by Tara Hyland
Franny felt her resolve weakening – as it always did when it came to Sean Gallagher. With his impish grin, black hair and blue eyes, he reminded her of Clark Gable in Gone With the Wind. Like Rhett Butler, Sean was a free spirit, unconcerned by social conventions. He had grown up in Limerick but hadn’t been back for years. Instead he liked to travel, going wherever there was work. When England had needed extra labourers to work in the munitions factories during the war, he had been one of those to go over. Her parents looked down on his wandering spirit, but to Franny, desperate to escape her hometown and see the world, there was nothing more attractive. Until four weeks ago, she hadn’t thought that someone so exciting would ever come to sleepy Glen Vale.
He’d arrived from Cork at the beginning of June, to help with the fruit-picking. The first time Franny had seen him, Sean had been standing on a stepladder, thinning out the apple trees, his bare back glistening in the late-afternoon sun. While her sister had stood by giggling, Franny had bravely gone over to speak to him. Of course Maggie – the nasty little snitch – had told their mammy all about it later, and she’d got the strap from her da. But it had been worth it to get Sean’s attention.
‘Just stay five more minutes,’ he pleaded, reaching up to lace his fingers through hers. As he tugged her towards him, she caught his scent. He smelled of his day working in the fields: a strong, manly odour. ‘Look, there’s no one close.’
Franny glanced around. He was right, of course. The meadow was fallow, and far from the farmhouse. No one ever came out here. But still . . .
‘No,’ she insisted, getting to her feet. ‘It’s late and Mam will be wanting help with the tea. If I don’t get back soon, she’ll tan my backside.’
‘I wouldn’t mind doing that meself,’ Sean laughed, reaching up to playfully slap her on the bottom.
‘Ouch!’ Pretending to be offended by the over-familiar gesture, Franny drew herself up. ‘You, sir, are no gentleman.’ It was a line from Gone With the Wind, said in a perfect imitation of Vivien Leigh’s Southern drawl. Franny had a talent for impersonations, and within a few minutes of meeting someone could mimic their accent and mannerisms perfectly.
It took Sean a moment to get the reference. ‘And you, miss, are no lady,’ he returned, in a somewhat stilted impression of Clark Gable.
They grinned at each other for a moment, enjoying the shared joke. Sean took her hand.
‘Meet me later, will you?’
Franny hesitated. It was never easy for her to get away.
‘Oh, come on, sweetheart,’ her beau chided. ‘Otherwise I might have to take a trip into Cork and find meself a new woman.’
He said it in jest, but to Franny the words were like a threat. It was her greatest fear: that Sean would lose interest in her if she didn’t do what he wanted. He’d probably met all manner of sophisticated women in England; how was she, a little farm girl, to compete?
But drawing on all her acting skills, she managed to hide her anxiety. Keeping him guessing was the best way to keep him interested, she’d decided long ago.
‘Maybe I’ll meet with you,’ she said, with a touch of haughtiness. ‘And then again, maybe I won’t.’ Without another word, she picked up her skirts and started to run back towards the farmhouse, her golden-red hair flowing out like flames behind her.
As she ran through the cornfields, the long sheaves scratching at her bare legs, Franny knew she would be in trouble again. Not that that was anything new. She was always being told off, usually for skiving from her chores to go to the cinema in the neighbouring town.
‘What are you doing, wasting your time at the pictures?’ her father would grumble.
But Franny couldn’t get enough of the Hollywood films, which allowed her to escape from her dull life for a couple of hours. She went to the movies whenever she could, and she dreamed of one day being a star like Rita Hayworth, Betty Grable and Jane Russell – of living in glamorous Los Angeles, rather than boring Glen Vale.
Franny hated the rural area where she’d grown up. Located some forty miles outside Cork, the village and surrounding countryside housed no more than three hundred souls. It was an impoverished, grey place, where the men either worked or drank their lives away, and the women were given to religion and childbearing – and raised their daughters to expect nothing more from life.
