I held out my hand for him to shake, and said (to maintain the pattern, you know), “Katharine Penelope O’Brien.”
He reached for my hand, obviously trying not to crack a smile.
“Penelope?”
“What’s wrong with Penelope?” I asked defensively.
“Nothing really, I suppose. It just doesn’t suit you.”
“Oh, shut up. Meniah.”
He only smiled.
Chapter 34
When I saw Abbaline next day, I felt apologetic. I went to her tent, and waited for her to emerge.
When finally she came out, she looked at me quite as if nothing out of the ordinary had passed between us.
“Good morning, Kate.”
“Good morning,” I said, unable to look her directly in the eye.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asked. “You don’t think I understand? I understand perfectly. We’ve been to hell and back! And yet – here we are.” She smiled.
I returned the smile, feeling slightly less ashamed of myself.
“So,” she went on, “would you like to talk about my plans now?”
“Of course.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, her face turning serious. “Well, there’s really not much of a plan, anyway. It’s not the best of situations. A lot of good people were thrown into prison back in April – and I don’t have a great deal of support right now. So, to make the first thing first – I have to find a safe place.” She frowned. “The only problem is, nowhere is safe anymore.”
I saw that familiar look upon her face, full of resentment and bitterness. I was about to ask what she was thinking about, when she said:
“You know – I had no idea what was really going to happen that day. Tried to keep it from me, they did. Didn’t think I needed to know, they didn’t! And what did I tell you before?” She took a deep breath, and clenched her fists. “Nothing but a damned assistant. Not even a very glorified one, anymore. But do you think I care? Do they think I care? Well, I don’t. I’ll do whatever I have to do – and it’s no matter to me, what they think of me!”
I tried to draw her away from the red anger that was quickly filling her face, by asking, “What kind of a place are you looking for?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Somewhere away from eyes, somewhere quiet. Somewhere we’ll all fit.”
“All?”
“Me. You. A few others.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“Not as of yet.”
“How about a house?”
“A house?”
“An abandoned house.”
“And where is this – abandoned house?”
“Just outside of Dublin.”
“Do you know how many abandoned houses there are in Dublin? What makes yours so special?”
“Perhaps that it’s not in Dublin?”
She frowned for a long moment; but then nodded in concession.
“It’s secluded, for one thing,” I went on. “Great and grand, it is; and it stands on a dead-end road. Isn’t that the kind of thing you’re looking for?”
“Yes – but that doesn’t mean it’s going to work.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “How did you come across this house, anyway?”
I hesitated.
“Well?”
“I only stumbled upon it,” I said. “I saw it one day, while I was out for a walk – a little while after I got out of Dublin in the first place. After I left the hospital.”
“You were in the hospital?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“What happened?”
“Bullet in the leg.”
“My question is,” she said (and it seemed that she would ask no more questions about hospitals or bullet-ridden legs), “if it’s so great and grand, why didn’t you make a place of it?”
“I was staying somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“Does it matter?”
She sighed. “You know, I’ve been kicked out of three buildings-for-lease since I saw you last.” She scowled. “I was even banned from a church. Then –”
She stopped abruptly.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. I just thought of something.”
She disappeared back into her tent.
“What are you doing?”
“Give me a moment, will you?”
About a minute later, she emerged with a book in her hand.
A familiar book. My book.
My journal.
She held it out to me.
I reached out to take it, feeling strange. And here I will note, a thought which occurred to me later. After leaving Marcker Street, I had thought (rather illogically, of course) that that blasted journal had been the cause of all my misfortunes. But I had not touched it, had not even laid eyes upon it, for nearly seven months. So what was the cause of all of those things which had happened since? What, now, was I supposed to blame?
“I was in quite a hurry to clear the place out, as you may expect,” said Abbaline, as she gave me the book. “I supposed that everything else could be replaced.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly. I looked down at the book, turning it over and over in my hands. Then I looked back at Abbaline.
“No,” she said shortly. “I didn’t read it.”
“I wasn’t –”
“Oh, just never mind.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to ask you.”
“Oh. Well, ask away then.”
I thought of the last time I saw her, being pulled up into one of the great trucks that had milled about the city streets. I had had a sinking in my heart, when I saw that; for I had never expected her to escape the clutching hands of the soldiers.
“How did you get away?” I asked.
She looked thoughtful for a bit; but then winked at me and said, exactly as Tyler once had:
“Quick as a fox, don’t you know!”
I only smiled. She seemed to fall back into her own thoughts for a moment; and as I already knew what they were (and knew the exact reason for the tears that welled up in her eyes, which she tried nonchalantly to blink away), I said nothing.
“Oh, my!” she exclaimed suddenly. “I do believe that I almost forgot. There’s one more thing I have for you – but you’ve been quite cantankerous, you know, and I wasn’t sure whether you would kiss her or kick her.”
