She opened her eyes and the noise of the room rushed back in again, Dolores asking had she seem him yet, Hugh asking would she like a drink from the bar, Niamh declaring everything to be gorgeous, and elegant and wonderful. She felt a touch on her elbow which jerked her back to reality fully and she turned to see Annabel looking at her, asking if she was okay. It seemed too much. So many emotions ran through her. He was there and she didn’t know whether to run to him or run away and keep running.
She closed her eyes and thought of Bob, willing her to be happy. She thought of Annabel, assuring her that she was with her. She thought of how she had missed him – how she had always felt connected to him.
“He’s there,” she said, her voice catching in her throat.
How do you do this? How do you swipe away all those years of love and longing, of missing and moving on, of wanting to say sorry, of wanting to explain? How do you tell someone you travelled to the other side of the world to find them? That you had never stopped thinking about them?
“Where?” Annabel asked just as Stella felt her nerve fail.
She turned and walked out through the lobby, through the covered porch and into the gardens where she tried to find the courage that had deserted her.
Her heart was thumping so fast she wasn’t sure it wouldn’t just stop – just give up with the exertion of it all. She was a foolish woman – a silly foolish woman, there in her fancy dress, with her brooch and her hair pinned up like she wasn’t a widow still grieving the loss of her husband.
Stella could hear the chatter from the hotel drift across on the evening breeze. She tried to focus on it – and not to let the sound of her heart, thumping against the inside of her chest drown out the other noises.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath then exhaled before repeating the process, steadying herself and forcing her breathing to settle. As she breathed in she caught the familiar smells of her home town on the air. The cut grass. The cool dampness, despite the summer months. She wrapped her arms around her, aware of how her waist had thickened over the years despite her best attempts to keep her eating healthy.
She tried not think of how much older she was since the last night she had danced with the Yanks in a fancy hotel – how much of life had slipped past in the years. She tried not to think of the man she had just seen inside. The man she had recognised instantly – who she would know anywhere.
For a second she longed to be twenty again. To have her daddy telling her he loved her – her mammy to reassure her that she wasn’t being foolish just to be here.
Would she have done it differently? It was a question she had asked herself over and over again.
Once she met Bob of course, it had been different. She’d had fewer regrets. She was happy. But a part of the jigsaw was missing. A part of her was missing. It had been from the moment she had kissed Ray goodbye and left their flat not knowing that she would never see him again.
Images floated past her. People she knew, people she loved. The places she had lived and the people who had formed her life. Her breath caught in her throat when she heard a familiar voice speak.
“Stella? Stella Hegarty?”
She turned, brushing a tear hastily from her cheek, to find a woman standing opposite her – a woman old like herself but who she would always recognise.
“Molly Davidson!” she exclaimed as her old friend crossed the courtyard and embraced her in a hug.
“Well, I never thought I’d see the day!” Molly said.
“I don’t think I did either,” Stella said as she pulled back and looked at her friend, taking her hands in hers and holding them. “I don’t know how we ever lost touch.”
“Things happen,” Molly said, shrugging her shoulders. “I just can’t believe I’m seeing you after all these years. Tell me you were happy, my friend?”
“I was. I was and I am,” Stella stuttered. “I had a good husband. We have had a good life. And I’m here now and . . .”
She stood, Ray’s name catching in her throat. She could not mention him. Even though he was so close that if she wanted she could speak to him within seconds. “And you?” she asked, diverting her thoughts from her very reason for being here.
“It all worked out in the end,” Molly said. “I married a lovely local man. I have six children, would you believe? And ten grandchildren now. I’ve been blessed.”
Stella smiled, pleased beyond measure that the friend who had returned from America broken had been pieced back together and had found love.
“Were we young and foolish?” she asked.
Molly shook her head. “We were young, yes. But we weren’t foolish. We just thought we knew it all. They were different times. It’s hard to think how much has changed – how much our wee town has come on. We just, we just went with our hearts. For better or worse. But we did okay? Didn’t we?”
Stella nodded. “We did. But, oh Molly . . . he’s here,” she muttered. “My Ray, he’s here.”
Molly nodded. “I know,” she said. “I spoke with him. He seems fine. Happy.”
A sob left Stella’s mouth – relief that he was happy, that he had been okay. After all that had happened.
“Talk to him,” Molly said. “I’m sure he’d be happy to see you.”
“He would,” she heard her daughter’s voice say behind her. “I have someone here who does want to see you.”
Stella turned to find Ray facing her.
Time froze. Stella hadn’t really understood how that could happen before, but in that instant it made sense. Time could freeze. The world and everything around you could drift away to insignificance. For that moment she was lost in his eyes – in the gaze that had once looked at her with such love.
“I knew she was your daughter,” he said, his voice shaking. “As soon as I saw her, it was like being back in time. I knew she had to belong to you. I just asked her and she said yes and she called me Ray. Can you imagine that – she knew my name? So I knew, Stella, I knew you were here and I knew you still remembered me . . .”
