by Sandy Taylor
‘I don’t think you did, Cissy. I saw Nora when she came back from England and she seemed fine. She seemed to have accepted what she had learned about her birth. No, I believe there is more to this than we know about and Nora isn’t able, or willing, to tell us what it is.’
‘What are we to do, doctor?’
‘Be patient, give her time, don’t demand anything from her. For now, that is all you can do.’
I hadn’t cried and I hadn’t spoken a word. The words were there alright; my head was full of them. They sat on my tongue, they hovered on my lips, but the effort of speaking them was too much and so I stayed silent. It seemed I couldn’t voice how that wall had made me feel. It had shut me out, it had put me in my place and it meant I could never see Eddie or the garden again. Even the worry on the faces of the people I loved didn’t bring the words from my mouth.
Most days, I sat in the yard and sometimes, if it was warm enough, Stevie would sit next to me. Mammy wanted him to get as much fresh air as he could. Although there was no conversation between us, it was a comfortable silence. Stevie, more than anyone, seemed to understand and demanded nothing from me but my silent company.
As the weeks went by, I began to feel a change inside me. I didn’t want to be here, doing nothing and saying nothing. And yet the thought of being anywhere else frightened me. One afternoon, me and Stevie walked slowly across the yard to Bonnie’s field, with Buddy-two running ahead of us. I leaned on him as he had once leaned on me. I took baby steps; my legs weren’t used to walking. I rested on the fence and watched Bonnie galloping around. The sun was shining, I closed my eyes and lifted my face up to the sky. I opened my mouth and breathed in the warm air and felt it seeping through my body, wrapping itself around my frozen heart. Then I saw the crocus, a small little flower that had bravely pushed through the soil to welcome in the beginnings of spring. It made me think of the garden and the bulbs that me and Eddie had planted. I knelt down and touched the soft purple petals and then I was sobbing, great shuddering tears that seemed to come from the very depths of my soul. All the tears that I had been keeping inside were released in a torrent so wild that I could hardly breathe. I was gulping for air, I was clawing at my throat. Stevie screamed for Mammy, who came running across the yard, and then I was in her arms and she was whispering words of comfort and rubbing my back and brushing back the hair that was sticking to my face. We stayed like that until I was calm. I closed my eyes and lay quietly in Mammy’s arms. Stevie held my hand and Buddy-two licked my wet cheeks. I felt safe and loved.
‘You’re going to be alright now, my love,’ said Mammy, gently. ‘You’re going to be alright, my Nora.’
Slowly, I began to feel better. Father Kelly brought Holy Communion up to the house and neighbours left stews and cakes on the doorstep. Minnie brought fresh bread every evening and it was lovely to see her. I didn’t feel strong enough to go back to the café – I wasn’t sure when I could ever go back, or even if I had a mind to.
Kitty visited me on her days off and even though I was poor company, she continued to come. She didn’t seem to mind that I said very little and I didn’t mind her ranting on about her job at the Hall.
‘I’m sick of it up there, Norah, and I’d give anything to leave, but there’s no work in this Godforsaken town, so what am I to do?’
I just smiled gently at her but I was unable to offer any advice. I was poor company indeed. I loved Ballybun, but Ballybun was home to the Brettons, and every time I thought about them, I could feel myself slipping back to that dark place and it frightened me. Something had to change, but I didn’t know what. All I knew was that I couldn’t stay in this town. I prayed every night to Saint Therese, who was the patron saint of flowers. I prayed for her wisdom and guidance. I asked her to find me a place where I would be at peace.
One morning, I sat at the kitchen table with Mammy and I told her about the wall.
‘They must be very frightened of you to do that,’ she said.
‘But why would they be frightened of me? What harm can I do them?’
‘They have a reputation to uphold, Nora, and it seems that they consider you to be a threat.’
‘I’m no threat to them, Mammy, and I want nothing from them. I just wish I could see Eddie again.’
‘I know, love, but I’m not sure that’s wise.’
‘I’m not feeling very wise, Mammy.’
