by Stina Leicht
“We’ll go to the back garden,” Father Murray said, placing a hand on Liam’s shoulder. “That way we’ll not disturb Father Michael.”
They went through the kitchen, stopping long enough to collect two glasses and a bottle and then exited to the back garden. Father Murray sat on the bench in the shade of the ash tree. Liam breathed in the scents of flowers and recently turned earth and instantly felt better. The garden was a good idea. He put a hand against the ash tree while Father Murray poured.
“It seems I’m forever drinking your whiskey,” said Liam.
“Not to worry. I don’t get much use out of it otherwise.” Father Murray held up a glass. “Here,” he said, “for the nerves.”
“Frankie said women live for this shite and that I should get used to it.”
“Who’s Frankie?”
“A friend. From Malone. He’s my best man.”
“Ah. So, you did get a say in something, I see.”
“That and in you, I’m hoping. Mary Kate wants you to marry us too. But Mrs. Gallagher is set on Father Michael doing it, and Ma won’t go against her.” Liam drank the whiskey and was feeling much better by the second short. “You’ve been a friend to us, Father. I’d rather it were you.”
“So,” Father Murray said. “You’re marrying Mary Kate.”
“I am.”
“Are you thinking of having children?” The question sounded uncertain. Father Murray’s expression was unreadable.
“We are, Father,” Liam said. He hesitated to say the rest. He wasn’t sure how Father Murray would react. He knew exactly how his mother would handle the news—she wouldn’t, and Mrs. Gallagher would no doubt feel the same. “Mary Kate is thinking she’d like to wait until after she’s done with Uni.”
Father Murray nodded. “And what do you think?”
“I don’t really know. I mean, I’m not in a rush, but….” Liam shrugged. “I want to get my feet under me first. Be at the job a while. I got a job, you know. In Belfast.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“That’s quite a lot of change all at once.”
“Don’t I know it,” Liam said. He didn’t say that half the reason he’d been awake at night was worrying over the volunteering, what it meant and what would be expected. He couldn’t tell anyone what he’d done—not even Mary Kate. The IRA was an illegal organization, and as such, membership meant serious prison time. Never mind there was a truce on and had been on and off since January, but it wouldn’t last.
“How are you holding up?”
“Well enough.”
“But?”
“It’s my stepfather.”
“Is there something I can do?”
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Liam said. “But he won’t lay off. And it’s getting to a point where I have to spend most of my time away from the flat when he’s around. It’s worse when Ma isn’t there. Calls me jailbird and such when he knows she won’t hear. As if he knew fuck all about anything. Ah. Sorry, Father.”
“I understand your anger. Have you tried talking to him?”
“Talking? To Patrick? Are you mad?”
“You never know, Liam. Talking can go a long way to resolving problems. Maybe he’s upset that you’re leaving—”
“Oh, right. More like not leaving soon enough.”
“This is a big change for him too. Maybe he’s feeling threatened by the amount of attention and time your mother is devoting to the wedding.”
“I don’t care.”
“Promise me you’ll be as patient with him as you can.”
Liam sighed and shut his eyes. “I will, Father.” He set the empty glass on the wooden bench. “So, do you think you can marry us?”
“I would be honored,” Father Murray said. “However, I would like to speak to Mary Kate before I make it definite.”
“Yes, Father. Sure, Father. Whatever you say, Father.”
“Calm down,” Father Murray said. “The wedding is a whole three weeks away.”
“That isn’t nearly soon enough.”
Mrs. Foyle’s organ music filled St. Brendan’s Church to the brim, threatening to push the very roof off the building. It was so loud that the windows rattled, and Liam fought an urge to prop one open only to let out some of the excess noise before the building collapsed around one and all. It hurt his ears, but he knew she was playing out of a favor for his Ma and was only giving it her best. So, he kept the wincing to a minimum.
