Tim put his hand on her thigh and gave it a squeeze. The hunger returned to his eyes. “You just confirmed everything I’ve ever heard about you.” He moved his hand slightly upward. “Kilkea has his heart in it. You can feel it. You’re incredible with animals. The way they respond to you. The way they know what you want. You know you want this.” He began to pull himself toward her.
She saw the tattoo as she pushed his hand off her thigh. The meaning too frightening to mistake. The first time she saw the symbol of the Charity was on the arm of the man who murdered Gus Adams. Her life came to a sudden and severe halt that night. She remembered the cold-blooded assassin as he sliced open Gus’ belly with a blade sharper than any she had ever seen. Magnus was there, watching the killing with detached interest, like a manager would watch workers load freight at a dock. Seeing the tattoo triggered something inside of her and panic rose. The Charity was something she had learned to fear and detest, but now it surrounded her in a cloak of protection. She didn’t have time to think. If this was protection, she wanted no part of it.
She pushed her arms against his chest.
Instead of backing off, he bent forward, pressing his hand down on her leg. It was hot, and she felt his breath on her skin. He moved his body to close the gap between them. Her thoughts raced. Was he serious? Did he actually believe he could make a move on her and think she would accept it? Her heart beat harder in her chest. She turned her head and was surprised to see him looking directly into her eyes—not off to the side or out the window as he usually did—but directly at her. They didn’t carry a question of more, only the certainty this was what he wanted. In the green shimmered something unreadable, sending a shiver of warning down her spine. He pulled her mouth to his, trying to claim her. He kissed her mouth, her face and moved down her neck.
“Tim. Don’t.” She was breathless, shocked at his advance. She tried to squirm away.
His hands moved over her, gripping her. Running over her jeans. Smoothing over her shirt. Feeling her. Letting himself build.
“Please. Stop.” His mouth was over hers. Stopping her from talking. His tongue tried to work through her clenched teeth and ran over her lips. She gasped again, hardly able to breathe. He seemed emboldened by it. She took both her arms and pushed him away as hard as she could. He wouldn’t be denied and reached for her again.
“Stop it!” she screamed and slapped him as hard as she could, but the door hindered her movement. She tried to scream again, but he had his mouth on hers, stopping any sound from escaping. He was all power. No hint remained of the contrite and awkward man of a few days ago. He took her hands and tried to pin them against the seat, all the while his mouth was kissing. Exploring. She twisted her body away from him, freeing one hand. Finally, she fumbled with the door handle. The door flew open, and she tumbled out of the truck.
“STOP IT,” she yelled.
Tim jumped out and stood in front of her, the expression on his face unchanged, eyes clouded and assessing. His heavy breathing steadied as he stood stock still. Slowly, his hands wrung together, and his face seemed to melt as his emotions surfaced. “Ah! Jesus!” he cried. “What have I done? I’m so sorry.” His distress built by the moment. “I... I thought you wanted that. Well, you were supposed to—”
“No.” Jessica wiped her mouth against her shoulder, not taking her eyes off him.
Tim changed. The practiced and calculated actions dissolved. It was as if she was seeing a raw version of the rehearsed man. He shook his head from side to side. “I’m so, so sorry. It was all my mistake,” he said, alternating wringing his hands then flapping them as if he was shaking them dry. His voice increased its crescendo, matching the distraught motions. He shuffled his weight from foot to foot, upper body rocking slightly as he tapped. The confident man completely dissolved. It was a perfectly orchestrated counterpoint. “Please don’t tell anyone. It won’t ever happen again.”
The dogs took the opportunity to jump out of the truck and sniff about the field. Tim made a slight ticking sound with his tongue accompanied by a flicked hand gesture. They returned to his side and sat down, eyes on his face, tongues hanging from their mouths, waiting for the next command.
Jessica scanned the hillsides and got her bearings. Old man O’Malley walked slowly up a distant hill, oblivious to them but within earshot if she screamed. She hoped the gun was loaded with buckshot.
