SHEELAGH KELLY

Secrets of our Hearts

In loving memory of my parents.

Contents

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen About the Author Also By Sheelagh Kelly Copyright About the Publisher

1

He had been dying to tell them all day. But, also dying for his tea, he had saved his announcement for later, as one might reserve the best bit on one’s plate until last. Now replete, Niall Doran gave a little groan of satisfaction, a leisurely stretch, and prepared to regale his family. Then he remembered what day it was.

Perhaps this was not the time for frivolity. His thoughtful blue eyes moved to the fireplace, half expecting still to see the old Yorkshire range, but that had been ripped out weeks ago and replaced by a modern one with shiny beige tiles. Upon its mantelpiece, twixt two posies of flowers, stood a soldier’s photograph. Today marked the eighteenth anniversary of Brendan’s death; killed one week after his birthday on the Somme in 1916, forever twenty-five. Twenty-five, thought Niall with a mental shake of head – why, even the blasted sideboard had been allowed to survive more years than that! Without turning his head, he felt its dark presence. It seemed to glare at him, as if knowing he had always hated it – this heavily carved Jacobean-style monstrosity that took up an entire wall, its funereal bulk alleviated only by scraps of white lacework and the photographs of his children at their confirmation. Having his mother-in-law living here was oppressive enough, without putting up all her old-fashioned stuff too. It felt like a blasted funeral parlour …

Still, he noted, the occupants of the household didn’t appear overly sombre. From the front room came the sound of female muttering: his wife, Ellen, her younger sisters, Harriet and Dolly, and their sixty-five-year-old mother having converged there a few moments ago, probably to spy on some neighbour, as women were prone to do. But Niall would soon have them pricking up their ears.

‘You’ll never guess what I saw today,’ his deep Yorkshire voice called teasingly, ‘not even in a million years.’

Seated at the table alongside him in the living room of their small terraced house, five brown-haired, blue-eyed children waited expectantly.

‘A wolf!’ came their father’s grandiose announcement.

Whilst his offspring gasped in awe, only a half-amused reply came from the other room. ‘I thought they were extinct in this country?’ Ellen remarked.

‘Obviously not, for I saw one today with me own eyes!’ Niall sounded pleased with himself.

‘You know what happened to the boy who cried wolf,’ jeered Nora Beasty, his mother-in-law, her concentration still fixed on the street beyond the window.

‘I’m not having you on!’ objected Niall, with a laugh. ‘I swear I saw it.’ And he began to recount today’s adventure on the country line, all five children leaning on the table, their pixie-like faces holding him with rapt attention – the girls, Honora and Judith, with their delicate bone structure, the youngest, Brian, too, whilst the remaining pair of boys were more robust – all paying respectful heed. ‘I’d just chased an old moorjock off the line—’

‘What’s a moorjock, Dad?’ interrupted Bartholomew, a rascally-looking five-year-old.

‘It’s a sheep, Batty – and I were bending down with me spanner to tighten a crossover rod, and I looked up and there was Mr Wolf, jogging across the line as bold as brass!’ His thrill conveyed to the children, Niall delighted in watching them hang on his every word. There came a display of excitement from the women too, but not because of anything Niall had said.

‘See! I told you – he’s off to meet a woman!’ declared Nora, her flint-like eyes piercing the lace curtain and following the suspect’s passage up the terrace.

The three younger females, who craned their necks beside their mother, gave angry murmurs of agreement. Then one of the disembodied voices manifested itself: Dolly thrusting her toothy, unattractive face round the brown varnished jamb to summon her brother-in-law. ‘Go after him, Nye, and see where he’s off.’

‘Who, in God’s name?’ He showed slight exasperation, which was mirrored by his informant.

‘Your Sean!’

‘Spy on my own brother? That’s a bit devious.’ But Niall had turned grim, annoyed as much that his own bit of glory had been spoiled as over his brother’s purported wrongdoing, though he spared a warm and grateful smile for his eldest, who removed his empty plate and brought him the evening newspaper.

‘There’s your press, Dad.’

‘By, you’re a good lass – thanks, Honor.’ He touched her affectionately. Quiet and conscientious like her father, the eleven-year-old merely smiled back, as Niall raised his voice again for the benefit of those in the parlour. ‘Anyhow, he said he’s off to play billiards with a chap from work!’

This drew sounds of faint contempt from the other room, his mother-in-law’s answer relaying a sneer. ‘I heard what he said, but you don’t get dressed up like he is to knock a few balls about – and he couldn’t look us in the eye when he said it. It’s a woman, I’m telling you.’

‘It’d bloody well better not be or I’ll flatten him.’ Despite the Irish name and facial characteristics, the Celtic knick-knacks and shamrock-laden, proverb-bearing plaques that dotted his house, Niall was Yorkshire personified in his tight-buttoned, blunt-speaking manner. Irritated, he snatched a mouthful of dark brew from his glass and unfolded his newspaper. It had been a long hot day, he had laboured hard on the railway and, with his tale about the wolf overshadowed, all he desired was to be left in peace to finish his Guinness and read the press. Trained to accept this, his boys scrambled off their chairs and went to play outside. But, as ever, the women wouldn’t let him rest.

Ellen broke off spying to bustle in and urge her husband persuasively, ‘Go on, darlin’, before he gets too far ahead. He’s the one who’s devious – he knows he’s in the wrong otherwise why would he lie?’

‘We don’t know he is lying.’ But at the back of his mind Niall knew they were right: his brother had looked shifty when questioned as to his intended whereabouts. Sean had rarely ventured out since his wife had died three months ago; then, last evening when he had come over for tea – which Nora had kindly taken to cooking for him since his bereavement – he had made an announcement that he wouldn’t be over the next night, would just grab a quick bite at home as he was going to meet a friend from work. Niall recalled how he had offered to accompany his brother, for he felt like a night out himself, but had been met by a hasty refusal, Sean explaining that his workmate was not the sort to welcome such an intrusion. Niall had put little significance on this at the time, for past experience had shown that Sean’s choice of friends was not his. But now, with his glass of Guinness only half drained, he abandoned it, wiping the froth from his long upper lip and casting aside the newspaper as he went to join the suspicious tribe by the window.

The front room was strong with cocoa, emanating from Harriet and Dolly, whose clothes and hair – even their skin – seemed impregnated by the factory in which both worked. The grey head with its severe parting, and hair tied in a bun, moved aside so that Niall could take her place.

‘Now will you go after him?’ bawled an impatient Nora, once he had seen for himself.

Far from being cowed, he responded with sour amazement. ‘Don’t me legs carry me enough miles a day?’ But even as he said it he knew he would cave in for the sake of a quiet life, as he always did against this unforgiving wall of women.

Still, he vacillated, unwilling to do their underhand bidding, yet inquisitive to know himself. ‘Well, I might just go …’

‘Can I go with you, Daddy?’ Unnoticed, six-year-old Judith had followed him in here and, fond of such cloak-and-dagger shenanigans, dragged at his legs and tilted her face at him pleadingly. ‘Aw, can I?’

‘Eh, Juggy Doran, what are you doing creeping up behind me? You’re as bad as this lot!’ Much as he joked, he did not care for the example being set for her. ‘You should be out playing on a lovely night like this.’

‘Go on!’ nagged Ellen with a helpful push. ‘You’ll lose him.’

Niall was still looking down with fondness at Juggy, whose warm little body was clinging to his thigh. This morning she had sported a neat bow in her long, dark brown hair, but the latter was now tousled from play, and the ribbon dangled loosely about her face as she tried to seduce him with those shining blue eyes. ‘Please! I want to hear about your wolf.’

‘I should be glad somebody does!’ growled her father. Judged on this unsmiling appearance Niall could have been a wolf himself – sharp of feature, keen and intelligent of eye, his dark, wiry hair grizzled around the temples, at thirty-three in his prime, lean and raw-boned and rather menacing. In nature he was quite the reverse. Not exactly a sheep in wolf’s clothing, and as far from being meek and mild as one could be, he was nevertheless as moral a fellow as ever stood, anything untoward or underhand offending him deeply, and he was not averse to using his fists in defence of those values. However, this side of his character was never visited upon his womenfolk, whose every whim he chose to grant in order to enjoy the quiet life he yearned. All in all a soft-hearted soul, especially at the hands of his children, Niall would take much goading before his teeth were bared. Yet here now before him was the one thing guaranteed to raise his hackles, and it was his brother who provided it.

