An Ocean Between Us

by Rachel Quinn

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  WRITING AS RAY KINGFISHER

  Historical Fiction

  The Sugar Men

  Rosa’s Gold

  Beyond the Shadow of Night

  General Fiction

  Matchbox Memories

  Tales of Loss and Guilt

  WRITING AS RAY BACKLEY

  Bad and Badder

  Slow Burning Lies

  WRITING AS RAY FRIPP

  I, Smith (with Harry Dewulf)

  Easy Money

  E.T. the Extra Tortilla

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Rachel Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542040532

  ISBN-10: 1542040531

  Cover design by Lisa Horton

  To the memories and spirits of:

  Olive and Barney

  Margaret and Con

  Theresa and Brian

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  AFTERWORD

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  INTRODUCTION

  This story is not a political one, but I include here just a little of the history of Ireland to help explain some of the events depicted.

  In World War Two the fledgling independent state of Ireland was officially neutral. In reality, attitudes to the war raging on only a few hundred miles away were varied and ambivalent. Then again, the relationship between Ireland and Great Britain had always been close but strained, as demonstrated by the events a few decades before.

  During World War One, Ireland fought for its independence from the United Kingdom while still fighting for the United Kingdom, most notably in the 1916 Easter Rising, which was severely dealt with by what the Irish Republican movement saw as imperial oppressors. The armed rebellion was put down, and executions of Irish fighters followed, but one man who narrowly escaped execution was a seasoned Republican named Éamon de Valera.

  When World War One ended there was little respite for the Irish people as the War of Independence (often called the Anglo-Irish War) followed on almost immediately. Two years later this led to the signing of a treaty largely granting independence to the new ‘Irish Free State’, albeit with certain constraints, the most important of which was that the new state comprised only twenty-six of the thirty-two counties, leaving six of the nine counties of Ulster within the UK, creating a new province christened Northern Ireland. Thus, the two largest cities in Ireland were now effectively in different countries: Dublin in ‘the South’ and Belfast in ‘the North’.

  Even then, the fighting didn’t stop for long. In the new country there was a bitter political split between two factions: the pro-treaty (those who accepted the treaty partitioning the country) and the anti-treaty (those wanting to fight on to unite the whole island of Ireland), with tensions very soon leading to the year-long Irish Civil War. With the help of the British, the pro-treaty side won, and for the next fifteen years the country struggled to find its place in the world order just like any other newly independent state. But now it was at least a stable country.

  At the outbreak of World War Two, the wounds from fighting three wars in a ten-year period were still raw, leaving little appetite for further conflict. And despite close relations between the countries on a social level, the country that now called itself simply ‘Ireland’ continued to deeply mistrust a Britain that many still saw as the enemy. Most notably, the memories of the feared ‘Black and Tans’ – Winston Churchill’s often undisciplined and brutal temporary police force installed in Ireland in 1920 – still loomed large. The fact that by 1940 the same man had become the British Prime Minister only heightened mistrust, and there was a genuine suspicion that Britain might use World War Two to justify the recapture of its lost land.

  Hence the country, now headed by one Éamon de Valera, stayed resolutely neutral, and the wartime years were more often referred to as ‘The Emergency’.

  There was always, however, an element of convenience behind the scenes. Contradicting the official government stance, many Irish men joined the British Army and fought alongside ‘the enemy’ in Europe, Africa and Asia, and many Irish women worked in UK armaments factories. Some say the reasons were largely financial in a poverty-ridden Ireland, but for many there turned out to be a high price to pay in more ways than one. Moreover, the idea of Irish people leaving their country in large numbers to seek a better life elsewhere was hardly new, and continued throughout and well after the war.

  This story is the fictional account of one such woman, Aileen Sweeney: of her time spent in a small Irish coastal village during the war years, and of how she came to leave her country of birth and settle in New York. I have tried to keep the historical facts accurate and, most importantly, impartial. I apologize beforehand if I have fallen down on either of those counts. The one exception to accuracy is where, to avoid confusion, the country is referred to as the Republic of Ireland, when, in fact, it only became officially that in 1949.

  Chapter 1

  Long Island, New York City, United States of America, 1995

  Aileen’s hand fumbles to find the gap in the curtains. As she pulls the rich velvet material aside, the throw of the streetlight shows up the tree-root veins on the back of her shiny-skinned hand.

  She tells herself the decades have brought wisdom, but the thought is as fleeting as any one of those years now seems. And it’s only half-true. Some days she thinks there is no wisdom, only memories of paths taken.

  But there’s little time to dwell – she has a celebration to get ready for. Still, it’s a strange feeling. Tonight is supposed to be a special night, but pondering the reasons for the celebration brings both pain and joy. It’s a small dilemma compared to the trials of that faraway life.

