"We share the work. When he's at the store, I'm home. The house is my own, quiet, peaceful, just the way I like it. Now, he'll always be there."
"He must have plans. People retire because they want to do something else."
"Don't be ridiculous, Hannie. People retire so they can sleep late, watch football on the telly and visit the pub anytime they please."
"If that's so, you shouldn't complain. You'll still have the house to yourself."
Maura rolled her eyes. "I can see I'll get no sympathy here."
"You're making this much worse than it is. Milo has lived here all his life. He'll be busy. It's not as if you need the money." Without warning, her throat closed, a sign the tears were very close. When she spoke her voice sounded thick and foggy. "Be grateful you have someone who cares if you come home."
Maura's hand flew to her mouth. "I'm so sorry, Hannie. I don't know what's come over me. I'm a witch. Forgive me?"
Johannah laughed. The tears receded. "If you're not careful I'll make you take your wine home. It's making me pathetic. Besides, all I need is for my mother to come down and see us teary-eyed over a bottle of wine."
"Wouldn't that be desperate?" Maura's chuckled wickedly. "It'll be just like old times."
Chapter 28
Johannah
Mrs. Litchfield was old, old enough to have experienced, in a country slow to change, the leftover practices from the days of the Protestant ascendency when money and religion gave her class privileges most hadn't a prayer of enjoying. Despite the fact she hadn't a penny to her name and lived in council housing, her manner was the haughty, patronizing affectation of the lady born.
Johannah, one of the generation born and raised from birth in the Irish Republic, had no patience with her attitude although she tried to remain professional when she visited the woman. "How are you feeling?" she asked, flipping through her notes.
"Well enough, I suppose. The woman who delivers the food is impertinent. I asked her to step inside instead of delivering it on the porch. She refused."
"That doesn't sound like Brigid. Perhaps she was in a hurry."
"Every day?"
Johannah frowned and took a good look at Edwina Litchfield, noting the pallor of her cheeks and the tight clench of her fist on the handle of her cane. "Why do you need it delivered inside?"
"It isn't mannerly to leave food on the steps as if I were a dog."
"No. I suppose it isn't." Johannah pulled out a chair. "Please sit down, Mrs. Litchfied. Would you like a cup of tea?"
"I would."
Johannah filled the kettle and plugged it in. She opened the cupboard, looked at the mugs and hesitated. She could use a cup herself, but it hadn't been offered. Edwina Litchfield probably considered her to be hired help. Selecting a single beaker, she set it on the counter and waited for the water to boil. "Has your clergyman stopped in, Mrs. Litchfield?"
"I don't remember if it was this week or last."
Johannah found the teabags, dropped one into the teapot and added boiling water. "Is your hip bothering you?"
"Not too badly." She pointed a shaking finger at the mug. "Please fill it all the way, Mrs. Enright."
Johannah filled the cup, poured milk into the mug and set it in front of her client. "The doctor's office said you asked for pain pills."
"I thought that kind of information was confidential."
"Apparently not."
"I only need them at night. I think too much and when I think I hurt."
Despite herself Johannah laughed. "It's not the thinking that hurts you. Will you do something for me?"
"If I can."
"Rate your pain, with ten being the worst and one being the least."
"Seven."
"That's not good."
"It's seven," the woman said emphatically. "I'm old. Old people frequently have aches and pains. I'm accustomed to it. You'll notice I don't complain."
Johannah filtered out the editorial, focusing on the issue. "The hip isn't healing, Mrs. Litchfield. You need to have it looked at. I'll arrange the transportation."
The woman's lip trembled. "I won't go into hospital again. I just can't bear it. All I need is the food brought into my kitchen."
Johannah spoke gently. "I'll make sure Brigid brings it into the kitchen if you'll agree to visit the doctor. I'll make an appointment for you."
"Will you be there?"
"Not necessarily, but I assure you, someone will be there with you."
"What about that nice woman who cleans my house?"
