‘Go back the way we came, but not far. Turn up the lane and I’ll show you where Joe Coughlan lives.’
Impressed, Craig put the car into gear and after spinning mud halfway across the countryside, got back onto dry land. Sure enough, there was a lane not far down the road and they turned up it, Kirsty looking out for the house she had seen from a distance. When it came into sight, sure enough, on the opposite side of the road was a long driveway leading to a little white two-storey farmhouse.
‘This is it,’ she told Craig, who turned the car up the driveway and bounced across the potholes, eventually coming to rest outside the front door.
Up close, it didn’t seem tall enough to be two storeyed and getting out of the car, Kirsty realised she was slightly taller than the door, which she knocked on.
No reply, yet a bicycle leaned against the white roughcast wall. It was bitterly cold and the wind was chilling her to the bone. Craig got out of the car and pulled his ski jacket from the back seat, shrugging it on, his teeth chattering.
Next time, he thought, I’m going to Spain whether she bloody well comes or not.
Kirsty knocked on the door again, for longer this time.
Still no reply.
‘Don’t tell me we’ve got this close and he’s not at home,’ she said as Craig snuggled up behind her, sheltering her from the wind.
‘He’s 96, Kirst. I don’t think he’s going to be out tripping the light fantastic.’
He leaned over her shoulder and knocked on the door himself, then stood back to see if there was any sign of life through the little windows.
Kirsty was stamping her muddy wet feet to keep warm.
‘Come on,’ Craig said. ‘We can take a photo from the bottom of the driveway to show your mum. That’ll do her.’
He moved back around to the driver’s side of the car and reluctantly Kirsty opened the passenger door to get in, but just as she was lowering herself into her seat the farmhouse door opened and a kind-looking woman with frizzy grey hair poked her face out.
‘Oh, hello!’ Kirsty smiled, getting back out of the car and going over to the door. The woman looked at her.
‘I am Kirsty Pedersen from Australia,’ she said. The woman kept the door mostly shut and kept looking at her.
‘My grandfather was John Coughlan — Joe Coughlan’s nephew.’ The door stayed mostly shut.
‘We’ve come from Sydney to visit him,’ Kirsty’s confidence was beginning to wane.
The woman looked over at Craig, who was still standing behind the Polo.
‘Who’s he?’ she asked.
‘Oh, that’s my boyfriend, Craig Watson,’ Kirsty said, turning to smile at him and rolling her eyes around in a ‘crazy-or-what?’ gesture.
‘Is he Irish?’ the woman asked.
‘Um, no,’ said Kirsty.
‘Right then,’ the woman said, opening the door but standing in it rather than inviting them in. Craig came to join Kirsty and wrapped his arm around her shoulder to stop her from shivering.
‘I’m Auntie Eileen, the housekeeper,’ the grey-haired woman said, suddenly smiling and holding her hand out to Kirsty, who shook it, grateful for the warmth.
‘Now, the thing is,’ she said as they stood there freezing, ‘Joe Coughlan has not been well.’ She looked sad. ‘Not been well at all.’ She looked even sadder. ‘Very, very unwell, in fact.’ She looked nervously at Kirsty and Craig, who was getting a sinking feeling.
‘So unwell that . . .?’ Kirsty let the question hang in the air.
‘So unwell that I’m not sure he’s up for visitors,’ said Auntie Eileen, who then seemed to make a snap judgement and stood aside. ‘But come in, will you, anyway, and I’ll get you a cup of tea.’
The house was tiny and low-ceilinged but impeccably clean and tidy. Kirsty and Craig were shown through to the main room, which looked down over the windswept farmland towards the house that the cow-herder had pointed to from afar.
The room they were in had a table pushed up against the windows and a sagging sofa and armchair against the opposite wall and at the end was a sort of coal range. There was a one-bar heater plugged into a wall socket, but it wasn’t turned on. The room was freezing.
‘Now,’ said Eileen, ‘would you like a cup of tea or something stronger, perhaps?’
Craig wrapped his ski jacket tighter around his body. ‘Something stronger would be great, actually,’ he said.
Eileen disappeared through a door at the opposite end of the room from the range and came back carrying a bottle of Malibu, a coconut liqueur, and two teacups.
