She snuggled closer. Archie acknowledged her movement by sliding his arm around her and hugging her to him.
Cathy’s gaze ran over the hard curves of his broad torso, shoulders and arms before moving to his taut stomach, with just a narrow trail of hair tracking down from his navel. Her gaze drifted lower for a moment before returning to his face.
Unable to resist, she placed her hand on his chest, enjoying the contrast of her pale fingers against his smooth brown skin.
Turning his head, Archie opened his eyes.
‘You do know I love you, don’t you?’ he said, in a low voice that vibrated through to her fingers. ‘And I want you to marry me.’
Stretching up, she kissed him. ‘And I love you. And I will. In seven weeks and two days.’
‘You’re counting?’
She gave Archie a sad smile. ‘You’d be counting, too, if you’d been married to Stan.’
Anger darkened Archie’s face and he gathered her into his arms and kissed her forehead.
Resting her head on his chest, Cathy listened to the steady beating of his heart for a few moments, then got up on to her elbow. Stretching over him, she pressed her lips briefly on to his. ‘Tell me about Moira?’ she asked.
‘Her family lived in the same tenement as us and we went to the same school,’ he replied.
‘You were childhood sweethearts?’
He gave a rumbling laugh. ‘I wouldn’t say that. All I can recall of our schooldays together was her punching me in the chest one time when I pulled her pigtails. When we left, I started work in the shipyard and she went to one of the carpet factories in Bridgeton, but we would see each other in the pubs and dancehalls and, although her parents weren’t keen, we got married when we were both twenty-one. Kirsty was born two years later. We had four happy years together before she died.’
‘You were very lucky,’ said Cathy, as scenes from her marriage flickered across her mind.
‘Aye, I was.’ Reaching up, Archie ran his index finger lightly along her cheek. ‘And now I’m lucky again.’
In the dim glow of the bedside lamp, Cathy studied his face for a second or two, then, leaning over him again, she pressed her lips on to his.
His mouth opened under hers, setting the low rhythmic pulse below her navel throbbing again.
Cathy raised her head.
They gazed wordlessly at each other for a couple of heartbeats then Cathy got up and sat on her heels.
Although his posture remained relaxed, Archie’s blue eyes darkened.
His gaze roamed slowly over her and then, in one swift movement, he caught her around the waist and rolled her on to her back.
With his weight pressing down on her, Archie smiled briefly then captured her lips in his. Closing her eyes, Cathy gave herself up to the pleasure of his dexterous hands as they started their magic journey over her again.
Chapter Twenty-two
‘SORRY, LUV, BUT we’re out of sugar,’ said Mrs Hawkes, a matronly woman resplendent in her Sunday-best hat, as she handed Cathy her cup of tea.
‘That’s all right, I’ve given it up,’ she replied with a yawn.
It was just after eleven on the first Sunday in March and she was in the small hall behind St Breda and St Brendan’s Church. Cathy, along with most of the congregation, had made her way into the hall after Sunday Mass, which had finished ten minutes before.
Picking up a digestive biscuit, Mrs Hawkes offered it to Peter, who was hanging on to Cathy’s skirts.
‘Here you are, my little sweetheart,’ she said.
‘What do you say?’ Cathy said, as her son took the biscuit.
‘Fank oo,’ he replied.
Mrs Hawkes’s expression shifted from kind-hearted to sentimental. ‘Ah, bless his little cotton socks.’
Cathy yawned again.
‘I know,’ the middle-aged matron continued, ‘I’ve hardly had a wink of sleep meself for the last three nights, what with the bloody Luftwaffe dropping bombs until dawn.’
Cathy smiled. Mrs Hawkes was right, she’d hardly slept for the past few nights, but not because of the Germans.
Taking her tea, Cathy turned.
As her mother, who was rocking Victoria’s pram over by the store cupboard, was in deep conversation with a couple of her friends, and Francesca was admiring someone’s new baby by the noticeboard, Cathy made her way over to Jo, who was sitting at a table in the far corner.
Spotting his aunt, Peter trotted off and by the time Cathy had reached her sister, he was firmly ensconced on Jo’s lap.