"A medical professional would be best."
"She's very kind. First she cleans and then I make the tea and we drink it together. It can be terribly lonely living by oneself." She frowned. "You recently lost your husband, I believe. I read about it in Kerry's Eye."
"Yes. He passed last year."
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you. Who is it that cleans your house? Does she have any medical training at all?"
"Mrs. O'Shea is her name."
Johannah froze. "Kitty O'Shea?"
"Do you know her?"
"I do."
Mrs. Litchfield brightened. "Will you recommend her?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Why not? Have you taken a dislike to her?"
"Kitty O'Shea is not trained in health care. However, that shouldn't stop you from enjoying her company." She picked up her bag. "I'll fill your prescription, ring the doctor and find someone to take you to his office. You'll be feeling better in no time."
"You're very good, Mrs. Enright."
"It's my job."
Edwina Litchfield looked like a small bird perched on her chair with her head tilted at an angle. "Yes and you chose it. Not many do. It speaks highly of you. That's why I must ask you if you don't care for Kitty O'Shea because of her husband?"
Johannah was sure she hadn't heard correctly. This woman, this little woman, this blow-in, who was not a native of Tralee, who worshipped at a colonial church, who had not a single family member who cared whether she lived or died and who knew absolutely nothing about the people of this town could not possibly presume to go where not even Johannah's closest friends would dare. "I beg your pardon?"
"I asked you if your personal feelings about Mr. O'Shea have interfered with your professional judgment regarding his wife."
Johannah stared at her, too shocked to register the emotion rising in her throat. Seconds slipped by. A lorry passed in the street, its brakes squeaking. A woman called her children in for tea. Raindrops pelted the corrugated tin roof on an outdoor shed. Johannah heard none of them. "My dear Mrs. Litchfield," she said at last, drawing out her words slowly. "Despite what you may believe, your age and frailty do not give you the right to meddle in business that doesn't concern you. Please remember that I am responsible for requesting services covered by your benefits. If the government is to cover your medical expenses, you are obliged to use government screened providers. Kitty O'Shea is not one of them. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be leaving."
"When will I hear from you? I'm in a great deal of pain."
Johannah didn't turn around. "Some time tomorrow."
"Goodbye, Mrs. Enright."
Pretending not to hear, Johannah closed the door behind her and walked to her car. Fumbling in her handbag for her keys, she unlocked the door, popped open the boot and threw her briefcase inside. Still shaking, she contemplated her next move. The rain had stopped. A milky sun struggled to break through the clouds. Still unsure of her destination, she hooked her bag over her shoulder and walked in the direction of Castle Street and The Daily Grind. Perhaps Patrick would be there. She had a strong desire to confide in someone impartial, someone unfamiliar with the events that happened thirty years ago, steeping her family and the O'Sheas into the kind of scandal abhorred by private people. Not that the O'Sheas were all that private. Every one of them had taken to the stage, playing in bands throughout the country. But it wasn't until Ritchie that any one of them had achieved real fame. R
itchie, the son Kitty had used as leverage to lure Francis away, the man who threatened Kate's marriage. Perhaps that wasn't fair. Perhaps Kate's marriage had been wrong from the start and wouldn't have survived anyway.
Johannah willed herself to be fair for a full ten seconds and then gave up. She didn't want to give the O'Sheas the benefit of the doubt. She hated each and every one of them beginning with Francis and then Kitty, filtering down to Ritchie and the five sisters who followed him. Six children. How dare he have six children with a woman who, according to him, meant nothing?
She pushed open the door of the café and looked around. Patrick wasn't there. Suddenly, all the energy that had spirited her out the door of Mrs. Litchfield's house and through the streets deserted her. She sat down at a small table and dropped her head into her hands. If she didn't get a grip on herself fairly soon she'd been in tears and the whole town would hear Edwina Litchfield's version of what had happened that afternoon and, worse, remember the unspeakable events of thirty years ago.
