Our favourite place on our walks was a ruined farmhouse in the middle of a meadow. It was so peaceful and so beautiful, with woodland on three sides and open fields on the fourth. Butterflies danced amongst wild flowers and birds chirped in the trees. I liked to imagine it was our home, although I didn’t dare mention it to Daran in case I scared him off. I knew the boundaries. In all our conversations about family, I took care never to share my secret that he was the man who featured in my dreams.
He only ever asked me about boys once, roughly a year after the céilí. It was late September, a little after my 15th birthday, and we’d spent a few days basking in an Indian summer. Lying in the meadow outside our farmhouse, we’d been spotting shapes in the fluffy clouds that bounced across the cornflower sky.
‘Why do you spend all your spare time with me, Clare?’ He turned onto his side to face me. ‘Do you not have a special boy in the village? Jamie Doyle, perhaps? He seems pretty keen on you.’
‘Jamie Doyle’s an eejit. He’s not for me.’ I shuddered at the thought, picturing his greasy, red hair and the way he always seemed to have white foam in the corners of his mouth as if he’d contracted rabies.
‘He’s not for you, is he not? Is there someone else who holds your heart, then?’
I turned onto my side too and gazed into his eyes. ‘Yes, there is. There’s someone who holds my heart so tightly that I don’t think it could ever, or would ever, want to love anyone else.’
His eyes widened. ‘And does he feel the same way about you?’
‘I think he does, but he’s torn because he has another love too. I keep trying to convince him there’s space for us both in his life, but he’s not ready to accept that. Not yet anyway.’
‘Maybe he just needs time.’
‘That’s what I’m hoping.’
Daran turned onto his back again, staring at the sky. I hoped I hadn’t said too much, but surely he’d have left if I had. I turned over and lay on my back again too. As I came to rest, my hand lightly touched his. He didn’t pull away. We lay there in silence, hands touching, while my heart thumped faster and faster.
One Saturday afternoon towards the end of January, thick snow encased the meadow and weighed down the branches of the trees to the point where many had broken under the pressure. My heart leapt as I spotted footprints in the deep snow leading up to the farmhouse. Daran was early. Grand. I grinned as I stepped easily into his larger prints and danced across them, my breath hanging in the cold winter air.
‘Daran?’ I called as I approached the entrance. No answer. ‘Daran?’ I hesitated for a moment. What if the footprints weren’t his? What if someone else had found our farmhouse? ‘Daran? Is that you?’
‘Yes,’ came a hoarse whisper. ‘I’m here.’
‘Thank the Lord!’ I walked through the doorway. ‘I was starting to think that… Oh, sweet Jesus, what is it?’ I ran across to him. He was slumped on a pile of rocks with his head in his hands. He looked up. His eyes were red and tears streaked his face. ‘Daran? Are you sick?’
‘I don’t know what to do, Clare. I’m so confused.’
‘Can I help?’
He shook his head. ‘You’re the problem.’
‘Me. What have I done?’
‘You’ve been you. Beautiful, funny, intelligent you.’ He rubbed his cheeks and looked into my eyes. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you, Clare. I love you so much and every fibre of my body, mind and soul wants to be with you. I know it’s wrong, yet it feels so right.’
‘That’s because it is right.’ I knelt down beside him on the cold floor, grabbed his icy hands and kissed them.
He moaned softly at the gentle touch of my lips. ‘You’re too young.’
‘I’m nearly 16. And I’m very mature for my age. You know I am, Daran.’
‘I know, but nearly 16 means you’re still only 15, Clare. You may not look or act like it but, technically, you’re still a child and I’m eight years your senior. I’m a qualified teacher who’s considering becoming a priest. Neither of those scenarios allows for me falling in love with a 15-year-old. I made a vow to God to serve Him, whichever career path I took.’
‘You can still serve God and be with me.’
‘But I couldn’t be a priest.’
