Patricia Falvey (53 page)

I smiled in spite of myself. “No. He wants to marry me. I just don’t know if I’m ready…”

James stared into my eyes. He had the melancholy expression he always wore when he was listening to sad Irish songs. “Do you love him, Eileen?”

I nodded. The tears flowed freely now. “Yes, James, I do.”

“Then what’s holding you up? I know you don’t give a rat’s arse about what other people think. And you said yourself you’re not waiting for my permission. So what is it at all?”

I did not answer. He stood up then and banged his fist on the table.

“Jaysus, Eileen. Will you take a bit of happiness when it’s offered to you? Will you stop worrying about everybody else in the world and take pity on yourself for a change? Will you lift the weight of the world off your shoulders? The world will go on well enough without any of the great O’Neills out there helping it. You say I sacrificed myself for others. Well, darlin’, you’re doing the same thing.”

The effort of talking was too much for him. He sank back down in his chair.

“Time’s up!” Mulcahy came over and pulled James up.

“Wait,” I cried. I stood up, put my arms around James, and kissed him gently on the lips. They were cold and trembling. “Good-bye, James,” I whispered. “God bless.”

“Pray for me, Eileen,” he whispered back. “And kiss Aoife.”

I nodded.

Mulcahy shoved him toward the door.

“Will you hold your water?” James shouted, the blaze back in his eyes. “This is no way to be treating a hero of the Revolution!”

“Hero my arse,” grumbled Mulcahy.

“He’s a braver man than you’ll ever be, Mulcahy,” I said. “You and the rest of them never deserved the likes of him.”

THE DAY JAMES
was buried, August 22, 1922, was the same day Michael Collins was shot. He was ambushed at the side of a country road in his native Cork. Some said it was his own side killed him, but no one knew for sure. Collins had predicted his own death the day he signed the treaty with Great Britain. “I have just signed my death warrant,” he was reputed to have said. Those loyal to Collins damned de Valera for having sent a soldier to do a politician’s job. I thanked God that James had not lived to see him killed.

As James had said, the Irish are great ones for funerals. He was buried with the full honors of the Irish Republican Army. His coffin was draped in the Irish tricolor, and the six pallbearers were IRA soldiers in full dress uniform. The procession route from the church in Glenlea where we had been married to the graveyard in Newry was lined with silent mourners holding Irish flags. A solitary drumbeat was the only sound. The soldiers fired volleys of rifle shots into the sky over the graveyard as the coffin was lowered, while a lone bagpiper played “The Minstrel Boy,” a sad, haunting lament. In the distance, Slieve Gullion stood stately, as if at attention herself.

The town was black with people. They came down from Belfast and up from the South. Dignitaries of de Valera’s government were there, along with top brass of the IRA. Aye, they all came out all right. But where were they when James was fighting alone, coming home to me at night scarred and bleeding? If the Ulster Volunteers and the B-Specials were there, they kept out of sight. Only the RIC men stood at each corner and halted traffic as the procession passed.

Owen did not come. We agreed it was best. I walked behind the coffin, along with Fergus, Theresa, Tommy, and Aoife. James’s mother placed herself bold as brass in front of the coffin, just behind the priest. The oul’ hypocrite! This was her wildest dream come true: her son a martyr, people singing hymns and saying prayers, and her at the head of it with a look of shining agony on her face. Father Dornan blessed the coffin. Many’s a priest would not have dared show himself in such a situation. James had murdered people. He was a wanted man—a revolutionary. But Father Dornan said James was a soldier and deserved a decent burial.

The day was warm and the sun shone its hot rays down on the proceedings. Birds sang in the trees as we passed, and hedge flowers bloomed in glorious color. It was a beautiful day for such a sad occasion. Appropriate enough for James, I thought. He always had a mixture of joy and melancholy about him—like most of the Irish.

The reception was held at the Ceili House. P.J. and the boys played traditional music while porter and whiskey flowed. I sat in the corner with the rest of James’s family. Many of the dignitaries and the IRA men came over to shake my hand. The head man handed me the folded tricolor from James’s coffin. The local people were a different story. Those that knew the truth about James and me nodded silently but kept their distance. James’s mother had made herself the center of attention anyway, bawling and carrying on, so it took the notice away from myself. For once I was grateful to her. Father Dornan came over and sat beside me.

“By the way, there was a young woman came looking for Terrence a week or so ago. Didn’t say who she was. Unfortunately, Terrence was away at the time.” He looked at me with his eyebrow cocked. I smiled.

“Aye, that would have been our sister, Lizzie, from America,” I said, pride filling my voice. “She came to find us.”

“Well, isn’t that marvelous,” Father Dornan exclaimed. “What a miracle.” He winked at me. “I helped Terrence out with that bit of detective work, you know.”

I smiled. “Yes, I know, Father.”

Eventually, the crowd began to thin out. The diehards would be there all night, as long as the drink was free, but the rest of them would be drifting off before evening. I was anxious to get home to Saoirse. Owen was minding her, so I knew she was being well cared for, but suddenly I missed the both of them more than I could say. I got up to go.

“Will you be coming down to the house?” Theresa asked.

“No,” I said. “I want to get home to Saoirse. Anyway, you’ll have your hands full without me.” I nodded toward Mrs. Conlon, who had started carrying on again now that she saw the party was winding down.

Theresa rolled her eyes. “Aye,” she said, “it’s well for you has somewhere else to go.”

