Frankie loved it. Never had he felt such energy. His body throbbed with the rhythm of the city. He measured his days by the pealing of church bells, the bellow of fog horns, the whistle of factories, the screech of delivery trucks, the monotone shouts of paperboys hawking the Telegram in Donegall Square and the Shankill and the Irish Times in the Falls, Portadown, and Andersonstown.
Stormont Castle, the center of British occupation, hummed with a life of its own. Everyone, from Belfast’s member of Parliament to the lowliest drunk who collected his dole on Friday afternoon and drank it away the same night, knew that the future of loyalist supremacy was toppling. Even David Temple, one of Belfast’s most educated and eloquent Protestant politicians, advocated the sharing of power with Catholics. Only radical extremists like the Ulster Defense Alliance and the Ulster Volunteer Force, paramilitary organizations that boasted of murdering Catholics, railed against the compromise.
Catholic Belfast was drunk with anticipation. The tricolor fluttered from every row house. Curbs were painted green, white, and orange. Sinn Fein posters the size of billboards sprang up overnight. Frankie and the fifteen thousand unsuspecting residents of the Clonard were delirious with excitement. At last, Catholics would be represented in the North.
Because he kept country hours, Frankie was one of the first to learn that it was not to be. His morning ritual began with a stop at O’Brian’s café on the Falls Road for his tea and a paper. Immersing himself for nearly two hours, he would read the entire newspaper before the town woke.
The morning headlines announced the strike first. The Reverend Ian Paisley, a staunch proponent of “Northern Ireland for Protestants,” called for a government recall. All electric lines had been cut, and petrol would no longer be sold in the stations.
Frankie folded the newspaper carefully, stood, and walked out the door into the empty street. The knot in his stomach that began when he read the headlines had intensified to a dull ache. The elections that had brought such hope to the hearts of nearly half the population of Ulster were a farce. There would be no democratic process in Northern Ireland. Catholics would never sit in Parliament. Gerry McLeish said it all along. The loyalists would never share power unless they were forced into it, and the only force they recognized was the Irish Republican Army.
Frankie had no idea how he ended up in front of the Sinn Fein office. He certainly hadn’t intended it. But now that he was here, the tricolor draped across the inside of the window was oddly comforting. It was just past eight o’clock, but already he heard voices inside. He stepped up to the door and knocked.
A long minute passed before Frankie heard the sound of footsteps moving in his direction. A tall, thin young man with a full beard, a head of curly dark hair, and piercing black eyes opened the door. “Aye, lad. How can I help you?”
“I want to join the Irish Republican Army,” Frankie blurted out.
“Jaysus, lad.” The man grabbed his arm, pulled him inside, and slammed the door. “What on earth are y’ thinkin’ t’ be tellin’ a stranger somethin’ like that?”
“Is this the place?” Frankie demanded. “Is this the place t’ join?”
The dark eyes narrowed. “Slow down, lad. What’s y’r name?”
“Frankie Maguire.”
“Who told you t’ come here?”
Frankie shrugged. “Everyone knows this is the Sinn Fein office.”
“Is it Sinn Fein y’re wantin’ to join or the IRA?”
“Aren’t they the same?”
The man held out his hand, and Frankie took it. “I’m Robbie Wilson, lad, and they are not the same. Sinn Fein is legal, the IRA isn’t.”
“Is that the only difference?”
“Just about.” He waved Frankie into a straight-backed chair. “Have a seat. I’ll be back.”
Frankie watched as he disappeared down the hall. Then he looked around. The room was sparse, with freshly painted white walls and no pictures. A desk, completely bare except for a notepad and pen, faced the front door. Beside it sat a small nightstand with a hot plate and an electric kettle. Tea bags were neatly stacked in containers beside a bowl of sugar, and two half-filled cups shared their saucers with empty biscuit wrappers crumbled into tiny balls. Frankie no longer heard voices from another room.