I kissed his hands again. ‘You could do missionary work. That was one of your options, wasn’t it? I could go with you. I know it’s hard for you, but it’s hard for me too. I love you too, Daran. I want to be with you forever. I want to kiss you and hold you and make babies with you.’
He let out a shaky sigh. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I think I want all those things too. With you. Which means I can’t become a priest. I didn’t expect…’
‘You didn’t expect to fall in love, but it happened. We can’t control who we fall for.’
‘But your age…’
I placed my fingers across his mouth. ‘My age is just a number. I’ll be 16 on September the fifth. Not that I’m saying we need to rush into anything if you don’t want to. I’m telling you because it means I’m officially an adult in September.’
He shook his head. ‘Not in Ireland. The age of consent here is 17.’
‘Perhaps, but we can pretend we’re in England or somewhere else in Europe. Did you know that the age of consent in Spain is 13? And it’s 14 or 15 in a stack of other European countries.’
Daran smiled despite his clear angst. ‘You’ve done your research.’
‘I had to know what I was up against – 15, 16, 17 – they’re just numbers, and they mean different things in different countries, so don’t start thinking we’d be doing something wrong because I’m not too young in so many places. Places that God created. All those countries class me as an adult.’
He stroked my cheek. I closed my eyes as I trembled at his touch.
‘What about God?’
‘It’s not me or Him, you know. You can have us both in your life. He won’t abandon you for choosing me instead of the priesthood, Daran. He’ll bless you for choosing love instead.’
Daran wiped his eyes. ‘You make it sound so simple.’
‘It is! You love me. I love you. You love God. That’s all there is to it. We can make this work, Daran. We really can. Besides, if He really were calling you to be a priest, you wouldn’t have spent two years living in Ballykielty exploring it, would you? You’d have joined the seminary and started your studies.’ I stroked his face and he leaned into my hand with his eyes closed. He looked so serene, so perfect, that I couldn’t help myself. I leaned forward and gently kissed his lips. His mouth parted slightly as though he were about to speak, but no words came out. I expected him to pull away, but he didn’t move. I kissed him again and again until he started to kiss back, gently at first, then more urgently. He entwined his fingers in my long, loose hair as he kissed my lips, then my neck, then back to my lips again.
Finally, he pulled away. ‘I’m sorry, Clare. I shouldn’t have done that.’
‘You should.’
‘No. I shouldn’t. Because my thoughts were taking me much further than a kiss and I can’t allow them to do that. Not yet. I’ll walk you back to the village. Now.’
I cried myself to sleep that night, although the words ‘not yet’ gave me hope that, one day, he’d change his mind. And I’d be waiting for him.
Three agonising days passed with no word from Daran. I went to our farmhouse every evening and waited for hours. On the fourth evening, he appeared in the doorway, unshaven, dark bags under his eyes.
‘I’ve barely slept,’ he said. ‘I thought it would be easier if I stayed away from you.’
I remained slumped on the pile of stones, terrified that he’d come to end it before it had even started. ‘Easier for whom? You or me?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t really know.’
‘Has it been easy for you? Bec
ause it certainly hasn’t been easy for me waiting here for you night after night, not able to come round to your house in case anyone sees me, worried that something might have happened to you.’
‘Something has happened to me. I’ve made a decision. I finally know what I want to do with my life.’
My heart sank. He’d chosen the priesthood. ‘You’re leaving, aren’t you?’
Daran took a few steps towards me. ‘Why would I go and do something stupid like that when all I want to do is be with you?’
In a fraction of a second, I was in his arms, the place I’d dreamed of being since the day he’d been introduced to our congregation. As he kissed me and ran his hands through my hair and down my back, I knew he’d been worth the wait.
Chapter 9
Present Day
‘How were the meetings?’ Ben heaved my case into the boot of his old Focus early on Wednesday evening.
‘Grand, thanks.’
He slammed the boot shut. ‘Did you charm the pants off them?’
‘Of course.’
We got into the car and belted up.
