She nodded, relieved he didn’t think she was a basket case. Glancing around the bar, she realised that although it was late, she wasn’t tired, and didn’t feel like going home yet.
“Wanna stay here awhile?” she asked. “I can make us some food in the kitchen.”
Connor nodded and watched her as she went into the kitchen. When she was gone, he walked over to the front windows and looked out into the street. People walked past, hurrying along to
wherever they were going. Nobody was loitering or looking suspicious. He came back to the bar and sat down. If someone was following Bronwyn, they would have to get through him first.
* * * *
The night of 11th July, 1981, was one that the residents of Crossmaglen would never forget. In years to come, stories of the night’s events would be told, and would become as infamous as some of the other attacks that places around the world had suffered at the hands of the I.RA. The troubles began in two separate spots, the army barracks and the local government offices, and quickly spread throughout most of the town. Alia and Mary missed all of it, for they were in the safest place − the R.U.C police station about a mile from Mary’s house. They were being interviewed, separately, about what had happened in Mary’s kitchen earlier in the evening. The first batch of explosives went off outside the army base at nine o’clock. They had been cleverly made, and cunningly concealed, as the perpetrators hid in the woods surrounding the perimeter of the camp. None of the soldiers even knew that they were there. The seventy soldiers who were there were supposed to be prepared for an attack. Intelligence had been received, but even they did not know when the attack was going to happen. Only the most loyal I.R.A members had been let in on the date and time. The first casualty of the night was Tracker, the barracks’ faithful Alsatian dog. As he walked around the camp, nose to the ground, sniffing for hidden explosives as he had been trained to, the first bomb exploded, tearing the dog apart like a hot knife through butter. The soldiers, hearing his howl just as clearly as they heard the explosion, raced into action. Suddenly all hell broke loose, as all other fourteen bombs exploded around the edge of the camp and the sky lit up as though it was the 5th of November. Carter, knowing that this was going to be a massive attack, picked up the phone in the observation tower to call for back up. He stared dumbly at the receiver as he realised the phone line was dead. He picked up the other two phones and got the same response. Running over to the window overlooking the gates of the camp, he peered outside and was panicked by what he saw; twenty, maybe thirty men flooding through the gates and broken fences, armed to the hilt with machine guns and sawn-off shotguns. He kicked the hatch shut and locked it, before resuming his position by the window and fumbling for the C.B. radio to call for help. It was going to be a very long night.
* * * *
At 1 A.M., New York time, a man stood alone by the set of telephone booths in the corner of Times Square. He gazed continuously around him, pulling the collar of his leather jacket up to conceal his face. At 1:04 a telephone began to ring. The man threw down the cigarette he had been smoking and stepped into the booth. He cast one more furtive glance over his shoulder, and picked up the telephone.
“Hello?”
“It’s me. You doing okay?”
“Yes.” The man gripped the receiver tightly. “Tell me.”
“It’s all over. We got our men, now you can go and get yours.”
The line went dead in his ear, and the man held onto the receiver for a moment longer. Eventually, he hung up the telephone and stepped back outside. He looked across the square, into the windows of Mayfair, and saw the lone figure of Connor as he moved around the restaurant, picking up empty bottles and depositing them on the bar. The man’s mouth twitched into a smile, and he started to walk towards the restaurant, picking up his pace as he moved across the square, until he was almost running.
Bronwyn had just picked up their empty plates off the table when the outer door to the restaurant was pushed open.
“You didn’t lock it?” Connor asked, standing up.
“I thought you did,” she said. “Go tell them we’re closed, and lock the door.”
“Hey, we’re closed, buddy,” called Connor, as a man opened the second set of doors that led into the bar.
“I’m here to see Bronwyn,” the man replied.
Bronwyn looked up at the familiar Irish twang.
The man who had asked for her was standing in the shadows of the door and as he walked further into the bar, her hand flew to her mouth.
“Hi,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”
She tried to reply, but found that speech was impossible. She breathed hard, blinking to make sure that she wasn’t imagining it. Connor moved next to her and touched her arm.
“Bronwyn?” he asked, concerned.
“Barry!” suddenly she could talk, and she screamed with joy. “It’s Barry!”
She ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck, and he spun her around the room, joining in her delight.
“Where have you been? Oh, God, it’s so good to see you.” She began to cry, great heaving sobs. Barry pulled her close and felt a tear trickle down his face. She could tell that his emotions were as highly charged as hers, it was the longest they had ever been apart and for a long moment they stayed enveloped in each other’s arms. Eventually, Bronwyn remembered Connor, and pulled away from Barry.
“Barry, this is Connor. You remember him, don’t you?”
Barry walked over to Connor, Bronwyn still hanging on his arm, and shook his hand.
“We never met, but I remember,” Barry said. “How’re you doing?”
“Uh, I’m fine. It’s good to finally meet you at last,” replied Connor, liking the look of Barry straight away.
