by Sandy Taylor
‘Then she’s wise as well as beautiful.’
‘That’s what I keep telling her.’
I liked Sean a lot. His hair was as black as coal and his eyes were a piercing blue. No one ever talked about his father but word had it that he was a tinker passing through the town and Aunty Agnes had got carried away with his roguish looks and winning ways. It made Sean seem more mysterious in a way.
People were getting to know me; they said hello as I walked through the town. I stopped being the little English girl and became Mary’s girl. I was happy and began to imagine living here forever, finding a little cottage of my own and raising Rita in this town that my daddy had loved so much.
‘I’d love you to live here, Maureen, but you have a family who loves you and once this war is over, they will want you home,’ said Aunty Mary.
Sometimes I wondered if the war would ever end. Rita and I had been here for almost a year and there was no sign of it ending. Aunty Mary didn’t have a wireless so I had no idea what was happening. There was no Afshid to bring the latest news.
Mum and Brenda continued to write to me. Brenda loved being a Land Girl and had met a boy in the village that she liked.
‘His name’s Ernie Pratt,’ she wrote. ‘He’s nice, I really like him, Maureen, and I think he likes me.’
I was happy for my little sister and I was glad that she had found someone special.
One day a letter came from Monica.
Dear Maureen,
I really miss you and I hope that you and Rita are well and happy in Ireland. I have some news that will surprise you. I am going to America, to Chester’s family. We are going to be married as soon as this war is over and he wants me to be there when he comes home. I’m a bit scared but I really want to meet his family and see where he grew up. If you were here we could talk about it. Am I doing the right thing, Maureen? I hope I am. I really love him and I want to spend the rest of my life with him but will I ever see you again?
We never know where life will lead us, do we? But of one thing I’m certain it won’t be in the bottom of a smelly bucket. Not for either of us.
Wish me well.
Love always,
Monica
PS Have you heard from Nelson?
Well, the answer to Monica’s question was no, I hadn’t heard from Nelson, not for months, and I was terribly worried about him. I continued to write every week. I told him about the town and my job in the bakery and I told him about Rita and how much she had grown. I told him about Aunty Mary and Aunty Agnes but I had no reply. I needed to know that he was safe and that he would be coming home to us.
I missed him. I missed Nelson; I missed my husband.
Sixty-Four
It was almost Christmas and it was cold and wet. Sean had been right about the rain, it never seemed to stop. The funny thing was that no one seemed to mind very much. If it poured with rain, they said it was good for the crops and if it was misty, they called it a soft day. The Irish seemed to carry within them a cheerfulness and optimism that was missing at home and I envied them.
* * *
One morning I put Rita in her pushchair and Sean and I went down the wood road to gather holly for the cottage. Rita toddled around while Sean cut the holly from the trees and I piled it into the chair. She had started to talk and, for some reason, her first word was Dada; she said it over and over again. That was what Brenda used to call Daddy. I loved hearing it coming from her little mouth.
I must tell Brenda the next time I write to her, I thought.
‘I don’t know where she got that word from,’ I said to Sean. ‘Apart from you, there aren’t any men in her life at all.’
‘She’s a clever little girl, maybe she can sense her granddaddy here in his hometown.’
I looked across at her. She was picking up little sticks and throwing them into the air and laughing her head off.
‘Time to go home,’ I said. ‘I don’t want Rita getting cold.’
Sean lifted Rita onto his shoulders and I wheeled the pushchair through the woods and back to the cottage, laden with the bright green and red holly. Inside the cottage it was warm and cosy and we draped the holly around the mantlepiece and round the holy picture of Saint Anthony.
‘Aunty Mary will love it,’ I said, smiling.
* * *
One afternoon Mr Hurley said that I could leave work early to buy some Christmas presents for Rita. I walked around the shops looking in all the windows. Merrick’s was the biggest store in town and I spent some time in there. At the end of the town was Bridie Quirke’s shop and in the window was a pale lemon baby cardigan. I thought that Rita would look lovely in it so I went in.
‘Could I look at the little cardigan in the window, Mrs Quirke?’
‘Oh, Maureen,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you came in. You must go home right away. Your Aunty Mary has been scouring the town for you.’
‘But why?’ I said.
Bridie looked down at the counter and started rubbing at it with the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘There’s been a letter,’ she said.
‘It’s not my mother, is it, Bridie?’
She looked up. ‘Not your mother, no.’
I was beginning to feel sick. ‘My sister?’
I could almost have felt sorry for her if I hadn’t been so frantic. I felt like pulling the poor woman over the counter by her throat and demanding she tell me, because it was obvious that she knew. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the whole bloody town knew.
‘Just go home, Maureen,’ she said gently.
I pulled open the shop door and hurried out into the street.
‘I’m sorry for your trouble,’ she called after me.
I ran through the town. Several people called after me as I raced past them. ‘Your auntie’s looking for you, Maureen.’
* * *
The cottage was full of people, just like the day I arrived. Aunty Mary was sitting by the fire, tears running down her face. Auntie Agnes was standing behind her. She had an open letter in her hand. Several of the women were also dabbing at their eyes.