‘So you’ve saved the day?’ Ben asked.
‘They’re still a client.’
‘You might want to tone down the enthusiasm a bit.’
I gave him a half smile. ‘Sorry, Ben. It’s been a tough trip.’
‘Because it involved going back to Cork?’
‘No. It’s because Fabrian had stupidly…’ I sighed. I couldn’t lie to Ben. ‘Yes. Because it involved going back to Cork.’
Ben started the engine. ‘Remember I’m here if you ever want to talk about it.’
‘I know. I appreciate it.’
He manoeuvred his car out of Leeds train station. ‘I’m going away in the morning, Irish. I won’t be back till the end of next week.’
‘Oh.’ I felt quite uncomfortable at the thought of Ben not being around for a curry and a gossip. ‘Last-minute holiday?’
He laughed. ‘I wish. Our charity has set up an office in Birmingham and I’ve been asked to train the new recruits and help them plan their first big fundraiser.’
‘You won’t be back for the weekend?’
‘Unfortunately not. I need to work then too. You can phone me if you want to talk, though.’
‘Seriously, Ben, I’m just grand. You have great craic on your little jolly and don’t you be worrying about me.’
‘Going to work in Birmingham is hardly a jolly.’
‘You know what I mean. I don’t need to talk about New Year or Ireland, or anything else. I really don’t. Stop raising your eyebrows at me. I’m grand. Honest. What is this obsession with people wanting to talk all the time? Sometimes, things just need to be left alone.’
‘Okay. Message coming through loud and clear.’
I stared out of the window in silence for the rest of the journey. If I’d opened my mouth to speak, I might have begged him to stay because, for the first time ever, I felt as if I might actually need to talk to someone about my past. And if I started talking about it, I might never stop.
I abandoned my suitcase by the door of my apartment, headed straight for the fridge and poured myself a glass of wine. A very large one.
Unlocking the patio door, I stepped out onto the balcony and sat down, breathing in the icy night air. The cold metal of the chair under my legs made me shiver, but I needed to be outside. I hoped the wind and the cold might help clear the fog in my head.
I took a glug of my wine, then another. What a hideous start to the new year. Could anything else go wrong? I stared out at the cityscape and tried to focus on the sounds of a distant siren, honking horns, laughter, music; anything but the confrontation with Da, his suggestion about Daran’s infidelity, and whatever the hell had happened in the farmhouse right before he’d appeared.
I’d thrown myself into preparing for my meetings when I’d got back to the hotel on Sunday and had worked solidly since then. But now, back in the quiet of my apartment, the questions wouldn’t go away. Could Daran really have slept around or had Da just said that to torment me? I wouldn’t put anything past him.
A knock on the door made me jump. I reluctantly wandered back into the lounge. ‘Who is it?’
‘Lydia from next door. I’ve got a recorded-delivery envelope for you.’
Bollocks. I couldn’t face anyone. ‘I’m just out of the shower. Will you leave it outside and I’ll get it in a few minutes?’
‘Are you sure? I can wait until you’re decent.’
‘I’m sure. Thanks for taking it in.’
I stared out the peephole. When I was confident she’d gone, I yanked my door open, grabbed the envelope and quickly shut it again. I looked at the large, brown, cardboard envelope in my hands. Work. How odd. They’d never sent me anything by recorded delivery before. I wandered into the lounge and ripped open the envelope. Inside was another envelope but a paper one this time, with my name and the London head-office address typed on it. I couldn’t make out the postmark. I opened the paper envelope and removed a stiff sheet of A4 cream paper with a fancy letterhead on it and the address of a solicitor’s in Truro. My stomach churned. There could only be one reason why that particular solicitor’s firm would be contacting me.
Dear Ms O’Connell
We’ve tried to contact you on several occasions by telephone but have been unable to track down a correct number for you and must therefore write instead.
