The Ballymara Road

by Nadine Dorries

  He already had her drink waiting when she arrived at O’Connolly’s.

  He was sitting at the corner table, as far away as possible from the toilets and the jukebox. For the first time since they were kids, she thought he looked nervous.

  ‘I got ye a gin and orange squash, the same as before. Is that all right, now?’

  He had stood up to greet her and removed his cap as she approached the table. Waiting for her reply, he stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, rolled up his cap and stuffed it deep down into his pocket. His black waistcoat strained against buttons that threatened to pop. The thought crossed her mind that it had been many a year since he had last worn it.

  ‘Aye, that’s grand, thanks. If you don’t mind me saying, I need that right now and another to follow, after the day I have had.’

  He picked up his Guinness. ‘Aye, well, for a long time now mine has been much the same as every other day. There are never any surprises for me. It does always come as a great shock, I suppose, when a customer dies and hasn’t paid their bill, but that is as bad as it gets.’

  They both burst out laughing. She realized it wasn’t something she did very often any more. Laugh. She was often concerned, busy, useful, needed, but not for herself, always for someone else. As their laughter abated, she looked into his eyes. She didn’t see a sixty-year-old face, laughing back at her. She saw the face of over forty years ago, just the same. Unaltered. Hidden by extra weight and some wrinkles, it might have been, but she looked through that to the boy she had known before.

  Be bold. Be bold. The words raced through her mind as they weighed each other up.

  He still has nice eyes, she thought.

  She has the figure of a woman half her age, he thought.

  She knew he would be shy. He would have no idea of her wild thoughts or crazy intentions. If she weren’t bold, she would lose her nerve and change her mind.

  Be bold.

  She leant across the table to say the most daringly outrageous words she had ever uttered, but, even as she began to speak, she had no idea what those words would be.

  He surprised her and spoke first.

  ‘Ye are a sight for sore eyes and one that hasn’t left my mind for these forty years gone, now, do ye know that?’

  ‘But you married Maisie,’ she replied, very matter-of-fact.

  ‘Aye, ’tis true and, sure, I was the father of a child that grew in the womb for two years. I was a stupid fool, easily led, and what lad isn’t? But I will tell ye this: there was only one woman I wanted to marry and, God knows, I paid the price for my mistake every day for years. God rest her soul. She couldn’t help it but, sure, nothing good comes from trickery, now does it, and so I feel no guilt.’

  Mrs McGuire’s heart was beating like the wings of a captive bird. ‘No, I suppose not. I couldn’t forgive ye for years.’

  ‘Sure, didn’t I know that. Ye bought yer meat in Castlefeale. Now that’s a woman with a grudge, I’d say.’

  Mrs McGuire turned round to look towards the bar and saw that, as she had guessed, they were under close scrutiny from Mrs O’Connolly, who repeatedly wiped the same section of the counter.

  She turned back to face him. Be bold. She took a deep breath. This would be it. Her chance.

  ‘Do ye have any gin at home? Because if ye do, why don’t we pop back there for a drink, without Mrs O’Connolly watching? We can catch up on some of the fun we missed out on, forty years ago.’

  It took him what felt like forever to respond. ‘Jesus Christ, I missed out altogether all these years, didn’t I just?’

  Less than five minutes later, they sneaked in through his back door, giggling like a pair of errant teenagers. Thirty minutes later, they were in his bed.

  At four in the morning as he lay next to her, gently snoring, she thought to herself, so this was it. It was here.

  She gazed out of the window and listened to the rain gently fall, as it so often did. The window was open wide. She grinned to herself and thought, Holy Mother, I hope next door didn’t hear me. But instead of feeling washed in shame, she felt exhilarated and half hoped that the neighbours, the miserable, God-fearing, mass-four-times-a-day O’Byrnes, had heard her after all.

  She looked at the outline of his body, older and heavier but still fit and healthy, and thought to herself, I want a life of no surprises. I’m not going back to America. From now on, I’m going to squeeze two days into each one, to make up for lost time.