  A glance up and down the dim Long Island street breaks the barrier, and her mind goes back fifty years to when she first set foot in New York City, to when she wondered how so many people could live so close to one another. Until that day she’d been used to roaming over endless barley fields and grasslands, but here – where people were as densely packed as blades of grass on a lush lawn – she wondered how anyone could survive without being constantly annoyed by neighbours.

  ‘Aileen,’ he says, bringin
g her back. ‘What are you looking at?’

  She turns and her eyes catch the fine decor of the bedroom – the neatly ironed bedcovers and plump pillows, the fine but not extravagant prints on the violet wall, the solid oak furniture she had her eye on for months and pounced on when Raymour & Flanigan had a sale on.

  ‘Are you okay, Aileen?’

  ‘I was just thinking back, that’s all.’

  ‘Me too,’ he says, half a cracked smile breaking through.

  Aileen sits at the dresser, looking at her reflection in the mirror, at hair that was once a striking auburn but has since become overrun by marauding grey invaders. She notices him step up behind her.

  ‘Cab’s booked for six-thirty,’ he says. ‘We have almost an hour yet.’

  Her eyes don’t move from her own reflection. ‘A lot of work to do on this old thing,’ she says with a smirk.

  ‘Real beauty doesn’t fade.’

  Now she looks at his face. There is no humour there. That’s nice. But he’s nice.

  ‘So you say,’ she replies. She picks up a hairbrush, but feels his hand – as gentle as ever, even though not as firm and steady as it once was – on the top of hers.

  ‘Let me,’ he says. ‘It’s been a while since I brushed your hair.’

  In the mirror she sees him sit behind her on the edge of the bed, and she watches him touch the bristles of the brush to the crown of her head. He starts brushing, and she feels a tremble as his spare hand rests against the back of her neck, making the baby hairs that grow there sing with pleasure. The tremble isn’t quite as delicious as it once was, but it’s there. It’s still there.

  He guides the brush down. She closes her eyes. Gradually the smooth run of the brush becomes rougher, tugging every so often at the knots in her hair. A voice tells her she still has salt in her hair. Perhaps there’s a little left from all those years ago. Then the familiar voice from a well-remembered world tuts and tells her it’s dry and sticky.

  And Aileen’s memory of that voice takes her back to when her hair was still that striking auburn, when wrinkles were unthought of, and when life was half a century simpler.

  Leetown, County Wicklow, Ireland, July 1943

  ‘It’s so damned sticky,’ Aileen’s mother said. ‘You’ve got sticky hair again. Sure, that’ll teach you to wash in the sea.’

  Aileen couldn’t take another root-tugging wrench and flinched. ‘Ow!’

  ‘Won’t you keep yourself still, Aileen. Tis nobody’s fault but your own.’

  Aileen peered at herself in the mirror, which was leaning on the kitchen table against the wall. Well, it wasn’t so much a mirror as a sharp-edged segment of one. The table was a rough slice of timber on legs – one with a rag under it to keep the whole thing from wobbling. And the wall, well, that was nothing but a mass of whitewashed cobblestones.

  ‘Why didn’t you rinse yourself off in the Crannagh? You should know by now that river water isn’t salty.’

  ‘I’m after forgetting.’

  ‘Twas too far for you to walk, more like.’

  ‘Have we any fresh water here?’

  ‘Only the remains of what Fergus and Gerard fetched from the well this morning. Enough to boil the vegetables and for your father to wash in when he’s home from the fields.’

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Sure, your hair’s like a windswept field of barley shoots. If you want a man to be courting you—’ Aileen’s mother grunted as yet another knot caused her to tug the brush down. ‘—you’ll just have to let me do this, so you will.’

  A few pulls later, a few more grimaces from both women, and the job was done.

  ‘I think I’ll be trying another colour sometime soon,’ Aileen said as she caressed a sheaf of the hair teasing her shoulders.

  ‘Different colour?’ Her mother squeezed her eyes almost shut. ‘Different colour? Aach, away with ye.’

  ‘It’s true, Mammy. Up in Dublin there are people who can change the colour of a woman’s hair, like how the Hollywood people—’

  ‘Ah, the Hollywood people. I’ve heard all about those glamorous sorts from that newfangled wireless machine thing your daddy listens to. And I suppose you’ll be pasting that muck on your face too?’

  Aileen leaned toward the mirror and pressed a forefinger against the pimple that had chosen to position itself right on the centre of her chin. It was the only blemish on her skin. As long as you didn’t count the butterfly of freckles around the bridge of her nose as blemishes. And Aileen didn’t.

  ‘Why, of course I will.’

  ‘And will you be putting on the fancy clothing like your Hollywood people wear too?’

  ‘I will.’

  Her mother shook her head. ‘Sure, these are awful strange times, so they are. Perhaps it’s because of that there war going on in Europe – that thing in France and Germany and all those other countries I never knew existed.’

  ‘The world’s changing, Mammy. Sure, twas changing even before the war started.’

