‘Don’t kill him, Ned!’ Robert yelled. A moment later, a sound like a pumpkin being dropped came from inside. Ned walked back to the horses and, without a word, he hauled himself up in the saddle in front of Mary.
‘Did you…?’ asked the sheriff. Ned shook his head and a sinister smile crossed his face, as he rubbed the knuckles on his right fist.
‘I didn’t,’ he said, ‘but he’ll be eatin’ ‘is spuds mashed fr’m now on.’ Ned walked his horse to the still gaping door.
‘Oy’ll be watchin’ ya froom now on, ya bastard,’ he shouted into the gloomy interior,’ an’ if Oy ever hear you’ve said anyt’ing like dat again, Oy’ll be back.’
The men walked their Hobbies back to the grocery.
‘Stay here, Ned. I need to get some more supplies for our journey.’ Robert bought some soap, a brush and a new blue dress of homespun for the girl. The proprietress flirted openly with the old man but it was wasted on him. He just wanted to get out of Cork and back to Tipp. This adventure had already been about as grand as it was going to get. They headed towards Macroom by way of Ballingeary.
There was an inn at Ballingeary, or perhaps hostel would have been a more appropriate term. It was the same place Percival Grey had begun to lose contact with reality. Robert left the young people outside and went in. The most important thing was to provide a bath for Mary. Robert didn’t pretend to understand women but he understood people and he knew that sometimes, when a person had experienced something horrific, they felt dirty. He had even experienced it himself, after battle. It was more than the filth of combat. It was a feeling that you had to rid yourself of some real or imagined sin. He couldn’t begin to comprehend what the poor girl must be going through. All he knew was that he felt guilty … that somehow he was at least partly responsible for what had happened in Ballyshee.
He handed the package containing the dress to the young girl, along with the soap and brush. She looked at the package curiously, then at Ned.
Robert spoke up. ‘He’ll be here, girl, when you’ve finished and then we’ll all sit down for supper. There’s no rush, we have all the time in the world.’ Robert and Ned tended the horses while Mary went to clean herself up. She scrubbed her body until her skin was sore.
It was an hour before the girl returned and she had on the blue dress. Her blonde hair was pulled back, exposing the sweep of her long graceful neck and Robert noticed, for the first time, that her eyes were sky blue. He struggled to tear his gaze from her, even as they sat down to eat, and she grew uncomfortable under his unremitting stare.
‘Is dere sumpthin wrong wit me?’ she asked.
‘No, my dear,’ he responded gently. ‘You just remind me of someone I once knew.’
‘W’s she a sweetheart?’
‘Ah no, nothing like that,’ he said with a hint of nostalgia. His mind drifted back to the first time he had ever laid eyes on Roisin. He always knew that her heart belonged to his brother, Liam, but, although he used visiting his brother as a pretense, he would ride the five miles from Nenagh to Gortalocca as much to see her as his brother. When she wasn’t there, he had always felt slightly disappointed.
‘Whut ar’ ya t’inkin’ about’?’ It was the kind of question a woman asks, that a man never would.
‘Nothing at all, Mary,’ he replied.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘Oy w’s jus’ t’inkin’ dat ya know my name, but Oy don’ know yours.’
The old man thought for moment. ‘It’s Uncle Robbie,’ he replied.
Ned choked on a piece of gammon and he dropped his spoon. ‘Ooncle Robbie?!!’
Robert shot him a look that could curdle a bucket of water. ‘It’s Sir to you, you horse turd.’
*
CHAPTER 37
It was mid-afternoon when the stage arrived in Nenagh and a light rain shower was just blowing in from the west, over Lough Derg. The streets were teeming with vendors and shoppers, all oblivious to the worsening weather. A faint stench of rancid meat and over-ripe vegetables permeated the air. It was a typical weekday in the market town, much the same as it had been for the last four hundred years. The coach horses had slowed to a crawl and were winding their way through the crowd. Occasionally, the driver would yell an obscenity for someone to get out of the way and, more often than not, they would shout something equally offensive back at him. Street urchins … ragged orphans who had no means of support … roamed the streets singly and in small groups, trying to steal whatever they could in order to sustain themselves. Morna was overwhelmed with all the hustle and bustle.
‘Is it alw’ys like dis, Mikey?’