‘Hello, you,’ she said, sitting down on the chair next to her.
‘Oh, Cathy,’ said Jo, placing her hand on her arm. ‘Thank goodness. I’ve been working fourteen-hour shifts all week, so I only heard what happened to you and Mum yesterday. Are you all right?’
‘Just about.’ Cathy yawned again. ‘Every now and then it comes back to me and I can feel myself getting panicky again. Especially when I think of Peter.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ her sister replied, giving him a quick kiss on the head.
Twisting on her lap, he offered her his half-eaten biscuit.
Jo pretended to take a bite and Peter stuffed it back in his mouth. ‘Mum says you’re not going to the shelter any more.’
‘I can’t face it, not after what happened,’ Cathy replied. ‘Dad’s going to get me a Morrison shelter this week for the front room and Peter and I will sleep there from now on.’
‘What did old misery guts say about that?’ asked Jo.
‘I haven’t told her yet,’ Cathy replied, suppressing another yawn. ‘But she can say what she likes. I’m paying the rent.’
‘Francesca’s looking well,’ said Jo.
Cathy took a mouthful of tea.
‘Yes,’ she replied, studying her sister-in-law’s massive stomach. ‘I reckon, by the size of her, it could be any day now.’ She looked across at Jo. ‘I’m guessing there’s no news.’
Pain flitted across Jo’s face and she shook her head. ‘I got my hopes up last month when I was a week late but . . .’ Jo planted a kiss on Peter’s sandy-coloured hair. ‘You’re so lucky to have him, you know.’
Cathy gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘It’s still early days. And I’m sure you’ll find yourself throwing up down the bog soon enough.’
‘That’s what Mattie said,’ Jo replied.
‘Well, you should listen to her,’ said Cathy. ‘After all, she’s supposed to be the brainy one of the family.’
Jo laughed. ‘According to her.’
‘I thought she’d be here today,’ said Cathy, glancing around.
A serious expression replaced her sister’s merry one. ‘I think Daniel might be off again soon, so they’ve gone to visit his parents this weekend.’
The last time Daniel went ‘off ’ it was undercover to France behind enemy lines for three months, and although the whole family knew, it was never spoken about.
‘Poor Mattie,’ said Cathy. ‘I’ll pop around to see her before I go to the centre on Tuesday.’
They both took a mouthful of tea. Peter, who’d spotted his cousin Patrick with a couple of other toddlers on the other side of the room, wriggled off Jo’s lap.
‘At last,’ said Jo, looking beyond Cathy to the door.
Cathy followed her sightline to see their gran walking into the hall with Father Mahon.
‘Goodness, he looks a year older every time I see him,’ said Cathy, watching the old priest, walking stick in hand, shuffle in with Queenie.
‘Do you think Mattie’s right?’ said Jo.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Cathy, as Queenie helped the good father into a chair. ‘When she said it, I thought, “Don’t be ridiculous”, but since then there’s been a couple of times when I’ve looked at Dad and Father Mahon standing together and I’m not so sure. There is something about the shape of their faces and some of their gestures that makes me wonder.’
Cathy yawned again.
‘Not keeping you up, am
I?’ asked Jo. She placed her hand on Cathy’s arm again. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose you’ve been having nightmares.’
‘I’ve had a couple. But that’s not what’s keeping me awake at night.’ She glanced around and then leaned closer to her sister. ‘I took your advice.’
Jo looked puzzled for a moment then her eyes flew open.
‘Oh my goodness,’ she said, drawing her chair nearer. ‘You actually—’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
Cathy frowned. ‘I’m not telling you all the details.’
Jo rolled her eyes.
‘But I will say’ – a smile spread across Cathy’s face – ‘Archie might be a painter, but he’s got sculptor’s hands.’
‘You hussy,’ laughed Jo.
Memories of the past nights entwined in Archie’s arms flashed through Cathy’s mind.
‘I know,’ she said, as the thought of him ignited her desire again. ‘In fact, I make myself blush thinking of some of the things I’ve done to him that I’ve never even dreamed of before.’
Jo shook her head and tutted.
