Nell

by Jeanette Baker

  The waiting room was empty except for a small dark-haired boy. From behind the station window, a nurse attempted to reason with him. “Your da will be back soon, and he’ll take you. I can’t leave my position.”

  Jillian sat down and reached for a magazine, flipping through the pages disinterestedly. The child became more and more restless as the minutes passed, squirming in his seat, walking back and forth from the nurse’s station to the hall, where he would stare down the long corridor before coming back and leaning dejectedly against the chair.

  She abandoned her magazine and summoned a smile. He couldn’t be more than five. “Hello,” she said softly.

  He stared at her with round blue eyes. “Hello,” he returned.

  “My name is Jilly. What’s yours?”

  “Connor.”

  “Are you waiting for someone, Connor?”

  “My da,” the child confided. “He’s with my mother. I’m not allowed to go in. But it’s been a long time.”

  “I see.” Jillian appeared to think. “I’m waiting for someone, too. Perhaps we can wait together.”

  The lad brightened and came closer. “I’ve got t’ go to the loo,” he said in a loud whisper, “but it’s far away, and there’s no one t’ take me.”

  This she could do. Jillian stood and held out her hand. “I’ll take you.”

  Gratefully, Connor slipped his hand into her larger one. A thought occurred to him. “I don’t know where it is,” he said.

  Jillian swallowed a chuckle. “We’ll find it.”

  Her confident manner appeased the child, and he followed her trustingly to the door.

  The nurse stuck her head out the window. “What shall I tell his father when he comes back for him?”

  Jillian brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead. “Tell him that Jillian Graham took his son to the loo.”

  The nurse blinked in surprise. Mrs. Graham was a frequent visitor to the Royal Victoria, but she had never seen her in leggings and an oversized shirt with her hair scraped back from her face, secured with an elastic band.

  Jillian waited outside the men’s room for Connor. Within minutes, he came through the door, a look of relief on his face. “Did you wash your hands?” she asked.

  Nodding, he held them up for her inspection. Jillian knelt down to examine them and smiled her approval. “There’s a vending machine in the corner,” she said. “Would you like some chocolate?”

  “Aye, but it takes thirty pence, and I haven’t any.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Jillian said, reaching into her bag for her coin purse to remove two coins.

  Connor was sipping the steaming chocolate and maintaining a steady flow of conversation when his father came back to claim him.

  Frankie stopped short when he saw the woman beside his son. He’d forgotten all about Jillian’s request to be present during Colette’s surgery until they’d wheeled his wife through the double doors to the operating room. That she was actually there when he was sure he had discouraged her both surprised and annoyed him. “You’re a bit late, aren’t you? They’ve already taken her in.”

  Swift anger colored Jillian’s cheeks, but she answered him coolly. “Actually, I’m not. I arrived earlier, but it looked as if I would be intruding.” She tousled the hair on Connor’s head. “Then I found him and decided I was needed here.”

  Frankie flushed at the implication he had neglected his son. “I asked the nurse to watch him,” he said defensively.

  “I didn’t mean to criticize, Mr. Browne,” replied Jillian. “When the woman couldn’t leave her post, I stepped in.” She hesitated.

  “Go on.”

  “Perhaps it would have been better to leave him with someone at home.”

  Frankie ran his hand through his hair distractedly. “I told him he couldn’t see her, but he insisted on coming.”

  “There’s no harm done,” said Jillian quickly. “We’ve managed quite well. How long will the surgery take?”

  Shrugging, Frankie sat down and lifted his son to his lap, his arms naturally enfolding the small body. “Four hours, maybe five if there are complications.” Absently, he kissed the top of Connor’s head. “We’ve been through this before, haven’t we, mate? It will all come about.”

  Solemnly, Connor nodded. “Will Mam walk this time?”

  Jillian bit her lip and watched Frankie force a smile and attempt an answer. “Nothing’s for certain, lad. You know that. Everyone’s working hard to see that she does.”