“I’m going to walk the rest of the way. Let me be clear, I don’t want you around me. Ever. Keep away from me.”
She turned on her heel and strode up the hill. At the top, she saw the cottage barely half a mile away and heard Tim’s truck bouncing its way out of the field and back to the road. The short walk gave her time to cool her fury and collect her thoughts. Something was definitely off with Tim, but that was no excuse. It was easy to be angry with him, but she was even more so at herself. She questioned her every move and what she was doing or not doing to keep herself safe and decided she was doing a terrible job at it.
Once back inside, she pressed her back against the door and heard the satisfying click as the lock secured into place. She paced back and forth in the kitchen, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. Needing something to do, she searched the cupboards for coffee and reluctantly put the kettle on for tea, happy that it would at least be hot and caffeinated. Out the window, she saw an empty space on the far side of the barn where Tim usually parked his truck.
“Asshole,” she muttered.
The shrill whistle of the kettle made her jump. A mug of tea was not going to soothe her. She looked for something—anything—to take her mind off Tim. Injury or nature made him unreadable and impeded his abilities to read people, but the balance was he was almost telepathic with animals, a sign of a truly skilled trainer.
Something about how he acted was reminiscent of Erin, but he was in his own league. Whatever his deficit was, he still had the motor and mental abilities to overcome what he could and mask the rest. She doubted it was from an injury, but some sort of mental challenge inhibited him. Stories occasionally filled the news of children harmed by vaccines or of a diagnosis of a spectrum disorder as an adult, but she had no way of knowing what was off with Tim, only that something was. As with Erin, she suspected the more Tim rehearsed and practiced an action, the more fluid the responses or words became.
A soft breath of air, like someone gently exhaling, drifted against the back of her neck. She brought her hand up and rubbed the feeling away, giving her shoulders an extra shake for insurance.
“I’m alone here!” she said aloud, needing, more than believing, it to be true.
Craving activity and something to keep her imagination in check, Jessica retrieved the box from the crawlspace, not caring or noticing the shambles she created in her rush. She unfolded the top flaps, closed her eyes and plunged her hand deep inside, like a child at a birthday party, searching for the best treat in a grab bag. Feeling around for the most satisfying find, she settled on a thick book. Hastily, she refolded the flaps over one another, and placed the box back under the eaves.
From the kitchen she grabbed a notepad and pencil and looked at the journal with a mix of curiosity and dread, not sure if she wanted the knowledge it contained.
Settled in the chair, her legs draped over one arm and back propped against the other. She centered herself in preparation for whatever she may learn by closing her eyes and letting memories wash over her. The hair on the back of her arms stood up as she traced the contours of Bridget’s face, sharper than in any image. Bridget’s body was so thin it seemed to cave in on itself. Her shoulders rounded from protecting her chest from the constant painful spasms of her coughs. Her skin seemed painfully thin, too white and papery not to tear with every movement. Jessica drew in a breath and shifted deeper into the cushions. The mug of tea and biscuit sat on the floor next to her, unwanted and untouched. A cup of coffee and a bagel would have been so much more satisfying.
A faded blue canvas cloth bound the inexpensive but st
urdy book, and frayed threads wisped along the edges. The words Diary 1950 were stamped deeply into the cover, the letters only slightly visible against the wear of hands and soil. No gold leaf ever graced the cover or pages. Happy with her diversion, Jessica opened it and stared at the words on the first page. Absently, she reached down, brought the mug of tea to her lips, sipped, and returned the mug to the floor all without moving her eyes.
The paper was unlined, but lines were hardly necessary, for the keeper of the journal had perfect handwriting. Some pages had been ripped out, their jagged remains a feathery reminder that a person’s past is no more real than the memories they leave behind. The surviving pages were filled with impeccably formed script in neat, clean lines that did not gradually drift upward. A light, almost powdery scent mixed with the smells of old paper, dust, and ink. “This Journal Belongs to:” was printed in black ink from the printer’s press, the only machine made letters in the entire book. Below it in the space provided, written in the faded and hued blue of a fountain pen, were painstakingly formed letters that created the words, Bridget Heinchon. Below that, large block numbers announced 1950. One blue line crossed out the zero and the number five written in its place.