‘Well, I hope you’re not going to go and confess all this to Father Mahon,’ she said.
‘I wasn’t planning to,’ Cathy replied.
‘Good, because it would probably finish him off,’ said Jo.
They both laughed.
‘You are being careful, aren’t you?’ said Jo.
‘Yes, of course we are,’ said Cathy.
Which was almost true.
Archie had bought some French letters, but it wasn’t often in the forefront of their minds, if she were honest.
‘But, it’s not just a fling, Jo,’ said Cathy. ‘I love him.’
‘And even a blind man could see that he loves you, too,’ said Jo. ‘But what are you going to do?’
‘Well, Stan will be declared officially dead on Good Friday,’ said Cathy. ‘Once I have the formal letter, Archie’s going to fetch his daughter and mother down, find somewhere to live, and then we’ll speak to Father Mahon about getting married.’
Jo grinned. ‘Can I be a bridesmaid?’
‘It’s not going to be a big—’
Something crashed on to the floor and Cathy and her sister looked around.
Father Mahon was slumped on his chair, his face grey and his eyes closed.
‘Patrick!’ shouted Queenie, rubbing his hand briskly as others gathered around. ‘For the love of God, Patrick, wake up!’
‘Someone call an ambulance,’ shouted Jo, standing up and running across. ‘Stand back,’ she said, waving people aside. ‘Give him some air.’
The crowd shuffled back but looked on anxiously, as Jo removed Father Mahon’s stiff dog collar and unfastened his top button.
Rising to her feet, Cathy went over to Peter. She picked him up and hurried over to where Francesca was.
‘Do you think the ambulance will be here soon?’ asked Francesca, as she joined her.
‘I hope so,’ said Cathy.
‘So do I,’ replied Francesca, ‘because I thought the backache I woke up with was from lifting Patrick, but now I think it’s because I’m in labour.’
Acknowledging the odd acquaintance as she passed, Queenie Brogan, her basket gripped firmly in her hand, marched down Sutton Street towards the wrought-iron gates.
Well, truthfully, it was the space where the ornate wrought-iron gates used to be as they, along with the railings encircling the small rectory garden, had been donated to the war effort two and a half years before.
Passing between the square-capped columns, she headed up the path towards the black-lacquered door. It, like the rest of the solid three-storey Victorian house, had seen better days.
When she’d arrived in the parish as a new bride over forty-five years ago, there had been three priests living in St Breda and St Brendan’s rectory, with five servants to look after them. Now it was just Father Mahon, his assistant, young Father Riley, who looked as if he should still be wearing a school uniform rather than a cassock, and Mrs Dunn, the resident housekeeper.
Queenie climbed the three steps to the door, grasped the lion’s-head knocker and rapped it against the brass stud beneath.
It echoed through the cavernous house beyond for a moment then the door opened.
Queenie’s face lifted in a genial smile.
‘Good morning to you, Mrs Dunn.’
Bridget Dunn was a vinegar-faced woman who, although widowed over a decade ago, still wore the widow’s weeds of the newly bereaved.
Although her breasts barely troubled the front of her blouse, their lack of substance was made up for by her hips that, if they got any wider, would probably force her to walk sideways through doorways.
Standing on the coconut mat in the doorway, she gave Queenie an acerbic look.
‘Mrs Brogan. It’s yourself again.’
‘It is,’ Queenie agreed. ‘And a blessing it is that your faculties are still sharp enough to remember.’
The housekeeper’s pale lips pulled into a tight bud. ‘Father Mahon is resting.’
‘Glad I am to hear it,’ said Queenie. ‘For hasn’t the poor man worked his fingers to the bone tending his flock.’
Mrs Dunn didn’t move.
‘As I said, the good father’s resting, so perhaps it would be better if you came—’
‘And before I forget,’ Queenie interrupted, ‘Fast Jimmy asked me to tell you that he has what you were asking him for.’
Two splashes of red coloured the housekeeper’s sallow cheeks. She chewed the inside of her mouth for a moment then opened the door wider.
‘You’d better come in and I’ll see if Father Mahon is awake.’
Queenie stepped into the bare-board hallway.
