Safe Home (The Tipperary Trilogy)

by William Patterson

  Poor Jamie thought for a moment. ‘I don’ feel very funny right now, Roisin, but I’ll give it a try.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Did ye ever hear d’ story about me t’ree legged table?’

  Roisin forced a smile. ‘It’s still over there in pride of place by the window, Jamie. Liam was as proud of you as any da could have been.’ Jamie blushed and looked at his feet, just as Liam had done a thousand times, whenever she embarrassed him. ‘C’mon, tell us about it,’ she encouraged him.

  Jamie didn’t look up, he just began the story quietly. ‘Liam was still laid up an’ I wanted to surprise ‘im wit’ d’ table. I worked at night at d’ ol’ rectory so’s I could keep it secret. I wanted it t’ have dem oak leaves carved on d’ legs, so’s he could see dat I was payin’ attention when ‘e made dat big desk fer Johnson. Well, t’ree o’ d’ legs looked just grand but d’ fourth had a mistake, an’ d’ more I worked on it, d’ worse it got. In d’ end, I had wood chips all over d’ place an’ d’ leg looked like it’d been chewed by a dog, so I took d’ t’ree good ones and built d’ table on top of ‘em. When I brought it back, Liam looked at it an’ he scratched ‘is head an’ he put ‘is hand on ‘is chin and he says to me, “Dat’s an’ interestin’ concept, Jamie. I wonder why nobody ever t’ought of dat before.” I’ll tell yous now dat I was so proud o’ meself, I wanted t’ cry, but Liam tol’ me dat men don’t cry. I wanna cry now cuz I miss ‘im, but I won’t.’

  At Jamie’s words, Roisin’s tears began to flow and she put her arms around his neck and patted his back. She felt his warm tears on her shoulder and knew he had lost the battle with his emotions. He pulled away from her and tried to gather himself. His throat was thick with the words as he said, ‘What’ll we do widdout ‘im?’

  Roisin had been wondering the exact same thing as Jamie spoke the words. She swallowed hard, and in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, ‘We’ll carry on as usual, Jamie, my son from a different mother. It’s what Liam would want.’

  May and Kate left the cottage to get some food to bring back and Roisin sent Robbie and Jamie across to the shop, to collect a keg of cider and a firkin of beer. She was neither hungry nor thirsty but, if this was to be a proper Irish wake, then things must be done right. She was alone again now with her thoughts and her mind wandered back, once more, to her youngest son, Michael. Mikey was Liam’s legacy. He looked so much like him and even sounded so much like him that, often times, she wondered if they were one and the same person, just a quarter of a century apart. She would give anything to have him back here with her right now.

  *

  CHAPTER 4

  The day wore on endlessly for Roisin. As the widow of the deceased, she had to listen to all the stories about Liam, most of which she’d heard a hundred times before, and many of which bore little semblance to the true facts. A grave had been dug near the faerie ring and Jamie had needed something to busy himself with so he was out building a coffin. Robbie had offered to help but Jamie told him his time would be better spent keeping his mother company.

  Mr. Johnson, now well into his eighties, had dropped by and in contrast to the message he’d sent earlier, he did enjoy a drop of poteen with the locals. He even told a story about Liam that had happened years before. He told the assembled gathering about the time he’d invited Liam on a hunt and told them that Liam didn’t have the proper attire and so he’d got out an old set of riding clothes for him. Although they were two sizes too small, Liam had managed to squeeze himself into them.

  ‘He looked like an English sausage, but with an Irish flavour,’ he joked, and continued the tale.

  It seems that, when the hunt was over, Liam was nowhere to be seen so Johnson had sent Mick Sheridan out to find him. First, Mick had found Liam’s horse grazing placidly and, when he backtracked, all the while shouting ‘Hellooo!’, he finally got a response. But it wasn’t from ground level, it came from a tree. Liam’s horse had run under an overhanging branch and, with a bit of help from sod’s law, the end of the branch had gone up inside the cuff of his right sleeve and out at the collar. The horse had run on and Liam was left dangling from the tree. The riding jacket had pulled so tight that he couldn’t unbutton it and so he was left helplessly hanging there, amongst the squirrels and birds. Johnson told them that Mick who, he acknowledged, was often not the brightest flame on the candelabra, had asked Liam what was he doing in the tree and Liam had answered, ‘I’m waiting for you, ya pickle, cut me down.’