At Bowson, Higgs & Crane, we represent the estate of Mrs Nuala Sheedy, who passed away on 18th October. St Joseph’s Catholic Church in Truro has been the beneficiary of Mrs Sheedy’s personal effects and finances. However, Mrs Sheedy requested that this letter be passed on to you, her great-niece.
We are unaware of the contents of the letter. However, if we can be of further assistance to you, please do not hesitate to contact the office and ask for me, quoting Mrs Sheedy’s name.
Yours sincerely
Angela Crane
I was right. So, the old bat was dead. How did I feel about that? Like I needed a drink! I poured another large glass of wine, then leaned against the fridge, sipping on it. What was in the letter? A plea for forgiveness, perhaps?
Setting my glass down on the worktop, I retrieved Great-Aunt Nuala’s letter from the bottom of the solicitor’s envelope. A drawing of some Rosary beads draped over a Bible filled the bottom-left corner of the small, peach envelope. How very Nuala. I stared at the envelope. Could I be arsed? Not really. ‘Do you know what, Great-Aunt Nuala, I don’t want to hear it. Not tonight. Not after what Da said about Daran. You can wait until tomorrow. You’re already dead so what difference does it make? It’s been a long few days. I’m off to my bed.’
I retrieved my suitcase, tossed the letter onto the coffee table as I walked through the lounge area to my bedroom, unpacked and got ready for bed.
But sleep wouldn’t come. Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured that damned peach envelope and Great-Aunt Nuala’s immaculate script. What if it wasn’t what I expected? ‘For feck’s sake,’ I cried, hurling back the duvet and storming into the lounge to get the letter.
I jumped back into bed and ripped open the envelope.
12th June
Dear Clare,
I’m dying. I have terminal leukaemia. The doctors have given me until next spring, at a push. I think Christmas is more realistic, but I don’t mind. I’m 76 and more than ready to meet both the Lord and my husband, who joined Him far too early.
As you’d probably expect, I’ve spent a lot of time in Confession, preparing for the end. I have a lot to confess and my priest, Father Finnegan, has been very generous with his penance. I feel blessed and forgiven for all but my greatest sin. I have confessed this to Father Finnegan, but I cannot meet the Lord without confessing to you.
Reaching the end of the page, I slumped back against the pillow. ‘
Exactly as predicted. Please forgive me, Clare, for I have sinned, but only because you sinned first.’ I ran my fingers through my bob. ‘I’m a bloody eejit for expecting anything else.’
I sighed and reluctantly turned over the page, bracing myself for a load of religious babblings.
This is going to come as a huge shock to you and I can do nothing to soften the blow: Shannon did not die. It was a lie.
I sat upright, gasping for breath. WTF? I reread the sentence again and again, my heart beating so fast, I thought it might burst. She wasn’t dead? What? How? I rubbed my eyes and blinked a few times before reading the rest.
She was adopted as planned, but by a different family from the one you met, so you could never trace them if you ever had doubts about her ‘death’. It was your father’s idea, but I am equally to blame, as I willingly played my part, believing I was doing the right thing.
You were so young, Clare, and you’d committed such a cardinal sin against God and the Holy Catholic Church, but Father Finnegan – and old age – has helped me realise that the future of your baby was not my choice, or your father’s choice, to make. It should have been your decision, despite your youth. I now accept that we were very wrong to force you into giving up baby Shannon. We were even more wrong to tell you that she had died, poor little mite.
I don’t expect your forgiveness. I would find it hard to forgive anyone who had done such a wicked thing to me. I do, however, hope to belatedly repair the damage we’ve done. Your father knows nothing of these actions. I lost touch with my nephew five years ago when I was first diagnosed with this disease, confessed my sins and realised the error of my ways.
I enclose a photo and all the details I know, just in case you wish to track her down. I believe Shannon would have turned 16 today. Perhaps she is ready to meet her birth mother? Whatever you decide, may God be with you.
Dreaming About Daran (Whitsborough BayTrilogy Book 3) Page 5
