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Five Golden Rings and a Diamond Marie Seltenrych Copyright Š 2017 Marie Seltenrych Aussieoibooks/runawayprincesses, [E.M.Seltenrych] 2017 ISBN-978-1-921943-31-7 ISBN 10: 1-921943-31-9 All rights reserved.

E-book Edition, 2017 Disclaimer: This is a fictional story and any resemblances to persons, living or dead; is purely coincidental and was created in the imagination of its author.

DEDICATION Dedicated to Keith Martin Rafferty Beloved brother, World Traveller, Poet I just read a book

A story of love Was there and then gone for ever Peaceful in mind Bring peace to all Smiles of love Conquer all Melt away pain Happiness gain.

By Kieith Martin Rafferty CONTENTS (400 pages in print)

Prologue: Chapter One Dreams Of The One! March 1968 Chapter Two River View Chapter Three Wedding song Chapter Four Murphy At The Door Chapter Five Babies Arrive Chapter Six Pick Up Sticks Chapter Seven Not In Heaven Chapter Eight Hell’s Gate Chapter Nine Cane Cutter Sublime Chapter Ten Many Men Chapter Eleven Touching Heaven Chapter Twelve Dress Shelve Chapter Thirteen Pastor Flirting Chapter Fourteen 1991 Irish Fun

About the Author Glossary Credits and Acknowledgements PROLOGUE: Someone once asked me if this was my real life. Others believe this story to be a personal biography. This is not so.

Protagonist Niamh (pronounced Neve) and meaning Queen of the Land (in the Irish language), was borne out of a true event that happened in my home in Ireland. A woman wrapped in a tartan blanket came to our door at Skehanagh Leixlip Main Street and she hid a newborn child under her covering.

The child made a puddle onto the red painted sparkling floor of our small living room and I mused: “She is making my Mammy’s floor dirty.” We did not say a word to each other as I was a small child.

This haunting memory remained with me.

Later I was inspired to draw on my life’s experiences to create this story including the naked babe as my protagonist and heroine of her own compelling story.

The ending brings together the rewards of pain, passion and promises that romance lover want.

Marie, October 15, 2016 CHAPTER ONE DREAMS OF THE ONE! MARCH 1968

I sense the soft rays of sunshine creeping over the rolling green hills into the valley towards our waking campsite on a crisp and flawless March morning. I dare not open my eyes for my dreams will fade into mist. My thin blanket barely keeps the warmth in my core, but one day I will live in a pretty, warm place, where a fire always burns bright. The wise women here talk about a time for everything that happens; I long for my time to be who I was always meant to be: to find a true love to cherish and cover me with his warm embrace.

A sparkling flash drifts over my wild dreams as if someone waved a blanket made with thinnest gold; I reach out to catch it. A figure stands before me and calls me over with his smile: then everything vanishes like a mist on a cold morning.

I open my eyes, leap from my bed. The van door is already swinging open and a weak beam of sun tries in vain to burn the thinly veneered door and warped linoleum worn to a sliver.

I stretch my arms and wiggle, gazing out.

A sliver of grassy dell with rocks jutting out at every hillock make the landscape appear as outer galactic. The sloping field, around half an acre in size, is dotted with a jumble of vans, carts, horses grazing happily; groups of two and threes’ work seamlessly together building fires, gutting fish and boiling water for a good morning cup of tea and hearty breakfast. The field is lined with a medium to low stone wall with a gate through the middle on the East side, leaning trees facing north; a stoney road on the South perimeter and the boundary slope disappearing towards the sea on the West. Idyllic in a way as the farmer who owns the property has not appeared in any form or chased our tribe away thus far; we having been here for four months already with no concerns about leaving at all. Well-settled in, one might say. A blue sky is dusted with grey and fluffy balls of vapour as they rush onwards towards their rainfall destination, leaving our patch dry.

I sit on a jutting rock with the Murphy clan at the sparking fire sizzling with the taunting smell of burning fish scales and melt-in-the mouth trout from the Owenriff River. Voices are low and hearty as a half dozen folk go about preparing breakfast. Mary’s twin boys wrestle in the bright green grass amid wild blood red poppies. I turn my face towards the sea and listen for the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks like a giant’s heartbeat. I hug my woollen shawl around my bare shoulders as Paddy Flynn, tipping his red tartan cap with its black furry blob on top, carrying an armful of broken sticks with one arm locked around them, walks past, calling out, “The top of the morning to ye, Miss Niamh!” I smile and nod. His gaping mouth is big and expectant and his jaunt is jolly.

“He’s getting a bit friendly, now why is that?”

I ponder.

Liam, the growing boy of ten, clad in a too-large Aran jumper and flannel trousers held up with two straps, jumps to attention. His ruddy complexion and soft smile with twinkling blue eyes and knotty rusty hair take me by surprise. He delivers a tin plate with a huge chunk of pink fish flesh gleaming and steaming before my eyes, stirring my tastebuds. I extend my thanks with a wan smile. Although he is my cousin, he seems to have a crush on me lately, so best not to egg him on, methinks. His sheepish smile and slowly turning head twist away and he takes a handful of white fish seared black on its back and packs it into his gob, staring at his plate as he licks his fingers.

My father, Sean Murphy, pokes the fire with a long stick; glances at me for a moment with his usual twinkling eyes that have many secrets never to be divulged. A cold wave moves across my chest as he stares for a moment into my eyes. His robust body is clad in well-worn 1940s style baggy trousers, white open necked shirt, rolled sleeves and bright red silk neck scarf, with its folds near his stubbly chin, bends over the sizzling iron pan steadied by flat rocks where grease is floating like a happy lake around a pink fish caught in its undercurrent.

His ferocious, gruff voice declares:

“Nobody will go hungry today, eh? Not with the finest poacher in all the land right here. Aye, he’s been at it half the night, has our Rory, well done me lad,” declares father, slapping lanky Rory with his wispy pale fluff growing on his chin, dark matted hair and darting eyes, landing a good whack across the back making him buckle like a flying trapeze star ready to fly across a big top.

Laughter ensues and the conversation is happy on a fine, fresh morning in Springtime.

“What will we do today?” Mary asks the open question without expecting an answer, her busty figure with layers of garments covering thick thighs won during her confinement that results in two bonny boys, asks. Her eyes are focussed on her wild pair, still tumbling together moving the early morning dew with their energy-packed bodies. Her husband Jack throws his arms around his bonny wife and she wiggles, pushes him away shyly. “Get off with ye.” His eyes are on her plump aubergine silk blouse-clothed bosom.Gold hoop earrings click and move as she rises and heads towards her boys, calling them to eat something.

I know what I must do. Collect all those ripe raspberries growing near the Barn. Dad will be happy with me then.

Later that same morning, Maeve, my step-sister comes running up to me as I am walking over to McCarthy’s barn to collect the berries for our supper. Her mother, my Aunty Maura, married my daddy after my mother died. R.I.P. Maura’s husband Bartholomew Smith already died too. So, I got a new mother.

“Niamh, guess what happened?” Maeve asks as her face turns red. Her red tartan shawl hangs loosely around her shoulders, showing a bare, smooth neck, garnished with gold chains, beads and amulets. Her hair is dark as a raven’s wings and glistening. Her dark sea blue eyes seem mysterious yet contented with everything that focusses on her. Her reigning petulant spirit is wiped away by her curvy smile that shows her even teeth, soft red young lips and tilted nose that often makes me wish I had similar features.

She explained to me once that these characteristics are attributable to the Murphy genetics, and I was a loser. She’s glowing as a lighted candle in a dark night and I can feel her happiness burning in my heart as well as hers.

“What?”

“Paddy asked me to marry him. He gave me this. ” She displays the copper bangle dangling on her wrist: "'Tis engraved with a four-leaf clover. You’ve got the luck of the Irish,” I comment, shaking my head with envy.

“Soon I’ll be Missus Pádraig Flynn, to be exact. Wrong, they are, aren’t they?”

“Who is wrong Maeve?” I ask, mystified, trying to catch on.

“They say you are the pretty one. ‘She’ll be snapped up first.”

“Is that so, Maeve? Well, I always think that you are the most beautiful sister I could have. You know I envy your powerful genetics.”

“You mean that? Paddy thinks I’m the most beautiful woman in the whole world, so it must be true. My dress will be the biggest and whitest dress in the world too; spread that tale around.”

“As long as you’re happy, that’s the main thing.”

“I am very happy; the happiest woman in the world! You’ll find out one day!” She looks coyly at me as she says these words with wonderful diction that tells me she knows some secret formula for happiness.

“What?”

“About: love! You’re just too immature to understand,” Maeve says, as she tosses her head, and then abruptly looks at me. “You will be my bridesmaid?

“I will, of course I will! Maeve, what’ll I wear?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find something! Be happy for me, ‘tis all I ask.” She’s hugging me to pieces and crying.

“Oh, God: please don’t cry Maeve. What’s up? ”

“I’m just happy, so happy,” she says, bawling her eyes out. In the end I join in and we both bawl our eyes out. I share my secret berry haunt with her and we spend the rest of the day picking berries, eating them and piling them in our shawl, using them as containers.

“Thanks for sharing your special berry bushes with me,” Maeve says as we trudge home later on with our berry haul, laughing together as sisters should do, happy. …

Paddy and Maeve’s big day finally arrives on Thursday, 13 May, 1968.

I’m standing on a bit of a hill, near our camp in County Galway.

“It’s a grand sight, wouldn’t you say? ” It’s him with the black teeth, Rory, master poacher and Paddy’s brother. He is smartly dressed in a dark suit and a brilliant blue cravat with a yellow shirt. His hair is less matted and Brylcreemed to a shine. He looks almost handsome.

I have to agree. "'Tis!” I reply. We’re gazing in admiration at McCarthy’s Barn, an amazing structure that seems to have wound its way out of the earth into a barren landscape, similar to an obelisk. Our eyes are tracing its form upwards; steps go around and around right up to the sky, as if it’s a giant ice cream cone standing upside down .At the top there are turrets so it looks like a bit of a castle gone wrong.

“Do you want to go up?” he asks. “It would be something to do while we wait for Maeve to get here.” His words come with a nodding head and persuasive look. His chin is still struggling to grow a beard and I wish he would shave it clean off. I keep my thoughts to myself.

“Come on then? Let’s have a look at America.” I head up, holding the layers of my frothy frock with its hula hoop underskirt off the dusty steps and make my way to the summit.

“God, what a wonderful sight, I see,” Rory mutters from beneath me; surely looking up my dress.

“Stop looking up my dress, you dirty boy.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, grinning from ear to ear, staring despite his fake chagrin.

We reach the top and gaze out over the wide Atlantic Ocean, wondering if our destiny lies out there in America or Canada. Wondrous places so many of our folk have sailed to in years past.Rory mutters in his native ‘Shelta’ language, our clan’s secret.

“You would end up ‘tur on skai’ he says.”Remember the Titanic?”

“So, you think I will end up at the bottom of the sea if I go away?”

“Ah, no! I want you and me to get over there to the Big Apple.”

“I suppose we might be good at growing apples…”

Our conversation is interrupted by Maura’s shouts, “They’re here, they’re here. Get down here the pair of ye.”

He drapes his long arm over my shoulders; touching one pointed breast.

Goosebumps rush over my skin.I smell the aroma of moth-balls from his tweed jacket. His face glows from the reflection of his bright blue cravat tinting his skin ashen. His left leg pushes my underskirt hoop aside; I feel his thigh pushing towards my mound, my back is pinned to the stones. His mouth crushes my lips and his tongue rushes into my mouth as a piece of warm meat.

Almost puking, I find strength to wiggle and push him away.

“Get off.”

“Don’t be like that, come on, race you to the bottom of the steps…” he laughs.

I rush past him, pull my hoop, bundle layers of my dress up in my arms; try to get ahead of him. My heart is racing as a horse at a gallop. My feet tinkle over the stones as I trip speedily down.

I reach the grassy level and he leaps from above and lands right next to me, giving me a shock. I stop and stare with open mouth. He is holding one hornpipe shoe, with its bright buckle and shiny black patent reflecting his grey face, convoluted.

“I found this, Cinderella,” he says, holding my shoe in his long brown tipped fingers.

“Give me that,” I yell, thrusting my hand forward, grasping the shoe, hopping away as best I can, ruffled.

“Stop it girl,” Maura says, glaring at me and taking hold of my arm as I rush to where the crowd is gathering to greet the bride arriving in her carriage. “What were you up to? I see everything: enticing a mere boy…”

I walk away. She never understands what I do or say, so nothing matters between Maura and me. “Thanks Mother,” I snarl quietly enough so she cannot hear and whack me.

I concentrate on the parade arriving as people rushing to and fro bumble around me as a swarm of bees.

Maeve and Dad are jogging along the bumpy lane, making their grand entrance between blackberry bushes, thick and prickly, interwoven with clumps of nettles and Devil’s pokers: their orange heads popping out to take a peek at the pageantry.

Clannish women spent thousands of hours decorating the cart with blue and gold fabric plus huge copper bows for the occasion, being held in a temporary alcove with alter on the top of the hill close to our camp. The shouts of folk gathering to enjoy this occasion roars over the hills as distant relatives make their way here by any kind of transport they can get: horse and carriages,

donkeys, old rickety cars and by ‘shanks mare’ for the great feast and joining of the Murphy and Flynn clans: two great names beyond compare.

Dad’s goat, Jeremiah long-ears, is pulling the small cart with the pair inside. Draped with a garland of flowers around its neck and a carrot at the ready to urge him on. He is determined to reach the carrot, amid much laughter.

The pair arrives at the pathway strewn with flower petals and filled with excited faces, all gleaming, washed and wearing their best attire.

Nora, eleven years old, stands beside me as we wait to take our place as chief bridesmaids. Straight hair garlanded with flowers and bits of tulle make her appear nymph like with her elfin shaped face and pale eyes. Her youthful skin paler than most tinker children because of her constantly hiding herself away in undergrowth, where her dreams are played out. She is gowned in chicken yellow, with a basket of yellow petals to be strewn before the bride. I am wearing duck-egg blue, and I hold my basket of blue petals. We nudge each other and giggle as girls do.

Maeve’s dress is made of several layers of white tulle and satin, bellowing out around her like a giant powder puff. Every woman had to work their fingers to the bone to get this dress ready for this occasion, and she wears it very well, methinks. Maeve leans over to me and whispers that she can barely breathe, and I don’t know if that is from the tight gown or her nerves. I nod my head as if I understand.

Cheers are deafening as we walk up the pathway toward the alcove and altar, where there are two chairs covered in gold and blue cloth waiting for the pair to give their vows.

Paddy Flynn is grinning from ear to ear and licking his lips; front teeth are black; reaching up, intending to plant his mouth on my beautiful stepsister’s lovely sweet rosebud lips and I cannot bear it. Maeve’s taller than him by a good bit with those heels on. Someone gave her a lovely pair of white high-

heeled shoes, which were a bit too tight, and she squeezed into them. To my way of thinking, she is Cinderella herself and Paddy Flynn is an ugly prince.

Maeve glows like a Primus stove in the night and puckers her lips in expectation. Closing my eyes; don’t let this happen to me; shaking like Nora’s chicken feathers; someone is walking on my grave: I’m next; I know it!

“The kiss of death,” I whisper to Nora, who giggles. Father O’Reilly, the chosen celebrant for the occasion, glares into the crowd via a menacing look; all is quite. He turns around; his gold and white gown blows in the wind. He kneels on the makeshift footstool before the altar. He begins to pray. We kneel down, wondering if Aunty Maura will get mad at us for getting grass stains on our nice gowns. To outsiders our bellowing frocks must look like a large flock of chickens and swans taking a nap as we humbly bow our heads.

The bride and groom sign the book on the side table and then everything breaks out in celebratory mode. Food, chairs and tables appear as if by magic; a fiddle plays a jolly tune; glasses are raised as the bride with all her accoutrements sits at a table fit for a queen or king under a huge white tarpaulin, heavily decorated with wild rose blossoms of pink and red, embellished with blue bows and draped curtains in blue, white, and gold.

Taunting aromas of fire-roasted chickens, pork and beef spill over the whole country, uniting country and tinkers in one swashbuckling event. With spinning head, we dance the Irish jig. Costumes of red, gold, white, black and green variegate the picturesque setting, transforming the West countryside into a kaleidoscope of life and sound.

This should be the best day of my life, but ’tis not so.

CHAPTER TWO RIVER VIEW I watch from a safe rock. Cousin Nora lets out a yelp as Liam kicks her shin. She emits a yelp and she kicks him in return; the waltz continues. Rory leans on the shiny keg: hand tightly grasps a glass; he stares, glassy eyed; sways to his feet and moves forward; falls flat

on his face. Two lads drag him back to the keg. I see the soles of his shoes and two neat holes in them. He was always tidy!

Sun sinking breezes blow on my bare arms. I shudder with thoughts of the work ahead in the days that follow, and the solemn prospect of my own wedding after I heard my father saying: ‘She needs to be wedded.’

The noise of music, song, dance and yelling is softened by the gurgling water where I am seated having trudged away from the fray, contemplating my future.

Sunbeams dipping below the horizon turn the landscape into rare gold. A sudden hush holds the air as if by a giant hand: as if God has inhaled and held his breath for a moment.

I long to rush away like the river, with freedom to choose the land you are rushing into, where you may water the ground and where you may depart at will. As a wall, the water stops me walking further. My frock is bellowing around me blocking my view of the way to go.

My heels are quite sore from ill-fitting shoes. I lean amid frock froth and rub my heels, gazing into the image-fragmenting water, recently risen quite a lot by springtime showers. A glass of brandy sits on the rock by me, its vile taste still in my mouth after having a small sip; my throat burning as fire when it rushed into my stomach. I watch the liquid drain from its glassy container into the rushing waters that gobble it up as if it were raindrops.

“May I come across, Owenriff?” I ask the waters, as though a river may speak back to me. I laugh and my laugh melds into the laughter coming from the party as a tiny whimper. Water and wine, mingle in this cup.

Before I can contemplate my dismal future if I remain in this spot, I wiggle myself from my underskirt hoop and begin my journey across the rushing waters, stepping gingerly on higher rocks and balancing as a circus performer. My dress is bulky with silky fabric tucked under my arms: I stumble on, distraught now with the thought of marrying Rory and living under subjection to him.

Before I am half-way across the river, I slip and tumble in an instant. Desperately I try to recover as a roar of water rushes past, taking me along with it. I wish I had removed this dress, as it soaks up the water and drags me deeper into a watery grave. The freezing water is painful and the water is so deep that I can’t find a footing. I am carried away like a pale blue swan to certain death, right out to the North Atlantic Ocean, to be eaten by sea creatures that nobody ever sees. At every turn I grasp for air and something to hold onto. So, my fate appears to be “tur an Skai” just like Rory said.

Water gushes into my face as I struggle for breath, gulp the water and spew it out immediately. I find something to hold onto, only to be torn away with a stick in my hand and more water gathering in my lungs so that there is no room for air. I cry out “God, help,” but nobody hears me amid the roaring of the waves and the sound becoming quiet in my ears.

Power and panic turn to a silent ethereal experience of lightness with visions of extra-ordinary creatures with warbling “Hellos” as they move past, ignoring me as if I am already part of their bony community. Visions fade into darkness and there is but a speck of light in the distance. I float towards the light as a mermaid used to a watery path where breathing is not necessary. I have a freedom for one moment.

The sky is the first thing I see as my eyes open. Above me appears a shadowy figure. My body is powerless, limp. I am a paraplegic and destined for a life of sorrow.

I gag and vomit acid water. An arm holds me slightly upright and I feel the warmth of a human being close by me.

Drifting into a dark sleep I am lifted and carried away by someone human or spirit, I cannot tell.

I open my eyes and the scene has changed. There is an ornate ceiling above me, pretty and clean white. Heaven or a waiting room for Hell? Confused thoughts drift past me as if they are not quite mine and I can no longer hold onto them by default.

“Hello there, are you all right then?” The voice is far away: balls of bright colour come towards me: three pairs of eyes stare down; I gasp; the Trinity? I can’t face God, my sins are a high as a mountain.

I cringe; utter some gibberish and close my eyes again, feeling faint and terrified.

“Hey girl, come on now, wake up.”

My head and shoulders are being raised onto clouds. Am I in Heaven? A burst of hope fills my thoughts. The voice is kind. Forcing my eyes open again, I see an angel face smooth golden skin beholden bright coffee-coloured eyes, deep and concerned.

A warmth sweeps over my whole body, bringing feeling back to my numbness. Hope rises in my soul.

“Niall’s my name; what’s yours?”

What is my name? Words seem as little balls rolling out of my mouth in slow motion.

“Try to drink this.” Niall gently helps me sit up; sip a big mug of warm liquid; leaves a bittersweet taste in my mouth; my churning stomach wants to throw it back up. I’m trying not to vomit ; basin is stuck in front of my mouth and I am retching. My mouth is being wiped; head is lying on a firm shoulder; arm around me; I shiver with the cold running through me; pain hurries through my head like a sharp needle, followed by a soothing voice.

“I am Niall Dempsey. Can you remember that I dragged you from the river; halfdrowned. You’re very lucky you know: a bush saved your life. The hem of your frock was caught on it. I don’t usually go by that way, but thanks be to God I did this evening. You’ll be all right now.”

I’m sobbing hysterically. I can’t stop.

“Don’t cry now; you are safe here.” Niall hugs me; I am comforted.

“Is the girl back with us then?” The voice whispers softly from the doorway of the room.

“She is, Mrs Connor, and I think she’ll be fine,” Niall replies.

“Tom is gone to get the doctor; they’ll be a little while yet; has she had a drink of tea?”

She scurries towards the fireplace.

“She has,” Niall says in reply.

“I’ll put a bit m o r e peat o n the fire.” S h e turns around towards Niall.

“Yo u had better get that soiled shirt off; soak it in the bucket on the back verandah.”

“I’m sorry about that, Missus Connor; didn’t mean to get blood on the lovely shirt you gave me.”

“Don’t worry about it; we’ll get it looking great again with a bit of bleach; thank God it was the white one! I’m just happy that the girl didn’t lose much more blood, or she might not be with us now. Can you give this fire a poke, Niall? I’ll go and get a bit of bread to toast for the child. What’s her name?”

“She doesn’t seem to remember. It must be the blow to her head that did it.”

“The doctor will know. I believe that she’s a gift from God,” Mrs Connor whispers, smiling contentedly as thought I have been delivered in a special Christmas package for her delight.

“It’ll come back to you when your mind is ready. You’re in shock, and no wonder. We’ve bandaged your head; can you feel it?” Gentle as an angel, he takes hold of my hand and brings it to my head. I gasp when I feel a large cloth bandage around my head.

“There, there,” Mrs. Connor says, pulling the soft blanket to my neck and gently patting my pillow.” She turns away and speaks to Niall as though I am not in the room, or deaf.

“She’s perfect. The way I thought my daughter would be.”

“We will look after you. Never fear, young princess,” Niall says to me, staring down with his handsome face.

“We’ll call her Kathleen.Mary Connor. She comes close to me and mouths the words.

“That’s your name, so that you know who you are.”

Kathleen Connor is my name? I try to grasp this name but it seems so strange.

“Yo u like that n a m e . I can tell. S ure you’ll be fine, Kathleen.” She’s squeezing my cold hand in her warm rough grasp. I try to respond but I am exhausted.

“Take your rest now, Kathleen.”

“I’ll give the fire a poke, Missus Connor,” I hear Niall say as his voice drifted away. My eyes close; next thing I know: I hear a different voice. A deep voice.

There’s a doctor standing over me with a grave expression on his thin face and a stethoscope banding his neck. His eyes are wrinkled and kind. His hair is thinning and grey, giving him a mature countenance. He places the metal on my chest and there’s silence for a moment. I stay still as a stone, wondering what is going on now. I see Niall in the corner of the room and I feel a sense of safety, like he’s an angel on duty. He removes the stethoscope microphone and puts the item in his black bag, takes a pen and writes something down in a folder with a clamp paper clip.

“That’s a better reading today!” He glances at my head.

“You did a good job with the bandage; you’re a great woman, Mrs Connor.”

“Oh, now, sure I did my best. I had that experience in the Red Cross you know. Do you know why she is not saying anything?”

“She’s suffering from temporal amnesia; the most important thing is, to communicate with her: we know that different things trigger the memory, so ask her what she remembers from before her accident. If the amnesia is retrograde she may not have remote memory; do you understand?”

“We understand,” Mrs Connor replies; staring blankly into his eyes.

“The only danger is that she may fall into a coma. If this happens, notify me immediately, or call the ambulance and get her to hospital; time is critical.”

Missus Connor stiffens up at this and stares at the doctor. She slips a cheque into his hand. He glances at it and slides it into his brown tweed jacket breast pocket.

“Thank you,” he says, nodding his head.

“Doctor, if she wakes, we’re to try and help her to remember! If she is in a coma how will we know?”

“ I t ho ugh t y o u said y o u n u r s e d p e o p l e ? ” T h e doc t or confronts Mrs Connor.

Her face remains expressionless.

“Of course, that is correct. I did indeed, but they were always awake, and that was ten years or so ago. How time flies.”

“I see. With this type of injury, ’tis hard to tell, but basically she’ll be in a very deep sleep; you won’t be able to wake her up.”

“Right; so, if we can’t wake her what can we do?”

“It is unlikely this will happen.” He turns specifically away from Mrs Connor and addresses Tom: “If there are any complications or emergencies, Tom, come and get me.” H e looks through Mrs Connor as if she is invisible, and stares at To m ; standing behind his wife.

Mr Connor nods his head vigorously.

“We most certainly will,” Kathleen Connor declares as she leads Doctor into the hallway; passes his hat and umbrella.

“I’ll come around tomorrow evening and see how she is faring. The bleeding has stopped; that’s the main thing; her colour is grand.”

“Sure she’s a real beauty with those bronze curls and those eyes, just like...” Mrs Connor suddenly seems lost for words.

“Like whom?” the doctor asks.

“Just like…” she pauses and takes a deep breath. “…my sister Monica...”

His eyes narrow.“I am not sure you understood my words.I was not referring to her physical beauty, I spoke about her earlier pallor.”

“Of course. I knew that.”

Doctor Cassidy steps outside, and then steps back inside again as a sentry on duty at a palace, and moves into the hallway where I can see their face off.

“I hope you’ll excuse my ignorance, but where has that lovely daughter of yours been hiding? I haven’t seen her around these parts before. I was not aware you had a daughter at all; I’ve been working in these parts for fifteen years now!”

Mrs Connor’s face puckers up and a frown appears on her forehead. Mr Connor shifts away and stands near me in the living room. His hands are digging deep into the pockets of his trousers. His cheeks are bright crimson. In that moment I connect silently with Mr Connor. I feel the tension and he does too.

“I nearly forgot: Tom, go and bring that gift we had put aside for the good doctor,” the lady of the house says, giving Tom a shove.

“What gift?”

“You know; go on, in the sugar bag!”

“The sugar bag; yes, exactly?” he says, marching down the hallway and out the back door. I feel the cold breeze rush the door opens.

“Now doctor I’ll get back to your question about our lovely little girl: Kathleen was such a special girl, and our only child, so we gave her the best education we could afford, at a very expensive boarding school near Dublin. She sometimes stays with my sister Monica in Bray; loves her little cousins; the two of them are nearly her age: Marleen and Doreen; remember I told you she was the spitting image of my sister Monica.”

“Yes, I remember. I am still puzzled that I never knew she existed in all these years. When did she get her inoculations?”

“We always go to Dublin for serious things like that. Other than that, thank the Lord, we have had no need to call you.”

“Of course, the big city of Dublin is a great place for everything modern; she must be eating an apple a day!” He laughs shortly. “One more question for my report, if I may.” Before she answers, he continues with his important question. “How did this happen?”

At that moment the breeze blows through the house again and Tom comes running in, holding a big brown paper bag. Dutifully, he hands it to the doctor.

“Really, there was no need. You paid me enough already,” Doctor protests as he takes the gift; appears to know what is in the bag without looking inside.

“Sure, ’tis nothing; you’ve done us a great service, so goodnight now.“ “Wait, I need to add something to my report. How this injury happened?”

“I thought you already asked that question?”

“I did, but we were interrupted, if you recall,” Doctor replies holding his hat to his heart.

Missus Connor holds her tongue for a moment, as if she is thinking hard, then explains what happened to me: “She was horse riding; you know what young people are like, fearless; rush into places where angels fear to tread.”

“Horse-riding?” Tom Connor repeats in a high-pitched voice. Mrs Connor stares at him, with an ominous expression on her countenance.

“Tom, you tell the doctor what happened.”

“Kathleen’s accident you mean?”

“I do.” Her face is like a stone.

Tom takes the reins of the conversation. He moves back a pace, bumping into my bed sofa...

“Right,” Mister Connor replies as though he forgot what happened already; folds his arms; goes into deep thought and then speaks.

“Galloping across ditches and jumping walls; I think she overdid it; somehow fell off; there you have it!” His speech is strained; his face is a shade of bright red. He is shaking. I try to smile at him to help, but I can’t figure all this out at all.

“She hasn’t got a psychotic problem at all?” Doctor asks.

Mr Connor stares at the doctor with his m o u t h o p e n . “What?”

His wife butts in at this point.

“I wouldn’t be surprised at what’s going on in that pretty head of hers; she’s psychotic all right.”

Psychotic? What on earth have I been doing, I wonder.

“Is there anything specific bothering her, at school perhaps?”

“I am sure that there's nothing that won’t work itself right with time; ‘tis her age; she’s a bit wild at the moment, with all those hormones working day and night; like the birds and the bees? Can you remember when you were that young and carefree, or careless as the case may be; wild oats being sown, and all that?”

Doctor quickly steps away as Mrs Connor raises her elbow for a big nudge. Mr Connor has his mouth open; doctor steps a few paces away.

“Well, now, you may be right there!” Doctor Cassidy reflects for a few moments; smiling, seemingly satisfied by this weird explanation.

“Sure, she’ll probably grow out of that wild stage, that’s what’ will happen.”

“I’m sure you’ve hit the nail on the head Doctor Cassidy, as always,” Mrs Connor says, nodding her head agreeably.

“I will put a note in my report, for future reference.

I’ll bid ye 'good evening'. I have another appointment shortly.”

“Good evening,” the Connors say at once as the door is closed behind him.

“That was close,” Mrs Connor says softly, leaning on the closed door.

“Yo u m ad e m e feel like an idiot!” Mister Connor admonishes his wife.

“Well, I thought you did right well; that was a great idea about Kathleen jumping over walls!”

“Lies, all lies; did you have to bring your sister Monica into this when you haven’t spoken to her for years?”

“Well, I’m not telling her about Kathleen until I’m good and ready. I don’t want her going to the Gárda Siochána; nosey woman that she is.”

“That’s a good subject Kathleen; what’s going to happen if someone comes looking for a missing girl? What are we going to do if the Garda come here?” His low, gravelly voice is ominous.

“We’ll cross our bridges when we come to them.” She is nonchalant in her reply.

Relieved by all accounts to see the end of the matter with the doctor. Mr Connor is obviously very upset at the things they have said about me. I can’t fathom one bit of it at all, but it feels like a strange situation.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, woman? Why did you tell the good doctor that there’s plenty more from where that’s come from?” he says, mimicking Mrs Connor. “That was my last drop!”

“D o n ’t b e like that, To m ; there, there n o w ! ” she says comfortingly, kissing his cheek. “You can go and see your man about some more; sure you were always able to do that until this minute.”

“But woman, this is serious business; we don’t know who the girl is. What happens if she’s escaped from some mad house; she’s psycho..., whatever he said.”

Niall has been so quiet until now. He looks at me and then at the Connors. "'Tis all my fault. I should have taken her to the hospital…”

Mrs Connor steps towards him. “Don’t be daft. You did the best you could for the child. You are an angel of God.” She pauses and then adds, “I am dying for a cup of tea.” She tosses her tight brown curls and walks away to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Mr Connor grunts and walks away too, with a very red face.

Niall turns to me and reaches for my hand, holds it gently.

“I’m sorry Kathleen; don’t bother yourself with all this, just try to get better.” He leans over me and whispered. “They fight like that all the time, ‘tis normal conversation for them.”

I feel relieved at that. I would never want to get between these two kind people who say I am their daughter. …

I wake up to the voice of Mrs Connor, who is standing by me with a hot cup of tea.

She places the cup and saucer on a small table as I sit up on the settee. She fixes the

pillows behind my head, and adjusts the soft blanked covering me so that I am comfortable.

“My, you look better already, Kathleen. ’tis a lovely day altogether, as fresh as a daisy. The fire’s dead; I’ll just give this peat a bit of a poke; warm the cockles of your heart in no time.”

“Thank you, Mrs Connor,” I whisper.

“Call me ‘Ma’. What a lovely accent you have. It’s not a local accent. I know it! You are not from around these parts at all. I think you came from Heaven in answer to my prayers.”

She falls to her knees and puts her face in her hands, mumbling for a few moments; leans on the seat of a chair as she gets back on her feet; brushes herself straight and hands me the cup of tea as Niall comes in.

“There you are Niall. ’tis a grand day altogether.”

“Good morning Mrs Connor;” turning to me he says: “The top of the morning to you, young Kathleen,” as he moves quietly next to me. “Do you want a hand with the cup?”

“I am all right…” I say, gingerly holding the cup in my hand and sipping the tea. "'Tis just right.”

“I knew it. ’tis how I like it too, two sugars and a nice drop of fresh milk.” Mrs Connor is ecstatic.

She turns to Niall, who is raking the fire and laying fresh peat.

“She sounds like a little child: my very own baby that I’ve prayed for.” She sniffs and wipes her eyes. “The smoke’s in my eyes. Can you have a little chat with her; I’ll go and feed the chickens; can you check Finn McCool later?”

“I gave him his nose bag already and brushed his coat to a great shine; Mrs Connor; I’d love to talk to Kathleen; what will I say to her?”

“Ask her what she remembers from before her fall,” she says as she leaves the room.

“I will.”

He stands still for a moment, with his hands grasped, staring into my eyes. I blush and smile shyly; my heartbeat quickens. …

Every day he visits me and I am feeling better by the moment, especially when I see him and my heart flutters with excitement.

One day, about two weeks later, Dr Cassidy pays a visit and hear him giving an update of my progress to the Connors. I overhear them in the hallway.

“But her general health is as good as can be expected. I think she should wait a term before returning to school,” he adds.

“Of course, you know best, Doctor. We were thinking the same,” says Mrs Connor speedily. “We will explain everything to the principal.”

The next day Niall comes to see me as usual. I am wearing my new yellow dress and black patent shoes that Mrs Connor gave me. He sits beside me on a low chair and I sip my tea as usual.

“You’re looking very bright; you could do a jig for me!”

“Jig? “ The word sounds really familiar.

“That’s a dance; you’re a dancer; remember I told you that you had one lovely hornpipe shoe on when I found you?”

“Niall,” I whisper as images move in my mind like a film reel turning. I close my eyes.

“I remember being with other children dancing; someone is saying, ‘let us sing, Here we go around the Mulberry bush…We are dancing together in a circle.” I try to explain what I am thinking. My eyes pop open. He looks elated.

“That is great. Can you remember anyone in that circle, dancing? Close you eyes again and try to think of them,” he says, taking the cup from my hand in case I spill the tea. I dutifully close my eyes and try to relax.

“Yes, I can. ’tis coming back; there’s a girl with brown hair, long, and another girl with a pink face.” I open my eyes. “That’s all I see.”

“God, but you’re a marvel; your memory is working again!”

I giggle with excitement. “Now ’tis your turn. Tell me a story.” I’m really enjoying Niall’s story telling. He sometimes tells me jokes that I don’t understand, but he makes me laugh anyway. Seeing those children dancing in a circle has started something happening in my mind.

He leans in close and I can smell his fresh breath. His lips are like a work of moving art. His eyes are such a beautiful colour, like a nice cup of tea.

“I will, later. You know; Kathleen, it will not be long and You will know exactly who you are — your story will be told.”

the truth will be out.

I was beginning to do just that. It was exciting to think that soon my story could be known and told, especially to Niall!

“Niall, I can remember being in a white dress and a veil,” I tell him excitedly.

“You are married; no, you can’t be; didn’t have a wedding ring on when I found you! And I think you are too young to be married yet.”

“I might not be!” I say in defiance.

“Well, you are just lovely no matter what your age is,” he says brashly. I blush at his words.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Tell me more of the white dress?” he asks kindly. “Close your eyes and let your mind relax.”

I do exactly as he suggests. I relax.

“There are lots of other girls in white; all have veils on their heads,” I whisper. “It seems strange. Maybe it’s just my imagination.”

“I know,” he says excitedly: “It’s your first Holy Communion. You know that girls wear veils and white dresses. ’tis a very important day for a Catholic girl and boy.”

“Catholic; is that bad?” Bells are ringing in my head at the sound of this peculiar name, ‘Catholic’.

“Not unless I was Protestant!”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a brand name for a religion, like Saucy Sausages, you remember we had some the other day?.Never mind that now; do you remember a big building; a church?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What about, a person saying your name?”

“There is a name I remember: ‘tis Maeve” “What about her surname?”

“Surname?”

Suddenly I feel shaken. What if I have to leave the Connors and Niall? I’m happy here! He is so handsome that he makes my heart flip over every time I catch a glimpse of him. He’s a lot taller than me; wavy hair, a strand falling forward like a small boy. His light brown eyes shine when he looks at me and pierce into my soul. …

“I can’t remember any more today,” I say in a snappy tone that surprises me.

“That’s all right. Would you like to take a walk in the garden and get some fresh air?”

“I need exercise, otherwise I will be little fat Kathleen,” I say jokingly, covering my anxiety at the thought of leaving him.

“Come on then, I will let you meet some of our family.”

“Family?” I ask.

“Animal family, I mean. There’s Patsy Pig, Fin McCool who is a horse, little Miss chickens… Now, put this jacket

over your shoulders so you don’t catch a cold.” He places his own dark green woollen jacket over my thin shoulders. We laugh as we hold hands and take a walk in the fresh, green grass with the wind blowing gently. He puts his arm around my shoulders and we check out the ‘family’ with joy. …

As the sun sinks in the West, six weeks since I arrived, I am outside the stable. I am wearing comfortable pants, shirt and rubber boots.. Niall is in the stable, checking the straw. I’m busy with a stiff brush in my hands, shining up Finn Mc Cool’s coat until it glistens; humming a tune of some sort from my distant past. He’s a beautiful chestnut coloured horse with a white stripe down his slender face. I promised Niall that I would mount him one day, but am still a little nervous. Niall makes me feel completely at ease with the Connor’s favourite horse; I believe that I’m just happy to be near Niall. As I’m stepping back to admire my work, Niall walks out of the stable I trip over his big feet; falling over. He’s catching me by the elbows and somehow I’m falling into his arms; they are around me; hand holds my left breast for a moment. My heart pounds in response; Niall quickly moves his hand away and holds me by the shoulders.

“Steady there; are you all right?”

“I’m fine…” I can barely breathe. I feel my face turning into a beetroot so I’m spinning away to pick up the stiff brush; grabbing it. I run through the yard and into the house.

Mr Connor fixed up a room just for me, so I rush up the stairs, holding the stiff brush tightly, not realising I’m holding it until I sit down on my soft bed and gasp for air.

“What’s happening to me?” I fling the brush under the bed with my boot as I hear Mrs Connor calling out from below.

“Kathleen, dinner’s ready; wash your hands and come on down before ’tis cold.”

Slowly I creep downstairs and stand in the doorway to the kitchen.

“What’s up with you Kathleen; you look as if you’ve been struck by lightning?”

“I’m not feeling very hungry; do you mind if I just go to my room and rest?”

She throws her head back and shouts out: “ Niall, help he r to he r r o o m ; I don’t w a n t her falling down the stairs.”

“No; ‘tis fine; I can go by myself; just need a rest.”

“All right; take those boots off and make yourself comfortable; have a lie down, Kathleen; I’ll take you up a bit of tea later; would you like that?” She pauses and says sharply, “Remember, wellingtons must never be worn inside the house.”

“Sorry Ma,” I say in dismay. “I forgot. I’ll take them off right away.”

Mrs Connor’s best cup with golden brown tea sits on the little table in my room; thinly sliced butter toast sits up in triangles on her best fine porcelain plate. I can’t bring myself to drink or eat: m y hand is resting on my left breast; all night long I feel the imprint of his hand through my pale green floral flannel nightdress, like I’ve been branded with a hot iron.

“Niall,” I whisper over and over again: that fateful night brings with it a sword that cuts my soul into two people; one is a little girl playing with a happy boy, whose face looks like Niall’s. The other is a tormented woman who screams as strange visions and people visit my room at night when I am alone, taunting me with vile accusations.

Every night now I’m waking up with horrific nightmares; faces from my past life are beginning to materialise; the faces of killer monsters that seem determined to destroy me; I don’t know who they are.

I try to forget the nightmares, so I think about Niall as much as I can. I wouldn’t dare to tell anyone what is happening to me at night.

The Connors might really think I’m psychotic and lock me up if they knew how I’m now spending many hours at night staring out the window into the dark night, with its weird shadows and shapes. My mind seems like the shadowy dark night, with terrifying shapes banging on the door of my memory, trying to get back into me. I can shut the window and draw the curtains on the dark shapes of the night, but not o n the dark shapes in m y dreams. The windows of my mind are opening.

Creatures return every night, slithering through little cracks in the windows of my nightmares, plastering their profiles to my mind like wallpaper to a wall. ...

One evening at the beginning of August, two weeks after my nightmares began, I’m sitting on a chair gathering the last of the heat of the sun. My eyes are half closed as I’m enjoying the laziness of the feeling: soft summer sun warm and friendly. I’m imagining Niall and me playing games together, like two children.

“Lovely evening…” Niall’s voice startles, although he speaks softly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“That’s all right; I’m fine; cat napping; ’tis a beautiful soft summer evening.”

“Beautiful,” he says; staring at me as his mouth moves gracefully over his words. What is going on in his head, I wonder? I know he’s looking at me with that intense look! I’m blushing like a red rose now.

“Kathleen,” he says, after a pause, bending on his right knee, making a slightly crunchy sound on the gravel patch, taking my hands in his. His left thigh bulges with muscles and I resist the urge to stare at all his manly muscles.

“What?” I reply, gasping for air. I sit bolt upright; my hand feels like a wet chicken after being plucked.

“I wish to ask you something very important.” He stops short and his courage fails.

“Say what’s on your mind?” I whisper.

I am barely able to speak. I am shocked that such a fine fellow is quirkily shy, like me. I have no idea what words are hiding behind his glassy-eyed gaze. How I wish I could squeeze the words out of him. My eyes are begging him to speak on and seize the moment. He’s looking away as thought his courage is weakening.

“I think dinner is ready. I must wash up...” He’s getting off his knee and releasing my hand. My heart faints with disappointment. He stands so tall and grand that I stare at his manly profile, bulging thighs, slim waist, muscle bulging chest and strong arms. He brushes his trouser legs, making my heart flip at his manly movement.

“Niall…” I’m leaping off the chair and holding my hand out to him, and he’s taking it again; staring at him; lowering my eyelids. I can’t let this opportunity go. I grasp his hand tightly. Maybe if he holds me the nightmares will go away; the key to my happiness; I know that! “Sure is that all you want to say to me now? ” My words feel like creamy butter, smooth and rich; I am surprised at myself; may God forgive me! I lower my head and look up at him with tender eyes. I flash my eye lashes a couple of times, then stare into his deep dark recesses.

“No, there is more. Look Kathleen, you’re too good for me ; I know that.

I’m just a farmhand with very little to offer. You’re probably from a very rich background.”

“What does it matter?” I reply, my eyes fixated on his. I grip his hand hard.

I can’t let this moment pass without a fight.

“Kathleen, did you know that nobody knows you around here?”

“No!” “You are not from around here. You might be an alien, or were locked in a tower, like ‘Rapunzel’, and escaped, so they tried to drown you, and now you’re here, with us! I don’t want them to come and take you away, because...” He suddenly stops.

“Niall, please don’t stop! I’ll be what you want me to be!” We’re standing close together now. I want him to fill my mind, night and day. Heat from his body radiates around me. “You’re the most wonderful; the kindest man I ever met, if I ever knew another man, but I remember; only monsters!” There, I’ve said what I wanted to say. I stare into his eyes.

“Kathleen; I didn’t know. I’m here for you now!” He’s holding me in his arms; I’m weeping into his clean, open shirt. I feel his smooth chest and his tense muscles.

“You saved my life.” Liquid from my nose is mingling with my tears onto his manly steel body. “Sorry!” I whisper, but he is in some kind of stupor and doesn’t even notice or say anything. He brings me closer, so close that I smell the cold sweat he is exuding, like musk, trees, grass, hay, all mingled into one intoxicating potent.

“Kathleen, I can’t stop thinking of you, night and day; I love you to distraction. Please marry me. All I have I want to give you. Please say yes.” His eyes stare down into mine; desire to kiss his soft mellow lips is coming upon me. I can barely say the next small word.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Kathleen; I adore you; I will give you, whatever you want, the stars, the sky, the whole world.” He’s grasping me in his strong arms and lifting me into his strong chest; our lips touch, gently at first, then warm and finally deliciously passionate. His hands rove my neck, shoulders, back and hold my tight cheeky bottom. I run my hand down his chest and his breathing heightens as mine, rhythmic. My mouth opens to his soft strong tongue and I feel his movement inside my cheeks and we desire more. Our tongues taste each other’s tip and our senses heighten. His cheeks are wet, his chest is gaping through his ripped open shirt. I kiss his chest softly as the buttons release their power over his body and I wield to my power. He undoes my top button and reaches inside to touch my uncovered breast. I groan with longing as he caresses me until my nipple rises in expectation.

We stare into each other’s eyes, melding together with desire for more of each other. I transmit my desire by body language.

“Not here…” he says in a husky voice.

I lay my head on his chest and he holds me close.

A shout from the back door halts our erotic virginal reverie.

“Kathleen, Niall, dinnertime!”

A voice rings clear.

A serving spoon bangs on a metal pot.

Our moment is hijacked. ...

That night, as I dance softly to my room upstairs, I overhear Mr and Mrs Connor talking.

“Now they want to get married, what are we going to do?” Mr Connor poses this question to Mrs Connor, who is seated, knitting away at a huge green jumper for Tom. “Let them get married; they’re in love.”

“In love,” Tom Connor sneers. I don’t believe it. Kathleen Connor pauses and stares at her husband.

“They love each other.”

“But she’s only a little girl.”

“I disagree with you, Tom. She’s at least seventeen or eighteen years old; I was married at seventeen, if you can remember back that far?”

“You were so young! I was a young strapping lad myself then. Before the great war.” He fills his pipe and stares into the fireplace at the smouldering embers.

“I still think of her the day that Niall found her; she was wearing children’s socks, like a little girl.”

“But, you may or may not have noticed the girl has become a young woman since she arrived here.”

“You know, Kate, you’re a very observant woman. You’re right; she is looking more...,” He’s scratching his balding temple trying to locate the right word here.

“Womanly?” his wife finishes his thoughts.

“You are right Kathleen, as always!”

“She should be married if she’s a woman. The time is right.”

I’m shocked to think they’ve noticed such personal changes in me. Staring at my breasts that are rounder every day; in fact I’m rounder all over. I have become a real woman in just a few months! I thought it was just the good cooking Mrs Connor kindly left two brassieres on my bed that I intend to wear shortly. I poke my face between the balustrade gaps and dare to listen.

“Are you ready to give her away in marriage?”

He bangs his pipe on the fire grate before he replies.

“I hardly know her. She doesn’t even know who she is; can I do that?”

“You’re her father; it’s your job.”

“Her kidnapper you mean; we could end up in jail for this.”

Mrs Connor stares at him.

“Don’t say such a thing; think of yourself as her Stepfather. To the outside world you’re her real father. Now husband, put that in your pipe and smoke it!”

“All right; have it your way; but if the priest asks for her birth certificate, what are we going to do?”

She smiles with her eyes, above her knitting.

“Don’t worry your head about a thing; I’ll fix it; everything will be all right, you’ll see.” She pauses from her knitting and stares at her husband until she catches his eye. “Tom, all you have to do is walk down the aisle with herself on your arm, and when the priest asks who gives her to Niall, you say, ‘I do’.”

“I do?”

“Yes, ‘I do’.”

“Is that all?”

“Not all!”

“What else?”

“Get in the spirits for the wedding; you know what I mean?”

“I do.”

“Right; do you want a cup of tea?”

“I do’ No, I mean...; I don’t want a cup of tea; want a bit of peace and sanity in this house.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea; you’ll feel better then; ‘tis no bother.” Mrs Connor acts as if a cup of tea will bring peace and sanity to the house, even to the whole world if necessary. She winds the wool into a big ball; then plunging the knitting needles right through the centre of the wound ball, pushes up from her chair. “Right; I’ll go and make us a cup of tea anyway!”

“All right. I’ll have a cup of tea with three sugars.” Mr Connor leans back in the armchair and waits for his cup of sweet tea. I turn and hurry up the stair.

CHAPTER THREE WEDDING SONG I park my bottom on the edge of the bed and clasp my arms across my chest.

I’m in love! I know it now and it’s a wonderful feeling! I know that Mr Connor will be the perfect father for me on my wedding day. Mrs Connor will see to that!

I’m gazing around my room. It’s a lovely room with beige wallpaper with tiny pink roses splashed all over it, a little wooden dresser with a mirror, and

a tall wardrobe with a long mirror inside. That’s also where I hang all the nice clothes the Connors have given me. This room has been my haven of refuge and my battleground for the past two months.

My eye is wandering to the window on one side with soft pink curtains.

They blow in the breeze when the window is open just as it is now! I see Niall walking across the yard, his shadow long and firm in the evening light. My heart is leaping and I clutch my breasts. I can’t stop staring at his attractive stature as he strides along. His happiness reflects mine. I’m staring until he disappears through the barn and into his own room at the back. That is the picture I want to keep in my mind forever, and not those awful monsters that are coming to get me at night!

I strip down to my waist and with a soft sponge wash my fat breasts with the jug of water by the bowl. Using a swirling motion I see my nipples rising expectantly and I think about my future with Niall. Slowly, as I gently rub my body clean from the sweat of the day, Niall becomes my focus, and now my dream is to be with him for the rest of my life. The dancing girl and the handsome prince live happily ever after!

Waking after a fitful sleep, I am a new person; a woman with a future: all bright and happy like the sparkling sun emerging from behind a black cloud.

Missus Connor goes into wedding plan mode straight away; Tom is despatched promptly to find an old friend who is a priest. Two weeks later, I am dusting myriads of porcelain ornaments in the Connor’s glass cabinet when Missus Brady, a burlesque Marilyn Munro, bursts into the sitting room carrying a big white tissue wrapped package.

“So, you’re the lucky bride to be, Kathleen?” Her voice is like a musical instrument wavering up and down that mesmerises.

“I am.” I hold the duster in mid-air. “How are you, Mrs Brady?”

“Call me Maggie, sure you are a woman now.” She tut-tuts and shakes her head. “I know why they’ve kept you hidden for so long, you’re a real picture.

Parental protection, I suppose.” She moves a vase and ornament, and then unveils her package.

“We’ll see how this fits.”

“What is it?”

“It’s your wedding dress; step into it and pull it over the hips. 'Tis the best way to get it on. I’ll squeeze you in!”

I blush.

“What if Mr Connor comes in?”

“I am sure he has seen it all by now. Shy virgin then? All right, go on up stairs and I’ll follow. Take this and start getting your clothes off. I have people waiting at the shop.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, get on with it,” she says, abruptly as she bundles the fabric into my arms.

“Walk up backwards, that will save you tripping up.”

“All right.” I struggle to drag the dress upstairs one step at a time.

“I will hold onto the other end,” she says, picking up a flurry of fabric. We stumble together until we reach the top of the stair. I shuffle into my room and place my end of the dress on the bed. 'Tis enormous.

“Are you still feeling shy about getting everything off?”

Having shared this intimate moment with my wedding dress has made me feel courageous.

“You can watch if you want to.”

“That’s grand, because I would not want anything happening to this rather expensive dress.”

“Of course, the dress is the biggest thing at a wedding.”

I wonder how I know this fact?

“It most certainly is. But, you must dominate the dress with your beauty. ’Tis that simple.”

“Well, get your things off, down to underwear, and I will work out how you can get into this most beautiful gown.”

I undo the button-through green and floral dress, let it slip onto the carpeted floor and stand in my petticoat for a moment.

“Now, step into this opening here. She holds the garment open at the waist.

I step into the opening and she adjusts the awesome gown.

“The bones must be in the right place, then it all should fall into place.”

She yanks the sides of the bodice and pulls my brassier strap up a little higher; yanks the zip at the back.

“Breathe in.”

I take a deep breath as I am harnessed into the gown.

“I think it will fit your glorious figure perfectly,” she says. “I will tidy this bustle.” Her hands flick at racing pace at the back of the dress.

“Let me see the front.” Gingerly she tiptoes around the dress and stares at my bulging breasts.

“Brings up the bust line very well.” My breasts are staring me in the eyes; neckline is a ‘v’ shape and exposes my before unknown cleavage.

I feel the blood pouring into my face with embarrassment and the tight dress.

“It’s a bit on the low side,” I venture to whisper, expecting to get my head bitten off.

“You must feel good about yourself. I can nip and tuck the front so that you are walking on air and not eggshells on your special day. And the good lady herself says she will give you her string to place around your neck on the day, and with a veil as well, you will look as pretty as any princess.

“String?” I ask, wondering if I am to be tied to Mrs Connor in some way.

“Pearls me love, the very best by all accounts. They can be made into three strands to cover your bare neck.” She looks out the window and sees Mrs Connor arriving back from a visitation. Maggie pushes on the handle and shoves the window open; then sticks her head, embalmed in the frothy pink chiffon curtain out the open window. “Kathleen, would you get the string for me please. We are trying the you know what on.”

“I will to be sure. Give me a minute,” I hear the voice of Mrs Connor reply.

The dog is barking frantically as his owner disembarks from her silver Mercedes Benz 280.

“She has great taste, a real lady is Kathleen.” Maggie says this as she prowls around me like a tiger.

“Don’t move. ’tis our own fabric; created right here in Ireland,” Missus Brady declares, as if she wove it all herself.

“I’ll just tidy this a bit.” She is fingering the bustle; how do you tidy a bustle, I wonder. I imagine someone with a clippers trimming a hedge into shape.

“Now, take a good look at yourself.” She turns me around slowly towards the long mirror.

I gape at my majestic reflection. Gingerly I move my fingers across the hipline to feel the soft, silky, embossed fabric that clings like a sausage skin on a plump sausage. The ivory and shimmer make my features jump out and my skin appear ethereal.

“I look like an angel. Did you make the dress?” I ask timorously, hoping it is the right question.

“I did indeed! ’Tis a long story about an angel!”

I stare at Maggie. I’m not sure I want to hear the long story. I ask anyway.

“You saw your angel?” I ask. My breathing is heavy and my breasts rise and fall displaying my nervousness.