Dressed in a new yellow suit, his Ma sat in the front pew with Patrick. She’d already cried half her makeup off and was clutching Patrick’s arm tight enough to bruise. She sniffed and smiled up at him with an expression that made him want to hug her. This was it, she’d told him the night before, she was losing her little boy to the wider world. Never mind, that he’d been away in prison for a good part of his life. He wasn’t going to come home at all anymore and complain of school or fight with his stepfather. She was happy for him, and proud, but everything would be different. The flat would be emptier without him. He’d tried to console her, but it hadn’t exactly worked.
Sitting next to her, Patrick stared straight at him. His stepfather’s face was as expressionless as fresh concrete. To Liam’s surprise, Patrick had paid for a night at a small inn on the edge of town. Liam was grateful but found it hard to believe the burst of generosity wasn’t due to coercion.
“Stop your fidgeting, will you?” Frankie said. He’d been released from Malone two weeks after Liam and had driven up from Ballymurphy just to be in the wedding. It’d been natural to ask him to be best man since he’d been Liam’s closest friend for the past three years, but now he was doubting the wisdom in the decision for the fifteenth time.
“Why is she not coming out already?” asked Liam.
“Because she bolted from the church. Her mother’s on the way up to tell you. Only she can’t get past the crush of cousins.”
Liam’s heart stopped. “She did?”
“Shite, Liam,” Frankie said. “It’s in a state, you are. It’s not even any fun having a joke.”
Standing next to them in a row, Father Murray cast a censorious glance at Frankie. The rest of the church was busy watching for the bride.
Liam leaned in close and whispered so Father Murray couldn’t hear, “Fuck you, you tosser.”
Frankie whispered back, “How is it you landed in a family with so many single women in it? Attractive too, you lucky wee fuck.”
It was then that Mary Kate entered the church, and Liam forgot all about Frankie. She was wearing her grandmother’s wedding dress, and the daisies under the veil matched the daisies in her bouquet. Her hair was partially up and curls were set about her face and draped down her shoulders. She looked like Brigitte Bardot. He’d always thought her beautiful—well, since he was old enough to think of such things—and now, she was more than that, and she was his. She could’ve chosen to be with a fine, educated man with a bright future, a surgeon or barrister. All he had to offer was to be the wife of a Belfast taxi driver.
He felt someone elbow him in the side.
“Close your mouth,” Frankie said. “You’ll have her think she’s marrying an idiot. And then I’ll have to step in and—” He straightened his tie. “On second thought, keep your gob open.”
Liam closed his mouth. When the time came he kneeled next to Mary Kate in front of the altar. He couldn’t help thinking that their future was in his hands now. The knowledge of it weighed on him, settling into his shoulders. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, then he snuck a glance at Mary Kate, and she winked at him. He felt better at once. The heaviness hadn’t vanished, but it seemed to matter less—to have become more comfortable. He held himself straighter while the Mass droned on around them, knowing it would be one of the most important moments of his life. Father Murray had insisted on a full Mass, and it seemed to take forever. Liam’s knees ached, and he repeated his vows a bit too loud. His hands were shaking so hard th
at when he moved to put the ring on Mary Kate’s finger he dropped it but caught it before it hit the ground.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
“It’s all right,” she said. When it came her turn she grabbed the wrong hand and try as he might, he couldn’t get her to let it go. So, he let her put it on the wrong finger and then switched it to the correct one while no one was looking. The rest was pretty much a blur, but at last the Mass ended, and Liam kissed her in front of the whole church. He walked down the aisle with her hand in his and went out the door with a big grin on his face.
The reception was at Mary Kate’s family’s house in the Creggan, and it went as expected with one exception. Once the traditions had been observed and the drinking was well under way, Father Murray appeared at his side.
“Mary Kate, might I have a moment with your husband?”
Mary Kate said, “Sure, Father.”
