The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  Mary stretched her back, caught the eye of another friend and waved, answering Bridget in the shorthand reserved for the closest of friends. “Crissy’s yearning for a man would make a whore blush, and Davies’ no wiser for his time at Maghaberry. Dreadful place, that is. He’s soon to be out. A sane person would never risk it twice, but he’ll be back in soon enough. His ma’s been asking me for grandchildren. Now, how can I do that with her son sleeping in a cell’s bunk instead of his wife’s bed?” Mary shook her head and pursed her lips in disbelief. “Count my blessings, I should. I don’t see how other wives manage their broods without the help of their husbands. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

  Bridget laughed and put her arm around Mary’s shoulder, giving her a kiss and trying to lighten her mood. “What are we to do with our men? They take too much time to train and then they either get themselves locked back up or taken away by the cause, just in time to miss changin’ the nappies!”

  Mary shared her friend’s laugher, but her eyes betrayed their pain.

  Bridget continued, “Lots of folks are coming by the church for help. We try to find them steady jobs, but the only hiring is for day jobbers. It’s hard to feed a family when the money comes in spits and spurts. We give to all who ask, but it’s never enough to cure their hunger.”

  “Are you dealing with the men, too?”

  “I find my sympathies run with the women. They hide their frustration by keeping their homes and their children in order as best they can. The men handle it with anger and by making plans for revenge. If that doesn’t work, they drink. I keep hoping for a miracle.”

  “I heard your brother Patrick was almost nicked by the RUC again,” Mary said as she scanned the growing gathering. “He went to get his old job back at Geary’s Grocery. Ol’ man Taggart wouldn’t even look at ‘im. Said Patrick let Geary’s down by getting ‘imself locked up the first time. Imagine that! He went so far to say that Patrick brought disruption and despair to Geary’s by bringing his papist friends around.”

  Bridget shook her head, trying to keep her anger in check. “Old man Taggart needs to get his brain out of his arse. Patrick’s been helping at Geary’s since he was a wee tot, sweeping around the store and lugging anything that needed lugging. He kept that store afloat. Now Taggart won’t talk to him? That’s nothing to do with where he bends his knees to pray, that’s got to do with the damned English tryin’ to get us ‘papists’ to move out of town and havin’ the RUC do their biddin’,” she said, nearly spitting the words from of her mouth.

  Mary barely raised an eyebrow at Bridget’s colorful tirade. Instead, she gave a discrete nod in the direction of a group of men piling logs and bits of odd lumber for the night’s bonfire. She smiled. “I suggest you unscrew your face and put a smile on. Gus Adams and Kavan Hughes are here and looking in this direction.”

  A slight flush crept up Bridget’s cheeks. She tried hard not to look toward the men. “Stop it, now. I’ve lots of friends.”

  “You do at that, but none make you blush like a rose. They’re as busy lookin’ for you as you’re busy trying not to look.” Mary grabbed a basket of crisps and held it out to Bridget. “Here. Those men look hungry. And I’d bet they’d like some food, too.”

  “Och! Shame on you!” Bridget smoothed another wayward strand behind her ear and lowered her chin. “Well, it wouldn’t be right not to give them a greeting.” She gave her own cheeks a quick pinch for extra color and looked at her friend with a question. “Ready?”

  “You’re as ready as ever, Miss Heinchon. Now go over and score yourself a man. Most women hardly find one, and you’ve got two to choose from.” Mary leaned over and gave Bridget one last spit and polish, brushing a few stray crumbs off Bridget’s blouse. “I’d say the deacon doesn’t stand a fightin’ chance.”

  Bridget scoffed. “I’m too old for all your nonsense. If Deacon Kavan Hughes was going to succumb to any woman’s charms, he would have done so before he became an ordinand. Besides, I’m suspecting ol’ man Taggart might be giving me the gleam nowadays.”

  “You’re wrong. Kavan’s always pined for you, just never could find the nerve to ask you.”

  “And you want me to flirt with the devil as well?”

  “He’s not ordained yet, and he’s a man.”

  “Never,” Bridget said forcefully. “He’s begun his vows. He’s a man, certainly, but a man of his word. He’s made his choice—and it’s not me.