  Mick took out a knife he wore at his belt, looked at it, then at Liam. ‘Ah no,’ he said. ‘I’d best not cut d’ squire’s clothes. I’ll go get d’ man ‘imself instead.’ Liam was left yelling obscenities at Mick as he wandered off to get Johnson and the rest of the party.

  Johnson laughed heartily as he retold the story and Mick looked slightly indignant.

  ‘It was a good tale alright, Squire, but I promised Liam dat I’d never repeat it.’

  ‘So did I,’ laughed Harry Johnson, ‘but now seemed like as good a time as any to break my vow.’

  Roisin poured a big slug of the good stuff into Harold Johnson’s cup and he downed it in a single gulp. He leaned over and whispered in her ear.

  ‘I always knew about the conspiracy.’ He smiled and kissed the back of her hand.

  Roisin’s eyes widened. ‘How?’

  He went on in a low voice. ‘It was on the night of your wedding, when my late wife and I hosted the reception party. Your da, Michael, got in his cups and let it slip that you’d already been married by the old Franciscan. I told the old bugger to shut his mouth or everyone would get into trouble.’

  Roisin’s mouth fell open and she felt her blood rise. ‘If that old soak was here now, I’d fetch him a clout around his ear,’ she said.

  Johnson gave a nod. ‘I’m sure you would, my dear,’ he said, patting her hand, ‘but there’s no harm done.’ He bade everyone farewell and said that, since he had no family in Ireland, perhaps they’d give him an Irish wake one day, and then everyone could tell Harry Johnson stories.

  He looked at Liam’s body before he left. ‘I’ll be seeing you again one day soon, my old friend,’ he said and then left, leaving those assembled with a slightly better opinion of the old goat, even if he was English.

  Sooner or later, the story of Sean Reilly’s hanging was bound to come up and Roisin had dreaded it. Every story needs a villain, however, and Sean Reilly was the perfect scoundrel. Time had served to dim the memory of his misdeeds in many people’s minds, but Roisin still loathed him for what he had done to Liam. It was Matt O’Brien, the blacksmith, who told the tale.

  It had been a beautiful day in late April. It was a Saturday and the market in Nenagh town was crowded. All commerce had ceased for the day because a hanging was a cause for diversion. Hucksters moved amongst the crowd, selling drink and food. There was entertainment in the form of Punch and Judy shows and dog fights. Sean Reilly and Conor McCormack had a trial that lasted all of fifteen minutes, before being found guilty of treason and sedition, with violence. The sherriff had gone in to interview each of them in their prison cells at Nenagh castle. He offered a reprieve to McCormack but told him he would have to suffer some kind of punishment. He had his nose and ears cropped and he was banished to Connaught. If he was ever seen in Tipperary again, he would forfeit his life. The same offer wasn’t made to Sean Reilly because Sherriff Robert D’Arcy had no mercy for assassins. Reilly was escorted, or rather dragged, to the gallows by two deputies and, when asked if he had any last words, he began to rant and rave, saying it was all Liam Flynn’s doing. Sherriff D’Arcy had planted a foot in the small of the man’s back and the only sound he made after that was as his neck cracked. The crowd cheered and D’Arcy shot a pistol into the air, quietening the mob.

  ‘A man just died here,’ he told the hushed crowd, ‘and I will suffer no celebration, even if it was his just deserts.’

  They left the body hanging from the gibbet until it was almost dark, then it was removed and buried in
an undisclosed location. It was widely reported that the High Sheriff had a smile on his face when he booted the man from the gallows, but Liam had told Roisin it was a grimace, that Robert had no love of hangings.