‘What would make you happy, Nora?’ she said, reaching across the table and holding my hand. ‘I just want you to be happy.’
‘I want to be somewhere else, Mammy; I want to be away from this town.’
‘You want to leave us?’ said Mammy, frowning.
I nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’
Mammy stood up and walked over to the window. I knew I’d hurt her, but she had to know what I was feeling. She turned around and smiled at me. ‘If that is what you want, Nora, then we will all have to put out heads together and make it happen, for your happiness is more important to me than the thought of you leaving us.’
As I grew stronger, I was able to help Mammy a bit more. I took Malachi for walks. I pointed out the flowers that were now springing up all around us. The bright yellow daffodils, the tulips, the pretty white hawthorn wrapping itself around the hedgerows, the sweet crocuses in all their delicate glory and beautiful colours and the yellow spiky flowers of the forsythia. I taught Malachi the names of the flowers, just as Eddie had taught me.
I never walked beyond the boundaries of my home, not even down Paradise Alley. I wondered if I ever would – until the afternoon Minnie came to the Grey House.
We all sat around the table and listened to what Minnie had to say.
‘I’ve spoken with your mother, Nora,’ she began. ‘And she tells me that you are looking for a bit of a change.’
‘What sort of change?’ demanded Stevie.
‘A change for the better,’ I said, gently.
‘You’re not going away, are you?’ he said.
I shrugged.
‘You can’t.’
‘Didn’t you go away, Stevie?’ I said.
‘But that was because I was ill.’
‘And maybe, in a way, I am too.’
We were all looking at Minnie. ‘You remember that I told you about my sister?’
I nodded.
‘Well, there is a vacancy in the bookshop she manages, and she is looking for a girl. I immediately thought of you, Nora. Is it something you would be interested in?’
I could feel something inside me, like a weight slowly lifting from my shoulders.
‘Oh, it is,’ I said, smiling at her.
‘Where is this bookshop, Minnie?’ asked Mammy.
‘It’s in Dublin, Cissy.’
Mammy frowned. ‘Dublin? That’s a long way away.’
‘But there are trains, Mammy, and I could come home for visits.’
‘I don’t know, Nora,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘A bookshop, eh?’ said Grandad Doyle.
I smiled at him. ‘A bookshop.’
‘Now, wouldn’t that be something?’
‘It would, Grandad, it would really be something.’
‘Then I wish you all the luck in the world, girl.’
‘But what about the café?’ I said, looking at Minnie.
‘You know, Kitty came into the café while you were in England and she was going on about how she hated working at the Hall and would rather work in the laundry than spend another day there.’
‘I remember her saying that she was unhappy there,’ I said.
‘Well, she was going on, you know, the way Kitty does. So, if you’re interested in going to Dublin, I’ll ask her if she would like to work for me. Are you interested, Nora?’
I looked around the table at the people I loved. I didn’t want to hurt them but I had to get away and what better place to go than a bookshop? ‘I’m interested, Minnie,’ I said. ‘Oh, I am.’
I looked across at Mammy – I needed her blessing. I cou
ldn’t leave my home without it.
‘If that is what you want, Nora, then I won’t be standing in your way,’ she said.
‘Neither will I, love,’ said Daddy. ‘I shall think of you in your grand bookshop in Dublin.’
‘I’ll try to make you proud.’
‘You have always made us proud, Nora,’ said Grandad Doyle.
‘Stevie?’
‘Will you come back and visit us?’ he said quietly.
‘The first chance I get, Stevie.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘I shall go to the rectory this evening and phone Berry,’ said Minnie.
‘Berry?’ I said.
‘My sister’s name is Bernadette but she’s never liked it, so she calls herself Berry.’
I stood up. ‘Do you mind if I walk for a bit?’ I said.
‘You go ahead, love,’ said Mammy.
I stepped outside and walked across to the meadow. I was going to Dublin. I was leaving Paradise Alley.
