Safe Home (The Tipperary Trilogy)

by William Patterson

  They finally arrived at the depot in Charleville and Robert alighted from the coach, squinting his eyes against the glare. The driver gave him directions to the apothecary and he made his way there as gingerly as he could, each footfall more punishing than the last. As he entered, even the tinkling of the doorbell drew a curse from him. The chemist gave him a small vial containing the remedy and Robert uncorked the glass container immediately, taking a sip before walking back out into the street. It was unbelievably bitter in his mouth but he knew, from experience, that relief was on its way. When he returned to the coach, a new team of horses had been hitched and the driver was ready to leave. A fat, well-dressed gentleman, along with his considerably younger wife, had taken a seat opposite him. The woman’s perfume was sickly sweet and almost made him gag, but his mind was already becoming dimmed as the narcotic took effect and he was soon fast asleep and dreaming.

  He awoke, startled and disoriented. The fat man had kicked him in the shins.

  ‘Ya were talkin’ in yer sleep,’ he growled. Robert mumbled an apology and thought about the strange dream he’d had. He had been in a huge dark room with a flaxen-haired woman. He knew it was either Mary Galvin or Roisin, but he couldn’t remember which. They were running away from a ghostly apparition who flew above them, like a witch from an old folk tale. Robert held the fair-haired woman by the hand and dragged her behind him until she could run no more. He pushed her behind him, into a corner, and swung a stick over their heads, taunting the phantom, daring it to come and get them. He had been determined to make a stand and face the spectre, no matter what it was. He tried to shout at the witch but, instead of words, all he could manage were guttural sounds and grunts … then the fat old fellow had kicked him and the dream had ended. Robert would have liked to go back to sleep to see how it all ended but, like all dreams, it had gone. He dozed for the next hour until they reached Limerick’s city walls.

  Although he had eaten nothing since breakfast, the very thought of food revolted him. The laudanum had not only fogged his brain but had also turned his stomach. The pain in his head was gradually returning as the drug wore off and he went straight to his room, snuffed out the candle and lay in his cot. He resisted as long as he could before uncorking the little bottle which contained the narcotic. He took a small sip and let the darkness embrace him.

  Almost immediately, another dream began. This time, he was in Gortalocca and a storm was building on the Clare side of Lough Derg, whilst another brewed to the south, over the Silvermine Mountains. It wasn’t a typical late summer storm, but rather a maelstrom. Dark purple and grey clouds wrapped themselves around each other and lightning flashed and thunder boomed like distant artillery. Robert had experienced tempests before, when he’d fought in the South of France and Spain, but he had never seen anything like this. The storm was all around them, threatening to engulf them in its chaos. He gathered the villagers together and ushered them into a root cellar. He recognised them all but their faces were devoid of expression and, try as he might, he couldn’t prevent them from wandering off aimlessly, like errant sheep. No sooner would he bring one back to the safety of the cellar, when one or two others would escape. Finally, there was no alternative other than to give up and they all drifted away, leaving him alone in the shelter. When he awoke, he was covered in sweat, not the perspiration of exertion, but the thick, cold, clammy excretion of fever or fear. He lit the candle and lost himself in the flame. He fell asleep again and this time, there were no dreams.

  *

  There was a storm brewing in Gortalocca. It may not have been an epic one like the old man had envisioned in his dreams, but it was one which could be equally destructive to the village. Michael had finished painting the door. He had decided on ochre yellow because he remembered that his mother loved the colour and had always wanted a door that shade. At almost two hundred pounds in weight, the door was extremely heavy and even if he could manage to wrestle it over to Hogan’s himself, it would be impossible for him to hang it on his own. He had no wish to risk another argument so he decided not to ask his brother for help. He went back to the cottage and, as he approached the door, he could hear the telltale clack clack of a spinning wheel coming from inside. He found Morna sitting at the wheel, while Roisin knitted in the corner, where the sunlight illuminated her work. She was knitting a blanket for Robbie’s expectant wife.

  ‘Mam, the door is ready to hang but it’s too heavy for me to do it alone.’

  ‘Get your brother to help so,’ said Roisin absently, dropping a stitch.

  ‘No!’