“No, I didn’t see my angel, but I saw Angela the beautiful lady I made the dress for.”

“The beautiful lady Angela: who was she?” Why I ask this question is psychologically rooted in my own dilemma.

“She was adopted and became our daughter when she was five,” she begins.

“We could not have children, sadly.”

“I am so sorry for you. That must be terrible.” In fact I cannot imagine how hurtful that would be for any family.

“Don’t be; ’tis an old skeleton in our cupboard. She was a beautiful, as precious as if she was my own daughter. She was such an angelic child. They named her Angela and it was perfect for her nature. She’s shaking her head; tears in her eyes. “She met this pilot; fine young fellow: Raphael was his name; Raphael and Angela, two lovely angels who were madly in love.”

“So did they get married?”

“They flew away and never came back ; angels in the sky.”

“Where did they fly to?” I ask the question with sheer wonder. I mean you had to fly somewhere, to another place, I’m thinking. Birds fly from tree to tree, so humans must fly somewhere.

“The ’plane was hit by a meteor and crashed. ’It doesn’t bear thinking about. They disappeared into the deep North Atlantic Ocean. They were to be married when they returned from London, after signing a secret contract.”

I shiver. “A secret contact. A meteor!”

“Tis very mysterious all right. I warned them not to go flying that day as I saw a disaster in the tea leaves. They would not listen.”

I realise it is two days before my wedding! Goosebumps run up and down my arms under the long sleeves with peaks at the wrists, as if ants are crawling beneath the fabric of my life.

Red-faced Mrs Connor appears in the door.

“Are you all right then?” I ask as she tries to catch her breath.

“I am fine, child. Maggie dear, she looks like Queen Mary.”

“You are quick off the mark , Kathleen; this gown is a copy!”

“You don’t say! I know all about the royal family; I have a drop of royal blood in me! I do believe we’re the descendants of King Rory O’Connor!” She steps towards me as she speaks.

“Maggie, you’ve done a great job.” She has a handkerchief in her hand. “My little princess Kathleen is all grown up now, nearly eighteen. The dress fits like a glove.”

“I agree with you unanimously.” Missus Brady discretely brushes a tear away and stands a couple of steps away to admire me from a slight distance in a good sized bedroom.

“You’d better put your high heels on too it’s a bit trailing at the front; you might trip up.”

“That is sorted. I happened to see perfect white satin shoes the other day; staring at me from Lynch’s shop window, so I bought them.” She blots her eyes with a lace embellished white handkerchief extruded from her skirt side pocket.

“Here’s, the string I promised.” She holds out a flat box with a black lid to Maggie, who takes the box as the handkerchief disappears into her pocket again.

“I will go and get the satin courts.” Mrs Connor hurries to her bedroom and triumphantly returns a few moments later holding a box filled with tissues and pearl-white satin court-style shoes with a huge pearl at the ‘v’ shaped front.

“Try these on for size.” Mrs Connor bends over and places the shoes on the floor near me. She groans and kneels on the wool rug.

I hold on to Maggie Brady while Mrs Connor huddles down at my feet and shoves the shoes onto my bare feet.

“Your feet are as rough as sandpaper; Push…” she commands.

I feel myself rising up like the sun and falling over.

“You’ll have to get those feet softened up, and then you can wear silk stockings! They fit like a glove, Kathleen child,” Mrs Connor says. Maggie and I help her as she , clambers to her feet; she glances towards Maggie.

“A mother’s instinct!” she sighs, and then hugs me, saying soothingly, “Alanna; you remind me of my sister; you’re the spitting image of Monica; sweeter in nature, angelic.”

“Thanks, Mother.” My reply sounds hollow, fake. She never comes up in my nightmares, so how did that happen, I question.

She stands a little away from me, smiling smugly and holds my shoulders; runs her eyes down my form from head to toe where her gaze rests. “We’ll use the pumice stone and get those feet as smooth as a baby’s bottom!” Instinctively I feel the pain of what may be a pumice stone. Maggie Brady clomps downstairs and returns a few moments later She clutches up a floral bucket bag from which she extracts a pincushion with a thousand pins stuck in.

“Breathe in.” I gasp in fright and hold my breath. “Don’t worry, I’m just sticking pins in the dress, not in you,” she mumbles through a mouthful of pins: “out!”

Relieved, I sigh and relax.

“Do not relax too much. Take a deep breath. Hold it! There!” She is triumphant. Her eyes stare into mine as her finger wiggles in front of my face.

She lashes out imperative instructions.

“For the next two days, just stay away from apple pie and custard! You can’t afford to put even one ounce on, or the seams will burst asunder. Do you understand me?”

“I do,” I whisper in terror. …

My big day has arrived and a corner of this world seems to be buzzing with excitement. My stomach is becoming noisy as I have hardly eaten at all for the last two days, for fear of bursting asunder in my tight wedding gown. It’s been hard to resist Missus Connor’s hot apple pies with lashings of custard made from fresh milk and eggs, which has become one of my favourite foods these past months. ‘Tis a small sacrifice for a great dress.

I am wearing a white silk wrap dressing gown that the Connors gave me for this special day. Instructions are to wear this during my preparation.

Noleen, a local hairdresser and beautician has come to prepare my face and hair. Her inquisitive bright blue eyes, lined in stark black, with very long black lashes, stare at me as if my soul is being searched. Her brilliant red hair in bouffant style surrounds her small, paler than pale smiling face, with its turned up nose, rosy cheeks and a winning smile to brighten any day. Huge silver hoop earrings complement her facial profile.

She greets me as if we have been friends since the beginning of time. She is dressed in classic black mini black skirt and open necked blouse that hangs loosely around her waistline. Her black stockings and black shoes co-ordinate well. I wonder if she has stepped out of the pages of a glossy magazine that Mrs Connor keeps bringing me. She carries a bucket bag and a locked case, all in shocking pink.

“Sit in front of the mirror, Kathleen.” I sit on a special chair with a moss green velvet cover that Mrs Connor gave me to do my face.The pink case is placed on the bed and unlocked. Inside is a treasure trove of colourful lipsticks, shadows, brushes and jars of different shapes and sizes. She notices my eyes bulging at the treasures in front of us. "'Tis just my beauty case. I thought you would have one of these. I could not live without it.” She does not wait for an answer but extracts a jar and proceeds to dab my face with a paddle pop stick full of white cream.

“First, you need to cleanse tone and moisturise, that’s the latest technique,” she says as an apron is tied around my neck. She talks to me in the mirror,

which is quite strange, like someone’s ghost speaking. She uses little sponges and cotton balls to rubs my face with a cream; she uses a soft cotton ball, cleans my face again and rubs cream all over my face and neck.

“I’m just going to put a first foundation layer on now.” She places a chart with a colour scheme against my skin and nods her head.

I watch in awe as she rubs some skin-coloured stuff all over my face. I look like a ghost.

“Do you think I look a bit pale?” I ask. Her eyebrows gather in a frown.

“Hold your horses; I’m not half finished,” she snaps.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t know a lot about beauty.”

“You are at least honest. Most girls know nothing about the proper way to do make up.”

I stay silent as she uses her circular motion to apply blush.

She uses a soft and hairy circular brush to put powder all over the face before doing my eyes.

Now her rock-steady right hand is used to write around my eyes in black.

Her dexterity is exercised as she sticks eye lashes over mine, making me blink.

“Don’t blink,” she orders. “tis only a bit of glue. You will get used to it.”

I pop my eyes out to steady them.

“Eyebrows are the frame of the face.” She proceeds to pluck some of my eyebrows out, as I let verbal yelps, and then draws them back in again in shades of brown.

“Now for the most important part, you might say.”

“What’s the most important part?” I ask innocently, relieved that she has stopped plucking my brows.

She shakes her head.

“Your hair is the most important aspect of beauty, even if it is a wig. It must accentuate your best features and make your face stand out more.

“Of course,” I say, nodding my head.

“Did you want curls towards the back?” I nod my head again; I suppose she knows what she is doing. “They are not quite in fashion, but for a bride, they are acceptable, and you’ve got the hair to do it.”

I nod my head again.

“Don’t move your head. I am visualising,” she says, straightening my head in the mirror. “You have a very even face.”

“I have?”

“Yes, I must say ’tis one of your many assets” She divides my hair in sections and begins to back comb and pin pieces on my crown.

“What happened here?” she asks as she notices my scar.

“I fell off the horse,” I lie, feeling squeamish. "'Tis a nasty scar,” she adds. I squirm when she brushes near the spot.

“I’ll cover it with makeup; then let the hair come softly over it.” She cocks her head from side to side, moving a piece of hair as she works out her plan.

Finally she manages to fix my hair so well nobody could ever guess I had a scar.

“What do you think about that?” She asks this question with a sweet sound in her voice, as if she is sucking a hard sweetie.

“You must be a magician!” I exclaim, peering into the mirror to try and see the scar.

“It is my profession. I am happy with that though!” She admires her work for a moment, uses both hands to straighten my head for the next event.

“Keep still.”

She takes a parcel from her bucket bag. I watch with anticipation as a crown is placed in front of the high bouffant.

“I look like a real princess,” I say exuberantly. I can hardly believe what I see. “Gold,” I mumble.

“It’s not real gold, just plastic coated with a gold film.” Noleen smiles happily. “I’m glad you like it; I didn’t think a floral wreath would suit that gorgeous gown you’re wearing,” she says, turning her head away from the mirror for the first time to admire the dress hanging over the wardrobe.

“You must come from royalty, that’s what I think.”

“We do come from royalty, so Mammy tells me,” I say, genuinely impressed.

“Do you do this every day?”

“I do, ’tis my job.”

“No, I mean, do you wear all this type of makeup every day?”

“I couldn’t go out the door if I didn’t have my face on,” she says, giggling.

I laugh. It feels so nice to laugh with someone young again. Her expression turns serious and she stares at me in the mirror, like someone from my past speaking from history.

“Your skin could really do with a good beauty routine; now that you’re getting married you need to keep yourself looking great; I don’t believe in letting yourself go, just because we are married. You need to keep your husband interested.”

“I must?” I reply, wondering how on earth I ever got Niall interested without any of this stuff in the first place.

She cleans her brushes with a cloth and places them in the beauty bag carefully, asking, “What school did you go to?”

Surprised at her question, I don’t have any answer. I repeat her word, “School.”

“You did go to school?” She laughs lightly.

“I never saw you at Scriob Primary.” Immediately she continues her questioning with an alternative school system.

At the same time she is busily packing up her beauty tools.

“Did you go to Dublin?’ I nod. Mrs Connor said the same thing, I remember. My memory is sharpening and I burst out in a sweat for no good reason.

She continues with her packing, talking away all the time as if I was just one of her regular clients.

“I suppose you have the money, that’s the thing!”

“My father is very rich,” I say, justifying her comment.

“He’s a bit of a sly goat,” she says, looking at me and grinning.

“What does that mean?”

“He kept you hidden from the world for a long time, but that’s what posh people do, hide their treasures,” she says emphatically. "'Tis nice to meet you, Noleen,” I say, wishing she would go away and stop asking me questions and making me feel hot and prickly on my skin.

“Good God!” She takes my hand.

“What?”

“I’ve never seen such neglected nails; do you bite them?”

“I do. Sometimes…”

“I can only do my best; do not bite these again until after the wedding, or I’ll come and haunt you when I die,” she says in a commanding voice.

“I won’t,” I reply, as a cold rush floods over me.

“Your mother told me to give you the works, so that includes a manicure.”

She rummages in her bucket bag and takes out another smaller pink fold-up, opens it up. She lays out a row of little bottles and fingernails. She sits on the valet used to hang my clothes after I wear them.

“Are these real nails?” I say, trying to make a joke.

She stares at me. “They only need to last a day. Today is an important day and everything must be perfect.”

“Today I am to be wedded,” I say absentmindedly. "'Tis not a bed of roses, you’ll find out.”

“What? About the thorns?”

She laughs. “Wait and see,” with a glint in her eye as if she alone knows about being married.

“What will I see?” I ask in a conversational manner.

“The baby bulge.” She taps her tummy.

“Can you notice my bulge?”

“Now that you mention it. I thought you just loved apple pie and custard.”

Her hand is in mid air and I think she is turning pink.

“You look wonderful, Noleen. It suits you, and I honestly never thought you looked like you were having a child.”

“Thanks. Vincent says I hide it well.”

“Vincent?”

“My husband, don’t you read the papers. Our wedding was plastered all over the Chronicle.”

“Of course: he’s your husband; he’s also right, you hide it well,” I try to sound interested and knowledgeable about local issues.

“How do you get these nails to look so realistic?” I ask to try and stop talking about things I ought to know according to Noleen.

She brightens up at that and looks a little smug.

“Trade secret; if you want refills you’ll need to visit the salon. We are selling them at half price until December. After Christmas they will back to full price again.” She sits up straight and smiles her beautiful smile with red as apples lips.

“Let them sit for a few minutes. I will tell your mother that I am finished.

She glances at the clock on the wall. "'Tis nearly half nine! I have a few minutes, so I will give you a hand with the dress,” she says, admiring the beautiful garment hanging over the wardrobe.

Noleen yells “I am finished,” as she starts to pack up her beauty products into their special places in her pink roll up.

“Except for just one more thing. Perfume.”

“There,” I point to a gilt atomiser bottle on my dresser.

“Perfect Rose Au De Parfumé,” she reads the label. “Close your eyes and don’t breathe.”

She squeezes the atomiser and I am sprayed all over with Perfect Rose.

Within a few moments the sound of chatter and high heeled footsteps are close by. The bedroom door is filled with the robust form of Maggie Brady and Kathleen Connor on her tail.

“You did a grand job, Noleen,” Maggie Brady says, bustling into the room carrying a small flat box.

“Come on, Kathleen, we need all hands on deck,” she exclaims as Mrs Connor marches in with a grin like a Cheshire cat.

“Take your gown off,” Mrs Connor says abruptly. I slip the silk robe off and lay it on the bed. The stool and valet are pushed aside as the dress takes centre stage. I hold on to the shoulders of the women as I step into the gown and It pulled up from the waist.

“Breathe in,” is the command of the day as the side zip is raised.

Noleen makes the first comment when the job is done and I am incarcerated in the fabulous gown.

“She’s got a great shape,” lacing the dress at the back, tugging until I feel that she might break one of my ribs.

“Stop,” I whimper.

“I was about to.” Noleen turns to the women and pats her tummy. “She won’t always have this; not after a few buns in the oven,” The three laugh heartily as though I’m invisible. I know what they mean. I join in their laughter and they stop laughing because the dress may be in danger of bursting asunder.

A flurry of attention ensues as wrist-high satin gloves, with the fingers tops removed, are taken from their flat box and pulled over my trembling hands.

My freshly created nails push the cut-away finger tips; they look spectacular.

A bouquet of fresh apricot, pink and white roses; cobalt blue forget-me-nots, trimmed with sweet-smelling purple-blue lavender; with an apricot coloured satin bow added; a floral creation by Mrs Connor, is placed in my hands, causing me to sneeze. Beautician Noleen looks aghast at me, mouth open. Her hard work is in danger of being sullied.

“You’re not allowed to sneeze; look at the light if you feel one coming on,” she instructs at the last minute. “May God bless you now!” She leans forward and kisses my cheek, in an emotional moment; then rubs it; “lipstick; I wish they’d invent one that doesn’t leave a mark! That kiss almost ruined my morning’s work.” She smiles, showing white even teeth, glowing; then she glances at the clock on the bedroom wall: “I have a client at ten, so I must fly,” she says. “Thanks for giving me this opportunity to help your daughter, Mrs Connor.”

“You did a grand job, Noleen, Mrs Connor says. “I have something for you downstairs on the sideboard. Follow me.”

“I will just grab my things,” Noleen says, taking her bucket bag and her beauty case in tow. She follows Mrs Connor down the stair. The pair clip clop softly down the carpeted stair and out of my view, only the echo of their random chatter can be heard diminishing as they reach the sitting room.

I catch a glimpse of the beautician from my bedroom window. I experience an incredible surge of jealousy. The woman with everything I never dreamed about; a pink car, bright blonde hair, perfect in style and colour, along with a

pink bucket bag and every essential for her business tucked inside. She jumps inside, turns on the engine, roaring as a racing driver and bobs along the driveway like a pink butterfly hovering over a million flowers and into the yonder. I wish I could be so modern and confident. …

The wedding is in the garden next to the house. Mr Connor has been keeping his floribunda bush roses for the last two days in special pots. The place smells divine. I’ve seen some of the guests arrive in the last few minutes: Mr and Mrs Connor, supposedly my mother and father are all dressed up to the nines. The celebrant Father Patrick Buckley is a sombre draped black gown.

He bangs his Blackthorn shillelagh along the concrete footpath that leads from the driveway where he emerged from the Connor’s silver Mercedes, driven by a local lad, Tad Ryan, an up and coming farmer of some renown. A pair of altar boys jump out and follow the priest to the garden, where their gowns are waiting in the transformed tool shed, now a dressing room for the holy ones.

A window in my room overlooks the garden and gives me a bird’s eye view.

The Celebrant, now clothed in white and is hobnobbing with a few noble folk wearing their Sunday best suits, ties and ladies with colourful hats and heels that are totally unsuited to the soft grassy surface. Around a dozen folk mill around the perfectly mowed lawn, with its gravel pathways waist high hedges around the perimeter and abundance of flower beds, roses, chrysanthemums, ten shades of pink azaleas, bell shaped rhododendrons, as pink as a drove of pigs; all are blooming with joyous nodding heads for our big day, cheering me on. "'Tis time to stop gazing and to go down,” are the words Maggie Brady says tapping me on the shoulder. “Let us check the necessities: something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue?” she asks. Before I can interact, she continues with her interpretation of the necessities:

“The dress is borrowed, the shoes are new, pearls are very old; this is a disaster.” She looks as though she might faint; cups her hands over her face.

“There’s nothing blue!”

“There is!” I say and point to the cobalt blue forget-me-nots.

“May God bless your mother, thank the Lord Himself!” she says, almost swooning with delight. Looking around with her eagle eye, she declares: “She is already playing the prelude, so we have to get a wriggle-on.” She pauses.

“Have you got your horse-shoe?”

“I have,” I reply; raising my left hand to show her the newly crafted silvery shoe dangling on my arm.

“You’ll have great blessings and good luck then,” she says, completely satisfied.

I travel down the stairs with Maggie holding my long train behind. When we reach the bottom of the stair, I can’t help but notice a girl standing alone, wearing the most fancy pink frock with frills, holding a small posy: a crown of flowers in her hair.

“This is Bridget; she’s your bridesmaid,” Maggie Brady announces. We smile at each other, trying to cover our nerves.

“She’s Fran Kearney’s daughter,” Maggie Brady explains. “You probably know one another?”

“Probably,” I say, feeling hot under my makeup. I can’t remember her at all.

Bridget stares and smiles, exposing her giant teeth and pink gums. She shrugs her shoulders.

“Where is Tom?” Mrs Connor asks as she stops playing; opens the double doors, bending over to lock them in place for the processional. She stands up, brushes her couture-style dress in mauve with a fine pleated skirt; matching coat-jacket in silk. She stares in awe when she sees Bridget and me. She cups her face in her hands and shakes her head:

“You’re beautiful. ‘You, too; Bridget’,” she says as an after-through; she dashes outside, holding onto her races-style hat with feather and brim, seeking the father of the bride, Mr Connor. The window next to the double doors is wide open, so the guests can see us if they turn around. Through the nylon lace curtain, I can just see them waiting nervously in the garden, sipping drinks, and keeping an eye on the double door for the grand entry.

“He’s on me heels,” Mrs Connor calls out. She seats herself at the ivory keys of the Baby Grand piano arranged along the wall on the far side of the room. The ebony piano shines like brand new from polishing. We can hear Mr Connor cough as he comes through the sitting room side door. I turn around and his mouth drops open.

“Get on with it man. Take her left arm; hurry up,” she whispers as he stops in his tracks. “Now!” She hits the piano and begins Wagner’s Bridal Chorus.

He staggers by me with his mouth open. I place my arm in his and we smile at one another. He winks his eye and I feel a moment of father-daughter connection for the first time.

“Go,” the wife commands.

Our bridesmaid in front begins the processional walk down the garden path with decorated seating on either side, ruining the lovely grass. Buckets of roses and other flowers are abundant and their aroma adds a magical feel.

Tom and I follow close behind, step stop, step stop, which gets confusing if you don’t concentrate. The guests gaze at us as if we are at a market fare, and some people’s eyes are glistening with real tears. Some even dab their eyes with a crisp ironed handkerchief. They almost make me cry.

“Don’t look,” Tom says, squeezing my arm. I stare straight ahead.

Father Patrick Buckley grunts like a pig, waiting to greet us like a giant ‘Humpty-Dumpty’ in a long white surplus and scapula. He holds a black prayer book with gold trimmed pages.

A slight breeze blows my veil and I catch my breath. ’Tis a fine sunny day and the flowers exude a heavenly aroma, but where is the most important person in my life? I stare at the priest, the two altar boys dressed in white and the lighted candles flickering. Ned Smith, his colleague, stands silently, appearing dapper in a black suit and black tie. My heart sinks with concern as Tom and I continue our walk of pain down the red carpet laid out before us.

I see a figure from the corner of my eye emerging from the transformed tool shed.

“What is he playing at?” I whisper to Tom. He shakes his head and grips my arm tightly. Niall takes his place in front of the priest, beside his best man. He holds his hands together in a fist and turns to watch me amid the smell and smoke of incense as the altar boys rock the thurible. The prayers of saints are rising as Niall and I meet behind the veil.

His eyes glisten as he stares into my eyes. He appears at least ten feet tall with his hair glistening, god-like, slicked down with hair tonic and his fine black suit and apricot toned cravat, held down with a single gold pin. His straight white teeth sparkle from scrubbing, and perfectly match his brilliant white shirt, freshly pressed by Missus Connor and starched so that it could stand all by itself. My mouth is smiling in response, hidden under my veil. My heart throbs, almost painfully as I experience a joy that awakens my soul, flesh and desire for a life of perfect bliss with one person, Niall, my prince.

The priest moans in prayer, disturbing my reverie.

“Join hands,” he shouts. He then asks Niall if he takes me as his wife.

“I do,” Niall replies, his eyes shining. Father coughs and addresses me.

“Do you, Kathleen Mary Connor, take this man, Niall Finbar Dempsey as your lawfully wedded husband?” His voice moans on; staring at me.

“I do.” That wasn’t too hard; I feel more relaxed now. We have to repeat everything Father Buckley says, which all seems like a dream to me; Niall gives me a lovely gold ring, just the right size for my finger.

“You are now husband and wife.” There's a slight pause; then gruffly the priest says,“You may kiss the bride.”

Niall raises the veil and our faces meet for the first time as man and wife.

His face is glowing with happiness; I feel my face reflecting his joy and shimmer. I can smell his after shave lotion, musk and orchid mingled with my Perfect Rose Au de Parfumé.

Before we can connect, there is an interruption.

“Wait on there!” Ned Smith has the camera out. “Just hold it there for a tick.” We hold our mouths together for what seems like the longest and most blissful moment in time, whilst he adjusts his settings. We begin to laugh.

“Ready; steady, hold on; hold on; Father, move in a little bit closer, just between the two?” Father Buckley grumbles as he shuffles a few feet to the left behind us. "'Tis perfect. Now keep those lips puckered together. Right,” finally he clicks the camera.

After a few more snaps with Mister and Missus Connor, and one with the guests, we head to a table in the hallway where an open book lies atop a clean white tablecloth sticking out like a ballerina’s dress.

A pen with a quill attached awaits our capture. I have been practicing my writing for the last few days. Strangely, I seem to have forgotten how to write! Niall has been helping me form the letters again, but it is so hard that I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to write properly again, or read again. I definitely lost something when I almost drowned. Niall places his hand over mine to stop me shaking as I write; he guides the pen over the parchment.

"'Tis a lovely hand you have.” He signs his name and I lovingly follow every move of his fingers with my eyes. He has beautiful, strong, manly hands. Our eyes meet again and the desire is unfathomable, intense. I feel like letting him take me right at the sacred signature table. He smiles and his shiny face tells me that he feels the same. Our fingers touch and the magic begins over again.

Father Buckley nips outside to light his pipe that must have gone out; he than returns and peers at our signatures.

“Right” He signs his wobbly signature and the date of our marriage as Wednesday 21 August, in the year of our Lord,1968. Following the signing ordeal, I am determined to enjoy myself until we can immerse our bodies within each other’s arms and fulfil our passion.

We walk through the sitting room doors together, as husband and wife. A loud cheer greets our ears; Bridget is following behind us, holding up the train of my dress; Mrs Connor goes into loud mode on the piano, belting the black and white keys, hopping off her chair with the force of her hands and arms. Her whole body is rocking with the rhythm all the time. I have never in my life met a bunch of folk who are so friendly, kissing, hugging each other and giving me and Niall heartiest congratulations and daintily wrapped presents that pile up on a special table set aside.

There’s a mountain of food spread on Missus Connor’s tables, plates of neatly cut triangular sandwiches, a bowl of sausages, sausage rolls, meatballs; a beautifully iced wedding cake, with a little figurine of a man and a woman getting married on the top, made by a dear friend, Joyce, who loves creating artistic decorations with royal icing. The best tablecloth is stiff and starched, but you can barely see it for the food. There’s a silver pot with tea in it and cream in the jug. On another side table there are jugs of orange juice and bottles of porter, whiskey, and other alcoholic beverages I have never seen in my life, all lined up in smart bottles with colourful labels.

From the kitchen we can smell the aromas of boiled corned meat, roast beef, roast ham and roast chicken, and roasting potatoes. Mrs Kearney is busy preparing the food, with a couple of helpers. Mrs Connor has her best china and polished silverware on display on the grand dining tables. Around fifteen people fit around a couple of tables to enjoy our wedding feast.

We finish our meal with a small sample of the wedding cake, which is a whiskey fruitcake. Champagne and whiskey are the primary tools for all to totally be part of the occasion.

Mr Connor rises up to give his speech, thanking all the guests and then welcoming Niall into the family. His eyes glaze over as he continues as if he is in a trance. “God brought us our little girl, Kathleen. We love her and hereby give every blessing in her new life with Niall.� Ned then gives a talk, complimenting the bridesmaid and those who helped to make this day possible. He tells us all about Niall’s excellent character traits, which I know already.

He proposes a toast to the bride and groom. Everyone drinks and we give each other a sly smile.

Niall stands up amid a roar and thanks Mr Connor for his great speech and for the toast. He then compliments the best man, Ned. Then he proposes a toast to Mr and Mrs Connor as the hosts of the celebration. Shyly they accept the congratulations and drinks are raised towards them.

After that, Ned thanks Niall for his toast and he makes a toast to the Bridesmaid. Everyone had another wee drink.

He then reads out a few cards and a couple of telegrams wishing the bride and groom a happy life.

With all the duties over, ensues. Tables are cleared sugared almonds for those record player and places a

everyone seems more relaxed and a lot of chatter and put aside. Drinks are on the sideboard and who are possibly still hungry. Niall plugs in the twelve inch LP on top. Soon the merry folk are

dancing to the sound of Rock and Roll. Finally we have the waltz playing.

Niall and I dance around the space in the middle of the room. The bouquet is thrown, caught by our bridesmaid, Bridget, who almost faints with ecstasy; the garter is removed from above my knee with manly hands, much tittering and shamed faces. I change into a more comfortable A-line shirt lemon and moss green skirt with long sleeved moss green skivvy, the latest style. Niall wears a casual coffee coloured pant with a gold skivvy and tan sports jacket.

We go under a tunnel of arms and out the door. Mr Connor has loaned us his maroon Chevy pick up truck, fitly connected to various old boots at the back, much to my dismay.

Niall drives the truck out of sight of the house and removes the bits and pieces that are clunking on the road, however, he cannot remove the painted bumper with Just Married, black on silver, so he leaves it on.

In order to get away from the crowd and Niall booked us into Cashel House Hotel for two nights as he heard it had recently been refurbished. It takes us nearly an hour to drive there along the winding roads along the coast. The sun is disappearing behind the vast Atlantic Ocean shimmering gold as we arrive to a very warm welcome with a glass of Irish Coffee sweet white on soft warm black. Our hearts are warmed with the welcome and the drink.

Once we are shown our room Niall insists on carrying me across the threshold amid laughter and a safe landing in the middle of a super soft four poster bed.

Niall and I, though shy at first, soon our clothes are strewn across the floor. He touches me and my libido rises to match his. With deep kisses and passion we consummate our love, amid groans and gasps, in this four posts bed, in an ancient home built for the princes and princesses of Ireland. My joy overflows and my life is finally complete when I see the shine in Niall’s eyes and feel the security and passion of his gentle and strong youthful body. Our passion and kisses continue through to the following day, when we suddenly

fall into a deep sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms, totally naked and unashamed. Satisfied. …

The Connors allocated us the guest house, to the left of the kitchen, that has its own entry with one large room. It has a little table and an ornate ceramic jug and bowl for us to wash in. We like to wash each other’s backs and our fronts too, always ending up with kisses, passionate embraces and adventures under the sheets, where our love rises to extreme heights of sensual pleasure and ecstatic joy in each other’s bodies every time.

CHAPTER FOUR MURPHY AT THE DOOR Two weeks after our wedding, I take on a new role, wearing jodhpurs, boots, riding cap and jacket I Niall is persuading me to ride Finn McCool. I promised, so I will. I feel excited but fearful at the same time; finally sitting upright in the saddle. My fear washes away as I feel the horse’s strong body steady beneath my buttocks. I look into Niall’s kind face next to the horse’s strong neck. I want to please him so much that I could gallop away into the distant with excitement.

“It feels grand; I love it!”

“I knew you would. Pat her neck if she stirs and speak quietly to her. I’ll get Black Jack and we can go for a trot around the yard and if you feel like it, across the paddock.”

As Niall’s feet crunch the gravel pathway to the stable a few yards away, Toby the dog comes running after the ginger cat and they come right up to Finn Mc Cool’s front legs. I scream in fright, dig my heels into his sides and yank on the reigns. The horse rears up and makes a wheezing noise. I try to pat her on the neck and completely lose my balance. As if time is standing still, I become airborne and before I land I black out.

“Kathleen!” Niall shouts my name and it comes in waves like the sea roaring. I feel his strong arms lifting me and carrying me away into the sky.

I open my eyes. I am lying in our bed and Niall is staring at me, with a very worried expression on his face. I can barely speak as emotion rises in my throat.

“Kathleen, my darling, please do not leave me.” He takes my hand in his. I speak slowly as fear fills my heart.

“Niall, I know who I am.” Tears are rushing down my face and I sob as I tell him my history.”I’m not a famous, pampered dancer living in a tower. I’m a common tinker. Oh Niall, what would you want being married to me?”

He hugs me softly, with a voice that almost sings a lullaby as he speaks.

“You are me darling and I love you. ’Tis you I love not some famous dancer.

You are precious to me.” Tears stream down his manly face, glistening in the afternoon sunlight glinting through fine curtains and an open window.

I sit up with his help. I take hold of his hands, grasping them, pleading with him.

“We have to leave this place. Someone is going to find me and take me back. The dreams are fierce,” I say, breathing rapidly.

“Over my dead body,” he says. “I will protect you and keep you, like I promised on our wedding day.”

He strokes my forehead. “You had a bad fall but the riding cap saved your skull from impact. Now rest a while.We can talk about this later. Maybe I can get you a hot cup of tea with sugar. That will help you.”

That night I wake up in a bad sweat.

Niall wakes up and kisses me with gentleness, then passion. Our passion surges and we indulge our deepest love in passionate kissing and hugging and intimacy until we are satisfied and exhausted.

We lay side by side and turn towards each other, faces aglow in the pale moonlight.

“A rose by any other name will smell as sweet,” he says. “You are my wife, my love, my darling and we will go together to end ends of the earth to make you happy.” He stops and calls my name, “Niamh, my Queen of the land of Niall.”

We laugh and cry a bit and fall asleep in each other’s arms, naked. …

With flour-covered arms and a white nose, I am busy, rolling pastry for Missus Connor who has just gone outside to sharpen a knife on a stone. We’re making apple pies. Niall comes in and speaks quietly in case Missus Connor hurries in unexpectedly.

“Tom wants me to go up to Dublin with him. He’s got a good tip on a fine racing horse and wants my advice. While I’m up that way I’ll get my savings.” He brushes my nose. “Cute nose.”

“Niall, please don’t leave.” I rub my nose and grasp his arm; he holds me tight; flour is spreading over his shirt; kisses drop on my forehead and hair.

“We’ll be back in less than a week; I’ll make arrangements while I’m in Dublin. We have to think this through.”

“Take me to Dublin with you.” I plead with him, desperate to get away and to be safe.

“One day I will, I promised. We will dance in Dublin all night.” He hugs me close. “Right now, you have to stay here; Mrs Connor will be good company for you; I’ll be back in no time at all. ’Tis only a few days of the rest of our lives.”

“They are coming, I feel it in my waters.” I admit my fears. "'Tis just a feeling, ’tis not reality, these thoughts will go away; they’re only in your mind.”

“I wish I never got my memory back; then again, I’m glad because now we’ll get away from this place forever.”

“We will, we will; I promise that if it’s the last thing I do I’ll take you away from here.” He bends his hungry mouth to mine; we indulge ourselves in a long passionate, ravenous kiss...

“A hem..., well now, I think Tom is getting anxious to be off...”

Mrs Connor tries to be discrete as she fills the doorway, casting a shadow.

We pull our lips apart from each other; my mouth tingles from the passion of Niall’s kiss; my body tingles all over with longing for him.

“Sorry Mrs Connor; I’ll be off then.” His hand and mine drift apart as he walks through the door. I take a few deep breaths to steady my mind.

“This knife is nice and sharp. You’ll be no time in peeling the potatoes, and these skins are great for the pigs.” Mrs Connor rattles on as I gaze at the two men of the household driving the maroon Nova Chevy into the sunset. …

Niall and Tom Connor have been away for two days now and I’m kept right busy with all the extra work around the place. I wake up several times through the night dripping with sweat and huddling Niall’s pillow in fear.

Through the day I repeat what Niall said, “Everything is going to be fine!” It helps a bit.

On the third day, Mrs Connor makes a shattering announcement at breakfast that makes my heart drop.

“Kathleen, I need to go into town today to get some essentials.”

She stares at me over a golden piece of buttered toast. Butter drips from her chin. “Will you take care of everything here for me?”

“I will of course,” I say, gulping for the right words. I know I can do that for a few hours, otherwise what good am I to her or anyone?

By nine o’clock she is spruced up in her best jacket, her light mauve; the one she wore at our wedding, with her dark grey pleated skirt and light grey

hat with flowers on the brim. She her nylon tan stockings, her deep pink, double frill blouse, which gives her an enormous bust; her lips are blood red.

Ned is polishing the Mercedes W115 as she stomps towards it, carrying her leather bucket bag. She means business bringing that bag, I am thinking.

Toby the disobedient sheepdog rushes in and jumps over the driver seat into the back seat. He sits up and looks out the window. Ned tries to get him out, but he whines.

“He can come for a spin,” she says. “He’s a great traveler and he’ll be company for me in Galway town.”

“Will you make sure he has a drink,” I say rather quickly, wondering who will bite the legs of some intruder who comes here?

“Get the lead Ned,” she orders, “and his dish. I appreciate your good thinking, Kathleen,” she says. “You are a real daughter to me. Will you be all right for the day?” She asks in her kind voice.

Ned rushes over with a dog’s lead and a silver dish.

“Thank you, Ned. I should be back by five.”

“That is a long day for you,” I say, wishing she would stay.

“Well, I didn’t wish to sound grand, but I will tell you that. I am taking tea with Jeannie deBurg this afternoon at the Castle House, so that will be nice.

We knew each other in the Red Cross years ago.”

“Have a good time,” I say; “Ned and I will take care of everything!”

“I knew I could count on you. Goodbye my dear,” she says, connecting her foot to the pedal and thundering the shimmering gold sedan down the driveway as a secret service detective on an urgent mission.

“Ned, what are you doing today?” I ask the man. He shrugs his shoulders.

“I’ll take care of Black Jack. He’s coming along so well that we might put him in a race soon.”

“Well, now, that would be grand. He’s a real thoroughbred.”

“He is, and I think 'tis an honour to look after him.”

“Well, we had better get a wriggle on, there’s loads to do.”

“Right Miss,” he shouts tipping his cap. He struts away towards the stables humming a tune of sorts.

I go upstairs and decide to change into more rugged clothing. I put on an old skirt and then I notice my glinting ring. I take it off and place it safely in its little box in the drawer. I don’t want it to end up in a pig’s belly. I know the pigs will need a feed, and fresh water. Carrying a bucket in my hand and wearing rubber boots, I stroll across the yard to the pigsty. I think of our wedding day and all the beautiful flowers with lovely aroma and I wish Niall would come back this minute. I hear voices and wonder if that is Niall? I want to rush home. get these boots off, put on a bit of lipstick and comb my hair.

Looking up to where the noise is coming from, over the brow of the hill, l see a band of men, yelling and howling.

I remember my nightmares, have a heart-bump; then run. I recognize my father as one of the front-runners with his grey jacket flapping in the breeze.

He’s got some weapon in his hand, a pitchfork! I’m looking for a place to hide; jump over the sloping pigsty wall in one leap.

The pigs are a bit startled and back off as I crouch down behind them. I grab one of them by its rump and try to hold it in front of me, but he’s making a terrible screaming sound, like he’s dying.

The face peering over the pigsty is pink, with rough grey stubble draped around brown-spotted lips, which open to reveal a dark mouthful of broken, greenish-yellow and occasionally black teeth; grey whiskers curl from flailing nostrils; deepest eyes, shaded by black and white peppered thick bushy brows that rise to allow round dark beady lenses to penetrate the recesses of my eyes. My mouth opens and the words jump out in recognition, ”Jack Sullivan!

You gave me a big fright.”

“Ala!” Jack’s neck stretches like a turkey’s as his face comes even closer.

“A pig, that knows my name?” His mouth hangs open. I can see red, zigzagged maps in the whites of his eyeballs. “I thought it was me own sow!”

He chuckles as he ogles me, revelling in his peculiar sense of humour. “The wife!” he says, by way of explanation.

I’m sitting on my bottom with Squealer in my lap. “Shush Jack,” I’m pleading, as I try to heave a thousand pounds of bacon off me.

“You can’t fool old Jack. You’re not a sow! You’re Niamh Murphy.” He’s beckoning my father who is near; bursts into excitable shouting, mixing his Shelta language with English. “Aga di’lsa, over here Sean!”

Squealer rolls off with a final shove, ripping my skirt in the process. I leap up, vault over the pigsty wall, and make a run for it; maybe Ned will help me.

I am running as fast as I can in these rotten boots, calling out, “Ned, help me.” I hear thunderous footsteps behind me and before I can dodge them, I’m tackled to the ground, lying with my face in the dark grass.

“Bastards,” I shout. “Bullies.”

“She’s down; come on lads, get her arms, quick!” One sits on my back holding my arms behind me. Someone else holds my legs on the ground. I feel my skirt blowing up, probably showing my backside. Thank God I put my knickers on this morning.

“You are a disgrace. Let me go,” I yell from the earth, spitting a mouthful of grass; they just hold me down harder. Soon I see a mob of feet around me and my rubber boots are tugged off my feet, leaving my ankles bare. My deepest fears of nightmare reality is coming to pass. I am raised to the men’s shoulders and carried like a pig or goat to the place I ran away from. There is a lot of excitement as the men make jokes about me as they trudge with their prey across the fields, down forbidden laneways and across a couple of streams.

“She’s a ton all right,” I hear someone remark as I smell the aroma of the campfires and hear excited voices that bring back strange and foreboding vi-

sions. I am placed on the earth and lie there listening to the excitement of people arriving to view the score. A foot kicks me over like a sack of spuds and I roll on my back, facing the mob of faces that were once my family and friends. People I loved who might die for me. One voice I hear is my Aunty Maura’s. She pulls me into a sitting position. Her hair is windblown and her expression is menacing. She is wearing a velvet jacket and a huge multicoloured skirt. Large gold loop earrings dangle from her ears and several gold necklaces hang around her neck. Her finger is pointing at me as if I am some kind of witch. I have seen this before. Suddenly I recall a scene where someone who looked like me is being falsely accused by the same finger. Will she remove the ropes around my wrists and ankles? Maybe she has compassion.

“Take these off me please, I am not an animal.”

“She’s become a real little trollop altogether! Nid’es axiver!” she roars as she hits me across the head. She is accusing me of being a whore, which is totally false.

“I never was a whore, how dare you! Dil‘lsa axiver glori the truth Maura.”

I shout back at her. I am shocked at this whole process and the fact that I am speaking in my native language so quickly.

“You’ll be the death of me!” She grits her teeth as her arm stiffens in mid air; bright blue eyes in her white face are cold and unfeeling. “Thank God I’m not your mother.” She flips her hand hurriedly to her forehead, chest and shoulders as her own blessing falls on herself. She extracts a rosary beads from a hidden pocket and begins to mumble, running her fingers over the beads rapidly.

“Thank God for small mercies; amen!” I reply. “You’ve got egg on your face,” I add maliciously.

“Shut your gob,” she sputters in reply, pushing my head with a fist filled with hatred. The bronze cross on the beads stings my cheek.

“You are not getting out of those bonds before you answer some very serious questions,” she spits words in my face.

“Is this how you welcome your own flesh and blood?” I ask, covering my head with my fists.

“You belong here, under my care, God help us all! You think you can come and go as you please, without leave or reason? You’re very much mistaken you little trollop!”

“And what have ye all been doing all your life? Going from place to place?”

Her wild eyes come close.

“Don’t back answer me! You’ve disgraced your father and me, running away like that! You’re not Irish ár burt.”

“I’m as Irish as you are. I’m not agetul of you!”

“You should be afraid, you faggot!” Maura screams.

“Serves you right, running off like that!” Nell, stepping forward, our resident fortune teller says, clicking her tongue; standing beside me with her hands on her hips. She’s swaying back and forth; smells like a brewery; she is dressed like a rich fortune teller in rich gold lamê. She wears a multi-coloured scarf on her head, embossed with myriads of glass beads. I’m holding my nose.

“You stink!”

“Pig; you stink too!”

She lunges at me. Maeve holds her back and shouts at me.

“You’ve caused more than enough trouble, Niamh. I’ll go and get something.” Maeve rushes off, leaving Nell staring after her; she turns back to stare at me.

“So, are you going to run away again then; back to your pigs, or your buachaill?” Nell shouts.

“You know nothing about my boyfriend. Are you jealous?” I ask vehemently.

“Here, I have a knife,” Maeve says, clomping towards us, brandishing a large carving knife that glints in the firelight.

“That’s right; we thought you had drowned; someone found one of the shoes you wore to my wedding,” Maeve informs me in a low voice.“Let me get those ropes off ye.” She grunts as she cuts deftly into my bonds and I feel the release from pain.

“If you thought I had drowned, then how did you know I was alive?” Drawing my knees up I rub ankles, which are quite swollen and red by now.

Maeve’s face is a drawn blank. “It’s a long story; come on; everyone waiting for us. We are having a celebration.”

“What kind of celebration?” I ask, wondering how my dire situations can turn from capture to celebration in an instant? I have a vague feeling of suspicion. "'Tis a secret for now that I cannot tell.”

Maeve and her mysterious ways, I am thinking. Nothing changes around here. I sigh and wonder what Act 2 will be?

“Come into the van with me,” she says, extending her hand and smiling in a way that makes me squirm with suspicion harder. Before we can go a yard, the thunder of my father’s voice comes into the clearance. He’s been having another drink with the boys before confronting me, I am thinking. Dutch courage is all he knows, I ponder. He stands before me as a giant. His clothes are clean and he is wearing a black velvet jacket and white full sleeved pirate shirt, a red silk scarf around his neck, giving him the appearance of a buccaneer at the ready. I wonder what the great occasion is?

“Why did you bring me back, Father?” He furls his bottom lip under the top lip, looks at Maeve; scratches his chin.

“Niamh, you are my blood and bone. I want you here.”

“Is that all? And what if I want to go?” Father turns on his heels and walks off.

“Is that all you have to say? I ask vehemently. “You drag me back here like a pig on a spit and now what? I turn to Maeve. Perhaps she can sort this out.

“Maeve, what is going on?” I ask. “Have I no freedom?”

“Come with me and I will explain better. The women are ready for you.”

I take her hand reluctantly, and step into her new Roadmaster. The door is quickly closed behind me. She stands in front of me and holds my shoulders as if she is clamping me.

“Well, what does he want?”

“He wants you to be wed,” Maeve says.

“To whom?” I ask. “Nobody has asked for my hand.”

“Someone has, and it is very exciting: the deal is done,” she says. Her eyes appear crossed or maybe I am dreaming?

“Who has asked for my hand behind my back?” I shout.

“Don’t shout, everything is prepared and all shall be revealed if you are patient. There’s no going back now. If you don’t co-operate your boyfriend is in mortal danger.”

My ears ring with her words. I fall onto a seat in the van near a table. "'Tis a shock I know. I made a cup of tea. Here,” she pours me a cup of tea in her best china cup with a saucer. Deftly, she tosses two spoons of white sugar in. “Drink it.”

Automated by overwhelming confusion and doubt about my dreams and my life, I push the tea over.

“Now look, you’ve spilt it. You are a cheeky brat,” she adds, grabbing a towel and mopping the tea.

“I am not going to marry this person, over my dead body,” I say in a low vehement tone.

Maeve looks startled. I add the crunch to her plans.

“I am married!”

“Stop it! Ax, you’re pulling my leg; sure you’ve only been gone just over three months.”

She throws her head back and laughs so much that tears leak from her snivelling nose.

“All right, where’s the ring?”

My heart sinks.

“I have a ring.” I dare not tell her where it is or someone will break into the Connor’s and steal it.

“If you value your life, don’t say one word about this to my step father. He will kill you as well as that ponce of yours.”

“How dare you call him names! Niall is a gentleman who waited until we were married to bed me.”

“Scandalous fairy tales were always your downfall.”

She sticks her face near mine. “Does he know you are one of the travelling people of the noble Traveller line? Country folk and our folk do not mix. They are scum to our folk.” She spits. “I could kill some of them.”

“He didn’t until…” I stop. I don’t want to tell her any more about my wonderful life with Niall. She might kill me.

“Even if a smidgen of this was true, nobody will believe you now after running away. Father’s made a grand match for you, the genuine deal. Niall won’t want you any more. The country people are all like that. Sure if Niall and Sean ever met, there’d be fireworks all right. Your father can kill a full-grown sheep with his bare hands. Niall would be like putty in his hands.”

“That is blackmail, that is,” I say. “You won’t get away with it.”

“Calm down. We get away with a lot of stuff the country folk never even dream about.” She titters as she remembers so many robberies, I suppose. “Everything we do is for a just cause, you know that?”

“No,” I say in a strangled voice. “That is a lie.”

”You are so stupid! Your new husband will love you.” She speaks more softly to me now. “Listen to me: being a bit older I know what’s best for you. Just obey your father, that’s the fourth commandment!”

“That’s not fair, bringing God into this,” I say holding my tongue so that I don’t shout obscenities.

“Everything will work out just grand; do not say another word about this ponce of yours, all right? Niall is better off with his own kind, someone educated! Get him out of your mutton head.”

My mind is totally convoluted as trip-wire is laid in every direction by my own bone and blood. What if they kill Niall?

She makes a fresh cup of tea and prattles on about nothing of importance. She calls the women in who are milling outside. How can I accept my fate bravely? Who will save me from this terrible moment? Where is my own buccaneer, Niall now?

Late afternoon, around 4:00 o’clock, an hour before Mrs Connor is due to return home, I am dressed in the most gorgeous frock I have ever seen. It is second-hand, but so heavy with layers and flounces that I can barely walk with ease. My veil is floating all over the place as the afternoon breezes rise. Rory is the best man and Maeve is my matron of honour. All are dressed up like Pirate princes and Princess with gowns that only royals might wear, all velvet, lace, silk and satins from corners of the globe I cannot even pronounce, such as Leim An Bhradhan, a place Rory knows about.

“It’s him!” Maeve says, excitedly.

“Who do you mean?” I ask. A picture of Niall comes to mind but ’tis only a dream.

“The one you are about to wed!” I hold the veil still as I take a good look. He’s quite tall, dressed in pirate shirt and gold scarf, long pants and boots.

“Jimmy Farrell from County Longford,” I whisper in dismay and shock. I remember him from a few years ago when he did some work in these parts. A shiver suddenly creeps over my neck and arms as though I am being hugged by a slithering snake.

“Are you cold?” Maeve asks.

“Not at all,” I whisper. “You make my blood boil!” I say.

“You’re warming up then?” she says, cynically.

I glare at her through my veil, but she looks straight ahead. I’m now going through the ritual with the same priest officiating as Maeve had, Father Seamus O’Reilly. He talks so fast and low that I don’t know what he’s saying at all; catch words like worse, poorer, sickness, death; then I’m repeating something after him, my own voice seeming to speed up, saying, “ I do,” at one stage, as though we are all in a hurry to catch a bus. I’m nearly saying I do not, but he interrupts at I do. Even as I say the words, I look around, wondering if Niall will come back alive from heaven itself and gallop through the throng on Finn McCool. We could fly away to Dublin. I am almost fainting with grief as I’m getting a lovely bright gold ring on my finger. “ P u t a n X there,” th e priest s h o u t s a n d point s t o t h e spot where my name is written as Niamh Murphy. I just sign an X there. Jim does the same with his name.

So, there we are, mister and missus X. “It’s a grand ring,” I tell Jim a little while later when we get a chance to say a few words to each other. I wonder if he was forced into this marriage by blackmail too?

“I made it myself; pleased you like it. The gold is very soft, so you’ll have to take good care of it.” He looks into my eyes. “I know you will,” he says quietly, giving me a kiss on my lips. I let him kiss me for a moment, and then gently ease myself away.

“So,” I ask, “where did you get such grand gold?”

“Wife, I can’t tell you that. That’s my business!”

He holds me very tightly by the shoulders, his thumbs on my clavicle. He stares into my face. I gasp as his hazel tinted eyes meet mine. His eyes are reflecting the fire the lads have lit to cook the poached fish and stolen sheep. “Learn this, woman.I don’t ever want you to question what I do; don’t want you to be one of those nosey, stupid women with nothing in their heads but wild stories and hot air.

You’re my wife and you have to obey me, or else. Do you hear me now?”

A slithering snake creeps over my skin.

“What else do you want to ask now?” he questions.

I dare to question his intentions and commitment to me.

“Why did you want to marry me?”

His eyes flare up with the fiery light and I regret my words instantly.

“I am a man and you are a woman, what else would I want?” His lies slip through his teeth and my skin freezes as ice.

“You seem cold. Come over to the fire,” he says more gently.I hold his arm and move gracelessly in my weighty gown towards the fire, but stay a little away for fear of worse things that can happen tonight. The revelling goes on all night and for the next two days while Jim and me consummate our marriage in his new little Sunliner, freshly stolen from some yard in Longford and taken here by secondment on a stolen truck. My dreams about Niall are fading rapidly as I come to terms with my old yet new lifestyle.

Jim gets a job as a labourer with the local county council, mainly doing road work. H e has a trade of m a k i n g pots and pans, but there’s not enough money in that to keep the clothes on our backs and food on the table.

O n e night he comes h ome looking happier than usual. After we have eaten our simple stew comprising boiled potatoes, leeks, bacon and parsnips, he sits down beside me.

“That was a grand dinner,” Jim says. He kisses me and takes me to bed where his love is fiercely and aggressively displayed to my trembling body. He falls asleep and I cry myself to sleep with my back to my new husband.

“Niall,” I’m calling his name when I wake up at first light. Jim is already stirring. I hold my hand over my mouth, hoping he did not hear my cry.

“Who’s Niall?” he shouts, turning around and shaking me by the shoulders.

“Nobody; ‘twas a dream,” I say controlling my trembling words.

“W h y are you so frightened; you’re hiding something?”

“You are wrong. I am not hiding anything!”

“I know you well; you have to tell me who he is,” drops his voice and says threateningly, “or I’ll kill you.”

“I... used to play with him when I was a child.”

The words simply pop out as a defence.

“So where is he now?” he asks quietly. I shrug my shoulders.

“He died!” I say quickly. At least that might be true, I’m thinking. He sits up and his form looks threatening.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

I swallow before I speak; my breath is shallow. “No, never,” I whisper; he leans towards me.

“I’m talking to you; I’m your husband; you can’t lie to me.” He stands beside our marriage bed against the wall of the van. He takes m y wrists and pulls me up to him; “I know that!” My skin drips with sweat as I speak. I try to hide my face but he’s too strong for me.

He throws me back down on the bed; looks at me, and then suddenly falls on top of me; “You’re my woman, and I am the King, the Knight and the Lion.”

These symbols are his family crest and coat of arms. I freeze. He kisses me roughly; I bite his lip; he hits m e in the face. It stings like a dozen bee stings.

“Don’t do the wrong thing by me, or else... Ax!” he says in a controlled voice holding his bleeding lip; I curl up in a ball and hold my hands over my head; silence stays for a moment, then there is a blast of cold wind as the van door opens, then creaks on its hinges. I breathe a sigh of relief as feet stomp on the outer door step. ...

Three days after that incident; Maeve comes over in the afternoon with an apple tart she baked in her new gas oven.

“What do you think about that?”

“Maeve, it looks delicious; can I have a bit?”

“You and Jim can have it all; happy birthday! And we want to give you this.” She passes something in a red wrapper with a gold bow.

“W h a t did you get m e ? ” I ask, hurriedly removing the wrapping.

“Don’t tear the paper; you can use it again,” she reminds me. I remove its wrapping carefully.

“It’s lovely; I haven’t got one.”

“Pádraig made it,” she says happily.

“I’ll go around a n d thank h im later,” I stare at Maeve. “Honestly, I forgot about my birthday.”

“I didn’t. You are sixteen now, a real woman. But remember it’s also Halloween!

Pádraig brought this big bag of flour and a bag of crab apples and two pounds of sugar. I learned this great recipe. I wanted to try it out. Every tart was a success. Tell Jim to get an oven like mine, and then you can bake things for him; put a smile on his face.”

“You’ve noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

“Jim and I are not talking.”

“Well, now that you mention it, I have noticed Jim’s not himself at the minute.

What did you do wrong now?”

She sits down with her hands in her lap, like some psychiatrist waiting for me to blurt my life away.

“We had a falling out; he heard me calling Niall in my sleep.”

“No wonder he’s down and out! That fellow is well and truly gone by now. He never came to your aid did he? Stop fretting and calling him.”

“Maeve, I was asleep; couldn’t help it; I don’t know that Niall’s dead.”

“What happened after that; your dream?”

“Jim won’t speak to m e now. ‘Tis like being a nun in a convent except for the you know what!”

She sniggers.

“Well, you’ll never be a nun! Only in Saint Joseph’s Order - two heads on one pillow.” Her laughter gets loud.

“It’s serious, Maeve; ax, I don’t know what to do.”

She stares at me in disbelief.