  Roisin thought about Robert Flynn D’Arcy, Liam’s half-brother and High Sheriff of Ormond Lower. After having been parted for many years, the two brothers had stumbled upon each other purely by chance. Liam had thought he was about to be arrested when the warrant came for him to report to the High Sherriff in Nenagh, but instead it had turned out to be a reunion. Robert was feared by most, with a reputation for being a ruthless lawman of the King but, in his own way, he was an Irish Nationalist. He was subtle in the way he enforced the laws, and he never allowed his deputies to get involved in evictions. Robert was getting on in years now, he was already in his early sixties, but Roisin considered him timeless, like Mick Sheridan. Robert made frequent visits to Gortalocca but never in his uniform, and he always rode into the village on a modest horse, rather than the charger he rode in his official capacity. He said there was no need to scare the shite out of the villagers, which it surely would have done. In some ways, the two brothers were very alike, in other ways very different. Both men were single-minded when there was a task to be done, but, whereas Liam wore his heart on his sleeve, Robert, with those dark green-brown eyes of his, suppressed emotions as best he could and never revealed what thoughts lay behind them. One thing that could be said about Robert D’Arcy was that he was a man of his word. He had made a promise to Liam that he would watch over the village of Gortalocca and he intended to keep his promise. Robert was to come and pay his respects to his dead brother, and Roisin was to ask him one last favour.

  It was growing late and the weather had cleared. The dying sun warmed the land and it would be a rare hot and sultry night. Only Robbie, Jamie and Mick Sheridan were left in the cottage with Roisin when they heard the sound of a heavy horse galloping down the village street. Robbie got up and went to the door. They had been expecting a visit from the High Sheriff and, after he tied his horse, he motioned for his nephew to come to him and the two men spoke in hushed tones.

  ‘What happened, Robbie?’ asked the sheriff, straightening out his uniform.

  ‘Da died,’ said Robbie, deadly serious.

  The sheriff shook his head in disbelief at how dim-witted Robbie could be sometimes. ‘I know that already, boy. I’m asking you how it happened.’

  ‘Ah right. Well, I’d just gone home for a bit to eat at dinnertime and when I came back, he was dead on the floor.’

  ‘Had he been ill?’

  ‘No, not ill, but for the last couple o’ weeks he’d sometimes get the sweats, even when he wasn’t working.’

  ‘It sounds like he had a heart seizure.’ Robert D’Arcy nodded grimly. ‘I want to see your mother.’

  Robbie ushered his uncle inside the cottage. Both Mick Sheridan and Jamie Clancy knew the sheriff from his visits to the Flynn cottage and they nodded a sombre greeting to him. The dark man ignored them and went straight over to Roisin, who was sitting in the rocker. He knelt down next to her.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he said, ‘and I’m sorry for my own too. Liam was the best of us all.’

  Roisin’s eyes teared up and she grasped Robert’s hand. ‘You were Liam’s hero. Did you know that?’

  His eyes glazed over too and he swallowed hard before he spoke. ‘He was the hero. I always envied the life he led and so many times I thought that, if I’d listened to my own Da and taken a different path forty years ago, I could have had a blacksmith shop and a family, and maybe even a piece of land.’ Robert D’Arcy checked himself. He stood up straight and changed his demeanor, he’d said too much. ‘But the past is dead,’ he said with a flat expression, ‘and the last of my family is dead too.’

  Roisin didn’t let go of his hand. ‘You still have family, Robert,’ she said, ‘and you always will.’

  Robert’s shoulders slumped perceptibly ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly and softened his countenance once again.

  ‘I have a request to make of you,’ whispered Roisin, ‘and you don’t have to give me an answer, now. I’ll wait until the men have gone before I ask you.’

  Mick overheard Roisin, and the big man put his hands on Jamie and Robbie’s shoulders and led them out of the cottage, leaving the sheriff and Roisin to talk in private.

  *

  CHAPTER 5

  As soon as they were alone, Robert spoke bluntly.

  ‘Tell me what your request is,’ he said, ‘and if it’s within my power as sheriff, I will do my upmost to grant it.’

  ‘I’m not asking you as a lawman,’ she said, ‘but as Liam’s brother.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘I want to see Mikey.’

  Robert closed his eyes. ‘My nephew made his decision to pursue a dangerous profession, Roisin. Being a priest makes him wanted by the law, and it puts him in the same category as any bandit.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I’ve earned my reputation as a man-hunter, because I do my thinking and my preparation first and only then do I set out to track down my target.’ He sighed. ‘Tell me what you know about his last known whereabouts.’