Michael smiled, it was a scene entirely familiar to him. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘if we’d been here this morning it would have been more crowded.’ Morna thought that half of Ireland must be marketing in Nenagh today.
Michael opened the door of the carriage and helped the girl to step down onto the wet, cobbled street. The driver shouted something to him and threw the sack, containing their belongings, down to him from where it had been secured on the roof of the coach. Mikey asked him if he knew whether there was any transport available to take them to Gortalocca. The driver was about to give him a vulgar retort, but he glanced at Morna, then back at Michael.
‘Get yerselves back here in fifteen minutes,’ he said, ‘an’ I’ll have somet’in’ fer ye.’
‘We have a quarter hour to kill, love,’ Mikey told the girl. ‘Let’s see if we can get Mam something nice.’ He knew his mother’s taste well. ‘She likes cake made with butter and treacle, and some cream and berries.’ They found the fruit quickly enough. In late summer, there were still wild strawberries, blackberries and blueberries aplenty and for a ha’penny, they bought a big sack of the succulent produce. For another farthing, they acquired a large cake, which the baker wrapped up securely for the short trip to Gortalocca. As they arrived back at the coach stop, a jarvey with a pony and trap was just pulling up.
‘Good day t’ ya, sir,’ he said cheerfully to the young man, and tipped his hat to Morna.
‘We need a ride to Gortalocca,’ Mikey told him.
‘Well if ye have tuppence, yer luck’s in,’ smiled the driver.
‘I have sir’, said Michael, rattling his purse. On the way out of town, he asked the jarvey to make a quick stop at a bar and he went in. When he came out, he brought with him a stone jar, full of cider, and handed it to Morna.
‘If you want to make a good impression on me mam,’ he said, ‘just hand her this.’
When they reached the edge of town and fields of grain stretched out around them, turning now from green to golden, Michael tapped the driver on the shoulder.
‘I’d like to go by way of Ballyartella,’ he said, ‘if it’s not too much trouble.’
The jarvey turned and stared at Michael. ‘Ah, yer familiar wit’ dese parts so.’
‘I grew up here,’ replied Mikey.
‘I t’ought ya looked familiar. What’s yer name?’
‘It’s Michael. Michael Flynn.’ Morna looked at her husband because she had thought the Flynn versus Hogan debate was over, but before she could say anything the driver said,
‘Yer one o’ Liam’s boys so. Let me tell ya a story about yer dear farder, God rest his soul. About twenty years ago … yu’d a bin just a baby back den … I came t’ Nenagh from Roscrea wit’ a pony an’ some tack, but I ditn’t have a cart. I met ol’ Mick Sheridan. Ya know Mick o’course, he’s a mountain of a man but he’s got a good heart, Lord luv ‘im. Anyhow, he had a pony trap dat b’longed to Squire Johnson. D’ auld man had t’rowed it away. Da body was all rott’n sure but d’ undercarriage was still sound. So, he get’s yer da t’ take a look, an’ yer da scratches ‘is head and he puts ‘is hand on ‘is chin. It ain’t ruined, sez he, it’s just almos’ ruined. I t’ink fer ten shillin’s I c’n geddit lookin’ like new, sez he. Well, I nearly busted out in tears cuz he might ‘s well a said a t’ousand pounds. So yer da asks me if I could afford five shillin’s an’ I showed �
�im me purse an’ I only had a farthin’ in it. Yer da sez, ya c’n pay me a penny a month ‘til you’ve paid me my five shillin’s ‘n ya c’n have d’ trap so’s ya c’n make d’ money. Den ‘e looks at Mick, ya r’member Mick don’cha, an’ ‘e says t’ Mick, Let’s take dis feller down t’ Hogan’s an’ get ‘im some food an’ a swaller t’ seal d’ deal. So we all gets t’ Hogan’s an’ dere’s yer mam, an’ I t’ink she had ya in ‘er arms, an’ she looks at me an’ den at yer da an’ she says, I see ya brought me anudder raggedy man t’ feed. Now I don’ know what she meant by dat but whatever it w’s, dey both had a big auld laugh, an’ den she kissed ‘im. Ah, yer mam loved yer da. Ev’rybuddy loved yer da sure.’ The driver’s voice cracked as he spoke and Michael couldn’t respond because of the lump in his throat. ‘Ya look just like yer da did dat first day I met ‘im,’ said the driver and Michael saw him raise his hand to his face and wipe his eyes. Michael did the same.