“You’re his wife aren’t you?”

“I am; so, how does that help?”

“And you think Rory is thick!” She shakes her head in despair. “Be nice to him; give him love!”

“You mean sex!”

“Well, whatever vulgar name you wish to call it. Matrimony is a sacred state!

Just encourage Jim in your matrimonial duties!”

“So, what will that do for us?”

“You’ll see; awást! You’re sixteen — and you’ve been married a month now!”

“Maybe I can try.” “'Tis your birthday; give him the gift of you.” She places the tart on the small table and brushes flour from her skirt. “I’m off now. Pádraig is coming home today, so I want to prepare myself for him, like a proper wife must do.”

She steps out the door.

“Thanks for the tart!”

She turns back.

“Awást; that’s what sisters are for; promise me you’ll put Niall out of your head and brush your hair before Jim comes home!” She points to the gilded mirror, the lovely gift they gave me for my birthday.

“I promise”. I start a search for my hairbrush, and drag it through my knotty hair. I run a sticky bright red, broken lipstick over my lips. I found it on the road one day. I

stare into the lovely mirror that Maeve has just given me for my birthday. I press my lips together, and decide I look like a bit of a tart! Maybe Jim will like that! I laugh to myself. At least I look alive.

I rummage in my clothes box and find a purple satin blouse that someone gave me and pull it over my head. ‘tis loose, with gathers around the neckline. My skin looks pale.

The neckline is quite low, showing the tops of my breasts.

“I hate it!” I mutter as I pull it off over my head, and then stop. The van door is pushed open.

“Jim!” I quickly pull the top back on.

“You’re all dressed up and wearing lipstick. What for? Tell me now, are you off somewhere?”

“No! I just wanted to look nice for you. It’s my birthday.” “ You’re beautiful without lipstick. C o m e here to me.” He pulls me into his arms and kisses me so hard m y lips are stinging.

“I’m trying to be a good wife...”

He’s quite for a moment, and then speaks.

“Every man is jealous of me; I’m so worried about someone taking you away from me.”

“Nobody will do that!” I say instantly, remembering that Niall is possibly dead!

“I’d kill them if they did!” he replies emotionally. “Let me give you something special for your birthday,” he says, lifting me in his arms and taking me into our tiny bedroom beyond the curtain, to give me his love.

We eat our apple pie wrapped in a sheet together. He is happy and I am at peace.

The next day, Maeve comes running over.

“Jim looked happy this morning; whistling on his way down the road.”

“I know. We’re pals; thanks for your good advice, Maeve.”

“I told you it would work, didn’t I? You’ll be all right now!”

CHAPTER FIVE BABIES ARRIVE ’Tis about three months since Jim and I were wedded and we haven’t had a row for a month. Finally, I am beginning to enjoy my trophy life with Jim, and my heartache for Niall is dumbed down, like an egg lost in a bird’s nest, yet safe.

Our hopes for a future are coming true. He has a job and now we want a child and soon we can move on to new pastures.

“You’re not still in bed, you lazy lump,” Maeve says, peering behind the curtain separating our small bedroom from the rest of the van. “I made lovely fresh soda bread! What’s up with you now?”

“I feel terrible,” I say, pulling myself into a sitting position. She comes close.

“You do look a bit pasty; when did this come on?”

“I’ve been feeling sick on and off a time!

“This morning I collapsed in a heap while making Jim breakfast. H e carried m e b a c k to b e d a n d left m e here.”

I cough.

“I’ve probably got consumption; ‘tis a slow death they say.” I mutter.

Maeve scoffs. "'Tis the low tops!” she says sternly. “You’ve around half naked.”

probably caught a chill going

“I only wear them when Jim’s coming home!”

“I hope so!” she retorts. “Will I make you a cup of tea?” she offers in a kinder tone. “You can have a bit of soda bread as well.”

“Thank you Maeve.” She goes through the privacy curtain; moves to the kitchen table. I can hear her striking a match and the smell the methylated spirits burning. The clink of a jug and the copper kettle connecting with the Primus stove top plate.

I pull the blind aside.

“Jim’s asked Nell Doran to come and see what’s up with me...”

As if she heard me Nell’s voice sounds in the doorway.

“The top of the morning, to you,” she says, stepping inside the van, glancing at me behind the curtain and turning her attention to the kettle. She is wearing a thin scarf over her face, laced with golden coins and colourful crystals.

Maeve says. “I was just making a cup of tea; would you like one?”

“I would. It’s chilly today!”

She stares at me holding back the blind.

“I can see a tiny baby in the distance,” she says, with her eyes closed and her hands touching her forehead; opens her eyes and stares at me with popping eyes.

“You’re going to have a child, that’s all.”

She may be right, I am thinking. What with all that consummation Jim does; he never stops or has enough.

“I’m going to have a baby, Maeve!”

“I am not deaf, and I do not believe it.”

“I do believe her Maeve,” I say, protesting. “I know it.”

“So, Maeve, how have you been feeling. Are you all right?”

Nell turns to the scowling Maeve whose face is twisted with jealousy I detect.

“I have; feeling on top of the world.”

“You are going to have a child too!”

“Is that right; you sure now?” Maeve questions, smirking. She takes a couple of cups off the dresser, pouring the tea; “sugar, and milk?”

“That’s right; two lumps, maybe three!” Nell replies, sitting down on a rickety wooden chair that Jim is going to fix.

“Would you like a piece of m y freshly made soda bread Nell?”

“I would, with jam; can I have the teapot too?”

“She wants the teapot.” I get out of bed, drape the blanket around me and stand in the doorway.

“Jim made it for me.”

“Have you got money at all?” Nell asks; “ain punt.”

“No, I haven’t got one pound; take the teapot!” I moan; anything, to keep the peace. Nell finishes her tea, hurries off carrying my shiny copper teapot as if she won a great prize; I sit on the rickety chair. Maeve turns to me and asks: “What’s he going to say?” “ H e a s k e d h e r t o c o m e ; h e c a n m a k e a n o t h e r o n e ! ” Maeve's stare out the door follows the now gone teapot.

“She took the tea and all; I didn’t even get a cup myself.”

“Here take mine,” I encourage Maeve. “I don’t want it now,” I say.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing is wrong with the tea. ’Tis me that’s not feeling well. I am having a baby, Maeve.”

“So am I.” she retorts.“Ax; I hope you’re not going to have one before me, that’s all.” She stares out the tiny window.

Nell quickly spreads the news that Maeve and I are having babies. Jim promptly goes off with the lads for a drink after work.

In the early hours of the morning, he wanders home, singing at the top of his voice, “Oh, Father dear, why do you fear, for your baby is nearly here…?”. He falls on top of me and begins to snore. I shove him off me; rolls over onto the floor with a bang; sleeps soundly on the floor until half-eleven the next day!

Since the news has gone around that I’m going to have a child, Jim has been staying away every evening, drinking like a fish. He seems to be drinking through the day as well lately. I know that, because whenever I’ve gone over to Maeve’s place for a while and then come back, I can smell the sour smell of alcohol in the place, and fried sausages. Jim always has fried sausages and black pudding fried in lard when he has had too much to drink. The smell is enough to turn one’s stomach. I

dare not ask him what has happened to his work as things seem pretty peaceable between us. …

Maeve is definitely having a child too, just like Nell said.

Snow arrives, just after Christmas, and I’m not feeling sick any more, which makes me feel happier. Jim found an old kerosene heater on the dump and got his pal Kieran to fix it. It’s nice and warm in the van now. The world outside the van is white and frozen, even the washing on the line that Jim set up for me freezes in half an hour after hanging it up.

Jim finished with the council job and has been spending his time hammering bits of tin and copper, making a shiny copper teapot that is even nicer than the one that Nell took; also making little cups and plates for the baby. He seems happy enough.

Food is scarce, and we have used up all our tins of spam and beans long before spring comes. All we can afford to buy is an old frozen rabbit or a bit of mutton or tripe for dinner.

Sometimes my father comes over with a bag of bread or a cake. He has a knack of finding food when times are hard. Jim is not like that. He expects everything to ‘suddenly appear’ as if by magic. I have been knitting with some wool and needles that Maeve gave me.

She showed me how to follow a pattern for a baby’s dress and cardigan, so I’m working on that with this soft blue and pink wool. I’ve decided to knit both together: it can be for a girl or a boy. …

1 March 1969 arrives and with it Springtime. I’ve finished knitting the baby’s dress, cardigan, bootees and a bonnet, so I’m well pleased with myself. When I gaze out the half-frosted window the sun is finally reappearing from its wintry hibernation and melting the crisp snow.

Small puddles of melted ice dot the land like saucers of water to give the birds a cool drink; melting ponds are turned into brown slush by human footprints. Fresh green tufts of grass are appearing; velvety violets, delicate and deep blue appear

in undergrowth, the soft, dry places beautiful royal jewels; virgin snowdrops, buttercups and cowslips are popping their heads up, as t h o u g h t he y h a v e b e e n in a d e e p sleep, a n d n o w th ey are stretching upwards as they awake. The cry of newborn lambs echoes across the land, bringing hope and dreams of a fresh world reborn.

Through the tiny van window I see M a e v e coming along the track to the van and call out to her.

“Come in Maeve.”

“It’s hard to believe that it is spring-time,” she comments, taking her shawl off and hanging it on a nail on the inside of our door.

“It’s a bit warmer,” I say, turning up the gas heater a bit. “Maeve, I finished these yesterday,” I say, proudly displaying my baby garments.

“Is that all?”

“I thought it was tucks.”

“You’d better get a move on. I’ve got ten times that much done already.”

“Paddy has been getting the wool for you.”

“There is no excuse! I said I’d give you as much as you want. Lady Muck, you are hardly moving a finger.”

“I did my best, Maeve,” I reply.

“I came to tell you that Pádraig said there’s work at the glass factory if Jim wants it.”

“He’s gone off with Kieran,” I reply.

“If he’s ready at six in the morning he can go with Pádraig.”

“I’ll give him the news.”

She looks at me with disgust.

“Niamh, your job is to make breakfast for your husband, and get him ready for work; can you do that tomorrow?”

“I’ll try, although I have been sleeping in a bit lately.”

“I know. I’ve knocked on your door at ten o’clock in the morning and you’ve still been in bed. You’ll have to get out of that lazy habit if Jim has to get up for work.”

“I’ll try, but we don’t have a clock, so it’s hard Maeve.”

“Well, just for once, I shall come over at five and give you three knocks on the door.”

“Five! 'Tis freezing then, and dark?”

“That’s when Pádraig and I get up every day. If we can do it, so can you.”

I have been getting Jim up at five in the morning for over a month now. Maeve gave the knocks on the first morning, but after that I have been awake most of the night waiting to see the little lamp going on in her van. It lights up at five every morning. I go back to bed after Jim and Paddy leave around six.

April turns into beautiful May, followed by a dazzling June, and the onset of summer; a year since Maeve got married and I ran off. On the breezy sunny Wednesday morning, 4 June, 1969, after a few days of rain, at around eleven in the morning Maeve turns up at the door, wearing her warm shawl and holding a copper bucket that Paddy made.

“Are you up yet?”

“Of course I am,” I reply. I’ve only just got out of bed.

I smother a yawn; she steps inside.

“Do you want to pick mushrooms? There are loads down the fields, Pádraig says.”

“Surely, I’d love to Maeve. I feel great these last few months; I’ll just take a warm shawl with me.” I feel excited at the thought of getting out of the stuffy van.

“I can’t wait to get a bit of exercise,” Maeve remarks as we step out of the van and stroll off with our empty buckets and our rubber boots. “I’ve been feeling on top of the world. M a says having a confinement suits me, and I think she’s right!” We head off in the bright sun, which gives a nice warm feeling on our faces.

“I can hardly believe we’re both expecting at the same time. I hope mine comes first. After all we celebrated our first anniversary before you and Jim.” I catch m y breath at the sudden pain across my bulge.

“Are you all right?”

“It’s a cramp.”

“ I h a v e n ’t s e e n y o u s t a n d i n g f o r a m o n t h . B y J o v e you’re as fat as a pig that’s ready for market,” she says, staring at my monstrous sized bulge, comparing it with hers.

“I know!” I reply. Maeve stares.

“It’s all that porridge you’ve been eating.”

“It’s supposed to be good for me,” I reply.

“Not if you eat too much! I’ve seen you gobbling up a whole pot full!”

“I think I’ve been making up for all those months when I could hardly eat at all. I feel so hungry in the mornings!” I say lamely.

“I eat only cornflakes now, with tinned fruit!” she says smugly, as she moves swiftly through the fresh dewy green grass. “That’s what civilised folk eat. I read about it in a magazine.”

I try to keep up with her. We soon run into a whole field of mushrooms; start picking them by the stalks.

“Would you look at the size of them,” she says, holding one in the palm of her hand. "'Tis like mushroom heaven,” I comment. We spend the next three or four hours together, laughing and talking, and picking buckets of mushrooms.

W henever w e feel tired or hungry we sit down and eat a few mushrooms and drink fresh water from a stream.

“There’s nothing like the spring fresh water running in the West,” I say as the cool water dribbles down my chin. “It’s really sweet today.” "'Tis,” Maeve says, scooping up a handful of fresh water.

“The cramps are back.” I’m holding my breath.

“All this water is making me want to do a wee,” Maeve says, running off behind a bush a few yards away. I can hear the faint rustling of Maeve as she relieves herself. That makes me feel the need to go too! I head in the other direction by a few yards. It is then I notice that I am very wet. I dry myself off with one of Jim’s big hankies. Maeve and I decide to have a bit of a rest then. Us pair sit with our backs against a rock and our faces towards the sun. After a while my cramps are coming

again; breathing heavily. Then I feel myself relaxing; feel the cramps again; seem to be coming every five minutes or so. Maeve has her eyes shut tight. I close my eyes too, trying to ignore the pains. When I open my eyes I see a most wondrous vision; rub my eyes and stand up to take a good look.

“Maeve, I know that house!”

“Too well, I should think!” she mumbles, with her eyes still half-closed.

“You knew I lived there?”

“Of course I did!” she replies harshly, and adds, “We all knew.”

“Did you tell Dad?” “I had to tell Sean; we were out of our wits with worry.

“I was very happy there.”

“Because they didn’t know who you were, you said so. You are a liar. If they knew they would have sent you back to where you belong; surely you’re happy now?”

“No!” I stand up and face the wind.

“You don’t know what’s good for you.” She jumps up. “Here you are with a loving husband, a place to live and a bouncing baby on the way. You should be over the moon!”

“Maeve, I’m not over the moon as much as I was then.”

“You always want more. Greed should be your middle name. Well, there’s no more!” she says, pulls me to face her. I shove her away. She stumbles and nearly falls backwards.

“I’m sorry Maeve.”

She steadies herself and brushes her skirt.

“Are you trying to kill me now?” she asks curtly.

“No, but I do have a crow to pluck with you.”

“What?”

She sits down; I stand firm.

“Did he give you something?”

“Who are you talking about?”

“My father, Sean to you; did he give you something for snitching on me?”

“I told him the truth; I didn’t snitch.”

“So, he did give you something: you, and Pádraig?”

“Why are you calling him Pádraig now? You always call him Paddy! You are a twister. We didn’t take any of the drink from him; Pádraig doesn’t drink now.”

I sit in the grass beside her feet.

“So, he gave you all drink?”

“No; ‘twas for the wedding; the lads were given some for bringing you back.”

She stares at her boots for a moment, thinking.

“All right, I’ll tell you the truth; you asked for it. Sean had an offer.”

“What kind of an offer?”

She plucks a piece of grass.

“If you married Jim Farrell, he could have a keg of the hard stuff from Jim’s uncle Timothy on the Aran Islands. H e gave them a hundred pounds dowry for you; the night of our wedding. He was drunk. When you went missing it nearly broke Sean. He was devastated when he thought you drowned. When I saw you at the Connor’s place, he was so happy he did a jig on the spot!”

“So, he had to get me back to get the hard liquor!”

“They’re very cunning, the Farrell Clan; wouldn’t give him the drink unless he could guarantee the wedding was going ahead. He had to get you back.”

“So, if you didn’t get drink, what did you get?” I grab her shoulders, tightly; feel anger rising. She lifts her head.

“It was only money!”

“How much did he give you?”

I squeeze her shoulders.

Her face turns white.

“Fifty…”

“Shillings?”

“No, they’re not shillings any more now, idiot! It was fifty pounds.”

“That’s how you bought the nice van!”

My rubber boots feel heavy as I move, so I pull them off and leave them with m y bucket of mushrooms. I can move more quickly now. They only wanted the money and the drink. I can’t see for the tears in my eyes; Maeve bought me with fifty pounds!

Daddy never gave five shillings to his own daughter! I always had to beg for everything. My heart suddenly burns with fierce hatred for my father, and Maeve...

“Stop running away; I’m telling you stop,” she screams. I keep going until the pains in my stomach make me stop; double up in agony.

“Come back.” I hear Maeve’s voice coming closer, shouting my name; she’s kneeling beside me, breathing heavily.

“Honestly, I didn’t do it for money.”

I am dumbstruck with pain.

“What’s the matter?”

She crouches down beside me. Tears are running down my cheeks.

“My stomach hurts. It must be the mushrooms. Maeve, I feel so awful.”

“Lie down a minute.” I lie down; stare at the blue sky with wispy clouds scurrying towards the sea, signalling something disastrous; I close my eyes as pain sweeps over me. Everything is going quiet and blank. I can hear Maeve’s concerned tones like an echo.

“Try to get up now; you’re just upset.” The pain stops as suddenly as it started; I feel really calm; sit up.

“I think they’re gone.”

“Thank God,” Maeve says. “Come on, we’d better get on home.” I get up on my hands and knees, and then crumple into a ball, breathless. I look up at Maeve’s worried expression. “ I know what it is. Baby is being born too soon! You’re supposed to be due after me!”

“It’s too late; I can feel it coming; oh Lord,” I gasp. Maeve gently lowers me to the ground; pulls my skirt up.

“I helped deliver Séamus remember? I know what to do.

She lifts my skirt and tugs my soaking knickers off. I kick them away. She peers between my legs and gasps.

“It’s a baby!”

She crouches on her hands and knees and orders me about like a Matron.

“It’s nearly here; bear down; push, come on, one more,” she urges. I lean forward, gasping between breaths and groans; hear a loud cry as the pushing stops; gasp for air and look at Maeve, who is magically holding a little dark haired pink toned baby whose arms are waving; crying boldly. Maeve gently wraps it in the white petticoat and takes it into her arms.

“A little girl,” she says. “Perfect.” She stares: “It hasn’t turned out the way we wanted. You had to have your baby first to spite me!”

“N o Maeve, I never did.” I feel cramps again; takes m y breath away.

“Well, you’re lucky to have me with you today. Here hold on to her, while I go and get a sharp stone to the cord. Nell said you have to do that! I remember now!”

Baby feels wet and warm across my body. I hold her with one hand and prop myself up with the other.

“Hello there?” I croon: looking at me, twisting her mouth. “You’re beautiful.

Look at lovely fine hair, your brow is strong. You’re the picture of your father. My God - she looks the image of Niall!”

“Niall,” Maeve repeats the word, looking up from her kneeling position between the legs. She has pulled my skirt just over my knees, so I cannot see her; busily she is cutting the cord, chattering on wildly. “You have to wait until it stops beating, so Nell says,” she explains. “Then you clamp it. I’ll use a strip of this.” She tears a strip off the petticoat.

“Your good petticoat is ruined.”

“I’ve made another; I’m a diligent person.”

“I’m glad you’re here with me, Maeve.’ I truly mean that.

“Finished,” Maeve says, her face appears above my knees.

“Here, let m e wrap her properly,” she states, taking the baby from me and rearranging the white petticoat.

“You need something to lie on.”

She pulls off her jumper, folds it and puts that underneath my head; shivers in her thin blouse but her gaze is settled on my face. “Now I understand.”

“What?” I ask.

“Niall’s her father, isn’t he? But you said you got were married...”

a monthly bleed before you

I nod my head.

“To Niall, my first husband.”

“You lied to me. I thought it was your marriage to Jim. That was a real marriage.

The child is too early, if you can count!”

“What will Jim say if he finds out that it’s Niall’s child?”

“He’ll find out surely.”

“Something is happening, Maeve.” I gasp the words out. “I think my guts are coming out...”

She puts baby on the grass, then lifts my blood soaked dress.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph help us! I’ll have to get a doctor...”

“I’m a-dying...” next to the house I was happy in. How ironic is that? Suddenly her voice changes and she yells out.

“Ala! 'Tis another one!”

“Another baby is coming?” I ask, open-mouthed.

“Ala! That’s why you’re so fat!” She orders me: “Push; one good push, don’t stop.”

Baby blue comes out like a fish in a waterfall. Maeve catches the tiny living creature in her arms.

“Lord be praised.” We stare at the flat blue-grey infant; hardly notice my first baby is screaming beside me.

“It’s a boy.” Maeve quickly removes something from his mouth and turns him over in her hands like turning a pancake. The little flat blue-grey bundle suddenly makes a loud cry, and miraculously becomes a round pink wiggling baby in an instant. The pair of babies are crying loudly now. I smile at Maeve.

She scowls back.

“I don’t believe it. You’ve had a boy and girl on purpose; you had to be better than me.” “ I thought I was only having one, honestly. I never planned this in all my life!”

“What can I to wrap him in? I’ve given my petticoat.”

“Here, use my shawl.” I throw my warm shawl towards her. She grabs it and places it under the baby’s tiny form. “Maybe there’s more?” I say as Maeve wraps the little wailing baby boy.

“There’s too many already, so stop raving; hold him while I cut the cord again.” I gaze at the tiny pink bundle lying on my thigh, squawking. He looks like his mother with his pink face and hair so light he looks bald. He has faint brown eyebrows! I stare down at my babies.

“So, what do we do now?”

“You’d better feed them!” She picks up the baby girl and places her on my right side. I pull my jumper up and my little girl turns her head and makes cute shapes with her mouth. I don’t have a brassier to fit anymore, so I just haven’t been wearing anything on my breasts these last few weeks.

Her rosy red mouth grasps the nipple, hurts like hell as she sucks hungrily.

“That hurts,” I squeal.

Maeve picks up the baby boy and places it on my left side.

“You’d better get used to it; here comes alamax!”

“I lie back on Maeve’s woollen jumper and try to relax. Miraculously, I’ve suddenly got two babies, one on each breast, feeding hungrily. I wonder if the milk tastes like mushrooms. I stare up at the sky. Maeve’s face appears in the picture, framed by the misty sky.

“You still have a big bulge down there.” “Do you think there is a third child?”

“I think ‘tis fat.” I say this laughing but hope to the Lord it is not a third child. My mind is racing, wondering what will be the destiny of this pair.

“Would you do something really special for me?”

She is sitting beside me, trying to catch her breath.

“I’ve given you my petticoat, what else can I do?”

“I have a plan to help Jim and all of you: if I give this child to Mrs Connor, she’ll have a grand life. She’s been praying for a child for years.”

“You take the cake; can just give your own child away like that?”

“I can, because it’s the best thing for Kathleen Connor. Jim won’t see her, and he’ll be happy with a boy. He won’t ask questions. I wanted a life for myself at Scriob House, but I can’t have that now; baby Caitlin can have a good life instead.”

“I never heard of such deception in all my life!”

“If I have two babies I’ll be asking you for help every day.”

“You’re right. Mrs Connor will probably make a better mother for her, Caitlin as you call her.”

“She will indeed, Maeve, you are right as always.” I know that I must persuade Maeve quickly before Jim does damage to the child, to all of us.

“I’ll do it; on one condition.”

“Yes, whatever condition you wish for, Maeve.”

“If ever you tell anyone about this, I’ll tell Jim it was your idea that you gave the child away.”

“That suits me fine; can you take her now before I change my mind and our lives are ruined for ever?”

“Give her to me.” She snatches the wiggly bundle in her arms. “She’s not one of us anyway!”

She stops for a moment and asks, “What’ll I say?”

“Say her name, Caitlin. Someone’s there, the Mercedes and Chevy truck are parked over yonder behind the trees. Leave her in the big fuel bucket at the back door. It’ll have peat in it. Yell out her name... Caitlin; then make a run for it. Be sure she doesn’t see you, or she’ll know 'tis a Tinker’s child!”

“Caitlin?”

“That’s her name, so please hurry Maeve, ’tis getting cool.”

Maeve gives me one last look and then races off as a greyhound, (a fat one).

I can hardly believe I’ve just given my baby away, but I believe it’s for the best.

I’m staring at my little baby boy, “One day I’ll tell you about a lovely sister.”

I watch the horizon for Maeve; counting every minute, willing her success!

Suddenly she’s coming thought the high grass over the hill, just as the sun dips its rays beyond it.

“Thank God!” She pants for air as she flops down in the grass.

“That was no joke. I’m exhausted now. Someone was coming as I ran off. I don’t think they saw me.”

“Maeve, you’ve done really well. A thousand thanks.” I pause and stare at my little boy. “He’s getting cold.”

“I’m hot!” she replies. “Here, use this.” She kindly places her shawl around my shoulders. “I’ll go and get the lads.”

She heads off again, calling out: “I’ll be back in the twinkling of an eye.”

I follow her with my eyes as she disappears in the other direction now. My eyes drift to the Connor’s house. They’ll be bringing in extra peat now. In my mind I can see the lovely sitting room with the warm fire burning and the room all neat and tidy, with the soft carpet on the floor. The Connors would be sitting down now, wondering how God sent them this beautiful girl, delighting in having their very own baby at last!

It seems like a long time passes before I hear voices coming over the hills. I see a figure hurrying towards me.

“Niamh,” he calls.

“Jim!” I call back as loudly as possible. He sees me and runs towards me.

“Our son,” I say to him as he nears me. I can smell alcohol, but I ignore it.

“You shouldn’t be going walking so far.” His face is bright with happiness, even thought he is scolding me, breathing fumes on my new baby. He kneels on the grass beside us and places his large finger into the little boy’s hand, he grasps his finger tightly.

“James, our little James, after my father,” he adds.

Maeve comes running from behind Jim. Behind her is Nell, carrying a bucket of water and some towels. Jim puts his a rms around us both for a m o m e n t ; holds the baby as N e ll and Maeve try to clean m e up as discretely as possible.

Nell’s eyes grow large as she notices the bloody mess on the ground.

“Such a lot of blood,” she exclaims. Maeve looks at me and then at Nell. "'Tis” Maeve agrees and then tries to divert her attention from the messy scene.

“Queen Nell, do you know that lovely brass vase you like; the one near the window of the van?”

“I do. What of it?”

“You can have it if we get her cleaned up quickly, before nightfall.”

Nell’s eyes bulge with delight.

“Right so!” Nell briskly wipes my legs and places a towel around my bottom under my skirt. She is discrete; speeds up her actions, becomes super-efficient.

“I knew 'twas a lad?” Nell exclaims happily.

“You're always right” Maeve remarks, glancing at me.

“And you're a really great nurse Nell, very discrete,” I add.

“Go on now. I’m just doing what any woman would do,” she replies humbly. Her face beams with pleasure.

“I’ll take James,” Maeve says, lifting the child from my arms, and hugging him tightly.

“I’ll carry you, Niamh, my wife,” Jim says, gently lifting me into his arms. I feel as light as a feather cradled in his powerful arms.

We arrive at the campsite: Maeve and Jim boil up hot water on the stove, to make a nice hot bath for James and me. Soon I am sitting in our copper bath, made by Jim. Maeve bathes James in a large copper pot, which is just the right size for his tiny wiggling body. She finds some clean things to put on his fine silken skin, a muslin nappy and flannelette nigh gown with a little blue ribbon at the neck. She puts some little socks on his red feet.

“It’s a good thing that I had some spare clothes. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, not being prepared for this.”

“I did try, Maeve,” I plead.

“I don’t know what you’d do without people to help you. You’re a hopeless case.”

“I’m sorry if I am a hopeless case, but isn’t he a lovely baby,” I say, gazing at my beautiful son.

“He’s a fine fellow,” she agrees.

“Maeve, you look exhausted, you should have a rest now,” I suggest, noticing the dark circles under her eyes.

“You’re right! I’m very tired now, so I think I’ll be off.” She hurries out the door.

“And we’ll have to go looking for your boots and bucket in the morning, before some codger nicks them. The mushrooms in the bucket will be rotten by then.”

“I’m sorry about that.” A few minutes on, there is a knock on the door. It’s Nell.

“I made a nice pot of tea.” She’s clutching the teapot she demanded when she announced that I was expecting; now beams with happiness as she pours me a cup of strong tea and puts four lumps of sugar into it.

“Thanks Nell,” I say, sipping the sweet golden drop. She m a k e s sure s h e doesn’t forget to take the teapot w i t h he r when she leaves. Why I am feeling so sad inside, is a mystery to me yet I did what I needed to do? ...

James is three months old now. Maeve comes over just before lunch one day; moaning.

“I’ve been a wak e half the night!” H e r hands are on he r bac k a nd she i s b rea t h i ng irreg u larly .“I’ve got pains all over, in m e back, and terrible stomach cramps for the past six hours.”

She calms down for a moment and makes her announcement: “Baby is arriving.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! What can I do, pick mushrooms, boil the kettle?”

Maeve laughs.

“At least I’m ready, not like someone I know. I would dearly love a cup of hot tea and a really sweet biscuit.”

“I’ll put the kettle on,” I strike a match and touch the methylated spirits in the spirit cup of the Primus stove. Instantly the bright blue flame leaps around the element. I place the copper kettle on top. Maeve sits on the chair that Jim has fixed.

“I’m hoping for a little girl; that’s what Pádraig wants.”

“What if it’s a boy?”

“I’d rather have a girl, seeing you were the first to have a boy; that way we can both have a first!”

“But I had a girl...”

“Stop that now; I don’t want to hear it! So, how are you and Jim getting along?”

“All right... since James arrived. He’s a great little lad, always sleeping his head off.”

“You’re very lucky to have such a wonderful baby.” She suddenly gasps for breath, bends over and holds her stomach for a few minutes.

“I’d better call Nell,” Maeve says, as she stands up.

“Baby’s due the first week in September, which is this week!”

“I’ll come with you,” I say. “I’ll call Nora and ask her to keep an eye on James.” ...

Moiré arrives kicking and screaming four hours later, on Monday, September first, Maeve delivers a perfect little girl, around six pounds weight, helped by Nell, Mary, and Maeve’s mother, Maura, who came back from praying at the chapel in the nick of time to see the birth.

“Do you hear that? ” Maura asks as she gazes at her grandchild.

“What is it, Ma?” Maeve asks.

“The bell is ringing. We should say the Angelus! ” Suddenly she bursts into rapid prayer for a few moments. “God must want you to call her Mary,” Maura says.

“You mean because the Angelus reminds us about Mary’s visit from the angel, when Jesus was conceived?”

“That’s right, Maeve; it’s a grand name for our very first granddaughter!”

“We thought Ellen would be a good middle name, after Nell! ” Maeve replies.

“That’s a grand name altogether,” Nell says, picking up the bucket with soiled lined and taking it outside.

“Here’s Paddy now,” Maura says, meeting Paddy outside on his way home from work.

“Paddy, Patron Saint of Ireland in name, you’re the father of a lovely little girl, our first granddaughter!” Maura announces. “Congratulations! I’m going back to the chapel to offer a few prayers to God and to get some of that money they were giving local homeless people. God may bless them all!

CHAPTER SIX PICK UP STICKS Winter comes suddenly in October, with snow, sleet and rain arriving together on my birthday, 31. After that I hardly go out at all because of the pelting rain and cold wind; try to stay in the van with James, so that he doesn’t catch a cold. I do take him to Mass at Christmas, and show him the little stable with Jesus and Mary, Joseph and shepherd statues there, with some animals; taking a bit of the straw to keep.’Tis supposed to bring good luck.

The Saint Vincent de Paul people have come around, bringing gifts for all the children. James loves his little ball and bag of sweets. They also give each family a box of lovely food. We have a lovely dinner together, the whole lot of us, with roast turkey, ham, Christmas pudding and custard. Daddy, Jim and Kieran manage to get a bottle of the hard liquor and the three of t h e m are d r u n k b y the afternoon.

F o l l o w i n g the C h r i s t m a s celebrations I’m feeling sick in the mornings. I am expecting Jim’s child, that’s a certainty!

Two months later Jim comes home late. James is sleeping and I have been dozing on a cushion, waiting for him.

“I want you,” he says, pulling me towards him.

“Not now Jim, please no: I feel really sick.”

“I need you now!” He slobbers kisses all over my face and his breath stinks of strong alcohol.

“No, Jim, you are drunk!”

“You’re my wife, damn you!”

He violently tries to force me to have sex with him, but in the end he collapses in a heap on top of me; I climb out from under him and sleep in the chair the rest of the night. The next morning I feel sick again. I get up and eat a piece of dry bread, which helps. I feed James.

Jim is sleeping his head off.

“Get up. Aren’t you going to work today?”

“Go away!” He rolls over and closes his eyes.

Maeve comes over a few minutes later with some fresh bread.

“Moiré is sleeping, so I thought you could use this!”

“Can I come over to your place?” I whisper. “ Jim is not feeling very well.”

“As long as you’re very quiet, come on!”

We walk to her and Paddy's van.

“We’re sorry to hear about Jim,” she says, kindly.

“He’s just had too m u c h to drink. He’ll be at work tomorrow, ” I explain, a little chagrinned by her strange concern.

She turns her head sharply as we enter her van.

“He hasn’t told you?” she asks.

“What?”

She knows something and I do not know it, that’s the message she is sending me now.

“He got the sack!”

I gasp.

“He didn’t say a word about that. Do you know why, Maeve?” I ask, seriously concerned because of his rough behaviour.

“He was drunk on the job, so Pádraig said!”

“No wonder, he’s been in a raging mood again. He mistreated me yesterday.”

“So, what have you done to him now?”

“I’ve done nothing!”

I wonder why ’tis always my fault. I feel sick. How can I always be in the wrong to her?

“That's just what you do, nothing: you lazy faggot! You’ve got to fight.”

“I did. I fought him last night. He gave up in the end.”

“No; silly Ass; fight to keep him; you’re going to lose him, that’s on the cards!”

She called me a silly Ass, but I know that is not true. I stand up to her bullying tactic.

“What can I do?” I ask, feeling helpless.

“I told you before; give him lots of love!”

“I’m expecting again, and I’ve been sick.”

This is true and I am a bit wimpy when that happens, but not lazy or bad.

“Try to think of other things, then you’ll forget about being sick,” she suggests.

Feeling better already, I announce the words, “I’m going to give it a try.” I have to get her off this subject and I do want things to turn out better.

“That is a better attitude!” Maeve says, happily. “I’ll cut you a big slice of bread and jam.”

“Thanks Maeve. I’m going to enjoy it too!” I say. "'Tis all in my head.” I am not sure I believe these words even thought they seem reasonable.

Accepting Maeve’s offer; a couple of minutes later I’m biting into a neatly cut slice of bread and jam. I am enjoying a bite to eat as my tummy rumbles with hunger. "'Tis lovely!”

“Do you want a piece of fresh bread and strawberry jam, James,” Maeve asks James, who’s wiggling on my knees. James’ eyes light up as she breaks off a piece of bread; piles jam on top.

“Maeve,” I say hurriedly, “can you hold on to James, I’m going outside to vomit.” I feel my head spinning and my stomach churning, like buttermilk in a vat, and I must hurry out. …

Jim has been working at home for the past two months. He’s been making copper pots and vases and selling them to the shops. People have been raving over them, calling them pieces of artwork. He’s making enough to keep us fed. One morning, early in April, Maeve comes over, carrying Moiré who’s seven months old now, looking bonny and beautiful, gurgling with happiness and a couple of bottom teeth. She carries a navy bucket bag on her other shoulder.

“Top of the morning, to you!”

“Come on in; too late, you’re in!” I say jokingly as she steps inside, bringing out her latest food contribution, hot cross buns. “They smell lovely as always.”

“Put the kettle on and have one; you look like you could do with it because you’re so pale. You should do a bit more exercise and get the roses back in your face!”

“I must do that, Maeve. I feel grand really. The buns look delicious.”

Maeve sits in the settee, moving a bundle of clothes as she makes room for her bottom.

Lifting her jumper she draws her child to her nipple. Moiré plays with her breast and pretends to suck. Maeve relaxes, allowing the child to play, suck, play.

“I am thinking of giving up this breast milk game, child,” Maeve says smartly, smacking her child’s hand and pulling her jumper down.

A few minutes later I sit down to hot tea and sticky hot cross buns. James crawls over and pulls himself up by my knees. He has his hand out.

I pull off a small piece and hand it to him.

“Niamh; I was passing by St. Vincent de Paul’s shop and I saw this outfit. I thought it would suit James.”

She reaches into her bucket bag and produces a bright navy and white sailor top with a navy pants from her crocheted bag.

“It’s lovely; you are so kind, Maeve.”

“And a pair of shoes and socks to go with it,” she says, holding up a red shiny pair of shoes and white socks.

“They’re gorgeous; thank you, Maeve. Can I give you something for them?”

“Not at all; I know you’ve been struggling to make ends meet. I thought he needed something new for the party,” she says.

“What party?”

“A birthday party for Séamus; Mary has invited him.”

“Is he one year old already?”

“He is; ’tis today.”

“When is the party?” "'Tis two hours away!”

“I’d better get him ready, and me.”

“You’re not invited.”

“Why do you think she didn’t invite me?” I quiz Maeve.

“If you must know, and I warn you, don’t repeat this to anyone. I heard a few of the women saying you were stuck up since you came back.”

“I’m not stuck up. I just don’t trust this lot any more. If they found out about Niall and me, they might take it out on the Connors, or Caitlin, or my poor dead husband Niall!”

“If I were you I’d let the grass grow again, so try and be a bit civil, for our family’s sake!”

I just stare at Maeve. I do not understand her logic.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t just think about it. Do something.” Maeve suggests. “I’ll take James and I’ll be off.”

“Come here, James.” I give the order for a change.

James creeps over; his face is sticky and dirty.

“He’s filthy; give his face a wipe and comb his hair, before you put those nice clothes on. I’ll go and change Moiré’s shoes. I think these white shoes are a bit small,” Maeve instructs me as she hurries out the door. Fifteen minutes later she returns with Moiré, who’s wearing a bright pink ribbon in her hair and a clean pink baby doll dress, matched with pink socks and tiny black patent shoes; face polished to a fine shine.

“She looks so..., clean!” I comment.

“Cleanliness is next to Godliness, you should learn that,” Maeve says, scooping James into her arms. She now has the pair side by side in her arms, and a bag over her shoulder, appearing very overloaded.

“Maeve, I’ll help with James.”

I scoop him back from her without asking and place him into the rusty stroller Jim found.

“Don’t use that ugly thing; I’ll put the m in the double stroller Pádraig made from two pushchairs. I think he was hoping w e might have twins!” She laughs; “God willing we will use this again.”

We place the pair in Paddy’s pushchair; one pushchair with an extra seat fitted behind the first.

“That is astonishing. Paddy is a genius,” I say, genuinely impressed.

“It is foldable too,” she says, with a smile as big as a Cheshire cat.

“That is amazing. Are you walking all the way to Mary’s place?” I ask, wondering how far away it might be. I gaze into the distance. I know they were in a field about a mile away from here.

“A-no; too far from here; they are in Leenaun now ; going up in the world, you might say.”

“How are you getting there?”

“Freda is picking us up. She has a car now!” Maeve informs me.

“Who’s Freda?” I ask.

“A friend of: Mary’s! Yo u wouldn’t know her. We met through the craft club. Well, she’ll be here in any tick of the clock!”

With ease, she manoeuvres the push-chair towards the edge of the roadway. I walk beside her, as a lost sheep.

“You go on back.” A worried look appears on her face. What is going in with her, I am thinking?

“What’s wrong with me?”

“Your hair is dirty and your dress is ripped,” Maeve shudders and shakes her head.

“Niamh, the Tramp of Eire!”

Certainly, that comments hurts making me feel unwanted, discarded like an old shoe. Maeve appears to have made a new life that does not include me.

“I’ll go back; ‘bye, James; ‘bye, Moiré,” I say, feeling the eyes of the other women peering from their vans, or pretending to poke the fires round about the camp.

Returning to our van I take my shawl and put my brogues on; I’m going on a bit of a walk. I hurry through the fields, tracing the grassy track to Connor’s house. I sit down on a flat rock in the long grass behind a blackberry bushes and watch the house. Happy memories come flooding back to me, Niall, Finn McCool, Mrs Connor, Tom Connor, To b y the dog, Ginger the cat. I sit and bask in the memories of those heavenly days, reliving them. It seems like a lifetime ago now, an unretrievable time of joy and peace.

My heart gives a big lurch.

“Caitlin!” I whisper. I stand up to get a better look. I see Mrs Connor carrying Caitlin in her arms and chatting to her, then kissing her face. They are so happy together that I know I did the right thing for my little girl.

After a few moments I head off down the track, skipping and humming all the way home. I close the door of the van and lean against it. Thank God Maeve is not back yet! I hear someone outside. I quickly pull off my shawl and my brogues, as I don’t want her to know what I’ve been doing. The door opens. I look up from unlacing my shoes.

“Jim?” “So, what have you been up to?” He closes the door and stares at me.

“Nothing at all!”

“Ah-so, your face looks flushed. Where were you?”

“I went for a walk.” I am beginning to feel scared by his bulging eyes and his twisting mouth. I know he is ready to blow up.

“Where’s James?”

I try to keep calm.

“He’s gone to a party with Moiré; Séamus is one year old today.”

“Why don’t you look after your son?”

My heart drops into my boots. What does he mean by this?

“Maeve’s looking after him; I wasn’t invited!”

He throws his head back and laughs sharply.

“Ax! That’s a good one!”

He obviously thinks I am telling lies. “’Tis true. They don’t like me!”

“Why so?” He stares at me as if I am making up a story.

I have no idea what to tell him.

“I don’t know!” I reply.

He looks agitated and his fingers are curling in and out. Fear grips my heart. What will he do to me now? I think of a way out and away from him, but he is blocking the door.

He sits.

I breathe a sigh of relief. He seems calmer. I think of offering him a cup of tea, but hesitate, as I am struggling to read his thoughts.

“They’re probably fearful that you’ll take their men away!”

That takes the cake and I make my big mistake by replying with a glib sentence.

“Don’t be an Ass, Jim!” Maeve often calls me that. It seems reasonable, but not to Jim, not today. I laugh nervously. Oh dear, I think I might have said the wrong thing.

“Don’t call me an Ass; you’re the stupid one, lying to me.” He reaches out like a dart and takes hold of me by the wrists.

“I’m not telling lies, Jim. And why are you home so early. ” I struggle to release myself from his grasp.

He tightens his grip.

“I told you on our wedding-day: don’t ever question me about my private business. ” “You’re hurting me.”

“Sorry!”

He lets go. I am shaking with fear and trepidation. I rub my wrists. I notice his dinner over a pot with a plate on top. I try to distract him and keep him calm.

“Do you want your dinner now?” I try to smile.

“No, I don’t want any dinner. I’m off!”

He strides through the door. I am relieved a little.

My heart is thumping so fast I slump into the wooden chair. The room is swaying back and forth. The next thing I know Maeve and James are opening the van door.

“Sleeping your head off as usual? Well, we had a great time, didn’t we James? He needs a nappy change, so I’ll leave that with you.” She shoves James into my arms.

“Thanks, Maeve.” I stumble to my feet and take James in my arms. “I do appreciate your care of James.”

“Sure ’tis nothing at all; sure we had a grand time and he was good for me.”

That night Jim’s voice interrupts my slumber. I pretend I am still asleep.

“What’s his name?”

If I do not reply he will hit me. I open my eyes and stare into his angry face.

“Whose name is that?” I whisper.

“You’re seeing someone; I know it!”

His muscular body lands right on top of me, crushing my ribs; he crashes out and is too drunk to move.

I wriggle from under him, take James in a blanket, still asleep, and head out the door. I’m shaking all over. I bang on Maeve’s door.

“It’s me,” I call. The door opens.

“You’re shivering. Come on, then,” she says, drawing me inside.

“Thanks.” I lay James on the sofa and sit by him.

“I hope you’re not stopping long: I’ve had a bad night with Moiré.”

“Is she sick?” I ask.

“She’s just teething. We’ve had to take her into our bed.” She whispers, “Try and be quiet, Pádraig’s bunched.”

Moiré’s w himper rises behind the curtain; Maeve hurries inside and returns a few moments with Moiré in her arms. Moiré is sucking her thumb.

“Don’t suck your thumb. Alamax.” She looks at me. “No more breast milk for her. I think Cow and Gate will help her grow faster, and ’tis nourishing.”

Maeve picks up a bottle of milk from a pot of warm water and squeezes a bit on her wrist; shoves it in Moiré’s mouth. Moiré sucks the bottle, staring at m e with big blue eyes. M a e v e sits d o w n beside me.

“That sounds like a very good idea,” I say, noticing the contentment of Moiré and her bottle.

“Tell me what’s wrong?”

“Jim thinks I have another man...” I blurt out. I am sure she will support me, maybe.

She pulls her hand away and stares at me.

“And do you?”

I am shocked that she even asks me. If anyone knows me, Maeve does.

“No, of course I do not have another man!”

“You have nothing to worry about if you’re telling the truth. I made myself a cup of tea, would you like one?”

“I would, Maeve, please.”

“Here, take her.” She passes Moiré onto my lap, takes a cup from her shelf and pours out the hot black tea. “There’s no alamax left. I just used the last of it in my tea.”

“I don’t mind! I will take black tea.”

“Pádraig bought me a lovely Madeira cake on his way home from work; would you like a piece?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Ma...”

Moiré reaches over for cake.

“No! You have your alamax!”

Moiré starts to cry.

“Here, come here. Back to bed then,” she scolds, rocking Moiré and heading inside the curtained doorway. She quietens the child and sits down again.

“How do you do that?”

“You have to be firm with them at this age!”

She looks at James sleeping peacefully on the sofa with his head on my lap.

“You realise the time? ‘tis nearly half one?”

“Is it? I’m sorry for disturbing you. I was just afraid... ” “Afraid of what; the boogie man?” Maeve laughs softly so as not to disturb the children.

“Jim!” “Jim,” She shakes her head, says, “I’m ashamed to call you my step-sister. He’s your husband, for peace sake; talk to him; it works!”

“He’s drunk!”

“When he’s sober; your place is with your husband.”

“You’re right, Maeve.”

“What are you waiting for? Go on back, kiss and make up!” she urges, yawning.

“I’ll go.” I rise, reluctantly.

“I don’t know why you had to disturb James too.”

“I don’t know why,” I reply. I honestly felt terrified, but now I feel calmer. What can he do to me?

“I’ll bid you goodnight,” Maeve says, opening the van door as I take James in my arms.

“Hurry up now, before James gets too cold.”

I creep back into our van and step over Jim, who’s lying on the floor. I put James in his little cot and throw a coat over Jim; climb into bed, exhausted.

The next thing I know it’s about ten in the morning. Jim is standing next to the bed. All my fears arise in an instant. He takes on his gruff look and his voice is tethered like a horse ready to bolt.

“I heard that James is not my son!”

My Lord, he found out our secret! How? “You heard wrong!”

I lie.This day is the one I have dreaded and I knew it would come back to me like a bad omen. I look away. I have to lie to save my children’s lives.

“Then why are they saying...?”

He looks me in the eyes. Who are ‘they’? I wonder. It cannot be Maeve, ’tis someone else!

“I need you,” he says, rubbing my shoulders, kissing my face, then my lips.

He feels repulsive to me. I have to turn him down.

“James is sleeping.”

“James comes before me; why?”

“I’m his mother. It was you who told me to look after my son…”

I t r y t o g e t o u t t h e d o o r.

Without warning he pulls m e bac k b y the arm, throwing me back onto the bed.

“You’re a whore, admit it!”

Jim stands up. He pulls his pants on; his face is white with rage; black eyes are bulging from their sockets.

“Kieran wouldn’t lie to me; look at you, lying there, wanting him! You’re a whore!”

Jim raises his foot. I roll away from the blow of his foot landing on my stomach. His foot collides with my left side. I double up trying to catch my breath.

“Don’t, Jim!” I cry out as he raises his ha nd to hit m e again.

“Bitch! Bastard!” he mutters as he stumbles out the door.

I know he will be back, drunk and more vile than ever. After a few minutes I catch my breath. I pull on my cardigan with trembling hands and take James from his cot and stagger to Maeve’s place where we will be safe.

“Maeve!” I call out through the open door.

“Not you again; what’s up now? Lord, you are bleeding. Give me James.” She takes the child from my arms.

“The baby, I gasp for breath again.”

“We’d better get Queen Nell,” Maeve suggests.

Ten minutes later Nell comes hurrying through the door. She takes one look at me and says, “Death; I see death.”

“Death!” Maeve repeats.

“The baby’s gone; slán leat,” Nell says, waddling back out the door.

“She’s drunk!” Maeve looks at me, a worried frown c rowning her brow. “I’ll get o n e of the lads to run for the doctor.”

S he steps out the door an d a few minutes on, she returns, with Nora on her heels.

“Dermot is running for the doctor now.”

Nora looks at me with pity, wearing her fluffy yellow cardigan over a deep green shade of dress. Her hair is adorned with a daisy ring. What can a nymph do for me, I wonder?

“Will I take Moiré and James for a walk?”

I am shocked that she is offering to help in such a practical way. I nod my head.

“Yes, Nora!”

Maeve addresses me. “She’s a grand girl, our Nora!”

She turns to Nora. “Use the double pushchair; ‘tis outside near the window.”

“I will,” she says. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.” She picks Moiré up and takes James by the hand, then lifts him down the step. Nora turns back from outside the door. “Will I change James?”

“Do that, Nora! You’ll make a great mother one day, not like some people!”

“Thanks Nora,” I call out. “Jim’s not there, so just go on inside. There are clean nappies in the room behind the curtain, on the left side....”

An hour later, Maeve comes running in.

“It’s the young fellow. The good looking one...”

A long thin figure fills the van doorway.

“Hello. Are you Niamh Farrell?”

He holds his hand forward and I touch it. He shakes my hand.

“I’m Doctor Hugh Healy. Let’s check baby, shall we?”

I nod my head. He puts his stethoscope on my quiet bulge; then stands up. His head is touching the ceiling, so he asks Maeve to go outside with him. A few minutes pass; he returns bending over as he moves in the small space. He asks me a few questions about bleeding, and I tell him I have had bleeding early this morning.

“I’ll have to put you in the hospital. You’re a very sick woman.”

“What about the baby? Is she all right, Doctor?”

“She? You must have a crystal ball to know the baby’s sex. You gypsies are psychic they say. I would like to talk to your husband.”

“He’s not here,” I say. I expect him to return drunk, so what’s the point?

“What’s wrong, Doctor?” Maeve asks.

He lowers his voice, and says, “There could be haematomas in the placenta, or incisions in the sac.”

Maeve’s eyes enlarge.

I feel this sounds weird and awful, such strange things happening to me and my child.

“Is that bad?” she asks.

“Very bad, I’m afraid.” He turns to me.

“I want to see your husband as soon as possible. He needs to pay the fees; in the meantime I’ll get you up to the hospital and they can give you a curette.”

So, he wants money, and that’s why he wants Jim. Should I tell him that Jim will have no money when he returns? I decide not to say anything about money. I also wonder about why I need a priest. Am I dying?

“A priest, why?” I ask.

Doctor Healy throws back his head and laughs.

“Not a curate; a curette!”

Maeve scowls: “Don’t show your ignorance!”

I stay quiet. I still do not know what a curette is, but I expect ’tis something awful.

“I’ll give you something to calm you down.” Doctor opens his bag, extracting a long thin object.

“It’s a needle!”

“It is a needle all right; steady now. You won’t feel a thing.” He gives a jab in the thigh. …

I wake up and see a high ceiling above me and a big window.

“You are back?” Maeve says, smiling. I attempt to sit up but fail. I flop onto the pillow.

“What happened?” I ask, feeling empty. Something is missing.

“They got rid of it!”

She is talking about my child that I carried for months now.

“Rid of it?”

“Her, I believe. They nearly lost you as well!”

“You mean baby is gone?”

“She was dead, like Nell said; happy she is in Limbo now.”

“Where did they take her?”

She stares angrily at me.I feel her anger from two feet away and I am helpless. I cringe inside.

“How in God’s name do I know? The best you can do is offer up a Mass for her, and say a few Hail Mary’s.”

My God the emptiness I feel is overwhelming me.

I remember James.

“Is James all right?” I ask, holding back my tears, wiping my eyes.

“He’s grand.”

I wonder why my husband is not by me. Maybe they didn’t allow him into the hospital because of his drunken state.

“What about Jim?” She moves back a step, taking a deep breath, ignoring the question.

Now I am worried about Jim and Maeve’s secrets and the absence of my husband. …

Maeve has dropped in with a few provisions, bread, jam, and some secondhand clothes. I am barely surviving these days, mentally and physically. ’tis tough going with a child to rear.My life has become a living disaster and I see no future for us at all.

“It’s been six months since Jim went missing, Maeve!” I say after a few minutes silence while I break off a piece of bread for James, and pour him a cup of milk.

“Why talk about it now?”

She was always like that. Maeve moves on and forgets about any disaster as if they never occurred, especially to someone else. But Jim is still not accounted for. I cannot forget that.

“I just wondered if you heard anything.”

“Well, whether he’s a-dead or alive, I feel he’s happier now, far away from all those upsets and things.”

“You mean with me?”

I feel a bit taken aback by her snide comment.

“You know what went on. I don’t blame him. It takes two to tango.”

She looks at me knowingly, nodding her head. What is she implying, I wonder?

“Blame him for what?”

“Running away!”

“He knew I was expecting...”

“Where did you get to when he came home and you were absent?”

“I went out for a walks, to catch the air...”

“Catch a man would be more like it! ” I stand up and I am clenching my teeth. She insults me in my own home and this makes me angry. I have to tell her the truth before I scream against her lies.

“How dare you falsely accuse me. I will tell you what I have been doing out there searching for someone. I’ve been going to see Caitlin.”

“Niamh, you left her in a better place, you said so yourself. Why go stirring up trouble again for the whole clan? ” “I know now that I should not have left her.”

“Settle down and become a family. Rory is still waiting for you, and he gets on well with James.”

“Rory?”

“He’s a free spirited man. He never wants to settle down in one place, just like you. You are well suited.

“Maeve, I don’t even like Rory in that way! I’d rather die than marry him!”

“You’re too good for him then? Lady Muckross! You get on my gall! Just keep your hands off my Pádraig!”

“Maeve, that’s a horrible thing to say,” I shout back at her.

“Don’t shout in front of children. I’m going home,” she says, picking Moiré up off the floor. “Look at the state of her now. Her clean frock is filthy. Why don’t you wash the floor some time?” …

Fresh autumn winds turn into icy rain as Christmas and nineteen seventy-one approach. James and I have been keeping to ourselves. W e go out and beg if the weather is not too bad. Each week we make an adventure to see our Caitlin, our joy is full. We are content with seeing her playing, walking now too. ...