  Aileen’s mother took a step away and placed her fists on her hips. ‘And how would you know what things were like back then? You were only fourteen.’

  ‘And I’m eighteen now and I have my own ideas, so I have.’

  ‘Your own ideas? Aach. All I know is that things were a lot simpler in my day. I had no fancy clothes or paint for my face, so I didn’t. Back then a girl found herself a nice Wicklow man and that was that.’

  ‘Well, it’s different now. And I might not want to marry a Wicklow man anyhow.’

  ‘Just be taking care of yourself, Aileen, that’s all I’m saying. The world might be changing but some things never change, and young men is one of them. And when I say men I’m meaning Wicklow men or men from anywhere else in Ireland. Do you hear me?’

  ‘I do, Mammy.’

  ‘Good. Now I have chickens to feed and turf to fetch in.’ Aileen’s mother picked up a bowl of breakfast scraps and left.

  Aileen rummaged around in the make-up bag she shared with her sister, Briana, and plucked out a stick of scarlet lipstick. ‘And I might not even be wanting to marry an Irishman,’ she muttered to herself.

  A few minutes later Aileen’s mother returned, three clumps of peat in the crook of her arm, to find Aileen and Briana putting the finishing touches to the pencil lines along the backs of their legs. She gave her head a dismissive shake as she loaded one clump on to the smouldering fire and set the others down on the hearth.

  Pausing for breath, she looked her daughters up and down. ‘Briana, you be taking care of your sister, d’you hear me?’

  ‘Sure, I will.’ Briana’s eyes bobbed upward.

  ‘And don’t be doing that thing with your eyes, please. One day they’ll stay up there inside your head, and then where will you be?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mammy, but tis only a dance on the strand. The worst that can happen is that it’ll start raining and we’ll both be coming home soaked.’

  ‘As long our Aileen is safe.’

  ‘She will be, Mammy, I promise.’

  Aileen butted in. ‘Sure, will you just listen to yourselves, talking about me as if I’m invisible or something. Come on and let’s be going.’

  She headed for the door and Briana followed.

  Soon the sisters were on the coastal road that separated the row of seafront cottages from the verge of wild grasses and the beach beyond.

  ‘Was Mammy giving you the talk about men?’ Briana said as they skipped sideways to avoid Timmy Kearnan’s donkey and cart.

  ‘You mean the warning? She was so.’

  ‘Aach, didn’t I tell you she’d be doing that soon enough? She was after giving me all that when I was eighteen too, the first time I went to a dance on the strand.’

  ‘As long as it’s only the once. Mammy’s stuck in her old ways, so she is.’

  Briana stopped walking for a second and placed an arm around Aileen’s shoulder. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be so harsh on her, Aileen. She worries about you. She worries about all of u
s. Tis only natural.’

  They crossed the road just before passing Cready’s – Leetown’s one and only store, which was a grocery selling all sorts and everything. As soon as their feet hit the sandy edges of grass, Aileen asked Briana what it was like to be courted by a man. Briana said it was ‘the best feeling in the world’ but also told her not to tell their mother she’d said so. They compared clothes. Aileen wore a plain green cotton dress, but Briana’s dress – one she’d bought on her last trip to Dublin – was a more fancy affair, yellow and blue floral-patterned with the very fashionable nipped-in waistline. Aileen said she liked Briana’s lipstick. In truth, she thought it a little too dark but didn’t like to say.

  They walked on past the short lane leading to the dark grey frontage of the railway station, and around the corner where the River Crannagh came into view. Two bridges straddled the river – a monstrous iron beast carried the railway, and in its dark shadow, a stone’s throw from where the river widened to give itself up to the ocean, lay a footbridge of thick wooden planks. Both bridges had been there for as long as Aileen could remember, the wooden one leading to the sandiest beach for miles around.

  From the near riverbank they could already hear the music, and once on the opposite side they could see the section of beach where the dance had been set up. A small band of two fiddlers, two banjo players and an accordionist stood to one side of the makeshift dance floor. Leetown’s finest single lads and lasses sat around the edge on upturned wooden boxes, men on one side, women on the other.

  Aileen’s shoes sank a little in the sand and she stumbled once or twice.

  ‘You’ll be taking those off once you get asked to dance,’ Briana said.

  ‘Only if I agree to dance,’ Aileen replied as they approached the wooden boxes. The remark made Briana smirk, which made Aileen giggle, and they eased themselves down next to the other girls.

  A breeze that had stolen cool air from the Irish Sea hit them and Aileen folded her arms tightly against its bite. She glanced at the men on the other side, although ‘boys’ would have been a better description. She even recognized most of them – there was the Houlihan boy who couldn’t sit still, two or three she recognized from her schooldays but whose names she’d forgotten, and then the Ellis twins, who were easy to spot even though they wore different clothes and sat well away from each other.