A concerned voice broke into her thoughts. "Are you all right, Johannah?"
She turned. Patrick, looking comfortable and safe, stood over her. "Patrick, thank God you're here."
Pulling out a chair, he sat down. "Tell me what's gotten you into such a state."
"Is it obvious?"
He hesitated. She could see him struggle between diplomacy and the truth. "You're very kind, Patrick. It wasn't a serious question."
He relaxed. "You look as if something is troubling you."
She sighed. "How long do you have?"
"As long as you need. Would you like a coffee first?"
"A latte, please. Make it a large one."
Ten minutes later, buoyed by a fruit scone and a chai latte, Johannah attempted to explain. "I've had a voice from the past resurrected, which isn't all that unusual except that I wasn't prepared. It's been coming on for a long time, but I've ignored it and now it's right here." She held a hand up in front of her face.
"I don't understand, but I'm willing to learn if you care to tell me about it."
She looked at him, at the concern in his eyes, at the dear familiar normalcy of him, at the reasonableness of his responses and wondered why she couldn't have fallen in love with someone like him. "It goes back a long time," she began, "more than thirty years."
He nodded. "I'm listening."
She breathed in and out for several seconds, attempting to slow the erratic beating of her heart. "I was engaged to someone before my husband," she began. "The banns were posted in the church. Two weeks before the wedding a woman came forward claiming she carried my fiancé's child. I think he was as surprised as anyone. Naturally our engagement was broken and he married her."
Patrick's eyes were on her face, waiting, expectant.
"That's it," she said.
"You're quite sure?"
"I am."
"Your story is as old as time, Johannah. You've done nothing to be ashamed of. I fail to see why, after all these years, it still worries you."
She turned the cup around several times, marking the shine of the laminated table. "One of the ladies I check in with mentioned it today. She's become friendly with my former fiancé's wife and wants her to assume responsibilities for which the woman isn't trained. When I tried to explain that this would never be approved by the council, she accused me of partiality because of my past."
"Clearly, she doesn't know you."
Johannah smiled. "Thank you for that."
"How did you leave it?"
"With a few choice words on my part and an early departure." She pushed away her pastry. "I want someone else to take her off my hands. I was so angry I didn't trust myself."
Patrick frowned. "You didn't answer my question."
"What is it?"
"Why should this bother you after all these years?"
"Because of my daughter's fascination with Ritchie O'Shea."
He nodded. "I see."
"No, you don't. You couldn't possibly because you're not from the town. Ritchie O'Shea is his son. He's the boy who was born seven months after Kitty announced she was pregnant with my fiancé's child."
"So," Patrick began carefully, "if I understand you, the idea of having your daughter involved with this lad would be a blow to your pride?"
Johannah opened her mouth to clear up the confusion, to expose the real problem, the basic ugly truth of it, the reason that Katie Enright Kelliher could never in ten million years be the wife, mate, no, not even the friend of Ritchie O'Shea. But the words died in her throat. She hadn't the courage. "Yes," she said shortly. "I suppose that's it."
"Did you love this man very much?"
"Desperately."
"And your husband?"
"I loved him much more than that. We had a lifetime together."
She watched him. He was clearly laboring under some strong emotion.
"Did you love him desperately?"
Suddenly she couldn't bear it. Mickey didn't deserve this, the clinical exposure, the calculated analyzing of the reasons for their life together. He wasn't a perfect husband but neither, God help her, had she been a perfect wife. She stood. "I appreciate the coffee, Patrick and the listen. But I must be on my way. I've said too much."
He was standing, too, watching her with grave eyes. "It stays only with me, Hannie. You know that."
She nodded, picked up her bag and walked through the door without looking back. Good Lord, what had come over her, and hadn't she already told him not to call her Hannie?
