‘I am married two years, yes,’ Margaret Mary said sweetly.
‘Well, who’s the husband then?’ Peg asked suspiciously, sure she was on the scent.
He’s the red-faced bollocks running up the hill pushing that cart full of cushions so you’d better be nice to him or you’ll be kneeling on nothing but those knobbly old knees of yours, Margaret Mary wanted to say.
‘Well, speak of the angel himself,’ she said instead, looking over the ladies’ heads towards her late husband, and picking up the baby to carry him over to the red-faced bollocks in question.
‘Where the feck have you been, as if I don’t already know,’ she hissed, smelling the beer on his breath and immediately picking up on the lopsided grin.
‘I’ve been getting the third degree from these old biddies, thanks to you dumping me with the baby again. You take him,’ Margaret Mary said, thrusting the baby into her husband’s arms, ‘and I’ll take these.’ And she grasped the handle of the cart and turned back towards the waiting group, without another word.
Morgan kissed the baby’s cheeks and doffed his cap to the ladies as he watched his wife’s rear end scoot towards them. By God, but she looked good from the back. He’d always thought so.
‘Right,’ he heard her say, ‘let’s see who wants a cushion, just twopence each, then we’ll see who would like to lead us in the rosary.’
Morgan watched his wife settle some of the old ones on their knees, then turned and started heading back down the valley towards his van. God, she could stir a man’s passions, that Margaret Mary, even with her evil eye staring directly at you, which from the heat he was currently feeling between his shoulder blades was where it was aimed right now.
‘I don’t deserve her, that’s for sure,’ he said happily, kissing his son’s soft blond head and thinking back to the day he had first laid eyes on her.
He’d stepped off a bus right here at the grotto just weeks after the Virgin first came to Ballymahoe.
Margaret Mary hadn’t been the smooth performer then that she was now, though, not by a long shot. Instead of the persona of the demure religious Chosen One that she so favoured today, she had greeted the visitors to the grotto looking like a tart and fluttering her eyelashes and pursing her lips as if she were having some sort of a fit.
She’d sashayed up the valley like she had something rammed fair up her arse and by her second step Morgan knew he was in love. Trying to concentrate on the rosary while his lust for Margaret Mary was making itself obvious to even the blindest of the old ladies in the group had just about killed him. He’d had to swipe a prayer book from the devotee next to him for the purposes of hiding the result of his impure thoughts lest he be set upon.
Not surprisingly, the Virgin had chosen to stay away that day and Morgan was pretty sure he was the reason. Poor woman probably thought he had one in his pants for her!
But truly he only had eyes for Margaret Mary and after he had finished feasting them on her as she prayed, he set about chatting her up and in no time at all had arranged to meet her at her mother’s house for tea.
Of course it had come as a shock to find out that she was only 16 — such a mature girl to look at — but he couldn’t really point the finger when it came to shocks and surprises. After all, he had been quite happy for Margaret Mary to assume that he was a member of the parish group that had chartered the bus for the visit to Ballymahoe.
By the time the truth emerged, Margaret Mary was head over heels in love with the rugged, handsome 24-year-old and he could have been a Church of England triple axe murderer for all she cared.
As it was, being an apprentice pastry chef in hiding after being caught having his way with the 23-stone boss’ missus didn’t seem to put her off.
Had she known he was also formerly an apprentice bricklayer in hiding after having his way with the boss’ daughter and a former apprentice mechanic in hiding after having his way with the boss’ girlfriend and a former apprentice car salesman in hiding after having his way with the boss’ daughter and his girlfriend (he never found out about the wife, thank God), she might not have been so quick to fall for his charms.
But charm was a skill for which Morgan Sheehan needed to serve no apprenticeship. His charm had delivered him inside the knickers of every single girl he ever set his sights on and Margaret Mary was no exception, although of course it had taken considerably longer than he was used to and he had had to promise to marry her first, something he’d only ever done with his fingers crossed in the past.