Wednesday 4 June 1971: James and I plan to go to our favourite hill to celebrate Caitlin and James’ second birthday.

We walk through the yellow bracken purple heather and prickly furs to take our pennies to Kelly’s Shop on the corner of Clifden Road, Moycullen for sweets. After a long trek through the fields and sprawling lakes where our feet get a soaking just for a laugh.

Two country women are outside the shop window, talking about a funeral and my ears prick up their tone. Bending over James to tie his wet shoes laces, I listen carefully. After a few moments I get up and take James’ hand, walk into the shop, holding my saved pennies.

“What do you want?” Mrs. Kelly’s voice booms from behind the counter. Her wiry frame and face of a thousand wrinkles belies her roar, surprising her customers, causing us to rush forward to purchase.

“Jellies,” James says. She glares at the little child putting hand marks on her glass display cabinet.

“Show me your money?” Mrs Kelly shouts at us.

“Here,” I place a handful of pennies on the counter. She counts them with her eyes and quickly slips them into the palm of her hand.

“Twenty pence,” she says, looking up over her milk-bottom type glasses. ”May we have 20 sweeties please?

“You can, to be sure,” Mrs. Kelly says, delighted to have our custom. This is her lucky day I think, getting all of that money!

“Has someone died?” I ask Mrs Kelly as she rolls a piece of newspaper into a cone shape and counts the jellies one by one.

“Don’t interrupt me now. I know your sort, trying to get an extra sweet.” Once the sweets are counted she looks at me through thick glasses once again, peering into my head.

“Kathleen Connor! You would’t know her, she’s not your sort.”

My heart falls flat to the ground. I thank her in Gaelic. ”Go rabh maith agat.”

Her old skin wrinkles into a faint smile, cheering us up.

“Come on James, we’re going to see the pretty girl.”

James trudges alongside; tries to open the cone packet.

“Don’t open it; yet; we have to go up the hill. We’ll sing our special song about Missus Kelly?” We sing together, “Missus Kelly broke her belly sliding down a lump of jelly!” We laugh; as we climb over hills and dales, trudging together, laughing all the way, enjoying the brisk air and rough terrain for little feet. We repeat the ditty until we reach our special spot on the hill where we can see Connor’s house.There we sit with relief on a flat rock and wait for what is to come.

30 minutes later, I see a big black hearse coming up the driveway; men in black get out of the front seat; a black car is pulling up behind the hearse; two men and a woman get out of that and go into the house.

A tall blonde haired woman comes out the door of the house carrying a small child.

“It’s Caitlin,” I whisper to James. He is busy chewing sweets.

Caitlin is dressed in an ink shade of dress with white frills. I can see her frilly underskirt. She has black shiny shoes and white stockings. My heart lurches over and over with longing to get closer.

Mr Connor stands beside the blonde w o m e n . The child is lurching towards Mr Connor, but the woman pulls her back, gives her a shake and slaps her on the wrist. I flinch at that slap.

Mr Connor ignores the activities around him.My heart is breaking and I can bear to watch no more.

I p ic k J a m e s u p a n d carry h i m h o m e . T h e ne xt d a y I m e e t Maeve in the yard around the van. I relate the news to her.

“Mrs Connor’s funeral was yesterday!”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do.”

“So, you were snooping again. Idle minds are the devil’s work. You should try to keep yourself busy.”

I ignore her remark.Something else is more worrying.

“They might send Caitlin away,” I remark, exposing my thoughts to Maeve because she’s here now.

“T h e whole world doesn’t rotate around you. Leave well enough alone; stop interfering.”

I expected a rebuke, so this is not surprising.

“You’re right.” I pause before I ask her something else.

“I was wondering if I could ask you to look after James. He’s a bit weary from walking yesterday.”

“You want to see her, ala?” Maeve asks with her hands on her hips.

“Just, this once, for God’s sake, Maeve, please help.”

“Go on; get it out of your system; swear it is the last time? Go on!”

“I swear; this will be the last time.”

I return an hour later. Maeve is surprised to see me at the door of her van.

“You were quick. W h a t have you done?” S h e stands with her arms o n her hips.

“Caitlin, this is your aunty Maeve.” I bring the shy child from behind my skirt to meet her new Aunty.

“You kidnapped the child! Dear God! How did you get away with it?”

“She was stuck in a playpen; in the rain. I just lifted her in my arms and took her with me,” I explain. “It was easy really.”

“Get out of here; Go far away and leave us alone before the Garda come here! Take your son too.” She shunts James out the door of the van and closes it.

CHAPTER SEVEN NOT IN HEAVEN At Maam Cross I hail the single decker bus to begin my journey to Cork, where I hear there is a great harbour and perhaps I can get a job on a ship and sail to America, or meet a lovely man who will take me there! The bus driver is a mature man with a clean-shaved look. His driver’s cap is on the seat next to him; his eyes are alert, as blue as the sea.

“Are them children under four?”

“They are, Sir,” I answer politely.

The makes him soften a bit.

“They can’t sit on the seats; you have to hold them on your lap!”

“I will look after them,” I say politely, noticing there are only about seven passengers and loads of empty seats. I don’t need a fuss until I am well clear of this area of the county. A woman with a headscarf and a bag of knitting nods her head at my response.

I make sure I don’t have any conversations with her, so occupy myself with tending to the children to ad nauseam The long bus ride through winding roads and hills is a test for the children. I brought two bottles of fresh milk

and sweeties, so I am keep them quite with food. I show great interest in things flying past outside the window.

“Look at the cows,” I say when we see one. We play a game of find the sheep. James is very interested but Caitlin wants sweeties continually. Once we pass Moycullen Bogs I feel a sense of relief. Two hours on, we arrive in Galway.

We make our way to the river bank by the Corib and we eat bread. The children drink the rest of their milk. I take a drink of water from an old water pump, and I am ready for our next leg. I had the thought to stop by the river for the night, but when I see a police station nearby, I decide to move on before any questions are asked by the Garda. I find my way to the bus station.

“When’s the bus to Cork?” I ask bus driver who has his cap on.

“We’re off to Limerick; five minutes!”

“Limerick will do. How much is it?

“Two bob, the children ride free, under four.”

The very cheery driver makes me feel welcome and happy. I sit the kids down beside me in a velvet covered seat and after fifteen minutes the pair fall asleep on my knees, one on each side. By the time we reach Limerick ’tis evening, so I decide to keep a low profile for the night.

I find a quiet dry spot near King John’s Castle, and the great Shannon River. We camp overnight before the Garda do their rounds next morning and we need to scarper. We are walking along a pathway when a uniformed Garda steps past and I say, “The top of the morning to ye,” when he glances at me with suspicion in his face.

“Morning, Mom,” he says, tipping his hat.”

“Where can I get the bus to Cork?” I dare to ask him.

“Parnell,” he says abruptly, keen to get away and work hard somewhere nearby.

“Thank's very much,” I say graciously and rush away.

Finally we find the bus depot and the right bus for our journey to Cork. The jingles of my saved coins has become lessened as we go and I am thinking of hocking Jim’s ring in Cork, to pay for expenses instead of begging. I like my decision very much and feel happy with a plan in place.

The bus ride is very smooth and I thank the Lord the children are reasonably quiet and not motion sick. I keep my eyes focussed on the children or out the window to avoid any unnecessary conversations. Who cares about a little girl and boy and her mother, I wonder. But, if they find me, I know I am in a deep bog, up to my neck.

Four hours on we finally arrive in the great city of Cork. Well, you never saw such a busy place as Cork. There are shops and buildings everywhere, and well dressed folk rushing about. I feel the excitement of being in a big city. ‘Tis like a dream coming true. We walk across a bridge to Cobh and sit o n a stone wall with the t w o children beside m e . It’s a beautiful soft summers evening. I give them milk and biscuits. Being an experienced traveller, I find a nice cosy spot near some trees on the side of the bridge and settle the children for the night using the shawl I took with me. …

Maeve would never approve my going for a stroll whilst leaving my pair asleep, but I know they are safe and sound, and I said a prayer for them to be safe.

I notice the lone shadowy figure of a man who silently, except for a splash as a wave crashes into the side of the boat. It pulls up alongside the nearby pylon a small fishing boat, tying it up next to the River Lee and Lough Mahon. The waters are so soothing that I wouldn’t mind going away in one of those little boats.

His voice comes across as an echo, surreal.

“Do you need a boat Miss?”

I do get a surprise as I did not think he noticed me. The place is quite and deserted. I feel like a shadowy figure moving through the streets as a ghost may move.

“Do you go to the islands?”

“I do, every day.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow, there’s one ship leaving tomorrow. It’s her!”

“That big ship, over there: The Irish Sycamore. It was made right here in Cork. It’s off to America; carrying cargo, and a few passengers. Now I’d give my right arm to be going on that big girl. She is so sleek and majestic!” He gazes at the ship as if it is an idol of worship.

“I would too! I hear the streets are paved with gold in America; ‘tis even bigger than Cork!”

“Aye, and all that!”

“You wouldn’t happen to know how much it costs to go on that big ship.” I clutch my ring Jim game me. Can it get me to America? Then all my woes with him are worth it.

“It’s very expensive to get to across the Atlantic. I know someone who’s going on her, tomorrow. He’ll know more about it.”

“Who’s that?”

“Mick Brady, who lives a few minutes walk away. The name’s Maguire, Ted Maguire, fishing entrepreneur,” he says. The lone street light displays his smiling, twinkling eyes.

“Niamh Farrell,” I reply.

“Then you are Niamh: Queen of the land.” His lips touch the back of my hand as it collides with his stubble. “My mother’s name was Niamh, and she was queen of Cork, I can tell you that! She never put the cork in the bottle; too fond of the drink!” H e laughs, and then shakes his head.

Five minutes later we are entering through a gate and up steps to a grand house on a terrace. Ted is banging on a stout green arch door on Cork Street. A thin man with fair hair cut in a fringe across his eyes opens the door.

“Come on in, Ted, who’s the young lady?”

We are welcomed in as if we have known each other for a lifetime.

“This is Queen Niamh: this is Mick Brady.”

He looks at Mick. “She wants to meet a man going to America! I’m out of luck again.”

I hear the rumble of laughter and soft music emanating from a nearby room and it sounds mighty inviting. The warmth of the house surprises me after the cold night air and I am reminded of my two little babes asleep in the shelter of only a wall and blanket. I almost make a run for it, but stand firm on my feet. This might be my lucky night to find a new life in America. I cannot miss the chance.

“She’s come to the right place.” He stares at me. “Come on in. I’ve been saying m y goodbyes to the lads.” We walk through a hallway and into a room, which is crowded with men of all ages and two women sitting near a table, drinking shandies, absorbed in their urgent conversation.

“This is Niamh and you all know Ted. They’ve come to say goodbye.” Hands reach forward to shake mine. Mick turns towards me, leaning cautiously on a kitchen cupboard.

“So, are you off to America too?” Mick asks me. “‘It would be a dream coming true!”

“She wants to know how much the fare is.” Ted pipes in from around a corner of the room.

“You’d need more than a houseful of pennies to get to America.”

“Go on with you!” Ted mocks. “He never spends a penny without thinking about it for a month or more!”

“Ted is just jealous of m y good luck. Would you like a shandy, Niamh?”

“I would. Thank you very much.”

Two minutes later Mick returns with a large glass of amber liquid. I am surprised at its grand flavour. I hope I don’t get drunk like Jim. A shiver runs over my arms across my shoulders and down the other arm.

“Is it all right?” Mick asks, his eyes seem inquisitive, slits.

“I’ve never tasted anything like this before.” I say this without thinking too much and then regret it. I don’t want to appear ignorant of the great things in Ireland, like drink.

“It’s my special brew,” Mick says.

“What time are you off then?” I ask this question awkwardly, hoping he won’t think I am rude. He surprises me.

“To bed?”

“America?” I splutter my drink as we both laugh at the misunderstanding. Or is it a joke on me?

“That’s where I’m going all right; America the home of the free! She sails away early in the morning. To be precise, seven sharp.”

“I’m seeing Mick off if it’s the last thing I do on this earth. I’ll be right there on the ship until it sails away!” Ted says, tears rising.

“Will they let you get on the ship?”

“They usually do so; however, because of several incidents they may not.”

“Why not,” I venture to ask.

“Because of the stowaways who don’t want to pay their fare, or get a job.”

“How could they do that?”

“The young people today are very smart. They hide in those little boats on the sides and stay there until she’s out at sea, then it’s too late to c ome back. The y eventually do, so what’s the point.”

“Do what?”

“Come back; but they boast about being to America or Canada. They say ’tis worth it!”

“What’s worth it?”

He’s staring into my eyes as if he thinks I am asking too many questions, but I must know, so I smile nicely.

“Jail; where they end up. Mind you,” he suddenly places his hand near his face as if divulging a secret, “a few have made it!”

“To: America?”

“Also Canada! That is correct. Would you like another drop?”

“No thanks. Do you have the time?”

“I do, if you have the inclination. I am Joking! ’Tis ten to ten,” Ted replies wryly, pulling a watch from his fob pocket.

“Thanks very much for introducing me to Mick. It’s been a pleasure!”

“You’re not staying the night?” Ted asks.

“No; not tonight!” I try to sound casual.

“Not tonight, Josephine!” Ted squeals.

Ted sees me to the door and we say goodnight. ...

With gusto the twins gobble up the pies, sandwiches and sausage rolls handed around at the party last night. Great plates of food were offered and I took a few each time and put them in my big pockets for the children.

We’re soon on the dock and the Irish Sycamore is anchored near the dockside, magnificent in form, sleek and strong, weathering every storm, like the man I want. I laugh to myself at that thought.

I’m here a bit too early for the shenanigans it seems. Just then he makes his dramatic appearance. He is dressed like a sailor, in black and white, and looks the part, very smart.

“The top of the morning to you Mick! Here comes the captain of the ship? Is that right Mick?”

I notice his ears are showing and no fringe is visible. He got a hair cut overnight.

“Not exactly,” he says, with such a contagious smile. “Cabin Boy, at your service, Miss,” says he.

“Is there a crowd seeing you off?”

“Ted; maybe others; they’ll come aboard for a while; got nearly an hour yet before I am on duty.”

We approach the man in uniform near the entrance to the ship itself at the top of the ramp.

“Morning to you Sir,” he says. He glances at us momentarily.

“They’re with me; saying: our last goodbyes.”

“Just make sure they have disembarked before we set sail.”

“She won’t be staying,” Mick assures the man.

The man grunts and greets officers coming through.

“There’s Ted! He’s brought Mark and Liam with him too.”

“We’ll have to go,” I say to Mick. “Sorry to be a wet blanket. The children need to go to the lavatory.”

“W h en nature calls you must attend,” he replies eloquently.

“I bid you success as a Cabin Boy, and a pleasant journey. May the seas rise up to meet you and the winds always blow your stern,” I say as eloquently as possible “I have to go! James is wandering over there.”

I point to where he’s heading. “ O r w e m i g h t get incarcerated.” I joke but it might occur.

I rush off to get James who has run along the deck. I carry Caitlin with one arm; two bags on my other arm. I find James hiding behind some small boats about ten feet away.

“There y o u are James,” I say as I bend d o w n to tie his shoelaces.

“In this game, everyone has to be really, really quiet,” I whisper. Caitlin stares with her big brown eyes, chewing away on a crust. James is listening intently. Cautiously I’m undoing a stiff rope and placing my foot inside the boat.

“Let’s have a little sleep,” I suggest. Caitlin puts her head down on my knee and James leans against my arm.

“We are off to America now,” I whisper to James, who is watching out, whilst Caitlin sleeps soundly by me.

“Come on out you lot. Get up and be quick about it.”

Caitlin cries as the man in police uniform, holding a truncheon, and a female officer stand above us, intimidating our hiding place.

“We were only waiting.”

The truncheoned officer shakes his head and pulls me up by the scruff of the neck.

“We know your sort. You need to come back to the station with us right away.”

“What for?” I ask. My heart is beating crazily and the children are clinging on to my legs for dear life. “You are upsetting the children.”

The female takes the children by the hand and speaks softly to them, while a pair of handcuffs lock my wrists.

“For resisting arrest,” the truncheon officer declares in a victorious manner.

My heart is sinking before the ship sets sail.

I hang my head in shame as I am marched off the ship, looking away in case Ted or Mick might see me in disgrace.

At the Police Station Mr Curry, a legal representative is assigned to my case, a DCI and a constable sit with me, making a recording of my short interview.

During a very brief interview, I soon find out that Caitlin’s kidnapping has been reported to the police.

“There are two witnesses who reported that you kidnapped the child from her home in Scriob, around 5 June.” Detective Brannigan informs me. “What do you say to these accusations?’

“She is my child,” I say in my defence. “I just got her back.”

“And what do you say about absconding from Ireland without due documentation?”

“I wanted to find a new life in America and I don’t have enough money.”

I am shouting now and I am out of control.

“Why did you resist arrest?

I confer with my Solicitor. He whispers what I should do.

“I deny that charge,” I say vehemently.

The DCI says, “Charge her with kidnapping and absconding from Ireland without due documentation.”

CHAPTER EIGHT HELL’S GATE “You will be remanded in custody until your trial. Interview concluded 11:00 am on 7 June 1971. No bail listed.”

And so I go to Limerick women’s jail not far from King John’s Castle, where we spent the night recently. The place is like a fortress, with massive walls and high gates.

I am in turmoil as I and another prisoner, a young woman of doubtful character like me, walk through the corridors and through barred black gates of steel. There is no way I can get out of this place except in a box, I am thinking.

We pause at a desk.

“And I’m Officer Sheila O’Donoghue; I’m in charge here, so shut up and follow me.” She marches to a room with a bath half full of water. “Get your clothes off and get in there. Use the soap.”

“I’m not taking my clothes off in front of her,” I protest. “If you strip for men, you can strip for women,” she says sarcastically.

“I won’t look,” Tessa, the other prisoner with me, whispers, turning around.

“No yabbering you two; put these on when you come out!”

O’Donoghue throws two baggy frocks and two large knickers on the lone chair.

“I’ll take these and have them burned; I am taking your shoes as well.”

“Please leave my skirt…”

“You’re afraid of water?”

“I am not afraid of water, or of you!”

“You’re very brazen and need to wash your mouth out with soap! These clothes are rubbish and they will burn. Have you anything else to say?”

She scowls.

“My ring; can I have it?”

“Not on your life! We don’t want you doing harm to yourself,” she snarls back.

“How could a ring do me harm? I just wear it on my finger.”

“You could use it as a weapon to buy illegal drugs. Don’t argue with me; get in there now!”

I slink into the bathtub of cold water, take the soap and I’m washing myself; I get out and Tessa gets in.

“It’s freezing in here; may as well have drowned in the cold sea,” Tessa whispers.

We share a cell. Boring and uninteresting, with two beds, a sink, a table, a toilet and two chairs. Everything a human being needs, except a life.

The next day Tessa’s father arrives to see her.

“Out here, now!” Molly O’Toole, another female warder, says, opening the door with her huge key. She’s lucky, I’m thinking, as Tessa is marched off.

She comes back an hour later. After O’Toole locks her in with me, I ask what went on.

“I’ve got to go to court tomorrow; Da is going to take me back home.”

“I’m very pleased for you.”

“I don’t want to go back to my father; ever!”

She flops on the bed and stares at the ceiling. I sit on the edge of her bed.

“You’re lucky that your dad cares about you.” I try to put her values right, but she is stubborn.

“I hate him!”

“You’re getting out of this dump, so don’t get your knickers in a knot!”

“Shut your gob!”

I wake to a weird moaning noise.

“Tessa!”

She is lying half on the bed and on the floor and there’s blood everywhere.

Her skin has turned as grey as an Irish sky.

“Help, someone help!” I yell, rattling the cell door.

Keys rattle; a male guard follows Margaret O’Halloran, with another female warder; they enter the cell.

“What’s up?” My shaking finger is pointing towards Tessa.

“She’s dead; Tessa’s dead!”

“Call the ambulance; Byrne!”

“Right!” Byrne says. He turns on his heels and goes racing back down the corridor.

O’Halloran bends down to Tessa.

She checks her pulse.

“What have you done?”

She is staring at me. She thinks I killed her? My heart leaps in anguish.

“You mean me?” I ask, gobsmacked.

“It could be attempted murder,” O’Halloran says dramatically. “If you know anything you may as well spit it out now.”

I feel myself going weak in the stomach and at the knees, so I quickly flop onto the bed. Two men in uniforms carrying a pole stretcher rush into the small room and take Tessa away on the stretcher.

“Come on, out,” O’Halloran says to me, as she grasps my wrists; roughly places handcuffs on me and her. I stumble alongside her. “This is now a criminal investigation and a restricted area.”

“Get in here.”

She unlocks the cuffs and directs me inside.

I see the opening a small cell, which has a door with a window of bars.

There’s one bed and a toilet.

Two days later a young handsome man, tall, fair, wearing a black fulllength surplus and a purple silk scapular, suddenly appears in the doorway. My heart lightens at hi presence.

“The top of the morning, to you; I’m Father Martin O’Reardon; I’m here to help you; may I?” he asks politely. I nod my head. He sits on the bed next to me. I stare at my wrists.

“Is Tessa all right?” I ask.

“Now who’s that?” he replies, leaning forward like he’s going to hear my confessions.

“They think I killed her,” I say.

“Do you think you did? You can tell me you know,” he says, leaning over so closely a loose strand of his golden hair is touching my forehead. His voice is soft as melted butter. My hackles rise and I shuffle away.

“I did not.”

“I understand. You’re in denial! It’s a neurological syndrome. ’tis all in your mentality.”

“So, I’m mental now?”

“I’m not a psychiatrist. You have to face your demons.” He leans close again and whispers. “Confide in me. Everything will work itself out. You’ll see.”

“I swear I didn’t do anything to Tessa.”

“You did kidnap her, that’s a fact?”

“No! That was Caitlin, my daughter!”

He pats my hand. “I see! So, Tessa is your next victim?”

“She was already dead.”

“You’re just confused now. I’ll leave you these rosary beads to comfort you.” He places a pair of smooth black rosary beads on the bed next to me.

“I’ll return tomorrow,” he says, and then whispers again, “Remember, I’m on your side!” He summons the guard to open the door. I put the rosary beads over my head, and tuck them behind my shift out of sight. I am definitely getting confused in my thoughts, I concur, and I am possibly going mental as well.

He comes back as he promised, me. Each time he encourages me This is the first time anyone has and I feel better about things that

which is a tick in his box. He keeps visiting to share something from my past with him. ever stopped to listen to me, except Niall, are locked inside me.

Around the fifteenth visit he comes in with an extra bounce in his step. He smiles happily as if he has won the lottery.

“I have good news for you.”

I look up and wonder what news could possibly good.

“What good news is that?”

“Tessa is alive; she’s going to be fine.”

“Did she blame me?” I ask nervously.

He looks at me with his kind, blue-green eyes: a mystic.

“No, she admitted that she tried to harm herself.”

He pauses. “That leaves you in the clear.”

“Will she be sent back to her father?”

“Whether or not she returns to her father is not your concern, Mrs Farrell.

You are my business now.”

He stares at me. I feel his compassion emanating from his heart and I am comforted.

“It’s enough that your dear husband was drowned.”

He sits down very close to me.

“I am sorry.”

He reaches for my hand and holds it a moment.

“May I call you: Niamh?”

I nod my head; slip my hand from underneath his.

He holds his own hands together, like he’s praying.

“Now is there anything you want to tell me today?”

“My children…”

“Why are they troubling you today?”

“I don’t know where they are; I’ve told you that already.”

“I know that!”

Father places his arm around me and holds me tightly; his hand is accidentally resting on my right breast!

He whispers in my ear as though he’s telling a secret.

“If I tell you they are safe, would you believe me?’

I wiggle away from him.

“I want to see them!”

“Of course you do.” He hugs me again, drawing me right up to his chest, holding me in an unyielding grip.

“You believe they are mine?”

He stares into my face and brushes a hair away from my eyes, very gently.

“I believe I do.”

I emit a sigh of relief. At last, someone believes me.

“May I see them?” I ask, ignoring his bodily contact, concentrating on thoughts of my children.

“Your case has to come to trial first.”

He releases his hold on me; I feel this priest’s supernatural power.

“Can’t you do something?”

He leans over and places his hand on my shoulder.

“I have connections in high places, you might say.”

“I know. Will you help me?” I ask, daring to look into his misty eyes; I feel that I am drowning inside his head.

“I will do everything in my power to help you,” he says in a low croaky voice.

He’s probably coming down with a cold, I’m thinking.

“So, I can see my children?”

He looks at me with such compassion that I believe him absolutely.

“I pray to God you will,” he states passionately.

There are tears in his eyes and his mouth is set in determination.

...

On the following day he returns around the same time. He seems like an old friend already. I’m waiting for him. He sits on the bed and then bends forward with his hands locked together. I think he’s praying. He raises his golden head.

“You need evidence,” he says at last.

“What kind of evidence?”

“Someone who knows what you say is true.”

“I do know someone. She’s my step-sister.”

“Give me her name. How can I find her?”

“Her name is Maeve Flynn. She lives near Scriob.”

He leans over and takes my hand. He squeezes it, and then kisses the back of my hand.

“Such rough hands, you need much care! I’ll see what I can do.”

Just as he goes to rise, he stares at my neckline. He gently moves the neck of my shift and smiles.

“I’m very pleased to see that you’re wearing the rosary beads I gave you!”

“They make me feel safe.”

He smiles again, a gentle smile, releasing his hands from my neckline.

“I’m here to help in any way I can.”

He exits. I feel a great peace within me and I have new hope.

Five days go by before Father reappears in the doorway accompanied by the rattling of keys.

He looks very powerful in his black priestly garb.

I jump up to greet him.

“How are you, Niamh?”

“Fine; what did Maeve say?” I ask excitedly, and then stop because of the seriousness of his expression.

“Sit down; I’m afraid I have bad news.”

I sit next to him. I care not about how near we are, I need to hear something from outside these walls.

“What?” I ask, trembling.

“She wasn’t there!”

“But she’s lived there for the past five years. ’tis near McCarthy’s Barn, or Moycullen?”

He stares in silence. My heart drops and I feel faint.

I pause to swallow the lump in my throat.

“Did you see anyone?”

“The place is deserted. Nobody has lived there for ages, I was told by country folk.”

I shake my head, dismayed; “I’ve only been gone a month!”

He places his arm around my shoulders; “I’m very sorry.”

“What should I to do?”

“Come here, my child,” he says, as he gently leans my head on his shoulder.

He kisses my forehead.

I suddenly find tears tumbling over my eyelashes.

“Hush,” he croons, tilting my head upwards, toward his. I think he’s going to kiss me on the lips when he suddenly gets up and leaves, turning at the door; a strange look in his eyes.

“I’ll be back soon.”

He returns every day that week, teaching me how to behave in court. On the following Monday he turns up before eight o’clock in the morning.

“Niamh, today is your big day at court! standing with you.”

Do not be afraid, because I’m

The guards arrive a few minutes later. I’m handcuffed like a criminal, and taken along a corridor, out of the building, across the yard and into another building, through a wide corridor and into a dark room. There’s a series of seats with desks at the front; up one end there’s a huge desk and a big plaque on the wall above that.

“This is the court room for the prisoners.” Father Martin whispers.

He introduces me: “Mr Gabriel Curry, your legal representative. I believe you have met already.”

He smiles with his compassionate eyes. shyly away again, not sure why I feel guilty.

“Stand when the Judge comes in, remember?”

“I will.”

I smile

in response and look

I sit down next to Father Martin. I notice a couple of men wearing wigs like Mr Curry.

A man in a suit, also wearing a wig, comes over to me. He shakes hands with Mister Curry and Father Martin, introducing himself.

“I’m Eamonn O’Faoline, legal prosecutor.”

They shake hands. He tips his head in my direction. “Missus Farrell…”

I nod in response.

The Honourable Judge Moran comes in.

We all stand up. We sit when he sits.

My name is eventually called, and I’m told to stand on a small platform.

I swear to tell the truth with my hand on a fat bible, Mr O’Faoline steps across and he stares into my soul.

“Did you or did you not take a child from the home of the Connors on the fifth day of June, nineteen hundred and seventy-one?”

“Yes, I did take a child, my own child.”

“Exhibit one.” He holds shoes in a plastic bag.

“Are these your shoes?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“You were wearing them on the day of the crime aforesaid?”

“I was.”

“Your honour: the footprints found at the Connors match these shoes exactly.”

He takes the shoes and places them on the Judge’s bench.

“That is all! You may step down,” he says to me.

Mister Curry comes over.

“Sit down,” he whispers. I sit.

“All rise,” someone says. We all get up. The judge goes out. He comes back in again. We all stand up to greet him. We all sit down again. It reminds me of what we do at Mass.

“Will the defendant please rise!” Mister Curry and Father Martin rise up. I stand up.

The judge reads: “Missus Farrell, you are hereby charged with one count of kidnapping a baby, which you subsequently smuggled on board a ship, in an attempt to abscond to America with the said child.”

He pauses and turns to look at me above his spectacles.

“How do you plead?”

“I plead for my own child and mercy.”

My counsel comes over and whispers in my ear.

“Guilty,” I whisper.

“Speak up.”

“Guilty…” I say again louder.

I cannot remember what happened after that, except that I made a big mistake saying guilty. Next, I hear a sentence being passed on me.

“I sentence you to a period of five year’s incarceration.”

The gavel hits the block.

The court is adjourned.

“I’m going to appeal your sentence on the grounds of insanity,” Father Martin says as we leave the courtroom.

“Insanity?”

He clutches my shoulders in his firm grasp.

“That means instability of mind.”

I interrupt him.

“I know what it means.”

“Okay. So, I’m going to say that you were deeply disturbed and that is why you kidnapped Kathleen.”

I just look at him. “How will that help?”

“It can get your sentence deferred. you, placed on probation.”

You

could

have James returned to

“I don’t understand. If I’m mad, they’ll put me in a madhouse, and then I’ll really go mad! That will be the end of me.”

“We can only take one step at a time. Trust me.”

He looks at me with his kind misty eyes and I succumb.

Two guards come over and take me back to my little cell. Father Martin visits me every day that week, comforting me, assuring me of his help. A week later when Father Martin comes by I notice that he has his own key to my cell now, so he unlocks the door himself and comes in.

“How are you?”

“Fine, thanks Father Martin. Sit down, please.” I indicate the new chair I’ve just been given.

“Going up in the world I see, with an extra chair? Well done, you. Niamh, I know you did this for me.”

He sits on the new chair; I sit on the bed.

“Niamh,” he says solemnly. He takes my hand. I give up and let him do it.

“What, Father?”

“I have good news for you. They are going to review your case. I’m going to get you out of this Hell-hole.”

“What about Kathleen?”

“I’m afraid that’s out of my league now.”

My face drops with dismay. He raises his smooth perfectly aligned eyebrows.

“I might be able to get you a visit to see James.”

“Could I?” I stare into his soft mystic eyes and let them swallow me up.

“You certainly shall. I delight in your fresh smile.” He pauses and looks into my eyes.

He leans forward and with a kiss like a whisper, gently he touches my forehead with his lips. Then he gets up, abruptly. “Leave it to me.”

A week later he returns, and tells me the best news ever, “You’re going to see James.”

“Yeah!” I almost burst into tears. “Thank you! Where is he? When can I see him?”

He holds my hands in his. “You are impetuous!” His smile is like a fascinating painting. I laugh. I love him.

“We have to go to Fermoy to complete the mission.”

“Fermoy?”

“It’s not far!”

“How will I get there?”

“I’ll take you.”

I must look surprised.

“I’ll have to leave here.”

“I know people in high places, remember,” he says happily.

“When can we go?”

“Wednesday!” "'Tis two days away!” I want to see my son now!

Father Martin places his arm around my shoulders.

“Time will go quickly,” he assures me.

On Wednesday I am up, bathed and ready for anything before breakfast.

“You’re bright and early today,” the friendly female guard, Patricia Monaghan says as she unlocks my door .“Got a date?”

“James!”

“Is he handsome?” she asks with a twinkle in her eye.

“He is handsome. He’s my son. He’s two.”

She suddenly hugs me.

“I am happy for you, and I’ve got something for you.”

She hands me a paper bag containing a brand new jumper and skirt.

“Wear these.”

“Thank you.” I give her a friendly smile.

“Sorry, you probably want to put handcuffs on.”

I hold out my wrists for her convenience.

“Not today! You’re as free as a bird,” she says kindly, not even looking at my wrists.

I sigh with delight. Suddenly the world seems bright and cheerful, despite the fact that it’s raining outside.

Father Martin comes by at 10:00. He stops when he sees me.

“You look the picture of a lady. Come on, the paperwork’s done.”

He walks in front of me and I follow, smiling as I go. I enjoy the cool misty air. I breathe deeply. Father Martin opens the door of a cream coloured sedan.

“Thank you,” I say as I slip into the leather passenger side seat.

Two hours later we approach Fermoy, Co.Cork.

“We’re to meet in a hotel on the main street.”

We stop at a public toilet.

“I won’t be a minute. Wait here,” Father says, hurrying off, and heading for the men’s side.

Five minutes later he comes out changed from his official black uniform to a lime green shade of shirt and cream coloured flared leg pants; they fashionably match his shoes. He looks amazing, like a man I would date in a heartbeat.

“Wow! Are you superman?”

“We’re at liberty to wear casual clothing when we’re not on strictly priestly duties.”

Father Martin whispers. “People don’t know me here, so I’ll say we’re together, to save embarrassing questions, like, ‘I am from a prison’.’”

“All right.” I suppose I am a criminal now, and people get scared of criminals.

“Will you play a little game?”

“Pretend that you’re my wife, just for these few hours?”

“What? That’s absurd; I can’t.”

He places his arm around my shoulders.

“Just look at us. Could we be a husband and wife?”

I look at him.

“You’re too good for me, Father.”

“No! It is not true. Please don’t call me Father while we’re here. It feels too ancient! I belong to a beautiful woman, even for a few hours.”

I’m starting to feel nervous about this weird game.

“I can’t; a wife needs a ring.” I argue my case.

“What about this?” he says, holding up his little finger.

“It’s a ring.”

“What are you doing?”

He sucks his finger. Suddenly there’s a ring in the palm of his right hand.

Is he an illusionist? I gasp in awe.

“There you are! It’s off!” He looks at me.

“You wanted a ring. Show me your finger,” he says.

He places it on my finger.

“With this ring I thee wed. Off with your...” “...Clothes and jump into bed!”

I finish the sentence for him. We laugh heartily.

“It nearly fits!” I announce, surprised.

“And I nearly had a fit!” he replies. We laugh again.

“It looks like it was meant for you, not me.”

“It looks like a wedding ring!”

“My father gave it to me when I was ordained. “Married to God,” were his very words. It fitted my ring finger then. I was a skinny lad.”

He turns to me and with misty eyes stares into mine. “Niamh, you are great company; I’m really enjoying myself. Let’s pretend we’re on our honeymoon, just for fun.”

“I’m only coming to see James; shouldn’t he be here now?”

“He should. This is the hotel.”

The place has two people talking, drinking at a table.

We sit in the lounge.

“I’ll see if I can get you a drink.” He rushes off on the drinks mission. A few minutes later he returns from the bar.

“Irish: coffee! I recommend it.”

He sits in the armchair next to mine.

I'm beginning to feel anxious about James’ arrival.

“What’s going on? Where’s James?”

“I have a bit of bad news.”

“What’s happened to James?” I say. I jump up.

“Sit down; it’s nothing like that. The river burst its banks and they can’t get through right away. We’ll just have to wait a bit. At least you’re out of that hell hole!”

“What about James? I’m so longing to see his little face again.”

He leans over and puts his arm around me.

“I know. I feel the same; lovely child.”

“You’ve met him?”

“I have met him, Caitlin, and their guardians.”

“They should be with me, not with some guardians. I’m their mother....”

“I know that, Niamh. I don’t want you to get upset just waiting here. Let’s kill a bit of time and have a walk around the town?”

“You’re right, as usual. I just wish… ”I finish drinking my Irish coffee. We sit under a shady oak tree near a pond and enjoy fish, chips and lemonade for lunch.

“Let’s feed the ducks,” Martin suggests as two little greenish ducks come quacking along and we throw bits of our food towards them; I slip on the edge of the damp green bank.

“Mammy...” I yell, just missing the water. Martin quickly hooks his arm around my waist and retrieves me. For a moment I think he’s going to plant a kiss on my lips, but then he lets go. At four o’clock we return to the hotel and he goes off to make a telephone call. I’m waiting in the lounge, anxiously sipping an orange juice. Martin looks worried when he returns.

“They’re not going to get here today. The roads are blocked. They’re going back to Dungarvan and they’ll try again tomorrow.”

“We’ll have to go back to Limerick.”

“I’ve rung the Gates of Hell and told them what’s happened. They understand, surprisingly.”

He laughs at this.

“We’ll have to stay the night.”

“Wait here.” Ten minutes later he returns.

“Niamh, they only had one double room available tonight; I said we’d take it!”

“That is odd. Where are all the people?” I ask. I only saw one other couple in the lobby.

“Maybe they are in their rooms?”

“Maybe they are.Did you tell them of our predicament?” "'Tis none of their business! Don’t worry, I promise not to touch you.”

He looks so happy and it’s only a game I suppose. It’s only one night! convince myself it is all right.

I

“I’ll see James tomorrow.”

“I think you will. That’s the spirit of adventure I love.”

He offers me the crook of his arm.

“Come, I shall show you to your boudoir.”

The room is lovely, with a double bed and bathroom next to it. It’s now I realise something.

“Martin, I didn’t bring any night things. I don’t want my good clothes to get crumpled before I meet James.”

“Shops?”

He is a genius. Of course, we can shop and buy something, but I have no money. I trust him.

Off we go down the streets, gazing into a women’s dress shop; we traipse to the second one at the other end of town.

“Do you like these, darling?” he asks me as he picks out this lovely light blue coloured satin nightdress and a robe to match, and underpants in blue satin.

I just let my eyeballs fall out. It is probably part of his fantasy game.

“My wife would love these, please!”

Liar, liar, I’m saying inside.

“They’re lovely,” I say politely but meaning it.

They’re glorious! The shop assistant, a woman with slicked-back dark hair, deep-set eyes, a long bony nose, high cheekbones and bright red cupid lips; smiles; pursing up her lips!

“Will I gift-wrap them for Sir?” Martin winks at me and replies, “Thank you. Please do, for my wife, Madam. We are on our honeymoon.”

“That’s lovely! You won’t need these for long then!” She emits a sharp burst of laughter.

“This is your lucky day!” she says warmly, tying a bow around the box.

“How is that?”

“It’s ten past five! We should have closed ten minutes ago.”

“Is that right? This is our lucky day then.”

He hands over his cash.

“Thank you kindly, Madam,” he says.

She watches us with amusement as we leave. I shake my head as the bell of the shop rings to signal our exit. He glances back into the shop. The woman is watching attentively. Martin suddenly spins me around to face him.

“Kiss me; she’s watching!”

Our lips meet, and we kiss. Martin holds me under the armpit and smoothly moves me few steps away from the shop as he’s kissing me; almost brutally; looks into my eyes; releases me from the suction power of his lips.

“You should not have done that!”

My lips are tingling; I give them a rub.

“Why not; we’re on our honeymoon!”

I recollect my wits.

“Martin! It’s a big fat lie.”

He sighs.

“I wish it was true; that kiss was exhilarating!”

He nods his head agreeably, “You are amazing.”

The kiss was more of a shock than a nice surprise. I wouldn’t want to say that. After finishing a bottle of wine with our roast lamb dinner we make our way up the stairs to the bedroom. I collapse on the bed; with a fuzzy mind.

“Shall I run Madame’s bath?”

After having a bath my head feels clearer.

“How about giving me a fashion show,” Martin says, lying on the bed in a very relaxed pose as I emerge from the bathroom. I twirl around in the blue robe.

“That’s lovely!” He keeps smiling as if he is miles away in some dreamland.

“Show me the other gear I bought you?”

He rolls on his tummy and leans his chin on his elbows. His cheeky grin is captivating. He reminds me of a silly child. I burst out laughing.

“I can!” I remove the robe and flaunt the night attire.

“You are like a queen, Niamh! What about the knickers?”

He slides off the bed like a snake and crawls to my feet.

He then moves his hands along my leg, giving me a fright.

“You saw it in the shop!” I say, prising his clammy hands away and climbing between the sheets. I sigh.

My heart is beating a bit too fast and I feel a trifle concerned about his mental state. I try to show composure.

“This is like Heaven.”

“It is,” Martin agrees with me. He grins from ear to ear as he heads for the bathroom. I feel a sense of relief.

“I’ll get some of the muck off me.”

I close my eyes and drift into sleep, floating on a soft mattress and cool sheets.

“I shall camp here, like a Tinker!” Martin says, coming from the bathroom with nothing but a towel on. His bulge is obvious beneath a towel.

He flops down on the floor, pummelling his trousers into a pillow, using the towel as a blanket. I feel myself being pulled from my sleepiness by his voice, a sleep killing magnet.

“You’re in the nip!”

I am blinking as I stare at his silhouette through the towel. He forgot to get himself pyjamas, I’m thinking. Maybe all of his money was spent on nightwear? I have no idea how he gets paid. What if he just gets pocket

money? I stare at the wall, trying not to get distracted by his manly yet crude nakedness. Maybe he's a madman?

“I always sleep like this. All I wear is aftershave. God this floor is as hard as a rock. The towel is damp.”

I feel bad about his discomfort and close my eyes tightly, dismissing his agony. I feel cruel but protective of myself.

“Goodnight Martin!”

“Niamh, darling,” Martin whispers these strange words after he flicks out the bedside lamp.

“What?” I say, responding to his voice, annoyed.

“The floor must be concrete. It’s terribly cold. Can I sleep with you? I promise I won’t touch you, not even with my breath.”

“Get another blanket.”

“They said some of the blankets are at the dry cleaners. They suggested we keep each other warm.”

His reply shocks me.

“They’re rude,” I say, pouting. He sighs and lies back down on the floor. I can hear him groaning pitifully, rolling around. He’ll never get to sleep on that hard floor without a blanket.

“You can sleep under the blanket, just to keep warm. Remember, no touching.”

He slips under the blankets. I fall into a deep sleep until I hear a terrible noise.

I wake up, alarmed.

“You’re snoring.”

I give Martin a dig in the ribs.

“I am still freezing,” Martin says, curling up.

That’s because he’s in the nip. I can feel him shaking with the cold. I hate that feeling myself.

“Snuggle up to me then, and stop snoring.”

“Thanks. You are a real angel of the night!”

He puts his arm around me and I can feel his body warming up next to me.

The only barrier between us now is the silk nightwear!

I wake up early, before six. His face is next to mine. He’s got a scapula around his neck.

“What’s that for?” I ask.

He smiles. “I’m going to confess something.”

“I thought you wore that to hear confessions, not to confess.”

“You are so smart. Here I’ll put it around your neck.”

He takes the purple scarf with fringes and places it around my neck, holding each end close to my breasts.

“There! I confess this a dream come true for me Niamh: waking up next to a beautiful wife.”

I stare into his misty eyes; I decide to play his fantasy game.

“I shall hear your confessions, now….”

“What is my penance for the sin I am about to commit?”

He is grinning: a beautiful smile. I shake my head; he’s mad, I conclude!

“I have to kiss you a hundred times?” he says, laughing.

I can’t imagine a priest giving such penance.

“You’ve been kissing the Blarney stone...”

I move my face close to his.

“You’re my blarney stone.”

He kisses me on the lips.

“Except that you lips are definitely softer than a rock.”

We kiss for a few moments. He suddenly sits up.

“Sorry I forgot myself. I’d better go and ring this chaperone and see what’s happening?” "'Tis quarter to six; it might be a bit early.”

I hop out of bed and peep out the window. The place is dead quiet.

“You’re right. I am still jaded,” he says, snuggling under the blankets again.

“It’s too cold out here,” I say jumping back into bed.

“You look like an angel,” Martin says, running his finger down my cheek.

I turn around to face him.

His eyes are full of love. He kisses me all over my face, then on the mouth.

“Twenty, twenty-one,” he says, between kisses.

I close my eyes and think of Niall. I find myself responding to Martin, enjoying his compelling caresses, silken words, sloppy kisses. He touches me be-

tween my legs; before I can stop gentle fingers rubbing back and forth I feel ecstatic as fountains flow and I muse the moment of bliss.

Before I know it we are in a passionate frenzy; lusting after each other; going ‘all the way’, just like a married couple, except crazily in love.

Afterwards, we clean up and we’re together, naked, satisfied, subdued and totally guilty in conscience.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen, please forgive me?” He looks genuinely repentant and a sorry sight. I believe him.

“I forgive you, my son; it was carnal!” I say, kissing his nose and wishing he would stop being silly, but still enjoying the fun side.

He props himself up on his elbow and looks at me lovingly; fondles my breasts; taut nipples.

“It was carnally Utopia! My first time to be with a woman” I am thinking.

The way he performed I wonder if that is a white lie, still he seems genuine.

“Thinking of what?”

“Thinking of you, James and Caitlin,” he says with a serious expression; triggering a vision of my children.

“What about us three?”

“I’m thinking of leaving the priesthood.’

I sit up at that remark and look into his disturbed face.

“Why?” “I don’t think I can live as a priest any longer. I think that I’m in love with you, James and Caitlin!”

“You are daft,” I say, wishing he would shut up.

“My dream now is to vow to marry you and go to Australia with you James and Caitlin.”

“Australia, the land of criminals and sinners! You made a vow to God. I still have nearly five years to do in prison; I shouldn’t be here.”

“I nearly forgot about all those hurdles. You are so beautiful any man would forget himself with you.”

He kisses me passionately again; our bodies enfold each other. He touches me inside my folds and we fill each other’s void with darkest passion once more. Finally, we are tingling all over and exhausted. Our nakedness is revealed to each other, shamelessly.

He looks into my eyes and says something I could not even imagine someone would do for me.

“I’m sure I can get you out of that prison. I’m bloody well going to try, if it’s the last thing I do on this earth.”

Priests should not swear. Humans do swear.

“Hmmm, whatever you want!” I say calmly, sweetly. I feel like I am floating with happiness, a bird on a wing!

That afternoon, a woman who’s wearing a navy business suit and white tailored shirt arrives on the bus with James.

Martin takes me aside with a strange warning.

“They think we went back to Limerick, so don’t say anything about staying here overnight, will you? And they were not told I’m a priest, for political purposes, so mum’s the word!”

James is here, that’s what matters to me right now.

“All right,” I say, agreeing. I don’t want anyone to know that I lusted after a priest, twice!

“Mammy, Mammy,” he yells when he sees me coming towards him. I hug him and give him a big swing.

“James! Mammy loves you.”

James gives me a huge hug and kisses.

“Martin O’Reardon is my name. I am at your service. I am Niamh’s chaperone.”

He extends his manly hand to the nanny.

“I am Jane Priest, Nanny!”

She holds her slim hand out, looking down her large nose at Martin. The largeness of her nose contrasts with her pale elfin shaped face. Her brown hair is tied in a bun at the back of her head; her hazel coloured eyes are bright and sharp. Her lips are a thin orange line.

“The bus is will arrive at half four,” Jane Priest says, glancing at her wristwatch.

She sits on the park bench as James takes off towards the water and falls over at that moment, so I rush towards him.

Martin follows me and stays by me. I pick James up and examine his knee.

“Mammy will kiss it better.” I kiss his knee and brush a piece of grass away.

James giggles.

A feeling of anxiety suddenly grasps my heart.

“Martin, how can I say goodbye. He’s going to be so upset. I haven’t prepared for this.”

Martin kneels down next to me and speaks quietly.

“I’ll handle it. Watch me.”

He turns to James who’s just about to run off again.

“James, why don’t we get you an ice cream, then you can get on the bus for a drive.”

James stops and revolves himself 180 degrees.His eyes light up with expectation.

“Wait here with Mammy,” Martin says, going to nearby shop with an ice cream sign hanging outside. A few minutes later he comes back with four soft ice cream cones, two in each hand.

“Very good value, much better than Limerick!” he exclaims as he gives Jane Priest and me an ice cream.

“Serviette!” he adds, pulling some paper napkins from his back trouser pocket.

“Thank you kindly, Martin,” Jane Priest says demurely, giving it a big lick, stopping. She notices the bus coming around the corner.

“Here comes the bus; it’s early!”

My heart drops at her words. I try to lick my ice cream cone and enjoy it, but it is hopeless. The bus pulls up. James is sitting in the grass, hand outstretched for his ice cream.

“Now before you get this you have to get on the bus,” Martin says.

“Bus!” James says. He pushes himself off the ground and immediately marches towards Martin, who lifts him with one arm as though he’s a feather.

He carries James onto the bus and sits him down in a window seat. Jane Priest sits next to him; I stand near the doorway of the bus, an observer.

“Here’s your ice cream,” Martin says, placing a serviette under the neck of his shirt and putting the cone in his hand.

“I am getting off,” he says to the driver, so please wait.

The driver, a young man with a ruddy complexion, nods his head. “We are a bit early Sir. Take your time.” He sorts out a folder of paperwork.

“Wave to Mammy,” Martin states authoritatively as he steps off the bus.

James waves momentarily. His eyes are on his ice cream. He licks it greedily.

“Quick, let’s get out of sight,” Martin says, hurrying me along the footpath in the opposite direction.

The bus disappears out of sight. My heart is numb.

On our way out of town we stop at the public toilets. I enter the women’s side. Martin goes in with a bag and comes out dressed in black. Super-Priest!

“Look at me. I’m a priest again. Remember, Niamh, if you want someone to marry you, always call a priest.”

I know now that he’s just another human being trying to help others; an angel, fallen. I love him more and more.

“You’re funny! Thanks for a special day.”

“My pleasure,” he says, pressing his foot down hard on the accelerator. In less than two hours we’re back in Limerick.

“You look refreshed; had a good time in Dublin then?”

I open my mouth and shut it again. What is really going on, I wonder? She thinks we went to Dublin!

Patricia Monaghan runs her hands over my body. It makes me think of someone creeping over my grave.

“I won’t ask you to take off all your clothes. It’s too cold.”

“Thanks!”

I suddenly notice I’m still wearing Martin’s ring. I slip it into my mouth while she’s writing something in a book.

“Any reason for the hold-up?”

“We had to wait for James because of the river bursting its banks.”

“What river?”

“River Blackwater, I believe.” I mumble because of the ring under my tongue.

“I never heard a word about that. Get that ring out of your mouth.”

“How did you know?” She looks at me with amusement.

“I didn’t come down with the last shower! You didn’t nick it by any chance?”

“Somebody gave it to me.”

Blood is rushing over my face. I cannot tell her who that is.

“I have a mind to report O’Halloran.”

“What did she do?”

“It’s what she didn’t do. She should have seen that ring when you first came here.”

“Please, don’t say anything. I don’t want trouble,” I beg.

She folds her arms and stares at me, then unfolds them.

“All right, I’ll do that this one time! At least it’ll be safe if I put it away.”

“You’re very kind.”

“One chance I give, that’s it.”

“Thank you, Miss Monaghan,” I say as she hurries me into my cell.

“Call me Patricia.”

I wonder if we are great friends now. That is a nice feeling.

‘Tis 15 August 1971, autumn in Ireland. ’tis also, thirty-six days since we were together; he marches into my cell and sits on the edge of the bed as though it was last night we spent together.

“How are you, Niamh?” he asks casually.

He’s got his hands together, praying, I suppose.

“I’m fine! I thought you might not come back!”

“I had things to sort out.”

“They took your ring. I’m sorry.”

“I could say you stole it?”

He laughs heartily immediately. I don’t think that is funny.

“I’m only joking!”

He sits beside me on the bed.

“Keep it for now. It’s only rolled gold, so it’s not worth much! The important question is us! I need you, like a duck needs water.” He puts his arm around my shoulders and hugs me tightly. Wild sensual passions rise inside me straight away. I resist the temptation.

“I’ve got great news for you.”

“I can see Caitlin?”

“She’s back with her parents, the Connors. Guess again?”

“James?”

He pats my hand.

“You’re dead right! You can pay him a visit once a month.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I pulled a few strings in high places.”

“Next Wednesday, Niamh, will you be ready to go out. We can have a grand time together again.”

His hand grasps my breast through my coarse cotton frock, stirring my senses.

I ignore his hand and stare into his face. I have something important to tell my brash lover.

“I’ve been sick!” I say calmly, solemnly.

He removes his hand at these words.

“Oh; my poor darling; the warder didn’t say anything to me about that; I hope it’s not contagious?’

“I’m expecting!”

“You’re joking!”

“Honest to God; I always get sick in the mornings when I’m expecting,” His face is so close now: I see tiny lines under his misty eyes. My heart lurches with awe. Will he smack me?

“That’s terrible! You need to see a doctor, quick!”

“You mean to check that I am?”

“If you are he’ll get rid of it.”

I feel startled at his reply.

“Get rid of it?” "'Tis best to do it quickly, while it's still an embryo.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s not really a human at this stage! It’s just cells joined together, like a bag of marbles.”

“Marbles, it’s not a baby?”

“I’ve seen pictures.” He sits closer. “I’ll explain. You see it doesn’t become a real person until around twenty weeks! We can go to Dublin and visit a doctor, discretely. I’d work that out, and pay the cost.”

“What about God? What about your religion, your vows?”

“We’re not in the dark ages now. Some people have advanced. These things have been going on for millions of years.”

“This has only been going on for five weeks! It’s our child, and I’m keeping it!”

“Niamh, you’re too ignorant. Don’t be an idiot!”

He’s grinning at me. I feel the blood draining from my face; shiver. He sees how upset I am, so calms down.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Listen now. I have taken care of you up to now, haven’t I? I’ll continue to do so!”

“Please, don’t murder the baby!”

He looks at me with contempt as these words are uttered.

“How dare you accuse me of murder, Niamh, when all I’m trying to do is help; I compromised myself for you!”

I take a deep breath.

“What about us being a family, going to Australia? Now we can have our own child as well?”

My voice rises with anguish. My heart is beating so fast now; I am betrayed. I was a foolish woman to trust this man.

“Keep your voice down.”

He’s holding both my wrists tightly.

“I thought I loved you. You could easily have planned this pregnancy to seduce me!”

I just shake my head. I don’t trust myself to speak. He turns away.

“Have it your way!” he says this in a gruff manner, turns on his heels and storms out the door.

The next day Patricia Monaghan makes a comment as we head down the corridor to the bathroom.

“What was that all about yesterday?” she asks.

“What?”

“What was going on with your man?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know very well: Father O’Reardon; walls have ears.”

“What did you hear then?”

“You sounded upset. He’s not done you harm has he?”

“It’s about James,” I say, licking my lying lips. “Patricia, I don’t think I’m ever going to see him again. He’ll be nearly eight before I get out of here.”

We pause at the door of the bathroom.

“I’ll tell you a little secret Missus Farrell - Niamh.” She leans towards me and whispers, “If you’re a good girl you can be out of here in less than two years!”

“Two years?”

“I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“Even in two years time James might have forgotten me.”

