Freedom First, Peace Later

by Jeanette Hewitt

  “I’m a friend.” He stepped forward and held out his hand. “I’m Stu.”

  At the sound of his name her expression changed, and recognition filtered over her face.

  “Stu, well, you’d better come in.” She held the door open and, surprised, he followed her in. Stu knew that the locals had just cause to be apprehensive about any of the British soldiers that served in their country. The only time that soldiers usually came into these houses was when they were working with the R.U.C., and that was to make dawn raids, smashing up their homes while looking for arms or I.R.A weaponry. Ever mindful of this, Stu took care to appear as unthreatening as possible towards this lady. He stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway until Alia beckoned him to a chair, and he took a seat opposite her.

  “Bronwyn told me everything that happened the other night,” said Alia. “I should thank you, for saving her.”

  Stu was quite surprised; the events of a week ago in the army camp were not something most girls would tell their mothers.

  “There’s no need for thanks. I was just doing my job,” he said uneasily. “But, is she okay?”

  “Bronwyn’s fine. She’s left Crossmaglen, and although I can’t tell you where she is, I know that she’s okay.”

  Stu nodded, he understood that.

  “She’s a fine girl. Wherever she is, I’m sure she’ll be just fine. From what I know of her, Bronwyn’s strong. She’s…special, I guess.”

  Alia looked up sharply and uttered a strange laugh.

  “Funny, that’s what she said about you.”

  He left not long after, but not before giving his number to Alia and telling her that if she ever was in need of any help, she was to call him.

  She took it without looking at it, and he wondered if she would throw it away just as soon as look at it.

  As the door closed behind him, it also closed on the very short chapter of his life that had been Bronwyn Ranger.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Beginnings

  The bar was packed, and Bronwyn yelled over the counter.

  “I need some change!” She held her money belt up in the air and waved it. Connor, serving customers at the other end of the bar, caught her eye and grinned. She smiled back, tapped her watch and he nodded. Reaching over to turn the music down, he shouted out to the occupants of the bar.

  “Time’s up, folks, drink up and clear outta here!”

  Bronwyn giggled at the groan that resounded around the room and took the bag of coins from Lucia, the owner of Zak’s, the bar that both she and Connor had worked in for five months now. As the bar slowly cleared of people, Bronwyn took a moment to sit back and think about how much her life had changed in just five months.

  There was the job, to start with. Lucia had hired both Connor and Bronwyn on the spot, and they had never looked back since. She reminded Bronwyn a lot of Lila, the Irish landlady of the Fox and Hound back home, although the pub itself couldn’t be further from her old local. It wasn’t a pub, which was the first thing Lucia had drummed into them. It was a bar, and due to its perfect location amid the office blocks in Manhattan, its main attraction was for businessmen and women after a long day at the office.

  Their home had changed too. They no longer resided at Cally’s, and instead they had rented a two-bedroom apartment over on 42nd Street, moving in together three months ago. The night that Cally had given birth to her daughter, Bella, Bronwyn had said to Connor that they should seriously think about moving out. Cally and Sam had already spoken of their plans to turn the fourth storey of the house into a nursery, although she had said that they were in no hurry, as the baby would sleep in with them for at least a few months. It was the subject that Bronwyn had been dreading, and many a sleepless night had been spent wondering what their living arrangements would be when the time came that they no longer had to live together. Connor had solved that,