  Roisin lowered her knitting into her lap. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said no, Mam.’

  Roisin wasn’t used to hearing the word, especially from Michael, and she was already irritated about the knitting. She glared at her son. ‘Go and tell Robbie that you need help and tell him that I said so.’

  Reluctantly, Michael went across the narrow street to his brother’s house. His mother’s temper was legendary and he already had taken the dangerous step of treading on it. He knocked at the door and Robbie’s wife answered.

  ‘I need help to hang a new door on the store,’ he said, before she could speak.

  His brother’s voice boomed out from inside the darkened house. ‘Feck off!’

  It was the response Mikey had expected so he added, ‘Mam said you have to help me.’

  There was a moment of silence. Mikey expected his brother to accede to their mother’s demand because, when she said to do something, it was never a mere suggestion.

  ‘You can tell her to feck off, too!’

  Michael was taken aback. He hadn’t expected that response and he certainly wasn’t about to convey the message to his mother. He turned and walked back to the old church, at least he could claim sanctuary there. The door groaned in protest as he entered and he heard the scurry of mice inside.

  ‘If I tell Mam what Robbie said,’ he told them aloud, ‘I’ll be sharing this place with you.’ He was deadly serious. Roisin wasn’t above killing the messenger. He lifted up one corner of the newly manufactured door and kicked a stool under it with his foot. There was a wheelbarrow leaning against the wall and he moved it to just outside the door. Standing the door up on its end, he walked it out into the sun, moving it from corner to corner. When he got it outside, he dropped it onto the barrow and it landed with a heavy thud. He wheeled the barrow down towards the shop and, as he passed his mother’s cottage, she appeared at the open door.

  ‘I thought I told you to ask Robbie to help.’

  ‘I did ask him. He told me to feck off.’

  ‘Did you tell him that I said he had to help?’

  A sinister smile flickered across the young man’s face. ‘I did, Mam. He said you could feck off too.’

  As he hurried along towards the shop, he looked behind him and smiled again as he saw that his mother’s backbone seemed to have been replaced by a broomstick. He wished he could hear what was about to unfold but he would have to make do with watching from a safe distance. Roisin marched across the road to the Flynn house and flung open the door without knocking or bothering to close it behind her. A moment later, the silence was broken by a loud crash, followed by his brother’s plaintive voice.

  ‘Jayzus, Mam! Ya almos’ cracked me feckin’ skull.’

  ‘If you’d only stand still for a minute and give me another chance, I’ll break it!’

  There was the scuffling of feet, then another crash.

  ‘I gotcha now, ya gobshite.’

  ‘I t’ink yer after killin’ me.’

  Robbie came stumbling out of the cottage as if the house had spit him out like a cherry stone. He had one hand to his forehead and he was using the other to keep himself from falling face-first into the road. Mikey couldn’t help but smile as he watched from the safety of his vantage point. The next thing, Roisin appeared at the door with a clay bowl in her hand.

  When Robbie thought he was out of her range, he turned to his mother.
‘Have ya gone mad, woman? Only a witch would try an’ kill ‘er loving son.’

  ‘A witch, is it? You wanna see a witch? I’ll show ya a witch.’

  Roisin heaved the bowl at him and it whizzed past his head, narrowly missing him.

  Mick Sheridan rode up just in time to catch the last round of the fight. When Roisin saw him, she straightened out her apron and smoothed her hair back.

  ‘Well. Mick,’ she said, smiling sweetly at him. ‘You’re just in time, I’m after baking some scones.’

  ‘It looks like dat scone’s only half baked,’ he responded, looking at Robbie.

  ‘Ah, we were just having a discussion sure,’ she said calmly.

  ‘It looks more loike a CONcussion t’ me,’ he grinned.

  ‘They’re your favourite scones … the ones with the currants in them. C’mon over.’

  ‘T’anks, I’ll be dere in a few minutes, missus. I jus’ wanna say hello t’ Mikey.’ In reality, Mick wanted to stay and witness round two. Roisin walked back to her cottage in a demure, ladylike fashion and got ready to welcome her guest.

  Just as Mick caught up with Mikey at the shop, Robbie arrived too and the second round began.