  Mary gave her friend a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. “Oh, Bridgie. Don’t despair.”

  “I’m not despairin’, Mary. I know what a love for others feels like. I understand him.”

  “Besides, he’s not the only man there hoping to see you.”

  Bridget looked over at the group of men and caught the motion of one head darting down. “You mean Gus?”

  Mary gave Bridget a crooked smile. “The same.”

  Bridget steadied herself on Mary’s arm while she gave a forced laugh. “Gus Adams? He and his brothers have been a pestering thorn in my side since our mams placed us in nappies! Gus is more fly paper on my shoe than a skitter to my heart.”

  “Bridgie! Stop your lies! He’s kind and steadfast. You and he have spent many summer nights by the lough. Don’t look so surprised!” She wagged a disapproving finger in Bridget’s face. “The two of you have long been sweet on one another.”

  “Aye,” Bridget said, voice trailing off as she got lost in her memories. “We have at that.”

  “He’s never let you down. Anyone can see he’s been waiting for you.”

  “Gus. Sweet Gussie Adams,” she said, color deepening in her cheeks.

  “I’ve heard he’s got a good job as a barn manager and head trainer at a thoroughbred farm in County Fermanagh. He’s ready and waiting for you.”

  “He’s been a brother and a father to me. But anything more than that?” she questioned, giving an exaggerated shudder. “It feels wrong somehow. Just too close.”

  Mary narrowed her eyes. “You’re not foolin’ me, Miss Heinchon.”

  “Gus and Kavan are best friends. What would either of them do if I let it be known I chose one over the other?”

  “You think too much. Stop thinking and start living. Give ‘em some crisps and a smile. I’m bettin’ you’ll have a great evening.”

  “You think crisps will do the trick, do you?”

  “Bridget Elizabeth Heinchon,” Mary said in mocked reprimand. “You’ve got to let yourself have a life. Your brothers are off on their own gettin’ into God knows what mischief. Your sister is nearly fifteen and a young woman for sure. Your mother and father, God rest their souls, have gone to their maker. You’ve been a good daughter and done what you should by raising your mother’s brood as your own. It’s your time now, my lovely friend. It’s time you begin to live a life for yourself. Get married. Have a family.”

  “Married!” Bridget spat out the word. “I’ve told you I’ll never marry and I meant it. Look at what my ma went through. She never would have had the brood she did if she could have rid herself of my pa. He was a drunk and a louse, but my ma did what she thought a good girl did and married the first man who asked. She married into a living hell.”

  “Not every man is bad.”

  “Still, I’m not the marryin’ type. I don’t want to give up my life for someone else.”

  “Give up your life? You’re too busy with your organizin’ and your meetin’s and all for the benefit of people you hardly know. Findin’ housing and food and jobs for anyone who asks. Start living your life for you and not others. You’re entitled.”

  “How can I stop living my life for others? Yes, I’ve helped my ma, but that hasn’t stopped me from living my life. I can’t stop what I’m doing when people are hungry around me. You’ve helped. You’ve seen the look in their eyes when we’ve found flats in Ballymurphy and a job or two for desperate folks.”

  Mary wrinkled her face in disgust. “The loyalists’re so bloody scared that we’re goin’ to
take a job or use our holy water to drown them all.”

  “It’s not their jobs they’re afraid of. Those idiots are sayin’ they want to forge a ‘national identity’ of one people in Northern Ireland. You know, when they plowed down the row of estates and built us those concrete blocks of buildings, they said they were doin’ us a favor. Mark my words, Mary, that place is like a boilin’ pot with the lid on too tight. You can’t have people livin’ on top o’ one another like that without jobs or hopes and expect things to end well.”

  “They believe puttin’ us in concrete flats like sardines is going to make us feel like this is our country, too?”

  Bridget shook her head, feeling energized by the conversation. She lowered her voice and brought her mouth closer to Mary’s ear. “I was at a meetin’ last week. There’s a strong river of courage running through our people. There’s folks, the nationalists, who are finding those who want a unified Ireland, one nation. They’re building strength to get the British out of our knickers.”

  “Folks? You mean Gus and his brothers.”