“Say what?”
She went a little down the row of tents, and dashed inside one of them. A moment later, she emerged with a long rope in her hand, at the end of which came trotting Dolly the dog.
“Well, if it isn’t you!” I cried, kneeling down so that I might clasp my arms for a moment round her neck. There was that familiar, wet something, come to soak quite my entire face.
“Thank you, Abbaline,” I said. “I mean it this time – thank you so much.”
“Ah, well. It was no trouble – though I certainly was not about to have her sleeping in my tent. Tom seemed not to mind very much, though.”
“Then I take it that the two of you haven’t become friends?”
“A splattering of spit across the lips,” she said, “is not my idea of a suitable morning greeting.”
***
“Let’s give it a try.”
I looked up from the book I was reading. It was the one Myrne had just finished.
“What?”
“Let’s go and look at your house,” Abbaline said.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Let’s go.”
I put my book down. “Now?”
“What part of ‘let’s go’ don’t you understand?”
“All right, all right. Just give me a minute.”
“I’ll meet you at the front of the camp. A horse will be waiting for you.”
I nodded; and then called out, “Hey, Meniah!”
Myrne snapped awake with a start. “What, what?” he said groggily, looking all around.
“I’m leaving for a bit. See you later?”
“Where are you
going?”
“Somewhere with Abbaline.”
“Can I come?”
“No. Go back to sleep.”
“All right,” he said, falling back down on his bedroll.
Dolly tried to follow me; but I pointed back to Myrne, and with a rather sour-looking expression, she went to curl up beside him.
***
There was an immeasurably wonderful surprise waiting for me outside the camp. When I found Abbaline, I saw that she stood with two great horses – one of black, and one of white. They stood like beautiful, familiar chess pieces upon a board I had never seen.
“Charlie!” I cried, running forward to throw my arms round the black horse’s neck.
“You’re happy, I see,” said Abbaline with a smile. “I hoped you would be.”
“Oh, Abbaline,” I said, tears welling up in my eyes. “You took care of them, all this time!”
“They’re yours,” she said simply. “You deserve to have them back.”
Abbaline and I rode side by side, saying nothing for a while. In my own mind, there was nothing to talk about. She knew the extent of my gratitude, to be riding with Charlie once again; there was no need to shower her with thanks. It would only annoy her.
I expected that, perhaps, in this first silent moment that we had had together, she might mention Tyler. But she did not; and I was left to think of him alone. And then I was left to look over, every now and then, at Zebulon – and to be plagued by awful pangs of sadness.
Abbaline looked wrong on him. But I had not insisted, as I once had with Tyler, that she take Charlie instead.
Eventually, she noticed the direction of my gaze. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, averting my eyes.
“Nothing, of course,” said Abbaline genially. “I should have known better than to suspect that you were actually thinking about something.”
I glowered. “I didn’t say that I wasn’t thinking. I just said there was nothing wrong.”
“Ah.”
“Ah, what?”
“Nothing at all. I was just showing recognition for your thoroughly unconvincing explanation.”
A small amount of silence, and then: “So what were you thinking about?”
“Goodness, Abbaline!”
“I wouldn’t ask, but your face is disturbing me.”
“Excuse me?”
She grinned. “Did that come as offence? I’m afraid it did. It wasn’t meant to – but I was disturbed all the same.”
“Disturbed. That’s the best, and kindest, word that you could think of?”
“Was it not kind enough?”
“Tact is not one of your strongest points, my friend.”
“Oh, well. At least we’re still friends.”
I could not help but laugh.
***
“I like this place,” Abbaline said, inspecting the dusty parlour. “It’s big.”
“I told you so.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I know you did. I’m making my own observations – is that quite all right with you?”
“Of course.”
“You’re a regular smart-aleck, you know that?”
“That’s not really what you wanted to say, is it?”
“Of course not. I was restraining myself.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
“I like to think so.”
I made my voice serious. “So – are we moving in?”
She took another look around; and there was no hiding her immediate fondness of the place. But she did not answer yet; for presently she wished to examine the second and third floors. I went with her up the stairs; and then with her back down. When we had come again into the entrance hall, I said:
“Well? You never answered my question.”
“What question was that?”
“Will we take it?”
“I don’t see why not.”
From the lips of Abbaline Elson, that was quite as near to high praise as one could hope to expect.
***
As I mounted Charlie a few minutes later, there was one particular thought lodged inside my brain. (I think that that thought is fairly self-evident.) I could not keep from repeatedly glancing up the street, training my eyes on the small, white object that was the house of Niamh Carlin – and wishing for it to burn under my gaze.
But then again, it was only early afternoon. Seeing as Niamh was most likely not presently occupying the house – so as to burn, as well – it would have been a complete waste of mental energy.
