‘He’s like Mrs Doyle heading for a Guinness!’ Seamus shouted as he wound in the reins. ‘Only he has a little more grace and his own teeth.’
Both men laughed as Seamus dismounted the cart and removed the rope harness from the horse. Pete had prepared a manger of feed and a deep bed of straw for the old nag, and the old cottage was filled with the smell of sweet hay and cow. Pete carried on with the milking, singing the same comforting tune he sang every night, convinced that his music increased the cows’ output.
Seamus composed his thoughts as he brushed the sweat from the back of the horse with a rough handful of straw, and allowed himself his first smile. Throwing down the straw, he patted the nag on his rump.
‘I’m away into the house, Pete. I have news for Nola.’
He’d felt the telegram burning into his leg through his trouser pocket and once or twice had let his hand lie against it, to reassure himself it was still there. His heart was beating faster. The waiting and worrying were over, and now the one thing he wanted to see was the relief on his wife’s face. He ran out of the barn and up the path, and before Pete could answer him, Seamus was gone.
Pete stared out of the door, open mouthed, the rhythm of the milking broken as he tried to remember the last time he had seen Seamus Malone run.
*
Nola let the hot, freshly baked, floury loaf drop from her hands onto the wooden breadboard as Seamus barged in through the door. She knew instantly that something was wrong. This was not how Seamus entered the house. Gentle in both movement and speech, he was more likely to creep in without her even knowing than arrive like this, running across the kitchen towards her. She wiped her floury hands on her well-padded sides and mopped the perspiration from her brow with the back of her sleeve. She spent the best part of her day covered in flour and smelling of butter, and always wore her short dark curly hair tucked into one of the frilled white cotton caps Ellen had made her. Her cheeks were as doughy as her bread and crisscrossed with tiny red veins that gave her a permanent rosy glow.
Seamus flicked Daedio’s cap from his head as he trotted past the old man, who was dozing on his bed in front of the fire.
‘Oi, you feckin’ bastard,’ Daedio shouted, woken from his slumbers. ‘Give it me back. Do you want me to catch my death? Tell him, Nola, would ye.’
It was a nightly routine, the flicking of the cap, which was never removed, even in sleep. The baiting was done in ruthless good humour, to try and encourage the old man to find his legs and pick up the cap – a reason to move.
‘I’ve done it to wake you up, you lazy old git,’ said Seamus as he bent to retrieve the cap from the floor. His flick had been a good one tonight; powered by relief and happiness, the cap had reached all the way to the press behind Nola.
‘Nola, put that knife down, I have news,’ he said as he scooped up the cap and fitted it back into place on Daedio’s head.
Nola dropped the knife onto the breadboard, next to the loaf. ‘What is it?’ she asked as she rubbed her hands down her apron and made her way around the table to the fireside, where Seamus was standing next to Daedio’s bed.
Seamus ran his hand down his hip and ruffled the paper in his pocket. The tension was such that if he didn’t tell Nola soon, the telegram would surely catch alight. Without any further preamble, he removed it and thrust it at Nola.
She looked up at him and frowned. ‘What’s this?’ she said as her blood ran cold.
They had all heard the stories of telegrams arriving in homes across Ireland, informing parents that their sons had died in the war. There was little sympathy for those sons; soldiers who had donned a British uniform. The manner in which the British had behaved during the famine was still talked about as though it had only been yesterday. And the list of reasons why some of the Irish hated the British didn’t stop there: there was the First World War, their devious tactics during the fight for Home Rule, the Easter Rising… The mothers of lost soldiers got few condolences.
‘Is it Michael, is it, God love him? Tell me, is he dead?’ Her eyes filled with tears she could not hold back. She began to tremble and took a step away from the fire, putting her hand behind her to grab at one of the wooden chairs.
‘No, not at all.’ Seamus placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Stop now, would ye. Far from it, Nola. Did ye ever really think our Michael wouldn’t make it? He’s coming home.’