‘For heaven’s sake, will you stop faffing and get after him – please!’ This addendum was swiftly issued, for Nora knew him well enough to know that he did not respond to bullying. But she could not hide her exasperation and, unlike her son-in-law’s, Nora Beasty’s appearance was not so deceptive. With those cold grey eyes, she looked as if she’d enjoy torturing people and, by God, Niall knew if he didn’t do as she wanted now she’d make his life a misery for weeks in all manner of small ways.

But it was from a sense of curiosity rather than obeying Nora that he finally agreed to act, and, with a gasp of aggravation, also to take Juggy with him. ‘Flamin’ ’eck, if it means I’ll get some blasted peace, all right I’ll go!’ Juggy laughed in triumph. ‘But keep your gob shut,’ he warned her. ‘We don’t want Uncle Sean thinking we’re after him.’ Even if we are, he fumed to himself. Still in his grubby shirtsleeves, he hauled his grinning little daughter by the hand and left.

Outside, he paused only to sling Juggy onto his shoulders, then set off after his brother. She was a delicate, gangly creature, and no more than a featherweight to bear. On consideration he was glad to have her with him for it might look less suspicious. If Sean should turn and confront his pursuer the latter could always say he was only taking his child somewhere – though why he should lie when Sean was obviously the one at fault … However, he had not been found guilty yet and must be granted the benefit of the doubt.

Employing the bat his father had painstakingly carved for him, Dominic was now involved in a game of cricket with a dozen other raggle-taggle young residents of this slightly impoverished but happy area, his smaller brothers hovering in the avid hope they might be allowed to run after the ball. So concentrated, none of them noticed as their father went by with their sister on his shoulders.

‘Ooh, just the very fellow!’ old Mrs Powers accosted him as he was passing her open doorway. Mr Doran was a man who kept himself to himself, but knowing him to be charitable too, she entreated him, ‘Could you just give us a hand to get a lid off, if you’re not in too much of a rush?’

Unable to ignore the elderly widow’s smiling plea, the chivalrous Niall turned to follow her lame figure indoors, only remembering he had Juggy on his shoulders when she yelled in alarm, and ducking swiftly to avoid injuring her.

With the lid removed, and the old lady’s thanks ringing in his ears, Niall did not tarry but called over his shoulder, ‘You’re all right, love!’ Then he hurried to regain surveillance of his brother, who had now turned a corner, the bony little buttocks grinding his shoulders as he jogged.

Thenceforth, he loped along Walmgate in the manner of the wolf that he had seen crossing the railway line that morning, occasionally responding to his daughter’s questions about his encounter with it, though his mind was on other things now.

Well, Sean wasn’t going to play billiards, that was for sure. He was travelling in the wrong direction. Still, Niall conceded that the local billiard hall was not the only one in York, and to be fair to his brother he tried his best to keep an open mind as, with the ancient limestone bar to his rear, he shadowed him towards town.

A tram came gliding past, the odd motor car, and argumentative voices from the Chinese laundry, but apart from these intrusions the way was quiet. If not for the task in hand it would have been a very pleasant walk. This evening, with its occupants basking peacefully in the sunshine – gentle old Irish grandmothers in black dresses, shawls and bonnets, seated upon chairs on the pavement and puffing on their clay pipes – it might be hard for a stranger to imagine that he was in one of the roughest quarters of York. Contained on two sides, the east and the south, by a medieval limestone wall, the rest of the area was enclosed by the River Foss, as it snaked its way to meet the Ouse at Castle Mills; the road that Niall trod was its main artery, a network of veins to either side.

Notwithstanding the garish posters daubed on every space, the odd smashed windowpane and derelict property, Walmgate itself did not look particularly rough. In fact many of its structures were immensely graceful, and it boasted a fine array of shops. Even the dosshouse looked genteel nowadays, the dirty crumbling stucco Niall remembered from his youth having been removed to expose fifteen-century timbers, and the gaps between them whitewashed. But Niall kenned that, with a few drinks down them, those same old grandmothers who waved to him so benignly might be tearing out each other’s hair, and their sons trading blows. Likewise, behind those Victorian establishments with their sedate awnings to ward off the sun, and the symmetrical Georgian façades, at the other end of those narrow, urine-reeking alleys that ran between them were the most appalling courtyard slums.

However, of late there had been a definite change in the air. Along his way, Niall was pleased to note that a few of the worst offenders had gone, others in the process of being razed too, though the awful smell of their midden privies lingered on, overpowering the more pleasing aroma of fish and chips. Such dwellings had been there since he was a boy – his father and mother had said the same – and he would be glad when all were finally eradicated. How sad that it had taken a world war to instigate progress. Holding his breath and warning Juggy to do the same as they passed one such demolition site, he hurried on up Walmgate.

Linked to Fossgate by a small stone bridge that lay some way ahead of him, this was one of the longest thoroughfares in the city, its thriving commercial premises interspersed by ironworks, forges, breweries and tanneries, all of which emitted a sooty effluvia that was indiscriminate in its resting place, coating elegant Regency pediment and sagging medieval beam alike. Amidst these grimy edifices were butchers’ shops with attached slaughterhouses. A few ancient churches were outnumbered by public houses: the King William, the Spread Eagle, The Clock, and eleven others. The combined smell of beer fumes and unsanitary middens billowed out from every entry on this warm summer evening – too warm to be dressed up like a dog’s dinner, came Niall’s inner pronouncement, as he noted the carefree manner in which his brother walked. The bouncing, cocksure gait of his grey-flannelled legs, the swagger of his shoulders under the best jacket, the cap at a jaunty angle, the rhythmic clitter-clatter of his steel-tipped soles as he danced off the pavement and onto the cobbles in order to get round the small crowd that had gathered to hear the tingalary man – hardly the demeanour of a fellow recently bereaved.

Involuntarily, Niall’s mind was cast back to poor Evelyn’s death, for which he held himself partly responsible. It was from one of his children, the nephews and nieces on whom she doted, that Sean’s wife had caught chickenpox. Whilst the youngsters had been barely incommoded, other than by an irritating rash, Evelyn had become critically affected. Her death had come as a complete and terrible shock. Niall remembered how devastated Sean had been and unable, as some might, to take solace in his offspring, for, despite being with Evelyn several years, their marriage had been unfruitful. There was no sign of that devastation now, thought Niall with disgust, as the gay tune from the tingalary affected his brother’s gait.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Sean had always seemed to get over things quicker than he himself did – he could still weep over the death of their mother if he thought about it too deeply, though she had been dead more than thirteen years. But then he’d always enjoyed a closer relationship with her. His father had died when he was twelve and Niall had become the man of the family, insisting that he leave school and get a job to support his mother and younger brother – younger by only three years but it made all the difference between their levels of maturity. Even in adulthood Sean had continued to be the less responsible of the two. It annoyed Niall slightly that their mother allowed the younger brother to get away with it, whilst demanding a more grownup attitude from himself and going mad at him if not receiving it. Still, he had adored her and had been heartbroken by her death on his twentieth birthday.

Then, soon afterwards had come Ellen to stem his grief. Susceptible to her comforting arms, deeply grateful for someone to organise his domestic affairs – for there was no way this clumsy labourer could do justice to the house he had inherited – he had married her within weeks of their getting together, their first child conceived on honeymoon. Yet, maintaining filial responsibility, he had not abandoned Sean, nor even tried to buy him out, but had welcomed him into the fold of newly wedded bliss, until, a few years later, Sean married one of Ellen’s sisters. But even then, Niall’s supportive role was not over, for, with great financial hardship to himself, he had taken out a mortgage in order to release Sean’s half of the inheritance so that his younger brother could buy a house of his own. And, when Ellen’s father had died, who was it took care of his widow and two unmarried daughters, and invited them to come and live under his roof, even though it was overcrowded already? Certainly not Sean.

With a snort of annoyance, Niall became aware that his little rider had slipped on his shoulders, and with one deft movement jerked her back into position. ‘Sit straight, darlin’.’

‘Sorry, Dad.’ Juggy sat bolt upright, her hot little hands pressed to his skull.