Twenty-Six
Dublin, 1928
As the train took me further and further from my home, the calmer I became. I felt as though all the anxiety and worries of the past few months were disappearing behind me, along with the fields and villages, streams and rivers that rushed past the window. It had been hard to leave and I was scared of what lay ahead of me but I knew without a doubt that I was doing the right thing and the opportunity that Minnie had given me was like a gift from God. I was going to miss my family and I was going to miss Kitty, but I had to get away. The town that I had loved so much had become a kind of prison. I felt as though everyone knew my story and I felt like a fool. I’d tried to explain how I felt to Kitty.
‘Well, I didn’t know it,’ she’d said. ‘And why do you care what anyone else thinks?’
I was standing at my window, looking out over the field, and Kitty was sitting on my bed. ‘I just do,’ I’d said, turning around. ‘It’s like I’ve had something taken from me, something that is mine alone, that has been talked about and chewed over. Minnie knew, Father Kelly knew and God only knows who else has gossiped about it over a cup of tea. It was my story, Kitty, and I was the last to know about it.’
‘But leaving Ballybun isn’t going to change anything, is it?’
‘Not for the people who live here, but for me it will.’
‘And what am I to do without you?’ she’d said, softly. ‘You’re my only real friend.’
‘I’m sorry, Kitty,’ I’d said, ‘but this is the only way that I am going to get better. I want to stop feeling like this.’
‘Promise you’ll write,’ she’d said.
I sat down next to her and put my arm around her shoulder. ‘Of course, I’ll write and I’ll visit. And you can come visit me too. You’ll be sick of hearing from me.’
‘I want you to be happy, Nora. I’m just being a selfish girl, for I’m jealous of all the grand new friends you are going to make in Dublin.’
I’d smiled and held her hand. ‘None of them will be as grand as you, Kitty Quinn, and none of them will ever replace you. I promise.’
‘I’ll just have to let you go then, won’t I?’
I nodded. ‘But there is something I need you to do.’
‘Ask away.’
‘I want Eddie to know about the two of us; I want him to know what we are to each other.’
‘Are you asking me to scale the wall and go to the garden?’
‘Nothing that dramatic,’ I’d said, laughing.
I’d taken a letter from under my pillow. ‘I want you to give him this. Will you do that for me, Kitty?’
‘I will, of course, Nora,’ she’d said.
We sat in silence, with tears in our eyes, before we said our goodbyes.
I hauled my cases off the rack as the train pulled slowly into Dublin. I’d been told that I would be met at the station but I didn’t know by whom. My tummy felt like it was full of frogs, but there was excitement too. I hadn’t expected this to be easy but that was all part of it and I was going to meet my fears head-on. Maybe I was stronger than I thought.
There were people everywhere and noise and new smells; it reminded me of when me and Mammy had arrived in London. I stood looking around. How was I supposed to recognise someone I had never met before? I knew no one and no one knew me; what would I do if no one turned up? I had never felt more alone. Had I just made the biggest mistake of my life? Just as I was considering getting the next train home, I saw a girl tearing across the station towards me. She had a mop of red hair and a smile that warmed my heart and took away my fears.
When she reached me, she bent over double and held her side. ‘I thought I was going to be late and you’d be all alone and wondering where the hell I was and wasn’t this a desperate welcome for one who had come so far. But the heel of me bloody shoe is falling off and flapping all over the place and it’s a wonder I didn’t fall over and break me bloody neck.’ She stared at me. ‘You are Nora Doyle, I hope,’ she said.
‘I am,’ I said, laughing.
‘Thank God for that. I’m Josie Rafferty.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Josie Rafferty,’ I said, grinning.
‘You look as if you could do with a cup of tea and a bun. I’d treat you, but I haven’t a penny on me to call my own.’
‘In that case,’ I said, ‘I’ll be glad to do the treating.’
‘I can see we’re going to rub along a treat, Nora Doyle,’ she said, picking up my case.
We walked across the station to the tearooms. ‘You grab a table,’ she said, ‘and I’ll get the tea.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, handing her some pennies.