  “Yes. Gus,” she said, eyes darting to the side, “and the others.”

  Mary tried to hide her concern as she looked around to see who could be listening. “Shhh. As soon as your ma’s brood was out of nappies you started with the meetings. No self-respecting girl would go to the organizer meetin’s, but you did. Leave the organizing to Kavan and the details to Gus. Kavan can do even more when he gets behind the altar, and Gus has access to the means to get the things done. You’ve done an amazing job, now enough’s enough!”

  “The cause is more important to me than runnin’ after babes or waitin’ at home for something to happen. I can’t stop now.” Bridget lowered her voice. “Your sweet Davies got his arse locked up for organizing a march down Shankill road to keep the St. John’s parish school open and teaching Gaelic. You said it yourself. It’s only a matter of time before he risks his freedom again for us.”

  “Bridgie,” Mary said with her voice wavering, “I... I don’t think I could last a minute more if anything happened to him. If... if he had to spend more time in Maghaberry. If...”

  Bridget rested her hand against Mary’s cheek. “Ah, my friend. You’ll soon be done with your time as a prison widow, and you’ll have those children you yearn for.”

  “Och, I can only hope.”

  “It will happen. I pray to our Virgin Mother herself. Have faith.”

  Mary swallowed away the growing lump in her throat. She forced a smile onto her face. With one eyebrow cocked, she poked Bridget in the arm. “At least I’ve a husband and tasted the sweets of marriage.”

  “You don’t need the confines of marriage to taste its sweets.”

  “Bridgie!” Mary’s cheeks flushed scarlet. She quickly touched the sign of the cross over her body for protection. “I’m worn to the nib prayin’ for my country and husband. Now I have to add your virtue to my list. You will not inch one more year closer to spinsterhood. Go on. Get a move on.”

  Bridget lifted her chin in defiance of her friend’s words and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “I’d say my virtue was past the point of prayer.” She grabbed the basket and sauntered through the crowd.

  The clearing was crowded with men, women, and children. Clusters of children scampered up the rocky shore and jumped off into the cold waters of the lake. The most daring of them challenged the older boys to swim out to the oddly-shaped, but not too distant, rocky island and back. Older women sat around husking corn and peeling potatoes, the youngest children sat at their knees playing happily with flat sticks, a rusty tin cup, and a bent stub of a spoon. Younger mothers idly chatted while they helped adorn lopsided mounds of sand with bits of moss and leaves, lifting their faces to catch the lengthening rays of the day’s sun. Blue sky and rounded green hills reflected off the still, deep waters. Teenage boys strung a long rope over a leaning tree and swung each other ever higher over the water, mugging fright and bravery as they plunged into the lake, daring the girls to try but happy they would watch.

  By the time Bridget made her way closer to the men, a few notes from fiddles and guitars floated as instruments were tuned and readied. Her basket of crisps was almost emptied, but she had schemed to have a few left to make a polite offer when she reached them. The men wore variations of the same theme: loosely woven cotton or linen shirts, light wool trousers. Some wore belts and others suspenders, but all had their shirtsleeves rolled up, exposing pale and freckled forearms. Bridget kept her eyes down as she waited.

  Finally, she recognized the well-muscled forearm reach into the basket. “Miss Heinchon’s crisps. None finer in all of Belfast and Lough Neagh.”

  Bridget willed the color not to rise in her cheeks. “Father Hughes. The fuss you make over a few thin-sliced potatoes and salt. One would think you’re daft.”

  A flash of perfect teeth and a gaze from pale blue eyes that gave her goose flesh met her remark. “I’m not ‘Father’ yet, Miss Heinchon. And it’s not the crisps that make me daft.”

  Deep color rushed to her cheeks, and she noticed the other men tightening their circle, forcing Bridget to stand even closer. “Careful there, Father, or even the Pope himself will not be able to wash away your sins during your next confession.”

  The men roared with laughter, and Gus stepped up and ushered Bridget to the side, handing her an apple with a theatrical flourish. His head was a mass of dark curls, and his blue eyes flashed with mischief. “But one has to be able to see the action as wicked before it can be called a sin. Perhaps a bite of this will help you see Father Hughes more clearly.”