The glazed brick frontage of the Lord Nelson signified that Walmgate was almost at an end. Thereafter came only a few shops, and two more public houses. Then, beyond the jagged, moss-coated roofs of derelict warehouse and broken Dutch gable that nibbled the skyline like rotten teeth, the Minster rose into view, its gargoyles and pinnacles defaced by the same centuries-old grime, yet still towering spectacularly over all. Niall, barely aware of this colossus or any other antiquity, was deep in thought about his relationship with his brother, when a sudden cry made him jump in alarm that he had been found out.

But Sean was only calling to a woman on the other side of the street: ‘Charlie’s dead!’

Immediately interpreting the phrase to mean that her petticoat could be seen, the recipient of Sean’s impudence automatically glanced down at her calf-length skirt, and made deft adjustment of its waistband, and the show of underwear was gone. Then, with an embarrassed laugh for her grinning informant, she minced off with a click of high heels. Niall scowled. What sort of respect was that to show a dead wife? Similar in looks, maybe, but the antithesis of his elder brother, Sean had always been a flirt; even when he had been married it had not stopped him. No, it hasn’t taken you long to get over her, has it? Niall noted grimly.

Had this been Sean’s only transgression that evening, it would have been bad enough, but he had just walked straight past another billiard saloon. As the tramlines and their overhead wires veered left, Niall carried straight on, his face even grimmer as he hurried across the road to avoid being run over by a car, his little passenger clasping tightly to his head. The street became narrower now, flanked by bulbous stone balusters, between which flashed glimpses of an oily river. The muscles in Niall’s thighs tensed effortlessly as they met the incline of Foss Bridge, and thereby began another series of pubs. ‘King’s Arms Hotel, Parties Catered For’, shouted the huge advertisement painted on an end gable; whilst some fifty paces ahead, Sean was passing beneath a sign for Magnet Ales. And in between were narrow jetty-fronted shops and grand emporia, an exotic-looking picture house, a barber and a confectioner, fresh fish and ironmonger, wagon repair, garage and cycle dealer …

Finally reaching the Army and Navy Stores, which marked the end of the thoroughfare, his quarry rounded a corner. Niall rushed to catch up, and his mood darkened into fury. Nora had been right. Waiting beneath the gold-painted carving of a ram, which dangled from a bracket and was an emblem of the Golden Fleece public house, stood a pretty young woman, obviously well acquainted with Sean. At his arrival her face lit up, and she touched his arm with such familiarity that there could be no mistake.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Niall heard his brother say as he himself made a swift diversion to avoid catching up with them, almost dislodging Juggy in the process, and pretended to be looking in a shop window.

‘You’re not, I’m early,’ the woman replied. Then, to Niall’s horror, she added curiously, ‘Is that little girl waving at you?’

As Sean wheeled to face him with a guilty look on his face, a childish voice hissed, ‘They’ve seen us, Dad! But don’t worry, I’ll fix it.’ And she called cheerfully from her father’s shoulders, ‘It’s all right, Uncle Sean, we’re not following you! Me dad’s just come to buy summat from this shop!’

‘Since when has he worn women’s corsets?’ muttered Sean, glaring knowingly at Niall.

For a few angry seconds the brothers faced each other, sharing the same defiant pose. Then, as ever, it was Sean who turned away first, steering his bemused lady friend from the scene and leaving an equally disgruntled Niall to return home.

‘And where did they go?’ demanded his outraged wife and in-laws, when he had reported all this to them several minutes later.

‘How do I know?’ Divested of Juggy, who had gone to get ready for bed, even though it was still light, Niall flexed his cramped shoulder muscles. ‘I stopped following them.’

‘Clot!’ accused the cold-eyed Nora, to supportive murmurs from her daughters, who were gathered round him.

Already simmering, Niall fixed her with a warning glare. ‘I wasn’t going to have an embarrassing confrontation in the street!’

Ellen recognised that her mother had tested his good nature too far, and said hurriedly as he carved a passage through the women, ‘Well, it’s sufficient to know that Sean was with that woman, Mam. It doesn’t really matter where they went, does it?’

‘No, indeed, the snake-eyed traitor!’ Nora backed off from Niall, though it did not stop her venting her disgust on his brother.

Harriet too spoke her piece, obviously expecting Niall to listen. With strained patience he beheld her objectionable face, which was shaped like a cardboard shoe box, its expression and features similarly hard. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’ she demanded.

‘Don’t fret! The minute he gets home I’ll be waiting for him. I’m not having this family brought into disrepute.’ With a look of grim determination, Niall finally got to rest his aching body in an armchair, the brown artificial leather creaking as he slumped upon it. Purchased in a moment of rebellion against having his home cluttered with Nora’s belongings, aside from the fireplace it was one of the few tokens of modernity about the house. Faced with that looming monstrous presence that was the sideboard, Niall bent to remove his boots, then thought better of it. Nora would no doubt start wittering at him, and besides, he’d only have to put them on again when he went to confront Sean. Contenting himself with loosening their laces, he threw an abstracted smile of gratitude at Ellen, who had replenished his glass with Guinness, and whilst she herself supervised the children’s bedtime prayers, he opened the evening newspaper.

But, as before, he found himself reading the same line several times due to the angry commentary of his mother-in-law as she waited by the front window for the perpetrator’s return. Normally he could ignore her, but tonight his own annoyance with Sean made this impossible, and eventually he left the room to seek refuge in the outside lavatory. How could someone of five foot two make her presence so felt? For if there was one anomaly about Nora Beasty it was that she looked much larger in photographs than in real life. Niall recalled his first sighting of her, when his relationship with Ellen had grown serious and she had produced a family snapshot as a preview to what Niall could expect upon making their acquaintance. If he had felt intimidated then by those steel-grey eyes, the iron jaw and hawkish nose, he had felt even more so at meeting Nora in the flesh, for her personality filled the room – much like her sideboard. Yet he had been astounded at how short she was. Short and stout and determined. Wide those hips might be, yet there was barely a hint of femininity about Nora, rather an armour-platedness; and despite the scallops of lace at collar and cuffs, the delicate chain of the locket she wore, and the slender gold band of her wristwatch, there was a mannish strength to her arm. Niall had been quite alarmed, for was it not said that a woman grew into her mother?

Thankfully, Ellen’s jaw was not so square, her face softened by a fringe of brown curls; she had a maternal tenderness in her clear blue eyes that Nora could never have possessed, even in girlhood. For although Nora had been very good to him in many respects, there lurked behind that initial smile of welcome the hint of a nastier side, which he had quickly discovered could be evoked at the drop of some harmless comment, and woe betide anyone who crossed her. A much younger man then, he had avoided doing or saying anything that might upset his mother-in-law – not that Niall was the type to go around upsetting folk just for the sake of it, nor was he someone who shrank from a fight, it was simply that he couldn’t see the point in disrupting an otherwise ordered life by indulging in petty squabbles with the matriarch, even if she did regularly test his patience. But short of hitting her, he could not alter her wilful character – and one could not hit a woman. So for the sake of keeping everyone happy, if things got too much he would simply leave the room, and for the next thirteen years this was the way he had orchestrated his marriage. He could not say that he himself was ecstatically happy – what labouring man could boast contentment with his lot? – but so long as he had a steady job, a roof over his head, and his children were healthy and well fed, he would never complain. It could have been far worse. The rest of the daughters – not just the younger pair, Dolly and Harriet, but also the other two who had flown the nest – all were quite plain, their eyes slightly protuberant and grey like their mother’s, their hair nondescript and their figures unappealing, and he counted himself lucky to have landed the only one amongst them who was reasonable-looking. Whilst no raving beauty, Ellen had the ability to look clean and trim, even when she was up to her eyes in housework, always having a tasty meal ready for him, and she was a wonderful mother to his children. The only characteristic she shared with her sisters was those thin lips, which showed a proclivity for intolerance and spite. Niall had come to know that this was not mere fancy, the amount of times they had ganged up on folk over the years. For a second he rather pitied his brother, who looked set to experience the full strength of their wrath; but for only a second. Never by any stretch of the imagination would he himself behave in such an overhasty manner should anything befall Ellen.