  however, when he proposed that they share an apartment. After all, he had said, what would be the point in paying two rents when they could divide everything equally. Bronwyn had been cynical at first, but it had worked out better than she ever expected. There had been no repeat performance of what had happened on the night of Rosina’s funeral, and it had never been mentioned again between them. Still though, sometimes when Bronwyn looked at him, she felt that familiar pang of longing. But Connor was a friend now, her best friend, and she had vowed when they moved in together that she would do nothing to jeopardise that. The grief of Rosina’s untimely death was relaxing its grip on them both, and in the last few weeks they had found that they were able to speak of her again without dissolving into tears. The healing process was well underway. But, as if to replace the pain that Bronwyn had felt about Rosina, there was another disappointment. Barry had never turned up in New York, nor had he returned home to Crossmaglen. Neither Alia nor Bronwyn had heard any news of him now in over six months. Bronwyn woke each morning with the hope that today would be the day that Barry would arrive. She found herself, more and more lately, staring at every dark haired man on the street, in the bar, or in a restaurant, in the hope that it was he, but it never was. Connor was a big support in her heartache at losing Barry, and he constantly consoled her with the suggestion that he was hiding away, in a new life away from danger.

  “Hey!” Connor’s voice broke her out of her reverie and she looked up. “Get over here and help me, you slacker!”

  She laughed aloud and got up from her chair.

  The biggest difference in her new life was Connor. It was as though he had been repressed in Ireland and, here in the vivacious city that was New York, he had come alive. Never before would she imagine that he would be joking or laughing with the customers who, along with the regulars in the bar, had become very fond of the Irish pair. But although he had grown in confidence over the last six months, he still had the same traits that had appealed to Bronwyn. When they left the bar after work each evening and walked the ten blocks home, it was as if he left his new personality at Zak’s, becoming attentive and caring again, but never to the extent that it could be misconstrued as something more.

  “Ah, get home, you two, I’ll finish up here,” said Lucia, shooing them away with the towel that she was using to wipe the tables.

  “Cheers, Luce,” said Connor, handing Bronwyn her coat. “See you Monday.”

  It was Saturday night, and even though it was nearly midnight, the streets were still busy in the city that never sleeps. Bronwyn loved Saturdays, mainly because the next day was Sunday, and it was the one night they didn’t have to work. When they left work on Saturday nights they always made a point of stopping at Cally’s house to pay her a visit. Cally was a night owl, never going to sleep before the early hours of the morning. During those nights when Sam and Bella were sleeping, she was glad of the company and the gossip that they always bought her from the bar. Now, as Cally opened the door, looking for the entire world like it was first thing in the morning and not the time for sleeping, she smiled widely at the couple she had grown so fond of, and let them in.

  “I’m glad you’ve come. Connor, Sam has something he wants to talk to you about. Go upstairs, he’s waiting for you.”

  “Does nobody in this place ever sleep?” Connor asked, and right on cue Bella started to wail. They all laughed.

  Connor went upstairs to see Sam, and Bronwyn went through to the kitchen. Moments later, Cally came back in holding Bella and Bronwyn held her arms out to be passed the baby. When they were all settled, Cally leaned back in her chair and sighed.

  “This is the life, Bronwyn. This is all that matters.”

  “Bella?” asked Bronwyn, staring down at the baby who was falling asleep.

  “Bella, Sam, friends…you and Connor have become a big part of our lives, you know,” replied Cally.

  “We couldn’t have managed here without your help. You and Sam have been so good to us,”

  said Bronwyn.

  “I’m glad you came round tonight. We wanted to give you these.” Cally reach
ed behind her and passed two envelopes across the table, one addressed to Connor and one to Bronwyn.

  “What are they?” Bronwyn asked.

  “Invitations, to Bella’s christening in July. We want you both to be there,” Cally paused. “As godparents.”

  Bronwyn’s mouth dropped open in shock before a smile lit up her face.

  “Oh, Cally, do you really mean that?”

  “Yes, I do. I can’t think of anyone better suited than you two.” A mischievous look came over Cally’s face. “Speaking of which, what are you two playing at anyway?”

  Bronwyn shifted the baby in her arms and looked confused.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You and Connor, anyone can see he’s mad about you. Why are you not together?”

  “Cally! It’s not like that!” retorted Bronwyn. “He’s my friend.”

  “Surely you’ve thought about it, I mean, he’s a good-looking lad,” Cally turned serious.