Less than five minutes later, Wilson returned, pulled another chair opposite Frankie, and sat down. “Tell me about y’rself, lad. Y’re not from Belfast, are you?”
“No. I was born in Kilvara.”
“Any IRA activity in Kilvara?”
“None that I’ve seen.”
“It’s in the middle of sheep country, isn’t it?”
“Aye.”
Wilson leaned back in his chair. “Mostly Catholic, if I recall, except for the land around it.”
Frankie’s face lost all expression. “The Fitzgeralds own the land.”
“Tough landlord, is he?”
“No, sir.”
Wilson looked steadily at the tall boy with the startling gray eyes and noted that he desperately needed a new jacket. “Why are y’ itchin’ to join the IRA?”
Frankie’s fists clenched. “They’re not going to let us in, not ever,” he said hotly. “The only way is t’ fight ’em.”
Robbie Wilson stretched out his long legs. “Are you alone in this, Frankie, or does y’r family share your politics?”
“No one knows anythin’ about me. The only person I ever talk to is—” He stopped. “She knows nothin’ about this, either.”
“You’ve got a girl back home?” Wilson asked casually.
“No, sir. Jilly’s not a girl.” He frowned. “I mean, she’s a girl, but she’s not for me. She’s Pyers Fitzgerald’s daughter, and she’s Protestant.”
Wilson stared long and hard at the boy seated before him, wondering if the lad had any idea how much he’d divulged with such a confession. There was more here than met the eye. How did a Catholic laborer with shabby clothes and an unschooled accent capture the interest of the daughter of one of the richest men in Northern Ireland? Quickly, he made his decision. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he said, “Let me tell you a bit about the provisional IRA.”
***
Burning lorries, manned by masked Protestants blocking the entrance to the Falls, cemented Frankie’s decision. He squeezed through a hole in the fence that separated Springfield Road from the Shankill. Along the barrier, bonfires flared, illuminating the faces of teenagers, smoking and drinking beer and gesturing angrily at masked men arming the barricades. Men dressed in the official uniforms of Ulster’s police force, the RUC, stood by laughing and chatting with the masked men. A wave of fury rose in Frankie’s chest, and he turned away.
Rows of dark, silent houses stretched out before him. Not a single electric light relieved the blackness. His aunt greeted him. “Thank God y’re home, Frankie.” She shooed him inside and locked the door. “I imagined the worst. First the lights went, and now we’re barricaded into the neighborhood. There’s soup on the stove. The Lord was on my side when I decided on wood instead of gas. At least we’ve hot food in the house.”
A single candle flickered on the table. Frankie lowered himself into a chair and waited to be served. Mary Boyle was his mother’s sister, and by his standards, her two-bedroom house was a palace. It even had its own toilet. Since the death of her husband, she lived alone. Having Frankie in the house brought the bounce back to her step.
She set a plate of wheaten bread with a single pat of butter before him, walked back to the stove for the soup, and brought two bowls to the table. Frankie sniffed appreciatively. Aunt Mary believed in eating well. The broth was rich with meat. She watched while he ate nearly half the bowl before she picked up her spoon.
“This is delicious, Aunt Mary,” he said sincerely. “Thank you for waitin’ on me.”
“
Will y’ be leavin’ now, Frankie?” she asked anxiously.
He thought of his conversation with Robbie Wilson and shook his head. “Not just yet. The whole thing may blow over.”
She set down her spoon, leaving her soup untouched. “They’re threatenin’ t’ close the water and sewer plants. I don’t know how we’ll manage. Think of the disease.”
He smiled reassuringly across the table. “I think we’ve seen the worst of it.”