“Good children don’t forget a good mother, remember that!” she says as she holds the door of the bathroom open and I enter.

“You are a good mother.”

I take my shower with some peace.Nobody has ever told me I am a good mother. Now it is too late.

A fortnight later another priest visits me. I heave a huge sigh. Here we go again.

“Father John Hurley wishes to speak to you,” nounces as I sit in my cell staring at the wall.

Patricia Monaghan an-

A tall, grey haired man; in a black suit and white collar enters. I am surprised.

“Hello, you’re Niamh Farrell?”

“I am.”

“May I come in?” He smiles at me. His face crinkles and his eyes twinkle.

“Come in.”

He sits on the bed and leans over to me.

“You are to be reunited with your son, James.”

“When will that be?”

“In a few days; I have received this from the Minister. ’tis the report from your counsellor.”

He hands me a piece of crisp paper. I stare at the black words on the cream parchment, then hand it back.

“I can’t read...”

“I understand; I’ll read it aloud if you like?” He reads the words.

“In response to a request by Father Martin O ’Reardon, Mrs Niamh Farrell is hereby deemed to have been mentally unstable during her previous misadventures due to an emotional occurrence. She is now deemed lucid.”

He pauses and then continues: “This has prompted the Judge and the Minster to accept the appeal against Farrell’s incarceration during a private investigation. Forthwith Mrs Farrell is be exonerated and is placed on a good behaviour bond for a period of five years, commencing from 1 September, 1971 Conditions apply.”

He puts the paper down and stares at me. I’m not sure whether to shout or laugh.

“What does all that mean?”

“You are free to go!”

“I can go to Galway?”

“It says conditions apply. You will go to Australia.”

My heart sinks into a deep place.

“I don’t know anyone in Australia.”

“I will escort you.’

“But I don’t know you...,” “We shall become acquainted on the voyage.”

Australia: kangaroos, boomerangs, sunshine all year, people who smile all the time.

“Why must I be escorted by you, Father?”

“Regulations apply. I am retired, and I have a brother in Australia. I was going to travel there shortly anyway.”

“What about Martin, I mean Father O’Reardon?”

“The holy man has transferred to a parish in northern Spain.”

“Spain?” Why would he go to Spain I wonder.

“Permanently; God has called him.”

He gazes at the floor; then looks at me.

“I have a message for you, from Father O’Reardon.” “What message?’

“He left this for you.”

He hands me a sealed envelope.

I tear it open with shaking fingers. The sea of words, mean nothing to me as I still can’t read properly.

“Thank you,” I say, folding it carefully and returning it to the envelope.

“He also sent you these.”

The priest hands me a brown paper bag, sealed with tape.

“He said they were personal.”

I accept the bag.

“Thank you.”

“You need to sign the papers.”

“What papers?”

He places them on the table.

“Emigration papers, saying you’re willing to travel to Australia, with James.”

“What would happen if I was expecting?” I ask. I lower my eyes so that he cannot see my shame.

“I hope you aren’t considering having a child?”

“No, I wasn’t!”

“Missus Farrell, this is a great opportunity for you and James. I trust you can see that?”

“I can, Father. I can be with my son, that’s what matters.”

“That’s the spirit! I shall make a final report that you are stable both in mind and body.

A picture of Martin, in the nip, with the scapular on in bed flashes through my mind.

“Where do I sign?”

He points to a dotted line and hands me his ballpoint pen.

Niamh Far... I pause.

“Sorry, I forget how to do the rest...”

“That will do. I’ll witness it.”

Days later I’m saying goodbye to Patricia Monaghan.

“I think you’ll find everything there, including rings!” she remarks, making her eyebrows rise and fall.

“Thanks very much for the rings and for everything, Patricia.” I am surprised that I feel emotional.

With Father John Hurley by my side I’m having my first aeroplane flight from Cork to Southampton in England. I’m enjoying the experience and the strange shapes of the clouds beneath us when I suddenly get this retching feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Niamh, you’re turned as white as a ghost. Here,” Father John points to a paper bag. For the remainder of the journey, my view is focussed on the serrated edges of its rustic paper perimeters. ...

Two days later we board the SS Australis Chandris Ocean liner and leave for Australia’s shores. As we head down several flights of steps towards our cabins fear grips my chest.

“What about James, Father John?” I ask, as I shuffle and he sits with me in a small cabin on D deck.

The room’s porthole is covered by a view of a deep green sea, which means we’re right under the water. I quickly pull a small blind across the round window. There are two bunk beds along one wall; a small shower and a cupboard along the far side. I’m looking around as though his little face might suddenly appear from under the furniture.

“Where is he?”

“You’ll meet James in good time. Patience is a virtue, remember that. Now do stop biting your nails. It won’t help. If you need to leave the cabin, knock on this wall,” he informs me. “I’ll be right next door.” He turns to leave, smiling apologetically.

“Sorry, but I’m obliged to lock this, for your own good.”

A week goes by. I’m lying on the little bed in the tiny room, which is around the same size as my recent cell. The ship has called in at Bremerhaven Port and set sail again. I stayed on board. There’s a knock on the door.

“Come on in.”

“How are you feeling now, Niamh?” Father John asks, still standing in the doorway.

“Still sick,” I reply feebly, trying to sit up.

“You are very pale. But, if it’s any comfort, there are several cases of sickness on board. It’s quite normal.”

I cough and he hands me a glass of water to sip.

“Are you quite sure you don’t want to take something for it?”

“I am sure. It will be all right soon.”

He sits on the bed beside me.

“I know how anxious you have been about your son, so I have arranged a meeting with James at noon today. Do you think you will be up to it?”

I sit up when he says that.

“That’s the best medicine I’ve had today.”

“That’s the spirit!” he says, patting my hand.

“I’ll escort you.”

At twelve noon exactly I enter the port side lounge with Father John.

Everything is decorated with a pink textile fabric. The tables are veneered in a dappled pink colour. The walls of the counter, which is also a bar, are in pink. I immediately spot James, seated with a female a bit older than me.

They’re in a corner seat at the window, looking out into the ocean. James’ cry echoes through the room: “Mammy, Mammy!”

“James,” I call out.

I thank God he hasn’t forgotten me!

I hold him for a long time. From the corner of my eye I notice the woman is waiting. Father John introduces me to James' chaperone.

“This is Niamh Farrell; James’ mother.”

The sandy haired heavy-set young woman, with round eyes and a round face to match, smiles to display straight white teeth. She tosses her petit nose in the air as she lunges forward.

“Pleased: to meet you. I’m Colette Dowling. I’ll be taking care of James as far as Melbourne.”

As we leave I ask Father John: “Are we staying in Melbourne?”

“No, we’re travelling to Sydney, then to Queensland.”

“That’s interesting,” I comment.

“Why is that, Niamh?” Father John asks, peering at me inquisitively.

“My name means Queen of the land?”

His eyes veer upwards. "'Tis providence!”

Every few days I have half an hour with James. One morning, bright and early, Father John knocks on the cabin door and calls my name.

I wake from a deep sleep.

“Come in.”

He unlocks the door and enters.

“Are you all right?” he asks anxiously. "'Tis a miracle! I feel 100%. I wonder why?” I ask, sitting up and alert.

“It’s because we’ve docked in Melbourne, Victoria! I hear that it’s the most progressive state in Australia.”

“Can I get out here and see this great place?”

He shakes his head. “I’m very sorry! No, not until we reach Sydney...” Are you well enough to say farewell to Miss Dowling?”

“I’m well enough! I’ll get dressed,” I reply.

I thank Colette for taking care of James. She seems keen to leave the ship and begin her new position in Victoria. She glances back and gives me such a wave you’d think we’d been friends forever!

I join Father John, who is holding James’ hand firmly in his large grasp.

“He’s your responsibility now,” Father says, as he nudges James towards me.

“Yeah, yeah!” I say as we hug and I swing him around in a small space on the promenade deck.

“That’s enough of that!” I hear Father John’s voice as it intrudes on our delightful play. We head off to the Blue Lounge for a nice cup of tea and a milkshake for James.

John sits down next to James, facing me.

“Are you at liberty to tell me what I am doing in Queensland?”

“You will be working on a sugar-cane farm.”

“I don’t know anything about sugar cane farming.”

“Don’t worry your head about that. They need someone to help with the children.I believe they have twins. They’ll need help in the kitchen too!”

“I can do that. So, what are these twins like? Maybe I won’t be able to handle them!”

“I hear they are a wild pair, but I have a hunch you’ll be on top of it all in no time at all.”

“I’m very glad someone has confidence in me Father.”

We wait for James to finish his drink, and then Father makes an announcement.

“If you’re feeling up to it, James can stay with you for the remainder of the days on board.”

“I never felt better in my life. Yes, of course I would very much love that!”

I laugh happily, hugging James. Somehow my sickness has almost gone completely.

During the next few days, Father John takes me to see a film about Australia, its climate, schools and some amazing creatures, such as the kangaroo, koala, funnel web and red-back spiders, and a variety of slithering snakes that gave me goose-pimples all over.

That night I wake up covered in perspiration, from a nightmare in which I’m surrounded by giant mosquitoes! …

A few days later we sail into Sydney Harbour. The opera house appears as a ghostly sailing ship, encapsulated by a rainbow made of flashing steel bathed in dancing rising sun.

“I’ve never seen the like in my life. ’tis spectacular!”

“It is indeed. I believe it is also controversial because of its high cost to build. I read about it in the Irish Press. Time to disembark!” he announces brightly.

“We’ll be staying in a hotel for a few nights and then we fly to Queensland.”

James and I do a merry dance and then I give him a big hug.

Our new life has begun.

Father John looks on with a reserved smile on his face, but I can tell he is happy as Larry too!

CHAPTER NINE CANE CUTTER SUBLIME Three days on, we’re on a flight to Brisbane, After a short stopover at the sun-drenched airport we board a Fokker F 27 Father tells me, with his miles of wisdom, then we fly to Maryborough.

“It sounds like a very Christian town,” Father John notes in a pleased tone.

Take off is very rocky and we are happy to be way up in the sky, far from all the worries down below. James loves flying. One day he might be a pilot. He is kept busy scribbling on a picture book with a pack of crayons the hostess gave him. He likes blue.

They give us a nice cup of tea, cracker biscuits and cheese, which we eat with gusto. All this travelling is making me hungry.

We are the last of the passengers to climb down the steps, mainly because Father is so polite and allows everyone to get off in front of him.

This gives us time to view the isolation and vast green paddocks of Maryborough, a sleepy city that feels warm and hospitable.

“Welcome to Maryborough,” the flight attendant says, as we reach a small building where we are supposed to collect our baggage.

The dialect is unique and I can only describe as a shortened version of English with reflection.

“It sounds like a foreign language,” Father John whispers. I tell him to shush. I carry weary James and we head towards the exit, wondering what happened to Father’s two suitcases and my smaller one.

“There’s nobody here to greet us.”

“Paddy said that someone was coming to pick us up and taking us to the cane farm property.”

A voice startles us as a figure appears from around the thick bushes.

“Your suitcases: Fada!” A lone airport worker tells us, handing us our luggage. His faded navy blue overall is opened from the neck to the waist, revealing a white vest. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His face, and other exposed body parts are tanned and covered with tiny beads of perspiration and lush black hair.

“Thank you, Sir,” Father is staring at the heavy cases sitting on the grass in front of us.

“Did you hear what he called me?” he says offside; eyebrows rising high into his balding head.

I nod my head.

“Well, we’ve got to soldier on to Salt water creek Road!” Father John says, heaving two cases and trudging towards what looks like a roadway in the distance. I pick up the third case.

“I hope we don’t have to walk too far.”

“I cannot carry you too James. Walk James,” I order. He trudges beside me.

“I knew someone would come!” Father points to a person with a royal blue Ford Dual cab waiting under the scanty shade of huge trees in the distance.

At that instant the parked truck moves towards us. “Thank God,” he exclaims, dropping the cases on the spot.

“G’day! Welcome to ‘Meraboro’ Luigi’s the name…”

The men shake hands. I smile. He nods at me. “Miss.” He looks away and onto the job in hand. He picks up the cases effortlessly, all three. Mine under his hefty arm. He is like the Pied Piper to us as we happily follow him as if he was a king. A king who’s wardrobe needs replenishing! He’s wearing only a white vest and a pair of pale greenish blue shorts, and plastic grey flip flops or ‘thongs’ as they call them, on his feet. A brown hat with a brim crowns his head, covering his unruly dark mop of hair. Black sunglasses shield his eyes from glare.

“He looks like a real Ned Kelly,” Father whispers to me as we trudge after him. I shiver, despite the oppressive heat.

The suitcases go on the tray; James and me climb into the back cabin, whilst Father John sits up front with Luigi.

“This is the main artery to Hervey Bay from Maryborough,” he explains as we do a left turn the airport entrance.

Twenty minutes later we arrive at the home of Aaron and Olga Schmidt: a Queenslander painted white and blue, with built-in rooms underneath. The steps and ornate frontage make it appear inviting. We file up the steps to an open front door. Olga and Aaron come to greet us.

“G’day,” they say, offering a handshake and me a hug, inviting us into the wide hallway.

“These are our two terrors,” Aaron says, directing our attention to two small blonde haired, bronze skinned boys, who come running through from the back of the house. The only items of clothing on their skinny bodies are

skimpy shorts. I can see Father John’s eyes popping at the sight. I can hear him describing them as ‘urchins’. But of course, Australian urchins can be millionaires!

“Ben and Adam,” Aaron says, catching the two by an arm and holding on to them while they calm down momentarily. My worst fear surfaces as four round hazel coloured eyes stare into mine. Before I say a word, Olga identifies my crises.

“I’ll show you how to tell them apart,” Olga says. “Ben, come over here.”

“Ben has a mole on his right ear, and.Adam!” She yells his name and he wanders over.

“Adam is the shy one. He has a mole on his left ear.”

“All you need to know is your left from your right,” Father John declares jovially. We all laugh to be polite, except the three boys.

“This is James,” I say, as I maneuver James from behind my skirt.

“How are you, James?” Olga asks. James ducks behind my skirt again.

“He is a bit shy. He’s nearly two and a half,” I reply on his behalf. James looks like a small white ghost in comparison to the twins, I’m thinking.

“Ben and Adam will turn three in the New Year. Would you like to see your room?” Olga asks, marching towards the back of the house.

“Aaron, can you look after Fada?” “’Struth, yes! Come on, Fada, how about we have a cold one on the verandah,” Aaron suggests, heading towards the breezeway with Father John on his heels.

James and I follow Olga through an open door.

“This was a verandah, but we had it built in. I think you and James will have plenty of space. You can open the louvres to catch the breeze. Give the lever a good yank...” she instructs, yanking the lever.

Immediately a soft breeze stirs the air.

I’m listening and looking around the room at the same time, trying to absorb everything. The room is long and narrow. The roofline is sloped. There’s a row of windows in opaque glass, nice and private. Blue floral curtains on the two short sides of the room flutter momentarily in a slight breeze where two single beds are positioned. They have a long white tulle curtain hanging from the ceiling, making them appear bridal. How odd this is, I am thinking.

Did someone get married recently?

On the side opposite the windows there’s a long low wooden cupboard with a row of drawers and two doors, a bookcase, a desk, a tall darkly stained wardrobe with a door mirror, a dressing table with a small mirror and a varnished wooden chair. The door is in the centre of this wall. "'Tis a lovely room altogether. May I ask what the wedding veils are for?”

“Mozzie nets, you mean?”

Olga looks at me with a startled expression.

“You haven’t heard of our mosquitoes?”

“Those! Yes, I have. I had a dream about them too.”

“I hope it was a good dream,” she says, chatting with me as if we have known each other since we were babes. “Always use a net and the mozzie spray if you hear them singing in the night.”

She picks up a blue can from the shelf with books.

“I will remember those instructions,” I reply.

“Come and meet Barbara.”

We follow Olga through a corridor through a double door into the kitchen area. Olga addresses an aboriginal woman of around twenty years of age.

“Barbara, this is Niamh.”

Barbara is at a bench near a sink, busy cutting slabs of cake that have thick pink icing.

“G’day,” she says with gusto. Barbara greets Olga and me with an explosive smile. She’s holding a large carving knife, whose edges are covered in pink icing.

“It’s great to see you! I feel as I know you already!”

She throws her arms around me in an astonishingly friendly fashion. I am shocked.

I stare at her sparkling deep brown eyes and flashing sparkling white toothy smile, and feel overwhelmed by her words and actions.

“You know about me?”

“Paddy told us you were coming. He’s such a comedian. Said you were true Irish, not just a descendant; Irish Aboriginal, like me!”

“I never thought of it like that. Our family goes back thousands of years; we are still the poorest in the land.”

“That’s a bummer; tea and iced bun?”

“Thanks Barbara, we will take tea on the patio. It’s such a hot day!” Olga replies.

“No worries!”

“Is it always this warm?” I ask, wiping the perspiration from my brow with the back of my hand.

“Sometimes it is hotter, in summer, and sometimes it is freezing usually mornings in mid-winter,” Olga replies, pushing back a strand of hair from her forehead.

“Can I help?” I ask Barbara.

“Sure Mate, take these and follow Olga.”

Gingerly I pick up two plates piled high with pink iced slices. Our host moves swiftly towards the verandah at the side of the house. I follow closely on her heels. Aaron and Father John are seated at a large table. I notice Father has removed his black jacket.

“Put the plates down here.”

She indicates the table.

“Sit down and relax. I’ll go and get the others…

Subtly, I remove my cardigan and sit down on a bench seat. I sit James next to me.

Barbara’s presence fills the doorway as she enters with a tray full of cups, glasses and a pot of tea.

“Here we are!”

She places the tray down, separates the glasses and pours me a drink.

“Cool drink?” she asks, holding the glass out to me.

I accept it gratefully.

“Do you fellas want a soft drink?” she asks Aaron and Father John.

“We’re right; ’having a beer, Love. Don’t worry, the Father is having Ginger Beer from Bundaberg,” Aaron says, holding up a fat brown glass bottle of beer with a yellow and red label.

“It’s a great drink altogether.” Father John nods his head and says, “Sláinte; the first today!” He raises his brown bottle. Luigi stomps up the steps in the company of Olga and the twins.

“Come on nippers, you can have this one all to yourselves.” Barbara indicates a small table in the corner of the patio. She pulls up a third plastic chair.

Ben and Adam climb onto their chair. James leans closer to me.

“Come on, James! Join the big boys,” Barbara says. James immediately slips off the bench chair and runs over to her as if he had known her forever in his short life.

She lifts him onto the chair and puts a plastic plate next to his face. He looks at me and grins from ear to ear, happily filling his mouth with iced bun. …

That night I lie in my new bed and try to ignore the heat.

“Well, we’ve arrived in Australia, James,” I say, mopping my forehead with the edge of the thin sheet over me. “James?”

He doesn’t reply. I feel a small flutter inside my stomach! I can’t help smiling.

“Hello!” I say, patting my stomach. “How on earth will I tell anyone about you?”

It seems like a few minutes later a voice barges into my world of dreams.

“Niamh, the alarm’s gone ages ago.”

“What?”

I open my eyes to see a dark face with white eyes and shining teeth, “Barbara?”

“Come on. Here you are; I’ll leave these here. The ‘showa' is freed up.”

What’s that? I muse. What is she talking about?

Barbara has left some clean clothes on a wooden chair near the door. The penny drops. She talked about the shower.

“Come on, Niamh, we’ve got to get brekkie!”

“I’m on your heels,” I reply, brushing my hair and putting some of the special face cream on my face, which Olga thoughtfully left on the dressing table.

“James, we’re off to work!”

We head for the hub.

“Where are the sausages?” I ask Barbara who is busy cutting up fruit.

“We are not doing sausages. They’re for the Barbie.”

“What’s for breakfast here?”

“We make coffee, tea, fruit juice, fruit, cereal and milk.”

All the stuff is in the pantry or fridge. And, we need to make some toast.

“The toaster is on the bench, plugged in. Can you do that?”

“No worries, Mate,” I reply, smiling, beginning my journey through the pantry and fridge to locate the ‘bread.’ Half an hour later, Olga, Aaron, Ben, Adam, James, Luigi and another older man called Bob saunter inside and sit down at the huge kitchen table. I sit down next to Barbara and the small boys.

“This is the lucky country! So much food,” I exclaim. I have never seen such abundance in my life.

“We love our tucker! But wait, there’s always the washing up!” Barbara says, helping herself to a second piece of toast, a hot cup of tea with numerous spoons of sugar.

“Once we’ve cleared the tables we let the kids watch the TV,” she explains as we place all the dishes in a dishwasher and press the button. She demonstrates this amazing gadget.

“Who would have thought of having such a machine?”

Barbara, the kids and I sit in the family room and on goes the TV. A children’s show starts up.

“Wow, Television,” I say. “Maeve dreamed of having one.”

“Everyone has a telly now. Some have one in every room. kids watch some of the rubbish on it.”

I don't let the

James is mesmerised watching the action on this small screen. It is teaching them about letters and numbers. I speak absentmindedly.

“I want to learn to read and write.”

“Are you serious?”

“I would love to learn. I missed out at school.”

“That settles it then. I’ll teach you. I Promise!”

At 10:00 am precisely, Barbara is up and putting the kettle on again.

“Would you like a cuppa with your fruit for morning tea?”

“I’d love a cup of tea.”

We sit on the back verandah again, and enjoy a light easterly breeze.

“How hot does it get in summer?”

“One hundred degrees at least, Barbara says, grinning.

“I’m sweating now!”

“Men sweat, women perspire!”

She laughs. I laugh.

“You’ll get used to it, mate. You’ll love it.”

She flashes her white teeth. I almost believe her.

“How are you settling in?” Olga comes marching onto the back verandah.

“I will get that list on the fridge,” Barbara says, dismissing herself. Olga sits down opposite me at the table.

“Niamh, you haven’t been told about your employment conditions, have you?”

“No, I haven’t Mrs… I mean Olga.”

“We’ve agreed to give you a small retainer, plus your board and lodgings.

You should be able to get some allowance for James. We’ll have to fill in some papers.”

“I think Father John did that already, Olga.”

“Is your list ready, Barbara? She asks as Barbara returns, reading a list.

“Yes, it is done!”

She hands the list to Olga, who scans it.

“Can you post these for me too, thanks?”

She hands her a couple of sealed envelopes, stamped.

“Will do.” Olga says, “No worries. Thanks for the list.”

She looks at Barbara and they seem to communicate without words, just nods and shrugs.

“Barbara, if I’m not back will you prepare a bit of lunch for the men, please?”

“Sure, no worries at all!” Barbara replies, picking up our dirty cups and heading for the kitchen again. I wonder who is the boss here, Olga or Barbara?

I follow her with the children’s empty glasses.

“We’re having sandwiches for lunch; Barbie for tea…”

“What’s a, ‘Barbie’,”I ask, wondering if there is some special ceremony named after her?

“Barbecue!” She laughs so much that I laugh until tears run down my face. …

Early on Sunday morning, Father John arrives with his brother Paddy in his yellow Rover 3500. "'Tis yellow, for safety,” Paddy says. “I had it sprayed.” "'Tis bright as the morning sun. How are you?” I ask, holding out my hand of friendship.

“All the better for meeting you,” extends his hand; “And this must be James?”

“Say hello Uncle Paddy.”

James repeats these words, “Hello, Uncle Paddy.”

“Well, that settles that!”

Paddy’s eyes light up with delight. “Uncle Paddy, that’s who I am! Are you coming to Hervey Bay with me?”

“Are you settled in all right?” Paddy asks as he turns the key in the ignition.

“Yes, thanks. I never saw so much food in my life.”

“Did Mrs Schmidt give you some new clothes?” Father asks.

“She did give me: a few things to wear. She’s is kind,” I say.

I’m wearing a pale blue cotton baby-doll dress that is very short. I place my hands over my knees where the hem stops.

“It’s a bit short, don’t you think?”

“Mini-skirts are very fashionable around here by all accounts,” I reply, turning my knees slightly to the side and pulling the flowing skirt over my knees as much as possible.

“What is the world coming to at all, at all?” he moans.

Down the road we zoom. We’re enjoying the fleeting scenery of bright yellow cane, rising high and blowing in the soft breeze.

“They grow a lot of sugar cane here. I’ve never seen the like of it in my life.

There are a lot of sweet tooth’s in Australia, I should think,” Father John says as we speed past fields of sugarcane.

“There’s more than sugar in that lot!”

“How’s that Paddy?” Father John asks thoughtfully.

“Snakes; toad frogs, everything you can think of live in there.”

“Have you ever seen real snakes, Paddy?” I ask anxiously.

“I’ve seen a few snakes around these parts. They sun bake on the roads; toad frogs are everywhere!” “’Twas Saint Patrick who banished them from Ireland,” Father John tells us.

“He should have emigrated to Australia and banished this lot.”

“But then what would we have to talk about?” I ask He is silent. ...

After Mass we go to Paddy’s home. It’s a small low-set home with a tiny garden at the front, surrounded by a wire fence and a metal gate. There’s only a road separating it from the beach. ’Tis a grand spot.

“You can see the waves splashing on the shore from here,” I exclaim as I lift the latch of the gate.

“It was wonderful twenty years ago. So peaceful you’d hear every wave hitting the shore like a roar,” Paddy says.

“Sure you are a poet but you do not know it. Now the roar is not the tide, it’s the tyres!” Father John replies.

Everyone laughs as their lame jokes.

“James will enjoy having lunch on the beach,” Paddy says.

He hands a glass to James.

“Put your two hands on the glass, otherwise you might spill it, and upset Uncle Paddy,” I instruct, fearing trouble.

“Not to worry, Niamh, ’tis a joy having a child around the place. It brings a new impetus to life.”

“You’ve done well Paddy,” Father John says.

“I have! I’m a lucky man; I enjoy the luck of the Irish!”

Paddy goes to his fridge and returns with two more glasses. He hands each of us a nice cool drink.

We thirstily drink and are refreshed.

“I’ll just go down the road and pick up a chook and bring a loaf of bread and a few cold ones,” Paddy announces, collecting our glasses and placing them on the kitchen sink drainer. He leaves from the back door.

“Niamh, how are you getting along with the Smiths?”

Father John asks this question after Paddy leaves and we settle into the arm chairs.

“It’s more like being on holidays. Barbara reads the Bible to us every day,” I add, trying to impress him!

“I’d be careful if I were you. You don’t want to become a fanatic!”

“I’d never do that, Father.”

He leans over as he gives me a piece of advice.

“You’re not there to study, you’re there to learn!”

“Yes, Father, I am learning a lot.”

“Good girl! As long as your employer is satisfied. A woman’s place is in the kitchen. That’s where she should be!”

“Yes, Father,” I say politely.

“You should be on the lookout for a nice young man.”

“Father...”

“I’m sure we can find someone to suit…”

Paddy’s form fills the doorway.

“Got a family sized chook!” he announces as he enters the living room.

Soon the chicken is in bits and pieces on a plastic plate.

“James, here’s a nice piece of chook!”

James takes a leg of chicken and gets his teeth into it.

“You’re a true Aussie already!” he exclaims. James seems to understand.

He chuckles. “‘Ave a cold one!” he opens a bottle and passes the cold lemonade.

“It’s a wonderful place altogether,” Father John says pensively, gazing out towards the horizon. “If we only had old Ireland over here...”

“How about an ice cream?” Paddy asks, getting up on his feet. “Would you like strawberry, vanilla or chocolate?”

James claps his hands. “Vanilla,” he shouts.

These are precious moments of joy with my new family. …

Hot spring days turn into hotter, more humid summer days. My ever-growing baby is becoming more difficult to hide, even with a large apron I borrowed from Barbara.

“How’s about we go to the pool today,” Barbara says one extremely hot and humid days just before Christmas.

“But...”

“I can’t swim and I do not own a swimming suit!”

“I taught you reading and writing; I can teach you to swim.”

Barbara is undaunted at my protesting.

She hands me a swim suit and calls it something else.

“Cossie for you!”

“Cossie?”

“Togs, some call it; swimmers. It is a spare one I own. I think it goes with your complexion,” she adds. “It is yours now, to keep.”

“Thank you.”

I take the scant item of clothing while Barbara helps the boys get dressed for the pool.

“It’s too small,” I say as I stare at my round bulge in the mirror.

“You okay?” Barbara pops her head in the door, looks around, comes into the room and sits on the bed.

“Please don’t say anything!”

“You can’t hide that forever; your sin will find you out!” “’Tis not a sin, but a babe!”

“Put a tee shirt over the top,” Barbara instructs, opening my tall-boy drawers and bringing out a large blue shirt with a Betty Be-Bop on the front; “here, try this, Olga left this stuff to use.”

“Thanks,” I say, gratefully pulling the shirt over my head.

“She’ll be apples, girl friend,” she says with a twinkle.

We all head for the cool pool. ...

In the weeks leading to Christmas Barbara shows me how to make White Christmas and frozen Christmas puddings. Olga buys ready-made Christmas cakes and puddings; custard in cartons. I call them magic treats that appear out of boxes. She teaches me how to shop: “What’ll I bring shopping?”

“Good legs; a purse and a coffee urge!” …

Early on Christmas morning, I wake up suddenly. I slip across the hallway into the lavatory. Through the clear windowI stare in awe at the sun rising.

My baby gives me a kick just then.

I notice someone in the corner of my eye and turn to see Olga walking quietly past in her flapping pale pink dressing gown and bare feet. Her arms are full of wrapped gifts she’s taken from the hall cupboard.

“Olga!” I say, jumping in fright.

“I’m just placing these under the tree... ” She pauses in her tracks and stares at my bulge.

“Merry Christmas,” I say sucking in my massive belly unsuccessfully.

“Merry Christmas…” she says nicely, but her eyes pop.

An hour later Paddy and Father John pick up James and me for early Mass. I barely recall the whole morning as my mind is sorely troubled.

We arrive back at the Smiths by 8:00 am. I head into the kitchen to help Barbara with breakfast.

“Happy Christmas!” We hug.

“Breakfast on the verandah today,” Barbara says. “Give me a hand with these.”

She points to four large plastic jugs of orange juice.

We transport the drinks to the verandah where the two tables have been set for a casual breakfast. There’s a long table at the side of the verandah decorated with a red tablecloth and an arrangement of cereals, fresh bread sliced mangoes, cut watermelon, coffee and tea; a magnificent feast for the eyes, and stomach.

“You did a great job.”

“Olga helped.” She smiles and places the tray of glasses and jugs on the side table.

Olga comes in with a couple of boxes of cereal.

“Just, in case.”

She stares at me with daggers in her eyes and turns away.

“I’ll get the boys,” she says, hurrying down the hallway.

I stare at her. I feel totally shamed.

“Let’s enjoy breakfast?” Barbara shouts.

I can hear Olga’s voice as she returns through the hallway.

Soon the verandah is filled with chatter. People of importance are present, including Luigi and his mates, Everyone finds a place to sit down for a great event.

“James, Ben and Adam, you go first,” Olga says. The pair rush to open their toy sacks.

Each red sack has the boys’ names, Ben, Adam and James written on them.

James is so excited he stands looking at me before he moves to collect his presents from under the real Pine tree, decorated with lights, baubles and delicate shining streamers and little bells.

“Go on James.”

I point to a bulging red sack with James written on it in gold. James looks white and he’s trembling.

He’s hardly able to tear the paper off the presents inside.

The boys are ecstatic with their array of cars, play dough, tee shirts, a teddy bear, each with a different type of jacket and hat, shorts and bags of sweets, which they call lollies. As the adults watch the boys impatiently rip each wrapped gift, we enjoy a cool drink.

“I must confess, it’s a lot cooler at Hervey Bay,” Father John says, mopping his sweaty brow.

“Why don’t you wear shorts like Paddy?” I ask Father John.

“I’m a priest. I don’t want to look like a boy-o!” he replies.

“I look like a boy-o, do I?” Paddy asks, gritting his teeth.

“You look cool, Uncle Paddy,” I say quickly, calming a hot discussion.

Paddy calms down quickly in his cream shorts and Christmas Tee shirt.

Finally everyone has a gift opened in their hands. The excitement has risen to a crescendo.

The last gift to be opened is by Aaron and Olga.

“Look at this, Olga,” Aaron says, opening their presents. “It’s a painting of a sugar cane fire. It’s amazing!”

“Is it real or a print?” Olga asks sticking her nose near the painted surface, sniffing.

“Who painted it?”

She squints at the scrawl on the left hand bottom corner.

“I did it,” I admit, embarrassed that she didn’t realise that fact.

Olga is staring at the painting in awe.

“It’s so professional! The flames look real. Where did you learn to paint like this?”

“Barbara taught me.”

“Naw, you taught yourself,” Barbara says emphatically.

Olga removes the wrapping from Barbie’s present.

“Aboriginal art; very nice.”

Barbie blushes under her deep skin.

“We have two budding artists in our midst,” Father John states, his eyes big and bright.

“If you really like it, I’ll do you one for you brothers, when I get time!”

“Would you now?”

“I would, fair dinkum.”

“It’s aboriginal art,” Paddy says knowingly. The pair of them stare into the painting, totally enraptured by the dots.

“It has a real story as well,” Paddy explains to his brother.

“That's righ, see if you can work it out, Paddy.” Barbara says, then she turns to me.

“I’ll come back to your room, Niamh. I want to chat...,” she says.

A few minutes later she stands in the doorway of my room.

“Have you told Olga about, you know, the baby?”

“I think she knows! I’m worried that she’ll fire me.”

“Honesty is the best policy, Niamh. I think you should come clean with Olga. You owe her that much.”

“I will, but what will happen if she fires me? And Father John will kill me when he finds out.”

She leans forward with her face cupped in her hands.

“We could share a place? A flat, or something like that?”

“That would be wonderful,” I say, feeling relieved that someone cares about my difficult situation and predicament.

“Hang in there until I get back, okay?”

“Get back?”

“I always visit the family around Christmas, for a few weeks.”

Someone is fighting. Barbara rushes to the sound of trouble. ...

One hot evening I put James to bed and go for a stroll on the back verandah and take the air. The night is cool and the sky is filled with sparkling stars.

I hear voices from below the patio. I move back and without thinking, listen in.

“You haven’t noticed anything about her?”

“She’s a good-looker that’s for sure!”

“She’s pregnant!”

“You are joking Olga?”

“Not a bit of it! Fair dinkum! I am a woman, and as sure as hell, she’s up the duff...”

“Why don’t we sleep on it and talk about this tomorrow? I’m tired.” Aaron yawns.

I don’t want to hear any more so I’m creeping away to my room, packing a few things. Tomorrow is my day off.

“James, come on, we’re going for a walk,” I say, waking the sleepy, hot child early the next morning.

I hand him his fluffy bear with a bright red jacket. He holds it tightly.

We head out the door at the back and walk around the side of the house through the grass.

A wisp of smoke tantalises my nose and throat. I cough.

“G’day!” ’Tis Bob the farm hand. He is sitting on an old beer keg having a smoke.

“Smoke bothering you?”

“Just a bit...”

“I apologise for that. You’re the early bird today.”

“I’m just going to visit Father John and Uncle Paddy.”

“I haven’t seen anybody coming to pick you up.”

“I was going to walk.”

“Are you stark raving mad, girl; in this heat. It’ll be a hundred today, if not more.”

“We’ve got all day.”

“I’ll take you there.” He throws his cigarette on the ground and stubs it out with the heel of his thong.

“But aren’t you going to work.”

“Not today; it’s ‘RDO’!” “‘RDO’?” “‘Rostered day off’: I’m not working today, and I need to see a mate about a dog in Hervey Bay. I’ll put the nipper in the middle.”

He lifts James into the middle seat in cab of the Ute. “You’ll be right,” he says to James.

I climb up and sit beside James.

After a few minutes on the road, Bob turns into his own driveway just down the road: a Queenslander with front steps, verandah and inviting front door painted red.

“I’ll just grab a few cold ones,” he says, stopping the truck and leaping out.

He comes back in a few minutes with a box of beer under his arm. He puts it in the esky sitting on the tray in the back of the utility, behind the driver’s side.

“You didn’t get too hot?”

“No; not at all” I reply.

His kindness is overwhelming me.I didn’t notice the heat.

“Air conditioning,” he says, winding the window right down and allowing the soft warm breeze to blow through.

We zoom along the almost deserted road in silence. James has fallen asleep on my lap.

“Is anything wrong?” Bob asks, to break the uncomfortable silence.

“Nothing that I can’t handle!”

“Well, if you think of something, just ask!”

He sounds like he means that.

“Thanks Bob, I appreciate your concern.” I genuinely appreciate his gesture but would never take advantage of him. We drive to Hervey Bay and pull up outside Uncle Paddy’s place.

“Pick you up in a few hours?”

“Yes, thanks, that is fine.”

“I’ll see you later then? Here, I’ll take the nipper,” he says, lifting a sleepy boy from the cabin.

He places him on the grassy strip in front of Paddy’s house.

I clamber from the high cab.

“Come on, James,” I say, holding him tightly by the hand as his wobbly legs find their balance.

I open Paddy’s gate and walk down the short driveway to the front door.

The door is open.

“Hello! Father John. Paddy, is anyone home?”

I press the handle of the screen door. It’s unlocked. I tread lightly on the carpeted family room and call out again. There’s no answer.

A door is ajar in Father John’s office on the left of the sitting room.

“Hello!” I say softly, peeping in.

I enter the room and look around.

There’s just a desk with a lamp and an old Barlock typewriter with an unfinished letter sticking out of it.

Without even thinking I read the letter, mainly to test my reading ability.

James is following me, holding his teddy bear.

I read aloud, slowly: “‘Dear Martin, Thank you for the photograph! You look happy in your new parish.

The weather here has been very hot and windy, not at all like our dear Erin, Son.” I stop reading. I am dumbstruck. What does that mean? Is Father Hurley his father or spiritual father?

I take a good look at the photo. It looks like a vineyard…Spain!

“Well, she’s a fine woman...”

I hear Father John and Paddy at the front door. With trembling hands I put the photo down where I found it.

Paddy comes through the front door, and goes straight to the kitchen, not even seeing me, as if I were a ghost.

“You have to watch your p’s and q’s with her, John.”

Father John is wiping his feet at the front door hanging on the lintel for support.

I slip out of his office.

His head flies upwards when he sees me.

“What are you doing here?”

“The door was unlocked.”

“Were you in my office?” Father John says fiercely.

“The child fell asleep in there.”

Father John strides across to the room. He looks at James.

“We will simply close the door, and allow him to rest,” he whispers, clicking the door shut.

“Niamh, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

Paddy drags chair.

the armchair to me andI ease myself into the comfortable

“Get her a drink Paddy!” Father John orders his brother.

Paddy rushes into the kitchen.

Father John waits for me to speak, giving me the ‘go ahead’ nod.

“I’m expecting...”

“Holy Mother of God!” “You didn’t notice?”

“Not a bit of it: I never noticed it at all. Did you notice Paddy?” Father John asks.

“What?”

“Niamh’s problem!”

“What’s the matter with her?”

Paddy comes from the kitchen.

“She’s expecting!”

“Holy Moses!” He almost drops the glass of water.

“Who’s done this to you? I’ll have his guts for garters!”

“Paddy, calm down. I’m sure she can give us a reasonable explanation?”

“You’re not about to give birth?” Paddy asks.

“No; not for a few months yet; they want me to go...”

I bubble over with genuine tears. How lovely is the concern of these two old men I care about.

“There now!” Father John says soothingly patting the back of my hand.

Paddy holds out a large handkerchief.

I accept it gratefully.

“They’ve asked you to leave?” Father John continues his investigation. “Is that why you are upset?”

“Not yet…” I reply, sobbing.

“Why don’t you cross that bridge when you come to it?”

“But they want me to go. I heard them discussing it.”

“Paddy, what do you think?”

“What do I think about having babies?”

“You’ve lived here for many years. Where can she go?”

“To: a hospital?”

“There’s your answer, Niamh. Go to the hospital. That’s what Australians do. Isn’t that right Paddy?”

“Too right; that’s the place.”

“You don’t understand Father. I’m not worried about where I’m having the baby.”

“Well, that’s not a good attitude. You must think of your unborn child.”

He stops talking to light his pipe.

I wait a moment before I speak.

“Go on my girl.”

“I need someplace to live. I need to go to a new home for me, James, and the baby, when it arrives.”

I take a deep breath and put the hard word on two old men. “I wondered if I could stay here...”

“Sure now, what would people think: Two grown men, living with a young woman?”

“I think of you as a father...”

“I am your spiritual father, and your guardian, I realise that.”

“And, you can’t help me?”

“Paddy, make the woman a cup of tea with lots of sugar. That should help.”

“How are you getting home?” Father John asks me, dismissing my request.

“Bob’s coming to get us in about an hour or so.”

“Well, you just take your time and have a wee rest on the sofa. As they say here, ‘she’ll be apples’. I’ll go and see what Paddy’s doing with that cup of tea.”

I sink into the sofa and close my eyes. I can hear Paddy and John having an animated conversation. I doze a little.

“We can’t have the Smiths upset,” Father John says gruffly.

“You are right John. That would be disrespectful. They have been good to our girl,” Paddy agrees.

Everyone is upset with me, once again.

I get up and quietly go outside. I stride across the waves churning restlessly.

road and stare at the

I hear Bob’s truck pulling up outside Paddy’s place. I cross back over the road and head into the house to collect James; I climb into the cab with Bob and James.

“Did you get what you wanted?” Bob asks politely as he turns the wheel and joins the traffic.

“I think I did,” I reply calmly.

We jolt silently along the road. James is snoozing again; ’tis only 9:00 am.

CHAPTER TEN MANY MEN That afternoon I fix a sandwich and go to my room, with a tea bag in a cup of water and milk. James is playing with his new toys.

“James, We might get to count the stars in Australia yet.”

I bite into my crab sandwich and have a sip of tea.

“Let’s eat and drink James, for tomorrow..., who knows?”

I rise up early and tidy the kitchen, which I must say, is in a terrible mess since yesterday.

I finish packing my things. I find a pen and a piece of paper and write in my own hand.

Dear Olga and Aaron, Thank you for being kind to me, giving me a new start in life. I have to go. I will always remember you, Adam and Ben. Love from Niamh, James and baby! …

“Here, eat some Chocolate Pops.”

I try to hurry-up sleepy James.

He’s in a daze dangling his spoon into the brown and white concoction in front of him, barely visible in the dawning light.

“Pop,” he says as he listens to the Chocolate Pops having a fight.

Slowly he munches away. I can’t hurry him at all. By 5:00 AM we are ready to leave.

“Be quiet. This way,” I whisper, creeping out onto the back verandah and moving silently down the steps. The air is still and warm, like a soft blanket.

“We going, Mammy?” James’ inquisitive voice alerts my thoughts.

“We are going. Be really quiet, like a mouse.”

“Mouse!”

A myriad of sweet tweets emanates from the gum trees, bringing in a new day with nature’s praises. Carrying James I creep cautiously away from the house, being careful that Bluey the faithful barking dog is not disturbed.

I trudge along the road for around ten minutes.

“You can walk,” I slow down to keep in step with James; a dog rushes from a driveway, barking furtively at us.

Moments later a voice calls out.

“Apollo, what’s up?”

I quickly hide behind a clump of cane.

“Anyone there?”

“Apollo, get back here. Struth; Niamh! I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I am fine.”

“What are you doing snooping around at this time of the morning?”

“I am not snooping. I’m off to Hervey Bay,” I reply. How dare he insinuate I am snooping.

“You’ve had a fright. Come inside and take a seat, I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”

We follow Luigi the pied piper for a second time up the stairs to his pad.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says, picking up a bundle of newspapers and magazines,“Take a ‘possie'.”

“Possie?”

“Seat position.”

“Thanks,” I say sitting on an old sofa that smells like Apollo.

“I usually use a tea bag, so don’t have loose tea. That all right?”

“I don’t mind tea-bags.”

“Do you want milk for James?”

“He loves milk.”

“I’ll make him a strawberry milkshake,” Luigi says, prising open the lid on a tin with a pink label. He whisks it in a large glass of fresh milk, making a clattering sound.

James is soon sipping a huge glass of pink milk.

“What’s going on?” he asks, viciously stirring his mug of tea.

“I’m just leaving my employment.”

“And heading to Hervey Bay?” “I was going to Bundaberg. I hear there are lots of jobs.” I say, as if I do this every day.

“It’s quicker if you go through Apple Tree Creek.”

“Where’s that?” He turns around in the chair.

He stays quiet for a few moments, wipes his brow with the back of his hand.

“I heard about you.”

“What about me?”

“You are in the family way, up the duff we say.”

“Who told you?” I ask bitterly.

“Aaron mentioned it to us, yesterday, in passing. Hey, I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath. “I might be able to help.”

“How?” “I’ve got room here. You can stay as long as you want,” he says in a sudden gush of words.

“Here?” I look around at the mess.

“Not here, downstairs: come on, I’ll show you if you like.” He picks James up at that moment and I follow the pair of them down the steps. He opens the door, switches on a light. It is a retro contemporary flat.

“It looks very modern.”

“My mate, Stewart sold me this place six months ago. Not bad, eh? There is a bathroom, toilet; two bedrooms with builtins.”

“I think the place is lovely, but how can I pay you?”

“You don’t need to pay me.”

“I can cook and I can sew. I can keep a house right tidy.”

I sing this to him with joy.

“You are a great singer too. It’s a deal. What a winner.”

“When do I start?” I ask, so glad I don’t have to walk to Bundaberg.

“Whenever you want to. Look at the time. I need a shower; we are supposed to have an early start.”

“I’m sorry Luigi...”

“No worries! Why don’t you go and see Olga and give her the news, set her mind at rest?”

“I left her a note, oh dear, I hope she hasn’t read it yet. I will come back later on and tidy up a bit?”

“Here, I’ll give you a couple of keys. One is for your front door, and the other is for mine.”

“You trust me then?”

“Can’t think why not?” he says, giving me that big grizzly grin again.

I race back and I tear up my letter, head for the kitchen as though things are normal. I make breakfast for the children. A few minutes later Olga rushes in.

“Niamh, we’ve got some extra men doing some fencing. I promised them lunch. Can you handle six?”

“I’m moving in with Luigi today.”

She stares at me with her mouth open.

“He’s the father? We were wondering...”

“He’s not. He offered me the flat.”

“My mistake; sorry; you okay with that?” I see her face relax with relief.

“I am.”

“You can take your time moving. The room is yours to use when you want it. I agreed to that before you came.”

“I appreciate that.”

“And you’ll do the lunches for me?”

“I will. Sandwiches all right?”

“Yes, sandwiches are a good choice. Nancy should be here shortly, so she can help out. Barbara is going to be away for a few more weeks. Well, I’ve got a CWA meeting to get to, so must rush.”

“Can I leave a bit early? I want to tidy up Luigi’s place.”

“Of course; no worries! Will you ask Nancy to look after the boys if I’m not back?”

A meal is on the table for Luigi on the first night, much to his surprise.

“Man; smells great; what’s cooking?” he asks as he enters the door, nose sniffing.

“I found a good piece of roast meat, so I roasted it,” I say, pulling down the oven door, allowing the aroma of roasted meat to fill the air.

“Want a hand?”

“You can carve.” I say, placing the hot dish on the shiny sink drainer.

“I’ll get the carving knife.” He hums happily.

“I’ve also roasted some spuds, and there are peas. I used the frozen ones.”

“I forgot I had those...”

“Would you like your just desert?”

“You mean Sweets?”

“I do. You know those Granny Smith apples, well I got a cup of flour from Olga and I made an apple pie. And I know there’s ice cream in the freezer.”

“That sound pretty cool. You must be a magician to make an apple pie from a few Grannies! How can I be so lucky when I’m not even Irish?”

I feel so elated by his positivity about my ordinary cooking. I cannot stop smiling at him.

“Where did you learn to cook this good?”

“Maeve? Who’s she?”

“Step-sister.”

“Where’s she?”

“She is in Ireland.”

“Is she as good looking as you?”

“Prettier! She’s married.”

“Shucks, just my luck. What about you?”

“My husband is dead. He drowned I believe. At least one of them did!”

“So you have had two husbands?” He looks shocked.

“Yes, two, and now I am single again.”

We think about that for a moment. He changes the subject.

“Niamh, what about furniture for your new flat?”

“I have no idea…”

“I’ve got time tomorrow. We can pick out a few things.“ “I already had time off today.”

“I’ll tee it up with Olga,” he says confidently.

The following day we almost buy up the local furniture store of its display items: veneered table, moulded chairs, a sofa that turns into a double bed, armchairs with orange cushions, a washing machine and cutlery.

Luigi also pays for a purple and orange sofa bed, for extra visitors. After shopping, we pop into a local cafe.

Luigi orders cappuccino for me and him, and a milkshake for James.

“You spent a lot of money today. Can I pay you back?”

“It was my gift to you, for the lovely meals you cook, and all the cleaning up, and the great company you are.” He stirs his frothy coffee making patterns with the chocolate on top, as he speaks.

“But why are you so kind to me?” I ask blankly.

“I am thinking of your little baby arriving and I just feel for him, or her,” he adds.

We stir and sip while James slurps.

“I am going away this week, up north.”

“When?”

“I have to leave early on Thursday.” ...

Luigi returns as promised, and leaves again a few days later on another job.

Barbara still hasn’t returned to the farm Nancy Jensen is helping full time at the Smiths, to help take Barbara’s place.

Towards the end of February Olga insists that I visit her doctor, Janette Walker. Her prognosis is that the baby is due in about six weeks, so refers me to the resident gynaecologist at Maryborough Base Hospital, Doctor Johannes Schuster. a sympathetic, professional man, with confidence seeping through his smile and permanent furrow in his brows.

Much later than expected, Barbara returns from her extended holidays in the middle of March, with the simple explanation that she was busy at a special Summer School out west at Mundubbera. ...

On Monday 24 April 1972, I wake up through the night with chronic pains in my lower stomach. I sit up, and then walk around the small bedroom, trying to get comfortable. I flick the light on over the kitchen table and put the electric kettle on. I watch it boiling away. Is this a false alarm?

I yawn deeply as I head towards the bedroom, when suddenly there’s a soft knock on the door.

“Who’s that?” I call out from behind the latch.

“It is me.”

“Come in Luigi,” I say, pulling the little chain over and opening the door wide.

“I just feel worried about you know… I heard noise.”

“I know, the baby...”

“I’ve had a few sharp pains. They have gone. It’s not my first child, so don’t worry, I’ll let you know if it get worse.”

“Okay. Whatever you think; I’ll be off...”

“I feel the pains coming back.”

“Lie down,” Luigi insists. He helps me stumble to the bed. I curl up on the bed for a few minutes, groaning.

“They’re gone.”

“Shouldn’t you be timing them? Remember all the psycho-prophylaxis stuff?”

“They’re not close yet! I could be like this for twelve hours or more. I’ll take a pill; off you go: to bed.”

As his door shuts with a soft thud, the pains come back, with full force, and again after five minutes lag.

“It’s definitely time up for you my little crab apple!”

I’m knocking softly on Luigi’s door, carrying my old bag.

“I’m here,” he calls out, opening up.

“I’ll have to go soon!”

“I’ll just put a shirt on. What about James?”

“I can ask Barbara to check on him.”

He helps me to climb into the cab and we almost fly towards the Smiths.

Luigi pulls up with a jerk at the side of the house. I’m hanging tightly onto the dashboard.

“I’ll tell her,” Luigi says, leaping from the truck. He dashes around the back of the house and returns a couple of minutes later.

“She’ll look after him, no worries!”

“Thanks Luigi...” I say sincerely.

Luigi skids the ute to a halt outside the hospital. I can’t help laughing as I almost slide off the seat.

“Sorry!” he says, yanking the handbrake. He jumps out and runs to the passenger side. “Come on,” he says, holding his arms out.

around

“You’re not going to carry me?” I protest, breathing deeply. “I’m too fat...”

“Sure am,” he says, lifting me easily into his arms and walking smartly towards the double doors.

“It’s stopped again,” I say with relief as he places me on my feet at reception.

“She’s having a baby!” he almost screams to the girl on the other side of the reception counter.

Twenty minutes later I’m lying in bed, huffing and puffing. A young nurse called Susan Jones is busy examining me.

“Doctor Schuster will be here shortly.

“Breathe slowly and deeply. There’s a mask here if you want it. It’ll help you relax.”

“No; thanks; no gas for me.”

I close my eyes. A few seconds later I change my mind.

“Where’s the mask that can help me?”

“Here it is.” Sister Jones places this thing over my mouth and nose. I breathe deeply. I fade out.

“Be brave. Hold still.”

There, this will help you to relax. Doctor says triumphantly, rubbing my thigh muscle.

I feel more relaxed, floppy. I fade out completely.

Action begins for baby’s arrival. All hands are on deck and I am the centre of attraction.

“Hold it. Push; now!”

Doctor and two more nurses suddenly arrive on the scene as I give one final gasp.

Tears fill my eyes, and relief descends as my baby emerges, screaming, amid a flurry of nurses and a masked doctor whose furrowed brow and greying eyebrows identifies him as Johannes Schuster.

“It’s a boy! He’s fine!”

Sister Jones places the wiggly pink morsel of humanity on my stomach for a swift moment; she wraps him in a soft blanket. I can hear him crying heartily.

“He’s beautiful,” I say, tears shimmering in my eyes, my heart melting.

“Six pounds, eleven ounces! He’s our first Anzac baby today!”

“I thought that was a biscuit?”

“It is. Mum used to make them after school, yum.” She sighs. “Seriously, don’t you know it’s a day to remember when hundreds of Aussie and New Zealand soldiers were killed?”

“No, I didn’t know that! It’s not a good day to be born then!”

“Of course it is! It’s a very special day! They died so we could live!”

We bond, baby and me for a while.I hear a voice.

“Are you decent?”

“I am decent. Come on in.”

Luigi, with his mop of black wavy hair coming first, then his dark eyes and finally his bright smile, under his trimmed moustache appears from behind the curtain.

“Come and meet him!”

He gazes at the pink-skinned bundle in a blue blanket.

“I made a few calls, to spread the good news.”

“Thanks. That was kind of you.”

“He’s so small,” Luigi says, his white smile brightening his dark countenance. A tiny pink hand soon holds his dark finger tightly.

A few hours later, after I’m in a general ward, sharing with three other mothers, Father John and Uncle Paddy arrive, bearing gifts. They’re wearing their best suits, Father John in sombre ebony and Uncle Paddy in a light grey. Father John has his white collar on. I’ve just had my first short walk, so I’m seated on the edge of the bed.

“You’re not going to hear confessions?” I ask, jokingly.

“Not today! However; I want to remind you that this new member of the flock needs to be christened; as soon as possible,” Father John says.

“Yes Father...”

“Where is the lad?” Uncle Paddy asks, peering around the room, looking under the bed.

“Joke,” he says. The pair laughs.

“These are for you!” Father John says, shoving a bunch of roses near my face.

“They’re beautiful.” I exclaim, sniffing deeply.

“Don’t waste your whiff! They’re plastic,” Paddy informs me, laughing his deep laugh.

“They feel like silk!” Father John says, his confidence shaken.

“The girl said they were plastic. Remember Christine?”