When Liam stood up he stumbled. He hated beer, and Frankie thought him downright unnatural because of it. Liam insisted he wasn’t a teetotaler, but Frankie never took him at his word, and therefore had made it his duty to see to it that Liam’s glass was never empty.
Mary Kate asked, “Are you all right?”
“I am,” Liam said.
“Let’s get some water into you and let it mix with the whiskey,” Father Murray said.
“I can hold my liquor, Father.”
“I’m sure you can,” Father Murray said, “but at the moment you’re holding yours, Frankie’s and possibly half of Derry’s as well. Come on.”
It took a great deal of concentration to make it across the room and outside. Looking down at the steps, he knew he wasn’t going to make it to the street—let alone go for a short walk.
“Sit,” Father Murray said. “I’ll be back with the water.”
“Thanks, Father.”
The weather had been fine all day—an omen excellent enough to make his mother happy. He breathed deep and stared up at the night sky. Cloud patches obscured the stars. He didn’t have much in the way of friends in Derry, and he certainly wouldn’t miss his stepfather. For a moment, he wondered what Belfast was going to be like. He’d never been except when he was on his way to or from a prison. He wouldn’t know the city, and he wouldn’t know anyone but Mary Kate.
The door behind him clattered.
“Here you are,” Father Murray said, handing him a glass of water. “Drink up.”
Liam emptied the glass and then set it down on the step. “Is there a problem, Father?”
Father Murray sat next to him, the empty glass resting between them. “No.”
“Then why is it I’ve a feeling you’ve something to tell me that I’m not going to like?”
“I hope not.” Father Murray smiled. “I’m being transferred to a parish in Belfast.”
“That’s good news, Father. Which?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Liam waited for the real reason for Father Murray’s chat. There was a long pause.
“A family is a big responsibility,” Father Murray finally said.
Nodding, Liam said, “Was thinking about that earlier.”
“Good,” Father Murray said. “You’ll keep in mind what I’ve told you? About staying out of trouble?”
“Yes, Father.” As much as I can, Liam thought.
“I heard an unpleasant rumor about your taxi association. The one that you’ll be joining.”
“Did you? What was it?”
“I understand that the owner might hold certain political views.”
“Have a look inside the house behind you, Father. Most of them as lives in there hold certain political views, including my wife.”
Father Murray sighed. “You can’t get involved.”
“I need to support my family,” Liam said, “There’s not many would hire a man who’s done three years in Malone. It’s what I could get. I told you I’d stay out of it as much as I could, but if the trouble comes to me and mine, what am I to do?”
“Christ said to turn the other—”
“They can do whatever they like to me. They already have,” Liam said. The rest was something he’d been meaning to say for a long time, but had been afraid to offend. At the moment, however, the fear was gone, or maybe it was the drink talking. It didn’t really matter which. “I’ll take the insults and the beatings and the shite living accommodations and the RUC or the fucking army kicking in my door whenever they like and live on because that’s how things are. But anyone so much as touches Mary Kate… that I won’t stand for. I can’t. You understand? God gave her to me. I don’t know why. I certainly don’t deserve her. But for as long as I have her, I’ll protect her and our children with my life’s blood. I’m sorry, Father, if I’ve disappointed you, but that’s the way of it.”
Father Murray took a deep breath. “You haven’t, Liam. May God watch over you both.”
“You too, Father,” Liam said, feeling a smile creep across his face. “Anyway, there’s a truce on. Isn’t there? Still, you should be careful yourself. Belfast isn’t like Derry, I understand. It’s a lot tougher on hippies like you.” He felt Father Murray thump him gently on the back of the head.
“Oh, go on, you. Get back inside and get serious about embarrassing yourself in front of your in-laws. It’s traditional.”