  “Sure, I’ve thought about it. We came close once as well, the night of Rosina’s funeral. But since then…we don’t speak about it. It’s not going to happen.” Bronwyn smiled and shrugged. Cally came around the table and took the sleeping Bella from Bronwyn’s arms.

  “Give it time. I’m not usually wrong about these things. Oh, here they are!”

  Connor and Sam came into the room and, by the look on Connor’s face, Bronwyn could see he was delighted to have been asked to become Bella’s godfather. Connor also had more news for Bronwyn and he sat down at the seat that Cally had vacated.

  “Sam’s brother is opening a bar, in Times Square, and he’s asked me to manage it.”

  “Connor!” Bronwyn clapped her hands together. “That’s fantastic!”

  Both Connor and Bronwyn shared the vision of someday jointly owning their own bar. With Connor now being given a management position, it meant that they were one stop closer to realising their dream.

  As Sam sat with them at the table while Cally took Bella upstairs, Bronwyn watched Connor carefully as he chatted with Sam. Why had Cally said he was mad about her? That was something she had not seen for herself, and except for that one night of drunken near-madness on his part, she had presumed that her feelings, long buried, had always been one sided. Cally was just a hopeless romantic, she told herself. Connor cared for her, of that she was certain, but not in the way Cally imagined.

  Later, as they made their way home, Bronwyn was unusually quiet. When Connor asked if she was all right, she nodded.

  “I’m looking forward to the christening. I’m going to be a godmother! Probably the nearest I’ll get to being a mother,” she said.

  “Bullshit!” Connor protested. “Someday you’ll be like Cally, and you’ll make the best mother in the world.”

  She smiled, happily basking in his praise, and she linked her arm through his, chatting the rest of the way home.

  When they arrived at the apartment on 42nd Street, Bronwyn went straight to bed. Connor sat up for a while, as he usually did at night when he wasn’t tired, and looked out into the street. It was getting warmer now; summer was upon them, and he opened the window to let the refreshing night air into the room. A while later he made a cup of coffee and took it to his room. He stopped at Bronwyn’s bedroom door, which was open, and for a while he stood, sipping his coffee, watching her while she slept. She too, had apparently felt the warm night and had thrown off her cover in her sleep. She lay in her usual night attire, tracksuit and vest, and her arm was thrown up to rest on the pillow over her head. Bronwyn never closed her curtains, and the moonlight filtered through the window, illuminating one side of her with its silver light. She was beautiful, Connor thought. Asleep, awake, drunk, sober, sad or happy, whatever she was never took away an ounce of her beauty. She stirred in her sleep and he moved back into the shadows. When she didn’t wake, he waited for a moment before moving on to his room, where he stood by the window while he finished the coffee. He often remembered the night that they had kissed. Although they had gotten over that and become as close as any two people could be without being lovers, he regretted that they had never taken that step. But it was too late now, too much time had passed, and it was obvious to him that she was happy with the way things were between them. Connor climbed into bed and lay looking up at the ceiling. He consoled himself, as he always did, that it was better to have her in his life as a friend than not to have her at all.

  * * * *

  In Crossmaglen, not much had changed. If anything, events had only worsened since Bronwyn and Connor left. As Bronwyn was finishing work, Alia had just gotten up and collected the newspaper from the front door mat. Now she sat at the kitchen table and stared at the newspaper that lay before her. The headline jumped out at her.

  SANDS DEAD.

  She glanced over to the back door where the pile of papers from the last two weeks had stacked up. The headline of only a week ago glared at her.

  SANDS IN COMA, NEARS DEATH.

  Now death had taken him, the young man who was twenty-seven years old. He had died for the love of his country, for his cause of an independent Ireland. Ever since the hunger strike had begun in Long Kesh sixty-six days ago, the country had gone mad. Riots were a daily occurrence, people were utterly incensed that their hero had achieved martyrdom and had been allowed to stare death in the face by the British government. There would be worse trouble now, and it wouldn’t end, because there were nine other men on a hunger strike and they would follow their leader to his death. For each man who died there would be untold riots. All Alia could do was thank God that her children were not here to be involved in it.

