by Maeve Binchy
David dug into the heap of clay that lay beside the grave and heard it fall on to the earth that was already on top of Gerry’s coffin. He took three steps back toward Clare, she had her hand out in its little knitted glove.
He took it and they both watched the gravediggers finish off the work that the parish had begun. Two tall bony men, they had it finished in no time. The two wreaths were put on the little mound. In a year they would put up a tombstone to Gerry Doyle, Born 1935, Died 1962, and passersby would shake their heads and say he died very young.
The people began to trickle down the hill, toward Craig’s Bar some of them, some to Dillon’s Hotel, others to open up their businesses, which had been closed to honor Gerry Doyle.
A long time ago, back in Dublin, when there had been a simple sort of life, David used to take Clare’s hand in its knitted glove and put it into his pocket for further warmth. He wondered if he dared do that now. Very gently he drew her hand toward him and she placed it in his pocket without him having to do anything.
They walked down the twisty road with the loose stones. Down the hill to Castlebay.
About the Author
MAEVE BINCHY is the author of Nights of Rain and Stars, Quentins, Scarlet Feather, Tara Road (an Oprah Book Club Selection), Circle of Friends, Light a Penny Candle, and many other bestselling novels. She lives in Dalkey, Ireland, and London with her husband, writer Gordon Snell.