Bronwyn moved over to Connor and linked her arm through his.
“I’m with Connor now,” she said.
“I know. I was sorry about Rosina,” Barry said.
Bronwyn frowned and exchanged a glance with Connor.
“How do you know? About us I mean? Have you been in touch with Ma?”
“Not yet.” Barry sat down at one of the tables and pulled out a cigarette. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead,” Connor was amused. “It is a bar.”
Bronwyn pulled a chair out and sat down opposite Barry.
“How did you know about me and Connor?”
“I’ve been here a while, but I couldn’t make contact before tonight,” he said.
“I knew someone was following me. I said, didn’t I, Connor?” she was immensely relieved it had been Barry, and not someone else from back home with a grudge against Connor. “But, why couldn’t you see me before now? And where have you been all this time?”
Barry lit up his cigarette and pondered her question. He thought about where he had been for the last six months, and wondered how much to tell her. After a few moments of silence, he decided to tell her the whole story.
When he had left Banbridge house on New Year’s Day, it was already dark. He left on foot, his mind clear for the first time in weeks, and he knew that he had to get away. If he stayed in Banbridge they would only do so many more tests, and then just declare him fit, not suffering from anything other than a nervous breakdown, and send him home. If he went home, he would be killed. It had broken his heart that he couldn’t tell anyone where he was going, but at least that way his mother and Bronwyn wouldn’t have to lie for him. He made his way to Belfast Airport and withdrew all of his money from the cash point machine. As he stood in the middle of the bustling airport, he realised that he needed help in getting away. He had planned nothing more than leaving Banbridge, and now that he had managed to do that, he had no idea what his next move would be. He made his way to a telephone box and dialed Johnny’s number, hoping that the man would stick to his end of the agreement that they had made; if Barry were ever in trouble because of his job, they would protect him. Johnny was true to his word, and he told Barry exactly what to do.
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“Stay there and wait by the phone. Give me the number.”
Barry had reeled the number off and hung up the phone.
Less than an hour later, Johnny called back and told Barry to go to the Air Lingus desk and collect his ticket; it had been bought and paid for. Barry asked where he was going. Johnny told him Canada.
So Barry went to Canada. Montreal, in fact, and when he landed it was cold and snowing. He stayed there for four months, living in the Hyatt hotel, all paid for by the British government. The insomnia that had haunted him had not left, but it had not worsened either, and Barry was gradually coming to terms with getting just four or so hours of sleep each night. He stayed in constant contact with Johnny, telling him repeatedly that he had to get out of there, to see Bronwyn, speak to his mother. Johnny told him it was impossible. Eventually, on the first of May, Barry told Johnny that he’d had enough; he was leaving to go to New York to be with Bronwyn. Johnny, perhaps sensing his determination, relented. He could go, but he couldn’t see her, not yet.
“Why?” Barry had demanded.
“She’s being watched. So is the boy she’s with. They’re being shadowed the whole time, and not by us.”
Barry’s blood had run cold; it was them, and now they were after Bronwyn.
“But we’re onto them. We’re pulling the plug on the whole operation, and when those high up have gone, the people in New York will disappear.”
Barry had to take his word; trust was all he had now. Johnny had been right, for on 11th July, today, the agents had hijacked the attack that had been planned, both in New York and in Northern Ireland. Now, as Barry sat and told his story to Bronwyn and Connor, the death count in Crossmaglen had begun to rise.
Bronwyn and Connor looked at Barry.
Barry stared back.
“What about Ma?” said Bronwyn fearfully.
“I need to call her. Crossmaglen was a war zone tonight, and I need to make sure she wasn’t caught in any crossfire,” he replied.
Bronwyn stood up and pulled Barry to the phone.
“Ring her,” she instructed. She left him at the phone and drifted back over to Connor.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I will be, when I know that Ma’s all right,” she said.
“She’ll have been with my mam, you’ll see. They’ll both be fine.”
“Yes,” said Bronwyn, looking back over at Barry.
How strange it was to see him again. He had changed; he had always seemed to be under a cloud in Ireland, fearful in a way. He looked healthier, stronger, and she had no doubt that if he stayed with her and Connor in New York, he would be happier as well. Now he could stay; he no longer had to hide away. Now he had beaten them, they had all beaten them, and gone on to rebuild their lives. She smiled to herself. She was proud of them all. As Barry came back to the table, his face was pale. Bronwyn clutched at his hand, a worried expression springing to her face.
“Ma’s been at the police station all night.”
“Why?”
“She was at Mary’s.” He looked at Connor. “Rosina’s mother tried to kill her.”
“Who?” Connor and Bronwyn shouted at the same time.
“Mary.”
“Christ alive!” Connor stood up, grabbing Barry in a blind panic. “Is she okay?”
“Yes, it’s weird though.” Barry sat down, a puzzled look on his face.
“What? Tell us Barry!” Bronwyn cried.