‘Oh, Maureen,’ she said as I came into the room.
‘Is the letter for me?’ I demanded, wondering why she’d opened it.
‘Sit down, love.’
The crowd parted like the Red Sea as I was guided to the chair. I was the star of the show, they had all been waiting for me to come home. The show couldn’t start without its star. That’s how it felt anyway.
‘It’s from your mother, Maureen,’ she said sadly.
‘Your mother sent it to Mary,’ said Auntie Agnes.
‘To lessen the blow,’ said another voice.
I stared into the fire. Everyone in the room knew what was in that letter except me and I didn’t want to know; I wasn’t ready to know.
Just then Sean came in. ‘Show’s over, ladies,’ he said. ‘Come on now, or we’ll have your husbands down here demanding their dinner.’
I smiled gratefully at him as the woman reluctantly started leaving the cottage. They all dipped their hands into the holy water font as they left the room.
‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ he said.
‘Yes, please,’ I said, taking the letter from Aunty Mary and putting it in my pocket.
‘Thank you, Sean,’ said Aunty Mary.
We climbed the hill in silence and stood on the top. Sean reached over and held my hand. ‘It’s Nelson, isn’t it?’ I said.
He nodded.
‘Is he dead?’
‘Missing,’ said Sean.
‘Presumed dead?’
‘Your mother didn’t say, she just said he was missing. Do you want me to read the letter to you?’
‘Yes, please.’
We sat side by side on the grass and Sean began to read.
Dear Mary,
I’m writing to you and not Maureen as I don’t want her to be alone when she hears the news. A telegram came to say that Nelson is missing. I don’t know anything else
only that he is missing. I’m sorry to burden you with the task of telling her, Mary, but I thought this way was best. Please take care of my girl and help her at this sad time. We are all devastated, we all love Nelson. Give her my love and tell her how sorry I am. I don’t know what she will want to do now but I think she needs to come home. Whatever she wants to do, Mary, is alright by me.
Love,
Kate x
Sean folded the letter and handed it to me.
‘Everyone knows, don’t they?’
He nodded. ‘That’s the way it is here. Births, deaths and marriages… the good times and the bad. You are never left alone, even if you want to be. Our lives are played out for all the world to see, it’s the way it’s always been. I imagine it’s different in England?’
I thought back to when Daddy died, how people crossed the street when they saw me coming. ‘Yes, it’s different,’ I said.
‘What will you do?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Will you go home?’
I stood up and walked to the brow of the hill. I looked down on the river flowing past the town and out to the sea.
There was nothing left for me at home, only memories of people I had loved who were gone: Daddy, Jack, Nelson, even Monica. The places were still there; the places would be there long after I’d gone. The sea didn’t mourn the dead, neither did the fields and the hills. The old barn would welcome in other lovers. The sea would continue to tumble the pebbles on the shore. They didn’t need me.
‘I think that maybe this is my home now, Sean,’ I said.
Sixty-Five
How many times can your heart break? Once? Twice? A million times? And how many times can you fall in love? I had always believed that you could only fall in love once. That’s what I’d told Monica. ‘Jack is the love of my life,’ I’d said. ‘I will love him until the day I die.’ As it happened, I loved him until the day he died. So losing Nelson shouldn’t have hurt this much, should it? If you only love once, it should be easier the second time. I was wrong, the pain that I was feeling now was every bit as bad as when I lost Jack. Why hadn’t I realised? What was wrong with me? I’d let Nelson go to war without knowing how much he meant to me, how precious he was to me and, most important of all, how much I loved him, how much I had always loved him. Standing in the shadow of Jack, I hadn’t always seen him for who he was. A sweet, kind boy who never complained about his lot in life, who was always there for me, who allowed me to love Jack and still remained at my side.
Aunty Mary said that I must have hope, the letter didn’t say that he was dead.
‘When someone is lost, you have to find them,’ she said.
I shook my head. ‘And how am I supposed to do that? He could be anywhere, he could be lying injured in some foreign land, he might already be under the ground. Where do I look for him?’
‘In here,’ she said, placing her hand over her heart. ‘Look for him in here. We don’t know if he’s dead, so you must keep hope in your heart until we do know.’
‘I never told him that I loved him.’
‘God is good, Maureen, and with his divine help he may bring Nelson back to you. Then you can tell him. You can tell him how much you love him.’
‘I don’t have faith like you,’ I said. ‘Sometimes I wish that I did.’
‘Go down to the church, Maureen, and light a candle to Saint Anthony. He’s the saint of all things that are lost.’
‘I think it’s me that’s lost, Aunty Mary.’
‘Then ask Saint Anthony to find you.’
But I didn’t go down to the church – the Church had a habit of letting me down. Instead, I tried to carry on. I couldn’t stop the world and get off, even if I’d wanted to. I had a baby who depended on me and I was so thankful that I did. She made me smile when I thought that I would never smile again. This poor little girl hadn’t been in the world long and yet she’d already lost two daddies. But she had me and I would always be there for her. I would make it up to her; I would make her world as wonderful as I could. Love had to go somewhere, didn’t it? And all mine would go to Rita.