  He nodded, yawned, and leaned his head back against his father’s chest.

  “Are you hungry, Connor?” Jillian asked. “You must be ready for a snack by now. Why don’t we go and see if there’s anything to eat in the café?”

  Connor lifted his freckled face to his father’s. “Can I, Da?”

  “We’ll all go,” said Frankie, rising from his chair and holding his hand out to the small boy. “We’ll call Tim when we’re finished.”

  “Who’s Tim?” Jillian asked when they were seated across from each other in the booth.

  Frankie lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “Tim’s our oldest son. Didn’t Colette mention him?”

  “Not by name.”

  “He’s twenty years old,” piped up Connor, “and I’m six.”

  Jillian blinked. The age difference wasn’t possible. Frankie Maguire had escaped from Long Kesh prison shortly after his twentieth birthday. That was seventeen years ago. “Do you have other children?” she asked.

  “No,” said Frankie shortly, “just the two. Colette was widowed when we met. Tim is her son from her first marriage.”

  For some reason, it was important to him that she know their circumstances. To say that Frankie was confused and closing down on a bit of truth would be an understatement. Jillian Fitzgerald, sitting across from him in gray leggings and boots, with a shirt so large it looked as if it belonged to a man and her hair hanging in sunny wisps around her cosmetic-free face, was a far cry from the woman who’d entered the doors of Stormont on Monday before last. That woman had been intimidating in her elegance. He wouldn’t have been able to talk to that woman, much less wait with her, sharing his anguished fears.

  That woman would not have touched her napkin to her tongue and dabbed the pudding away from the sides of a small boy’s mouth. She would not have reached out to squeeze his hand when the nurse came to tell him Colette’s surgery had to be extended. That woman would not have interpreted the message on the surgeon’s face, would not have scribbled her address and phone number on the back of an envelope or stuffed it into his shirt pocket. She would not have scooped Connor up in her arms and told him she was taking him home until his da could come for him.

  That woman was Jillian Graham, acting minister for Northern Ireland. This was someone else entirely. This was Jilly Fitzgerald, the girl he’d trusted in the most defining moment of his youth, the woman who came to his rescue, now, at the lowest point in his life.

  Jillian dispensed with formality and picked up a Walt Disney film on the way home. She asked Mrs. Wilson to change the menu and serve hamburgers and chips on trays in the sitting room.

  Casey had arrived earlier that day. She raised her eyebrows but did not demur when her mother suggested a game of Monopoly. Finally, when Connor’s eyes drooped, Jillian removed his clothing, buttoned him into one of Casey’s flannel shirts, and, deciding against leaving him alone in one of the remote guest rooms, tucked him into a corner of the enormous couch. She looked down at him for a long time after he slept.

  “Now will you tell me what’s happening?” asked her daughter in a hushed voice.

  Jillian took her arm and led her to a chair near the fire, across from her own. She sat forward, her hands clasped in her lap. “Do you remember the woman I told you about at the hospital?�
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  Casey nodded.

  “I didn’t know until last week, but Danny Browne is her husband, and this is their son.”

  The girl’s mouth dropped open.

  “I went to the hospital this morning,” Jillian continued. “Her surgery didn’t go well. Mr. Browne had the boy with him. There was no one else to take him, so I brought him home with me,” she finished, rushing to end the story. It sounded preposterous, even to her own ears.

  Casey stared at her mother. “You’ve got Danny Browne’s son sleeping on our couch? Danny Browne, the nationalist negotiator? Mum, whatever were you thinking?”

  Jillian drew back, offended. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “What will happen when someone finds out? Isn’t this a flagrant conflict of interests?”

  For the first time since Casey had officially become her own, Jillian was appalled at her thinking. “I don’t give a bloody damn what anyone thinks,” she said, outraged. “This is a six-year-old child who had no one to care for him. If someone wishes to make something more of it, let him.”