Mrs Dunn shut the door and then hurried off. Listening to the wind whistling through the all but empty house, Queenie gazed around at the old prints that had hung in the hall for as long as she could remember.
As always, her eyes rested on the small picture to the right of the heavy oak hall mirror.
It was a panoramic landscape of Kinsale’s riverfront, town and hills. A scene she and Father Mahon knew well. Although the bright green of the fields and crystal blue of the river had faded, the memories of the wet meadow grass between her toes and the icy chill of the sparkling water were still vivid in Queenie’s mind.
The door at the far end of the hallway opened and Mrs Dunn appeared again.
‘Father Mahon said he will see you,’ she said.
Taking off her coat, Queenie hooked it on the hall stand, then, smiling, she walked towards the door.
Pulling out a paper bag, she handed it to the housekeeper.
‘There’s half a dozen eggs for the good father’s breakfast,’ she said, handing it to her. ‘And when you fetch the tea, Mrs Dunn, I’ll have two sugars.’
Giving her a filthy look, the rectory’s housekeeper stomped off to the kitchen.
Queenie walked through into the south-facing parlour that had once been the housekeeper’s office.
Father Mahon was sitting in a winged chair next to the hearth with his slippered feet up on a scuffed footstool, a tartan blanket over his legs and a knitted shawl around his shoulders.
It was five days since he’d collapsed in church. The doctors had kept him in hospital for observation until Monday but with bombing casualties filling every bed and trolley, they’d sent him home on Tuesday and Queenie had visited him every day since.
He had his eyes closed and as her gaze ran over him, she didn’t see a frail old man, with wisps of grey hair and bony hands. Instead, she saw the strapping youth who’d chased her through the long grass on a sunny Irish afternoon.
His hair had been thick and curly then and his arms strong, strong and tender as they held her away from prying eyes in the bluebell wood half a century ago.
Sensing her presence, Father Mahon opened his eyes and smiled.
‘Queenie,’ he said, straightening up a little, ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
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‘I was passing, so I thought I’d pop by and see if the syrup I left for you on Tuesday has shifted that cough, Patrick,’ she said, coming into the room.
‘It did.’ He chuckled. ‘It was just like the one my mother used to make for us when we had a touch of damp on our chests.’
‘Was it now?’ Queenie frowned. ‘And bejesus, what in the name of all goodness is that in the grate? Because if it’s supposed to be a fire, it’s a poor excuse for one.’ Bending, she grabbed a lump of coal. ‘I’ve a good mind,’ she said, throwing it on the smouldering embers, ‘to write to that bishop of yours and tell him what poor care that woman who styles herself as a housekeeper gives you.’ She added another black nugget to the grate.
‘Easy now,’ he said. ‘She does her best.’
Queenie pulled a face and amusement sparkled in his still-clear black eyes.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Come,’ called Father Mahon.
Mrs Dunn walked in carrying a tray with a tea set and a plate of arrowroot biscuits on it. She placed it on the coffee table next to the priest’s chair and picked up the teapot.
‘Sure, I can do that,’ said Queenie.
Mrs Dunn looked at Father Mahon.
He smiled. ‘Thank you, Mrs Dunn.’
Giving Queenie a furious look, the housekeeper left.
Queenie poured them both a cup of tea. She handed one to Father Mahon and then took her own and sat down in the chair opposite his.
‘So, how are the family?’ he asked.
‘They’re keeping well, and blessed I am, to have them sitting in the pews beside me every Sunday,’ she replied.
He took a sip of tea and a fond smile lifted his wrinkled face.
‘And fine they look, too.’ He raised an almost invisible eyebrow. ‘Although I’d like to see Jeremiah more often alongside them.’
‘Ah, well now,’ said Queenie, ‘after working from dawn to dusk six days a week, sure even the Almighty wouldn’t begrudge him a lie-in now and again.’
Father Mahon nodded slowly. ‘He’s a good father, for sure. Though God only knows where he learned to be because, if you’ll pardon me for saying it, Fergus was none such.’
‘You speak but the truth, Father,’ she said, ‘God rest his soul.’
A Ration Book Daughter Page 28