  ‘I haven’t heard from Michael in more than a year,’ Roisin told him, ‘and that was only a cursory note, saying he was well and living on the Cork and Kerry border.’

  Robert gave a low whistle. ‘That’s wild country, a fierce big area, full of rebels and other nefarious types. It’s also out of my jurisdiction, Roisin, I’ll have to do some research and study the situation first.’

  ‘I know it’s an awful lot to ask of you, Robert, and I wouldn’t blame you if you decided that it’s too difficult or too risky’.

  Before she could speak again, Robert interrupted. ‘I’ve already made my mind up. I can’t help Liam any more, the least I can do is to help his widow. You try and get some sleep, I’ll be back tomorrow for the burial.’

  Roisin buried her face in her hands and wept, the word burial was so final. Robert turned and knelt beside Liam’s corpse. He smelt the familiar odour of death as he whispered in his brother’s ear, so low that the woman couldn’t hear.

  ‘I know what you meant now, brother. When she looks into your eyes and asks you to do something for her, it’s impossible to say no.’

  Roisin’s curiosity was piqued. ‘What did you say to him?’

  Robert smiled sadly at her. ‘I told him I would take care of everything’ he replied.

  *

  It was long after dark when Robert and his lathered horse galloped through the gates of Nenagh Castle. The guards stepped aside and saluted him, but he didn’t bother to return the salute. He dismounted and gave the winded horse a pat on the neck, before handing the reins to a groom.

  ‘Cool him down,’ he said, ‘and give him an extra measure of grain after you’ve done it.’ The groom made a half-hearted bow and the sheriff scowled. The boy made a deeper bow. Robert strode to his office and, when he got there, he immediately pulled out some ordinance maps of West Cork and South Kerry. He wanted to evaluate just how difficult a task he was about to embark upon. He rubbed his right shoulder, it was stiff. He was beginning to feel his years, even if they didn’t show yet. He was going to have to make arrangements for his absence very soon. As it is with all plans in their beginning stages, Robert’s mind was flooded with arrangements and preparatory measures.

  *

  The night had been hot and humid and the day had begun the same. Almost from the time it rose above the horizon, the sun was hot, and the smell of death grew stronger. Liam’s body was placed in the plain, pine coffin which Jamie had made. Before the lid was nailed shut, Roisin kissed his cold lips and tried to control herself. Every fibre of her being wanted to cry out in anguish because this was to be their last ever mortal kiss.

  Robbie and Mick stood on either side of her and helped to support her. Roisin had never fainted in her life, but now she could feel her knees try to buckle under her own weight. Her mind was in a fog and there was little thoug
ht there, just unadulterated grief. She felt as if her heart had been torn from her chest and laid inside the simple coffin next to her dead husband. The sound of the hammer resounded as it drove nails into the coffin lid and the only other sound was the coo of wood pigeons from somewhere inside the faerie ring. Even they sounded sombre.

  Robert Flynn D’Arcy had come to bid a final farewell to his only sibling. He wasn’t dressed in the crisp uniform of High Sheriff, but in the simple clothes of an Irishman. Sweat trickled down his brow and the yellow leine stuck to his skin. For a brief moment, he wished it was he who was going into that hole in the cool earth, but he snapped himself away from those thoughts. He had a job to do and, even if this was the last thing he ever did, he would reunite his dead brother’s wife with their boy. The task came first now, death was just a momentary interruption.

  There was no crowd there when they buried Liam Flynn, master carpenter. All the well-wishers from the day before had to get back to work and all the stories about Liam were already forgotten. He would have preferred it that way. He would have been mortified to hear all the talk about him and his adventures. Jamie and Mick Sheridan began to fill in the grave and the sound of earth and gravel hitting the top of the casket had a hollow ring, like a muffled drum. Those assembled were silent. There was no priest here to say any final words. Liam was laid to rest as quietly as he had lived his life, a shorter life than some, but a fuller one than most.

  As they walked the short distance back to the cottage, Jamie spoke quietly.

  ‘I have t’ put a stone over Liam,’ he said, ‘somet’in’ t’ mark where he is, f’rever like.’

  Roisin squeezed Jamie’s hand gently. ‘No, Jamie, make it out of wood.’