Nola clasped her hand tight across her mouth. ‘Home?’ she said. ‘Here, to the farm? To Tarabeg? Oh God in heaven, I don’t know whether to be happy or sad. Is he in Liverpool? Does he not know what it’s like? Seamus, tell him to stay in Liverpool, where there’s work to be had repairing the bomb damage. That’s were all the lads are heading to, you know as well as I do. The McGintys have three boys all upped and left for the building and the labouring. They say there’s good money to be had. What in God’s name is he coming back here for? There will only be trouble, surely to God.’
She was talking faster than usual, her words tumbling out of her. She looked from Seamus to Daedio, who was grinning from ear to ear, and knew she was making little sense. She slumped onto the chair she’d been holding on to and collapsed, then gently rose again, removed her knitting from under her rear and placed the half-finished Aran jumper for Seamus over her face. Now that she’d stopped talking, she was weeping sudden tears – of joy, fear and relief.
‘Typical bloody woman,’ muttered Daedio. ‘She’s been saying every day for five years, “I’m off to Mass to pray for Michael. I can’t wait for the day when I lay me eyes on his face, so I can’t.”’ Daedio spoke in a mocking high-pitched voice as he peered at Nola from under the brim of his cap. ‘Mary, Mother of God, would ye look at the cut of her now.’ He snorted, but he was still unable to remove the grin from his face. Michael was coming home, and regardless of all the problems he would bring with him, it was a moment of joy to savour.
Seamus, ignoring Daedio, sat on the settle next to Nola. ‘There’s one reason he’s coming home and it’s for Sarah McGuffey – you know that, don’t you? If it wasn’t for Sarah, he probably would stay in Liverpool and earn some money before he came home. Stop the crying now.’ He removed the knitting from in front of Nola’s face and peered into her weeping eyes. ‘Nola, listen, would ye, Michael is coming home to news he won’t want to hear. He is too late – Sarah is to be married to Jay Maughan, and soon.’
If anything could make Nola’s tears stop, that news was it. For a brief moment the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire and a peat block slipping down more comfortably onto its bed of hot ash. Nola, almost uncomprehending of what Seamus had just said, blinked in disbelief.
‘Feck, I need a drink,’ said Daedio.
‘We all do,’ Seamus replied. ‘I’ll fetch the jug.’
Nola threw the knitting to one side and, pulling a handkerchief from her apron, wiped her eyes and blew her nose with some force, regaining her composure.
Seamus returned from the scullery with a jug of his own poteen. They made it in a still they kept in the old cottage. Every so often, when the wind blew in the wrong direction, the Garda from the village would sniff the unmistakeable whiff of the illegal brew and come marching up the hill. But the dogs and the view always gave them fair warning and Seamus and Pete could have the still out of the old cottage and hidden in a hayrick in the field before the Garda had picked themselves up out of whichever bog hole they’d invariably have fallen into on their way up.
Seamus half filled the mugs and handed one to Nola. ‘’Tis the best yet, this one, don’t you think?’
Nola made no comment, distracted, her thoughts racing ahead.
As Seamus poured, he talked. ‘As I see it, he has two choices, now that there will be no Sarah waiting for him. Brendan was in Paddy’s when the telegram arrived and he will be telling Bee tonight what the news is and she will be telling Sarah. God alone knows what that will do. The farm will make more this year than last, so if Michael wants to stay, there is money here for him,
but we would have to let Pete go.’
Daedio glanced up at Seamus. This was not such good news. Pete had been with them for many years and was as good as part of the family.
‘Or he will do what they are all doing and go to Liverpool, or if he has enough money, to America, to seek his fortune. Whichever one it is, it doesn’t matter, Nola. You will be seeing him soon and that’s all that matters, for now. Take your drink, go on. You’ve had a shock.’ He wrapped Nola’s warm, plump fingers around the mug.
Their eyes met and spoke the messages of a couple who understood each other’s thoughts.
‘Aye, a nice one that he’s coming home,’ Nola said. ‘Despite the disappointment waiting for him, at least we are still here. But, Seamus, his heart will be broken when he finds Sarah already married.’ Her eyes filled with fresh tears at the thought of the pain this would cause her son.
‘Stop fretting and drink.’
Nola sipped on the poteen and screwed up her eyes as it slipped down. The first sip was always the worst. She tutted impatiently. ‘God help Sarah McGuffey if I ever see her. My words alone will cut her to shreds.’