  He opened his eyes and saw her leaning over him.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘It was real, then. I thought maybe I had been dreaming.’

  She smiled. Be bold.

  ‘How about I don’t go back to America, but stay here in the village? Would ye like that? Would ye like more nights like this?’

  He reached up and pulled her down to him. ‘No, I’m not dreaming, that’s for sure I’m in fecking heaven.’

  She laughed, as she hadn’t done in a very long time. She felt like a girl. It was as though her wrinkles and her age were nothing to him. As she spoke she stroked the base of his neck and traced around the outline of his lips.

  ‘It’ll be a shock for them all, but, God, who helped me when I had my kids? No one. ’Tis time they learnt to manage without me. God knows, for sure, I’ll be dead in ten years or so. I haven’t much time left.’

  And they made love again. Not as they would have done as teenagers, but gently and slowly, with a passion so intense that she knew she could never handle the sadness of knowing when it was to be the last time.

  23

  HARRIET KNELT AT the foot of the headstone with a bunch of floppy-headed, deep-burgundy roses, which she had cut from the Priory garden just that morning. Annie O’Prey had wrapped wet newspaper round the base of the stems to keep them fresh but now that Harriet was at the graveside, she felt silly. Despite that, she was glad of the five minutes to sit down. The following day was the Rose Queen competition and parade, the first of what Harriet hoped would become a regular grand day of festivities, for everyone who lived on the four streets.

  ‘Do you know, Anthony, no one who lives here has ever had a holiday. The Rose Queen fête is something for everyone to look forward to and to plan for. And it is great fun for the kids.’

  ‘You are right, Harriet, and you always are.’ Anthony had smiled. ‘Just don’t overwhelm yourself. It is a massive undertaking, if you don’t have enough help.’

  Even Harriet had been amazed at how many women had stepped forward to volunteer their services. Lots had their own ideas and Harriet had relished every minute of taking on the role of event co-ordinator.

  This was the last quiet moment she would have until it was all over, so it seemed as good a time as any to pay her visit to Bernadette.

  Annie had told her, ‘There’s an old pickling jar on Bernadette’s grave. Brigid put it there. She was always leaving flowers. She thought none of us knew it was her but we knew, all right. I don’t think it has cracked. You can put some water in from the fountain.’

  ‘Do Jerry and Nellie visit the grave, Annie?’

  ‘Oh Jesus, now, Jerry is there all the time. He always was, even when he was married to Alice. I shouldn’t think she knew but, God only knows, I cannot even tell you the number of times I have seen that man standing there.’

  ‘He must have loved her very much,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Loved her? Well now, listen while I tell ye. If I lived to be a hundred, never in all my life will I have known two people who loved each other as much as they did. It was as if the sky had fallen down, the day she died. Oh God, now you’ve set me off.’

  And here Harriet was, at the grave of a woman people still spoke of as if she had died just yesterday and who appeared to have been one of the nicest women ever to have lived.

  ‘These are for you, Bernadette,’ Harriet whispered, as she placed the roses in the jar and looked carefully around to see if anyone was listening.

  Kneeling back on her heels, she sat still for a mom
ent and gradually became aware of the noise around her. Traffic passed by on the road, the cranes were lifting their loads down on the docks, tugs were tooting angry horns, and yet she felt as though she were in an oasis of peace and tranquillity.

  Tentatively, she began. ‘I just wanted you to know that I think the world of Nellie and I know she is hurting. Nana Kathleen is just the greatest woman, Bernadette, and everyone does their best, but I think you know that Nellie and I have a special bond. We are a similar age, you and I, Bernadette, and I think Nellie knows that. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I will do my utmost for your little girl. My eye will always be on your Nellie and my heart will always be full of care for her.’

  Harriet felt guilty for what she was about to say, but she knew, in her heart, that there was another reason she had visited the grave.

  ‘Bernadette, Nana Kathleen and the women, they say you are like a guardian angel to everyone on the four streets. I think that’s true, because I felt it. I know you and Jerry were very much in love too. I would so love to have someone special of my own. I always have. Just someone I can love and who would love me back. My mammy told me to find myself a nice Irish boy, but I don’t care about things like that. I would just love someone kind. Bernadette, I think I have found someone I would like to get closer to, if you can be my guardian angel too.’