He hadn’t quite counted on Margaret Mary’s organisational skills, however, and before he had a chance to flee, change his name again and start a new life somewhere else he found himself actually married to her.
Once you got used to it, though, it wasn’t such a bad life.
Renting cushions to little old ladies while his wife churned out her Holy Mary Mother of God speech certainly beat working for a living. Plus, up until the boy was born he and Margaret Mary had had a great thing going in the sack and look at what they had produced so far — a perfect son, God love him.
Now all he needed was for Margaret Mary’s juices to return so he could stop seeking comfort in the sweaty and substantial arms of Brendan Byrne’s sister, Rachael, who he was pretty sure was responsible for the nasty rash he was currently hiding from his wife.
Back at the road base Margaret Mary’s brother Gerry O’Reilly was snoozing in the sun behind the souvenir stand so Morgan lay down on the spongy grass beside him, his son already asleep, and nodded off.
Back up the valley, however, Peg Kennedy was far from restful. She’d had enough.
‘So would the Virgin usually be here by now, Margaret Mary?’ she said, breaking the hush of 30 silent prayers. ‘Only it’s nearly five o’clock and those of us whose sisters-in-law won’t let us part with twopence for a cushion are nearly crippled.’
Theresa opened one beady eye and aimed it hatefully at Peg, but both of Margaret Mary’s blue ones had beaten her to it.
‘Quite often,’ Margaret Mary started slowly and slyly, ‘quite often there is one member of a group who is not — how shall I say this? — who is not open to the idea of the Virgin Mary being in her midst.’
She paused for effect.
‘When this happens, when this person makes her negative feelings known, it has come to our attention that the Blessed Virgin protests against this person’s presence by not appearing.’
Thirty sets of beady eyes now rested squarely on Peg Kennedy.
Margaret Mary stood gracefully and, closing her eyes in prayer for a moment, made the sign of the cross and looked sadly across at the empty hillside.
Theresa Finucane rose ungracefully.
‘You’re a rotten, evil woman, Peg Kennedy and I rue the day I ever laid eyes on you,’ she said quietly but fiercely, shaking with rage.
‘Now, you want to watch those negative feelings of yours, Theresa,’ said Peg, starting to follow Margaret Mary down the valley. ‘You never know who will protest at their presence. Now, put your hand in your pocket for a change and give this girl a token of your appreciation so she knows it wasn’t you the Virgin was avoiding.’
Chapter 21
Saturday, 20 February 1999
The bus shuddered to a standstill, waking Molly from a dream in which she was salsa dancing on top of Jack while eating crinkle-cut crisps.
She felt terribly empty — perhaps dreaming about crisps had done it. Or Jack. And she couldn’t tell if the emptiness was unhappiness or hunger.
She preferred to think it was the latter, and as the toasted sandwiches in her room yesterday were the last thing she had eaten, she felt it was about time to have another crack at solids.
A flashback involving a hospital vending machine and large amounts of chocolate tried to make its way to the forefront of her mind but she resisted it. Already her previously feverishly toned abs were starting to slouch a little, but actually she didn’t mind. As a matter of fact, she felt like being a bit
soft and round and squishy.
So when the bus proved to be halted in a busy little village, Molly’s eyes fell immediately on a bun shop.
‘Can I get you anything, Viv?’ she asked her aunt, who was leafing through Tatler and sipping from a small bottle of Evian. ‘I’m going to the cake shop.’
‘You’re not going to eat again, are you, Molly?’ Vivienne asked her with a slight frown. ‘Have you ever thought about what might happen if you grow out of that dress?’
Molly stood up and turned to her aunt, banging her plaster cast on the upright bar as she did so.
‘Take care there, girl,’ said a dark-haired woman on the other side of the bus, looking back and forth from Molly to Vivienne trying to suss them out.
‘Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch,’ grimaced Molly, jiggling up and down to try to escape the pain. ‘Ouch.’
The dark-haired woman frowned slightly at Vivienne and reached towards Molly, grabbing her good arm.