The trap was just approaching the mill at Ballyartella when the jarvey halted the pony.
‘Listen!’ he said. Michael could hear the rhythmic sound of a hammer on an anvil. ‘Dat’s Jamie!’ he exclaimed. ‘I recognise d’ sound when ‘e hammers d’ iron. D’ ye want ta stop fer a minute t’ see ‘im?’ Michael was torn between going straight to Gortalocca to see his mam and stopping to see this friend of his father, who was like an uncle to him. He was eager to find out what had happened and Jamie Clancy could, no doubt, provide him with the information he needed.
‘We’ll go and see Jamie,’ he said. The driver pulled the trap up to the front door of the forge and, after a few more strikes with the hammer, the blacksmith looked up. He recognised the figure in the coach and he dropped his hammer on the ground and tore off his leather apron.
His voice cracked. ‘Liam?’ He squinted at Michael. ‘Mikey!’ he shouted and ran and dragged the young man out of the trap. He wrapped his arms around him so tightly that Mikey could barely inhale. It was uncharacteristic of Jamie to display such emotion and Michael was completely taken aback. Jamie would no more hug a man than his own father would have.
‘Go easy, James, you’ll break me ribs.’
Jamie let go of him. ‘Oh Jayzus, Mike! Fer a second dere, I t’ought ya were yer farder’s ghost,’ he said. ‘C’mere t’ me and let me tell ya, dere’s a real shite storm goin’ on in d’ village, an’ yer feckin’ useless brudder is ‘n d’ middle of it.’
Jamie turned to the jarvey. ‘Billy, is it alright wit you if I stand on d’ back o’ d’ trap while ya drive Mikey home. I got a lot t’ tell ’im.’ The driver told Jamie to climb on board and, as the pony trudged towards Gortalocca, the story of the goings-on there unfolded.
Mikey felt the blood rushing to his head as Jamie related the story, and the blacksmith felt his own anger rise too.
‘Yer mam tol’ me t’ keep me temper in check, Mike, an’ so fer her sake I’m tellin’ ya t’ do d’ same. We don’ want her t’ get caught in d’ middle o’ dis. I owe ‘er too much t’ cause ‘er any more grief.’
Michael agreed. He had watched his father keep a cool head when most would have flown off the handle. After all, hadn’t he managed to live with his mother for all those years? Michael had never seen him lose control of himself. He closed his eyes and swallowed deeply. Try and be like your da, he told himself.
The trap came to a halt outside the little cottage which had once belonged to Paddy Shevlin and Jamie jumped off the back.
‘Let me get yer mam! I don’ want ‘er t’ faint when she sees ya.’ Jamie ran into the house without knocking and, as he was getting down from the trap, Michael heard his mother reading the riot act to the blacksmith. There was silence, then Roisin burst out of the door with Jamie hot on her heels.
Mikey’s feet had barely touched the ground when he was overwhelmed by his mother. She squeezed the breath out of him and kissed him a hundred times. He could taste the salt of her tears as they wet his face.
‘I knew you were alive,’ she wept. ‘I told everyone that you were alive. They said you weren’t but sure I knew you were.’
Michael took her by the shoulders and pushed her away a little so he could see her face. ‘I thought you said you never cried, Mam?’
‘Agh, these last few months, Michael, I’ve cried enough to fill the Shannon.’
He wasn’t used to seeing his mother as vulnerable as she seemed now. She had always been the rock upon which their entire family was built. Roisin began to regain control of herself and she pushed Mikey a little further away now as she addressed the jarvey.
‘And where have you been, Billy Reardon? I thought you’d at least have paid your respects when Liam….’ Roisin hated the word ‘died’ and, even now, she had a hard time saying it.
‘I’m sorry, missus. I jus’ couldn’t come. Ev’ry time I t’ink o’ Liam, I still get a lump in me t’roat an’ I’m full o’ tears.’
‘It’s full o’ shite y’are, Billy Reardon. Ya always were an’ ya always will be,’ she said in mock anger, wiping her face with her apron. She turned her attention to the pretty young lady in the beautiful green dress who was still seated in the trap and who, up until now, had been neglected. Roisin looked her up and down, from head to toe, before saying, ‘You’ll have to excuse these louts, miss, they have the manners of a billy goat. I’m Roisin Flynn, I’m Michael’s mam.’