  As Harriet spoke, it was as though a feeling of utter serenity and optimism swept over her. Without understanding why, she knew, without any doubt whatsoever, that the wish she had made to Bernadette would come true.

  He will be mine and I will be happy, she thought.

  Over at number forty-two, Maura Doherty felt that if she never saw another scone or jam tart again, it would not be too soon.

  ‘Where did the flour and sugar come from, Tommy?’ she asked as her husband brought a sack of each into the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t ask, queen,’ Tommy replied. ‘But if the captain of the Cotopaxi comes knocking on the door, you’ve never heard of me.’

  ‘Thank the Lord for the Cotopaxi and all who sail in her,’ said Maura. ‘What in God’s name would we have done without her all these years? I bet Harriet doesn’t know where they have come from, does she?’

  ‘Good God, no, are ye mad? That woman has me run ragged. I have to go now, to set out the road with marking chalk for the kids’ races tomorrow, and then I have to help Jerry carry the weight for the strongest-man machine she has borrowed from God knows where.’

  ‘Oh, stop complaining,’ Maura laughed. ‘The kids are beside themselves with excitement. The girls are trying on their retinue dresses upstairs and then they will be both off down to Mrs Green, who made the headdresses. I have enough to do, getting the cake stall ready without your moaning mouth. Nana Kathleen and Nellie are making coffee cake with Camp coffee and coconut golf balls, but they have run out of Camp, so Harry has run a message to buy another bottle. Deirdre is making giggle cake and fudge squares, and I am making the bannock cake.’

  ‘Can I have one of those?’ said Tommy, putting his arms round her. ‘Ye are doing grand, queen, but don’t let all the extra work or this Rose Queen fair get to you, d’ye hear me?’

  Maura lifted her head. ‘Tommy, I am loving all this activity, so I am. It’s grand for the kids, to have something to be excited about. I just can’t help thinking that our Kitty would have been in the Rose Queen competition and might well have won it. Can ye imagine the picture she would have made in that frock? Beside herself she would have been. Oh, and how big that head of hers would have quietly swollen. She never needed to brag, our Kitty, Angela would have given out forever more and without meaning to, done it all for her. There would have been no telling her now, no, there wouldn’t. She would never have shut up and our Kitty, not a word would she have said back. But God, I’d put up with all that, if we could just have her back. She would have been the Rose Queen, Tommy. She was so beautiful.’

  Tommy hugged Maura closer into him. He didn’t want her to see the tears that sprang to his eyes as he imagined Kitty in the white Rose Queen dress. He didn’t want to tell Maura that, on the day Alison Devlin got married, it was all he could do to hide the pain in his heart as he realized he would never walk his Kitty down the aisle, nor see her in her wedding gown.

  He had never revealed to Maura that, when he closed his eyes, he could still see Kitty’s face. It was the last time he ever saw her. She was looking out of the window of the wooden hut on the Pier Head, on the night when he had taken her to meet Nana Kathleen and Nellie. The night she left for Ireland and exile.

  Maura felt his tears soaking through her hair and she held him tight, as they both stood there, in the same place, on that well-trodden, rocky road together.

  Annie O’Prey was also baking, in her own kitchen. She had inherited Molly’s handwritten cookbook and was in the middle of one of Molly’s most famous recipes. Examining Molly’s precise writing, she rested for a moment and took her rosary out of her cardigan pocket.

  ‘Ah, Molly, I wish I knew what happened to you and why I didn’t hear a thing that night. I have yer cat and I’m looking after him for yer. He’s a good cat. Brings me a mouse every morning. Never a langer now, he saved that for ye, Molly, and I know in my heart that was why ye was killed. It was summat to do with the priest’s murder, wasn’t it, Molly?’