But Franny did want more. She had been born to stand out. At seventeen, she looked exactly as Irish girls were meant to, in a world where Maureen O’Hara set the standard. Along with her vibrant auburn hair, she had large, mischievous green eyes, skin like freshly churned butter-cream and a small, upturned nose sprinkled with pretty freckles. Her soft, voluptuous body would give Lana Turner a run for her money, and her flame-hair was matched by a passionate nature, her personality as vibrant as her looks. It was as though she had been recorded in Technicolor, while the rest of the county languished in black and white. Her big plan was to escape Glen Vale as soon as possible. And today, she was one step closer to getting what she wanted.
Slipping a hand into her pocket, she was relieved to find that the letter was still there. It had arrived that morning, informing her that she had been accepted to train as a nurse in London. She was thrilled. Not because she particularly wanted to be a nurse, but because it was her chance to leave Ireland. Once in England, she would find some way to do what she really wanted – become a movie star.
But first there was one large hurdle to cross: getting her father’s blessing. She knew he wouldn’t want her to go. He couldn’t see beyond Glen Vale, had never been further than Cork, in fact. He wasn’t an adventurer, like Sean, who was already talking of going back to London. ‘The city’s in ruins after all the bombing. They’ll be needing builders, mark my words,’ he’d told her. Franny often daydreamed about the two of them living in England together.
As she neared home, Franny felt her spirits deflate a little. The farmhouse and surrounding outbuildings were low, uninspired brick structures, built for function rather than aesthetics. Outside, she used the water pump to cool the heat from her face. It wouldn’t do for anyone to suspect where she’d been. The kitchen windows were steamed up, meaning she was late for dinner. Cursing, she quickly dried her hands on her apron and hurried inside.
Flinging the kitchen door open, Franny was greeted by the wet, salty smell of boiled bacon and cabbage. She pulled a face. It was always this or stew – why couldn’t they eat something different for a change?
Her mother was bent over the stove, using a fork to test whether the potatoes were cooked. Seeing Franny, she automatically tsked with disapproval.
‘Where’ve you been, child?’ Theresa Healey was typical of Glen Vale women. Once she had been a beauty like Franny, but years of childbearing and poverty had worn her down. Franny’s greatest fear was ending up like her mother.
‘With Sean Gallagher, no doubt.’ This was from Franny’s elder sister, Maggie. It was said nastily rather than as a joke. Maggie liked to cause trouble, especially for Franny. At twenty, she was a plain, dour girl, who envied her younger sister’s pretty face and buoyant nature.
Their mother looked over sharply. ‘I hope there’s no truth in that, my girl.’
Franny said nothing, just contented herself with a scowl at her sister, who poked her tongue out in reply. Unlike Franny, Maggie had no interest in anything other than getting married. Skeletally thin, she had a mean mouth and cold eyes, and the permanent look of someone who felt they’d been handed a raw deal in life. ‘It’s not fair,’ she would moan. ‘If I had only half Franny’s looks I’d be wedded by now.’ But privately Franny thought the lack of suitors had less to do with her sister’s appearance, and more to do with her constant belly-aching.
Theresa sighed wearily – something she did a lot – and said, ‘Supper’s about ready, so best get setting that table, girls.’
‘Yes, Mam,’ Franny and Maggie chorused.
They studiously ignored each other as they began laying cutlery and plates. The crockery was m
ismatched, and apart from the basics, it was a bare table: flowers and serviettes were a luxury the household couldn’t afford. At six on the dot, Theresa started to serve up. The men didn’t need to be called in from the field – the daily routine never altered.
Franny sat on one side of the table, and Maggie took a seat opposite – the better to glare at me, Franny thought – with their mother between them at one end. Sean came in next, greeting the women warmly. Franny had warned him early on not to sit next to her, afraid that they might give themselves away, so he seated himself beside Maggie, winking at Franny as he did so. Franny’s father, Michael, arrived last. As he took his place at the head of the table, a hush fell over the room. They all bowed their heads to say Grace.
‘For what we are about to receive,’ Theresa said, as she did every night, ‘may the Lord make us truly thankful.’