‘Are you all right there, dear?’ she said, concerned.
‘Mmmmm,’ said Molly, trying to hold back tears of pain. ‘I’ve only just broken my arm and it really hurts.’
Vivienne looked slightly flustered and reached into her bag, then pulled out a £20 note and thrust it at her injured niece, making sure the woman across the aisle could see.
‘Buy me a — a — a bun, then, will you?’ she said, ‘and whatever you want.’
Molly knew it was her way of trying to be nice. Be an aunt. That her fancy New York friends should see her buying buns for her niece on a coach in the Irish countryside! ‘You want icing, you want custard, you want jelly?’ she teased.
‘Just get me a bun,’ her aunt said, between clenched teeth, ‘and try not to break, bruise or forget to pay for anything on the way.’
Molly pulled on her coat and stumbled down the aisle of the bus, alighting gingerly on the street full of road works clattering and banging. The way things were going it would have surprised her not one bit to be hit in the head by a piece of speeding meteorite or a butcher’s knife accidentally flung in her direction by a visiting German juggler.
She caught a sight of herself in the bun shop window and sighed. No wonder the old dear on the bus felt sorry for her. With her black eye, broken arm, long coat and slightly soiled hem-line she looked like Orphan Annie after a car crash. Even the ponytail which used to hang down the middle of her back no trouble at all seemed to be off to one side.
Getting up closer to the window Molly stretched her mouth in an old familiar grimace. Yep, sure enough, she had lipstick on her teeth as well.
Pushing the door open she heard the friendly ‘ting’ of the bell above and smelled the deliciously comforting smell of freshly baked bread. She also found herself at the back of a queue of just about everybody bound for Cork and what looked to be an almost identical group travelling in the opposite direction. Bloody road works.
The queues were spiralled around the bakery innards like a colon and she figured it would be at least 10 minutes until she got her order in, so Molly stepped outside again, the cold winter air refreshing on her cheeks.
Looking up the road her eyes skipped past the pub, the corner store, the newsagent and the butcher and landed on a little stone church, set back off the road with a motley graveyard in front. Just as she took in its spire and the enormous green leafy trees towering over it on either side, its bells started to ring.
For no reason Molly smiled to herself. Experience the Magic of Oireland, she laughed to herself. She could see Vivienne still engrossed in her magazine in the bus, oblivious to the ding-dong-dinging going on around her. She seemed hardly desperate for her bun and the queue had gone down not one single customer since Molly was in the shop. So she picked up her dress and crossed the road, heading for the little church.
The graveyard was overgrown but not all the headstones were old. For years Molly had had a morbid fascination with cemeteries, visiting them whenever she could and weeping over the lost babies and beloved husbands and plastic flowers.
On one side of the path where it was least covered with weeds was a cracked monument devoted to Josephine O’Driscoll, born 23 June 1876, died 5 August 1877; beloved daughter of Margaret O’Driscoll, born 31 May 1856, died 5 August 1877; and her loving husband John O’Driscoll, born 15 January 1850, died 5 August 1877.
Whatever could have happened to them? Molly wondered, tears welling in her eyes at the likely scenarios. The whole family wiped out on one terrible day more than 120 years ago.
What could take a family so suddenly back then, she wondered. Disease? Unlikely. A carriage accident? Could be. A savage homicide? Perhaps. Was the little girl murdered in her bed by marauders who went on to molest her mother and repeatedly stab her father?
I have got to lay off the Patricia Cornwells, thought Molly, before bringing her hand up to wipe her tears. Ouch! That bloody plaster. Now her nose hurt like buggery as well as her eye and her arm.
She stumbled up the pathway and pushed open the enormously tall church door, thinking that a couple of minutes of sitting in a church listening to some bells ring might restore some grace and order to her broken body and spirit.
But what she saw inside hit her like a hurricane.
In the pews at the front near the altar a little collection of hats and well-combed heads dotted either side of the aisle. The flowers were gorgeous — all white and green with a spray of something gold thrown in for good measure.