  ‘What did ya tell’er, ya rat bastard?’ Robbie hissed. His mother was out of earshot but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  ‘You said to tell her to feck off,’ said Mikey, feigning innocence. ‘I just did what you told me.’

  His answer infuriated Robbie and he took a swing at his brother. The blow glanced off Mikey’s cheek but nevertheless, it hurt, so he returned the favour and popped his brother on the forehead, in the same place Roisin had left her mark.

  ‘Ouch! Ya little shit bird. See, ya can’t take me even after Mam’s softened me up.’ The two brothers began to grapple and wrestle and the fight rolled out into the dirt road.

  ‘Dat’s what I like about Gortalocca,’ said Mick Sheridan. ‘Nuthin’ ever changes. Now you lads enjoy yerselves, I gotta scone waiting fer me wit’ me name on it. An’ by d’ way, Mikey, it’s good t’ see ya again. Nice door.’

  *

  CHAPTER 42

  Ned and Mary packed their sparse belongings and readied themselves for the four day ride to Nenagh. Shelagh was loathe the see them go, not that she would particularly miss their company, but rather the extra shilling she’d been charging them for their tiny, windowless room. For her part, Mary was glad to be leaving. Every time she saw a red-coated soldier, she stiffened with fear and searched his face for any sign of recognition. Even if she had identified one of her violators, she would never have mentioned it to Ned, afraid that his own peculiar code of honour would compel him to exact revenge, regardless of the consequences. Shelagh waved them off.

  ‘Safe home,’ she said.

  They made their way to the edge of town, paid the farmer for watching the Hobbies and began the trip northwards to Kanturk, hoping to reach there before nightfall. As they passed through Millsteet, a beggar tried to grab the reins from the girl, but he was rewarded for his trouble with a swift kick in the face from Ned.

  ‘Don’t let any o’ dese sods slow ya down, Mary,’ he’d told her. ‘We got miles t’ go before dark.’

  They left the mountains behind and the foothills surrounding them became gentler. They had crossed the bridge at Blackwater River by late afternoon and that meant they only had five miles to go before they reached their first day’s destination. The three-day rest had done wonders for the horses. They had put weight back on and had regained their strength. Tomorrow, they would make it to Charleville and, from there, would retrace the trip taken just days before by the sheriff.

  Things had settled down in Nenagh. The flogging and branding of the deputy had convinced most of the men that Higgins would no longer tolerate their shenanigans. Even the desk sergeant had become a good deal less insubordinate. He had, in the past, felt the lash at the hand of D’Arcy and he had no desire to repeat the experience. Higgins was able to command more respect now that the men knew indifference and leniency were no longer something he would turn a blind eye to.

  A couple of the deputies were still drinking whilst on duty, Connolly and Gallagher. They were unlikely friends, united only by their love for the hard stuff. Connolly had been a deputy for many years. He was a rail thin man with a stern face, or at least it was stern when he was sober. Gallagher, on the other hand, was a big man with an easy smile, well-liked among his fellow troopers. Nevertheless, regardless of everyone’s affection for the fellow, some measure of discipline had to be administered and so Higgins ordered the sergeant to assign them both to overnight picket duty, outside the town. The hope was that if they had to stay away from the bars, it might serve to diminish their thirst.

  The two men left the castle on foot just before dark to assume their post. They passed a dishevelled man approaching the castle as they left and he gave them a salute which they didn’t return.

  ‘Did ya ever see dat eejit givin’ us a salute,’ scoffed Gallagher. ‘Silly fecker mus’ t’ink he’s sumpthin’.’

  ‘He is sumpthin’,’ said Connolly, his face deadpan. ‘He’s a piss trickle.’ Gallagher laughed heartily. The dour old deputy had a way with words.

  Robert arrived at the castle gates but was unable to talk his way past the guards. They didn’t recognise his face and, without his uniform on, they were not about to let him through. He had begun to lose his temper with the two guards on duty but relented, telling himself that they were just doing their jobs and that he probably did look a sight. He would walk to Gortalocca instead. As he passed the livery stables, he spotted a light flickering inside. Perhaps he could borrow a horse and save himself the five mile walk. He went inside and saw Billy Reardon sitting on a stool, the tack from his pony trap scattered around him. He was busy polishing the brass paraphernalia and, when Robert walked in, he was startled.