It had not so far occurred to me that going back to that street could do more than merely boil my blood. Niamh Carlin was the reason I had been kidnapped from Shealittle Road to begin with; and who was to say she would not attempt to bring about a repeat performance?
I knew that, though I had sworn to myself I would keep that bit of information private, I should tell Abbaline. She had the right to know that a traitor lived so near.
But I could not bring myself to say it.
I wondered how wise it would be, to take up residence again on that road. I wondered, why in the world I had even thought to return? Why would I willingly approach that nefarious enemy of mine? I do believe I knew from the start, that I wanted to station myself near to her, so that I might conclude business which had been left much undone. Revenge was heavy upon my heart; and though I knew not how I would manage it, I satisfied myself with the assurance, that I would burn that long and lonely bridge when it came.
I would burn it all to ashes.
Chapter 35
By December, it seemed that my new home was to be at least semi-permanent. There were a grand total of six people either living at or frequently visiting 508 Shealittle Road: three of Abbaline’s men (including Tom and Blackie, and another fellow named Sam), who were the most innately involved in her politics; Abbaline herself; Myrne; and, of course, me. (And Dolly too – we shan’t forget her.)
The prisoners had been returned to their homes straightaway. I had thought for a while (and surprised myself by being almost saddened by it) that Myrne would depart, as well. It seemed, though, that he was like me, and had nowhere else to go, and had no inclination to leave behind this place which he had found.
Abbaline was seen rather seldom at the house, what with the magnitude of her own errands, in combination with at least a bit of the time that was surely spent with her own family: little spoken of till now, because she herself spoke so little of them. I did not know much about them at all, except for a sister named Andrea and a brother named Reilly – the former of which Abbaline seemed to love dearly, and the latter of which seemed to annoy her to no end – but if there were more I was not aware of them.
I, of course, would know little about such things, but I do believe that some people are destined to do very great things in this world; and that, as a result, the smaller things in life (which seem much larger when they are all you possess) sometimes fade just a little into the background. This is not to signify a lack of love or care – but simply a propensity towards the things which will have more of a tendency to be remembered in years to come. For such great things Abbaline was bound, though she never did give herself enough credit for what she achieved. No matter what she said, she was nobody’s assistant – I’ll tell you that much.
That, however, is all I will venture to say (either here or after) of the personal life of that dreadfully busy woman. At any rate, she came and went like a breeze, saying next to nothing as to where she had been each time she returned. It made me realise how little I really knew about her; a realisation which, later on, I would decide had been entirely inaccurate.
Other people came and went, some whose names I knew, and others who were complete strangers to me. Some nights, the parlour was so full that people were bumping elbows every which way you could stand, sloshing drinks all over one another. But no one seemed to mind.
***
Matthew Meniah Myrne was my new best friend. We w
ent everywhere together; we told each other everything; we did absolutely everything as a pair.
I felt like a child again. Myrne reminded me of a friend I had as a girl, a boy named Seth. Seth had lived a-ways down the road when I was about seven or eight, but only for a little while – months, a year, maybe a little more than that. At any rate, he was gone by my ninth birthday. Even now, I remember him, if only because it was Myrne who made me think of him.
Matthew Myrne was the sibling I had never had.
“It must be nice,” said Abbaline once, in rather a wistful voice. “Having found a new friend, I mean.”
It was obvious that she still missed Tyler terribly. Being of the kind that she was, however, she talked very little about it. Every now and then she would say how something reminded her of him; but she refused to shed a tear before me (though I knew that she must have shed many in secret).
Of course, I missed him too – and sometimes (just as I had that first time, the night after we escaped the prison), I looked at Myrne and thought of him. I hated to think that he had been replaced; but I decided, at any rate, that it wasn’t true; for Myrne was nothing at all like Tyler. There were similar attributes, of course (which there seem to be in any of the friends that we can ever say we loved), but Myrne was more like a boy than anything else. You could never look at Tyler, and forget that he was anything other than a man – and quite the most manly kind of man, at that.
“We’re your friends, too,” I said to Abbaline.
“Quite gracious of you, I’m sure,” she said with a smile. And you know – it was truly lovely, those moments when her hardness seemed to give way just a little.
“Ah, well,” said I. “Grace is my middle name.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Myrne, walking up to meet us. “It’s Penelope.”
Abbaline chuckled.
“What are you laughing at?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing.” She looked into my face, and cocked her head to the side. “But it doesn’t seem to suit you.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” I said. “But now that the whole world knows, why don’t I just carve it into a sign, and tack it over the door?”
Myrne looked puzzled. “If the whole world already knows, why would you have to make a sign?”
“Shut up, you,” I said, turning to punch him in the arm.
An Irish Heart Page 34