But the worst was something not even Frankie could have foreseen. Fourteen days later, every moderate unionist who’d expressed an interest in sharing power with nationalists pulled out of the Stormant talks and resigned, but not until three bombs had been detonated in the Republic, killing thirty-three people, not until masked gunmen closed shops, took over factories, and ordered everyone out, not until all water and sewage relief had been cut off to everyone in the county, not until the hum of industry in the entire six counties had been effectively put to a stop, and not until every Catholic was convinced he would be slaughtered at the hands of Protestant death squads. At the end of those fourteen days, Ulster was as staunchly and firmly a part of the British Empire as it had ever been.
***
Frankie Maguire had left Kilvara with the youthful exuberance of a lad who believed in miracles. His original two-week stay had become two months. When he returned to the small town where he was born, he was a harder, more cynical version of himself.
It wasn’t an obvious difference. Jilly couldn’t put her finger on it. He went about his business as usual, working the dogs, performing odd jobs for his father. But he spoke only when he had to, and he smiled less often than he had before. The strangest change of all, and one that no one else seemed to notice, was that he no longer stuttered. Not that he ever had with her, but now, for some inexplicable reason, the speech impediment had disappeared entirely. When he spoke, it was with the cold, clear purpose of delivering a message or answering a question. Gone was their cheerful conversation amidst the fading, sepia-toned light of afternoons in the kennel. No longer did they share the witty banter of a comfortable friendship or the unexpected revelation of a sudden epiphany. Frankie had gone away from her completely.
If only he hadn’t gone to Belfast. With the simple logic of childhood, Jilly rationalized that the city had changed him. Somewhere in the streets of Northern Ireland’s capital, Frankie Maguire’s soul wandered without its body. When or even if it would come back, she had no idea. There was nothing to do but wait.
Jilly sat on the knoll above Lough Neath absorbing the unusual heat that lay heavy and shimmering over the water. It was late summer. Soon she would leave for Kylemore Abbey. Normally, she would have lamented the end of her holiday, the loss of freedom, the structure of living her life by the ringing of bells and the hands of the clock. But this year was different. Frankie was different. She could only hope that the sooner she left Kildare Hall, the sooner she could return and everything would be the same again. She sighed, leaned back on her elbows, and closed her eyes. The drugging warmth of the sun worked its magic, and she dozed off.
Frankie released the stone and watched it skip across the lake, breaking the glassy stillness and sending concentric ripples to the shoreline. At least his aim never failed him. Neither did the dogs. He reached down to caress the bib of the collie beside him. The Fitzgerald champions were trained from birth to behave predictably, exhibiting the manners of true show dogs. Only the best came from the Kildare kennels. No incessant barking, nipping, or growling was tolerated. No bib could be muddy, no coat too dark, no ear less than perfect. All noses must be within the correct dimensions, all paws must be white, all gums a deep pink, all eyes a deep, dark brown. The Kildare collies always bred true, which was why the breeding and the puppies that resulted commanded ludicrous fees. Frankie’s mouth twisted bitterly. If only his own life could be so easily arranged.
Peter Maguire could no longer perform the services required of the Fitzgerald’s kennel keeper without his help, yet he had no intention of retiring. Neither did Pyers Fitzgerald, as far as Frankie knew, intend to pension his father off. It was a problem without a solution. Frankie chafed at the delay of his own plans. With every passing day, he ached to leave Kilvara and begin his life. Instinctively, he began withdrawing from everyone he cared about.
The Maguires had never been a communicative family. Peter was up before dawn, bicycling the five miles to and from Kildare, working long hours and nodding off shortly after tea. He had little time for his children. Kathleen had moved out of the Maguires’ tiny cottage in the village to a room in Kildare Hall’s servants’ quarters. Occasionally, Frankie met his sister for an afternoon meal. But Kathleen, infatuated with Terrence Fitzgerald, knew that Frankie disapproved and was only too happy when he made his excuses.
It was Jilly whose life had changed. To Frankie’s credit, he understood that she was the one who would suffer the most by his absence and deliberately began the separation process that could have only one conclusion.