‘Shush,’ said Seamus. ‘You can’t be blaming Sarah, ’twill all be down to her daddy, he will have been the one to be marrying her off. It’s Jay Maughan she is marrying. McGuffey will have earned himself a fine bride price from the Maughans. Buying brides and stealing children, ’tis what the Maughans do best. ’Twill have had nothing to do with Sarah, of that I’m sure.’
Daedio snorted. He was reminded of Bridget’s words and felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He opened his eyes a little wider and looked a little harder, trying to locate the ghost of Annie, but she was nowhere to be seen. The temperature remained warm; there was no unexplainable breeze in front of the fire, no stirrings in the air. She wasn’t there to hear the news and his heart sank. He almost jumped out of his skin when Nola spoke.
‘He should have stuck to Rosie O’Hara. If it hadn’t been for Sarah, he would have made something of that and wouldn’t that have been a grand thing, a Malone marrying a schoolteacher? Instead, he fell for the daughter of a fisherman, and the worst one of the lot at that.’
Seamus squeezed his wife’s shoulders as he leant back against the chair. Removing his cap, he ran his hand over his head and across his face and eyes as he let out a deep sigh. He felt weary and after only half a mug, the poteen and the fire were already having an effect. ‘Pete will be here in a minute. Let’s lift our pots to Michael.’
‘To Michael and a safe journey home,’ said Daedio.
Seamus and Nola downed their drinks in unison as the back door opened and Pete let a blast of cold air run down the room.
They went about their usual routine: Seamus banked up the fire, Nola placed the supper on the table and Pete washed his hands at the scullery sink. When he came back in to stand at the fire and warm his backside next to Seamus, Daedio and Seamus told him the news. Nola dished out huge ladles of lamb stew from a tureen into their bowls. For Daedio, who had only two teeth left to speak of, she chopped and mashed up the meat. The flames of the peat fire roared and chased up the chimney and the room was cosy as the night drew down and the rain picked up and beat against the door. On the long, scrubbed table sat a fresh jug of porter. Two candles burnt fiercely in hurricane lamps, one at each end, and as Nola bustled by with the bowls of stew held aloft, both flames dipped a respectful curtsey to the matriarch of the house.
‘Come on, eat, would ye,’ she said as she smiled up at her husband and set the bowls on the table. The imminence of Michael’s return was warming her heart.
‘Shall I be cutting the bread?’ said Pete, noticing the loaf on the board as he moved from the fire, rubbing his hands together, his mouth almost watering at the sight and smell of the food.
While the men began to dip their bread in the gravy and tuck in to the stew, Nola sat on the side of the truckle bed to feed Daedio his mashed-up supper.
‘How much did you pay for the pig feed?’ Daedio asked as he turned his head to Seamus, having swallowed his first mouthful while Nola blew on the second to cool it. ‘Your wife tried to kill me today,’ he added as the lamb rolled over his gums.
‘Oh shush,’ said Nola. ‘He’s talking about the potion that I asked Bridget for. Sure, ’tis the only thing keeping you alive.’
Daedio looked at Seamus and Pete, his rheumy eyes brimming with mirth. ‘Aye, because it won’t be your cooking and that’s a fact.’
And the night passed in much the same way it did most nights in the Malone house, filled with warmth and laughter.
Two hours later, Pete was the first to move, having finished his game of cards with Seamus. ‘I’m away to my bed,’ he said as he stood and picked up one of the hurricane lamps. ‘I’ll unpack the feed after I’ve milked in the morning.’
‘Aye, I’ll be up to the pigs with ye,’ said Seamus as he stood and placed the cards back into the press drawer.
‘When do you think Michael will be arriving?’ Pete asked, and they all knew why he was asking. He was wondering for how long he had a roof over his head and a wage in his pocket.
Nola was sitting in the rocking chair in front of the fire, knitting. ‘Don’t you be worrying, Pete,’ she said. ‘We have no idea what Michael’s plans will be. He may not even be staying here, once he knows Sarah is to be married to Jay Maughan. He could be on his way up the hill right now, or in a week, or a month even, if he finds work in Liverpool. Who knows.’ She looked up at him as he made his way to the door. ‘Goodnight now,’ she said.