Which was why, the instant his lookout gave warning that Sean had arrived home, Niall was out of the door and over the road in the time it took to tie his bootlaces.

‘Don’t try creeping in!’

About to cross the threshold, Sean jumped and spun round, then retorted in anger, ‘Why should I creep into me own house?’

‘You know bloody well why!’ accused Niall.

Sean scoffed in disgust. ‘If you think I’m going to explain myself to you – you’re t’one who should be explaining, spying on me like that!’

‘I wouldn’t have to spy if you had any sense of right and wrong!’ Niall’s dark, shaggy eyebrows were arched in disbelief. ‘For God’s sake, your wife’s hardly cold!’

‘Three months is a long time when you’re on your own!’ There was a hint of supplication in the face that was very like that of its accuser, with dark hair and vivid blue eyes, if slightly younger and not so healthy, for Sean worked in a factory. ‘You don’t know what it’s like coming in to an empty house …’

But Niall was not to be won over. ‘If that’s your only excuse then get a lodger.’

All vestige of peace-making drained from the younger brother’s face, usurped by contempt. ‘You clever sod! You know what your trouble is? You’re just jealous because you resent me having a bit of happiness when you’re so bloody miserable.’

A second of stunned silence – then, ‘Don’t talk bull!’

‘It’s bloody right! You’d love to escape from Ellen and her lot, given the chance.’

‘Right?’ sputtered Niall, angered by the insult and coming dangerously close to his opponent’s face. ‘What would you know about right?’

‘I know what’s right for me,’ parried Sean, ‘and I intend to get on with it, so you can go back and tell that to the ones who are pulling your strings!’

Now totally incensed at being portrayed as only here to do the women’s bidding, Niall returned fire, dappling his brother’s face with saliva. ‘It’s not just them as thinks you’re a traitor! For Christ’s sake, can’t you even do the decent thing and wait a year at least?’

‘A year – who’s to say what’s a reasonable time?’ This penchant for sticking to the rules had always annoyed Sean. ‘Why do you always have to do things by the letter? Why can’t you take into account that some people aren’t as regimented as yourself and might just happen to fall in love?’

‘Love – you? Pff!’ Niall laughed, but his eyes bulged with danger. ‘We both know what you’re after!’

‘I don’t give a damn what you think of me, but don’t you dare insult my friends with your mucky insinuations!’ Restricted by his collar and tie, Sean’s brow had broken out in a sweat, his face cherry red, his eyes brimming with fury. ‘Emma’s a good, decent woman and that was the first time we’ve walked out together.’

‘Well … I meant no slur on her.’ Blood still pounding through the veins in his temples, Niall’s reply was tempered by remorse, though only for the woman who might be innocent. ‘Maybe she’s unaware of your position; maybe you misled her like you’ve misled us.’

‘She knows all there is to know about me,’ retorted Sean to this double-edged apology, he too becoming less vociferous now, if no less firm. ‘And I didn’t lie to you. I said I was going out with somebody from work. You just assumed it was a bloke.’

‘It was natural to assume it when you said you were off to play billiards!’ countered Niall.

‘Women can play billiards too, you know! As a matter of fact she’s a very good player, and we did go for a game.’ Normally a much less volatile character, Sean managed to bring his annoyance under control and tried reason instead. ‘Look, I don’t want to fall out with you, Nye. Can’t you just be happy that I’ve found someone again? She’s really lovely. I know you’ll like her when you meet her.’

‘I don’t want to bloody meet her!’ Niall exploded again and, one foot on the doorstep, he dealt his brother’s chest an angry shove. ‘If she knows everything about you she must think it’s all right to go out with a man so recently widowed, and that doesn’t constitute decency in my book.’

‘Then bugger you and bugger your book!’ Equally angered, Sean pushed his assaulter back into the street. ‘I’m seeing her whether you approve or not. You might be an angel, but I’m just a normal bloke. The trouble with you is you can’t put yourself in anybody else’s shoes, you’ve got no bloody imagination!’ And thus saying, he slammed the door in his detractor’s face.

Absolutely fuming, Niall dealt the barrier a vicious thump, then wheeled away. No imagination indeed – how little his brother knew him. Oh, he had imagination in bucketsful! But it was not the sort that could be disclosed. What kind of man had daydreams of his wife being killed in an accident and tried to imagine how he’d feel at the news?

He felt this way now as he strode back to his own house and saw those tight-lipped expressions at the window, knew that the moment he was through the door Ellen, her mother and sisters would be pestering to hear what Sean had had to say, and demanding that he do something about it. For, since marrying into a family that came to lose all its men, Niall had been bestowed with the mantle of leader; in name at least. There was a time when he had been flattered to act as surrogate for Nora’s dead son, Brendan, to be treated like a king in never having to lift a finger, his every requirement brought to hand. But callow vanity had soon been ousted by a truer sense of place. Now he was mature enough to see that Nora and her daughters regarded him as just another child to be manipulated, that he held no real importance for them other than to be the provider; for if ever he was to offer an opinion on anything they would regard it with amusement or, even worse, might scoff. Only in time of crisis, when there was some onerous duty that they could not perform themselves, did they deign to treat him like a man – yet even then instructing him how to do it.

So, yes, perhaps Sean knew him better than he cared to admit. At times like this, when all he wanted was to sink into bed after a hard day’s labour, he did regret marrying Ellen – yearned to be free of those carping bloody women. But he’d never do it, for it wouldn’t be right to walk out on his kids. And so he dreamed instead that one day she would just be taken from him, and tried to imagine how he’d feel upon hearing the news, and how long it would be before he could get shot of her mother from his house. And then, of course, being the moral soul he was, Niall felt guilty and sad because there was no valid reason for wanting to be rid of Ellen, apart from her clan. There was a certain affection between them, they shared five children to whom she was a good mother, and she was a good housekeeper. He was sure he and his wife would have been fine if not for others’ influence. But he could not fight all of them. And so he was left to his imagination …

But imagining something wasn’t the same as reality, Niall told himself angrily upon reaching his door, nor was it a crime. Had he been in his brother’s shoes he knew he would never choose to act like Sean. He would do the right thing. He cared what people thought of him, cared about his good name. And by association with his brother, that name had been plunged in the mire.

2

Steeped in such troubles, Niall had almost forgotten about the wolf when he saw it again the next day, bounding across the stretch of track he and the gang had just laid, not ten feet ahead, and making him cry out in alarm so that his companions dived onto the embankment thinking he was alerting them to danger. As before, it caused quite a stir amongst the labourers, many of whom dropped what they were doing to scramble up the grassy embankment. One of picked up a stone and hurled it with such accuracy that it drew forth a yelp. Objecting to this, Niall preferred to stand and watch the wolf escape across a pasture, scattering cattle as it ran, and leaving tufts of moulting hair in its wake from a coat that seemed almost red in the sunlight. One would have expected the noise to deter a wild animal, he thought, all that steam and clanking from the locomotives and the cranes, the grinding and hammering – not to mention the human activity. One would have assumed the wolf would take a wide berth, but no, there he was, giving his observers a devil-may-care backwards glance over his shoulder as he finally vanished into the trees.

Their excitement dying down, the labourers were ordered back to work by their foreman, and soon all were busy again renewing the track. Around fifty in all, some worked with picks, some in a wagon casting down shale with their spades, others shovelling earth into corves, yet more manoeuvring the girders and tracks that were suspended from the crane, guiding them into position, whilst a host of others worked with spanners and hammers to secure it, the whole site a cacophony.

His boots crunching the ballast, his ears ringing with the sound of steel upon steel, Niall narrowed his eyes against the smoke from the cigarette that now dangled from the corner of his long Irish lips, as he squatted to wrestle with metal and timber, and his thoughts turned once again to his errant brother.

A fair man, after a night’s sleep he had pondered Sean’s dilemma more objectively, yet for all he tried to put himself in the other’s shoes he could not condone such behaviour. Sean might like to think that the matter was ended, but he had another think coming. From now on Niall would be alert to his every move.

Thus, that evening, tipped off by a watcher that Sean was heading out again, he pre-empted Nora’s instruction to follow him by dashing straight out for confrontation.

‘You’d better not be going to see her again!’

