into her pocket and pulled out the booking receipt. She handed it to Maeve.

  “It’s a booking receipt.”

  “It’s also an international phone number.”

  Maeve squinted. “So it is.” She returned the slip of paper to Kate.

  “I called the number but no one answered.”

  “Why would you call?”

  “I want to find the woman, Maeve.” Kate’s voice was tight, strained. “I must find her.”

  “What good will it do?”

  “I need to know what her relationship was with my husband.”

  “Will it make you feel any differently about Patrick?”

  “Yes.”

  Maeve sighed. “Whatever you find won’t bring him back, Katie. Nor will it change anything at all. Why do this?”

  “It will change everything.”

  “All right.” Maeve lifted one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Let’s assume worst case. Suppose Patrick was unfaithful to you with this woman. Suppose she was his mistress. What will you do?”

  Kate’s mind was blank. She floundered for words. “I don’t know. Talk to her, maybe.”

  “For what purpose?” Maeve persisted.

  “Stop badgering me, Maeve. I don’t know.”

  “Shall I tell you?”

  Kate stared at her. “Please, do.”

  “You want to see her, to know if she’s more attractive than you. You want to know if he promised her anything, if he was the same person with her that he was with you, if she was better in bed. Women always want to know those things.”

  “You sound experienced.”

  “God, I need a cigarette. Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Am I right?”

  “Is it so wrong to want to know those things?” Kate countered.

  “I can answer them all for you.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “She will be attractive, but not more attractive. He won’t have promised her anything. Their lovemaking will have been entirely different, but no better and he won’t have been the devoted husband and father. Different needs will have been fulfilled. You will be terribly hurt and become embittered. You’ll hate her and then you’ll hate him. Is that what you want, Katie?”

  “On the other hand, she could be a business acquaintance and all my worries will have been for nothing.” She appealed to Maeve. “Isn’t that worth finding out?” “You tell me.

  How will you feel if it’s worst case?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll solve that one when it happens.” She looked thoughtfully at Maeve, at the thick red hair, the feline green eyes, the smooth tanned skin, and wondered how Ireland could have produced the sheer, beautiful, sultry, foreign quality of her. “You would do it differently, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t believe in full disclosure.”

  “Do you really believe it’s better to live a lie?”

  “It isn’t a lie, Kate. It’s simple omission. We don’t need to know everything about the people we love. When we try for that kind of omniscience, they become diminished. Don’t you see? No one can live up to the kind of scrutiny you’re proposing.” She was more earnest than Kate had ever seen her.

  “I can,” Kate said quietly.

  Maeve stared at her. “Congratulations, Kate,” she said tonelessly. “Let me know when they canonize you.”

  Kate held the telephone in her hand for a long time. Was Maeve right? Should she leave Patrick to his privacy or would the not knowing haunt her forever? Once again, she slowly punched in the numbers on the booking receipt. The phone rang once, twice, a long, single ring. She wasn’t prepared for the woman’s voice on the other end of the line.

  “Hello,” she stammered. “Can you please tell me the name of the party I’ve reached?”

  “Who is calling?” the voice replied.

  “My name is Kate Nolan. I found this phone number and wondered—”

  There was a moment of silence, then a click and dial tone.

  Frustrated, Kate replaced the receiver.

  The voice wasn’t right. The woman was too old, with the demeanor of a domestic. Impossible scenarios flitted through Kate’s mind. Neil was a Special Forces investigator. He said he would help her. She would ask him to find the address through the phone number. He would know how to do that. She’d seen movies. Th
en she would book a morning flight to New York, find the address and knock on the door herself. She would book a room for the night just in case the person wasn’t home. Deirdre was in school and Kevin was at Tranquility House. She would be home before anyone knew she had gone. Perhaps she would ask Maeve to go with her, Maeve who knew New York City as well as Kate knew Belfast.

  Twenty-One

  Deirdre waited on the corner where the Eglantine and Malone Roads crossed each other. Belfast was an orderly city. Traffic was heavy but, unlike Dublin, no one drove over the speed limit and no one crossed against traffic lights. A green-suited member of the RUC walked past her and nodded. She ignored him, pretending she hadn’t noticed. Deirdre was angry with herself. She missed Peter. It was absurd. She hadn’t known him very long, only a few weeks, really. But in that time he’d filled up her spare moments. It was odd, when she stopped to reflect, how much more she’d missed him than she had her own father. Not that Peter’s exit from her life could ever come close to the wrenching pain she’d felt immediately after her father’s murder. But Patrick Nolan had been devoted to his work. Sometimes he didn’t come home for days and, when he did, he remained closeted in his study. Deirdre couldn’t recall a time when she’d actually had a conversation with her father. It was different with Peter. He’d become part of her daily life.

  She was having second thoughts about continuing her education at Queen’s. Her mother had warned her against it. She’d tried to explain what it was like living in a city with a Protestant majority. Deirdre listened but hadn’t believed. She’d chosen Queen’s not only because of its reputation for excellence in the sciences, but because her mother worked in Belfast and it was close to home. She’d had no idea how she would feel as a member of a despised minority population. In the Republic only six percent of the entire population was Protestant. Because their numbers were so small, they were cultivated and appreciated. It was not the same for Catholics in the Six Counties. Deirdre did not have the words to describe the feelings of oppression and paranoia that followed her everywhere except areas heavily frequented by university students.

  The coffee house was half-empty. Deirdre ordered a cappuccino and slid into the corner booth. She spread out her books, opened her Ancient Civilisations text, shook her hair over her face and settled in for a lengthy stay. History did not come easily to her, not like mathematics and physical science. Peter was the one with a gift for understanding the subtleties of politics, ancient or modern. She could have used his tutoring for her last exam.