‘SHE’D BEEN HELPING herself the whole time. Malachy and I were taken for gullible fools, Father.’ Noreen wrung her hands as she finished her tale, her throat feeling heavy with the effort to keep the tears at bay. Even now, so many years later, the abuse of trust wounded her to her core.
‘No, Noreen.’ Father Peter shook his head. ‘Big hearted and trusting was what you and Malachy were.’
Noreen looked at Father Peter’s kindly face, drawing strength from it. ‘You know it wasn’t the stealing that hurt the most. It wasn’t even the awful words Emer hurled at us before she left.’ She shivered recalling how, when confronted, Emer had at first denied any wrongdoing. It was only when Noreen waved the statement and the book, the indisputable proof of glaring and unexplainable discrepancies, she’d begun to apologise. She’d wanted a few nice things, to treat herself, was that so bad? She was sorry, she’d pleaded. Malachy had stood by Noreen’s side, his expression set in stone, and when Emer saw her apology wasn’t going to be accepted with the understanding she felt was her due, she’d lashed out.
Noreen had flinched as though physically slapped when Emer threw at them she’d only taken what was her due, what she was worth, and then a nastiness had seeped in. ‘You suffocated me with your neediness, did you know that?’ Her eyes were as mean as her words. Malachy had spoken then, his voice hard as steel as he told her to leave the shop and not to come back. There was a look of disbelief on Emer’s face and her gaze swung to Noreen, who even then wanted to take her niece in her arms and tell her all was forgiven. She stood firm by Malachy’s side though, as was her duty, and Emer slammed out of the shop leaving her and Malachy to stand in hollow silence. Noreen would never forget the look on her husband’s face when he at last turned to her and said, ‘Well, that’s that.’ He never spoke of Emer again.
‘What cut the deepest, Father,’ Noreen said, blinking away the images from the past, ‘was the way the light went out in Malachy’s eyes that day.’
Chapter 22
Noreen couldn’t believe a week had passed since she’d been at Alma’s Tea Shop. Her days didn’t normally race by, they were more inclined to meander past like a lazy stream but she’d been lost in her memories and hours had disappeared at a time. Yes indeed, time had gotten away from her as she’d lingered in the past because here she was, back at the tea shop once more. She greeted Kathleen, Margaret and Agnes, who were already there knitting like the clappers. On a plate in front of each of them was a currant bun sliced in two with a miserly spread of butter, with a pot of tea in the centre of the table. Alma was clattering away behind the counter arranging the food cabinet for what she no doubt hoped would be the lunchtime rush. Noreen pulled a chair out and sat herself down next to Margaret.
‘Currant bun, Noreen?’ Alma called over.
‘No, thank you, but a cup and saucer would be grand.’ She was cutting back on extras such as currant buns between now and her trip to Dublin. It wasn’t exactly a hardship when it came to Alma’s offerings. The slice of cream cake visiting Father Peter the other day was eaten out of necessity to be polite but there was no risk of offending her three old friends if she didn’t partake of a currant bun. Right now though, there was an acrid odour in the air hinting at a disaster in the kitchen. ‘What’s that awful stink, Alma?’ Her nose wrinkled.
‘I was after burning the scones on account of a phone call from my daughter. I forgot all about them. The smell’s murder to get rid of and it’s too cold to have the place airing out.’ She waved the cloth she held in her hand. ‘You don’t notice it after a while.’
‘That’s true enough,’ Kathleen said, looking up from her knitting. ‘Although if my coat reeks of burnt scones, it’s you I’ll be sending the dry cleaning bill to.’
‘Ah sure, hang it in on the washing line for half an hour when you get home. Give it a good airing and it’ll be good as new. There’s not enough money in a pot of tea and a currant bun for the likes of the drycleaners.’
Kathleen’s mouth twitched, she did so enjoy getting a rise out of Alma.
‘Stop baiting her, Kathleen, would you?’ Agnes paused in her lightning-fast stitches.