Clean-shaven, his hair slicked with brilliantine and smartly dressed in tweed jacket, white open-necked shirt and grey flannels, Sean merely eyed the challenging stance with disdain before continuing on his way up the sunny terraced street.

‘Hark on!’ Niall barked after him. ‘If you do this you won’t be regarded as part of this family any more! This is the last time I’ll be talking to you.’

Once there was a time when Sean had worshipped his big brother, but with Niall become so judgmental and strait-laced, all respect vanished in a trice. Still walking, he flung a nonchalant reply over his shoulder. ‘I’ll consider meself told then.’

His threat so blithely unheeded, Niall strangled his intended retort, wasted no time standing there fulminating, but returned to his womenfolk, immediately to form a pact of war.

Henceforth, the women took it in turns to stand by the parlour window, noting what time Sean left and what time he returned, no matter how late. Even whilst detesting such methods, Niall was to play his part too, refusing to speak to his brother and darting him arrows of contempt whenever they came face to face.

It was a measure of their combined depth of loathing, their desire to arrest Sean’s wicked descent, that these tactics were to be maintained for eight tense weeks. Until, one Friday evening in late August, when a day of high wind had already whipped up tempers, the lid of restraint was about to be blown clean off: Sean arrived home with his scarlet woman in tow.

Following the collective gasp of outrage, Nora blurted, ‘He can’t do that – that’s our Evelyn’s house!’

But Sean could and did proceed to escort the woman right to his threshold, both of them laughing as the wind swept her hair from back to front so that it totally obscured her face, then whipped Sean’s cap into the street, causing him to make an acrobatic leap for it, before they finally managed to slam the door.

His mother-in-law was almost apoplectic over this presumption. ‘Well, I’m not having it!’ Heaving her solid carcass forth, surprising nimble of foot, she rushed outside to stand on the pavement and glare, closely followed by her daughters, all bracing themselves against the gale, whilst their hair was whipped and their pinafores billowed and ruffled, and paper flew all about the street.

Unable to see how this would help matters, Niall chose to remain indoors, as disgusted as the rest, though not so vocal. But no matter that Sean and his lady friend had gone inside, Nora and her deputies were to brave the elements for extra moments, standing firm and Medusa-like in the gale, so as those looking out could be under no illusion.

‘They’ll have to come out sometime,’ declared Ellen, eyes narrowed and watering, arms folded under her indignant bosom, whilst her clothes flapped about her.

‘What if they don’t?’ enquired Dolly, the least forceful of them, trying to keep a wisp of hair from her mouth. ‘What’ll we do then?’

‘They’ll have to!’ From inside, Niall heard his wife reiterate.

‘Not if she stays the night.’ When they all turned to frown at her, Dolly explained quickly, ‘Well, if she’s the type of brazen article who takes up with a man whose wife’s barely cold, she’ll hardly have qualms about anything else.’

‘Just let her try it!’ Nora propelled this verbal gauntlet at the wall of the house opposite, before leading the return indoors to maintain her surveillance in comfort. ‘I’ll be over there and drag her out by her frizzy hair.’

Inwardly balking at such a bad example for a grandmother to set the children, Niall sought to distract them, especially the older ones, who were exchanging knowledgeable looks of concern.

‘Is that your homework you’re trying to do on the edge of that newspaper?’ Recently turned twelve, Honor was seated at the table chewing the end of a pencil, as if more concentrated on the row from outside.

She broke away from her trance and went back to studying the pencilled words that were crammed into the white border around the newsprint. ‘No, I’m just making a list of my sins for confession.’

Her father smiled. ‘I thought school had run out of money for books. Sins, eh? You’d better get a bigger piece of paper then, all the things you’ve been up to.’

Her serene posture was cracked by a laugh of quiet outrage. ‘Dad, stop it, you’re putting me off!’ Then her face became serous again as she tried to recall every offence committed during the week, for an imperfect confession meant damnation.

‘Sorry.’ Her father smiled and stopped teasing her, knowing how seriously she viewed the act of confession. Then he turned his attention to three-year-old Brian, who was pressed to one of his knees, unnerved by the howling of the wind through the gaps in the windows, and he pulled the child onto his lap. ‘Don’t worry, Bri, it’s just the silly old wind making that noise – you know like your dad makes when he’s eaten pea soup.’

There was collective laughter from his children.

‘That doesn’t hurt you, does it?’ reasoned Niall.

‘I don’t know about that, Dad,’ laughed Dominic, holding his nose.

‘Oy, mister!’ His father levelled a threatening finger, but his eyes were full of fun. ‘You want to watch it or I’ll be confiscating all of that five bob you’ve lined up for yourself tomorrow, instead of letting you keep some of it.’

Dominic adopted a non-comprehending frown. ‘Don’t you mean half a crown?’ He would be performing his duties as altar boy at a wedding ceremony.

‘I mean five bob!’ Niall was stern but amused. ‘I happen to know there are two weddings tomorrow – thought you’d pulled the wool over me eyes, didn’t you? Well, think again! You’ll have to get up early to hoodwink your dad.’ He projected a grin of rebuke at his son who, in feature, took after Ellen’s side of the family, and could be sly, but was redeemed by possession of a charming smile, which bounced back at Niall now.

‘I only just found out myself there was another wedding!’ protested Dom with a laugh.

Momentarily reassured by the smiling banter, Brian rested his head on his father’s chest, though his ears still adhered to the external noises – as did Juggy’s.

‘Has Uncle Sean been naughty?’ she finally dared to ask.

‘That’s none of your business,’ retorted a stern father, but Niall felt the sharp eyes of his eldest son on him, and, annoyed at Sean for putting him in this position, sought to let Dominic know, without giving too much away, that this was no way for a man to behave. ‘Suffice to say that a man’s good name is everything,’ he declared to all.

‘I think Doran’s a good name,’ mused Juggy, kneeling by the fire and cradling her doll. ‘Though I’d quite like to be called Pretty – that’s what they call the girl who sits next to me in class.’

Niall responded with a chuckle and a compliment. ‘You don’t need to be called Pretty when you’re already pretty.’

‘Father didn’t mean it sounded good,’ Honor broke off her list of sins to explain quietly to her little sister. ‘He meant that when people hear your name they think of you with respect, for the way you behave, and that you’ve got nothing to be ashamed off.’ She looked to Niall for confirmation, and when he gave a pleased nod, she added, ‘And Father’s got a very good name.’

‘So, is it the lady what’s got the bad name?’ persisted Juggy, having received more than an inkling from the angry voices that competed with the gale outside.

Her father decided enough was enough. ‘None of that need concern you,’ he said firmly, and designing to take his children’s minds off this, and also the eerie whistling of the wind, he instructed Batty, ‘Chuck us that book, little un – we’ll have a story before bed!’ Opening the tome, he set upon imbuing them with one of its moral tales in an effort to drown out their grandmother’s voice.

‘I will! If they’re not out in five minutes I’ll go in and drag them out!’

However, the threat was not to be carried out.

A couple of hours later, around nine, when the youngsters were safely upstairs, Sean and his partner in crime finally emerged. Immediately the Beasty women rushed out to hurl insults.

‘Well, I’m glad she has the grace to blush – Ah say, you do right blush!’ scathed Nora from across the street, amid a mass drawing-in of chins and glaring and huffing from her equally irate daughters.

Struggling to pull his door shut against the wind, Sean did not even look at them as he took a protective hold of his companion’s arm.

‘That’s right, take her home – take her back to her sty, and good riddance!’ This from Harriet.

‘I like your hair, love!’ Dolly mocked loudly, then declared to her abettors, ‘Nobody has hair that colour – she must dye it!’

‘With a bucket of rusty water by the look of it!’ brayed Harriet. Even as she spoke the words were ripped from her mouth and dispersed on the gale along with a noisy collection of debris, yet a few of them hit their target.

‘The cheek of them!’ an indignant Emma told her companion, all windswept and troubled as they made their departure. ‘It’s my own natural chestnut.’

‘I know that. They’re just jealous, ignore them – and don’t take any notice of their threats neither; they’re all mouth,’ advised Sean. He put a firm arm around her and quickly steered her away from further insult. ‘They can just get used to it.’