She set the cups on the table and poured each one full of the liqueur, then passed one to Kirsty and the other to Craig.
‘You’re not going to have one?’ Kirsty asked her, eyeing up the milky warm (somehow!) liquid.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Neither myself nor Joe Coughlan touch the stuff. Now, tell me who you are again? Some relation of Joe’s?’
‘That’s right,’ Kirsty quickly said, keen to avoid further contact with the contents of her teacup. ‘My grandfather on my mother’s side was John Coughlan, the nephew of Sean Coughlan. His dad, also John, emigrated to Australia in the late 1800s and so that makes Joe my great-great-uncle. He’s our only living relative still in Ireland. Mum started to do the family tree and then she found out Tom was still alive so she wanted Craig and I to come and meet him. We’re on holiday.’
‘Right so,’ said Eileen. ‘I do think I have heard him talk about a brother that went that way over to Australia. He’d love to see you, I know he would. Now, I’ll just go up and tell him you’re here but did I mention that he has not been well?’
‘We don’t want to trouble him in any way, Eileen. If he’s not up to it that’s fine but my mum would be so rapt if we got to meet him.’
Eileen stood up and disappeared up a tiny staircase at the far corner of the room.
They heard the creaking of her footsteps and the low hum of muttering.
‘If she asks us to stay the night you have got to make an excuse,’ hissed Craig.
‘These are my relations, you arsehole,’ whispered Kirsty.
‘Well, do you want to stay in this icebox?’ Craig asked, knowing that the only thing his girlfriend hated more than lukewarm liqueur was freezing-cold bones.
‘Shut up,’ Kirsty hissed back at him as Eileen came down the staircase again.
‘He’s wide awake and as bright as a button and desperate to meet you,’ she said. ‘But you’d better come up one at a time because I don’t want to frighten the poor devil.’
Kirsty stood and, with a nervous glance at Craig, followed the little woman up the tiny staircase, bending over so she didn’t hit her head.
‘Oh, I’m leaving muddy footprints in your house, Eileen!’ she apologised.
‘Not at all. Don’t you worry about that,’ whispered the housekeeper. ‘What with you having come all this way.’ Having let them into the house, she had obviously decided to display some of the Irish hospitality they had heard so much about.
At the top of the stairs was a tiny landing with a closed door on either side and a third one straight ahead of them. Eileen stopped outside this middle one, raising her finger to her lips in a silencing motion.
‘Don’t talk too loud or make any sudden movements,’ she told Kirsty, then opened the door.
Inside was a bedroom so small that a single bed took up a whole wall, jammed at either end by two more walls.
The walls were covered with religious pictures, many of them of the Virgin Mary, and the top of a small dresser was adorned with Catholic paraphernalia and prayer books. There was a little stool by the side of the bed on which Eileen sat.
Kirsty looked at her great-great-uncle. All she could see was his head resting on a puffy pillow at the top of a pile of blankets and quilts. He had a pretty good head of pure white hair for such an old fellow but his skin had that transparent look that comes with such old age and his eyes were closed.
Eileen le
aned over to the old man and said into his ear: ‘It’s Kirsty from Australia, Joe. One of Sean Og’s lot, I think. Did we hear he had a son John? Isn’t she grand? Come all the way from Australia just to see you, Joe. What do you make of that?’
She motioned at Kirsty to sit on the side of bed, which she gingerly did, fearful that she might be sitting on bits of her elderly relative but not feeling anything snap under her weight.
Joe Coughlan opened his eyes and eventually focused on Kirsty, who was peering into his face looking slightly scared.
‘Ah, she’s grand, all right,’ he whispered, licking his dry old lips. ‘What a grand girl. Australia? Didn’t Sean Og go there?’ he muttered, a hand snaking its way across the bedclothes and feeling for Kirsty’s.
She took it and held it, marvelling at its warmth and softness.
‘I remember when he went,’ the old man said in a soft, croaky voice. ‘They all went, you know, and hardly any of them came back.’ A tear slid down his cheek and Eileen leaned over and dabbed at it with a hanky.