  Bridget grabbed the apple, circled its rosy skin with her tongue, and took a noisy bite. Staring Gus directly in the eye, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, using the silence of the stunned men to her advantage as she slowly chewed. “I think I have a pretty good view on things, don’t you, Mr. Adams?”

  “Ah, Ireland’s Eve.”

  “And who’d be the serpent, Mr. Adams?” she asked, looking him up and down.

  “I’d like to hear who you believe the serpent is, too, Gus,” said Kavan, with a questioning look. “After all, we need to know who to thank when this young woman finally succumbs to temptation.”

  The two friends burst into laughter. “Oh, to be able to listen in to the confessions on a Monday morning after a weekend such as this! If I give you absolution, will you promise to tell me a few?” Gus asked, throwing his arm around his friend’s shoulder. Kavan hooted and roughed up Gus’ curly hair, using the motion to put him in a headlock.

  In a pantomime acted out hundreds of times in their lives, the two friends mock wrestled, each exaggerating knockouts and recoveries with rolling eyes and daffy expressions. If a real competition existed between them, they hid it with chest thumps and arm flexing. The larger group roared with good-natured laughter, the craic of the moment high. Smiles only grew when Gus stumbled over a root and fell backward. Still laughing, he extended a hand up to Kavan for a hoist up. Kavan turned his back and shook his clasped fists over each of his shoulders in feigned victory. A renewed roar of laughter met the motion.

  Before anyone could start another conversation, a line of dancers looking for fresh partners entered the group and swept Bridget away. Musicians followed, and they all quickly fell into step. She tried in vain to catch either Kavan’s or Gus’ eye with hope to pair with one or the other to dance. She caught a glimpse of Gus, standing with his brother. Gus’ curly dark hair, rounded cheeks, and stocky frame stood in contrast to his younger brother’s lanky build and bearded face. His posture told her they were deep in conversation, and she should wait until he found her for their banter to continue.

  The next hours were some of the happiest in Bridget’s life. For one night, bellies were full. Love and kindness flowed as freely as the pints of ale hoisted and shared. Music mixed with dance and laughter under the spell of the late summer evening.

  Forgotten were the pangs of poverty and hunger. Forgotten were the jobs de
nied or forced evictions. Forgotten were the tongues silenced for speaking the truth. Young and old were determined to enjoy their summer night. Whatever waited for them when morning returned could wait a little longer.

  The sun stayed high well into evening. By the time it set, exhaustion had extinguished the tantrums of little ones enough so that even stomping feet and loud voices could not disturb their peace. Old Lorries and sedans crept up the rutted path. Into their backseats and boots, mothers loaded children—limp and heavy—and baskets, empty for another day’s feast.

  Long after the faded purples of twilight blended into the night sky, long after the last of the trucks bounced back to the main road, Bridget laid naked and entwined once again in the arms of the only man she would love forever.

  RAPHOE, IRELAND

  “WELL IT’S ABOUT damned time.”

  Jessica, startled out of her thoughts, opened her eyes quickly, then squeezed them shut again, not believing what she saw. When she allowed herself another look, a smile grew on her lips.

  “You should talk.”

  Jessica pulled the horse to a stop and swung down into Michael’s waiting arms. She could feel his hands tangle in her hair as he kissed her cheeks and lips, arms encircling her, pulling her to him. She reached and ran her hands over his back, his hips. She inhaled his scent and felt his presence fill the tiny fissures that opened whenever they were apart. Neither was in a hurry for conversation. His energy seeped into her, and she could feel herself expand, replenished. Her mind cleared to see if she had imagined anything about him, to see if in their time apart she conjured something that wasn’t true, if she created something impossible. He placed a line of kisses down to the hollow of her neck and up behind her ear. She was aware of his every movement and how each cell in her being responded and opened to him. Her response to him was immediate—and very real.

  Michael took a step back and returned her smile with a sly grin, showing a southern gentleman’s grace that could not quite wipe out his northern edge. He was slightly rumpled from his travels—black hair tousled, casual chinos and shirt no longer crisp, and a day’s stubble shadowed his face. Everything about him was orchestrated to appear easy and relaxed, but his eyes gave him away.