‘Night, Nola. See ye in the morning, God willing. Are ye away to Mass?’
‘I’m not. Not tomorrow. If my son comes home, I want to be here for him, so expect Father Jerry to be running up the hill and giving out to me by the afternoon. We all know ’tis the only house he gets a good bite of pie at when he arrives, so any excuse, eh? He may have Teresa, but try as she might, she can’t beat my creamy chicken pie, and nor is her pastry made using my butter.’
Pete smiled. ‘Lord knows how the man survives with that tea-drinking scold as a housekeeper,’ he said as the door closed behind him.
Seamus moved over to sit on the settle near to his wife. At almost fifty-five years of age and having worked on the farm since he was a boy, alongside his own granddaddy, he felt as though for the first time the rain was giving him the rheumatics. He looked down at Daedio, who was now fast asleep, replete with the best lamb stew he could be served, and he saw his future. The Malone men were renowned for making old bones. ‘One day, that’ll be me,’ he said to Nola.
She laughed and shook her head. ‘You will never have the temper or the cheek of that old maggot, that’s for sure. But one thing’s certain, it won’t be me. My lot are lucky to ever make three-score years. ’Tis not many more years I have before God calls me, and I want to see my youngest son happy and settled before I go.’
‘Don’t be talking like that,’ said Seamus. ‘I won’t be having it. Everyone who stays up here on this hill lives a long life. Why do we need to go to heaven when we have it right here? We live in heaven, sure we do.’
He stood and, straightening his back, placed his hands in his pockets. His father didn’t stir on the mattress. Having been made comfortable, he was out for the night.
‘Look, let’s to bed,’ Seamus said. ‘There’s nothing we can do or decide until the man himself gets here.’
Nola rose and carried the mugs to the sink. ‘“Man”!’ she snorted. ‘He was just a boy when he left here.’ She turned to examine the table that she had already laid for the breakfast. The flour was in the bowl, ready to be made into bread at first light.
‘Anyway,’ said Seamus, ‘if he is on his way, I reckon we’d best be making the most of the privacy before he does arrive.’
Nola looked up at him and the twinkle in his eye was unmistakeable. He winked at her.
‘They should have christened you Shameless Malone, not Seamus,’ she said as she grinned back at him.
She extinguished the candles in the sconces and picked up the hurricane lamp from the table and set it on the windowsill. ‘In case he comes home tonight,’ she said. ‘Who knows when he sent that telegram. It could have been a week ago. I don’t have the same faith in Mrs Doyle’s famous telex machine that everyone else has. Keep the jug with the rest of the porter on the table and cut some cheese to leave on the side with the bread, just in case. No lad of mine will arrive home from the war to an empty table.’
When a plate had been laid, covered in a cloth, and a new candle put in the window, Nola turned to her husband. ‘Come on then, let’s see how much of you is talk and how much is action.’
Seamus slapped her rotund backside, the width of his hand covering the white and floury imprints of her own, and she giggled in exactly the same way she had on their wedding night, many years before.
As the door closed, neither saw the eyes of Daedio Malone open as he turned his head towards the fire and the empty rocking chair. He heard a sigh, a breath, a smile.
‘Is that you, Annie?’ he whispered to his long-departed wife.
‘It is, Daedio. I’m here, I’m with you,’ she replied.
‘Did you hear that, Annie?’ he asked.
‘I did that. Isn’t it just the best news,’ she replied. ‘Our Michael is coming home.’
Daedio Malone smiled. A lone tear left the corner of his eye and travelled down his cheek.
‘He is, and he’s safe and well. Shona didn’t curse him and he’s coming home. He’s been spared, God bless him. I’ll wait for him awhile. I’ll get him sorted and settled first. There’s things to do, you know that, and then I’ll be coming to join ye, Annie.’
The chair moved. ‘I’ll be here, but Michael, he will need you for a while yet. You must wait for Shona to go first, Daedio – you will know when it’s time. You will see me then. Don’t you worry, I’ll come for you myself, I’ll bring you across. You won’t be alone,’ she whispered back to him as he closed his eyes.
Shadows in Heaven Page 5