The country girl was flustered by all the excitement and, when she responded, her reply was almost inaudible.
‘Oy’m Morna. Oy’m Michael’s woife.’
Roisin felt her knees buckle, the same way they had when Jamie had announced that her son was outside, and she looked at Michael, then back at the beautiful red-haired girl.
‘I beg your pardon, dear, I don’t think I heard you correctly with all this commotion going on.’
‘Oy’m Michael’s woife,’ said Morna, a little slower and slightly louder.
Roisin’s head spun as she found herself suddenly caught between confusion, elation and jealousy. She turned to her son.
‘What about the priesthood, Michael?’
‘I didn’t get ordained, Mam. I had second thoughts about it a few months ago. When I fell in love, it changed everything.’
Roisin closed her eyes. ‘Oh, my boy, your father would be so happy to know that.’
‘What about you, Mam? Are you happy?’
Roisin looked back at the girl. ‘Your beautiful wife is like a princess and, if she doesn’t climb down from that carriage, I’m going to have to climb up.’ Morna leapt down onto the ground and Roisin enveloped her in her arms. ‘You saved my son’s life, my dear,’ she whispered, ‘and I will love you like my own daughter.’ The girl embraced Roisin in return.
‘An’ Oy promise t’ be a good daughter,’ she replied, ‘an’ a good woife.’
While all the fuss was going on, Roisin had noticed Robbie out of the corner of her eye, standing at the door of his cottage. He had watched his brother’s homecoming and had been waiting to see if Uncle Robert had returned with him. Finally, when he was sure that the coast was clear, he meandered over to the gathering. He stood mute, looking at each face to guage his position. When Mikey became aware of his presence, he walked over to him. Robbie regarded him through narrowed eyes.
‘So you’re alive, are ya?’ he said, softly enough that his mother wouldn’t hear him. ‘Well, dere’s been some changes aroun’ here an’ I’m in charge now.’
Michael hadn’t expected a warm welcome from his brother but he hadn’t expect outright hostility either. He felt somewhat hurt but he didn’t say a word in response.
‘You jus’ showin’ up doesn’t change a t’ing. Who’s the girl?’ Here was something Mikey could provide an answer for.
‘She’s my wife.’
‘Dat makes no diff’rence. I gotta wife too, an’ mine is pregnant.’
‘Well congratulations, Robbie. I’m very happy for you.’ Mikey extended his hand to his brother but it was left hanging in the air as the older sibling t
urned and began to walk away.
‘An’ anudder t’ing,’ he snarled, ‘don’ go tryin’ any o’ dat sneaky underhand shite Da pulled.’ With that, he turned and disappeared into the house their father had built. Mikey looked down and realised that his hand was still extended.
Morna, Jamie and Roisin walked up to Mikey as he stood staring at the door which had just been closed in his face.
‘What was that all about?’ asked Roisin.
‘Nothing, Mam, don’t worry about it. Listen, let’s all go in the house and then we can have some cake and a cup of cider.’
Jamie rushed off and, within a few minutes, he had returned with his wife and baby. They had the most enjoyable evening any of them could remember having for a very long time, and they listened to Michael’s tales about life outside County Tipperary. Across the road, Robbie wasn’t enjoying his evening at all.
*
CHAPTER 38
There were only two rooms available at the inn and Robert told Ned they would share one and let Mary have the other. The young man was loath to let her out of his sight but Robert explained that it was best for her to have her privacy. He told him she didn’t need someone pawing at her while she was in such a fragile state. Ned agreed, but only because the sheriff was his superior. In actuality, he would have given anything to be on top of the girl tonight.
Robert couldn’t sleep. Ned thrashed about and mumbled, even shouting incoherently from time to time. Nightmares, thought Robert, he knew them well. In a way, conflict and battle were easy. The enemy was standing in front of you and you did whatever you had to in order to survive. The demons that came afterwards were a different matter. They haunted the recesses of your mind and, as soon as it got dark and your defenses were down, they would crawl out and attack. They say you never die in your dreams, that you always wake up just before the coup d’ grace is delivered. Perhaps that’s the torture of it, pondered Robert, for you to have to live through it, time and time again.
Safe Home (The Tipperary Trilogy) Page 24