Alas, far from growing used to it, tireless in their determination, one or another of the Beasty women was there to mutter and to scowl on each future occasion that Sean’s lover came to visit. Even more humiliatingly, the neighbours had become aware of the rift. At his current arrival, there was a small audience to witness the antics of his reception committee. Worst of all, though, for an uncle who loved them, Niall’s children were being indoctrinated by this bitterness.

‘Don’t do that!’ Ellen slapped a hand that had come up to wave as she and her mother took their turn at observation, crammed into their doorway in an effort to shield themselves from providing entertainment for the neighbours, whilst at the same time maintaining their vigilance towards Sean and his fancy piece.

‘I wasn’t waving at the lady,’ protested a forlorn Juggy, rubbing her hand, her skinny body squeezed between mother and grandmother’s hips. ‘Only at Uncle Sean.’

‘You don’t wave to either of them!’ her mother bent to warn her in a manner and tone that could not be misinterpreted. ‘And she’s certainly no lady!’

Though Sean translated the comment only too well as he closed the door upon it, his little niece asked innocently: ‘What do you mean?’

‘Never mind!’ Ellen shoved her daughter back inside, she and her mother following. ‘You do as you’re told and don’t say a word nor make a gesture to either of them. He’s not your uncle any more.’

The child’s father was to endorse this, both in word and deed. In a change of tactic, from then on whenever encountering his brother, Niall would simply walk past as if the other were invisible. Hence, his children were to act by example. It was all very sad for one who had doted upon them.

Yet however some might like to pretend that Sean did not exist, others continued to watch and to criticise his every move. Which was how they were to discover that the hussy had finally stayed the night.

This was the ultimate outrage. At the sight of Sean and Emma emerging together at eleven thirty that Sunday morning, Nora abandoned her sentry duty and charged like a rhinoceros from the house, running directly across the street and arriving at such a velocity that she almost bowled her son-in-law over in her attempt to slap his face. She would have struck Emma too had Sean not quickly recovered from his shock to grab her arm.

‘You’re disgusting, the pair of you!’ Nora was snarling at them by the time Niall rushed over to referee, and to try to hold her back as she strained to be at those who had demeaned her kin. Ellen, Dolly and Harriet had rushed to join in the hounding, forming a barrier around Sean and the woman so that they could not escape. ‘Besmirching my daughter’s memory with that guttersnipe – where did she sleep, that’s what I want to know!’

Though deeply embarrassed by the attention this was drawing – everyone dressed for the performance in Sunday clothes – Niall wanted to know too.

The mark of retribution glowing on his cheek, an angry Sean tried to disentangle himself, whilst at the same time trying to protect Emma from Harriet, the most dominant of his sisters-in-law, who kept aiming vicious prods. ‘We don’t have to put up with this!’

But Niall caught his arm, ‘Yes you do! You owe Nora an explanation as to how you’ve got the gall to have another woman in your wife’s bed!’

Cornered, Sean managed to wrench his arm free, then drew a frightened Emma closer to him, barking at his accusers, ‘If you’d have been talking to me you might have found out before this – might have been invited to our wedding!’

Totally shocked, they stopped to gawp at him, lending him the chance to carve an exit from their oppressive circle, though once free he did not run but stood his ground and faced them.

Nora was first to recover, her accusation shrill with disbelief. ‘You can’t be married. We’d have heard from Father Finnegan!’

Ruffled of temper and clothing, Sean was still putting them to order as he explained, ‘We got married at Emma’s church.’

‘Where’s that then?’ grilled Niall.

‘St Oswald’s.’

There was a consensus of derision over the Protestant venue. ‘Well, you’re not really married then!’ countered Nora.

Sean remained firm. ‘The certificate says we are.’

‘If you think I’m letting you bring your floozie to live in my daughter’s house—’

‘Nora!’ A lock of black hair tumbling over his brow, Sean leaned towards her with an expression of determination. ‘I’m very sorry but Evelyn’s dead. She isn’t coming back. I loved her but I can’t keep the house as a shrine. I’ve got to get on with my life. So it isn’t Evelyn’s house any more, it’s Emma’s.’ Taking advantage of their stunned faces, he dashed his hair back into place, straightened his spine, then said, with more equanimity than he felt, ‘If you’d like me to introduce you …?’

‘No, we bloody wouldn’t!’ yelled Harriet who, at twenty-five, might be the youngest, but had inherited the lion’s share of her mother’s obnoxious character. Whilst there might be name-calling from Ellen and Dolly there was the definite threat of violence here, and Sean had no wish to hang around and sample it.

In an act of finality, he turned his back on them all, muttering, ‘I knew it’d be a waste of time,’ as he and his wife escaped up the street, shoulders braced against a tirade of insults.

‘You needn’t think you’re getting away with this!’

‘I don’t see as there’s much you can do about it,’ sighed Niall to his mother-in-law, who was to repeat this threat as he shepherded her and everyone else indoors. ‘I’m as angry as the next person. I think he’s despicable, but—’

‘There’s one thing I can do about it right now!’ declared Nora, in warlike form, gathering her daughters. ‘Come on – you an’ all!’ And her hand made a graphic summons at Niall as she led the procession back to Sean’s house.

No one locked their doors around here for there was nothing to steal; Nora found something though, as she barged straight in and made for a cottage piano. ‘We’ll have this, for a start! Ellen, grab that end.’ She herself took hold of the piano and started to heave it, groaning and squeaking, across the brown lino, her daughter shoving from the other end. ‘Dolly, grab them Staffordshire dogs! Hat, you do the kitchen!’

‘You’re taking all his stuff?’ questioned a slightly amazed Niall, for the moment hanging back.

‘It’s not his property, it’s ours!’ Nora grunted and grimaced over the shifting of the piano, banging her shins as she fought to manoeuvre it over the bunched-up carpet that acted as a wedge against its wheel, her anger anaesthetising the pain. ‘I gave our Eve most of the things in this house when she got married, and I’m damned if that little bitch is having the benefit – now are you going to help us or just stand there gawping?’

It took Niall only a few seconds to realise that what Nora said was quite true: she had donated most of the furniture here and many of the utensils, for she had done the same for all her daughters. With only the briefest qualm that Sean would come home and have no chair to sit on – but had he not brought it on himself? – he began to assist with the removal. Nudging Nora aside and telling his wife to leave this to him, he freed the piano from the bunched-up carpet, then hauled it along the passage, its castors emitting an ear-splitting squeal of protest before he hefted it over the doorstep, bumped it onto the pavement, down the kerb and across the street, eventually to install it in his own front parlour alongside Nora’s bed – for this was where she slept.

‘I’d rather have to climb over the blasted thing to get to me bed than let him keep it!’ rasped his mother-in-law.

Then, under the curious eyes of the neighbours and anxious children, he and his angry female bandits proceeded to travel back and forth, transporting piece after piece of furniture, box after box of utensils and pictures, until there was no further room to cram in anything more. All that remained in Sean’s living room was a table, an old sofa, and the echo of contemptuous voices.

For once, having washed their hands of the affair, Niall and his womenfolk were not outside to meet Sean’s return. Had they been so, they might have glimpsed through that window, denuded of its lace curtains, the heartbreaking scene of a man come home to such wanton pillage that he broke down in tears.

‘What have we done to them that’s so bad, Em?’ he sobbed quietly to the wife who tried to comfort him. ‘My own brother treating me like this – I know he was in on it – leaving you with not even a kettle.’

Emma crooned and patted him tenderly, donating her handkerchief. ‘Don’t worry about me, dear. Look!’ Temporarily she rushed away, trying to sound cheerful and to salvage a ray of hope. ‘There’s a little pan here we can use to boil some water, then we’ll have a cup of tea and make a list of the things we need to buy.’

‘It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?’ Sean’s tone was desolate as he looked about him at the plundered room. ‘Yesterday was the happiest time of my life …’

‘Aw, mine too!’ Teary-eyed, she hurried back, linked his arm and squeezed her support, trying to bolster him. ‘It still can be if we refuse to let this get us down. I’m sorry about all your things, but we can get some second-ha—’

‘It’s not pots and pans I’m bothered about!’ He dashed away his angry tears. ‘What gets me is the spite that’s behind it – that they left you with nothing to manage your house with!’

‘I think that’s the whole point,’ Emma told him quietly with a sad little smile, knowing he was not cross with her but with them. ‘They don’t see it as my house … and neither do I, truth be known.’