  “I didn’t say you’ve done anything wrong, Mum,” Casey said. “I just think you should be prepared in case the press makes an issue of it. Think of what you’ll say.”

  Jillian’s anger evaporated, replaced by an amused exasperation. “Where was I when you surpassed me in maturity?”

  “It comes from living with you,” said Casey. “You’re mature enough, Mum. Bringing home a needy little boy is far more typical of you than agreeing to assume Father’s position. I can’t imagine why Mr. Putnam insisted that you do this.”

  Jillian heard the edge beneath the words. “You’re worried about me, aren’t you?” she asked in astonishment.

  “The media isn’t very nice,” replied Casey slowly. “I know you don’t read the tabloids, but they ran some dreadful things about Father. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

  “What things?” Jillian held her breath.

  Casey shook her head, stood, and headed for the stairs. “I’m not in the mood. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Casey.”

  “Yes?” She stood poised at the foot of the stairs.

  “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

  The girl’s forehead wrinkled. “No. Why?”

  “You seem troubled about something, and you’re a day late.”

  Casey smiled and shook her head. “I can handle my life, Mum. If it gets to be too much, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Jillian sighed and crossed the room to stand near the window. For a long time, she stared into the deepening dusk. The night would be cold. Already, frost had gripped the grass, silvering the rich green of the lawn. Where was Frankie, and why didn’t he call? She crossed the room to look down on the sleeping boy and smiled. He looked very like Casey with his dark lashes and fair skin. She looked more closely. They really were similar. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps all children had that soft roundness of cheek, defined heavy eyelids, and squared-off, obstinate chin.

  Jillian sighed and moved away. He should have called. The child stirred, searched for his thumb, and settled back contentedly. Her heart broke. No matter what had happened, he really should have called.

  ***

  Somehow, between the surgeon’s explanation of what went wrong and his condolences for Colette’s passing, Frankie remembered that Jillian had taken Connor. He never knew how he found the elegant mansion on Lisburn Road. Somehow, the car he’d borrowed early that morning found its own direction, down Grosvenor and Donegall roads to Queen’s University, below the fork where Lisburn and Malone split. On a hunch, he turned left toward the larger, more expensive houses and, before he became completely muddled, ended up on the street outside a number that matched the one on the envelope where Jillian had scribbled her address.

  Headlights on, he sat in front of the ornate gate, wondering how in bloody hell he was going to get through. As if in response to some signal, the gates opened. Frankie depressed the clutch, threw the stick into gear, and drove down the circular driveway.

  Jillian stood in the open doorway, backlit by the warm glow of dimmed lights. Her hair was loose around her collar and very gold in the lamplight. Slowly, Frankie climbed the brick steps until he reached her. She tilted her head back to see his face, and, somehow, she knew. She touched his arm. His eyes darkened, and without a word between them, his pain flowed through her like a current.

  She drew him inside, pushed his unresisting body down into an easy chair, and poured him a liberal glass of Irish whiskey. He drank it down in a single gulp. She poured him another and, when that was gone, waited for him to request a third. He didn’t. Apparently, the grown-up Frankie Maguire was not prone to excesses. For some reason, it pleased her. The chair was oversized. She sat down, squeezing her frame into the space beside him.

  “Will you tell me what happened?” she asked softly.

  “Her blood pressure went down, and her heart stopped. They couldn’t revive her.” His voice was raspy and scraping, as if he hadn’t used it in a long time. “I’ve never really been without her,” he said helplessly. “I don’t know where to begin. There’s the funeral and Connor—”

  “Connor can stay here for now,” Jillian said quickly. “Tomorrow is soon enough to worry about the rest of it.”

  “Poor wee lad,” he said brokenly, dropping his head into his hands. “How will I tell him?”