I found an empty table by the window and sat down. The little tearoom was noisy and busy. People were queuing at the counter, where the cakes were displayed beneath glass domes. Women lifted up their children so the little ones could have a look at the range of buns, tarts, fruit and cream cakes. The waitresses were rushing between the tables, all of which were covered with red and white gingham cloths. As soon as one table emptied, it was occupied again, mostly by families. There was a great deal of laughter and chatter, and sighs of appreciation as plates were set down on tables, napkins unfolded, and forks picked up. I heard the chink of china; cups being set back onto saucers, the lip of the milk jug kissing the rim of a cup and then the gurgle as tea was added straight from the mouth of a pot.
A woman laughed, her voice loud and raucous as it rang out across the tearoom. I loved the bustle of it all; I loved the feeling of movement, people going places and people coming home, and I wondered about their stories and whether they were happy or sad. The café was bigger than Minnie’s and a lot busier. As I looked around, it felt strange not to know one single person in there, for most of the people who frequented Minnie’s were from the town and there was always someone that I knew. When people came into the café who we’d never seen before, we would call them strangers and it suddenly occurred to me that it was me who was now the stranger.
I smiled at the girl who came to clear my table, straightened my back, and waited for Josie to return. She came back carrying a tray with two teas and two buns on it. ‘I hope you like currants,’ she said.
‘I do,’ I said.
‘So where are you from?’ she said, spooning sugar into her cup.
‘County Cork,’ I said. ‘A little town called Ballybun.’
‘I’m from Kerry. My father has an antiques shop and the house is full of the bloody stuff. You can’t move for stuffed birds in glass boxes, clocks that don’t work and furniture from the Dark Ages. He was expecting me to work in the shop after I left school but I told him I’d rather be boiled in oil than work in that mausoleum of a place. He said I was an ungrateful girl, after he’d raised me and fed me and given me a good home. I told him that I was off to Dublin to see a bit of life and that was that.’
‘And have you?’ I said.
‘Have I what?’
‘Seen a bit of life?’
<
br /> ‘I have and it’s grand and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, thank you very much. Now if you’ve finished your tea, we’ll catch a bus to the digs. I hope you don’t mind sharing a room with me.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ I said.
‘Right then,’ said Josie, standing up. ‘Your future awaits.’
I liked what she said, because somewhere out there, in this strange new city, on unfamiliar pavements that I was yet to tread, lay my future. I couldn’t wait to walk towards it.
Twenty-Seven
The first time I walked into Finnigan’s bookshop, it felt like a kind of homecoming. I breathed in the smell of old and new books and papers and wood and dust. The shelves reached up to the ceiling and ran the length of the ground floor. There was a long table holding old maps and rolled-up parchments, yellow with age and brittle to the touch. At the back of the shop was the children’s section. It was full of brightly coloured books, stacked higgledy-piggledy on the shelves, as if someone had thrown them up there. There were a couple of overstuffed chairs pushed back against the wall, inviting the young readers to curl up and while away the afternoon, losing themselves in the wonderful stories that were waiting to be discovered within the pages.
Upstairs was the antiquarian section; old books from writers long gone. Names I had never heard of. Milton, Swift, Pope and many more. Most of the books were leather-bound, in reds and dark greens and creamy yellows. Some of them scuffed from much use and some of them so perfectly preserved that it looked as if they had never been opened. This room smelled different and hard to describe. A mixture of sweetness and decay, like rotting flowers and almonds. It smelled of lives once lived and stories once written. I wished that Grandad Doyle was here beside me to see it.
Miss Berry was amazed that I knew what the word antiquarian meant and I told her I had learned it from my grandad, who was a great reader.
‘I can see that you have a love of books, Nora,’ she said, smiling at me. ‘It will stand you in good stead here at Finnigan’s and your enthusiasm for the written word will encourage our younger readers. But for now, you will dust, and let me warn you that it’s a thankless task, for as soon as your back is turned, those clever little mites will settle right back to where they were before. Dusting will serve two purposes, Nora: firstly, it will make the shop look loved, and secondly, you will learn where all the different books are kept, so that when a customer comes in and asks for a particular book, you can guide them to the right section. I hope you will be happy with us, Nora, and that you grow to be proud to call yourself a Finnigan’s girl.’