  ‘Jayzus,’ he cried, ‘ya scared d’ shite outta me! What can I do fer ya?’

  ‘I need a horse, Billy. I don’t fancy walking all the way to Gortalocca.’ As soon as the sheriff spoke, Reardon recognised him immediately

  ‘Sir! I didn’ recognise ya. Ya look like sumpthin’ d’ dog t’rew up! Jus’ let me put d’ harness back t’gedder, sir. Eider dat ‘r ya c’n take d’ cob over dere. Ya know I took young Mikey Flynn back home a week ‘r so ago.’

  That was music to the old man’s ears. He had accomplished what he’d set out to do and now he was even more anxious to be on his way. Billy, however, had other ideas. First, he was determined to relate the tale of how he’d met Liam and he went into the same long story he’d told Michael, this time with added embellishments. It had started to get late.

  The two guards had just reached their post when Gallagher produced a canteen.

  ‘If ya start drinkin’ water now,’ the skinny fellow warned him, ‘yu’ll be pissin’ all night long.’

  ‘It ain’t water,’ grinned Gallagher, just as the aroma of poteen reached Connolly.

  ‘C’mere, gimme a nip o’ dat.’ The big man handed the tin canteen to his companion and he took a long draught of it.

  ‘Oi, take it easy, ya pig! Dat has t’ last all night.’ He snatched the container back and shook it. ‘Jayzus, if dats a nip, I wouldn’t wan’cha t’ bite me,’ he said sourly.

  Connolly decided to have some fun with the big fellow. He knew he was more than a little superstitious.

  ‘Hey Gallagher, didja’ hear about d’ terrible monster down in Cork?’

  Gallagher felt the hair on his skin rise. He wanted to hear the tale but it was dark and he had a fear of monsters, terrible or not. ‘No,’ he replied.

  ‘Well I’ll tell ya. Down in d’ mountains, a priest conjoured up a divil, an’ it murdered a couple a hundr’d redcoats.’

  ‘Ah go way outta that. Priests can’t conjour up divils.’

  ‘Back in d’ aulden days dey could. Dat’s how dose man-eatin’ sheep came about over in Connemara.’

  ‘Dat was in d’ aulden days, dey can’t d
o it now.’

  ‘Dey can o’course. Dey teach it to ‘em at priest school sure. Dey jus’ don’t do it much anymore, cuz once dey conjure one up, it’s alive f’rever an’ it roams d’ land, doin’ what it w’s conjoured up fer.’

  Gallagher looked about him, nervously. ‘Dem feckers down in Cork ‘re all liars. Sure, dey’d see a badger an’ d’ next t’ing, it’s a bear.’

  ‘I heared it from a fella fr’m Limerick,’ Connolly assured him, ‘an’ dey’re too thick t’ make up lies.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s still down in Cork so.’ They passed the canteen back and forth as Connolly expounded on the story.

  ‘Dey say it rides a black horse dat spits fire outta its nose instead o’ snot. Dey say it burned down a village called Ballyshite.’

  ‘Who’d name a village Ballyshite?’

  ‘Corkmen would, dat’s who.’

  Gallagher conceded that they might and he gave it some more thought. ‘How long d’ya t’ink it takes fer a demon t ride all d’ way from Cork t’ Tipp?’

  Connolly was beginning to enjoy the uneasiness of his companion. ‘I wouldn’t be surpris’d if it w’s already here. Ya know how dem t’ings are.’ The big man’s mind had become a little blurry and he decided he needed another drink. The tin container was getting close to empty and the night stretched out ahead of them.

  The old man listened patiently to Billy’s stories about Liam. Like every Irish jarvey, Billy liked the sound of his own voice, and his yarns led him seamlessly from one anecdote to another. Although Robert was eager to get back to Gortalocca, he was also enjoying hearing about his dead brother. When the stories looked like threatening to continue into the night, he pointed out to Billy that the brass wasn’t going to polish itself and that it was getting close to midnight and he had to be going.