  When the news of Bobby Sands’ death reached Bronwyn in New York, she telephoned Alia immediately.

  “Is it very bad there?” asked Bronwyn, fearfully.

  Alia hesitated before answering, not wanting to worry her.

  “It’s not so bad here. Belfast is seeing the worst of it.”

  “It’s so sad, Ma. He was just a little bit older than me.” Bronwyn twisted the phone cord around her finger. “Such a waste of a life.”

  “He died for what he believed in, and that’s admirable. But you’re right, it’s very sad.”

  After chatting some more about Bobby Sands and the goings-on at Long Kesh, they hung up, with promises to talk again soon.

  Two days later, the funeral of Bobby Sands took place in Milltown Cemetery, Belfast. Alia, on her own in the house and jittery about the unrest outside, decided to attend. When she reached Belfast town centre, she was shocked to see the procession that lined the streets. Her throat burned with unshed tears at the untimely death of a young man, and with her children and everyone lost to her in her heart, she joined the crowd of one hundred thousand people, marching along to the sorrowful sound of the piper that led the procession.

  That the funeral was besieged with members of the Irish Republican Army made no difference to Alia, and perhaps for the first time in her life she saw how passionately they felt about their desire for an independent Ireland.

  As Alia saw the devastation Bobby’s death caused, she wished more than ever for peace in her homeland, but knew that it would be a long time coming, if it ever came at all.

  * * * *

  Another two months passed, and not much had changed in their lives except Connor was now the manager of Mayfair, an elite restaurant and bar in Times Square. The bar was totally brand new, and Sam’s brother, Carl, had given Connor a free hand in hiring staff and sorting out the opening night. Naturally, he had offered Bronwyn a job at Mayfair, but she enjoyed her work at Zak’s so had decided to stay there. Now that Connor was working days, from around eight in the morning until well after noon, he noticed that he barely saw Bronwyn anymore. She still worked the night shift at Zak’s, and was normally rushing around getting ready for work when he got home at night. Sunday, their favourite day, had not changed, and for that Connor was grateful. He would rise early, go down to the newsagent, and then to the supermarket a block away, to buy their
breakfast. He would then return home and eventually the smell of the bacon and eggs would rouse Bronwyn from her slumber. She would stand sleepily in the kitchen, until he told her sit down and stop getting in his way. They would take a leisurely breakfast, then retire to the lounge, where they would take a couch each and devour the Sunday papers. A new tradition had been incorporated into their Sundays; Connor would stop at the video store on his way home from work Saturday night to pick up a film, which was always a surprise for Bronwyn, until Sunday afternoon when they watched it. Bronwyn was amused by his choice of films; sometimes they would be classics, like Casablanca, or An Affair to Remember. Other times, they would be action or horror movies. Bronwyn could sense his mood, based on what type of film he brought home. Around five, they would get ready to go out for dinner, their final Sunday treat, after which they would return home and relax on the porch steps until it was time for bed.

  Now he clung onto their Sunday’s spent together and valued them more than ever. Since Mayfair had opened, they were like ships that passed in the night, and that was why he was looking forward to this particular weekend. Today, Saturday, was his birthday, and tomorrow was Bella’s christening. Tonight, he was planning to leave the restaurant early. This evening he and Bronwyn were going out for dinner with Sam and Cally. Bronwyn was already at home, getting ready for tonight, and he was just cashing up the afternoons takings at Mayfair, when Joe, one of the barmen, came into the office.

  “Some guy looking for you, boss,” said Joe.

  “Who is he?” asked Connor, looking up from his calculator. Joe shrugged.

  “Well, is he complaining about something? Can’t you deal with it?” Connor asked in exasperation.