I patted Theresa’s arm. “Thanks,” I whispered.

“For what?”

“For being a friend through all of this.”

She blushed. “Sure what have I done, compared to what you’ve done for me?” She reached over and grabbed Tommy’s hand. “You see, once we’d had Aoife for a while, we realized what a blessing children are no matter that they’re not your own. And so we’ve decided to adopt one.”

She beamed at me. “Of course me ma’s against it,” she said. “She says you never know what you’re getting when it’s some other woman’s child. She says just look at our Fergus!”

I laughed aloud. “Och, well, now James is gone, it will give her something new to pray over.”

I shook hands with Father Dornan and with P.J. and the band.

“No, I’d rather take the tram,” I said to their inquiries about a lift. “It’s a fine evening. I would like to be by myself.”

I walked out of the pub and started up the hill. It was one of those lovely August evenings in Ireland when the light lingers until late and the world is suspended between day and night. I was lost in my thoughts when a hand touched my shoulder. I spun around. It was Fergus. I had not seen him since he came to the hospital. And today I’d had no chance to talk to him since his mother hung on to him for dear life. I stopped and looked at him.

“Well?” I wanted to say, “Are you satisfied?” but I held back.

He must have read my mind. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag on it. “I didn’t mean for him to be caught and killed,” he said.

“And what else did you think was going to happen? Did you think they were going to give him a medal?”

Fergus hung his head. “I just wanted to save the mill, Eileen. That’s all.”

“Aye.” I shrugged. “So did I. But in some ways I wish you had never told me, Fergus.”

“I know. But I didn’t have the courage to do anything about it myself. You always were braver than most of us.” Fergus looked at me, anxious as a rabbit. “Anyway, James would have died sooner or later. He would never have given up. He was bent on his own destruction. It’s what happens to people who never question themselves. They all destroy themselves in the long run.”

O
n the last Sunday in August, Owen’s car pulled up outside my house. Aoife opened the door wide to run out and greet him, and I came out behind her. There, bold as brass and looking like the cat that got the cream, was Theresa. She stepped out as daintily as she could, despite her crippled foot, while Owen held the door open for her. I laughed.

“Well, what brings you here, missus?”

Owen grinned from Theresa to me. “She has come to take care of our daughters while I take you out to lunch.”

I was taken aback at the words
our daughters,
but they had a sweet ring to them just the same. “And what’s the occasion?” I said.

“Surprise. Now go in and put on something wonderful.”

Theresa hurried up and pushed me into the house. “Upstairs!” she said breathlessly. “Let’s see if you have anything in your wardrobe fit to be seen in.”

She took the stairs to my bedroom as fast as she could, threw open the wardrobe door, and pulled out what few clothes I had, clicking her tongue as she did so.

“Jesus, Eileen, anybody would think you were a pauper!”

“Well, I’m not far from it,” I said, annoyed.

Theresa swung around, her eyes glinting in her small face. “Well, you’ll not be one for long,” she cried. “I think he’s going to ask you to marry him!”

“What? Did he tell you that?”

“Well, no. But I don’t know why else he’d be making such a big palaver. Here, try this on!”

Theresa bullied me until I was dressed to meet her approval—a long fawn linen skirt and pale pink high-necked blouse—presents from Mrs. Mullen long ago that I had never worn. I had lost the weight quickly after Saoirse’s birth, and they fit well enough. Theresa found some pearls, a ribbon, and a belt.

“Go on now,” she said, stepping back and admiring her handiwork, “don’t keep the man waiting.”

I tried to smile at Owen as he talked away on the drive to Newry, but I could not let go of what Theresa had said. It made me nervous. I hoped she was wrong. I wasn’t ready to face the question.

“What’s the occasion?” I said at last.

He turned and smiled at me. “Well, not that we need an occasion, but it occurred to me that I let your birthday pass and did nothing to celebrate it.”

I smiled back, relieved. Theresa was wrong. I would have no decision to make.

It was a bank holiday weekend, and crowds were out enjoying the warm late summer weather. Little flags fluttered on boats in the canal—a regatta of some sort—and in the town square a band played. The pall that had hung over all of us the past few years seemed to be lifting. I felt my heart grow lighter as well. We parked and walked to Morocco’s Café on Hill Street. How long had it been since the last time I had walked there with Owen and Paddy? Nine years? Jesus, it seemed a lifetime ago.

The place was packed, but we managed to find a small table in the corner. Owen went up to the counter to greet Mr. Morocco and order some food and drinks. Again, I was surprised at his ease in a place like this. Mr. Morocco seemed delighted to see him. Owen came back to the table grinning, holding a tray loaded with sandwiches, cake, and ice cream.

“You’re worse than a child,” I said, laughing as he set everything on the table.

“I told you I had a sweet tooth.”

“Aye.”

As we ate, I looked around. I always loved Morocco’s Café with its feel of mystery and the enchantment of faraway places. I looked back at Owen. How he had changed since the last time we sat here together, just before he went off to war. The restless, earnest young soldier was gone, and in his place was a mature man at ease with himself and the world. His hair, once the color of corn, was woven with gray. Time had engraved more tiny lines on his forehead and around his mouth. He wore a white linen shirt with no collar, open at the neck, and tan trousers. I had not seen him in his uniform since the night he had left my house after the run-in with James. He had left the army just as he had said he would. A wave of love swelled in me, and I reached out and took his hand.