‘None of them came back to Ireland.’ He focused again on his great-great-niece. ‘But you’re a grand girl all the same for coming to see me.’ She felt his hand go limp in hers and watched his eyes flutter closed.
‘Eileen!’ she whispered, panicked. ‘He’s not . . .’
‘Oh no,’ laughed the housekeeper. ‘Just dropped off to sleep, dear. He has the heart of a 40-year-old, the doctor says. Just not much of an appetite. Two cups of tea this week and that’s all,’ she said cheerfully, lifting herself off her stool and motioning Kirsty to leave the room with her.
‘Wasn’t that nice, now?’ Eileen said, hunching over to make the downstairs journey.
Actually, Kirsty felt quite tearful. The little man had been so sweet and so sad that his brother — all his brothers, in fact — had left Ireland and not one of them had returned.
‘Now, about that cup of tea?’ Eileen said, straightening up at the bottom of the stairs and clapping her hands together.
‘That would be great,’ Kirsty said as Craig, who was waiting patiently on the spongy sofa, gave her a quizzical look.
‘Black all right, then?’ said Eileen. ‘Only there’s no milk, I’m afraid.’
‘That will be fine, thanks. Craig are you going to have a cup?’
‘No, I’m really enjoying my Malibu,’ Craig said sarcastically.
‘Well, that’s great then,’ said Kirsty, crossing to the table where she had left her full teacup and giving it to him. ‘You can drink mine and I’ll have a cup of tea.’
Eileen disappeared through the same door from whence the Malibu had appeared and closed it behind her, leaving Craig and Kirsty to glare at each other while she rattled and banged around.
‘We should be hitting the road,’ Craig said, sipping at his drink.
‘Craig, we can’t just bowl in here, trample all over the floor and bowl out again. It’s rude. The least we can do is have a cup of tea and a bit of a chat. It’s not like we will ever be coming back again. Besides I want to find out more about Uncle Joe.’
‘Well, you owe me big time when we get back to London,’ Craig said as Eileen appeared through the door with a cup of tea which she delivered to Kirsty before sitting down at the table.
‘You’re not having one?’ Kirsty asked her.
‘No dear, thanks all the same. Now, tell me what do you two do back in Australia?’
‘Well, I design Web pages for the Internet and Craig is a computer programmer,’ said Kirsty. ‘We live in Sydney — at Bondi — and my mum lives down the coast at Wollongong. I’ve got a sister, too, and she’s married and lives in Brisbane with her husband and their three boys. He runs a cement factory.’
Kirsty took a sip of her tea.
‘So, did my Uncle Joe grow up in this place?’ she asked, looking over her teacup at the ancient, crumbling farmhouse.
‘Oh no, dear, not at all,’ Eileen said, looking uncomfortable.
‘He bought it recently?’
‘Are you all right over there, Craig?’ Eileen changed the subject. ‘He’s a quiet one, isn’t he?’
‘I’m fine, thanks, Eileen,’ answered Craig. ‘It’s just that we had better be going soon so we can find a hotel before dark.’
Kirsty shot Craig a furious look.
‘You know, there are a couple of lovely bed and breakfasts at Ballymahoe, did you know that?’ Eileen said. ‘And it’s not more than half an hour away.’
‘Actually, I would love to find out a bit more about Joe before we go, Eileen. So is this not his house?’
Eileen scratched at a bit of something on the table.
‘No, dear, this is my house.’
‘He lives in your house? And you’re the housekeeper?’
‘Well, I am the housekeeper of my house and your Uncle Joe Coughlan lives here as well. He had nowhere else to go, as it happens, poor devil, and I don’t mind taking care of him, sure I don’t. He’s quite the chatterbox on a good day.’
‘So who owns this farmland, then?’ Kirsty asked, horrified.
‘Oh, well, that belongs to my family. My brothers farm it and they’ve more land over the Durres side and Joe Coughlan used to work for them. For my father and grandfather before them, too. Such a kind man and so good with the animals. More tea?’
‘No, thanks, Eileen. So there’s no-one else to look after him?’
‘No, well, you heard the poor devil say himself that nobody ever came back. I think he was expecting one of those other Coughlan boys to send for him to go to Canada or Australia or America but it never happened and sure he seemed happy enough working here and living in the shed.’