  Jillian’s heart ached for him. She slipped her arm around his shoulders and eased his head down, cradling it against her breast. “You’ll find a way,” she whispered, rocking him back and forth as if he were a child. “Children are stronger than you think. Don’t worry, Danny. You’ll be there to guide him through this. Tonight is your time to mourn.”

  Her words, soothing as balm to his bruised spirit, worked their magic. She had always been a clever little miss, naive in many ways but older than her years in others. He’d missed her during those prison years. God, how he’d missed her. His mind called up images of tanned legs and sun-streaked hair, of ocean-green eyes and a mouth made for far more than kissing.

  The fire with its burning turf and the expensive liquor loosened his tongue and did strange things to his brain. “I waited for you,” he mumbled against her shirt. “I waited until you married first. Then I stopped waiting.”

  Jillian frowned and continued to stroke his head, separating the fine black hair between her fingers. He was hallucinating, and it wasn’t about Colette.

  “It’s too late now,” he continued. “The day Colette was shot, I should have told her how much she meant to me. But I was afraid she’d think I said it out of pity. She thought there was someone else, someone I couldn’t get out of my mind.” He laughed raggedly and lifted his head. “Can you imagine it, Jilly? Ten years married, and the woman never heard the words I love you from her own husband. What kind of arrogant bastard wouldn’t say three wee words to make her happy?”

  Her childhood name on his lips undid her. Jillian pressed her face against his shoulder, allowing the tears to stream unchecked down her cheeks. “She knew you loved her,” she murmured. “A woman doesn’t need the words when a man comes home to her every evening, when he wakes every morning in the same bed and looks with pride on the children they made together. Colette knew you loved her, Danny. I saw it on her face. I saw it on both your faces this morning when I came to wish her well.”

  Jillian remembered the husband she had recently buried and the blandness of her own farce of a marriage. A fresh sob rose in her voice. She couldn’t stop the words rushing from her lips. “Some women never know that kind of love. Because of what the two of you had together, Colette’s life was sweeter than most.”

  Their roles had reversed. Now he was comforting her. She had slipped to the floor. He pressed her head against his chest. His free hand roa
med across her back, up and down her arms, kneading the muscles, touching the pressure points at her shoulders and the back of her neck, all the while murmuring in Irish, soothing, one-syllable words that she didn’t understand.

  For Jillian, it was sheer heaven to be held in his arms, even when it was only comfort that he offered. She strained closer and lifted her face to find air space. Her nose touched the line of his jaw. Her lips were the merest fraction of an inch from his throat. He smelled of tobacco and the cold Belfast night, a man’s smell. She inhaled. Something was missing. If only she could get closer. Instinctively, her lips parted. The tip of her tongue grazed the cord of his neck, sipping at a drop of perspiration, before retreating quickly.

  Frankie froze. Was he losing his mind, or had he felt her tongue on his neck? Inside his chest, his heart thundered. Carefully, he pulled away and looked down into her face. Her eyes were closed, her face swollen with tears. He released his breath. Poor lass. Her own husband had died less than two weeks ago. She needed comforting as desperately as he did, and reassurance that life continued, that she was still young and alive and desirable.

  He recognized the force leaping to life within him. Desire had become his front line. Since Colette’s paralysis, he’d waged a constant and frustrating battle between the demands of his body and the strength of his character. This morning, in the operating room at the Royal Victoria Hospital, the battle was finally laid to rest.

  If this woman were someone else, someone who had no hold on his heart or his past, he would have gladly and guiltlessly assuaged the ache of a two-year abstinence. He would have threaded his fingers through her hair, pulled her head back, and kissed her, sweetly at first and then hungrily, with all the repressed passion that years of denial had compounded. He would have tasted her skin, undressed her slowly, pressed her back against the cushions, sucked her breasts, exploring with his hands and mouth until she vibrated and opened beneath him. And then he would have taken her, fondling, urging, driving, until all the pain, the anguish, the regret, the mistakes, the false pride, and the pounding rage of an unfair, too early loss were swallowed up in his own release and in hers.