She could knit with her eyes closed, Noreen thought, eyeing her needles, from beneath which the beginnings of a mustard sweater were emerging.
‘You know what she’s like. She’ll refuse to top the pot up unless we pay for another brew. How’re you, Noreen?’ Agnes asked, turning her wily blue eyes on her friend.
Noreen would have liked to say she was grand, but she wasn’t, and she’d known these three women too long to bother pretending. She felt as though she had the weight of the world on her shoulders despite her visit to Father Peter, though she’d come away clearer in her mind as to what the right thing to do as a good Catholic woman was where Emer was concerned. This was all well and good, but to take the first step towards forgiveness at the wedding was not going to be an easy thing to do. Would the proverbial olive branch withstand the amount of water that had gone under their bridge? ‘I’m right enough, thank you, Aggie.’ That about summed it up she thought, opening her knitting bag and setting her things down on the table. She’d a new project to be starting and she was eager to cast the cheerful red wool on. Perhaps the bright colour would lift her mood.
‘Did you find an outfit for your grand niece’s wedding?’ Margaret asked.
Margaret had seen her waiting at the bus stop the day she’d tripped into town to go shopping. ‘I did. I went to Debenhams and decided on a green dress with three quarter sleeves, given it’s winter, and a matching jacket. It’s very smart.’
‘And you’ve the shoes, bag and hat too, I hope?’ Agnes chirped, looking at her currant bun. ‘Dust dry, so it is.’ She shook her head.
‘I have, indeed.’
‘You’ll have to give us a fashion show, Noreen,’ Kathleen said.
Noreen nodded, having no intention of doing anything of the sort as she deftly looped the wool over her needles.
‘And what of a present?’ Margaret inquired, pausing in her clacking to sip at her tea.
‘I did well there. I chose a Waterford Crystal vase, one of their lace patterns. It’s lovely so it is.’
There was a low hum of ‘ooh, lucky girl’ along with ‘that would have set you back a pretty penny.’. It was interrupted by Alma placing a cup and saucer down in front of Noreen with more of a clatter than was necessary.
‘I see, so let me get this straight. There’s money for Waterford Crystal vases and the like but not a penny spare for a currant bun,’ Alma muttered.
‘Oh, go on with you if it means you’ll leave me in peace to enjoy my tea, I’ll have one of your buns. No butter mind, Alma, and if I can’t do the zip up on my dress on the day it’ll be you who’s to blame.’
Alma scuttled off to fetch the bun, thoroughly pleased with herself.
As it happened the vase had been generously discounted but nobody needed to know that. ‘Sure, it’s nice to receive something special when you embark on married life.’
She didn’t recall Waterford Crystal or the like being received on her wedding day. From memory there’d been practical things for the kitchen. People didn’t give extravagant gifts back then, there wasn’t the money for it for one thing, and for another, people didn’t expect so much.
‘That was a sigh from the bottom of your boots.’ Kathleen’s keen eyes glanced over Noreen. ‘What’s up with you?’
Noreen pressed her lips together tightly for a second or two as her friend waited for her to speak. ‘Ah, it’s this business of Emer being at the wedding. Did I tell you Rosamunde’s after ringing and telling me it’s time to let bygones be bygones and a wedding is a time full of hope for the future. What was I supposed to say to that?’
The three women clucked in sympathy but it was Agnes who spoke. ‘Not much you could say, Noreen, not without coming across as a bitter old woman. She put you on the spot there, alright.’
‘Exactly, Aggie,’ Noreen said, recalling how Rosamun
de had gone on to say, in what she had thought a condescending manner given she was the younger sister, ‘What better opportunity to put things right between the pair of you?’ What Noreen didn’t understand was why it had to be her who had to make the first move. It was Emer who was in the wrong and she’d vocalised this to her sister but Rosamunde had only tutted and said that was the problem where she and Emer were concerned. They were peas in a pod. Far too stubborn for their own good and someone had to reach out first. So, why shouldn’t it be Noreen?