That he would suffer as well did not yet occur to him. That would come later, when his world was measured by four bare walls and a barbed-wire fence, when the scent of feminine perfume drove him over the edge, when the memory of sun-streaked hair and freckled cheeks woke him in the night, his sheets drenched with sweat, shaking and terrified that he would never see the face behind them again.
But Frankie was not born fey, nor did he believe in the sight. So he went on his way, ruthlessly exorcising from his life everyone he loved, everyone he felt was even slightly dependent upon him. His father and Kathleen were surprisingly easy. It was Jilly who held his heart, Jilly who’d defended him, Jilly who believed they would spend their lives together, Jilly who trusted him with the secrets of her soul, Jilly whose shining, ocean-colored eyes shifted between need and devotion. How could he ever say good-bye to Jilly?
Seven
Ireland, 1537
Through a causeway bordered by boglands and forests of primeval black oak, their branches laden with fresh snow, Donal O’Flaherty led Nell, his men, and the cart upon which Gerald Fitzgerald slept away his fever. Donal had seen immediately that the boy, frail and mottled with illness, could never sit astride a horse. He ordered a covered wicker basket to be filled with hay and blankets. There Gerald slept the untroubled sleep of a child while those entrusted with his life cursed at every snapping twig, every crack of thin ice, every twisted rut that threw the unwieldy cart off balance.
The journey seemed endless. Donal, who’d crossed the entirety of Ireland in four days, chafed at the delay. The countess of Ormond had eyes in the back of her head, and if she were truly Gerald’s enemy, she would know of their halting progress. In a fair fight, Donal knew his men to be superior to Irish forces, but he had only a small company, and the countess of Ormond had the might of England behind her.
He frowned, turned back to look at Nell, and felt his heart contract. She had done nothing more than lift her arm to brush a loose strand of hair away from her forehead. Everything she did, the slightest movement, the way she arranged her cloak, the tilt of her head, the low, soft laughter that bubbled freely within her, filled him with wonder. Where had a woman raised amidst the splendor of Maynooth learned to accept such hardship uncomplainingly?
It was for her that he relinquished his comfort. In winter, Aughnanure was sinful in its welcome and accommodation. Fires, taller than a man, roared in every room, and wine and ale flowed. Visitors spent the season sated with drink, curled up in warm furs, their daze interrupted by an occasional hunt or wager of the dice. Were it not for Nell, Donal would be home, his head filled with nothing more than the tales of his bard relaying the past glories of his ancestors.
Geraldine or Tudor, it was all the same to him as long as neither insinuated its way into the western isles. He smiled ruefully, wondering if ever an O’Flaherty had gone to such lengths for a woman.
The sun lay
low in the sky, staining the snow-covered hills and glens with shades of pink and gold. Nell watched as Donal reined in his horse and spoke to the man beside him. The man nodded, said something in return, and Donal threw back his head and laughed. Nell swallowed and looked away. She wanted Donal O’Flaherty for her husband more than she wanted anything in her life, and the depth of her wanting frightened her. Nothing was certain, not even the betrothal contracts signed by her father’s hand. The last year had proven how tenuous the plans of men really were. And yet Donal had the look of one who meant what he said. Hadn’t he come all the way from Galway to find her?
A wave of color rose in her cheeks. He wanted her. She knew that for certain. He’d made sure she knew exactly how much before they left Donore. Lord, she’d been wanton. But when he’d taken her wrist and kissed her where the blue veins met, again and again, she couldn’t help the cry that rose in her throat. And when he’d covered her mouth to swallow the sound, his kiss had been sweet and slow and gentle. But later it was none of those things. It was rough and seeking, giving her a taste of what her mother had once told her about, the secret pleasure that men and women shared.
Nell wanted that kiss to go on and on, even when his mouth left her lips and moved to her throat and down to the rise of her breast. Through his clothing, she could feel the bunched muscles of his chest, the hard planes of his legs. Her gown was unlaced, and his tongue was tasting skin that no man had ever seen before.
Nell Page 8