His voice trailed off as Stella stood shaking. She wasn’t sure if she would be able to stay standing. Her legs went weak below her, and her head started to spin. This moment – the moment she wanted so much all those years ago – was here. She was with him again, breathing the same air. She felt her hands fly to her chest, as if to quiet the beating of her heart. She saw his eyes fall to the brooch on her dress and instinctively she moved her hand to it. Would he think her silly for holding on to it? When she had told him so coldly how she had never loved him, when the truth was she had loved him with all her heart?
“I had to c-come,” she stuttered.
“I know what you mean. I had to be here too.”
“I never meant to hurt you,” Stella said, longing to take the few steps to where he was – to touch him, to hold him. Yes, he was older but he was still her Ray.
He shook his head. She watched his eyes cloud. She saw that he was filled with emotion too and that had to mean he felt something. Did that make her feel better or worse for hurting him? She didn’t know. So many emotions were swirling through her at that moment that she couldn’t think straight.
“I’m sorry, Ray,” she blurted, aware of Annabel and Molly stepping away from the scene unfolding in front of them. “I tried to write again. I tried to explain. I wrote so many times! To tell you I did love you!” She heard a sob, echoing her own, from her beloved Ray. “I just couldn’t leave. My daddy . . . my daddy died and they needed me and I didn’t want to hurt you more.”
“I would have come back,” he said, his voice cracking.
“And I couldn’t ask you to do that. To come back here where we had nothing? And you, with all the prospects in the world laid out in front of you?”
She watched him shake his head and she reached out to hold his hand, to feel his skin on hers again. The warmth of that touch that she had missed so much.
He held her hand tightly and shook his head. “I never got any letters
. None. I only ever received one letter. That letter. The one where you told me you had been using me.”
She released her hand and fished in her bag, pulling a letter out and handing it to him, their hands brushing.
He looked at the scrawly handwriting and let out a small gasp. “My mother,” he muttered.
The tragedy of what had happened hit her like a body blow. “I assumed the handwriting was your wife’s – your mother told me you were married,” she said. “I came to find you. To America. I came and you were married and I had to let you be happy. I came to your house, I spoke to your mother . . .” The sight of this marine, this man who she had loved, crying before her was breaking her heart.
He shook his head. “She never said. She never told me.”
“I’m sure she was protecting you. I’m a mother, Ray. I would do the same for my child. She thought I had used you.”
“It could have been different,” he whispered. “Oh Stella, it could have been so different! We could have been so different.”
At this, she couldn’t resist any longer and she rushed to his arms, feeling a peace settle in her very bones as he hugged her back.
Crying, she whispered into his ear, “I’m so, so sorry I broke your heart, Ray. I loved you with every fibre of mine.”
She felt him kiss the top of her head, felt him hold her close. She allowed herself to sink into his embrace, to feel the warmth of his arms around her.
“Oh my Stella,” he whispered. “I always knew. I always knew you loved me. And I always knew, someday, some way, you would find me again.”
“When Life says give up,” she whispered her mother’s wise words, “Hope whispers, ‘Try one more time’.”
The End.
Acknowledgements
I have worked as a journalist for the last fifteen years and the great thing about the job is that you never know where it will take you. Every day has been a school day as I have learned new stories and been invited into people’s lives.
Two summers ago I was tasked to cover the story of a Derry woman returning to the town she loved so well after almost fifty years, with the man she had fallen in love with in the late 50s.
Avril and Bob, who later married, inspired me with their personal happy ending. While this story is not theirs, with their permission and help it certainly borrows from their shared experience. I could not have written it without them both sharing their belief that love never gives up hope or that you can find happiness at any age. I also could not have written it without Avril sharing so beautifully and openly many of the details of her youth in Derry in the 1950s – from the beautiful dresses, the factory experiences, the make-up, hair and the stolen kisses.
Any historical errors are my own. And some dates have been played with to suit the chronology of the story of Stella, Ray, and her family.
Thanks must go to all the GI brides who offered their help or shared their experiences, and to family and friends who filled in details of life in Derry in the 50s and 60s.
This book was also hugely inspired by the people of Derry and their spirit and hardworking ethos. It was inspired by my grandparents who worked hard to raise their families in difficult circumstances.
The cameo character of "Anne" is based on Derry woman Anne O'Kane, whose daughter Denise paid for her cameo role in support of local charity Circle of Support (COS) who offer support to families of children with Autism. COS carry out amazing work in the Derry area and I have been happy to support them in whatever way I can. I hope Anne enjoys her 15 minutes of fame.
In addition I need to thank all those who encouraged me throughout the writing process. As always thanks to my husband and children for allowing me to disappear into a different world for hours at a time – and to my mammy and daddy for supplying a kitchen table with no distractions for the crucial final push and for believing in my ability to do it.