Slowly, Jessica turned the page and began to read.
25 July ‘55
6 eggs
Inniu thug mé míle maith agat.
One more day to Gean Cánach! It was miserable hot today. You could have boiled water on the tabletop in our little house if you’d had a mind for it. M, D, P and me finished up our chores for Ma and we gathered up the kids and dashed on down to the lough. They all scurried about with their cups and spoons and set about digging and making mud pies. M peeled her shoes off and hitched her skirt up to her knees. I thought I saw steam come off her legs! D ran in the water straightaway with a great splash that nearly toppled her over. Of course he told me that a proper girl did what M does—just dab herself with water. A proper lady would never JUMP IN! Then he proceeded to show me how to dab myself with water, as if I was taking lessons from him! That cheeky lad. It was worth my Ma’s wrath just to see the look on his face when I walked, all nicely slow and ladylike, right into the water. I thought he and M were out to catch flies their mouths were open so wide. I was right about Ma. I got back home looking like a drowned sheep and she made me sweep out the missus’ rooms, too.
Jessica hunted through other entries and decided that “M” was shorthand for “Meggie,” “P” for Patrick, and “D” was for Daniel. She sat quietly and mulled over what she was learning. In 1955, Bridget would have been twenty-two years old and Margaret—who Jessica assumed was “Meggie”—would have been about twelve. Neither of them ever mentioned Patrick or Dan that Jessica could recall, and they hardly, if ever, spoke of their mother. Keeping track of eggs and knowing Gaelic were a surprise, too. Jessica began to feel as if her arms were missing and no one bothered to tell her until now. She kept reading.
26 July ‘55
7 eggs
Mé riamh ag iarraidh saoire seo go deireadh.
I’m up much too late but I can’t sleep. Gean Cánach arrives in the morning! It was another miserable hot day. Ma was feeling well enough to sit with us by the lough, with the wee ones of some of the other ladies by her feet. We were all in good spirits and laughed at ourselves wondering what the little people were doing on a day like this! I kept Ma happy and only waded up to my shins, but I could see her look at me in her way. M and D walked along the edge and even from where I stood I could see the blush in her cheeks as she pretended not to look at the other lads. Ma would look at them and back at me, barely hearing what the missus was chattering on about. Ma knows. But she’s waiting for the missus to say something first.
After supper we sat on the lawn for hours and waited until the sun went down. I listened to Ma and the missus sing some songs they knew from their men. I was so happy not to be back in our flat in the city as the heat was taking a terrible toll on Ma. The missus is an angel from Heaven to bring Ma here. Mr. Taggart heard that GC was due to arrive and delivered a basket of bread and a half leg of mutton! Imagine that!
27 July ‘55
8 eggs
An bhfuil sé indéanta go breá níos mó?
Gean Cánach is here! Blessed Jesus he is safe. I felt Ma’s eyes on me all morning as I tidied up the camp. She knows, but I was trying to hide my excitement from her. As soon as he arrived and he did his greetings, we went to the lough along the wood path. He was as desperate to see me as I him and we made care to stand a distance apart even on the path. Ah! The sight and the smell of him made my knees weak. Once he stood so close to me that our hands touched and I watched his eyes close at the feel of it. He was right about Ma needing time away from the flats to get her color back and now he has a few days that he’s to spend with his Ma and P and D. He told me all about his work and the meetings I’ve missed. People are suffering something terrible. He told me about the eviction notices landed two days ago and the lines around the block at the community office inquiring for more flats and I told him I wanted to get back to Belfast today! Blessed GC, he told me that nothing is going to change overnight, that there’ll be time enough for my help, but for these next few days he was here and he wanted to see me smiling. I was smiling enough when GC and the boys did their greetings. Our Mas were all about fixing a dinner for a king and laid it out by the lough. GC and D and P fit us with tears and our cheeks hurt from smiling when telling us how they would sneak out under their Ma’s nose for a midnight dip. Blessed that my brothers are here and not stirring up trouble for themselves in the city. Both our Mas had their weights lifted. I was with my GC. M, D, P. All were happy with food and folly. Aye. Life was fine today.