Chapter 29
Liam
Liam slid into a booth facing the entrance to the shopping mall and looked around. The place was full up with mothers and babies. Shifting uncomfortably, he looked at his watch. It was earlier than he thought. Ciara would be another five minutes at least. He considered approaching the counter and ordering a coffee but the queue forming at the door discouraged him. His location was prime and he dared not give it up. Out of his element, Liam wondered why she'd chosen this place instead of The Greyhound or The Munster Warehouse.
Five minutes ticked by slowly. He ignored the telling looks thrown at him by those waiting for a seat. Finally, he spied Ciara's distinctive red curls weaving their way through the crowd. Smiling she sat down opposite him.
"What are you having?" she asked. "I'll buy."
Immediately he stood. "Not a chance. I've a pocketful of change and I'm jiggy from sitting."
She looked surprised. "I'm on time. Have you been waiting long?"
"I came a bit early."
"In that case, I'll have a cappuccino with cream instead of froth, and a cinnamon-streusel muffin." She dug into the huge bag sitting beside her, pulled out a five euro note and handed it to him. "The last time we met you were unemployed. I don't want to take advantage."
Dazed by the unexpected offer, he found himself in the queue waiting to order, attempting to make some sense of what had just happened. Ciara McCarthy was paying for herself. Having no experience with women who offered up money, he didn't know whether to be offended or grateful. Deciding he would wait and see what the rest of the day offered, he managed to place his order without mishap and carry it back to the table where Ciara waited.
She cut the muffin in two and offered him half. "I can never eat a whole one," she explained. "They're delicious. Try it."
Liam bit into the pastry, washing it down with a cup of coffee.
"Well?" She smiled, sure of his response.
"You're right. They're terrific." He looked around at the dark paneled walls, the floor-to-ceiling glass window facing the carpark, the espresso machines gushing steam and the case filled with confectionary. "How did you find this place?"
"It's the only coffee house in Manor, other than the cafeteria upstairs. Everyone comes here."
"I'd never heard of it."
She laughed. "How often do you shop at Manor?"
He acknowledged the hit. "Not too much, I guess."
"How's your gran?"
Liam laughed. "Giving us all a run for our money. I don't think my mom had any idea what she was getting into by asking her to move in with us. But it's done."
Ciara's level gaze was disconcerting. "Your mom is a social worker. She knows better than anyone. She probably had no choice."
Liam wanted to change the subject. He couldn't explain his reasons for wanting to see Ciara McCarthy outside the pub, but here he was and he didn't intend to spend the time discussing his relatives. "I thought we'd take a drive to Killorglin and see the first day of Puck Fair."
She sipped her cappuccino, carefully patting the cream from her lips with a napkin. "You want to see my people first hand? Isn't it enough that you have to put up with their drunken brawls in the pubs? Does it make you feel good to compare yourself to them?"
He realized his mistake. "I didn't mean it like that."
"What did you mean?"
"I like the excitement of the fair. I like the horses and the bartering. It reminds me of what Ireland must have been like years ago. The travelers are undiluted Irish, the descendents of people whose homes were razed during the famine years."
She wouldn't be diverted. "You have no animosity towards them, the ones who steal you blind the minute your back is turned?"
"Are you for or against them, Ciara?"
"I'm a realist, Liam, but neither am I ashamed for what I can't control. I was born into the culture. That I can't help, but I don't have to be pulled down by a way of life I want no part of."
"How does your family feel about that?"
She sighed. "We don't always get on, but they're my family, aren't they?"
Liam nodded. "So, what's it to be? Puck Fair, or a drive to Dingle over Connor Pass?"
"Do you think your gran might like to see the fair? Your mom could probably use a day to herself."
His mouth dropped. "Are you serious?"
"Absolutely."
The last thing he wanted to do was to take his grandmother on what he hoped would become an actual date with this unusual girl. Then, unbidden, he found himself remembering something his mother's friend, Patrick had said. It would be normal, don't you think, for a woman like your mother, accustomed to doing for herself, to feel overwhelmed having her children and grandchild under her roof again.
Hannie Rising Page 18