“Well, if that honest Christian girl said so, you might be right Paddy!”

Father John turns to me. “Sure they’ll last longer than fresh flowers.”

“I’ll show you the way to the nursery.”

“I can’t wait to see the little chap. This is the most excitement I can remember since I got my first big tooth,” Uncle Paddy cries out, skipping for joy. The two rush towards to the nursery. I put my feet into my flip-flops and head after them, travelling a little more cautiously.

“The tiny one in the far crib belongs to us. I’ll go and bring him over.”

I take the crib to the viewing window, picking up the little bundle and holding him in my arms. Paddy is now taking pictures through the window.

John is directing him.

“Can I take him out there and get a better picture?” I ask Sister Rose, who’s watching the pair with amusement.

“Sure, just don’t let them cough on him.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“I’ll ask the nurse to take a photograph of the whole family, the four of us.”

“I am thinking of calling him John Patrick,” I tell the pair.

Father John is suddenly smiling brightly.

“That’s a great name to call the little lad. He looks like a miniature John Patrick.”

“What about Patrick John? Now there’s an even better name for you, me lad! That is our Patron saint of Ireland.”

“It’s in Niamh’s hands Paddy. She knows what’s best for the child,” Father John declares emphatically as I shove the crib and baby away from Paddy’s advances.

I quickly wheel him back into the nursery, as he’s supposed to sleep for another hour, after which time he’s due for another feed.

After settling John Patrick, I return to my ward.

Paddy and John leave to keep another appointment.

I relax on the bed for a little while. I must have dozed off as I’m suddenly awakened by voices.

“Barbara, and James!” I say, sitting up.

“Come on, I’ll take you to the nursery. John Patrick must be nearly due for a feed.”

“He’s got a name already? John Patrick!”

Barbie says civilly. “That’s cool; I can’t stay long,”

We head towards the nursery. James wants to walk, so Barbara puts him on his feet and we hold a hand each. She stares ahead as though she’s miles away.

I break the heavy silence.

“What’s wrong?”

Barbara shrugs her shoulders.

“It’s me moving in with Luigi that’s bothering you; isn’t it? You think I'm a slut don't you?”

Her face takes on an alarmed look.

“No, you’re not a slag! It is great that Luigi gave you a home. It was a very Christian thing to do.”

“So, what’s the matter?’

“I’ll be honest with you” “Please, be honest with me.” I nod my head for emphasis.

“I was a bit put out that you ran off to Luigi without telling me.”

“You were in Mundubbera doing important work.”

“I was. I thought you didn’t want to share with me; that’s all!”

“I would have loved it! I had to leave and he helped me.”

“I should have discussed it a bit more with you. I am so sorry, Niamh.”

“I am sorry too!”

It feels good to have the ice melting in the air. We hug.

“Baby, baby!” James says excitedly, pointing to the cribs he can see through the nursery door, which has been left open.

“He’s just by the window.” I wipe my tears with the hem of my dressing gown.

“The pink child with the bald head and blue blanket.” I add by way of explanation.

“He is so cute. Look James, your little brother,” Barbara says, lifting James up. James presses his hands and nose against the pane of glass and bangs on it.

“I’ll bring him out.”

I retrieve my child and return with his wheelie crib. …

A week later Luigi arrives to take me home. Olga’s given me a small baby basket, which fits neatly in the twin cab rear. With Luigi’s help, I climb into the passenger seat next to Luigi and head to home, sweet home. …

Life at the farm settles down nicely in a few days.

Luigi filled both fridges and the kitchen pantry with food while I hospital, for which I thanked him profusely.

was in

On the following Sunday I’m picked up by the Godparents of Father John’s choice, the Van der Boots.

“And how are you both, Mr and Mrs Van der Boot? Are you prepared for this auspicious occasion?” Father John asks courteously as we pull up in the chapel car park at Hervey Bay. He’s wearing his full regalia for a celebratory service. He looks like the Pope! I feel really proud to know him.

“Fine, Father.” They say in their cute accent.

“Vot a vonderful day!” Hank Van de Boot says; his eyes like bright blue beads, twin opals. "'Tis true,” Father John replies.

Olga, Aaron, Barbara and the twins emerge from their beige and gold Mercedes.

Luigi arrives in Bob’s utility. Barney and Nigel have come with them. A few minutes later they’re all gathered around the large font.

“Give the child to the Godparents,” Father John instructs, raising his eyebrows for emphasis.

“Right, Father!” I say as I pass the baby to Thea Van der Boot, and the procedures continue. Following the ceremony we go to Paddy’s place for a cup of tea and sandwiches. This feels like a real family affair to me. I am happier than I can remember since knowing Niall. …

Back at the farm, I’ve been able to help Barbara with the twins a couple of days a week. This gives me a bit of extra cash in my pocket. Barbara and I have enjoying our art. I’ve commenced an oil painting of the Schmidt’s farm.

Barbara is highly motivated to do Aboriginal art, coming up with amazing arrays of dots and tiny animal shapes, making wonderful displays. We usually paint for an hour or so every second day.

“I’m feeling a bit tired today,” I say to Barbara as the children lie on their mattress in the playroom.

“It’s been hot for winter. Why don’t you lie down with the kids, and I’ll have a read,” Barbara suggests.

I yawn. It seems like a good idea. I fall asleep in around five minutes.

Suddenly I wake up.

“Barbara,” I call out.

“What’s the matter? The kids are still sleeping. John Patrick’s happy!”

“I had a dream. That was a short sleep,” I say, yawning again.

She pours a cool drink from the glass jug nearby.

“What were you dreaming?” Barbara asks.

“I was calling you and you kept looking at me and moving away.”

Barbie remains silent for a few moments, and then makes an announcement.

“I’m thinking of going...”

“You’re leaving?” I’m clutching my glass as if it is my last drink.

“God wants me to go back to my people.”

“God? Does he talk to you now?”

“I suppose you could say that...”

She looks into the distance, as if God’s out there somewhere.

“Where is he?”

“Who?” “God? I wouldn’t mind having a chat with him. Is he somewhere in the sky?”

“God is a spirit, so he’s everywhere, but especially here,” she thumps her breast.

“In your heart you mean?”

“I do! My people need Jesus in their hearts,” she says seriously.

“Don’t they know that the Jews killed him?”

“They know. They know that Jesus died, and rose again, remember, to give them life. They need hope right now! My sister wrote to me. Some of our people are in big trouble! Alcohol is the problem, fighting, kids sniffing aerosol. I can’t talk about it, I’m too ashamed.”

“Can’t the priest help?”

“Jesus is the only one that can really change things,” she declares emphatically.

“I’ll come with you Barbara,” I say impulsively. “You’re a true friend — my only one.”

“What about Father John? I thought you told me that you’re on probation for five years here?”

“I am! He might agree to let me go with you. I could ask him anyway.”

“You wouldn’t want to see all the problems I’m hearing about. You are better off here.”

“You don’t want me?”

“Fair crack of the whip; Niamh; it is not that! The Lord has been egging me on, and. I need to do something for Him.” Barbara replies. She turns her face to me. It’s glowing.

“I can’t stop you!”

She shakes her head.

“I tell you what, Niamh; I’ll come back and bring you to meet my family one day.”

“When will that be?” I ask, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“I don’t know; when you’re finished your probation.”

“That’s another four years!’

“I can come back to see you before that!” she says.

“In a year, maybe!”

“Promise you’ll come back in a year!” I don’t know how I can survive even a year without her.

“I promise.” We hold each other for a long time and wet each other’s collars.

“What about my driving lessons?” I ask, suddenly remembering Barbara has been teaching me how to drive her car.

“You’re going really good, nearly ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“A driving test.”

“No way! I don’t feel ready.”

“How about: I ask Luigi to give you a few lessons.”

“I’m not driving that cattle truck or ute, no way ” “I’m sure Olga won’t mind if you borrow her car. It’s heaps better than my old bomb.”

“I like your little car...”

“The gearbox sticks; smoke pours out of the back.You will have to learn to drive a different car any way.”

“I suppose... How will we keep in touch now? ” “I’ll write.”

“I’m not good at writing.”

“I’ll give you a buzz sometimes!”

“Can I ring you too?”

“Of course you can. I’ll give you my sister’s address and number before I leave.”

“You’ve taught me so much Barbara, how to read and write. You encouraged me to paint and helped me to learn to drive. I owe you heaps.”

“You’ve got heaps of talent, Niamh. I’ll be happy if you use it. My gift is helping people, making stars.”

“I will use my star-dust. I promise.” I wipe a stray tear from the side of my face. I am totally emotional.

“I’m going tomorrow, early. I will say goodbye to James and John Patrick now.”

“So soon?” She nods her head; we sit in silence. …

That night Luigi brings up the matter of my driving during our late dinner.

“Barbie says you’re learning to drive, huh?” he says, putting his knife and fork down.

“I’m still not very good at it,” I reply, standing up and taking his plate.

“That’s not what I heard. Come on, sit down,” he says quietly. I sit back down holding his plate.

“I don’t feel right about asking Olga to borrow her car. It’s so big...”

“I wasn’t thinking of Olga. I’m arranging for you to have driving lessons; that’s okay with you?”

“But they cost money...”

“Everything costs something.”

He reaches out to take my hand and then stops.

“You have been doing so much for me, all this cooking and cleaning...”

“That’s nothing! I’m glad I’ve got more than the stars over my head,” I reply, smiling at him, feeling grateful.

“I think I can afford to pay for a few driving lessons. And I think I should give you some cash as well.”

I’m flabbergasted!

“I don’t want money!”

“I know that.” Luigi takes his wallet, which is lying on the table, and pulls out a couple of notes.

“Here, take these.”

“But, I already get child assistance and Olga gives me...”

“No buts...!” He holds the notes out to me.

“All right, thank you.”

Reluctantly, but happily, I take the money.

Two months later, I’m still having weekly driving lessons.

I still don’t feel confident to pass my test, so Luigi pays for twelve more lessons. It’s nearly the end of September and Luigi has gone up north for the last week, but should be back tonight.

I’m sitting down trying to read a letter from Barbara I’ve had a bath and feel cold, so pull out my warmest nightdress and fluffy pale green dressing gown that Olga gave me.

John’s just had a night feed and both children are tucked in bed. It’s nearly ten o’clock, when I hear his truck pull up and then I hear his footsteps as he ascends the outer stairs. When all is quiet I creep out and I knock on Luigi’s door.

“Come on in.” I hear Luigi’s voice.

The door opens.

“I brought your dinner. You’re running late?”

“Had a few hold-ups; thanks for the tucker.” Luigi is dressed in a huge towel. He takes the hot pot with his dinner on top, covered by a plate, and places it on the sink drainer.

“Excuse me. I was just heading for the shower. I haven’t had one for yonks; sorry, do you mind?”

“No, you go on and have your shower.”

I know the Queenslanders are paranoid about having their showers, even if it’s freezing cold; ‘yonks’ probably means six hours.

“Can I make you a cup of tea, or cocoa while you’re in there, or do you want me to go?”

He closes the entrance door and turns towards me.

“Niamh, I’d love a cup of cocoa, but it’s late. You go on to bed. I’ll be right, mate...” he says, his voice going croaky as he speaks.

He sounds sick.

“What’s the matter, Luigi?” I sink down on a chair opposite.

“I probably need some sleep...” His shoulders start shaking. “What happened, go on; tell me?” I ask, rushing around by him and placing my hand on his shoulders.

“You look terrible. You haven’t been drinking...”

“I have been drinking a lot.”

He pauses and looks up at me; like a lost little boy with all that hair over his watery eyes.

“Niamh,” he says, and then pauses.

“I just buried my mother!” He stares at me as though he’s looking right through me into another world where his mother might be.

“I’m sorry.’

“It’s my fault.”

His shoulders shake from his sobbing again.

“You are cold. Do you want me to get you a jumper Luigi?”

“I’ll be right in a minute. I’m just a wuss! Haven’t you heard about people like me, men who cry like a baby?”

“Please don’t cry.”

I’m holding his head on my shoulder. His head jerks away.

“He didn’t even tell me she was crook!” He shakes his head in dismay.

“I am sorry.”

“I’ll go and have my shower. You go on and get to bed,” he says, rising up and exiting down the hallway to the shower. I hear the water flowing and hope it will calm him down. I don’t want to leave him in this state, so hang about. I open Luigi’s cupboard and find a tin with a lump of fruitcake wrapped in plastic. All this emotional stuff is causing me to feel ravenous!

“Luigi!”

He’s standing behind me, wearing a pair of shorts and a singlet. That must be his pyjamas.

“That was quick!” I exclaim.

“I don’t muck around.”

He looks cheerful and sparkling with his wet hair slicked back.

“It smells great Niamh.”

He sits down. I take the plate of food off the hot water and put it down on the table. “You smell great too Niamh,” he says as I lean over his bulging bare shoulder.

“I’m so sorry about your mother. I should leave,” I say, daring to look him in the eyes. “’Struth, I’m real grateful to you. I will not forget this.”

Somehow we can’t stop looking into each other’s eyes. I can feel the blood rushing to my face. I want him to kiss me. I end up on his lap. He has his arms around my back, holding me, calling my name.

“Niamh, Darl!”

I resist him no longer. Eagerly, I throw my arms around his neck. We kiss each other. A few passionate minutes later he picks me up like a feather and gently carries me into his room, in the midst of laughter and tears.

Our passion is roused softly, sweetly with kisses and a wet tongue that thrills me; emotions connect as our sexual desires reach a crescendo; finally, exhausted, wet with perspiration; hot from bodily contact, our deep yearning for intimacy is satisfied. …

The dinner is cold and the cocoa is still waiting to be drunk when I kiss a sleeping Luigi goodnight and race downstairs to John’s urgent crying.

My breasts are bulging with milk, which is seeping all over my nightdress.

John and I are good and ready for his feed. …

After that night of passion the awkwardness between us is unbearable. I decide we need to talk, so, after one unbearable week, I invite him to have a nightcap with me after the children are asleep. He opens up quickly, saving me consternation.

“Niamh, I have to be honest with you! I really enjoyed our time the other night,” he says, looking me in the eyes, flinching a little.

“I loved it too!” I can’t resist smiling.

“Hey, that’s nice to hear.”

“Even if we enjoyed the other night I don’t want to take advantage of you again.”

“I may have taken advantage of you!”

His shoulders shake with laughter.

“’Struth, maybe you did!” He looks awkwardly away. ”Do you want me to go, leave the flat downstairs?”

“Leave!”

He looks aghast.

“Please stay. I just love having you.“ “You want things to be as they were before the other night!”

“No matter what you say, I know I took advantage of you. It won’t happen again, I promise!” he says, staring resolutely into my eyes, taking the full blame for the event like a big man would do. ...

About a month later, in the first week of November and after a hard day’s work, Luigi and I are comfortable in the orange and purple lounge chair. The children are sleeping.

“Niamh…”

He puts his face in his hand, runs his fingers over his cheeks and stares at me.

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking since that night.”

“What?”

“I’ve fallen in love with you.”

“Don’t be daft; you’re still getting over your mother’s death….”

“It’s not that! I’ll always remember my mother; I can’t stop thinking about you, all day long. I dream of you every night, your silk body, curves to die for…”

“Stop it, Luigi!” I say in my broadest Irish accent to make him take notice, slapping his wrist.

“I never was more serious in my life.”

His eyes are sparkling as he stares into mine.

“I love you. I really do,” he says, as our lips meet in a gentle kiss, that spontaneously turns into a more passionate event; startlingly aroused; we indulge our sensual cores.

Our love surges like a tsunami, causing me to gasp for ecstasy as if it was air; he groans as his power rises; subtle touching draws our emotions higher; again, we are captured and deeply aroused; ultimately satisfied bodily and emotionally. We lie entwined, breathless; he speaks huskily, “Marry me!”

“I can’t get married....” I say, rolling away from his piercing gaze.

“Why not?”

I shake my head; “It’s a long story. I need to check the children.”

I grab my clothes off the floor.

“If it’s the kids; I love James and John as if they were my own.”

“I know that,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding my dressing gown closely around me.

“I just can’t marry you. Please don’t ask me why.”

“I thought the Irish girls were always keen to get married. I don’t understand, Niamh!”

“I used to be like that when I was young.” “ ’Struth, how old are you?” he asks, suddenly sitting up, staring into my face.

“I turned twenty last week.”

Now he sits up, startled.

“Fair dinkum? Niamh, you never said a word! That’s terrible!”

“To turn twenty is terrible!” “’Struth, I mean you should have had a party or something. I feel bad now.”

“Don’t feel bad. I think I’m happier than I’ve been in ages.” I suddenly kiss his cheek.

“You make me feel loved. That’s all I want. I don’t care about parties.”

“Niamh, you’re the best thing that’s happened to me since the harvesters came in.”

“You’re so romantic.”

“I try. Seriously, remember, it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind!

If you do, just tell me, okay?”

“I’ll remember that. But there’s one important thing....”

“What?”

“Don’t tell Father John and Uncle Paddy, will you?”

“It was your birthday?”

“No! Now you are being Irish. I mean about us! They want me to marry a good Irish Catholic boy in Hervey Bay.”

“Only if you promise me one thing?” he says, smiling, relaxing. “Move up here with me. There’s more room for the kids. You can use downstairs as your studio...”

“Studio; I like the sound of that; I also like having my own space downstairs.”

“Whatever you want is okay!”

Luigi pays for another twelve driving lessons and finally nearly three months later, just after my second Christmas in Australia, I arrive home clutching my driver’s license.

That night when Luigi comes in from the farm around teatime, I run to meet him at the door, and throw my arms around his neck.

“What have I done right?” he says. His gruff laugh tickles my ear. He holds me slightly away from him, his brown hands on my freckled shoulders.

“Don’t tell me, Darl' that you did it?”

“I did indeed.”

“I knew you would,” he says, picking me up and whirling me around the entry, nearly knocking a vase with tall flowers over.

“Watch the art, the vase!”

“I’m not watching anything tonight except you!”

He laughs again.

“I’m taking you out to dinner.”

“What about the children?”

“Can we get a baby sitter?”

“Yes, we can. Helen! I’ll call her?”

“I’ll go and take a shower and get my good daks on.”

He hums Waltzing Matilda as he heads towards the shower. Soon he is singing louder and louder as he runs the water over himself.

I’m off downstairs to my own bathroom. I turn the tap of the bath on. I suppose I’ve sweated a bit today, with all the nerves I used up on that driving test, I’m thinking as I mix some bubble bath into the warm water.

I ring Helen while the bath fills up with bubbly water. Her mother answers.

“Hello Missus Walker, I got my license.”

“Great news, girl,” Missus Walker replies.

“I was wondering if Helen might look after the children.

“No worries; I’ll be there” Helen assures me as she takes over the ‘phone call. …

We have a lovely night at Hervey Bay. We eat dinner at the Wharf Restaurant, which looks out over the ocean. I love to listen to the sound of the waves. Luigi insists I have a glass of wine.

“Barossa Pearl, the best wine in the country. That’s a great drop! Try it Niamh,” he insists.”

We finish a bottle or two of bubbly.

I feel light headed, so Luigi takes me for a stroll on the beach. We splash our feet in the water until my white skirt is soaking. The ends of his trousers are wet too.

“I’d better get you home before you are crook.”

“I know what that means,” I say, shaking my finger at Luigi. “I know it doesn’t mean I’m a crook. It means, what does it mean Luigi?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d react like this. Come on home now.”

“I’m fine,” I say, pulling his face to mine. He kisses me. I almost fall over.

He catches me.

“I want to get you home to bed. You’ve had too much wine.”

“Catch me first,” I yell, running off into the darkness. Within a minute he catches up and I collapse into the soft sand. I can feel its coolness under my neck. I can see the stars staring down at me. “Look at the stars Luigi.”

He stares at me.

“Up there.” I point to the sky.

I wake up in the bed downstairs. My breasts are sore and wet with milk.

Luigi has dressed me in my special maternity nightdress and John is crying loudly.

Luigi is standing next to the bed. …

“I feel awful. I’ll never ever drink that pink lemonade again, I swear.”

“It was sparkling wine, not lemonade, and you guzzled it down too fast; here, drink this. Hair of the dog! You need to get your strength back for what you’re about to do.”

“And what is that?” I say, taking the glass and staring into the murky liquid.

Luigi laughs. “It’s not Apollo’s hair. It’s a fix-it drink, made from tomatoes and lemons and secret stuff. Come on, drink up!”

“You sound like a bossy Irishman now!”

I obediently drink the liquid and hand the glass to Luigi, falling back on the bed.

“Get dressed and come out the front. James has to go shortly to the play group. You promised him.”

I do feel a lot better after the magical drink. I pull my legs out of the bed and place them on the floor.

“My hair is a mess.” He hands me the silver comb that Paddy and Father John bought me.

“Got to go; got to get something ready.”

“What is going on?” I ask, running the comb through my tangled curls, groaning with every stroke.

The light blazes at my eyes. I blink and stare out to where Luigi is standing, next to a canary yellow car.

“Do you like it?” he exclaims as he sees me standing in the doorway.

“It’s a nineteen sixty-six Mini; she’s a little beauty; five hundred smackers.”

“Who’s car is it?” I ask, rubbing my eyes, and leaning on the doorpost.

“It’s yours, Darl’. It's all yours,” he says, striding over to me with something sparkling in his hand.

“Car Key?” I am shocked as the metal meets my palm.

“For you,” Luigi adds, smiling from ear to ear, “a belated birthday present.”

“For me?” I say, wondering if I’m just having a dream and about to wake up. “Luigi! I don’t believe it!”

“It’s not new, but it’s only done five thousand clicks. An old lady owned it, never went over forty.”

“It’s gorgeous!” I feel absolutely sober. I walk steadily towards the car, Luigi by my side.

The bright yellow paintwork glistens as Luigi opens the driver’s door. I gape inside. It’s all lined with a soft cloth fabric in a cream shade; baby seat for John Patrick, and a high padded seat for James.

“Can you get your perfect peach into the car, please!”

I slide into the driver’s seat and close my eyes for a moment. My bottom may look like a peach, but my stomach feels like I’ve eaten too many. I close my eyes trying to relax my swirling brain. Luigi is doing something in the back seat. He slides into the front passenger seat, next to me.

“Turn her on.”

The Key clicks and the engine purrs.

I move the gear stick into first gear and release the clutch, slowly, simultaneously pressing the accelerator.

“It’s so smooth, not like the ‘ute’.”

“No bad mouthing is needed, my lovely lady.” He laughs in his gruff voice, making me laugh too. “Glad you like it, Darl’. Don’t forget your seat belt,” he adds, pulling the strap and clicking it shut over my hip.

“Where to?” I ask as we surge forward, smoothly, not kangarooing once.

“You’re the driver, you tell us!” I slam on the brakes and skid to a halt on the gravel driveway.

“What’s up?”

“I’m a ninny! James and John! I forgot them!”

“Whee!’ a small voice cries out from the back seat.

“Niamh, Darling, they’re in the back. I strapped them in while you were mucking about.”

“Thank you. I think I forgot another important instruction....”

“Mirror,” he says before I say the same thing. I twist the mirror until I can see two pairs of eyes happily staring back at me.

“Thank you. Sorry! I’m in a bit of a flutter. I also forgot the shoulder check! Maybe you should be driving?”

“It’s your car, and you should be sober now. Let’s go, Mrs driver.”

“I’m as sober as a judge.” I say with gusto, despite feeling a little under the weather.

“I can see that! Keep going, you’ll be right, Darl’. James' only down the road.”

play group is

“Right!” I say, moving forward, definitely sober. I don’t want to miss one of the happiest days of my life.

CHAPTER ELEVEN TOUCHING HEAVEN John’s first birthday approaches, a letter arrives from Barbara. The post has come late, so I am busy preparing a meal when it arrives. After we’ve had our dinner and cleaned up the kitchen I sit down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. Luigi is having a beer. I take a deep breath.

“Barbara's coming,” I tell Luigi.

“Uh-huh,” he responds.

After we put the boys to bed, around seven thirty, Luigi flops down in the sofa and stares at the telly.

“I need to talk to you,” I say, standing in front of the flashing screen.

“Aw, Darl’, let me see the end of Number 96. ‘Struth, it’s a shocker! But it’s funny. Lots of lovely ladies with breasts too!”

His shoulders shake with glee at his humour. The music to signal the end of the show comes on just then. I push the button and the television flashes to a blank screen.

“I’m really worried,” I say.

“What have I done wrong? You don't want me watching beauties? I don't let the kids see it...”

“It’s not you! ‘tis Barbara. She’ll know we’re I cannot say it! I feel so cheap....”

“Now I’m tweaking! Is it because you don’t want Barbara to know we’re shacking up.”

“That is the issue!”

“When is she coming?” He’s listening at last!

“Next week!”

“Not to worry.”

“That’s in a couple of days; we’ll have to face her.”

“She won’t even see me for dust!”

“Are you going to hide in the cane fields, and come out at night in the dark?”

“Hey, there’s a bitch inside you, Darl’, but no! Remember I’m going up north next week, Mackay, so I won’t be here when she comes.”

“I’m sorry. I forgot about that.”

“So you won’t have to explain... me!”

“That’s a relief!”

Luigi shakes his head.

“I really impress you. My bird loves when I fly the coup..., I’m a lucky man — not.”

“You are so, Luigi de Vinci!” I smile cheekily and kiss his rough cheek.

“Friends?” I hold my hands out towards him.

“Come here,” he says, drawing me close and placing his arm around my shoulders.

“Give’s a good one,” he says as he pouts his lips.

We enjoy a solid kiss for a moment.

A little voice is suddenly beside us.

“Mammy; I’m hungry.”

I pull away from Luigi to see my tiny son holding his stomach. Luigi stares at James.

“You didn’t eat all your dinner, that’s why you’re hungry.”

“I’ll give him a glass of milk,” I say, jumping up.

“Then you’ll have to brush your choppers again, and go to the toilet,”

“Not hungry Mammy,” he says, changing his mind.

“Right, nipper, off to bed and not another word, do you understand?”

James nods his head.

“If you go straight to sleep I might take you in the truck after school tomorrow.”

Luigi’s final offer sends James running to bed.

“That is sorted. I think I’ll make a cup of tea,” I say, taking the kettle and filling it at the sink tap.

“You’ll be back on Saturday, for John’s birthday party, won’t you?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Darl’.” …

“Hello; it’s me. Anyone home?” she calls at the front door. ‘Tis Monday afternoon and I’ve just been giving John a relaxing, long feed.

“Barbara,” I say, rushing to meet her, holding John in my arms, and pulling my shirt down at the same time. We three hug for a long moment. “’Struth you’ve grown,” she says to John, who responds by crying.

“Don’t worry; he’ll be all right after he gets to know you again, in five minutes! So, what’s happening?” I ask as she follows me into the family room.

I pop John into his playpen. He pulls himself up and walks around the rails, staring at us and making funny noises.

“He’ll escape from that thing soon, won’t you mate?”

“He will, Barbara, right as always. You’re invited to his first birthday party on Saturday. We’re going to have balloons and ice cream...”

“I wouldn’t miss that for the world, would I John Patrick! Can I bring someone with me?”

“You can, surely; everyone is welcome Barbara. ‘tis at three o’clock in the afternoon, after his nap!”

“I’ll be there!” Barbara speaks to John Patrick.

“So what’s going on in your world?” I ask, drawing out a chair for my friend. “Sit down and tell me a story. Would you like a nice cool drink?”

“That would be good, thanks, girlfriend,” Barbara says, sitting down. “Have I got good news or what “And, I want to ask you something?”

She probably wants to know if I’m sleeping with Luigi! What will I say? I am dreading a confrontation.

“John might need a nappy change,” I say, jumping up from my chair and pulling him out of the playpen. She’s staring at me. Her eyes are twinkling.

I’ll have to tell her, I’m thinking!

“Niamh, I’ve got a secret...”

She flings her left hand out and wiggles her fingers. I sit down and jiggle John on my knee. His soft skin feels damp to my touch, or are my hands sweating?

I stare at the gold band with a tiny diamond in the centre.

“It’s lovely: congratulations, Barbara. So, you’ve met Mr Right?”

“I have. He’s the one,” she says, her eyes dancing and her face glowing like a candle at dusk.

“He gave me the ring a few months ago.”

“You’re a dark horse.”

“I had to pray about it, before I broadcast it to the bush telegraph around here.”

“But you took the ring?” I add; a bit vixen like, but with a smile.

“It’s not every day that happens! It’s just that he’s such a good catch; fair dinkum; I can’t really believe what’s happening to me,” she says, her eyes

misting over, as though her thoughts are filled to the brim by the man of her dreams.

“You’re in love! And what’s the name of the lucky lad?” I ask, wondering who on earth could have such an amazing effect on solid, resilient, practical Barbara, the evangelist.

“Dale Freedman!”

“He doesn’t sound Aboriginal.”

“No, he’s not. He’s the son of a Missionary. I think his grandparents were originally from Germany and England. Both his parents were born here; run a fair dinkum Christian Mission Retirement centre out near Proston. Dale and I grew up together out west. Went to the same small school at Murgon,” Barbie says, her mind contemplating those childhood days at school, with glee.

“So, didn’t you like him back then?”

“He said he hasn’t been ready until now. He’s three years older than me.

That suits me fine, Niamh!”

“He’s a cradle snatcher!” I say, grinning, teasing her.

“I like being his baby! Truly, I think men don’t mature until they’re thirty, if they ever do.”

“Excuse the pong,” I say, as John Patrick makes a joyful noise from his rear end.

“That’s rich,” Barbie says, holding her nose, turning her head away.

“He’ll take a nap shortly,” I say briefly, as John Patrick flops onto his back, his head resting on his tiny blue, smiling face pillow. His eyes move into the half closed position as I place a dummy in his mouth.

“I hate these things, but he loves it, and they work.”

“I’ll take that tip on board, mother of the year.” Barbara says, nodding her head.

“Let’s sit on the sofa,” I say, relaxing. She sits by me.

“Tell me your love story.”

Barbara sits up slightly as she begins happily. “After I went back to see my folks last year he had just come from Bible college in Brisbane. The church was doing an outreach and we worked together. I got stuck in the mud and he helped free me. That was it! It was unreal. Providence I think. After we got the truck back on its four wheels again we were so happy we hugged each other.”

She pauses to remember the exciting details.

“I was muddy, my hair was a mess, and my bare feet were covered in grease and dirt. It was the most wonderful moment of my life! He looked me in the eyes and said, no, I can’t tell you.”

Barbara suddenly stops telling me the story.

“He couldn’t tell you something?”

“He didn’t say that that he couldn’t tell me. I’m saying that I can’t tell you because it makes me blush.”

“Am I your best friend or what?” I ask indignantly.

“Friends for life; I guess I’ll have to tell you.”

“This is what he said, Barbie, I can’t believe you’re the little kid I teased at school. You’re a knockout!”

“I never; that was a compliment?”

“It was the best compliment ever.”

“You’re a strange lot down under! Everything is upside down. So, where is Mr wonderful ring giver now?”

“He’s busy. He’s getting the music and lighting set up.”

“Well, I’m truly delighted for you Barbara. I hope you have a great life together, with loads of children and laughter.”

“Thanks, Niamh; now for the next exciting piece of the story!”

“What?” I ask, wondering if she’s pregnant!

“Do you remember I said I'd bring you to meet my folk a year ago?”

“I remember.”

“You're going to meet them soon!”

“I am?”

“Too right’ they're all coming here!”

I feel astonished. “Just, to see me?”

“There’s going to be a wedding here in two weeks time! Will you be my Matron-of-Honour?”

“Matron-of-Honour?”

“The main thing is, can you afford it, Niamh? The dress I mean.”

“I’ve got tucks of money now.”

I feel the blood rushing up to my temples now as I recall Luigi giving me an extra fifty dollar note last week. I stare down at my knees.

“Fair dinkum? I want you to be right there.”

“It’s your day, girl friend As I said, money is no object. I’ll wear whatever you want me to wear, even if it’s a sack. I’ve got the money for anything you want!”

“No sackcloth and ashes at my wedding! But I did see a couple of purple dresses, which should fit you and Helen. You’ll look great in purple. Can we go tomorrow and take a look, see if you like it? I’ll take the car and pick you and Helen up. What do you say?”

“I have a car and I can please myself. If you like I’ll pick you and Helen up and we can go together, what about that?”

“You’ve got your license!”

“I have, only got it by the skin of me teeth! But don’t tell Luigi that! It’s been great. He bought me a lovely car.”

“Luigi bought you a car; fair dinkum? He’s very generous.”

“You asked him to help me pay for my driving lessons, and he did! He’s been very good to me.”

“If you’re picking me up that means Dale can have our car if he needs it, so that’s cool. We’re at the Jorgensens.”

“Who are they when they are at home?”

“That young couple from church, she’s thin with wispy hair, great smile.

He’s a bit of a rough diamond. They live in the old Queenslander down the road, near the service station.”

“The yellow house with the high roof, and all that imitation cake icing stuff; around the edges?”

“It’s the one! You are funny! I really miss you. We always had a good laugh over nothing. Do you want to pick me and Helen up around ten?”

“Too right! I’ll be ready. I’d better bring a pile of hankies, in case we can’t stop laughing.

“What about you, Niamh? How is James? Are you still helping with the twins?”

“I’m still with Olga, though only two afternoons a week. The boys are going to pre-school. James is going to playgroup three mornings a week. He loves it!”

“Time flies when you’re busy. You’ll have to try and write to me, keep in touch. I brought you this.”

She hands me a bookmark. “’Tis The Ten Commandments! Just what I always wanted. I probably need this,” I say between clenched teeth.

“They’re shortened a bit. I don’t know how the Israelites did it: God’s rules, I mean. It was tough.”

I stare at the bookmark.

Obey

“You still sweeping for Luigi?”

Did she say sleeping with Luigi? My mouth drops open. She must know!

“I beg your pardon; say that again.”

“Sweeping, cleaning? I guess you must be, if you’re still staying here.”

“I am.” I mumble, picking up a toy from the floor.

“Done any painting lately?”

“I started four paintings last week. I was in a painting frenzy! They’re a bit of a muddle, but I’ll get there,” I explain.

“There are a few finished over there on the floor along the wall in the hallway.” We head over to where they are stacked and strewn.

“Hey, they look great. Let me have a closer look. Fair dinkum! They are great. Masterpieces if you ask me.”

“Go on, you’re just saying that!” I say, embarrassed.

“I am not. I good enough.”

never tell lies. You know that!

Have an art show. You are

“Maybe I will. Go on, take the one you like.”

“Do you mean that?’

“I certainly do. I do not tell lies! You’re my best friend and my teacher. I should give you something you like. You’ll have to frame it though.”

“If you’re sure, can I take this one?”

She takes the large canvas with a cane fire and a man belting the flames with a sack in the foreground and holds it up, her arms spreading wide.

“He looks a bit like Luigi!”

“A bit maybe,” I say agreeably.

“It is great. Have you signed it?”

“As you taught me, in an obscure place.”

“Niamh,” she reads aloud.

“What about you?”

“I haven’t had time. There are too many souls to be saved out in the bush, like rocks on the highway, and Dale has been keeping me busy.”

“You should get back to it one day.”

“I will, I promise.”

“I’ll roll it up for you.” I take the canvas and quickly roll it into a long cylinder.

“I’ll put an elastic band around it.”

“Thanks! Will you come to one of our meetings? Just one?” I step back. I knew she’d ask me that!

“Maybe Sunday, when Luigi gets back. He can baby sit the kids.”

“Sunday evening should be a great night. Dale will be worrying about me.

He might need the car too! See you tomorrow, at ten. I have to fly!”

She waves goodbye. I am relieved and saddened because I could not be open with her. …

Luigi arrives back home at six am on Saturday morning.

I hear his footsteps on the stairs outside, and I am suddenly wide awake, despite having fed John at four, who is sleeping again.

“Come in, Darl,” Luigi says before I’m at the top of the steps. I move inside the door and give him a big hug. He kisses my head, then my lips.

“How was your trip?” I ask, stepping back and looking him up and down.

“Met a few kangas on the road, nearly had a buster, otherwise everything went sweet.”

“Will I make you some breakfast?” I ask, looking into his face.

“I ate a burger from the Servo joint. I’m not hungry, just dead tired.”

“If you’re sure; I was going to make myself a cup of tea before it gets too hot; want one?”

“No, nothing thanks all the same; I’ll be right tonight! Darl’, I brought you back something, and the kids,” he says, opening his backpack, which is lying on the floor.

“Take this paper bag.” He hands me a brown bag with a little box in it.

“What is it?”

“Open it and see.” I open the lid.

“Luigi, it is just lovely.”

“You like it?”

“I adore it; gorgeous!” I pull the bracelet out and he helps me clip it on my wrist.

“Look at the vibrant hues. I’ve never seen the like before.”

“They’re opals, black opals; from a miner. It is fair dinkum gold too! Hand crafted.”

“Must have cost a small fortune?”

“And the rest, Darl’; don’t you worry about that! It suits you - it blends in with your shades, all that.”

“My eyes after a hot night?”

We laugh our silly laugh.

“I was thinking more of your art,” Luigi explains.

“I hope you’re not running out of anything?”

“There are a few canvasses left and tucks of paint. Hey, thanks Luigi.”

We kiss, deeply. His kiss always surprises me. I run my tongue over my lips to capture his spicy zest.

“I missed you too. I ran out of washing and cleaning!”

“No worries. I brought back a bagful of washing, so you can sing the Irish Washerwoman to your heart’s content.”

“You’re the luckiest man in the world, Luigi De Vinci.”

“The luck of the Irish that’s what it is!” He yawns largely.

“You’re my lucky charm.”

“You are my sparkling gemstone.”

We kiss a bit more.

“You smell like diesel.” I rub my nose.

“I’ll have a quick shower and then I’ll hit the sack.” ...

At ten o’clock there’s a knock on the door. It’s Barbara.

“Hello there, what are you doing here so soon?” I ask, giving her a hug whilst holding my floured hands away from her. “I’m hot!”

“It’s too hot for baking, Niamh! Thought you might need a hand, so I brought a few things…” she says as she plonks a plastic bag on the table.

“What have we got here?” I ask, opening the bag up.

“Balloons with faces, noisy things; lollies, paper hats, and a plate, compliments of the Jorgensens,” she says, placing a plastic container on the table.

“Lamingtons,” she says, lifting the lid; chocolate slice.”

“They smell lovely, chocolate and coconut! I forgot that I’m on a diet!”

“Not on your son’s birthday!”

“Maybe tomorrow,” I say, picking out a smallish one, and taking a big bite.

“I’m sure he’d be disappointed if I didn’t enjoy myself and eat something forbidden.”

“We’re no better than Eve and the forbidden fruit!”

“I might have one too! Mind you my wedding dress is very fitted, so I have to be careful.”

“Dale will come over after he sorts some of the electronic stuff with the guys. I told him it’s this afternoon. What else has to be done?”

“I got some bright plastic table cloths, which I’ll put on the tables Luigi set up for me last week, in the car port.”

“I’ll handle that. What about drinks?” Barbara asks, looking around, noticing my one jug of cold water dripping moisture onto the plastic tablecloth.

“I’ve got some cordial and bottles of soft drink. Some are in Olga’s fridge.”

“I’ll give you a hand for a while; then I’ll see if I can borrow an esky and get some ice as well, so they keep cool. Where’s James?” Barbara asks, as though she’s satisfied that the domestic side of the duties are sorted out.

“I brought him over to Olga’s this morning to play with the twins. I should go and get him back soon.”

“How about I get him to come back with me?”

“Right-o! They’ll probably be giving each other black eyes by now! He’ll be seeing them later anyway; thanks, Barbara.”

“Is Helen coming?” she asks, pouring herself a glass of water.

“She is at that. She said she’d come early and give me a hand. She might be on her way by now?” I add, looking out the window, half expecting to see Helen strolling through the narrow pathway between the high sugar-cane blowing in the wind like a movie star without a director.

“Don’t hold your breath for Helen; she’ll come when she comes.” Barbara says insightfully.

Helen comes over around two, with a plate of pikelets and jam. “Mum sent these.” Helen immediately has several children hanging on her leg. They seem to flock to her side.

By three o’clock the carport is packed filled with people, balloons, streamers, fairy cakes, lemonade and a lot of noisy chatter.

Barbie brings Ben, Adam, and James from Olga’s. The twins are running around like chooks with their heads off, except they’re screaming their heads off. James tags along behind them.

“Here’s Paddy and Father John!” Barbara shouts over the din.

“Good afternoon ladies! I hope we’re not too late! ” Father John says as he hurries from the car. Uncle Paddy is hot on his heels.

“No, not too late, shut the gate! How are you Father John and Uncle Paddy?”

I give them both a quick kiss on the cheek.

“I’m very well; how’s yourself; and how is our cherished grandson?”

“We’re all fine.” I say.

“And I’m well too, thank you for asking, Niamh. Here you are,” says, handing me a gift with blue wrapping.

Paddy

“John will have a ball with all that sticky-tape.”

“Hallo,” Thea Van de Boot says in her distinctly Dutch accent. “This is Kimberley.”

“Hello Kimberly. My name is Niamh.”

“Hello Niamh,” Kimberley says shyly, softly.

“Would you like a fairy cake?” I offer her the plate. She stares for a moment; nervously picks up a cake from the centre of the plate.

“Say thank you,” Thea instructs sharply.

“Thank you,” Kimberly says. She spots a Miriam from her play group that she attends and the pair run off together hand in hand towards the play area that Luigi set up for the kids to get exercise. I see them sliding down the slippery dip as Barbara walks nearby holding a plate of cup cakes.

“I promised to wake Luigi up. Can you look after this lot?”

“No worries; leave them to me! Kick him out of the sack.”

“Thanks, Barbara. I will do just that.” We laugh.

“Luigi, wake up, ‘Tis Party time! Just making sure you’re awake.” out.

I call

Luigi’s unshaven face with his black knotty locks peers around the corner near the bathroom.

“Got no gear on, Darl’; I’m having a shower!” His white teeth contrast vividly with its hairy surrounds. Give me five. …

Luigi wriggles through the crowd, holding the parcel over his head.

“Dad, dad,” John Patrick says, grasping at the wrapping.

“Mammy will help you take the paper off,” I say, taking my eyes off Luigi’s attractive appearance; focusing on John Patrick, who gets so excited he’s bouncing up and down on his bottom. He called Luigi Dad, which is a giveaway to Barbara. Maybe she didn't hear that. I hope vainly. "'Tis a kid-sized car!”

A little red and yellow plastic car gleams before our eyes, like something wonderful. I take a closer look. There’s no floor, therefore John can run his feet along the ground. There are also pedals a bit further along, for when his little legs grow a bit more. Luigi lifts John Patrick into the driver’s seat. John bangs on the steering wheel.

“Press this,” Luigi says, pressing John’s hand on a rubber ball sticking out near the steering wheel. It goes beep. John topples over with excitement.

Luigi and I laugh and our eyes connect deeply for an instant. Suddenly the small crowd is gathering around us, including James, who puts his foot into the driver’s seat.

“I’ve got something for you, James!” Luigi says.

“Come on, nipper, I’ll show you!”

James immediately holds out his hand to Luigi and they head towards the back of the house. A couple of minutes later I hear siren noises and a bell ringing.

“It’s his new fire engine!” Luigi states: looking at me with a big grin.

“It must have cost a small fortune!” I exclaim as the guests come over to investigate the noise. It's red and silver body is a sight for sore eyes.

“It’s not his birthday!” I whisper to Luigi.

“I didn’t want him to feel left out.”

He is thoughtful, and James seems happy. The party turns out to be a blast and the crowd are pleased. Everything went without a hitch, and I am so relieved to fall into bed that night. …

“Luigi, I promised Barbara I’d go to her meeting tonight, but I’m jaded after John’s party yesterday; getting up for Mass this morning.”

“Give yourself a break, Darl’,” Luigi suggests, sitting next to me, placing his hands on my stiff shoulders and massaging them gently.

“I’d love that, but I’d better keep my word.”

“Sure Darl’, whatever you want; how about I grab some fish and chips for the kids.”

“I’d like that. I’ll feed John before I leave.”

“It’s five o’clock now, so why don’t I go and get some dinner and you can have a nap?”

“That sounds luxurious. I will.”

“I’ll take James with me in the ute,” Luigi says, picking James up and wiping his filthy face.

“He’s been eating chocolate again.”

“Yum,” James says, licking his lips.

“Have you been in the fridge again, mate?”

James’ face turns into a pre-crying state.

“No crying allowed, Nipper. No more chocolate today, otherwise you won’t eat your dinner, understood? James, we are going for a ride to the chip-o; okay?”

“Okay!” James nods his head.

“Come on. Up you get!” Luigi swings James onto his shoulders. “Get your head down,” he crouches and they move through the doorway.

“Don’t rip my hair, mate….”

The door slams shut.

Luigi’s voice rings out fifteen minutes later: “Come and get it, wolves and chickens.”

“You smell sweet,” I say, kissing John Patrick’s soft shoulders. “You can have a feed while I have mine.”

I lift my top and John Patrick greedily attaches his mouth to my nipple and sucks away.

Shortly after the feeding frenzy I drive off in my yellow Mini and head towards the chapel hall. I feel relieved to see several cars parked and people cluttered around the doorway, happily chatting to each other. I slip past the people and head inside. The place looks very bare; there’s nothing on the walls except a poster of a sunset with the words, which I can easily read: “I am the Light of the World.” Something is written under that but I can’t make it out. In the front of the church there is a stage but no altar, just a small wooden cross on the wall with fancy looking words above: “He has Risen!” There are no stained glass windows or statues, that makes the place feel a bit chilly.

I sit down on a plastic chair under a swirling fan and the breeze fans my bare shoulders. I am just wearing a thin cotton frock with no sleeves, and a pair of sandals on my feet.

“Are you cold?” A lady wearing a floral cotton frock and a badge saying officer stands nearby.

“I’m all right, thanks!”

“We thought it would get very hot in here tonight with the crowds, so we put them all on, full bore.”

“It’s been such a very hot day!” I smile at the lady.

“My name is Edith Waldron. Are you a visitor?”

“I live here. I’m Niamh,” I say, putting my hand out to shake her outstretched right hand.

“No, I mean a visitor to church?”

“Oh no; I go to the Catholic Church at Hervey Bay. My friend is Father John Hurley.”

She smiles very broadly.

“I don’t know him personally; I have met Father Cahill from down there; lovely man; does Religious Instruction! So you’re just visiting us tonight? Are you with someone, Niamh?”

“I’m a friend of Barbaras.”

“You’re the Irish lass? Yes, I’ve heard about you. Let me see now, you work at the Smith’s farm. You live with the Wog... cane cutter. I heard you had a baby?”

She pauses for breath.

“Do you know the Lord?” She asks, surprising me.

“Lord who?” She must mean the Lord of this piece of land, like in Ireland.

“Jesus!”

“Not very well,” I say, avoiding her stare.

“We all need to get to know him better. Would you like a booklet?”

“Yes, thanks!”

She leaves and I breathe a sigh of relief as Barbara arrives from out the back of the stage. She drags Dale with her.

“Dale, this is my best friend, Niamh,” Barbara says.

“Hello.” He turns around looking a bit startled, but his hand reaches out immediately. We shake hands.

“G’day! Sorry I missed the party.” He’s fair-haired, with a tanned complexion and a rugged look with broad shoulders. He’s tall, probably well over six feet. He’s wearing a cowboy vest with jewels decorating it. He looks like a film star.

“We missed you. Barbara’s told me heaps about you. Niamh… I’ll catch you later?” He nods his head.

I smile.

“Wait until you hear him sing!” Barbara says, leaning over.

People start crowding in and asking questions about the music and sound.

I sit down where I was before and relax.

The stage is filling up with personnel carrying things like guitars and drums and others just walking about. They all wear cowboy outfits.

Suddenly ;tis quiet, then I hear ‘one, two, three’ echoing from the stage. The lights are low and they start playing hymns. The songs are displayed on a big overhead screen, like in the movies. People join in, singing and clapping. After several songs, the pastor comes onto the stage, with a flurry of clapping surrounding his entrance.

“Welcome folks. My name is Wesley Bridges; I’m the pastor of this church.

May God bless you. Let’s pray.”

There is a rattle of voices as everyone prays. I bow my head.

“Tonight we have a special guest speaker, William Westfield. He was born in Australia but grew up in the United States of America, and now he’s returned with a new life; the life of Jesus Christ!”

People clap and cheer at this. I cheer as well.

“Praise the Lord,” a woman who is sitting next to me says.“Praise the Lord!” I say in a subdued tone. I don’t want to be a freak. …

William Westfield is quoting the bible and raising the open book over his head and pointing into the crowd.

“Jesus said, ‘If you asked me for a drink I would have given you water.

Real water; water that would quench your thirst forever. You have had five husbands, and the one you now have is not your husband. Jesus knows every thought in your mind. He knows about your life. He knows your hardships.” He pauses and stares at the people.

“Come unto me all ye who are weary and heavy laden…”

I’m longing to go up there, to be free, to stop clinging on to the chair, to get lighter. I stand up and move forward. ‘Tis like a wonderful dream and I’m going to heaven. I can resist the urge no longer.

I look into a man’s face. It’s so full of compassion that I can’t help crying.

Tears are streaming down my face.

“Did you want to accept Jesus Lord and Saviour?” A woman standing nearby asks me.

“I do!” I say, tears welling in my eyes. She presses a clean handkerchief into my hands.

“Thank you.”

“Would you like to pray?”

“I don’t know many prayers. I know the Our Father, Hail Mary and Glory Be...”

“You can just say what’s on your mind. God loves that.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

She continues, praying in an extraordinary manner that I have never heard before.

“We know that you love Niamh very much, Jesus, because you died for Niamh’s sins and you brought her here tonight. You are the way the truth and the life.”

I find myself talking to God as if he’s right here. I am bursting with words.

It is the most thrilling moment of my life. ...

I return home to my sleeping boys and a tired Luigi who’s lying on the sofa watching television.

“Hi, Darl’,” Luigi greets me as I come inside.

“Hi, Luigi!”

“What have they done to you?”

“I’m clean!” I sit alongside him on the sofa.

“You had a good soak before you left. Did they get you to drink something?”

“A cup of tea!”

“They probably laced it with a drug.”

“I’tis spiritual,” I say, smiling from ear to ear.

“Do you still want to marry me?” I ask cheekily.

“I don’t follow you; Niamh.”

“So; do you love me?”

“I’d even give up the footy on a Saturday for you, so I must love you.”

He catches my face in his hands and pulls my lips to his. After a few minutes we both need to come up for air.

“I need you, Darl’, right now!”

His hands are moving across my neck and onto my buttons.

“Slow down, Mister Harvester, the cane’s not ready yet.”

“Come on, Darl’, you’re going cold on me. What’s up?”

“You have to marry me.”

“What’s got into you?”

“The Holy Spirit. We should try to build up our friendship before we hit the sack thing, sex.”

“I’ll marry you tonight if that’s the case! I love you a truck load. Let’s find a celebrant.”

“We have to organise a few things first. It’s not every day a girl gets married.” “’S’truth! I never heard you say this before! Now you probably want the whole caboodle, limos, church service, flowers, everything!”

“I just want a few friends and afternoon tea, something like that.” “’S’truth, Darl’, I’m randy as a bear after hibernation.”

“I’ll go and see Father John tomorrow. I’ll tell him you have an unquenched passion for me that can’t wait.”

“Slow down, Niamh. I can wait you know; not too long!”

We kiss again. After a few minutes, we separate.

“This is going to be hard, but God will help us.”

“Please, don’t preach, Niamh; I’m going to have a very cold shower.”

John Patrick cries loudly from his cot.

“Lucky John Patrick!”

“Mammy,” a little voice chimes. James is beside my leg, rubbing his eyes.

“Come on, nipper, let’s have a bedtime story. Luigi takes James back to bed. Everyone is at peace, there remains quiet. …

“Hello Niamh, come in,” Father John says, as we stand outside his screened door.

“Hello there James, me boy,” Paddy says. “You’re looking great, Niamh, sparkling like a shining star,” “Thanks, Paddy,” I say, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“I feel great.”

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“A nice cup of tea would be grand.”

Paddy scurries around the corner into the kitchen.

“Sit down, Niamh.”

Father John dabs a handkerchief on his forehead, where beads of sweat sparkle. "'Tis very hot these last few days.” "'Tis.The black trousers you’re wearing must be hot.”

Father John leans towards me and says, “I’ve been very tempted to cut my trouser legs off, like my delinquent brother here. Now then, what is the purpose of your gracious unexpected visit?”

“Luigi and I want to get married.”

“Married? You’re not in the family way again, are you?” "'Tis nothing like that.” I feel my face redden.

“I think you shouldn’t be in so much of a hurry. Remember the proverb, Hurry Murray, rushing mother dies!”

He halts, looks at me over his reading glasses.

“Why not wait until next year; it will give this man a chance to build his faith up?”

“It’s my conscience; we’ve been living together, Father!”

The cat is out of the bag at last. I feel relieved.

“Mother of God, you’re a wicked sinner!”

“I know, Father, that’s why I want to get married quickly; to put things right.”

“Even if that’s your plight; I can’t marry you for around twelve months.”

Paddy brings in a shaky cup and saucer and puts it on the small table nearby.

“Here’s your tea; just the thing for a hot day; sweat!”

helps you get up a good

“Thanks Paddy, It’s just what I need.”

“So, what’s this I hear? Are you trying to hinder this girl getting married?”

Paddy asks, standing up straight with his hands on his hips, in full command of the moment.

“Big ears!”

“All the better to hear you! Why can’t they get married sooner than a year?”

“I was talking to Father Cahill the other day, and he advised me that people are now booking up to twelve months ahead for weddings. Every Saturday is gone!”

“What about all the other days?” Paddy asks, sensibly.

“They’re reserved for funerals and the like. I’m a guest here, I don’t run things. I’m not a Bishop.”

“Father John, could I get married in a non-Catholic church?”

“You could get married in a park if you wanted to.”

“There you are, Niamh, why don’t you ask at another church?”

“That’s a good idea; thanks again, Paddy and John! If I do find someone to marry us shortly, would one of you give me away? You know you’re the closest relatives I have in Australia?”

“I’m your guardian, so I could possibly do that for you.”

“I’m your Australian connection, so I’d love to give you away,” Paddy says, glaring at his brother.

“Don’t have a fist fight over me, please! I will work something out and let you know as soon as I can. Now I must be off!”

I just arrive home when Barbara calls. Her arms are loaded up with shopping. She places the bags on the floor.

“How are you after the other night, Niamh?”

“Sit down, have a drink and I will reveal all,” I say mischievously.

“God knows about Luigi and me.”

“You mean that you’re living together?”

“How do you know?”

“Niamh, I’m not blind. I never judge or condemn. That's God's prerogative.” "'Tis all my fault. You see Luigi has asked me to marry him, many times. I swore I’d never marry again. Until now I’ve been too scared. Every time I get involved with a man he dies or disappears. I feel like I’ve been cursed.”

“If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.”

“I think that’s exactly what’s happened to me, Barbara!”

I sit down. “I’ve been set free to marry Luigi.”