He dealt a rapid nod of understanding. ‘Well, we can soon remedy that! After we’ve had our cup of tea, I’m off back out to put it up for sale – in fact I don’t think I can even bear to spend another night near that wicked lot.’

‘You might not have to,’ came the sardonic reply from Emma, and she made for the stairs to check whether Nora had taken their bed too.

But no, it was still there, scorned and all alone in the bedroom.

‘Well, she wouldn’t take that, would she?’ scathed Sean, wandering up to join her, his face bleak.

‘No, but she’s pinched all the spare linen.’ Having opened a cupboard, Emma quickly closed the door on empty shelves, again trying to make light of the incident. ‘There’s one good thing: we won’t have much to shift, will we?’

Sean tried his best to raise a chuckle, saying as he embraced her tightly, ‘As long as I’ve got you I’m not bothered about owt else.’ But it was only half true, for he just could not get over the fact that such a deed had been perpetrated by his own flesh and blood. He doubted he could ever forgive that.

And upon leaving to throw themselves on the charity of Emma’s parents, for however long it might take to sell his house, he threw one final look of disgust at Niall’s abode.

‘Well, that’s me and him finished. As far as I’m concerned he’s dead. I wouldn’t even go to his bloody funeral.’

‘Don’t say that. It’s not Christian,’ his wife scolded softly.

‘Neither is reducing your own brother to a pauper,’ muttered Sean. ‘From now on, he’s no kin of mine.’

3

Whilst continuing to be the subject of gossip for many a day amongst the neighbours, Sean was rarely mentioned in his brother’s household again, except for when Father Finnegan or one of the nuns dropped in on their parishioners, whereupon the sinner was roundly castigated in his absence, for marrying out of the Church. Other than this, the mere whisper of his name became taboo.

And yet, Niall observed, when any residue of anger was allowed a voice, it was not over Sean’s disloyalty, but more his financial gain.

‘Is there no justice?’ spat Ellen, on learning from their next-door neighbour, on this autumn Saturday afternoon, how much her brother-in-law had netted from the sale of his house. ‘The jammy bloody devil, why should he and that tart be rewarded when it’s our lass who put all the hard work into it?’

Though similarly angry, after a brief outpouring, her mother gave stoical reply. ‘Well, we did what we could to rescue Eve’s things. Short of taking t’house down brick by brick there’s nowt much else we could have done. Thanks for letting us know, though, Mrs Lavelle. Will you stay and have a cup of tea?’

Clad in black, with an air that nothing good would ever happen to her again, the neighbour gave one of her typically heavy widow’s sighs. ‘Aye, I might as well; I’ve nowt else to see to.’ And she flopped her rear onto an Edwardian armchair, signalling for her daughter, Gloria, who accompanied her, to do the same.

Nora hefted the teapot at the prettier, but slightly vacant-looking woman with the limpid blue eyes. ‘Will you have one, Gloria?’

‘Aye, she will.’

Her mother answering for her, having rarely been allowed to make a decision in all her thirty-nine years, the downtrodden Gloria took a seat. Though she needed no encouragement to take an interest in her neighbours – at least in one of them – and whilst her mother did all the talking for her, Gloria herself proceeded to cast a series of adoring smiles at Niall. Sadly, none of these was noticed, for Niall was involved with making shuttlecocks for the children with the bunch of feathers he had collected on his travels along the railway line, trying to concentrate on this whilst the women speculated over the people who had moved into his brother’s old house.

‘We’ve been wondering what he does for a living,’ said Harriet. ‘Do you know, Mrs Lavelle?’

‘We think he’s a gunslinger, from the way he walks,’ cackled Dolly, holding her arms away from her sides to demonstrate.

‘That’s from hefting stretchers for ten years.’ Mrs Lavelle knew everything. ‘He’s an ambulance man.’

Nora had been studying Gloria. ‘Where’s them nice new teeth you bought, Glo?’

‘They hurt her, so she only wears ’em on Sundays,’ provided Mrs Lavelle.

Juggy’s head popped around the jamb then. ‘It’s spitting. Can I go play in Kathleen’s passage?’

‘Yes,’ said her mother, ‘so long as you take Brian.’

‘I will!’ called Juggy on her way back out. ‘He’s gonna be the patient.’

‘Well, don’t be doing any operations on him!’ shouted Ellen, then murmuring to the women, ‘We don’t want any bits missing when he comes home.’

Dolly’s laugh was like the high-pitched bleating of a goat. A length of twine nipped between his teeth, Niall’s face tensed in irritation, whilst his wife briefly left the gathering to look from the window and check on the whereabouts of their other offspring.

After exhausting all the latest scandals, Mrs Lavelle said, ‘Well, we’ll have to be going soon. Oh, I nearly forgot!’ She grabbed the paper carrier that her daughter had been patiently nursing, and proceeded to display a tablecloth. ‘We really came in to show you what we found for our Gloria in Rhodes Brown’s sale.’

Harriet, before even remarking on any attribute of the cloth itself, asked immediately, ‘How much was it?’

Niall glanced at Ellen and shook his head – Harriet always demanded to know the price of everything – then he returned his attention to the shuttlecock and tried to ignore the female babble.

‘Two bob!’ came the boastful reply.

There were murmurs of admiration over the bargain. Where Gloria was toothless, Dolly had an overabundance, and these were bared like a row of tombstones as she inspected the purchase with exaggerated interest. ‘And is this for your bottom drawer, Gloria?’ From the way she addressed the woman, who was twelve years her senior, one would think Gloria was a little child. ‘Eh, you must have loads of stuff by now, you are a lucky lass …’

But after the visitors had gone this sentiment underwent an addition, a gleam of malicious laughter in Dolly’s eye. ‘She’ll be lucky if she ever gets to use them, an’ all. Bottom drawer’ll collapse under the weight of all that stuff before she finds anyone who’ll have her.’

‘Ooh, you mean cat,’ scolded Ellen. Niall also cast a disapproving look for this two-faced conduct, which was another thing that irritated him besides Dolly’s bleating laugh, the latter grating his ears yet again.

‘Well, she doesn’t do herself any favours, does she?’ pointed out Dolly, her face creased in mirth. ‘You’d think by the time she reached that age her mother would have bought her a brassiere. She looks like a sackful of piglets off to the butcher’s .’

‘Well, at least she’s got some piglets.’ Harriet spoke bluntly, as she rose to take away the cups, her eyes upon the other’s flat chest. ‘You want to watch it, you might have to eat your words – you being the last one of us left on the shelf.’

Niall shared a wince with Ellen, but at least with Harriet one knew where one stood; she always said things to your face. Satisfied with the positioning of the feathers around the cork, he secured the twine.

Dolly bridled, though waited until her more forceful sister was out of the room to mutter, ‘Smug devil. Just because she’s cornered herself a man doesn’t mean he’ll be daft enough to wed her. You’d think she was going out with the Prince of Wales. It’s not as if he’s anything to write home about – even our Nye’s better-looking than him.’

Whilst Ellen and Nora chuckled, Niall gasped offence. ‘What do you mean, “even”?’ Using his palm to bat the shuttlecock onto the table, he leaned back and picked up a newspaper.

‘Well, at any rate, Gloria seems to think you’re the bee’s knees,’ Nora told him, with a sly look at her daughters.

‘Yes, I shall have to watch her,’ teased Ellen.

Niall blustered with embarrassment and rustled the pages of his newspaper. ‘What’re you on about, you daft beggars?’

‘Oh, we’ve seen her making sheep’s eyes at you! Why do you think she’s always popping in here?’

‘She’ll have to ask her mam’s permission first,’ bleated Dolly.

‘You’re all bloody daft,’ muttered Niall grumpily. Then, as three drenched children swept in to ask if he would partake in a game of cards, he threw aside the newspaper with a cry of surrender. ‘I can see I’m not going to be allowed to read!’

‘Eh, don’t go tearing it,’ warned Ellen with a wink at her mother. ‘You might miss seeing a report about your wolf.’

Whilst this was a jest, the children took it seriously, each of them jumping in with their own query, ten-year-old Dominic being first. ‘Have you seen it kill owt, Dad?’