She’d left Father Peter’s the other day having heard the same sentiment from him. She’d also realised, as she’d sat relaying the story of what had happened all those years ago, how much she missed Emer. Her leaving Claredoncally had left a gaping hole in her life and the plain truth of the matter was, Noreen was lonely. She’d come here to Alma’s once a week and meet her friends, listening to them bat back and forth about their children and grandchildren. She liked to keep up with all the goings on in their lives but later, when she went home to her quiet, little house, she’d feel an emptiness. The sound of children’s laugher would never bounce off this house’s walls. She’d always thought she would take on the role of another grandmother to Emer’s children just as she’d played the role of a second mother to her growing up. She’d missed out on knowing Emer’s family. The children would all be grown and have no interest in spending time with their widowed great aunt.
‘I think Rosamunde has a point,’ Kathleen said, having clearly mulled over what Noreen had told them. Spying the expression on Noreen’s face, she held up her hand. ‘No, don’t give me that gin-soaked-prune look of yours. Hear me out.’
Noreen’s lips tightened once more and she knitted a frantic red row with her head tilted to one side. It was enough to show Kathleen she was listening.
‘I’ve known you long enough to know it’s a heavy burden you carry where Emer is concerned. What she did was wrong but Malachy dug his heels in when he could have asked her why she’d done it.’
Noreen made to protest he had asked and hadn’t liked her answer but she closed her mouth knowing what Kathleen meant was, what lay at the root of what she’d done.
‘You couldn’t cross his decision but I think if you’d had a say in it all back then, you’d have patched things up with her. Malachy isn’t here anymore, Noreen, and knowing him as I did, I’m telling you as one of your oldest friends he wouldn’t want you to be alone. There are friends and there are family in this world of ours. We get to choose our friends but not our family and when it all boils down to the nitty-gritty, if we don’t have family what do we have?’
‘Hear, hear,’ Alma said, placing the currant bun in front of Noreen. Noreen didn’t have the energy to tell her not to be listening in on a private conversation, besides she knew she’d be wasting her breath. Alma was an eavesdropper of the highest order. The door jangled announcing a customer, and with a groan about her knees not being able for all this standing she waddled off back behind the counter.
‘But how?’ Noreen muttered to the trio, none of whom were knitting.
‘How what?’ Agnes asked.
‘What do I say to her?’ This was the part that was all a puzzle. Should she walk up to her niece at the reception with her hand held out and say, It’s time we buried the hatchet. Or should she act as though nothing had happened and chat away to her as if she had no cares in the world.
‘Tell her the truth. Tell her you want to put the past behind you,’ Kathleen, who was full of wise advice this morning, said.
‘She’s right,’ Agnes agreed, dabbing the crumbs up off her plate with her index finger. Despite her protestations there was nothing left of the bun. ‘It’s simple.’ She popped her finger in her mouth.
Was it simple after all? Noreen pondered. Perhaps, she thought, a spark of hope for the future igniting, it wasn’t too late to start over again after all.
Chapter 23
Aisling and Quinn shuffled about the floor trying to mimic the actions of Maria and Antonio Lozano who were gyrating toward one another in a manner that suggested they should get a room. The beat of the fast-paced salsa music Aisling had picked for their wedding dance was filling the studio above the shops on Dame Street. ‘Do you not think it’s a little over the top?’ Quinn whispered to Aisling who had to resist the urge not to stomp on his foot.
‘No, I don’t. I think it’s very romantic.’
‘But we’re Irish not South American.’
‘Oh, so would you rather me wear a red ringlet wig and a short green dress and jig my way across the floor toward you?’
‘Not at all, but we could do a swaying, slow dance sort of a thing, couldn’t we?’ Hope sparked in his eyes but it was doused as Aisling jeered back at him, ‘Everybody has that. I don’t want our wedding to be like everyone else’s.’
Quinn gave up and tried to concentrate on emulating their instructors. He’d mastered a few steps at the lessons he and Aisling had done before they’d become a couple but he was by no means a natural.