‘He lived in the shed?’ Craig spoke up from the sofa, sounding pretty horrified himself. They had passed a collection of sheds driving up to the house and he wouldn’t have kept their Labrador dog in one.
‘Oh, well, he’s lived here in the house with me for, what, it must be 11 years now so don’t go feeling bad about anything, now, will you?’ Eileen saw the look on Kirsty’s face and leaned over and patted her hand.
‘Sure, he’s a grand old fellow. Not quite as chirpy since the television stopped working in 1992, but chirpy enough all the same.’
She stood and gathered up the teacups.
‘Now, you two don’t want to be driving in the dark, do you?’ and she disappeared through the door again.
‘Craig, how much cash have we got?’ Kirsty whispered.
‘About 150 quid. Why?’
‘Because we are going to leave it for Uncle Joe to get a new telly, that’s why.’
‘Fuck off, Kirst — that’s about $400 Australian,’ Craig whined.
‘Just give me the goddamned money,’ Kirsty spat.
Craig opened his mouth to continue the argument but then thought better of it. The sooner they got out of this refrigerator the better. And there would be excellent brownie points with Kirsty’s mum over this one. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, counted out £180 and handed it over.
‘Thanks, Craig. You’re a real babe, you know that?’
‘Right so,’ Eileen bustled out of the kitchen if that was what it was. ‘Can I get you anything for the road?’
Kirsty and Craig stood up.
‘No, we’re fine, thanks, Eileen,’ Craig was quick to say. ‘We’d better get going, but tell me, which way is it to Ballymahoe — I think we will stay there tonight.’
‘Bottom of the driveway, turn left, second turn on your right after that, 10 miles down that road, and your next left will see you there. So that’s left at the bottom here, second on your right, then 10 miles after that. Okay, then?’
Craig stepped forward, marvelling at her precision, shook hands with the housekeeper then headed for the front door while Kirsty leaned forward and gave the old woman a peck on the cheek.
‘Thanks so much for looking after Uncle Joe,’ she said. ‘I know my mum will be really pleased to know he’s in such good hands.’
Then she slipped
the wad of cash into Eileen’s hand and closed the old lady’s fist around it.
‘We would really like him to have another television,’ she said. ‘It’s what I want and my mum, too, and I know my Grandpa would have wanted it too.’
Eileen’s eyes filled with tears as she whispered, ‘Thank you. Oh, thank you. You’re a grand girl, so you are.’
Kirsty walked to the door and got into the car where Craig was waiting, revving the engine.
‘Thank you, Eileen,’ she called out the window. ‘Don’t stay out here, it’s freezing. Goodbye. I’ll write soon.’
And the Polo bounced its way down the track.
‘Oh, look,’ said Kirsty happily, as they turned out of the driveway back into the lane and she craned her neck for a last look at the little falling-down house. ‘She left his TV aerial up all these years. Oh, Mum is going to be so rapt that we found Uncle Joe.’
Inside the farmhouse Jenny O’Brien was stoking up the fire.
‘Come on down, Mickey,’ she yelled up the stairs before heading towards the cabinet. ‘Casablanca’s on Sky.’
Chapter 36
Monday, 22 February 1999
When Molly woke up, Pohraig was sitting on the side of her bed, staring at her.
Every cell in her body ached and she felt horribly alive.
‘It didn’t work?’ she croaked.
‘It didn’t work,’ Pohraig said softly, relieved, leaning over and brushing her cheek with the beautiful skin of his lovely hands.
‘Well, before you start getting all “Thou shalt not” on me it was the cry-for-help variety,’ Molly said, pulling herself up higher in the bed and wondering if you always felt this cranky after trying to drown yourself.
The details of the night before swarmed around her like angry hornets but she mentally swatted them away. These morning-after nightmares were a drag. Who needs the details? she thought. Why don’t I just wake up every morning and assume I’ve disgraced myself or fractured something? Save time.
Pohraig was watching her like a hawk.
‘Is it safe to assume that now I have survived the icy waters of Ballymahoe Harbour my Aunt Vivienne is waiting outside the door with an axe to hack me into little pieces?’
Finding Tom Connor Page 29