As Jessica read, a new picture emerged of her mother. Bridget was well into the age when most women married, but it sounded like she was almost too busy with her own home life, caring for the details because her own mother could not. Jessica’s grandma did not sound well. Other entries mentioned Ballymurphy and Belfast, names she had never associated with her mother or aunt and had no idea what the meetings were that seemed so important. Bridget was more than a little in love with Gean Cánach, ‘GC’, whoever that was. Jessica got an insight into the answers as she continued to read the diary. Interspersed with talks of egg counts and lazy summer days at the lake, Jessica read other passages to piece together why a beautiful young woman would not be married to the man of her dreams when they were obviously crazy about one another.
Flipping through the pages, she discovered the journal had a shallow pocket built into the back cover. Looking more carefully, this pocket hid its contents from the eyes of any casual onlooker. The glue, yellow and brittle, caused a fissure to open by the spine. Jessica gently felt around the flap and pulled out several neatly folded letters. The handwriting did not match Bridget’s. It was a man’s writing, larger and bolder. The paper felt as thin as tissue paper but was stronger somehow. Not even the handwriting had ripped it.
She opened each one. Each had the same writing. Each looked as if it had been opened and read many times before, refolded with great care, and replaced in its secret spot. She was dismayed to read the Gaelic words and she admit couldn’t understand one.
What was the most intriguing and gave her heart a quick zap was that each was signed, “Gach mo ghrá go deo.” The name beneath always smudged into oblivion.
AUGUST 1957
LOUGH NEAGH
AGHALEE, NORTHERN IRELAND
STRAY BARS OF music floated up from the cottages along the shore and mixed with late afternoon laughter from musicians and workers, mothers and fathers, children and grandparents who could not resist its pull. The ale had already begun to flow. Soon, a steady stream of dancers would gather for the reel, thumping to tempos set by the fiddles and fifes. No one ever cared a fig if they could keep perfect time. Tonight, as in countless celebrations, men would drink and girls would blush at words spoken on the torrent of it.
The night promised to be clear.
After weeks of rain, the gathering had no cause for celebration other than a release from the damp, dark weather they had endured for weeks. Most of the men had come up to the lough to escape the crowded, dirty conditions of their flats in Belfast. Everyone brought what they could, knowing that a loaf of bread, jug of hard cider, or growler of ale would be joined by other offerings to create a small feast.
The revelry started midday. Men sauntered to the cluster of cottages, rolled up their sleeves in the hot summer sun, and claimed a stump by the fire that would inevitably burn until the next day. Women only let go of their children’s hands once they turned up the long dirt drive. The hedges would keep most wee lads and lasses from wandering too far, and the men would keep the rest in line. Women smiled and greeted one another with kisses and squeals, hitching their skirts above their knees for freedom from heat and movement, securing them in lopsided bustles with apron strings and twine.
Bridget Heinchon ran up to one woman who struggled with a heavy pottery jug of cider and large basket of food. The summer sun had bleached the color from Bridget’s thick hair, leaving a straw-hued rope secured in an easy braid at the nape of her neck. Loose strands were absently swept behind her ear. Cotton pant legs rolled to mid-calf, and her blouse cinched with a knot at her waist. The day’s heat and excitement of the growing gathering brought a flush to her cheeks. She hoisted the jug onto her hip with one arm and embraced her dearest friend with the other. “Mary! I’ve not seen you in ages! Here, let me help you with that,” she said, settling the jug on her side.
Mary Breen kissed her friend and exhaled with relief from a burden that once again Bridget would help bear. “I’ve been here, working in the laundry, love! I’ve not been flittin’ back and forth to the big city like yourself.”
“How is Crissy? And Davies?” Bridget asked, breathless and impatient to catch up, “You have to tell me all.”
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 8