I wrote to my mum and told her that I wasn’t ready to come home, that I would stay in Ireland, that I was happy there. I hoped that she would understand. Then I went back to work in the bakery. Every day people came into the shop and told me how sorry they were; they took me into their arms as if I was one of their own. These wonderful people who had nothing gave me everything. I was not alone in my grief – it was shared with a whole town.
I had been dreading Christmas but I was determined to put my sadness aside and make it as magical as I could for Rita. Sean, Orla and I decorated the little room with paper lanterns and coloured chains. There was a roaring fire in the grate, filling the cottage with the sweet smell of peat, and the holly around the mantlepiece looked lovely.
Neighbours came in and out all day, bringing little gifts for Rita; she was the centre of attention and she loved it. Aunty Agnes had knitted her a little doll and Aunty Mary had crocheted a set of clothes. Bridie Quirke presented me with the lemon cardigan I’d seen in her window on that awful day.
Sean went next door and came back with an accordion.
‘I didn’t know you were musical,’ I said.
‘All the Irish are musical,’ said Orla, smiling.
Sean was right about Orla; she was indeed beautiful and it was clear that she adored him. She had beautiful red hair just like Monica and I hoped that we could be friends.
Sean played the songs of his homeland. ‘Danny Boy’ and ‘The Rose of Tralee’. Soon everyone was singing along. I looked around the little cottage at the faces of these dear people and I felt truly blessed.
Towards the end of the day people started to drift away. An exhausted Rita was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
‘Fancy a bit of a walk?’ said Sean.
I looked at Aunty Mary, I didn’t want to leave her alone on this Christmas night.
‘You go along,’ she said. ‘The fresh air will do you good.’
I went upstairs and got my coat. We said goodbye and went out into the street.
It was frosty outside but the night was clear.
‘Shall we walk to the strand?’ said Sean.
‘Would you like that, Maureen? asked Orla.
I nodded.
Our feet crunched on the icy pavement as we made our way through the town. People called out to us. ‘Happy Christmas, Sean, Happy Christmas, Orla, Happy Christmas, Maureen.’ I couldn’t have felt more at home if I’d lived here all my life.
We walked under the arch of the clock tower and out towards the strand. The wind coming off the sea was biting cold. It reminded me of the night I caught the boat that brought me to Ireland. That night seemed like a lifetime ago. I shivered.
‘Let’s run, girls,’ said Sean, catching hold of both our hands. ‘Let’s just run.’
‘Are you completely mad, Sean O’Connell?’ said Orla, laughing.
‘We’re young, we’re alive and it’s Christmas,’ he said, swinging her around. ‘So let’s run.’
And that’s what we did. We ran until we were out of breath and we could run no further. We stopped and leaned over the railings. Sean had his arm around Orla. I looked out over the dark sea. The lighthouse in the distance shone its beacon of light across the dark water, guiding home those who had lost their way.
Was there a light somewhere in the world that would guide Nelson home? I hoped there would be.
I tried to think of him alive but I couldn’t and I didn’t want to think of him dead. And then, suddenly, on that most silent of nights I found him. Not the man but the boy. Playing marbles in the gutter, sliding down the hill in the old pushchair, racing across the beach…
Come home to me, my love. Come home.
Sixty-Six
On the afternoon of 7 May, Aunty Mary burst into the bakery with Rita running behind her. She was laughing and crying, she couldn’t speak. She plonked herself down on a sac
k of flour. I came around the counter and knelt down in front of her. Seeing her aunty in such a state, Rita started wailing. It brought Mr Hurley and Sean out of the bakehouse.
‘Holy Mother of God, Mary O’Connell, what the devil has happened to you?’ cried Mr Hurley.
Aunty Mary touched my cheek. ‘The war is over, Maureen. The war is over.’
I took Rita in my arms. ‘Hush now,’ I said.
Mr Hurley handed Rita a cream cake and she immediately stopped crying.
I was happy and sad all at once. Happy for my loved ones that had survived and sad for those that I’d lost.
‘I’m glad for you, Maureen,’ said Sean.
Tears began rolling down my cheeks but then I looked at Rita who was sitting happily in the sawdust, her face plastered with cream and laughing her head off.
Thank God for Rita.
* * *
That night we had a party in the little cottage in Tallow Street. Neighbours crammed themselves into the tiny room. Orla and I sat together on the stairs. Sean played his accordion and he was joined by Mr Hurley on the fiddle and his son on the Bodhran, which was the Irish drum. Aunty Mary and Aunty Agnes did some step-dancing and Rita tried to copy them, which had us all roaring with laughter. At the end of the night Aunty Mary lit a candle in front of the statue of Saint Anthony and we all made a silent prayer of thanks that the world was once more at peace.
I couldn’t believe that it was all over; I was beginning to think that it would go on forever. I wondered how Maggie and the war council were feeling – I bet that Peter would be playing his victory marches at full volume in the shed. I wished that I could be there with them; I suddenly missed them.
Soon, the beaches would be open, children could run into the sea once more and dig in the wet sand. Soon, the lovers would dance again at the end of the pier.
A week later, I received a letter from Mum.