Thanks to my brother and sisters, and to my nieces and nephew for providing cuddles and support when I have needed them. And to Blue the dog for keeping me company during the mammoth writing sessions at that kitchen table.
This book was written with the unending support of my friends – who read, or encouraged, or planned launches, or listened to me tell the story over and over again. In particular Julie-Anne, Marie-Louise, Carla, Joanne, Edel, Auntie Raine, Nuala, Fionnuala Kearney, (Auntie) Kaela and the “rascals” for getting excited on my behalf.
Thank you to the media and the booksellers who have shown their support over the years and to my writing friends and Twitter followers who have been there for me over the last year.
To my colleagues at the Derry Journal – thanks once more for your support – and to my editor Martin McGinley who sent me out on that fateful day to meet Avril and Bob.
My agent Ger Nichol has once again been my biggest cheerleader while I have been writing this book and I cannot thank her enough for her faith in a story which marked a change in direction for me. This was a book I had to write and she encouraged that every step of the way.
And to the team at Poolbeg Press, including Gaye Shortland who once again has been a pleasure to work with. Every book has been better because of Gaye’s input.
Special thanks to Paula Campbell – who has stood firmly behind this book and this story and who has championed me over the last seven years. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
And to you, lovely readers, you make this happen. Thank you. xxx
Now that you’re hooked why not try
What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?
also published by Poolbeg
Here’s a sneak preview of chapter one.
Chapter 1
Kitty
The bomb dropped at 4.17p.m. on a Thursday. It had been a fairly ordinary kind of day before then – maybe even a good kind of a day. The shop had been busy and I had made two mammies and two bridesmaids cry with joy. Two brides-to-be had left feeling like the most beautiful girls in the world.
I had been planning on making celebratory lasagne to mark the general loveliness of the day and had developed a craving for a very nice bottle of Merlot thatI knew they sold at the off-licence two doors down from Mark’s office. I had tried to call him to ask him to pop in and get it but, rather unusually for a man whose Blackberry even went to the toilet with him, he hadn’t answered.
So I did something I never, ever do because I didn’t ever want to seem like one of thoseneedy wife types who calls her husband at work. He didn’t have a direct line, you see, and I would have to go through the gatekeeper, aka the harridan of a receptionist, who worked at his building. I chewed on one of my false nails, balking at the slightly plastic taste while I contemplated just picking up a bottle of wine from the supermarket. But no, even though it was only a Thursday, I decided we should treat ourselves. A bottle of wine. A nice feed of lasagne. Maybe an early night? I smiled as I dialled his office number and asked for him.
It was then, in the second between me asking “Hi, can I speak to Mark Shanahan, please?” and the receptionist answering, that something shifted forever in my world.
That’s all it took – the time it took her to breathe in and start to speak – for things to shatter. I kind of wish I’d known. I can’t help, when I look back at it now, but feel like a bit of a stupid bitch for smiling so brightly as I spoke to her. If I had known, my voice would have been more sombre, doom-laden . . . I might even have sobbed.
“Mr Shanahan doesn’t work here anymore,” she cheeped. “Can anyone else help you?”
It was the strangest thing. I heard what she said and it did register – and a weird floating feeling came over me – but I felt kind of calm and maybe even a bit giddy.
“No, no, it’s fine,” I said.
“Okay then. Can I ask who’s calling?” she cheeped back.
I suppose a part of me wanted to just hang up, but another part of me was thinking of the lasagne which probably wasn’t going to get eaten and the bottle of wine that I had really been looking forward to an
d I knew things had changed – and changed utterly.
“Kitty Shanahan,” I replied. “His wife.”
There was a pause, and I could hear her sharp intake of breath. I could almost hear her brain ticking over and as she spoke, softly and slowly, all hints of the cheerful but very guarded gate-keeperness gone, I almost felt sorry for her. She must have felt in an utterly awful position, to be honest.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Mr Shanahan left last week. I’m sorry.”
I thought of Mark, doe-eyed and smiling as he fixed his tie that morning and turned to kiss me as I left to open the shop.He had looked at his watch and declared he was running late and wouldn’t be long leaving after me and had rushed downstairs and into the kitchen. He had shouted to me if I knew where his keys were and I had replied that, yes, they were on the worktop.
It had been ordinary, absolutely ordinary, and now it really wasn’t. I put the phone down, resting the old-fashioned cream Bakelite receiver on the hook and I sighed.
Her sense for scandal piqued, my stepmother Rose peeked at me over the rim of her glasses and raised one eyebrow. “Everything okay?”
“Hmmm,” I replied, not quite sure what was going on. I didn’t want to say my husband had been going out to a fictitious job for the last week and I had known nothing about it, so I sat back on the cream-covered stool behind my desk and looked at my hands.
The First Time I Said Goodbye Page 30