With that, they all opened their eyes and began to eat. Theresa had already doled out the meat, making sure the men had the lion’s share, and now they passed dishes of boiled potatoes and cabbage around the table. This was all done with the minimum of words. There was never much chatter at mealtimes. Michael Healey was a silent man and, as the head of the house, his preference filtered down to the others.
‘So how’s the work going?’ Theresa asked.
Michael shrugged and made a non-committal noise. It was up to Sean to say, ‘We should be finished soon.’
‘And have you made any decision about what you’ll be doing after that?’
Everyone tensed as Michael asked the question that came up at least once a week. It was no secret that once the fruit was collected he wanted to keep Sean on to help with the harvest. The farm was getting too much for him lately and, as he was fond of complaining, it wasn’t as if he had any sons to help him out. Of the six children Theresa had borne, there had been only one boy, Patrick. A strong, strapping lad, he should have taken over the farm one day. But like Franny, he had been eager to see the world. While her father, a Unionist man who hated the English, had agreed with Prime Minister Eamon de Valera’s policy of keeping Ireland out of the war, Patrick had seen it as his chance for adventure. On the day of his eighteenth birthday, he’d gone to England to volunteer. Less than a year later, he had died on the beaches of Normandy. Now, Michael’s only reference to his son was to complain that the English had robbed him of his help on the farm.
Other than Patrick, Maggie and Franny, there had been three stillbirths, and after the last, the doctor had warned Theresa against trying for more children. That meant Michael had no natural heir to the farm. It was because of this that he wanted Sean to stay on to help bring in the wheat, but the young man had always been typically non-committal. As before, the farmhand said now, ‘I’ve no idea what I’ll be doing, sir. I’ll see when the time comes.’
The older man shook his head in disapproval. ‘It’s a strange way you live, going from place to place, with no security or roots.’
‘Da!’ Franny chided, hating the way her father took every opportunity to put the boot in with Sean.
‘Well, it’s true. He lives like a tinker.’
There was an awkward silence, but Sean didn’t seem upset. ‘It suits me that way. And it’d be a strange world if we were all the same, wouldn’t it?’
Franny beamed at him. He was well able for her father, and that was something she admired.
Now, Sean patted his belly and burped loudly. ‘As usual, that was delicious, ladies. I’ve never eaten so well as I have since coming here. You’ll be hard pressed to get rid of me.’
He winked at Mrs Healey, who scowled back. She knew Sean Gallagher’s type. A lovable rogue: charming and entertaining, but not someone you’d want near your daughters. Seeing the enraptured look on Franny’s face, she felt a twinge of unease. She’d have to keep a close eye on that one. Her younger child was a romantic, and far too pretty for her own good.
‘There’s no need to thank Franny for the meal,’ Maggie piped up. ‘She didn’t help a bit.’
Their father seized on the information. ‘Is this true, Franny? You’ve been shirking your duties again?’
Franny glared at her elder sister, longing to wipe the smug smile from her face.
‘Yes, Da,’ she said, trying to look contrite.
‘And where were you this time?’
Studiously avoiding looking at Sean, she said, ‘Out walking. I didn’t realise how late it had got.’
Her father snorted. ‘You’ve got to learn some responsibility, my girl.’
‘Yes, Da.’
But he ignored her and continued talking. ‘In fact, I think it’s about time you started helping out a bit more around here. Your mother’s slowing down. From tomorrow, you’ll take over looking after the small livestock. That should keep you out of mischief.’
Franny was horrified. She couldn’t think of anything worse than being around those filthy, smelly pigs, or the goat that always seemed to find a way to chew her hair.
‘But what’s the point? I’ll be off to England in a few weeks.’ It was more of a question than a statement. No one rushed to agree with her. ‘Da?’ she prompted.
‘What?’
Franny felt a flicker of fear, knowing how easily he could get into a temper. But she couldn’t back down now. ‘I said, I’ll be in London soon. We talked about this, me going to train as a nurse. Well, the letter came today. I’ve been accepted,’ she told him proudly.
She took out the crumpled envelope to show him. She’d read it so many times that it was already well-worn. He ignored her outstretched hand and continued eating.