“I am so happy for you.”

“I want to get married straight away, but Father John says the church is booked up for a whole year on Saturdays, so he can’t do it.”

“Does it need to be Saturday?”

“The most important thing is that I get married legally. Any day is fine with me. Beggars can’t be choosers. I know!”

“What about my Pastor, Wesley? He’s a marriage celebrant.”

“Can I see him now?”

“I’ve got his number written down in my book.”

She rummages in her red and gold handbag.

“Here it is.”

After a quick call, I arrange to meet him at seven.

“See, I told you he was okay.”

“There’s a snag!”

“What’s that?”

“He wants Luigi to come too! I didn’t want him to have to be too involved in this part.”

“Luigi is involved if you’re marrying each other!”

“I’ll ask him after dinner. He’s always in a good mood then. We should be talking about you and Dale’s wedding. You wanted to show me what you bought!”

She pulls a wrapped item from one of the plastic bag.

“Try this on. It’s the underskirt.”

I pull it over my legs to my waist and twirl around.

“It looks like a ballerina’s dress. 'Tis a good fit.”

“You’ll have to try it on with the purple dress tomorrow. It’s all coming together. I got the flowers organised, and all the ladies are bringing a plate, so

the whole church can join in after the ceremony. It’s so cool. God is so good to us.”

“He is,” I agree, feeling warm and fuzzy inside.

“And they’ve been painting the outside of the building all this week. They said it was already planned last year; coincidence or providence?”

She holds her hears and gazes upwards. …

Saturday 5 May 1973, at ten o’clock in the morning, Helen and I are waiting at the front of the Chapel. The bright sun is reflecting on the newly painted walls, causing them appear heavenly.

“She’s here!” Helen says, peering around the corner.

“Come on, it’s time to shine!” she calls as she hurries towards the halting glistening white Humber sedan.

Barbara’s splendid billowing concoction of lace and tulle springs out of the car door firstly. A satin court and a shapely ankle follow.Her sister, Maisie, comes with her small daughter in tow. Susie. decked in ankle length, shimmering purple dress, with circles of white flowers pinned on the hemline. Her dark hair is adorned with tiny white dots appear as flower-buds as she comes closer.

Dale is standing to attention inside the chapel with Barney. They are dressed in white shirts and black waistcoats with purple bow ties and dusty pink trousers flared.

Luigi is holding John and James and sits next to them on the back row.

The chapel is filled with parishioners and there’s a sense of excitement in the air. Black and white joined in one hubbub of picturesque, homogenous joy.

The music begins with the tune, ‘Here comes the Bride’, as we begin our processional down the short aisle.

“Keep moving,” I hear Helen say as Susie stops suddenly.

“Flowers all gone!” she says loudly, tipping her basket upside down, spontaneous laughter ensues.

We eventually arrive at the altar. Pastor Bridges is waiting, dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt and tie.

Following the touching ceremony we move to a marquee where tables are decorated in abundance of flowers in bridal array. A central table is laden with a smorgasbord of all types of wonderful salads and meats.

The party goes on until around two in the afternoon, when Barbara and Dale leave in their pale blue Morris 1100, with several pairs of old boots banging on the street as they move into second gear.

The words ‘just married’ have been painted in whitewash on the boot of the car, to announce their grand decision to all. The pair wave happily as they speed away for a couple of days honeymoon in Pialba, Hervey Bay. CHAPTER TWELVE DRESS SHELVE I visit the Smiths to take care of the boys on Tuesday afternoon. Olga isn’t feeling well, so sits in a chair with us, relaxing.

“I thought I’d better take it easy today, Niamh. I am exhausted with so many meetings of CWA lately. How is everything shaping up for the big day?” she asks politely as I hand her a cool fizzy drink.

“Luigi has had a chat with the pastor. Barbara and Helen have agreed to be my bridesmaids.”

“You know if you need help with anything, just ask.”

“I will.”

“I remember when I got married; I had so much trouble with my dress.

You’ve got such a great shape, Niamh, I don’t suppose you’ll have that problem?”

“I don’t even have a dress,” I say, before I have time to think about it.

“What?”

“I’m thinking of going to Hervey Bay to look for something there. It’s the last straw.”

“The wedding is in two week’s time?” “’Tis” “It’s not the cost, is it?”

“I have money. It’s just that I’m not sure what to wear.”

“The Bride Shop in Pialba has some lovely bride’s dresses in their window, it might be worth checking it out.”

“I want to wear something formal but not the big white dress. It’s my third wedding!”

She’s obviously very surprised now.

“I thought you had one husband who drowned.”

“I did. The other one fell off a horse and died, so I heard. I haven’t really spoken about that before.”

“Fair dinkum? I am very sorry.”

“Don’t worry. It’s water under the bridge now.”

“I’ve just thought of something. Wait here.”

Olga hurries away. A few minutes later she returns with a wrapped package in her arms.

“Move the blocks.” I quickly run my arm along the wooden table and send the blocks to the floor. The three boys respond by scrabbling for them.

“This has never been worn.”

It’s a pale silk lacy dress, with a high waistline and pearl buttons, with lacy, bell shaped sleeves. The dress skirt falls in uneven layers to ankle length. It’s lined with antique white satin. My heart races in awe at this beautiful frock.

“Olga, it’s gorgeous. Where did that come from?”

“I bought it in America before I was married.”

I’m wondering how Olga ever fitted into it.

“I was going to wear it to a special gala night in Brisbane, but I just could not get myself to fit into it after the holidays. It was two sizes too small when I bought it. I thought I would help me to lose weight! I tried it on and I had to force the zip which literally burst open just when Aaron walked in on me.

“Did you lose weight?”

“I went up two sizes instead of down! Aaron was very kind about that, saying there was more of me to love...”

“That was some consolation.”

“Just before the big event he took me shopping in Brisbane and bought me a beautiful royal blue evening gown, which I wore once.”

“That sounds like a fairytale ending.”

“It was. Well, something like that. Go on, try it on.”

“Well, all right...”

I take the dress into my old room and return with the zip undone at the back. I stare into the long mirror. It fits like a glove, as Mrs. Connor would say.

“It looks great. But I’m not good at sewing zips.”

“I’ll ask Jan Walker, Helen’s mum. She’s a professional seamstress. I’ll get her to shorten it a bit. The latest look is either the mini or the midi, so what would you prefer?”

“It would be different to wear a mini, freer, but not too mini mind you!”

“Just above the knee; you can wear some of those shiny stockings; they’re the latest fashion craze!”

“Why not?”

“Olga, please let me pay something for the dress, and the alterations.”

“No way; it can be part of my contribution to the wedding. To tell you the truth, I’m thrilled you can wear it on such a special occasion.” …

Helen borrows a shocking pink coloured tailored gown with an Empire waistline. Barbara is back from her honeymoon and asks me to approve a citrus lemon frock from what she calls her ‘formal days’.

Both frocks have Empire waistline and choker neckline, with slightly cutaway sleeves. I think the same pattern was used for both of these! Providence or coincidence?

Olga manages to get some cream toned lace, which we’ve stitched around the necklines of Barbara and Helen’s dresses, so they blend in with mine, and make them appear more bridal.

Saturday afternoon 26 May, at four o’clock is my big moment. The Pastor fitted us in after another wedding that finished around twelve.

The three frantic friends as I call us, Olga and a friend of hers, Rachel Kingdom, meet at my flat in Luigi’s house.

The hairdresser did a roaring trade today with the lot of us. I want to leave my hair down around my shoulders.

“This is our moment of truth,” Olga says as she helps Helen to pull up her zip.

“I had such a lot of Kentucky Fried Chicken last night I hope it still fits...”

“Zipped,” Olga says, as her strength is tested. …

Bridal vehicles are white; and yellow. Paddy, Father John and I will travel in the white car, Helen and Barbie travel in the yellow one.

Colin and Marty, Luigi’s firm friends, have polished up the cars and tied ribbons on the front of the cars, pink and yellow on the girls’ car, and cream on mine.

Paddy and John turn up ever so excited about this special day. We are all feeling excited but relaxed, a paradox.

“Come on in, Father John and Paddy,” I say, inviting the pair inside. Paddy looks great in his grey suit with a fresh white shirt and a bright green tie. Father John is wearing a black suit with a white shirt.

“Would you like a cup of tea then?” "'Tis part of my religion to always accept an offer from the lady of the house, and a cup of tea beats everything.”

“Sorry, Niamh; no tea please,” Barbara says, rushing over to me and taking the jug from my hand. “We’re supposed to be there in ten minutes.”

“Well, Father John and Paddy are having a cup of tea. We need to steady our nerves,” I say adamantly, picking up the jug and filling it with water.

“Sure we’re all right. We had a cup just before we left the Bay,” Father John says.

“Well, have one with me then, just for the road.”

We sit in silence for a moment, sipping and slurping tea, trying to calm our nerves.

“Colin and Marty are sitting out in the hot car, waiting.” Barbie says this as though she’s had an apparition.

“Its time,” she announces, taking her bouquet and giving me a few last minute instructions.

“Come on, Niamh, no turning back now.” Paddy beckons me. So, with Father John on my right and Paddy on my left, with my flowers and horseshoe in front, we head towards the glisteningly polished car.

Colin, our driver, who’s wearing his best white shirt, black bow-tie and black trousers, is leaning on its bonnet, smoking. As we approach, he quickly stubs out his cigarettes with his shoe. ...

The recently painted cream timber building with its tiny cross on its pointy pinnacle and long arched windows on each side of the front porch exudes a warm friendliness in the soft sunlit day. The area immediately surrounding it is dotted with brightly adorned people, waiting anxiously for the moment of the bride’s arrival.

Barbara and Helen look stunning and very girlish in their pink and lemon mini dresses with bright flowers in their hands, coordinated to perfection.

Olga and Rachel take care of James and John and are waiting outside the chapel. Olga is holding a golden cushion, which James will carry, bearing the ring. James looks almost comical in his tiny black suit, cream shaded shirt and black bowtie. I take the boys in my arms for a moment.

“Hold it,” the photographer, Peter Hewitt says sharply. “That’s a perfect picture. Now, say, ‘cheese’.”

“Cheese,” I say to James, who grins artificially at the camera. John leans his head on my shoulder.

“And who’s got the most important part in this, but the boy with the ring!”

Paddy says as I place James on the ground and Rachel takes John in her arms. James sticks his chest out proudly.

“I’ll take him,” Rachel says, holding her arms out; luring him with a biscuit.

Peter the photographer takes charge.

“Inside now, please,” he directs and then hurries ahead.

I take Father John and Paddy’s arm and the music begins to play ‘Here comes the bride.’ A flash makes me blink.

My heart races as I see Luigi looking spruced up in a cream pressed suit with a cream toned tie to match, and his trimmed mullet hairstyle, bronzed skin. Next to him stand his best friends, Barney and Nigel, who are wearing the same cream suits with yellow and pink ties to coordinate with the girls.

I become Missus Niamh de Vinci, wife of Luigi de Vinci.

The Church Ladies Committee present a great feast in the hall. People are coming through also holding dishes and plates, and some have brightly wrapped gifts. The table is heavy laden with gifts already! The room has been decorated with cream, yellow and pink balloons.

Luigi and I get up and do a bit of a waltz at the end of the speeches. Others join in. Rachel comes over with John in the middle of the shiny floor.

“Sorry, he wants Mammy,” she says.

“You go on, Darl’, I’m taking a break too.” Luigi says, ushering me off with John.

I head outside behind a bougainvillea bush where there’s an old wooden bench. I sit down and undo the buttons at the top of my dress. I begin to feed my hungry baby. As I begin to relax, voices come in our direction. After a moment I see Luigi talking to Marjorie Travers who is a friend of his sister, Jackie. Luigi said he hardly knew her, but she was a good friend of Jackie’s and was driving down with her from Cairns.

“So, you’re finally caught in the net?’ Marjorie’s voice is toned, steady.

“What’s it to you, Marjorie?” Luigi replies casually. “What about us?”

“It is over Marjorie, history. I’m a married man now!”

“You sound so smug! I didn’t even know you had a serious relationship, let alone that you were getting married. It’s lucky I rang Jackie the other day and I found out.”

“Why did you bother to come if you’re so cheesed off?”

“I wanted to tell you this Luigi. You’re a creep, and a yobbo!” She swirls around in her floral cotton frock and stilettos, sticking into the grass, her caramel highlighted hair bobbing hysterically.

The day ends as our family of four crowd into Luigi’s lime green painted Ford XR ute with old boots attached and a painted Just Married on its rear.

The short three day’s holiday is Father John and Paddy’s wedding gift to us. We have a grand time in a unit near Urangan, where sea and sand are only a few steps away. The Riviera of Queensland, people call this place.

Luigi organises a boat trip to Fraser Island, with a two-night stop over, making our holidays a bit longer.

On the first day on Fraser Island we appear to be one of only two families at the hotel in Eurong, opposite seventy-five mile beach. To wake up on Frazer Island is like waking up in Heaven. We have a self-contained unit, with our own kitchen and bathroom, and an extra room for the children.

Luigi decides to cook breakfast while I’m still in bed, basking in sleep. After a few moments of concern when the smell of burning floats past my nose and around the room, Luigi announces breakfast is ready. We all sit outside the unit on a verandah overlooking the sea, the breeze blowing slightly. Luigi happily opens a bottle of bubbly to serve with my tea and toast.

“I only burned four pieces,” he says grinning, pouring the sparkling liquid, making my nose twitch. The toast is soggy and cold, but it doesn’t matter, I’m so happy to be married to a wonderful Aussie working man. …

Around August, three months after we’ve been married, I get an unexpected visit from Father John in the middle of the week, mid-morning. James has been dropped off to pre-school for the morning, John Patrick is having his morning nap. Luigi left early this morning. I feel a surge of surprise to see Father John suddenly appearing, walking up the driveway.

“Come on in Father,” I say, wiping my brushes quickly with a bit of turpentine, to keep the bristles workable.

“What have we got here?”

“A few flowers I found growing among the cane. They looked so pretty I decided to paint them. They remind me of Ireland.”

“Is it for sale?”

“You don’t want to buy it now, do you?”

“I do.”

“That’s a nice compliment. You made my day, I’ll offer you a special price.”

Father. When it’s finished

“You’ll put it aside for me then?” He sounds so serious. “Surely I will.

What are you doing in this neck of the woods?” I ask, taking off my painter’s apron and heading to the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

“That’s grand, Niamh,” he replies, wiping his feet and coming inside.

“So, how is married-life treating you?” I click on the electric jug.

“It’s wonderful.”

“That’s great to hear. Where’s the lad, John Patrick?”

“He’s still has a nap at this time of day, even though he’s sixteen months old now. I don’t mind the break.” We sit down and I pour out a cup of tea for Father John. I pass the small jug of milk and bowl of sugar across the table.

“Are you going to tell me or keep me in suspense for a fortnight?”

“I’m going away to Spain; perhaps Ireland.”

“Is it a holiday?”

“It’s more of a humanitarian exercise.”

“What par of Spain might you be going to?”

“Jumilla; you have probably never heard of it?”

“I haven’t.”

“Nor had I until recently.”

“Why are you going, if I may be rude to ask?” He pauses and his eyes drift into a distant place.

“I hear that the wine is particularly good...”

“You’re going all the way to Spain for a drop of red?”

“Not at all; however, I hear it’s superb wine made from the legendary monastrell grapes.”

“Legendary grapes? Is that all this is about?”

“No, not at all; at all’ they have wonderful religious festivals. In fact there’s one coming up, an annual parade through the streets. I hope to participate in it!”

“So, what’s brought this on?”

“There was an accident, a young curate was involved.”

“What has that to do with you?”

“To tell you the truth, I was his mentor in Ireland for a time.”

“I see!”

“That’s kind of you, so what happened in the accident?“ “I can’t exactly work that out. He was simply doing his priestly duty, counselling a parishioner. I hope to find out more when I get there.”

“When will you be back? We will miss you…”

“Paddy is expecting me for Christmas, but I might spend that time with my friends in Dublin. I’ll decide my itinerary after I visit Spain, and I know how I’m fixed.”

“Do you want me to give you some monetary support?”

“Not at all; I’ve been saving since I arrived here. I appreciate your kind gesture, but I think I have enough for several months. You are like a real daughter to me.”

“Jason, a loyal parishioner will be waiting for me by now.” He rises and turns to leave.

“Sure you should have asked him to come in.” I chide quietly as I walk a few yards down the driveway with him. Jason hasn’t arrived yet. Father is not telling me everything I suspect.

“I’ll just wait at the gate. I need time for reflection.”

I turn and head back to the house, waving goodbye three times. ...

On the following Sunday I meet Paddy and have lunch with him after Mass.

Now that I have my own car, the de Boots don’t bother to pick me up.The boys are playing with Paddy’s train set in his room.

“You’ve really done a lot of work on the scenery. It looks real!”

“It’s just a hobby. It helps me pass the time away. And I’ve made some good friends at the Model Railway club.”

“Did he get off all right?” I ask as we reach the kitchen.

“Indeed he did. He rang me on our neighbour’s telephone when he got to Spain. He said it was a long flight to Rome, but the connection worked out well. He was impressed with Qantas.”

“You miss him, don’t you?” He stares into his cup as if he’s reading his future in tea leaves.

“After all these years of being alone, I thought I’d never get used to having him around, telling me off all the time, and now I....”

He halts and removes his glasses. His head is lowered, but I can tell there are tears in his eyes.

“I knew a priest called Martin. He went to Spain.”

I feel compelled to open up to Paddy, my trusted friend.

“He’s John Patrick’s father.”

“Come here. What are you telling me?”

“It’s a long story, but would you believe, Father Martin O’Reardon and I were nearly married!”

“The cur!” Paddy says fiercely, staring at me, his face grim. “If he wasn’t my own flesh and blood I’d have his guts for garters!”

“Are you also related to Martin O ’Reardon?”

“My own brother John is Martin’s father?”

“How come his surname is O’Reardon and not Hurley?”

“There was a grand young nun at the local convent, Sister Marian O’Reardon. Can you work out the rest of the picture?”

“I can!”

“It’s a very crazy, mixed up world all right.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN PASTOR FLIRTING At the beginning of 1974 prior to the big floods in Brisbane, Father John arrives back in Hervey Bay. We have a grand barbecue at our place in Maryborough, to celebrate his homecoming. “‘Tis grand that you are back; here’s one for the road; lemonade.”

“Just what the doctor ordered. I missed the warm Australian weather, especially in balmy Hervey Bay.” “It’s a bit hot right now but I don’t mind. ’Tis better than the cold, I always say,” Paddy says, humming to himself, “Roses are red my love...”

“What happened to Father Martin?”

“It’s a sad story; sad indeed!”

“Hallo Father,” the Van de Boots say as they march over and give him a big handshake. “It’s wonderful that you come back,” Thea Van de Boot says, her mouth wide with a smile. Her head is nodding continually as if she agrees with herself in everything.

“Prost!” Hank Van de Boot says, raising his glass. “Prost; and Slainte!” Father John replies.

It takes me a good hour to get Father John alone again. I decide to cut to the chase and ask him straight out: “What happened to Father Martin?”

“He is out of the coma now and in a wheelchair in a nursing home because of brain damage.”

“What about the fellow that hit him? Did they get him?”

“He’s been incarcerated but he’s appealed his case and now there will probably be another court case. I may have to return to Spain.”

“As a witness?”

“No; no; not at all: for the people! They’re lovely people, very like the Irish! If I wasn’t Irish I’d say they were even friendlier. The woman he was counselling has a little child now, Rosa! She is so docile, so beautiful!”

“May God love her!” I say, remembering my baby girl. A lump comes into my throat.

Luigi spots us and strides over, grinning from ear to ear.

“Welcome home to Australia, Fada?”

“Thank you! ‘Tis great to be home again. And what about you, and Niamh?”

“We couldn’t be happier, could we, Darl’” “We could not.” …

Four months later, around the time of our first anniversary, I feel sick one morning.

“Luigi, I think we’re going to have a baby,” I say, returning from the lavatory, wiping my face.”

“Have you been to the doctor?”

“No, but I just feel that I am pregnant. I’m sick. I’m going back to bed, I say, climbing under the sheets.

“Can you look after the kids, today. I feel awful.”

“Are you sure you’re not crook, some bug got you?”

“It’s morning sickness.”

“I’ll make you some toast. Will that help?”

“No, I don’t feel like anything,” I reply, closing my eyes, wishing I was somewhere else besides in my body.

Two weeks later I receive a pregnancy test from the local doctor. As soon as Luigi comes home I meet him at the door.

“Luigi, doctor’s office rang.”

“What’s the news of the day?”

“Positive!”

“Gee that’s great, Darl’. Say 'hello' to Daddy!” …

In October, nineteen seventy-four when I turn twenty-two Luigi is up north. I actually forget about my birthday until the telephone rings.

“Hello; Niamh speaking...”

“Happy birthday,” comes the voice on the other end.

“Barbara!”

“Hey, please do not shout, because it hurts. I just remembered what day it is, the thirty-first! What are you doing? Celebrating?”

“I forgot what day it was; are you ringing long distance?” There is silence for a moment followed by laughter.

“Nope! I’m here. I’ll come and see you later.”

“Hey that fantastic; when?”

A couple of hours later Barbara introduces me to her olive skinned baby daughter, Carly.

“She’s eight months old already. She’s been a blessing to our family....”

“She’s so beautiful. She looks like you, I think.”

“She was born on 10 February, almost exactly nine months after our honeymoon!” She blushes.

“You worked that out well.”

“And look at you!” she says, noticing my expanding tummy. “When’s he or she due, how have you been?” “’Tis due in January; Luigi and I are very happy...”

“So glad you are okay. Here, I brought you this,” she says, handing me a gift wrapped in bright paper, with a big bunch of red, green and white ribbons cascading on top.

“Did you wrap this?”

“Yes, I did!”

“You’re a genius!”

“Open it! I can’t wait!”

She seems more excited than me. Carefully, I remove the wrapping.

“It’s some of your art work? It looks like a turtle.”

“A tortoise; you can see his toes? My Aunty engraved it.”

“It’s lovely. Thank you, Barbara. I will treasure it and remember you and your family when I see it.”

“Where’s Dale?”

“He’s still at Bible College in Sydney, studying a Master of Divinity. He’s got brains! Did I tell you I went for a while, but I just couldn’t hack it!”

“But you’re so bright, what was wrong with it?”

“I was pregnant. I decided to go back to my sister at Murgon to have Carly, and I’ve been staying there ever since.”

“So when is Dale finishing?”

“He’s still got a year and a half to go. It seems like a long time, Niamh. I really miss him.” …

Two months later, on Sunday evening, 22 December 1974 just before Christmas Day, our baby decides to come along. Luigi manages to get me to Maryborough Base Hospital at top speed half an hour before baby arrives.

He was more frantic than me. The staff allows Luigi to be with me for the birth to help calm him down.

“Come on, Darl’, push.”

“She’s a real battler, this one,” I say, pulling the corner of the pink blanket off her pink face.

“Nicole Barbara,” Luigi says happily. We decided on names well before she arrived, so we stuck with our choice.

“For my little ladies,” Luigi says, his eyes like stars shining brightly.

“Roses! Thanks Luigi. They smell divine; Nicole loves them too. James and John finally have a new baby sister. …

May seventy-five, after spending a bit of time looking through my paintings, Luigi makes a decision.

“I should take a few of these with me when I go up north. I could sell them for you.”

“Good idea, but ask me first,” I say. I am rather attached to some of my paintings.

“I’m off to Cairns this week. If you put them aside I can work out how I’m going to carry them in the truck.”

“Do you think it might be a good idea to put a sign up near the road. People could come and have a look.”

“No! Please Luigi. What if I’m feeding Nicole, or worse still, in the middle of a painting? No, I’d hate that. I’d rather sell the ones I’m ready to part with.”

“It was just an idea. It’s just that if you continue at the rate you’re going, we’ll all have to move into your car and leave the paintings here!” ...

One hot January day in seventy-six, I receive a belated birthday card for Nicole’s first birthday and a letter from Barbara. I sit down to have a cool iced water and a read. By the time I finish reading the letter, I know there’s something seriously wrong. I decide to ring Barbara that evening.

“Got your card, and letter, Barbara, thanks!”

“I’ll have to come and see Nicole. Carly is nearly two. I can drive down next week, when I get Carly’s allowance.”

“That is great Barbara. I can’t wait!” …

Four days later, I’m in the middle of washing nappies when a car beeps in the driveway.

“Barbara!”

I scream, leaving the basket of wet clothes and running towards her little blue Morris 1100. We hug each other for a few minutes.

“It’s so good to see you dear girl friend!”

“You too! I’ll get Carly. She’s been so good, sleeping most of the way,” she says, undoing Carly’s safety strap from her baby chair.

“She’s grown so much. You are so beautiful,” I say sincerely.

“Come inside. I’ll put the kettle on!”

“I’d love a cool one, thanks, Niamh!”

“You can have as many cool ones as you want. Just got some fresh Bundaberg Ginger Beer, and lemonade.”

John and Nicole are playing together on the floor rug. Nicole stands up and runs towards me.

“She walked at nine months of age and hasn’t crawled since, except when I go to change her nappy!”

“Hello, little one. This is Carly.”

Carly reaches out and touches Nicky as though she is a doll. Nicky ducks behind my leg.

“Come on, Carly is our friend,” Nicole comes around and throws her arms around Carly, hugging her.

“I’ll get the children some biscuits and a drink. That’ll keep them happy while we catch up on things,” I say, taking a fresh packet of biscuits from the cupboard.

John, Carly and Nicky sit on the tiny chairs at the low table Luigi bought for the boys.

“‘Tis like old times,” I say happily.

“I don’t think so…”

“What’s wrong?”

Barbara looks at me with such hurt and sorrow in her eyes, I reach out and touch her hand.

“Has it got something to do with Dale?”

“He’s left me. I think!”

“What in the world happened?”

She takes a sip of her drink and a deep breath.

“He hasn’t seen us for over six months, not since last mid-term break.I didn’t want to tell you this, but he hasn’t rung me for two months!”

“Telephones are expensive. Tell me Barbara have you rung him?”

“I have, twice, and each time he’s cut me short. There’s something coming between us and for the life of me I can’t work it out. Not since he came back from America!”

“He’s been to America!”

“Last year.”

“What about money? How are you fixed?”

“I’m okay, Niamh. I live pretty cheaply at Murgon. Dale sends me a little bit of money every fortnight, which is handy, but other than that, he seems to have cut us out of his life. I’ve prayed and prayed. God still hasn’t answered my prayers.”

“Why don’t you just turn up at the Bible college and discuss everything?

I’ll come with you! Why don’t we drive down in my car with all the children and give him a surprise!” I suggest ecstatically.

“Have you got any idea how far away it is?”

I shake my head.

“It’d take days for us to get there!”

“Why don’t I give you some money to fly down?”

“I couldn’t take your hard earned dollars! Besides, it’s his move. He has got to want to see us. I wasn’t going to bring this up, but you may as well know.

Look!” She delves into her bag and pulls out a crumpled photograph.

“It’s a great snap, just a bit crushed. What are you getting at?” I ask, staring at the photo of Dale with two young women and another fellow, standing under a tree in dappled sunlight.

“He’s got his arm around two blondes.”

“Are you telling me that’s he’s got two girlfriends?”

“Fair dinkum, that’s what I think!”

“You know, I remember you saying that we shouldn’t judge each other too much, but now you’re judging Dale by a photo he sent you.”

“Wait on. He hasn’t visited us in over six months.”

“Even so, you’re conclusions might just be incorrect!”

“You sound like a lawyer. Maybe you’re right. He sent me the photo, so I suppose he wasn’t worried. But I thought he wanted me to know that he had his own friends now. His letters seem so short and cold.”

“You’re probably going crazy being on your own with a child! I think you just need to get out of the rut. So do I! Why don’t we let our hair down and go off to Hervey Bay for the day, seeing we cannot get to Sydney? We can run on the beach, watch the waves, the dolphins; visit Paddy’s for a cup of tea...” …

We enjoy the rest of the day at Hervey Bay, letting our hair down, wiggling our toes in the sand. The children have a ball. We call in to see Paddy; the two brothers aren’t at home.

“They’re probably at the Spanish club?” We toddle off to the nearest shop and buy ourselves ice creams.

…

Because Luigi is away I take the initiative to invite Barbara and Carly to stay with us for a while. After we come back from Hervey Bay, I pick James up from pre-school, we tidy up a mountain of paintings downstairs and the place is made ready for her before tea.

“There’s a bed and I can give you the fold up cot!”

“Sounds great. I really appreciate your kindness, girl friend.”

“Now I’m going to make a suggestion I’ve been thinking about all day. Give Dale a ring and tell him we’d love to pay for him to come and visit you. That way he’ll have no excuse, and you’ll find out the truth of the matter!”

“But you should talk about it to Luigi first!”

“He’s away for a few more days, so I’ll make the decision that I know he would make if he was here! There’s the ’phone, go ahead, ring your husband, now!”

“He’s still my husband isn’t he! Thanks heaps, Niamh. God help me to know what to do!”

Twenty minutes later she comes into the family room, emotional, smiling.

“Your plan worked. He’s coming!”

“That’s grand news! So what was the problem?”

“He’s broke! He said that since I left, his support has dropped. Actually he said, 'stopped'. He is surviving on welfare. He’s been trying to stop me finding out.”

“What about his trip to America?”

“I asked him about that. He said the college funded that. He hasn’t even told his lecturers that he’s got hardly any money. When I said you and Luigi insist on paying for his trip up here, he agreed to come instantly! He’s been longing to see me and Carly.”

“When’s he coming?”

“He’s going to try and get a train trip here on Monday. bursts into a flood of tears. “I’m sorry…”

Niamh…” She

“Have a good cry, Barbara! Luigi and I have buckets of money now. I’ll get a cheque from the bank tomorrow, get it cleared, and you can send it down to him.”

“You’re a bonzer Sheila, Niamh. May God bless you! I know what I can do.

I can put it straight into our student account. Why didn’t I check that account; didn’t even think of it! I might have found out there’s nothing in it!”

“How about I make you a nice cup of tea to calm down?” …

A few days later Luigi arrives home, and is completely in agreement to my suggestion.

“Barbara, Niamh and I want to give you something extra,” Luigi says, opening his wallet and handing Barbara a roll of notes.

“No way; you’ve done enough already. I can’t!”

“Barbara, if we can’t help each other, there’s no hope in life!”

“If you put it like that; okay, I’ll accept! Thank you both so much. I’ll pay you back one day, I promise.”

“No way; this is a gift; isn’t your religion based on God’s gift sort of caper?”

“You are right again, Luigi.” ...

Luigi surprises Dale and his family again by booking them into a hotel in Hervey Bay. Dale is overjoyed at seeing his wife and daughter, and after seeing them together I have no doubt that they truly do belong to each other.

I accompany Barbara to the train station to say goodbye to Dale.

“I’ll never forget this.” broken.

Dale grips my hand so firmly I think it’s nearly

I step back as Barbara and Dale kiss each other goodbye and then he hugs his little girl.

She locks her arms around her father’s neck.

“Daddy has to go now, Carly,” Barbara says.

“Come on, I’ll get you a lolly.”

Carly’s hands loosen and she leans over to her mother.

A few minutes later the train chuffs its way out of sight. Barbara straps Carly into the baby seat of the car, and then blows her nose. We get back in my car and drive down the road, stopping at the Corner Store for a bag of lollies.

“I think you should pay him a visit in the next holidays, just to you know: be a good wife, have a cuddle, that’s what Maeve used to say to me!” I put the brakes on and stop the car.

“I’ll pray about that.”

“Come on in and I’ll make you that cup of hot tea before the sun is scorching.”

James, John and Luigi holding Nicole, who’s crying her eyes out, meet the three of us at the door.

“Glad you are back, In the nick of time, Darl’,” Luigi says, handing over the precious Nicole to me.

“Thanks,” I say as I take the squealing child into my arms. “Look what Barbara bought you lot; lollies.”

“Yeah!” the boys echo.

“Good thinking, ladies, sweeten them up a bit.”

Luigi takes his smokes and paper, wanders to the quiet of the verandah. ...

Dale returns to Murgon when bonny Charles arrives in October, seventysix. The Freedman family is in Sydney for his graduation early in nineteen seventy-seven. They stay the Bible college residential area for a week.

Luigi has been heading up north again, and Summertime of ’77 is back with a fierce vengeance. Nicole has had her second birthday and is a very active little child with a mind of her own. John Patrick is nearly five now and at school. He loves playing with his little train set and the red fire engine that James is nearly eight and he’s in grade three at St. Helens, the local school. …

Summer passes quickly with the hot days turning into cooler nights. As harvest approaches Luigi brings up a different subject: “Darling, you know what I’ve been thinking?”

“No,” I reply smiling. “I’m not a clairvoyant.”

“You don’t have an engagement ring.”

“I have 3 golden rings, sure that’s enough.”

“It’s not good enough! I never gave you an engagement ring. I’d like to get you one soon!”

“All right, do it for my birthday.”

“That’s nearly November! I want to get you one as soon as we’ve got a break from this work here, a couple of weeks?”

“What reason can we have to buy such an expensive jewel for me?”

“Our fourth wedding anniversary?”

“It’s gone!”

“Shucks, I missed it!” He smiles sheepishly at me.

“You did not . You can’t remember giving me those opal earrings that I love?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot.” He brings his face close to mind.

“Six more weeks of this harvesting and then we shop. I might take you to a diamond mine. There are rumours they found deposits in the Argyle. Or we could visit Africa.”

“Or the moon; how can I argue with you?” I say, feeling like I lost this argument, which really means I won a ring. Luigi’s eyes close and within sixtyseconds he’s snoring happily. … ’Tis the school holidays, mid-term break now, July seventy-seven. I’ve got the two boys under my feet, so I’m thinking that a nice bit of shopping across the globe, even in Brisbane to look for a ring will suit me very well.’tis a nice sunny winter’s day here, so Luigi and the fellows have gotten an early start. I can see the flames in the distance rising into the blue sky, making it all black and shadowy; it’s ten o’clock and I notice that the wind has come up strongly.

“My nappies will be blown away or covered in black ash. James, you look after John and Nicole for Mammy. I’m going to move the nappies to the other side.”

“Okay!” His reply is half-hearted.

“Remember to stay in the house until the smoke dies down.”

“Okay, Mum,” James says, speaking for all three children playing on the living room floor.

I head into the laundry with the wet nappies and set up the dryer.

“Mum, the flames are getting close,” James says standing in the doorway with his binoculars.

“Wow, it looks great!”

“It’s very dangerous. Don’t you go near it,” I chide as I walk past him into the living room. John Patrick is lying on his tummy on the floor absorbed by a jigsaw puzzle.

“Where’s Nicole?” John shrugs his shoulders. I head into the bedrooms and look under the beds. Sometimes she goes for a nap in a quiet place like a cupboard or even in the laundry basket.

“Nicole!”

My heart-beat is rising as I search in nooks and crannies.

“Hey, Mum, Look at this!”

I snap the binoculars from James’ hands.

“I can’t find Nicole. You are supposed to keep an eye on her. Now help me look for her, please?”

“Look in all the cupboards for Nicole.” I shout.

John ignores me.

“I’m doing the jigsaw puzzle.”

“John! Your little sister is missing. We have to find her before she gets burnt in the flames.”

John stares at me with his mouth open.

“Now, go and look in the cupboards and call me loudly if you find her.”

He runs off to look in his room. I head out the back and look around.

Apollo is lying just under the steps in the shade. He looks up and wags his tail for a moment, panting with his tongue hanging out.

“Nicole, Nicole,” I call loudly. I walk around the house peering underneath where the gaps in the wood are.

James comes out to me, shaking his head. His face is white.

“I can’t find her, Mum.”

We’re getting awfully close to the flames. I see Luigi. He comes over. He’s carrying a wet sack and he’s black with soot.

“What’s up?”

“Nicole: I can’t find her.”

“My God!” he says staring into the burning cane.

“Stay here, it’s too dangerous, the wind changed course suddenly. I’ll look for her.”

“James, get back and stay with John. Come back here only if you find Nicole, okay?”

“Yes, Mum,” he says and runs back along the track, flakes of black ash following him. I move a bit nearer to the flames.

“Surely she wouldn’t go in there?” Then I hear a child’s cry between the roaring of the fire. “Nicole, ”I shout her name as loud as I can.

“Mammy’s here!”

Nigel, Barney and Bob are close by, all looking for Nicky. Luigi comes over from the direction of the child crying.

“Over there, I think I hear her,” I say, pointing to where the flames haven’t burned yet.

“Nicky, Daddy's here,” Luigi shouts as he races towards the noise of flames thundering closer.

Bob says. “Come on boys, let’s beat this monster before it gets there.”

Three men rush over towards where Luigi has gone, beating out the flames as they go. Even as I see Luigi getting closer and closer, something is wrong.

“Oh, God; no!” I cry aloud. I rush towards them realising before we meet that Luigi is on fire! …

I grab the sack with one hand and belt Luigi as I’m screaming, “Help! Luigi is on fire!”

Bob, Barney and Nigel all appear simultaneously and throw their sacks on Luigi, putting out the fire.

“I’ll get an ambulance,” Bob says, running as fast as he can towards the house. I’m kneeling next to Luigi. He’s shivering and his eyes are closed.

“Get him out of this hell,” I command Barney and Nigel. I run along the pathway in front of them, with Nicky in my arms. Her breathing is very shallow.

“It’s all right love, Mammy’s here,” I repeat over and over as I run towards the house, tears streaming, flying in the wind, turning into red glowing stars.

By the time we reach the house I can hear the siren of the ambulance coming up the driveway.

“Thank God,” I say, wrapping Nicky in a warm blanket. Her face is white.

James and John stand looking, their mouths flopping open, their eyes fearful.

“I’m taking Nicky to the hospital. You two come with us,” I say, heading out the door.

“I’ll look after the boys,” I hear Nigel say as I move along, my eyes filling with tears.

“Come on, get inside the ambulance,” a tall young man says as I hurry towards them carrying Nicky.

“Oxygen,” he says, placing a mask over her face. By the time we reach the hospital Nicky is sitting up. I look at Luigi. His eyes are closed. To see him like this makes my heart feel like a stone.Nicky comes home from hospital the following day. She had minor burns and smoke inhalation. She proudly displays her two bandaged fingers. ...

Nigel and Helen are looking after James, John and Nicky while I spend most of the day sitting next to Luigi. On the third day Luigi wakes up. My prayers are being answered, I’m thinking.

“Nicky? How’s Nicky?” These are his first words.

“She is safe.”

“How are you; Darl’?”

“I’m fine, and how about yourself?”

“Love you, Darl’, I will get you that ring,” he says weakly.

“I know you will, just rest now, everything will be okay!”

“Tell my daughter and the boys, I love them. We’ll get that ring, Darl’. A nice big diamond!”

“A really big one! I’ll tell the children you love them. They know you love them...” I say willing him to get better again.A nurse comes in briskly, pushing a trolley.

“He needs his meds.”

“I’ll go, Darling,” I say, leaning over and ever so gently brushing his forehead with a soft kiss. He tries to lift his hand again.

“She’ll be apples, Darl’.”

I hurry along in the cold night air. I have this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Please don’t let him die! I You put us together, so keep us together.” I mumble through my tears and runny nose.

I visit every moment I can for a few days. I notice he is asleep most of the time. I feel he will surely recover. That is not the view of the doctors.

“He’s been deteriorating; he’s on morphine... Think about saying goodbye,” Dr Murphy says to me with a solemn face.

“Goodbye?” I repeat his words. The doctor hurries off, his coat flapping in the breeze. Barbara turns up. I call out as she comes running towards me.

“I'm so sorry. How is he?”

“The medical staff say that he is ‘critical’. Barbara he’s getting worse!” I don’t know how long we stood n the cold hallway. It didn’t matter; there was no time any more.

“Can’t Jesus help him?”

“He can!” Barbara says softly.

“Can we see him?”

We creep into the room and the only sound is a machine working away like a mini factory, going hush, hush. There’s another machine going beep, beep.

They seem so loud. We stand by the bed. Luigi has his eyes shut. He’s motionless.

“He looks peaceful,” Barbara says, smiling at me.

“He does; peaceful; I should bring the children in...?”

“Niamh,” a voice whispers.

“Luigi,” you’re awake. I feel elated. My heart is thumping.

“Forgive me; Jesus…”

Barbara brings her face close to Luigi and whispers these words: “Jesus died for you. He’s got your seat ready in Heaven...”

Luigi’s face turns a paler shade of white, like an angel’s face, shining. His lips are smiling.

“Luigi!” I whisper close to his ear. He doesn’t response.

The following day while I’m standing by the bed, gazing at a sleeping Luigi, Dr Murphy comes in and stands next to me at the bedside.

“He’s having a sound sleep!”

“He’s in an induced coma. He’s been totally on life support equipment since last night. Would you like some time with your husband?” I feel as if a huge door is closing and I am on the wrong side of it.

“Please!”

He dashes past me, his stethoscope flapping. I bend over and kiss the top of his forehead, which is the only piece of skin not damaged by the fire. It was where his hat hung down. I move back from the bed. I’m sure I saw his eyelids flicker, but then again, maybe not. The doctors take him off the machines the following day, Saturday 16 July. He breathed his last breath immediately, they inform me. …

Barbara, Olga and Aaron organise the funeral arrangements, so I don’t have to worry about it.

Nicole keeps calling for her daddy, and I just don’t know what to say to her. Barbara is staying with me until Dale and the children arrive for the funeral. After the children are in bed I sit at the kitchen table, having a cup of tea with my close friend.

“It’s all my fault; Barbara.” My soul feels as if it is burning with guilt and I must tell someone.

“Don’t say that; Niamh. It was an accident. He wasn’t the first to die in a sugarcane fire, you know. I wish they’d find a different way to process it!

Remember this, Luigi died saving his child. He loved her so much he died to save her. He’s like Jesus,” she says, suddenly realising the comparison.

“Except that Jesus came back alive,” I say sarcastically.

“But Luigi will rise again one day. We know that!”

“I need him now, Barbara, not in some far distant place.”

They stay at the church manse for a few days after the funeral. Barbara comes up to see me in the morning.

“Niamh, I’ve made you a nice cup of tea and a bit of crumpet and honey,” she says, coaxing me to eat.

I come from the bedroom where I’ve been getting dressed with Nicole in my arms.

“Thanks Barbara. The kids have had breakfast already though,” I say.

“Nicole, you go and play in your room.”

“Come on, sit down and eat something,” Barbie says, patting a kitchen chair.

“All right; you are most persuasive. I’ve not been very hungry lately, but this smells great. I sit down. “Where’s Dale?”

“He’s taking the children for a walk. It’ll do him good to spend some time with his kids.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Niamh?”

“You can’t bring him back. That’s all I want really,” I say in my mournful voice.

“Niamh,” Barbara pauses and reaches for my cold hand. I pull it away.

“You have to bite the bullet and pick up the pieces now.” She pauses. I cannot even think of bullets, pieces.

“It’s easy for you to say that. I have lost three husbands! I’m jinxed, that’s what!”

“Jesus says, if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed!” Barbie says, trying to comfort me.

“Please Barbara, don’t preach at me. It’s the truth, I’m jinxed, cursed.”

For now, I am bemused, angry and empty. ...

It’s the year nineteen eighty, three years down the track. My art sales are slowing down, the money Luigi left is gone and I’ve sold his lime green Ford ute. One good thing: Nicole is enjoying her first year of school.

On the bright side I’ve joined up with a local art group and we go off to special scenic places to do natural painting once a fortnight. I am really enjoying their company, learning heaps. At night, I do feel lonely without Luigi, but I am usually so tired I don’t have much time to feel sorry for myself.

I have one big problem, presently. That is, I have so many paintings I can hardly move in this place. I have literally done hundreds of paintings over the years. Paddy has been taking a few down to Hervey Bay from time to time, which is a great help. I’ve also started selling paintings at a Flea Market on Saturdays.

I ring Barbara and talk to her about it.

“Why don’t you put a sign up outside the gateway?”

“You know what; Luigi said the same thing...” I exclaim, gasping. Is she telepathic?

“Do it, Niamh,” she urges. I feel as if she is speaking for Luigi.

On the next Saturday James, John, Nicky and I design a sign together, and nail it to the gum tree at the entrance to the driveway.

On Monday morning, after I drop the children at school I am sitting in my studio staring out over the fields, painting a scene with white fluffy clouds and small people sitting in a field below. I am trying to give the impression of a big world from my own perspective blending up a nice shade of cobalt, white, ultramarine and yellow ochre. I hear a car pulling up in the driveway.

“It worked! Thank you Lord,” I whisper.

I put my brush down and take off my painting apron. By then the man is knocking on the studio door downstairs. I trip down the stairs and open the door. He looks like a friendly man, with grey eyes, light brown hair going a

bit thin in top. He smiles; eyes crinkle at the edges; average build; friendly, very familiar.

“The top of the morning to you,” he says in a theatrical Irish accent. Not very convincing, I am thinking.

“Jerry O’Donnell, entrepreneur,” as he extends a manicured hand.

“Niamh de Vinci,” I say, smiling coolly, summing him up.

“De Vince? Sure, that is Italian! I thought you might be Irish!” he says, stepping back, looking me up and down.

“Dia’s Mhuire Dhuit.” I had almost forgotten this phrase that means, God and Mary to you; a greeting.

“Agas Pádraig. I’m right!” I say glibly. An Irish give-away expression.

“And you are Irish, too?”

“I am!” he replies, his accent getting thicker by the moment.

“How come you’ve got an Italian name?” he says, his eyes twinkling, his curiosity roused. By now I am laughing so much that I need to wipe my eyes with my clean paint wipe in my pocket.

“Wedlock!” I reply, smiling behind a green rag.

“Ah, ha; the dreaded wedlock; have ye a bit of tae in the pot for a weary vagabond?” he asks cheekily.

“Follow your mother to market.” I tilt my head and indicate that I was going to the house.

He watches me and then follows on my heels as I lead the way across the grassy patch to the main house; up the main stairs, through the verandah and into the kitchen. I’m wiping my hands with my oily rag as I go. I wash my hands in the kitchen sink, and switch the kettle on.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got an electric kettle.”

“And I know how to boil it.”

“Very clever woman; I can see that; may I take a seat?”

“Yes, but bring it back,” I reply. I like old jokes and he does too. He laughs.

“If I knew you were coming I would have made you a cake,” I say, pouring the hot golden drop.

“This is grand, just like back home, hot and strong.”

“Where is he?”

“Who?” “Your husband?”

“He’s gone.”

“Not to glory I hope?”

I nod. “He is.”

Suddenly there is a lump in my throat. This is not funny.

“Whist now, I’m sorry to hear that...”

“He died in a cane fire over three years ago.”

I can hardly believe that saying this is still so painful.

“Sure now you don’t have to explain anything. But I thank you for telling me.” “'Tis sad. I miss him a lot...”

He nods his head and drums on the kitchen table with his fingers.

“Why have you come here?” I ask the question I have been thinking since he stood on my doorstep. He looks away.

“Maybe I will come back another day,” he replies. I turn back to him and sit down. I feel anxious for some reason and wonder if something is gone wrong with my boys.

“Please tell me what is going on?”

“Going on. Nothing. But there is an issue.”

“A problem?” I say as my heart drops with dismay. “What has James done now?”

“James?”

“He is my son. He has been causing trouble since his father died. He suddenly throws a tantrum...”

“It is not that at all at all. You are the artist?” he asks, sniffing the air, noting the smell of turpentine, artist’s perfume.

“I am.”

“That’s where the problem lies.”

“My paintings?”

He nods his head and his eyes open wide.

“What’s the matter with them?” I ask, completely baffled.

He leans forward, and then sits up. “Is that one you’re working on now?”

He indicates the easel with the small picture of an old house surrounded by palm trees, drying on the verandah. I walk out to the easel; he follows.

“It’s for one of the women at church. She asked me to do three of these. It’s her home...”

“How much are you charging for these?”

“She gave me twenty dollars...”

“For this one?”

“No, that’s to cover my cost for the three. She will frame them herself...”

“Now I see clearly where one problem lies,” he says categorically.

“What problem?”

“They are: small masterpieces.”

“What?”

“Mrs de Vinci,” he says. He licks his lips and leans forward.

“I purchased one of your paintings down the road...”

“Hervey Bay,” I venture to add the name of the place.

“That is correct. The price of the small masterpiece was wrong in the first place.”

So, now he wants his money back? I begin to see his point of view and I am raging inside.

“The painting I bought. It was far too cheap. Take this.”

“Honestly I can’t make head or tail of you Jerry, but thank you.” I take the fifty dollar note. I could do with extra cash, but what is he thinking? I blush when I think how wrong I am about his intentions.

“You’re a very talented woman. I think that sort of talent is in the genetics.

Were your parents artistic?”

“Dad was.” I remember dad cutting dainty tin flowers. “I much about my mother.”

don’t

know

“The second problem is...,” “Second problem?” This man is disturbing me a little.

“You need to display your work on larger canvasses, because these are far too small.”

“It’s what people want. I am a practical person.”

“Would you be willing to take me on?”

“Take you on. What in God’s name do you mean?”

“As your new manager,” he says. Now I understand. He is out of work and needs money; I am a monetary source.

“I don’t have any manager, so I don’t know why I need a new one. I can’t pay you.” Ha, that will put an end to this fellow’s remarks.

“Not to worry! I’ll work on commission. Go on, please give me a fair go?”

“Commission?” I’m flabbergasted now.

“With one condition. You make bigger paintings.”

“Luigi bought me many large rolls of canvas I’ve been cutting them down to size. I could try.”

“That’s the girl; what I wanted to hear. About the terms of the contract: I will sell the paintings and give myself a commission; does ten percent suit?”

I have never heard of such an arrangement. He does all the sales work and I just paint on canvas and enjoy myself?

“What about: twenty percent?”

“Twenty percent is too much. Ten percent would be fine,” he argues. “I intend to get a great price for your work, at least double what you’re getting now.”

I can’t rip him off: have to give him more.

“How about: fifteen?”

“I might agree to twelve.”

“Twelve, it is.” I say. We spit on our palms and shake hands.

“You’re a smart business woman by all accounts.”

Maybe I am! I certainly feel very happy right now.

The following day, Jerry stretches out a roll of canvas and cuts a portion about one and a half metres by one and a half. For two days I just stare at the white canvas and shake my head. I’m overwhelmed by the sheer size of the white mass. A whole week goes by.

The painting takes six months to complete. Jerry frames it with a gold painted frame that he has constructed himself, and sells it to a local hotel within two days.

“They loved it,” he says happily, rubbing his hands together.

“How much did you sell it for?” I ask.

“Five…”

“Five hundred, dollars!” I exclaim. I would never ask that much, I am thinking.

“That was the price.”

“That’s a great price.”

“That was for the frame. The picture cost a lot more than that.”

“You can’t rob people!”

“No! I will never do that. It was worth every cent.”

“How much?”

“Five thousand dollars. They are not going to rob you.”

I almost faint. I honestly can’t believe what he just said. I slump into the chair.

“I don’t want to be a get rich quick artist.”

“I’m telling you it was worth every bit of that. I’ve already set up your next canvas in the studio when you want to get going.”

The following morning I find a huge stretched canvas sitting on a specially constructed easel.

“This is twice as big; too big Jerry; I can’t do it.”

He looks at me, with a gleam in his eye. “I believe in you and I know you can. Now, believe in yourself.” …

The next painting is sold to a local retired cane farmer the following day.

Jerry comes in that afternoon and holds out the cheque.

“Here is twenty-thousand smackers!” Now I shake my head.

“Jerry, it’s too dear.”

“Never say that, Niamh. He’s lucky I sold it to him at that price. I nearly asked for twenty-five thousand Dollars!”

I laugh.

“What’s next Jerry, a canvas that won’t fit into the house? I’ll have to work in the field.”

“Don’t tempt me. …

Two weeks later Jerry has erected another large canvas. Within six months I complete a painting of the Mary River, with houses sprinkled on the shore’s edges, a few fishing boats and several pelicans. The emphasis is on the vast expanse of the river with its sparkling surface, and the light blue of the sky with wispy clouds, reflected in the water. The whole picture gives the feeling of tranquility underscored with expectancy. Jerry sells it before it is finished to a local hotel, for thirty-thousand dollars. …

Jerry’s renting a small shop with living quarters above, near the banks of the Mary River. He comes over one morning after the children have gone to school.

“G’day,” he says, pulling up in his new duck-egg blue Chevrolet van.

“You must be doing well. Is that new?” I ask as I peg the clothes on the line. I am thinking of Luigi again. "'Tis, indeed! Come here and take a look.” I come over and Jerry rolls up the door at the back of the van. There are green velvet-lined trays set in rows like in the back of a bakers van, but posh.

“You’re not selling cakes now are you?” I ask, surprised at the ingenuity of the outfitting.

“No! You don’t put cakes on velvet! They’re so that I can transport your paintings without damaging them. ‘Tis my own invention.” He looks very tall and proud.

“You’re a genius, no doubt about it!”

“I’m a jack-of-all-trades. ‘Jerry-of-all-trades’, not a genius.”

“That deserves a cup of tea!” I say, feeling confident that Luigi would be happy about this transition and even proud of my achievements.

“You are great company; a ball; I’m keen to be on my way. I’m heading off to Brisbane to try our luck there. I just wanted to steal a few more paintings while I’m up this way.” He whispers softly, like it’s a secret.

“Sure, except for that one there,” I point to one with a small child sitting in the foreground of the cane field.

“That’s the one that will sell,” he says, sighing.

I feel hurt.

“Are you saying the others won’t?”

“No: not at all; they’ll probably all sell; you have to give me your best work. I can use it as an example, so that If someone wants one, I can say that you’ll paint one exactly like that for them.”

I think about that for a minute.

“That means I can keep my original?”

“That’s how it works.”

“All right,” I say, nodding my head.

“I’ll take it then,” he says, lifting the large painting and holding it above his head, carrying it safely to the van.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 1991 IRISH FUN Our relationship continues in this vane for the next extraordinary ten years. Jerry is happy with the money he’s making. He bought himself a little house with a workroom closer to Maryborough. He makes all sorts of little gadgets to enhance the paintings. For me, it’s a time of recovery, as I move on with my life. I might add, it’s a time of artistic contentment. I keep painting, knowing this is what Luigi would want, and Jerry sells!

…

One day, in the middle of a sunny but windy, winter’s day, Jerry turns up at the house. His expression says there is something wrong. I have just returned after dropping Nicole at her high school. She’s sixteen now and this will be her last year, year twelve, so she’s quickly growing into a young woman. John is nineteen now, and is working this year with Jerry. He’s doing a computer course part time and helping Jerry with the picture framing at the shop. James is mad about horses, so works on a stud farm in Tinana, a small township five kilometres from here. He spends his spare time horse riding; has even enters gymkhanas; won a few cups no less.

“You’re early,” I say, strolling over to his resprayed dark blue metallic Chevrolet van; he grinds to a halt.

“I’ve just got back from the school, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Niamh.” He fiddles with his hands. “How about that cup of tea you’re always promising me?”