Chapter 12
Andersonstown, Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland
July 1975
The West Belfast flat he shared with Mary Kate may have been small and shabby, but it was their own. All things considered, they weren’t doing too badly compared to some of their neighbors. He and Mary Kate had his earnings—or would the moment he got settled in his work—as well as her Uni grants which covered the books and tuition. Sitting at their rickety kitchen table loaded with mechanic’s manuals, Liam had spent the last hour cleaning the cab’s sparkplugs with petrol and struggling with frustration and anger. A glance at his watch told him Mary Kate would be home soon. He wiped his hands on an old rag and prepared to clean up. She hated it when he worked on engine parts at the table, but there wasn’t anywhere else he could manage it. Nonetheless, he needed to watch himself. She’d been moody and strange for the past two weeks, and he didn’t want to end up in another row.
A small oil painting depicting docked fishing boats hung on the wall opposite. The painting was a wedding gift from his half siblings, although he suspected his Ma had selected it for them. The painting was tasteful and completely out of place next to the thumb-tacked posters he’d collected of local bands. Most of the bands were shite, and he changed the posters frequently to Mary Kate’s dismay. They were reminders of upcoming shows he wished to attend. Trapped in a cab for long stretches of time, he had quickly become sick of what was played on the radio and had started making tapes using Mary Kate’s old record player—not the best recordings made, but it beat the hell out of the radio. Static beat the hell out of Telly Savalas. The bald fucker couldn’t even sing. He read the verses to the music for fuck’s sake. Bloody awful, but there it was. Number one on the charts. Sometimes he wondered at the sanity of his fellow human beings.
He looked again at his watch. There’d been a shooting on Sunday, a sixteen-year-old Catholic boy. A BA had gunned him down inside of a car. It was the twenty-second death of a Catholic civilian since the start of the IRA truce and tensions were running high. Liam hoped there wouldn’t be another student protest because if there was she’d be late, and he’d end up worrying himself sick that she’d been nicked.
Relief and love twined themselves around his chest when the door burst open as expected, and Mary Kate entered, dropping her books onto the sofa. The usual copy of The Torchlight landed on top. She looked sick and ran to the washroom. The wire brush still in his hand, he followed her, but she shut the door in his face. He bit back his anger. It was the fourth day in a row she’d come home ill.
“Sick again?” he asked, trying the handle and finding it locked.
“Go away.”
&n
bsp; “Enough of this, Mary Kate. You have to go to the doctor.” The sounds of her retching on the other side made him want to throw his shoulder against the door—to hell with the consequences.
“No,” she said, between watery coughs. “We don’t have the money, and I can’t miss class. Anyway, you don’t go when you should. Why should I?”
“That’s different,” Liam said. “I’m calling Father Murray.”
“No, you’re not.”
She and Father Murray had had some sort of fight a few days before, and she had insisted she wasn’t speaking to him ever again.
“Dammit! What do you expect me to do?” He slammed a fist against the door. For a brief moment he considered calling her mother and thought the better of it. That would be as much as admitting he couldn’t handle Mary Kate, and he wasn’t about to do that. Father Murray was the only friend he had in Belfast.
Father Murray it was.
Liam left the wire brush in the bucket with the plugs and went to the kitchen to wash his hands which were starting to burn. He glanced down at the bucket. The flat stank of petrol, but there was no help for it at the moment. He went out the front door and ran down the stairs—all three flights—and got to the phone just as Mrs. Black, their neighbor on the second floor, hung up the receiver.
“Thanks, Mrs. B.,” he said.
“Is something wrong?” She was a short middle-aged woman with brown hair and habitually wore a wispy blue scarf. Since he’d seen her collecting her mail in her housecoat several times after early morning runs, he was certain she slept in it.
“Nothing serious. Mary Kate has a cold, I think. Maybe the influenza.” He started dialing the number Father Murray had given him the previous week.
“Summer colds are the worst. I’ll just go up to see her.”
“There’s no need of that, Mrs. B. I’ve got it in hand.”
“Hello?” Father Murray asked on the other end of the line.
Mrs. Black headed up the stairs, muttering to herself about new husbands not knowing shite about anything.