Aisling eyed Maria and Antonio thinking Quinn had a point as the couple oozed sensuality and rhythm, unlike them. They were like two wooden puppets, Punch and Judy she thought huffily, with hip swivel problems. She flung her arms up in frustration and stepped back from him. ‘This is hopeless, Maria, Antonio! I can’t seem to find my rhythm.’ She looked down at the swingy skirt and towering heels she’d worn thinking they’d put her in the mood to salsa about, before glaring at Quinn as though it were all his fault. The look on his face told her he’d rather be anywhere but here. She fumed silently, unsure why he kept throwing cold water over all her ideas. First the table settings were over the top and now this. Well tough, she’d asked the husband and wife salsa duo to help choreograph their wedding dance and they’d agreed, although they weren’t doing it out of the goodness of their hearts. They were charging like wounded bulls, not that she’d tell Quinn. Time was money and she couldn’t afford for the magic not to be happening on the dance floor tonight.
Quinn rubbed his temples, he was feeling very second-hand thanks to his uncommon night on the town. His brothers had kept it clean but had been enthusiastically sliding all manner of shooters down the bar top towards him for most of the evening. Quinn had knocked them back with equal enthusiasm. It had been a good craic at the time. He hadn’t been smiling when he’d woken with a banging head on Sunday morning though. Although he’d felt a little better by the time his mam had filled him and his da, who was also suffering loudly, up with a plate of bacon, eggs and beans to soak up the remains of the night before. He’d wiped his plate clean and drunk his milky tea, thanking his mam before taking himself off to ring Aisling, eager to know how her hen night had been.
Aisling was feeling surprisingly chipper given it was the morning after her hen night. She’d put it down to the big glass of water Moira had told her she should get down her when she’d gotten home. She’d filled Quinn in on the Bono masks and the limousine that had ferried them about the city in style. He’d laughed as she told him about Maureen’s karaoke faux pax. His poor mammy-in-law-to-be was, by all accounts, green around the gills today, although like him her delicate state had been helped by a full Irish. Mrs Baicu, the guesthouse’s weekend cook had put a good lining on the O’Mara women’s stomachs after which Maureen had announced, once she’d deposited Roisin at the airport, she was going home where she’d be receiving no calls or visitors for the rest of the day. Aisling, having finished relaying the events of her evening had reminded Quinn about this, their dance lesson, and he’d groaned into the receiver. ‘Can’t we give it a miss tonight, Aisling?’
She’d adopted a high-pitched timbre he was coming to recognise as one meaning she wasn’t to be pushed on the subject. ‘No,’ she’d said, ‘they could not cancel because there would be a cancellation fee. The Lozanos were busy people and, as such, they might not be able to fit them in again on short notice. And,’ the pitch went up several notches, ‘do I need to remind you the wedding is in les
s than two weeks?’ Quinn had decided he was best to go with the flow and hadn’t argued, which was why he was here now learning a routine to perform with Ash in front of all their friends and family. Was he happy about it? No, he was not. He felt like a complete eejit for one thing and knew his brothers would never let him live the moment down. Sure, he could imagine the names they’d be coming up with, ole swivel hips and the like. He knew why she had her heart set on salsa. It was his own fault and the knowledge of this irked him even more. He’d won her over with a salsa dance in this very studio, but it had been for her eyes only. It was no good telling her he felt ridiculous though, her mind was made up. Come February the fourteenth, they’d be performing the Latin American dance in front of an audience of family and friends. He was beginning to dread the fecking wedding.
‘Aisling, Quinn,’ Maria said, in a manner managing to be both sultry and smooth, which always made Aisling think of Galaxy chocolate. ‘You are not feeling the music in here.’ She put her hand on her breast and Aisling elbowed Quinn. ‘Remember, you’re nearly a married man.’
A Wedding at O'Mara's (The Guesthouse on the Green Book 6) Page 14