“So, what’s going on?” I ask as we sit down at the kitchen table, and I pour the tea. Jerry leans his elbows on the table and puts his hands near his chin.

“Sales are dropping, Niamh. I think I’m losing my touch...”

“Don’t blame yourself. Maybe I am losing my touch. I have been feeling a bit uninspired lately.”

“I have an idea to stir the old flame…”

“What?”

“You know how you’ve talked about Ireland and how you’d like to go back one day?”

“One day... not right now! I do not know anybody there.”

“Yes, I know that. But what would you think if I told you that you could have an exhibition in Dublin?”

“You mean an art exhibition?”

“That’s what I mean!” he replies, a little sarcastically.

“No, Jerry, if they find out I was born a tinker, and an ex-criminal they’d be mad, and throw me out.”

“Niamh that was a long time ago! Times have changed. The world has moved on; what matters is the fact that you are a gifted artist. How many years has it been since you were there?”

“What is it? John is nineteen. 'Tis twenty years or so... ,” “I think ‘tis time for you to return to Ireland.”

“I don’t know what people want over there.”

“I still have a few of the first paintings you did. They are on my walls. They have a real Irish touch to them, sort of Irish Australian. They’d sell well over there.”

“But they’re old hat now... I thought I had improved?”

“Your style has changed, your talent grows. The earlier ones are still incredible... We will bring some of your more modern works, those large paintings of outdoor scenes, just for contrast. I have to tell you that I have already sent photos of some to a friend I went to school with: he is a director in the Dublin Art Gallery. He’s very impressed!” Jerry sounds like an orator with this speech ready to fill my ears.

“When are you intending to have this exhibition?” I feel as if Jerry is ahead of me and I have to catch up to his impressive ideas and great talks.

“Just after Christmas would be appropriate.”

“It’s so cold there then!”

“We could make it March, or April? ‘Tis up to you, and the gallery of course,” he says, leaning back and staring as thought I started all this. “We can only ask.”

“What about the cost of all this?” I ask.

“Niamh: did you check your bank statement lately?”

“I’m dyslexic.”

“You’re a millionaire! He says this soberly but with a puzzled look in his face.

I guess I should take more notice of my bank account.

“You’ve earned the money, and I’ve got the commission.”

“I find it hard to believe.”

“Have a look next time! I’ve been thinking about investing in shares, or gold, something like that,” he says.

“What for; what’s wrong with a bank book?”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do with money, invest it!”

“But what about all the starving children around the world?”

“Look, Niamh, you can send money to those things, in fact I would love you to take an interest in writing out a cheque or two, but right now I need your say so about a trip to Ireland. It’s a golden opportunity,” he adds, nodding his head. “We have to take opportunities when we can.”

“Nicole leaves school at the end of the year; a turning point in their life. I don’t want to be too far away.”

“It’ll only be for a short time.”

“How long?”

“Six; at the most,” he says, thinking hard.

“Months?”

“No; weeks; I can’t have you lazing around for longer.”

“Weeks; that’s all right then! Can it be April,” I say. “That’s a good time of year. By the way, I never laze around.” He sticks his hand out and I take it, shake it.

“April it is then, provided the gallery agrees! Well, I must be off.” He leaves me dreaming of a new venture.

…

April 1992 comes around as quickly as a blink. I’m finishing one painting of a sunrise over the cane fields. Jerry wants us to bring it to Ireland.

“So, have you packed yet?” Olga asks me as she spots me on a trip from the shops.

“I haven’t even finished all the paintings I’m taking, let alone packed my bags. There is so much to do.”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do love, I’m here. In fact, how would you like me to pack your things for you?” I feel a burden lifting. Olga is a genius at packing the right things for outings. I jump at the chance.

“That would be fantastic! Thank you!”

“I’ll pop over tomorrow morning after breakfast; would around eight-thirty be okay?”

“Okay.” …

Suddenly, a few weeks later, we're ready to head to Brisbane Airport. Jerry has decided to bring the Chevrolet van to Brisbane Airport and leave it in secured parking until we return. I think that is wise.

“Niamh, this is it!” Jerry says, taking the last of the suitcases and placing them in the van with the rest of the luggage. Most of the paintings were sent on ahead.

“Thanks Jerry. Did you get the last painting?”

“It’s packed and ready to go. I’m still a bit worried about the paint being dry enough.”

“I’ve brought a small touch-up kit in case you might be doing a few touch ups when we get there,” he says.

“Did you pack travel sickness pills?” I ask.

“We can get some at the airport . We have to get going.”

“I’m ready,” I say, vaguely hoping to God I am ready to return to Ireland. …

Barbara, Carly, Charles and her youngest child, Abigail, come to see us off.

They moved to the manse near the chapel when Dale was appointed Pastor some months ago.

“Niamh, I always knew you were a genius,” Barbara says, giving me a huge hug as we get into the van.

“I’ll keep an eye on your lot. Make sure they behave.”

“I don’t need her to look after us, ” Nicole whispers in my ear.

“Thanks, Barbara,” I call out as I climb in the passenger side of the car.

“Remember to send us a card!” she yells out.

Everyone looks so happy, I wonder why!

Four hours on, we arrive at Brisbane Airport and check in at the long counter. Our bags are whisked away and all I’m left with is my handbag and my ‘beauty case’.

We board the Qantas jumbo jet, a feeling that can only be described as ‘fear mingled with excitement’, fills my chest. Once we’re in the air, all fear disappears, and I enjoy the spectacular view from on high.

The service on board is nothing short of excellent. The issue of customs looms at the end of our 24 hour journey. Fortunately there are no issues. We enter the foyer area of Dublin Airport. It feels busy and yet friendly straight away.

“Tis raining,” I say, smiling, remembering all the rainy days I had in my other life. “Nothing changes,” I add happily.

“Would you look.” Jerry says, indicating a large placard with “DeVinci and O'Donnell” on it. We are famous already. We introduce ourselves to the man in a uniform.

“Robert Watters at your service. We have a taxi waiting for you Sir, Madam.”

I am relieved as I did not fancy getting my hair wet if there are photographers around or reporters as Jerry said there may be.

Half an hour’s ride in the taxi later we are ushered into a hotel in O’Connell Street, Dublin.

“I like the way they snatch our bags even before we ask,” I say to Jerry as young men in blue uniforms take our baggage and escort us to our rooms.

“Here you are. Two rooms, with room service on request,” the young man says, opening the door and placing our bags inside. He’s standing, smiling at us.

“I think we can manage now,” I say. The young man’s chin drops to his chest.

“What’s going on?” I whisper to Jerry as he comes into the room.

“Give the lad a tip,” he whispers back.

“I don’t have any Irish money.” I never thought of it.

“Here,” Jerry says, handing a pound note to give the lad. He takes it and closes the door. I might have known Jerry would even think of tip money.

“Tomorrow we have a special opening at the Gallery, so I want you to be nice and fresh,” Jerry says after a sumptuous meal of corned beef and cabbage, Irish style, that night in the hotel.

I sleep like a log and wake up very early in the morning. I’m sitting at the window, gazing into the streets below. It’s a hazy, cold day, with a little drizzle, but to me it looks like paradise. Everything moves as in a dream. Crowds of people are already surging along the wide footpaths, with umbrellas of

every conceivable pattern and shade. Lights peep through shop windows, and reflect spectacular patterns on the otherwise dark olive green River LiffeyI perceive a knock on the door, and rush to open it, tying my dressing-gown belt, wondering who could be here at this hour?

“Jerry” I say, slipping into the corridor. He is all dressed up in a suit, with his hair slicked back and clean-shaven. What hour did he get up I wonder, to look this good.

“I want to tell you about the day’s programme. there’s a little morning coffee place on this floor?”

Can I get you a coffee;

“I’m not dressed.”

“You look grand. Come on, I saw a couple in their slippers in there,” he says, ushering me along the corridor. The smell of roasting coffee and the moist Dublin air mingles in my head, making me want to cry.

“Here you are,” Jerry says, placing a tray on the table. “Coffee,” he says, placing a pot of coffee and a jug of cream on the table. “And bacon and eggs,” he says, as a waiter in black and white places a plate of food in front of my nose. Who eats this stuff first thing? I remember now, how we always had a hearty breakfast at the tinker’s camps if we were flush.

“Thanks!” I whisper. I am not sure how much I can eat of this hearty meal, but I will try my best.

“This has to last all day. Now, eat up, like a good girl.”

“I just want to thank the Lord,” I say, closing my eyes, almost drifting off to sleep.

“Thanks Lord for all your blessings,” I whisper.

“Thank Him for me too, won’t you?” Jerry says.

“What’s wrong with your lips?”

“Now,” Jerry says between gulps of hot coffee, munched eggs, bacon and black pudding, “the thing is, the show gets off the ground at ten. The press will be there.”

“I feel so dowdy,” I complain.

“Niamh, I’ve found a hairdresser downstairs. I booked you in for the Rolls Royce treatment in half an hour; 8:00 AM sharp.”

“Well, you are the organiser,” I say, slightly startled that Jerry would think of such feminine procedures. “You’re certainly on the ball. Thanks Jerry!

What shall I wear?” I ask, talking to self.

“Your green suit and apricot camisole under it,” Jerry says before I can even think of what I’ve got hanging up in the cupboard. …

By six o’clock that evening, I’m only too happy to kick off my high heels and flop on the covers of the bed.

“God Almighty, what a day,” I moan, yawning. “I’ll sleep well tonight, I surely will.”

“You did very well!” Jerry says, sitting on the bed, and taking out a little notepad and a pen from his pocket. “We made lousy sales though,” he adds.

“Things should pick up once the newspapers print your story.”

“If they print it; I think that photographer was more interested in the angles of my face than my art.”

“I noticed! That is a bit of a concern.”

“How do you mean, Jerry?” I ask this coyly, a joke.

“Your beauty is a distraction from the sales. It’s a bit of a worry.”

“Oh Jerry, that’s absurd!” I say, closing my eyes.

“It’s a fact, Niamh. But we need to sell a few otherwise we might not have the fare back to Australia.”

I sit up straight at that. “You’re joking,” I exclaim.

“Of course I am,” he says seriously.

What a bad joke, I think. “I’m a flop. That’s what!”

After dinner, we go for a walk along O’Connell Bridge, looking into the shimmering reflections in the water. “’Tis cold,” I say, as a shiver runs up and down my spine.

“Got a coin Missus?” A small face peers up at me behind dark eyes, unkempt hair and bedraggled clothes.

“Jerry can you give this child something — money?”

“Here,” Jerry says, passing a handful of coins to me.

“Is that all you can give the lad?” I ask briskly.

“How much do you want?”

“Have you got a pound?” I ask.

“No; only a fiver!”

“That will do!” I say, almost snatching the note from his hand and passing it to the boy. He stares at it and for a minute I see the fading light reflect tears in his eyes. I remember my childhood days when I was a beggar.

“Thanks very much Sir, Missus” he whispers as he runs into the darkness of the back streets.

“You can’t give these people all your money!” Jerry rebukes me by his tone. “They give it to others for drink!”. …

The next day I awake to a knock on the door.

“What are you doing Jerry? It’s only five, and it's freezing cold!” I say, stepping into the corridor, door ajar.

“Come over to my room,” he says, marching away. I follow like a little puppy, completely bemused and angry.

“I’ll make you a cup of something. Tea?” “Thanks!” I sit in the little armchair next to a table, where the daily paper is lying. This had better be good. I am so tired. “What’s going on?”

“This,” Jerry says, his face beaming. He turns the front page of the newspaper upside.

“My God!” I exclaim. There I am as big and bold as you like, sitting on the front page, against the backdrop of two paintings in full colour.

“You’d think I was a celebrity!” I say, almost feeling faint with the shock.

“Read it to me Jerry, I’m too nervous.”

He lifts the paper and folds it to quarter its size, A4.

“Niamh de Vinci, previously from Scriob, Galway, is a renowned artist in Australia and throughout the world. Through an unfortunate accident, her husband, Luigi was killed while trying to save their daughter, Nicole, in a cane fire in Queensland. Following this tragedy Niamh’s artwork found new impetus and inspiration.”

“How did they find that out?” I ask. I think I know.

“Did you tell them all this? Jerry...”

“It’s the truth. You are always on about truth! ’Tis a good line...” Jerry says, looking very guilty.

“It’s just a publicity stunt, Jerry! I loved Luigi, he was a great father, and I miss him so much. I don’t want my life plastered all over the paper.”

Jerry puts his arm around me. I brush it off.

“Go away,” I say roughly.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I’m just trying to do my job, that’s all,” he speaks sharply.

“I’m a salesman, remember?”

I sit down. “I know. You are doing your best. I’m sorry,” I say, as I slump into the chair.

“Look, Niamh, you left this whole thing up to me. I’m very sorry if this upsets you, but it got the front page, and that’s great news! I thought you’d be overjoyed.”

“I know Jerry; but I only wish you’d asked me.”

“And you would have said, ‘No’, wouldn’t you?”

“I would! Sorry, Jerry.”

“Friends; again?”

“All right.” I stand up and let Jerry put his arm around my shoulders. He leans over and kisses my forehead.

“That’s my girl!” he says, squeezing my shoulder gently. “I think we’re going to meet some very important clients today. Wear your cream linen suit today, ‘tis nice and fresh.” …

Emer, Jerry’s sister, joins us for an evening meal at the Gresham hotel. After Emer's taxi takes her home, Jerry and I sit in a quiet corner, sipping our coffee.

“We did very well today. Ten paintings were earmarked for sale,” Jerry advises.

“I shipped out eighty-two ...,” Jerry advises. “And we brought four more on the flight.”

“I hope we don’t sell them all,” I exclaim. Now that they are being bought, I feel a type of separation anxiety.

Jerry looks surprised.

“Why not? That’s the reason we’re here.”

“Well, I was looking at them today. I really don’t want to sell the one of Finn McCool, or that one of Luigi in the cane fire!”

“Niamh, you can do another one whenever you want.”

“I have tried that, Jerry. You know, but they’re never the same again…” …

By the end of the week, nearly fifty of the paintings are sold or have deposits on them. Jerry and I are sitting in the lounge room of the hotel and Jerry is working out his sums with his calculator. He looks so happy!

“Niamh, we’ve made a million pounds, that’s nearly two million dollars with the present rate of exchange!”

“What do we want with all that money?”

“I tell you what, why don’t we spend a bit in Ireland. We’ll take the next week off and head for the hills?”

“Can we go West?”

“Wherever you want, my dear, wherever you want; we can even take a trip to Europe while we’re here.”

“I’d like to visit Cork, and Galway,” I say before he gets too carried away. …

The next day we head for Cork in a hired Red Mercedes-Benz 500 SL. Emer joins us for the trip.

“Cork?”

Jerry drives at a hair raising pace along the N7, stopping in a lively little cafe, Cafe Odeon, in Abbeyleix, County Laois where we take morning tea, with Irish Brack and a pot of tea. The wind whistles past as we sit in the small outdoor seating. It was so relaxing that we all forget to rush for thirty minutes.

Emer takes a snap of us devouring Brack!

Too soon, Jerry gets us going again.

“We haven’t got a lot of time, so ladies, let us away to Cork.”

“Well, here’s the hub of Cork,” Jerry says, pulling up at St. Patrick’s Quayside.

“This is as grand as Dublin now,” Jerry comments. We head into a Quayside Shop/Cafe for a light lunch.

“Sandwiches.” I suggest. The other two nod their heads in agreement.Soon we are enjoying Irish ham and Cheese, with ruby red tomato relish, and a nice pot of tea. Violet, comes bearing a tray. We wait as she places the food and drinks on the table, sighing all the time.

“Do you know any Flynns around these parts?” I ask after she unburdens herself, just out of wonder.

“I do. There’s a few, be-dad!” she says, cheering up, happy to have someone talk to her. “One not far away and there’s another crowd up the road, past the Garda sign,” she waves her pencil in the direction. “Oh, and there’s the tourist place along the road on the way to Galway, near Lisdoonvarna. They are Flynns’ that own it. ‘Tis called something like, Maeve Flynn’s Shamrock Fall da dahls'.”

I nearly fall off the chair when I hear her words.

“You can't miss it. It’s got a large green sheep on the roof. Who ever heard of a green sheep? Stupid!”

“Can we go there?” I beg Jerry as soon as she moves away.

“To see a ‘green sheep’? It’s too late now. We’ll have to find lodgings first,” he says, looking at his watch.

“I’ve always wanted to see Blarney Castle,” Emer says quietly.

“No worries! If we head North-West we can be there shortly,” Jerry says immediately.

“He sounds so Australian now,” Emer comments sadly as we leave the café and head for Blarney Castle.

For the next hour, we roam around up and down Blarney Castle, viewing the local green fields rolling into the distance. We even kiss the wall at the top, straining our necks.

“I’ve never been so ashamed in my life,” Emer says as she pushes her skirt down.

“You should have worn jeans like I did.”

“Never! I’m a lady, remember!”

“Wouldn’t you know, it’s raining cats and dogs,” I lament as we rush to the car.

“It’s only a spit,” Jerry says. “Where to now, most famous woman?”

“Scriob” Jerry checks the map.

“That will take over three hours. We need to get back to Dublin as well.

How about Lisdoonvarna, that’s only two hours from here?”

The three of us are already feeling a little tired, so unanimously accept Jerry’s suggestion. He makes good time by speeding just a little. By 5:00 we are in the vicinity.

“There it is, Maeve Flynn’s Shamrock Fall da dahls, that’s what it’s called,” I say excitedly, noticing a fluffy green sheep on a pole tied to a large shiny green shamrock. Jerry pulls up with a jerk.

“It’s a bit out of the way down here. God Almighty, I never saw a shamrock that big!” Emer muses gazing upwards.

“I think it’s plastic Emer,” I say, “Come on, these places have lovely things,” head for the shop door.

Emer

says, joining me as I

"'Tis closed,” I say, pushing on the door.

“She’s gone for lunch,” Emer says drearily, reading a small sign.

“There’s a gate?”

Jerry leaps from the car, obviously concerned.

“I will come with you, just in case there’s a mad dog.” Jerry follows behind me. I peer over the gate.

“Jerry, there’s a woman in the back gar den, and a small child.”

“Hello there!” Jerry calls out. The woman looks up and stares at us.

“At least there’s no dog.”

She’s standing still, flowers in one hand and a small fork in the other. I hurry towards her. She moves towards me. The little child sits in the grass and stares. She must be around two, I reckon, like Kathleen was when I last saw her.

“Maeve,” I call out, my voice is just a whisper. I see her face and she doesn’t know who I am. “‘Tis Niamh, your step-sister,” I call out, feeling quite stunned. She suddenly strides towards us wielding the fork, and giving me a fright.

“Niamh, ‘tis yourself? I thought I saw a ghost,” she says.

“I’m back,” I say lamely.

“After all these years? Give me a look at you?”

She holds me by the shoulders. “You’ve grown.” I seem to be staring down at her from a great height. She must have shrunk! I keep that to myself.

“I’ve come all the way from Australia. I’m having an art exhibition and sale.”

“I don’t believe it. Sure you were never any good at sewing or knitting.”

“But I like art, oil painting!”

“Did you see the notice in the newspapers?” Jerry asks.

“I see. So, you’re in the papers now?”

“I am!”

“You don’t want to know us now, I suppose?”

“I do, Maeve. How is Paddy, Moiré, Dad, Aunty Maura, with us?”

whoever is still

She hangs her head and says sadly, “Your dad died two weeks ago.”

“Oh Maeve, I’m sorry! Is Aunty Maura all right?”

“No, she died ages ago.”

She looks me in the eye through her bifocals.

“Yes, we heard you ran off with a priest no less.”

I take the opportunity to ask a poignant question. “You met Father Martin, did you?”

“We did.”

“He said he couldn’t find you because you had all left this part of Ireland.”

“We had to say that, to save our good name.”

“Do you know what happened to my little girl, Caitlin?”

“I heard she went back to be with her rightful parents, the Connors. Tom died about five years after that, probably from all the upset he had to endure with Garda and the like. The place got sold up. Jacinta took the child and went to God knows where. We haven’t seen hide not hair of them since.”

“I am grateful for telling me about Caitlin, Maeve, if ever you come to Australia; please come and see me.”

“Australia! Sure that’s no man’s land, and so expensive to go there.”

“I’d send you the fare. We’ve got tucks of money now,” I say quickly hoping to see a spark of interest.

“Niamh’s got that right. We can afford to have her family over, all of you!”

Jerry says this very emphatically.

“Sure we’ve got our own money.”

“Here’s our business card: it has our address on it. If you change your mind, please visit us,” Jerry says lightly, wanting to please me. She pops it into her apron pocket. I notice the small child crawling towards us.

“Whose child is it?” I ask. She picks the baby up.

“This is Rhona, Moira’s little one.”

“Rhona! G’day,” I say.

“She doesn't understand Australian. Named after Rory, so that, we don’t forget him.”

She stares at me. “He married Nora. You missed out on a good fellow there...”

“Do they live around here?”

“No, he found enough money to buy their fares to America. Sure they’re probably millionaires by now.”

Jerry coughs. “My sister is waiting for us in the car. We have a long ride to Dublin for an art show.”

“It was grand seeing you again Maeve,” I say.

“Well, if you visit these parts again, and you’re not in a hurry, come and see me,” Maeve says.

“We will. I will say goodbye, Maeve; goodbye, Rhona.”

I give Maeve and the child a spontaneous hug.

“Slán, leat!” she says, heading towards the back door of the shop, holding Rhona, who turns and waves.

“I thought we were finished with the art exhibition?” I whisper to Jerry as we close the gate.

“I rang the gallery last night and they would love one extra day’s exhibition, so I said Friday would suit.”

“That’s tomorrow!” I exclaim as we get into the car.

“That’s right,” Jerry replies. “‘Tis great isn’t it? Let’s hit the road to Dublin.” ...

A week later we return to Australia and I am plummeted into a deep depression. Jerry says ’tis jet lag. I find the only relief to my heaviness of heart is my art. I paint all day and all night too, if Jerry or Nicole don’t insist that I go to bed. …

One month later Jerry comes to see me. He’s holding an opened letter in his hand.

“She’s coming!” he yells as he comes into the family room.

“Who’s coming; Jerry?” Nicole asks, looking up from her cozy perch on a beanbag, watching E-Street, her favourite TV show.

“An old friend from Ireland…”

“When?” I ask, thinking that this is quick.

“September 3,” he replies.

“Where’s she going to stay?” I am wondering if I should let her stay here to protect her reputation.

“She can stay at my place. Don’t worry, Niamh, I’ve got a spare room.” …

Jerry drives down to meet her and stays the night in Brisbane, in a motel.

The next day they arrive in Maryborough. I have never seen Jerry so nervous, or so happy. Deirdre is probably the same age as Jerry, forty years or more, but we don’t ask a lady her age. She’s very professional looking, with curly brown hair, delicate white skin and a strong Dublin accent. She’s solid in stature and almost as tall as Jerry.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” I say, giving her a warm hug. "'Tis grand to be here,” she replies, looking at Jerry with eyes full of Irish mist. A month later, the day before Deirdre returns to Ireland, she and Jerry announce their engagement and impromptu celebration. During the evening, I have a few moments alone with Jerry.

“What do you think now?” he asks. His smile says it all. “She’s perfect for you Jerry,” I assure him.

“I know. It’s a miracle. I never saw it before. Thank God I’m not too late,” he exclaims.

“Too late?”

“Nobody’s realised what a prize she is. She could have been snatched away from me just like that.” He clicks his fingers to explain what he means. “I’ve found the secret to the luck of the Irish, for sure!”

“So, when’s the wedding day?” I dare to ask.

“We haven’t decided.”

“If all her family is over there it might be easier that way,” I suggest.

“Have the wedding in Ireland? I could sell a few paintings while I’m there.”

“Jerry, try to forget the salesman hat for once in your life!” "'Tis in my blood, Niamh,” he replies, grinning happily.

“You have to spend time with that lovely bride.”

“I’ve known her for years.”

“Being married is a bit different to just courting?”

“I hope not!” Jerry’s face looks alarmed.

“You’re ripe for love and marriage!”

“Niamh, you’re my best friend. I wanted you and the kids to be at the wedding. You are my family here...”

“Jerry, the most important thing is Deirdre, her family and Emer. Maybe we could have a second wedding celebration when you come back?”

“What a brilliant idea, Niamh!”

“You are coming back here afterwards?”

“Deirdre loves Australia. She’s happy to work with me in the business. We could do with a helping hand.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“I was just too busy to worry about it...”

“Can we afford an employee?” I ask.

“We can.”

“Your word is good enough for me Jerry. So, what does Deirdre do in Ireland?”

“She’s a shop assistant in a very grand store in Dublin, Cleary’s! She loves sales. If she wants to do that, ‘tis fine with me,” the lucky man says happily.

“I never thought I’d hear him say that word, wife!”

“Oh God, I’m getting a wife!”

“Jerry, you’re getting the prize.”

“You’re right. The prize: a wife!” …

Jerry leaves for Ireland a month later and they have a wonderful Christmas wedding in Ballymun, Dublin.

Jerry and his blushing bride return with all sorts of gifts from Ireland a month after the wedding.

“Would you believe there were orders for two more of your paintings at the gallery,” Jerry states wildly.

“I don’t think they would have told us if I hadn’t asked,” he says with a serious frown.

“What paintings?”

“I brought the bits of paper with me. Here, there they are.”

“There are six sheets here,” I comment.

“Three for each order; we’ve got two orders. That’s how it works. You take one, send one back and give the last one when the painting is paid for,” he explains.

“What’s the name?” I ask, “The writing’s terrible!”

“The cane fire is for Richard Ramsbottom.” Jerry looks up. “I know him.

He visited the gallery and I talked to him while you were out.”

“And, the other one is for a couple called Niall and Bernadette Dempsey,” Jerry says, squinting as he tries to decipher the writing.

“There’s a small note stuck to the back with sticky tape,” Jerry adds.

“Here,” he says; he reads the note, thus: “‘Niall will be arriving in Australia next July. He will pick up the painting then, if convenient. It's signed Bernadette. They must really love your work to come all this way to pick it up!” Jerry stares at me. “Not that I blame them. Would you have it ready by then?”

“I feel a bit funny. I need to sit down.”

Jerry drage a chair over.

“Thanks.” I sit.

“It’s the same name as someone I used to know,” I say.

“Sure there are probably thousands of Irish names that are the same,” Jerry says jokingly.

“You can go Jerry. It’s probably the heat. I might have a cup of tea,” I say.

“The builders are making a mess of things at the house. I want to sort them out. I don’t want Deirdre getting anxious...”

“Do you want me to answer this?” he asks, picking up the note.

“Of course. Tell them that timeframe is fine. I will do it.” ...

Just before the end of June, a caller comes to the door. It’s a breezy cool day, but the sun is shining, which makes it feel warm, especially with the windows closed. I open the door and the wind howls through. It’s a man I haven’t met before. He’s a thin, short man of around forty or fifty. He’s got a long face and is wearing a cap. He’s dressed in a crumpled dark grey suit.

“G’day,” I say, wondering who this might be.

“The top of the morning to yourself; is this the home of Jerry O’Donnell?”

He removes his cap and holds it to his chest. His wispy hair blows across his bony skull. He has a strong Irish accent, I notice.

“He lives down the road,” I explain. “I can direct you.”

“I have to collect a painting. This is the address,” he says as he holds up a piece of paper to verify himself.

“Are you Niall Dempsey?” I ask, almost relieved to think I was so mistaken. If ever a man looked different to my Niall, it’s this man.

“No. My name is Joe Smith.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name? What painting did you order?” I ask politely, hoping that there’s no mix up.

“A horse!” he answers abruptly.

“I’m sorry! I only have one painting on order, but it’s for a Mister Niall and Bernadette Dempsey!” I say slowly.

“That’s it!” he says, his grey eyes sparkling, his mouth almost drooling with delight.

“He’s in the car,” he informs me, waving his arms.

“Who?” I ask.

“I’ll get him!”

“Bring him in and have a cup of tea!”

“I will!” He hurries back to the car, his coat tails flapping in the breeze. I fly up the steps two at a time and put the kettle on, taking deep breaths as I go. I assumed that my Niall died! Surely it is not my first love? I take a packet of biscuits from the cupboard, fix the cushions on the lounge chair and pick up a bunch of papers from the floor. I wish I kept this place a bit tidier!

I can hear noises on the stairway as they make their way up...

“One more,” I hear Joe’s voice say as a clattering noise proceeds the visitors. What are they doing? I wonder. I hang over the rail on the top of the stairs. I can see the top of a head with dark hair and a pair of hefty shoulders.

The man is banging a stick on the steps, as though he’s killing a cockroach.

“The top of the morning to you,” a voice says at the living room entrance. I turn around and look into the man’s face.

I’m seeing a ghost. His face is blank. Joe introduces us.

“This is Niall Dempsey.”

“I’m Niamh de Vinci,” I say, walking over to meet him. It is him! I know it.

His hand is shaking as our fingers touch. “Niall...” I whisper croakily.

“Niamh,” he replies.

“Please come in and sit down,” I say.

“Will we leave the stick here?” Joe asks, placing the stick against the top rail. I am running on auto-pilot.

“The stick?” I notice it now; it’s white.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise that you are blind?” I say. Niall wasn’t blind; what is going on?

“I am,” Niall states; smiling; a blind man is smiling at me and my heart is racing.

“I’ll show him where the chair is,” Joe interrupts.

“Of course; sit down, over here.” My hand is immediately free. I rush towards the table as though I’m an actor in a stage drama. This is the last act, the finale, and I’m messing the lines up.

“I’m sure you make a lovely cup Madam!” Joe says, staring at the pot.

“Will I pour?” I ask. I almost drop the shaking teapot.

“I think it’s too heavy,” I say, breathlessly.

“I’ll be Mother?” Joe suggests, taking the pot in his hand and tipping it into the three cups. It gives me a chance to look at Niall’s face, but I daren’t stare. He’s much older than my Niall. Of course he is, stupid me; it’s been over twenty years! Or was he a twin? Not with the same name.

“Did you have a good trip?” I ask, mechanically.

“We did, indeed,” Joe replies, taking the packet of biscuits and piling half a dozen on the small plate next to his cup. He stirs his tea frantically, making clinking noises with the spoon. Has Niall come to see me, I wonder.

“Whereabouts will you stay?” I ask breathlessly. My voice is weird, tinny.

Niall speaks in a rich tone, “A place called, Tinana.”

“That is a nice place, friendly.”

“We called in there, and made a booking,” Niall explains, gingerly holding his cup of tea in his hand, not drinking it yet.

“Are you staying long?” I ask.

“A while!” The orator, Joe, replies. Why does he do this?

“Just touring?” I ask.

“I’m going to have eye surgery in a Brisbane hospital. What’s the name of it Joe?” Niall asks.

Oh my God, he’s having surgery! He could die!

“The Princess Alexandra,” Joe informs us.

“I hope everything goes well for you,” I say, politely. Niall sips his tea at last. I know it is him; I know the hands are the same! My palms are sweaty.

“It will!” Joe says, finishing the last biscuit on his plate.

“I have a good surgeon. The best in the world I believe,” Niall says, placing his cup on the saucer with a slight clink.

“Who’s that?” I venture to ask.

“Doctor Readwell,” he says.

“It’s an appropriate name,” I comment, laughing lightly. They smile. The tension is relieved a little.

“I never thought of that before,” Joe says. “We have to be going now,” Joe suddenly gets up. “We need to pick up the painting,” he adds.

“I haven’t packed it....” I say, and make a suggestion.

“Can Jerry come around to the hotel with it this evening?” I ask, suddenly feeling flustered, wading in high water.

“He can,” Joe replies, turning on the spot and marching over to where Niall’s cane is leaning.

“Niamh, I thank you very much for the tea; it was lovely,” Niall says, rising. Joe places the cane in his hand.

“Come on, 'tis this way...”

Niall turns to me for a moment.

“Can I meet you again?” he asks.

“I am free this evening. Would you want me to come with Jerry to the hotel?”

“That would be a pleasure,” Niall replies. His voice is like music. I can hardly breathe. ...

I ring Barbara immediately. I have to tell someone!

“Barbara, can you come over. I need to talk to you.”

Twenty minutes later Barbie is coming through the door.

“Come in. You won’t believe what happened today,” I say.

“I still don’t believe it myself.”

I already have the coffee made. There's a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. I know Barbara likes sugar in her coffee. A small plate of Niece biscuits sit in the centre of the table.

I pour the deep dark liquid and enjoy its pleasant aroma.

“Niall sat at this table today!” My voice blurts this out.

“It was definitely him,” I say.

“Niamh, you’ve either been on the booze or off in the spirit? Did he know it was you?”

“I’m almost certain he did! But the fact that he couldn’t see me makes me wonder if he did recognise me,” I reply. She looks up at me inquisitively.

“So, how come he didn’t see you?”

“He’s blind. He’s come for an operation at Princess Alexandra, and they’re staying in Tinana,” I say.

“Jesus could make him see properly. We can pray!”

“Jerry had the docket with the name Bernadette and Niall Dempsey.” Suddenly it hits like a ton of bricks. “He must be married to Bernadette!”

“Okay, if he’s married to her, why didn’t she come here with him?”

“I thought you said she did,” Barbara says, sitting down again. “Give me the facts girl! We live in a crazy mixed up world now.”

“Barbara, he invited me to visit them at the hotel.”

“Don’t go alone!” Barbie advises, standing up and holding the back of the chair. “Niamh, I have to go. I just popped in while I was passing by. I’m helping at the op shop,” she says, brushing her crinkled skirt. “I’ll pray for you. I

honestly would love to see you happy again, but this sounds suspicious. I don't have time for coffee, but I'll take a few biscuits, thanks.” She picks up her red handbag and waves goodbye giving me a strange look. …

“Come in,” Joe says, opening wide the door of their hotel cabin at Tinana.

“We’re just watching the box,” he says, rushing over to the television set and turning the sound down.

“This is Jerry O’Donnell,” I say introducing Jerry to Niall and Joe. The men extend hands in friendship.

“Please to meet you Sir,” Joe states proudly.

“How do you do?” Niall says; shakes Jerry’s hand.

“We brought the painting with us. You should see if you like it before you take it away,” Jerry suggests. He uses his business voice now.

Joe asks Niall, “Do you want me to have a look?”

Niall nods his head, “Thank you,” he says.

I wonder how he will do this if he is blind?

“You can describe it to me.”

Before I give a detailed description of my work, I take this moment to ask about the mysterious Bernadette.

“What about Bernadette? Won’t she want to see it too?”

I ask. “Do you want to send something to your wife?” I ask the question slowly with an aching heart.

“I can send her a photo.” Jerry says quickly.

Thank you Jerry for solving the problem, I muse!

“He hasn’t got a wife. She’s his sister.” Joe laughs, as though we should have known that too.

“Sister?” Jerry and I say the word together, try not to laugh at our stupidity.

“Joe,” Niall interrupts his manager abruptly, “can you get Niamh some orange juice from the Hotel,” he asks. “And what’s your pleasure, Jerry?”

“A beer,” Jerry replies.

“Get Jerry a beer,” Niall says, taking a wallet from his trouser pocket and giving it to Joe. Joe looks back at the fridge.

“Are you sure you don’t want some of this stuff here?”

“It’s much more expensive from there,” Jerry says.

“Would you like something too?” he asks Niall.

“A light Lager for me, thanks.” He coughs; then asks, “Jerry, can you go with Joe to help carry them?”

Jerry agrees, gives me a wink as he leaves. The cabin door closes.

“You know who I am?”

My heart leaps with each syllable that Niall utters.

“I do. You are the wife of my youth. Why did you run away from me, Niamh?”

“They took me away... honest to God!” “I believe you Niamh,” he replies quietly. He takes off his dark glasses and wipes them with a clean handkerchief from the top pocket of his dark jacket.

There are tears in his eyes.

“They said you were killed! That you fell off a horse...”

“I was almost killed. I was riding to ask about you when my horse reared unexpectedly...”

“You did come looking for me at Scriob?”

“I did. I can see it as if it was yesterday. We galloped through the field, and then jumped the wall. It was then the horse reared up. I was thrown off and I

hit some rocks. I was unconscious for some time. Apparently Finn McCool bolted back home without me, and Tom Connor came looking for me. They found me the next day. They took me to Dublin.”

“I was wondering if there was a trip wire and that is why the horse reared up. It was unusual for Finn McCool.”

“Was that when you became blind?”

“They said I had concussion and the eye haemorrhaged; the retina became detached.”

“That sounds horrible!”

“It was! Especially when they said I wouldn’t see again.”

“Why are you having an operation now, after such a long time. It's been many years?”

“I did actually regain some sight, ten percent...”

“Can you see me?” "'Tis like looking at someone through an opaque window,” he states, looking at me. “It’s because of that they recommend the operation.”

“So, you’ll be able to see again?”

“There’s no guarantee. It’s been a long time as you said; they’ve given me a fifty-fifty chance. It’s worth it.”

“When I began to regain my sight about a month after the accident, I felt hopeful, so Joe took me to find you.”

“You came looking for me a second time?”

“I did. They told me you were married to another and didn’t want to see me again. They said your life would not be worth living if I turned up again.”

“Who said that?”

“Two women dresses like fortune tellers.”

“You must have felt like washing your hands of the lot of us! I am so sorry about that?”

“I didn't want to cause any more trouble to you, so I returned to Dublin and stayed in the old home with Joe, my sister and her child.”

“Bernadette is an only sister?” I ask, wondering what else I never knew about this man I married.

“That is right.”

“And what’s her child’s name?”

“Her name is Fiona. My mother and father died about ten years before I met you. Joe became our guardian, and he had control of the property.”

“So, how did you get to be at the Connor’s farm?”

“Joe knew Mister Connor, and my dad for years, because of the horses. He offered me a job when I finished school and Joe insisted that I take it.”

“What about your sister?”

“She was a black sheep, wild, I suppose. She ran away to England at seventeen, five years after Dad passed away. We lost contact until a few months after you and I were married. She suddenly appeared at the house, with a small child, homeless, penniless.”

“The poor child,” I say. I can empathise with her.

“Joe and I took her in and we’ve been together until recently. She’s met a nice man and they’ve gotten married now; six months ago. Fiona is living with them at Dunlaoghaire.”

“You could have taken me to your house in Dublin. Why didn’t you?”

“You’re right, and you’re wrong! You see I could not access the property until I turned thirty: my parent’s last wish. They wanted to know I was of responsible age.”

“Thirty!” I can hardly believe this. I had to be responsible at sixteen.

“I know. They were going to say thirty-five, but Joe persuaded them to change it. When I met you I was twenty-five. I thought we could work with the Connors until I turned thirty, and then I’d give you a lovely surprise, a beautiful home and a horse stud. When I left you and promised I'd bring you to Dublin, I was going to tee it up with Joe because he didn't even know I'd married you at all.”

“My own flesh and bone came and changed all that... It all seems so long ago now,” I lament.

“Joe did read something about you in the papers, so I know you lost your husband tragically. You visited Ireland with your manager, and I felt had to come and find out if it was you after all. We also read about your manager’s wedding in Dublin, so I was compelled to come and meet you…”

“Since Luigi died in a cane fire, I’ve been on me own...”

The door bursts open. Jerry follows Joe. Joe hands me an orange juice with a straw.

“Thanks.” I say this with emphasis. I sip the cool juice.

“Very warm outside,” Joe says, mopping his brow.

“It’s winter here,” “When is your operation?”

“On Friday! We’ll be heading there on Monday,” Niall replies.

“What about the painting?” Jerry asks.

“Did you want to take it with you?”

“Yes,” Joe replies immediately.

“No!” Niall speaks. Niall’s word is more powerful.

Joe looks at Niall in surprise.

“Can we leave it with you until the operation is finalised?” Niall asks.

“That’s a grand idea,” Joe says.

“You’ve paid me, so ‘tis yours now,” Jerry reminds him.

“Right. Niamh, we have to head back now,” Jerry reminds me. “She’s got her family waiting. Maybe we could all go out to dinner before you leave,” he says, noting my reluctance to leave.

“Come for lunch, tomorrow, ’tis Saturday and you can meet the kids.”

“Maybe Cindy and Katie can come with us. We’d like you to meet them,” Niall proposes.

“Cindy, and Katie?” I wonder who these two new faces might be. He brings them out like Jack in the boxes!

“They’re coming to visit us tomorrow morning,” Joe says in an exasperated tone.

“Of course; everyone is more than welcome. We can have a barbecue!” I say, looking at Jerry.

“More work,” Jerry comments.

“Around twelve?” I suggest.

“That would be delightful,” Niall responds heartily. “Would you like us to bring something?”

“We’ve got tones of food.”

Joe nods his head in approval.

“I don’t eat red meat,” he says. “Mad cow disease...”

“You've no worries here mate, but I’ll cook you pork sausages instead,” Jerry suggests. …

Saturday at noon Joe and Niall arrive in their hired car.

“Come on in,” I say, “and meet the family.” I usher them through into the barbecue and entertainment area that Luigi built with his mates.

“Nicky, John, James, come and meet our guests,” I call to the three young adults.

“Where’s Cindy and Katie?” I ask, looking around.

“They couldn’t come,” Joe says bluntly. “I never saw so much food in me life.” He stares at the table arrayed with all sorts of food we normally eat.

Nicole rushes in, carrying two glasses.

“This is Nicole,” I introduce her to Joe and Niall. Joe is staring at the table laden with food.

“Hello,” Niall says, smiling at her.

“He’s staring at me, Mum?” she whispers to me.

“He’s blind...”

“Blind,” she says loudly enough for Niall to hear. He moves his head back with a big smile.

“I can see enough to know that you’re a very bright, happy young woman,” he replies.

She grins; rushes off to join Carly and Abigail, Barbie’s two girls, who are playing with some boys at the pool table. At this point John arrives holding a large bottle of coke.

“Where’s James?”

“He’s showing Charles his motor bike...”

“Come and sit down, Niall,” I say as I lead him towards a wooden chair. He sits down.

“Let me get you a drink...” I hand him a cool beer. “Tell me about this operation, will you?” I ask, dragging over a chair and sitting down next to him. …

On Friday afternoon, I arrive at the hospital. After a short enquiry I’m directed to the sixth floor, ward B3. A smiling nurse greets me at a desk.

“Is it all right if I go in?”

The telephone rings. She picks it up as she continues talking.

“There’s someone with him. Go on...” She waves me through.

I notice a woman seated by his bed, leaning towards him as though she’s sharing a secret. I stop and wait. Niall looks towards the entrance where I’m standing.

“Come on in, Niamh,” he calls out. I walk towards the bed.

“Niamh, this is Jacinta; I mean Cindy,” he says.

“Cindy Casey!” She reiterates the name.

“G’day Cindy,” I reply. “How do you two know each other?” I ask. Immediately the penny drops!

I think I know who she is.

“There’s a Gymkhana training and I like to give my girl every opportunity.

But I did know Niall back in Ireland. We were very good friends, especially after Tom died.”

Her mouth is a tight orange line, which is beyond the shape of her lips, giving her lips the appearance of having a ridge around the outside. Cindy wriggles restlessly on her chair, tossing her short blonde hair.

“Take this chair. I’ll just go and grab a fag,” she says, leaping up, vacating the chair.

“You’re not allowed to smoke in here, ” Niall reminds her.

“I know that,” she says agitatedly. She rushes out the door.

“You knew that it was me at the door...”

“I did. I felt your presence you might say!”

“Where’s Joe?” I ask, trying to think of something to say, feeling strange about my presence.

“He’s gone for a walk. He doesn’t like being cooped up.” We sit in silence.

“I enjoyed the barbecue,” he says, finally.

“It was a good day.”

“You must be proud of your achievements.”

A cough at the door distracts us.

“I’m back. Can I get you something Niall?” Cindy asks, stepping in between us, smelling like an ash tray.

A nurse comes in with a tray and moves the curtain around Niall’s bed.

“I’ll go,” I offer.

“We can see when we’re not wanted!” Cindy remarks, leaving with me.

“I used to be a nurse...,” she informs me as we wait for the lift to arrive.

“Were you?”

“I was.” She scowls. “It didn’t suit me, so I gave up after a year. You know, I keep thinking I’ve seen you before.”

“You might be right,” “You remind me of someone ... I just can’t put my finger on it.”

“I live near Maryborough. Maybe you’ve seen me when you visit Tinana?”

“I need another fag,” she says as the lift comes to a halt on the ground floor and we step out. As we walk towards the car park, she suddenly stops to light her cigarette. “I have to run,” she decides, looking at her wristwatch. ...

I ring Barbara from the hotel, to see how the kids are, and how she’s coping; they’re all going out for pizza, she tells me. The following morning I find out Niall had his operation in the afternoon. He’s in intensive care now.

I notice a small chapel, so duck inside, kneel down and lean on the back of the bench in front. “Dear Lord, please help Niall see again. You caused the blind to see..., at least don’t let him die.” I pour my heart out to God.

As I rest there, my heart is suddenly filled to the brim with a great peace.

I find the Alexandra caféteria and sit down. I’m feeling hungry. I notice a familiar figure strutting towards the café.I call out, “Joe?” Joe looks startled for a moment and then his lean face breaks into a large brown smile. He strides towards me. “G’day, Joe,” I say, giving him my brightest smile.

“The top of the morning to you,” he replies, taking his cap off.

“Have you seen Niall yet, Joe?” “They told me he’s not allowed visitors till tomorrow!”

“Are you hungry Joe?” I ask after a few moments.

“Sandwiches?” I suggest. He nods his head and sits down. I place an order for two plates of mixed sandwiches; two pots of tea.

“I’ll bring them over,” the bright young sandy haired waitress says with a name tag Jackie smiling broadly as though she loves us.

“It is. Warm!” he says, mopping his brow. He’s dressed in a suit, shirt and tie, with long pants and laced shoes. No wonder he’s hot.

“Would you like to take your jacket off?” I venture to ask. He looks at me as though I’ve asked him to jump off a bridge.

“They said it was winter. To hell with it!” He rises and throws his jacket off. He sits down, smiling happily.

“That’s better,” I say, smiling in response.

“Sandwiches and two pots of tea,” the waitress says, bearing a tray with a sweet smile.

“Thank you,” I reply. We relax in each other’s company, I venture into the subject of relationships.

“Do you know much about Cindy?” I ask.

“Niall nearly married her,” he says, glancing around to make sure nobody heard.

“Is that right?”

“After her husband died she was penniless. I think she might have squandered a bit of the money.”

“How did Niall come to know her in the first place?” I ask curiously.

“The horses! She was working at the track.”

“I thought she was a nurse?”

“She never made it. Hadn’t the brains! But she hooked Tom good and proper,” he adds.

“Tom married her?” I ask.

“He did.

“How many wives did he take? There was Kathleen, then Jacinta, and then Cindy!”

“Jacinta and Cindy are the same person,” Joe says. “She didn’t like the name Jacinta.” He takes the last egg sandwich and munches it as he speaks, causing bits to fall on his tie. “She just wanted a posh name,” he says.

“And the girl, Katie, is she her daughter?”

“Katie is Tom’s daughter, and Cindy is her stepmother! Katie is like Niall’s own child; he has been paying for her education since her father died,” he explains, sitting back, brushing crumbs off his tie.

“Didn’t Tom provide for his child?” I ask.

“When Cindy came to us about six months after Tom’s death she claimed she couldn’t afford to bring up the child, and wanted to put her in an orphanage. At that point, Tom’s solicitor advised us that there was a trust account put by for Katie that she can access when she is thirty-five, or gets married.”

Joe excuses himself at this point and leaves abruptly. I get up and rush after him. I almost collide with Cindy, who’s hurrying towards me from another direction.

“Hello,” I say.

“It’s you again!” she says, blowing smoke in my face.

I cough lightly. “I’ll buy you a coffee,”, I suggest, as she seems agitated.

“He’s not allowed visitors ’till tomorrow,” I advise her.

“Damn! I’ve come all the way for nothing. I could be making money, not spending it,” she says, looking at her watch.

“You can smoke here too,” I add. That clinches the deal.

“I’ve come all this way. I could do with a boost.”

“You and Niall seem so close,” I say kindly.

“We have history,” she says calmly, puffing her cigarette, crossing her legs and tapping on the table ...

Niall’s bandages are finally removed and he’s allowed visitors. I’m waiting in the foyer with Cindy. Joe comes in and appears anxious.

“What’s the matter Joe? Sit down,” We stare at his snow-white cheeks as he falls into a chair.

“He’s worse,” he gasps at last.

“He’s still blind, is he? After all that,” Cindy adds fiercely.

“I overheard the doctor talking. He said he’s lost his sight completely.” Joe almost bursts into tears at that. Cindy stands up.

“I hope Katie’s support continues.”

Joe and I stare at her in unbelief.

“I’m going…” She pops her cigarettes in her bag and marches towards the lift foyer.

“Joe, no matter what happens, we have to stand by him, you know that.”

“I do.” We sit and wait, stunned by the news. The ward door opens, and a nurse and doctor come through. We stare at them. The doctor is smiling.

“You must be Joe and Niamh?”

“We are!” Joe says before I can reply.

“It will take some time for him to recover completely, but I’m optimistic.”

We continue to stare in disbelief.

“He wants to see Joe and Niamh.”

The curtains on the windows are drawn and the room is almost in darkness.

Niall is sitting up and the bandages are removed.

“Niamh, Joe, please come in.”

We move as in a dream until we stop at his bedside.

“You can see?” Joe asks.

“I can make out your face Joe.” Joe is speechless. His mouth hangs open.

“Niamh, you’re as beautiful as ever,” he says to me.

I stare at him. I lean forward and he hugs my shoulders, and kisses my cheek. I kiss his cheek gently.

“Take a seat,” Niall suggests. We find two chairs and sit down in the dim room.

“Tell us about the operation,” I say excitedly.

“I had a wonderful dream, it was about you, Niamh. I’ll tell you about it some time.” …

The following day, I drive back to Maryborough, loaded with gifts: clothes for Nicky, Carly, Abigail, and Barbie, and videos for James, John and Charles. A warm welcome and a cup of tea later, I relate all the news.

“He’ll be there for another week; then he’s coming back here,” I explain to Barbara.

Two weeks later I visit Niall in his hotel Cabin at Tinana, where he’s recuperating before returning to Ireland. Niall suddenly turns to me.

“Would you care to take a walk?”

“I would.”

He offers me the crook of his arm and I link it in mine. Together we walk down the narrow road on the grassy verge. My heart is leaping in my breast.

“This is where James works,” I comment as we move along a fenced property.

“That's interesting! You like diamonds?”

I shrug my shoulders, “What girl does not?”

“She’s there!” he indicates a beautiful chestnut filly that’s grazing contentedly. As if she knows, she tosses her head and trots over.

“She is beautiful animal,” I say, patting her velvety nose.

“She’s yours,” Niall says.

“How’s that?”

“The Connors gave Finn McCool to me as a dowry when we were married.

She is also that other business I was here in Australia for. She is yours.”

“A dowry? You never told me about that?”

“They asked me not to tell you.”

“Why not?” I ask, feeling offended.

“You had that bang on the head and they didn’t know how you’d react.”

“I suppose they were only thinking of my welfare, as they always did!” I stroke the beautiful animal on its white smooth nose. It snorts gently.

“So, what’s your name?” I ask her as though she can speak.

“Diamond,” Niall says in response. I laugh.

“She’s the most beautiful, precious diamond I’ve ever set my eyes on....”

“I don’t think so,” Niall says.

“No?” “Your eyes are the most beautiful diamonds I’ve ever seen. Emerald diamonds!”

“You surely have been kissing the Blarney Stone.”

I see two young people in the distance.

“Who’s that with James?”

“That’s Katie,” Niall says.

“She has not finished the special course until this weekend. She loves horses.”

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting Katie. I think I know her!”

“Well, why don’t we go over there,” he suggests, as we watch the slim girl laughing, enrapturing James. I knew this already, but it’s a real shock to see her again. “I have to tell you this, ’tis Kathleen, James’ twin sister, our children. Yours and mine.”

“I don’t understand, our children?” He stands still gazing at the two young people chatting freely, connecting in a special way. “Katie was given to the Connor’s, I knew that.”

“I knew the Connors would give her the chance she needed to be educated, and she'd have plenty of food and clothing....I was a tinker with no home, few clothes and sometimes no food.”

His arm hugs my shoulders. “No wonder I had a good connection with Katie. Now the mystery is solved, but never in my wildest dreams did I believe she was my own flesh and blood. Niamh, whatever you tried to do for your child, you did it from the goodness of your heart.”

I look into his wonderful blurred face through my tears and the years melt away. He hugs me in a new way, close and meaningful. I push a little away

from his chest and see his face and mine connected by a tragedy and a double joy. “This is the happiest day of my life, and I don’t want another minute to be lost with crying.”

“There’s something I forgot to give you. It cannot wait a moment longer…”

He stops and reaches into his inside pocket; extracts a small heart shaped box; gets down on his knee in the lush green grass. “I promised you this ring a long time ago. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife for a second time, my one true love?” He places the most beautiful diamond that sparkles in the sunlight on my ring finger as he whispers, “I love you…”, I gasp and my heart flutters: “I will marry you again…”

I help him to his feet and with a deep breath he places his lips on mine. His sensual touch sends my heart fluttering with passion and tears of elation. I respond with my own passion, twice loved.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Marie Seltenrych is an Irish-Australian author, artist and publisher (aka Eileen Marie Rafferty). She was born in the small Viking town of Leixlip, Co. Kildare, Ireland. She thrived at school, winning many prizes and even made posters for her teacher’s bridge party at age six or seven. She often spent time creating stories for the younger children at school to keep them quiet for the teacher, and to her younger siblings at home, always with a playful edge, mystery and danger added to the mix.

Marie is the author of other genres including children’s picture book Runaway Princesses; chapter books for children series KKMT Mysteries.

Her website is at www.runawayprincesses.com Glossary: Shelta Language:

I:Aga di’lsa 2.Ala 3.Alamax 4.Aburt 5.Agetul 6.Awást!

7.Ax! 8.Axónšk 9.Dil ’lsa axiver glori 10.Kam a K’ena 11.Laisk my dheel my dheel Laisk your gilhairt 12. Nid’es axiver 13.Oid 14.Tri a gater 15.Tur an ski English translation: I.Over this way 2.Another 3.Milk 4.At all

5.Afraid 6.Away with you 7.Ah 8.Tonight 9.Did you ever hear?

10.Son of the house 11.Ask me and I will ask you again in my turn.

12.Never more 13.Butter 14.Drink or sup 15.Bottom of the river Credits and Acknowledgements: Thanks to Victoria Cooper for her lovely cover design: Find Victoria Facebook https://www.facebook.com/VictoriaCooperArt/ wish to note the work of R.A. Stewart Macalister’s ‘The Secret Languages of Ireland’, Cambridge University Press 1937, Ch VI pp 174-224 and John Bear of Canberra for his help and encouragement in respect to the use of words from the secret Shelta language.

Thanks to Cormac Iowth and Aidan McCabe for help in freely giving details about the Irish Sycamore and Irish Elm ships from personal knowledge, with photos (Irish Shipping Ltd. 1941-1984).