‘Michael,’ Theresa chided gently. ‘The child’s trying to show you something.’ Franny flashed her mother a grateful look. She was more sympathetic than her husband to her daughter’s wandering spirit. She knew there was no point trying to clip their youngest’s wings.
With a grunt, Michael threw down his fork and snatched the letter from Franny. He quickly scanned the contents and then tossed it onto the table. ‘What would you be wanting to go over there for?’
‘Because there’s nothing for me here!’
‘Now’s not a good time. Maybe next year.’
Franny had heard this before. It would be the same every year, until she was too old or too worn down to have her dreams any more. She looked desperately at her mother for help, but Theresa dropped her eyes to the table. Michael wasn’t a violent man, not like some, but he still wasn’t above the odd whack when the mood took him. Franny was on her own.
‘But Da—’
He banged his fist on the hard wooden table, cutting her off.
‘Will you ever shut it, girl!’ His eyes flashed dark and angry, and instinctively she recoiled. ‘I’ll hear no more on the subject.’
He grabbed a hunk of bread and mopped up the meat and gravy on his plate, shoving the makeshift sandwich into his mouth, brown juice spilling out and down the sides of his face. Franny looked at him in disgust. Her gaze moved to Sean, and she saw sympathy in his eyes. At least he understood how she felt, that she couldn’t stand to be trapped in this place, never having the chance to live.
Sean got up then. ‘I best see to the livestock before dark.’
He carried his plate to the sink, and washed it. As he let himself out, he gave a backwards glance at Franny. She saw the invitation in his eyes as he left.
Up until then, she still hadn’t decided whether to see Sean that night. But in that moment, Franny made up her mind. She would go to him, after all. She would prove to him, and to herself, that she was meant for more than this dump. And to hell with the consequences. Who knew? Maybe then he would take her with him when he left Glen Vale.
Chapter Two
‘Her eyes, they shone like diamonds,’ Franny sang out, swaying jauntily as she did so. ‘I thought her the queen of the land . . .’
It was Saturday night, and the Healeys were hosting a ceili in their cramped parlour. About twenty people were there, from nursing babies to elderly grandparents, and they ha
d spent the evening storytelling and singing, everyone taking a turn. These weekly gatherings of friends and neighbours had been a part of Franny’s life ever since she could remember. As a child, she had been raised on the folk songs, and as soon as she’d been old enough, she’d started singing them herself. She loved having the opportunity to perform.
As everyone in the room joined in with the chorus, Franny couldn’t help wishing that Sean was here to watch her sing. But he hated the ceilis, calling them old-fashioned, and preferred to go out drinking poteen with the other young farmhands. So instead, they’d secretly arranged to meet later, and Franny couldn’t wait.
It was another hour before the evening finally came to an end. By then, Franny was itching for everyone to leave so she could sneak out to see her lover. As she stood waiting impatiently with her mother and elder sister, Conrad Walsh approached. A bashful young man, good-looking in a conventional way, he wore a brown suit that was shabby but neat: a little like him.
‘You played well tonight,’ her mother told him. He’d accompanied the singers with his accordion. She nudged Maggie. ‘Weren’t we saying that earlier, love?’
Maggie could only nod at Conrad – she was always struck dumb around him.
‘Well, thank you, Mrs Healey, and you too, Margaret.’ He looked past her to where Franny hung back. ‘But I think the real star tonight was Franny.’ He smiled shyly at her. ‘I haven’t seen you around much lately, how’ve you been?’
‘I’m grand, as always, Con,’ she returned jauntily. Unlike Maggie, she found it easy to talk to boys, especially Conrad Walsh. Having grown up on the neighbouring farm, he was almost like a brother to her. A quiet, studious young man, he had more finesse than the rest of the lads in the area. The priest had wanted him to go on to the university, and he’d talked at one point about becoming a doctor. But after his father had died of a heart attack the previous year he’d been forced to take over the farm. Now, he was supporting his mother and five siblings, and from all accounts doing a fine job of it. ‘He’ll be the making of that place,’ her father was fond of saying.