A priest stood facing Molly and in front of him, standing side on, looking at each other in amazement and wonder and complete and utter joy, stood a bride and groom.
Stunned, Molly stood inside the church door almost hyperventilating. A few heads had turned when the door opened and closed but on the whole the attention was on the bridal couple as Molly had obviously arrived at the crucial moment.
The groom, dressed in full morning suit, reached for his new wife’s face with his freshly ringed left hand, and directed it slowly towards him.
She was young, Molly could see, with curly brown hair like a doll’s, her veil attached to a crown-like tiara atop her head.
Her face was not the prettiest in the world but the look on it! Molly suddenly felt the urge to start sobbing and had to try so hard to stop herself, she was sure she was going to wrench something internal. But the look on that face! Molly slipped into a pew.
The bride glowed as if all the angels in heaven had kissed her, as if the sun had stopped its usual business and shone just on her.
Her dress was not expensive, not like the one Molly was wearing, but it fitted her beautifully. It was an off-cream coarse silk with a low, wide V-neck, an empire bust-line and medieval-style sleeves. A dress a little girl might imagine getting married in were she not inclined towards the cream puff, Molly thought.
The groom was taller, with a head of slightly receding coppery hair and big broad shoulders that were made for wedding clobber, yet she could tell, even from where she was sitting, by his hands that he probably didn’t spend a lot of time in a suit.
Those big gentle hands and those shoulders were definitely the hands of a man who worked hard, physically, not mincing about in front of a whiteboard.
Just then, as if in slow motion, Molly saw the man smile, a slow, private, beautiful smile as he bent down towards his new wife, his great hand still softly holding her jaw, and, closing his eyes, he gently, ever so gently, kissed her waiting lips. And kissed them. And kissed them.
The pain in Molly’s hand, in her head, was nothing, nothing, compared with the one she felt right then in her heart.
A ripple of excitement went through the little congregation as it dawned on them all that their loved ones were truly married. The atmosphere changed from formal to casual as the guests chatted among themselves and the priest exchanged pleasantries with the bride and groom, who were having trouble taking their eyes off each other.
Go and sign the bloody register, Molly silently urged them as the tears sprang out of her eyes like ca
rtoon tears. Get out of my sight, you happy bloody couple.
Sure enough, they disappeared into the recesses of the church and the bubbly congregation burst into a hymn that Molly vaguely remembered from school. Just as she had done then, she stood up and mouthed the words, saving those around her from the torture of hearing her singing voice, a trick she had learned during years of being chosen, like all good Catholic girls, for the school choir.
‘Shit!’ nobody heard her say out loud as she bonked her lip attempting to wipe her runny nose with her broken arm again. When was she going to get used to that encumbrance? The last thing she needed right now was anything else that brought tears to her eyes.
As usual, the hymn went on for one verse too long, with everybody thinking it had finished already and then starting the last bit at different times, but they were a happy bunch and a few straggly notes were certainly not going to put them off their stride.
Molly sat down and tried to stop crying but it was impossible. All she could think of was herself standing at the aisle beaming up adoringly into the face of Jack White, his hand on her face, his eyes on her eyes, his lips on her lips.
Not Going to Happen. It was as though a plane carrying that banner were flying through her head. Not Going to Happen.
She suddenly realised with a sick feeling that it must be Saturday 20 February. The day that Molly Brown and Jack White invite — to join them and their families as they take the plunge into holy wedlock.
Jack had designed the wedding invitations himself, borrowing the illustration on the outside of the card from an old-fashioned luggage sticker showing a 1940s woman lounging around the side of a pool while a man dived in.
At the time Molly had thought it was hilarious, especially as there seemed nobody less fearful of commitment than her Jack. God, how could she have been such a fool? How could she have trusted him so much? How could she have loved him so much?
The problem was that just because she had found out he was a lying, cheating, fornicating, low-down piece of dog dirt didn’t mean she could automatically stop loving him.
Finding Tom Connor Page 14