“Ma was with Mary, and they had this soldier there. Apparently they saw a lot of him since we all left. He kind of made a point of making sure they were all right. He was there, and he killed Kathleen when she came in. She was armed.”
For a second Bronwyn was confused. And then it clicked.
“Stu Jackson,” she whispered.
“You knew him?” Barry asked.
“Yeah, well, sort of. He was good to me—helped me out more than once when I got in trouble.” She looked up suddenly. “You said Kathleen was armed. Is Stu okay?”
Barry frowned before shaking his head. “He’s dead.”
Bronwyn nodded, as if it had been what she was expecting. Twice he had saved her, both times from Danny. Now he had saved her mother—and Mary too, and had paid the ultimate price. Silently she thanked him, wherever he was now, and she knew that he was one person she would never forget.
* * * *
Mary and Alia made their way to New York in the late summer of 1981 to join the rest of their families in Manhattan. By Christmas, they had all settled into their respective homes; Alia and Barry sharing a brownstone on Park Avenue, and Mary, not too far away on 34th Street, in a small apartment overlooking Central Park.
Mary had been delighted to meet Billy’s family. They welcomed her with open arms, Jean especially. She was moved, and touched, as they told her stories of Billy from his youth. It was like getting to know him, properly this time, even though he was no longer with them. Life went on for Connor and Bronwyn, without Rosina, Danny, Stu, and Kathleen, just like it had gone on for Mary and Cally. Although they would never forget their loved ones, it got a little easier each day, just like Cally had told Connor it would.
Chapter Seventeen
The End
It was spring in New York, four years later, when Connor received the telephone call from Sam that he had been waiting for, summoning him to his office down town. Connor arrived at Sam’s building within the hour. Sam was waiting, a huge stack of papers on his desk, and a big grin on his face.
“Sit down,” he said, pushing a piece of paper across the desk towards Connor. Connor turned the paper around and looked at it. It had a figure written on it in bold black pen.
“What’s this?” Connor asked.
“It’s your dream about to become a reality.” Sam smiled.
Connor slumped back in his chair. For two years he and Bronwyn had worked alongside Sam trying to get investors to put together a sum of money that was enough to open their own bar. Every cent they had earned after rent had gone into the ‘Dream Pot’. Their family had joined in their dream, all working towards finally making something good happen in their lives. Now, as Sam said, it was no longer a dream, but reality.
Six months later…
Once they had enough money to invest in their very own business venture, things moved very quickly. They looked for a suitable site, and came up with a derelict building on Park Avenue, near Oscar’s restaurant and just a couple of blocks away from Alia’s new home. It was in bad shape, in need of serious work, but it was cheap and Connor put a deposit down the same day. Now, as Connor stood with Bronwyn in front of the newly decorated building, he thought back to the day that they had sat inside and tried to think of a name fitting for their venue.
“Okay, so a name…any thoughts?” Connor asked as he sat down at one of the new tables.
“Yeah, what about you?” Bronwyn replied.
Connor nodded, and put his closed notepad on the table.
Bronwyn pulled a sheet of paper out of her pocket and held it to her chest.
“You go first,” she said.
Connor hesitated for a moment before opening the book and putting it face up on the table. She read what was written there, before raising her eyes to meet his.
“What do you think?” he asked anxiously.
“I think that great minds think alike,” she said, and put her piece of paper on top of his notebook.
They had both chosen the same name, and although it should have, it didn’t really surprise Connor. For him, and for her it seemed, it had been an obvious choice. Now it was the grand opening, and Connor stood, savoring the moment. It was nearly dark, or as dark as it got in the brightly-lit city of New York, and quite a crowd had assembled. Alia and Mary, Barry, Sam, Cally and Bella waiting in anticipation, along with Lucia from Zak’s, employees from Mayfair, Jean, David, Madeleine, Ben, and little Billy. Connor stood at the entrance to the building next to Bronwyn. He took her hand and turned to face his friends and family.<
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“As you know, Bronwyn and I left our home with nothing. We were made welcome here by all of you that are here tonight. We found people willing to give us jobs and a place to stay; we found friends, and we discovered family that we never knew. It’s with thanks to all of you, your money, time, hard work and support, that we are able to realise our dream here tonight.” He squeezed Bronwyn’s hand and she flicked the switch, standing back as the front of the building was illuminated. Neon lights, scrawled across the front of the building, spelled out the name of their new bar:
Rosie’s.
About The Author
Jeanette has completed five manuscripts and is mid-way through a sixth.
She has worked with The Front List, which is a website with the aim of allowing their community of writers to self-select promising work by providing detailed feedback in the form of a critique. She has also had a short story accepted which appeared in the December 2007 edition of the Jimston Journal. Most recently Jeanette won silver prize in the Author V Author Short Story competition 2008 which was supported by the National Literacy Trust.
More information on Jeanette can be viewed at her website: www.jeanettehewitt.com
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