  Annie peered out of the window to see the flatbed coal lorry easing its way down the entry, piled high with chairs and beds. She wiped her hands on her apron and, Molly and cakes forgotten, ran out of the back gate.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked the coalman.

  ‘New family moving in next door, into Molly’s old house, Annie, to keep ye company.’

  ‘Well, what a day to be moving. ’Tis the fair tomorrow – do they know?’

  ‘I have no idea. Why don’t ye tell them yourself? They will be along in a minute.

  ‘Have ye heard the news? They have arrested the policeman for the murder of the priest and Molly. ’Twas the policeman himself that did it.’

  ‘God, no, I didn’t. How did ye know that?’

  ‘The paper boy is shouting it outside Lime Street station. They found a mallet with his fingerprints and Molly’s blood on it.’

  ‘Does anyone else know yet? God, does anyone else on the four streets know?’ Annie almost screamed the question.

  ‘I shouldn’t imagine so, not until the Echo is delivered here and that’s not until six o’clock.’

  He had barely finished speaking before Annie was away and over the road to be the first to break the biggest news to hit the street in months. The first kitchen she ran into was Tommy and Maura’s.

  ‘All right, you young lovers, break it up. Come here while I tell ye. Ye will never have a notion of what I’m about to say.’

  The baby woke and began to scream at the sound of Annie’s voice.

  Maura shouted, ‘Oh God, no, not again.’

  The commotion brought the girls thundering down the stairs, as fast as they could, in their long dresses.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Angela. ‘What is all the noise about?’

  ‘I’m sure I have no idea,’ Maura replied, picking the baby up. ‘She’s teething real bad,’ she said to Annie, by way of an apology for having snapped.

  Annie grinned at the girls. She was going to relish every minute of this.

  ‘Would ye like some tea, Annie?’ Even Tommy was intrigued by the high colour on Annie’s cheeks and the twinkle in her eye. He wanted to stay and hear the latest news.

  ‘Aye, I will, thanks, but, Maura, I reckon ye need to knock on because I have big news, so I do.’

  Just as Annie finished speaking, Angela ran to the corner of the kitchen, picked up the mop and said, ‘I’ll do it, I have to learn soon enough.’

  Tommy smiled at Angela as he put the kettle on the range. Suddenly the back door burst open and in ran Little Paddy, with Scamp hot on his heels. Little Paddy yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Maura, Maura, the policeman is going to hang for
murdering Molly and the priest, so he is.’

  Behind him, Peggy puffed and panted up the path, shouting, ‘Paddy, ye fecking little bastard, get out, ’tis my news.’

  ‘No, it isn’t!’ yelled Little Paddy. ‘I was the one who told you. The paper boy is shouting it on the Dock Road.’

  Ducking the slap from his mother, which was meant for his head, he and Scamp legged it up Maura’s stairs to find the boys.

  The kitchen fell silent. Even the baby stopped grizzling. Maura wasn’t even sure whether she had spoken the words, or whether someone else had, when she said, ‘How do they know?’

  ‘Because,’ said Annie forcefully, peeved at Little Paddy’s interruption and determined to deliver the last shred of the news, ‘they found a mallet in the graveyard with the policeman’s fingerprints on it and Molly’s blood all over. He must have carried it from the outhouse and dropped it when he ran.’

  ‘Will he hang?’ said Maura, her face ashen.

  ‘Aye, he will, but he can only be hanged once for one murder. They can’t hang you twice, can they?’

  Maura spoke quickly. ‘How do they know ’twas him who murdered the priest as well, then, Annie?’

  Annie was not happy. She had been expecting stardom, at the very least, not an inquisition.

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘I do.’ Tommy spoke. ‘They think there can’t be two murders so close together by two different people so it must be the same man who committed both.’

  ‘Aye, that makes sense,’ said Maura slowly, as she wondered why in God’s name Molly would have been killed.

  ‘I’m popping down to the shops, to buy the Echo.’

  With that, Tommy slipped out of the front door, unnoticed by the women who began to arrive through the back gate as a result of Angela banging on the kitchen wall with the mop like a madwoman.

  Running down the street, he met Jerry.