‘Not yet.’ Niall lit a cigarette, its smoke overpowering the reek of wet hair and clothing.

‘John Mahoney’s dog killed Reg Wilson’s rabbit this morning, and there was all this blood, and purple guts hanging ou—’

‘Yes, thank you!’ Niall called a halt to spare the younger ones’ sensitivities, then addressed the boy’s mother. ‘You’ll have to stop feeding him meat. He’s getting to be a right bloodthirsty devil.’

Dom’s smile burst forth.

‘Are you scared of it, Dad?’ tendered five-year-old Batty, his cheeks pink with cold.

‘Father’s not scared of anything, are you?’ Honor informed her brother in a quietly disapproving voice that said, how could he even ask.

Yes, thought Niall, sometimes I am scared, scared that this is all there is to life, to undergo the same routine day after day, being tormented by female drivel year after year until I die; to be nothing more than the wage earner. But to his offspring he said, ‘Me, scared? Nah? If he shows them big teeth at me I’ll flatten him with me shovel and bring him home to make a fur coat for your mam.’

Re-entering to the children’s giggles, Harriet pricked up her ears. ‘Our Nell’s getting a fur coat?’

Ellen hooted. ‘On the pittance he earns? That’ll be the day.’

‘Shame, I could have borrowed it when I go to meet Pete’s family.’ Harriet’s young man was a comparatively recent acquisition, but already both were smitten.

‘I doubt it would impress them,’ smirked Ellen. ‘It’s that so-called wolf he’s supposed to have seen again. I reckon he needs specs.’

‘I’ve told you, it’s not just me!’ objected Niall, a smile on his face yet slightly annoyed that his wife should denigrate him thus, and in front of his children too. Even if it was intended as a jest it was no way for a woman to address the breadwinner. ‘All the other lads have seen it.’

‘They’re having you on!’ Ellen was relentless in her teasing. ‘I bet one of them’s got hold of a big dog and touched it up with a tin of paint.’

‘Don’t believe me then!’ Cigarette in mouth, Niall dismissed the laughing doubters, but remained adamant as he dealt out cards to his children for a game of Happy Families. ‘Dick Kelly says he’s going to set a trap for it. You’ll be laughing on the other side of your faces when he does.’

‘Well, don’t be fetching the stinky old thing home here,’ warned his wife. ‘If I’m ever lucky enough to get a fur coat I’d like it to be genuine.’

However, by the time autumn was in full flush, what Ellen had assumed to be a figment of her husband’s imagination turned out to be quite real. Niall and his workmates had seen it a few times now; but more pertinently it had earned a wider notoriety for killing and partly devouring sheep, its gruesome attacks being reported in the newspapers. It was definitely not a dog, said the experts. And there was Niall’s name in print, being one of those witnesses interviewed. So they had to believe him now, didn’t they?

On the contrary, they teased and tormented him even more, Nora and her daughters, that the following Sunday during dinner, Harriet decreeing mockingly, ‘Eh, he’ll do anything to make himself look important!’

Smarting beneath his fixed grin, feeling his children’s eyes on him as they watched for a reaction, Niall continued in his stoic silent manner to eat his dinner, and awaited his wife’s contribution. But for a change Ellen stuck up for her husband, laying down her knife to lean over and pat him, saying with genuine affection, ‘Aw, he’s important to us, aren’t you, dear?’

Niall returned her smile, half-expecting some clever comment from one of the others.

So it was no surprise when Dolly added, ‘Aye, if we didn’t have him who else could we poke fun at?’

‘I’m sure you’d find somebody, Dol,’ muttered Niall, which everyone took as a joke.

Then the clink of cutlery displaced chatter as all became intent on the delicious roast.

After dinner, with Nora and Dolly in the scullery washing the pots, Harriet ironing work overalls, and Ellen escorting her children to Sunday school, Niall relaxed in his brown leatherette armchair and took up the newspaper, which had so far remained unread due to morning Mass. This was his favourite time of day.

He must have been napping though, for when the children came home he was jolted awake to find the paper in a crumpled heap on his lap. Refreshed, he laughed at himself and greeted them.

‘Look what I’ve got, Dad!’ From under his jacket Batty presented a small toy car.

‘Why, you little demon!’ scolded his mother, then quickly explained to her husband, ‘The fly beggar must have picked it up whilst I wasn’t looking.’

Niall was at once stern. ‘Eh, now then, Bartholomew Doran, what have I told you? You can’t have things unless you’ve got the money to pay for them.’

‘It doesn’t belong to anybody,’ protested the innocent. ‘It were just there on the road.’

‘Is this the sort of thing you’ve learned at Sunday school?’ demanded his father. ‘No! Now, take it back. There’ll be a little boy looking for that.’

‘But he wouldn’t have lost it if he’d looked after it,’ reasoned Batty. ‘You told me people don’t deserve to have things if they don’t look after them.’

‘Never mind what I said!’ retorted Niall firmly, his voice rising. ‘And you can stop trying to wheedle your way round me. It’s not yours, now take it back to where you found it.’ He shook his head in disbelief at Ellen. ‘How did we raise such a freebooter?’

Covering a smile, his wife led the little boy away to replace the stolen item. Niall spent a few moments chatting to his other offspring before they were made to attend certain duties, at which point he rustled his newspaper to order and resumed reading.

The rest of the afternoon was comparatively peaceful, everyone sitting reading or sewing or other suitably quiet pursuits. Towards five o’clock Nora went to put the kettle on and, discovering there was no tin of peaches in the pantry for tea, returned to appoint an errand boy. Despite this being the Sabbath one could always buy what one needed around here from those who were not observers.

‘Dom, nip out and get me some.’ His grandmother delved in her purse.

Engrossed in an adventure story, Dominic seemed reluctant to tear his eyes from it, and was tardy in moving to obey. ‘To Mrs Madden’s?’

‘No, she’s too pious to open on Sunday. You’ll have to go to that one by Navigation Road.’ Nora handed her eldest grandson a coin.

‘I’ll go, Mam.’ Ellen jumped up to intercept it. ‘I need something meself.’

‘He’s nearly eleven,’ scolded Nora, ‘I think he can find his way.’

‘I know that!’ Her daughter gave a light reply and performed a quick tug of her silky blue jumper over trim hips. ‘But I said, I need something myself.’

They all knew it for a lie. Ellen was much too protective of her children, never allowing them to cross the road on their own, standing at the school gates to wait until they had gone in safely, waiting for them again at home time, even though the school was close by, ever fearful that something would befall them, unable to relax unless they were safely under her care.

‘What is it then?’ challenged her mother.

‘Just something!’ Ellen gasped. ‘Bloomin’ heck, do we have to have an inquest?’

Niall hardly lifted his eyes from the newspaper. The children were his wife’s concern and he rarely interfered.

But Nora shook her head in exasperation. ‘You’ll still be holding his hand when he walks up the aisle, you will! Stop mollycoddling the lad.’

Dom looked most insulted, flopping back in his chair and huffing as he reached for his book. ‘There’s no need for me to go if me mam’s off then.’

‘You’ll go if you’re told to go,’ cautioned his father from behind the News of the World.

‘It’s all right, he doesn’t have to,’ negated Ellen.

Dom might have been excused but his five-year-old brother leaped up to accompany her.

‘There’ll be no sweets,’ warned his mother, in strict manner, ‘especially for those who take things that belong to other little boys. Don’t think there will.’ But from the indulgent twinkle in her eye Batty knew she could easily be persuaded.

Aware that this brother was in possession of such a knack, Honora’s head shot up from her exercise book. ‘I’m coming if he’s off!’

‘No, Honor! You’ve got that school work to finish …’

‘Oh, but—’

‘For heaven’s sake!’ Unable to read his newspaper with all the argument that was going on, Niall slapped it onto his knee with a heavy sigh. ‘Look, why don’t I save everyone the bother and go meself? I might as well go for a walk, I’ll get no peace here.’ He began to rise.

Ellen pushed him back in his chair, saying sternly, ‘I’m going!’

‘Good, bugger off then,’ grumbled Niall, only half joking as his wife made for the door, the five-year-old tagging on to her skirt.

* * *

With Batty hopping alongside her – protesting when she dragged him past the sweet shop on the corner – Ellen journeyed along a warren of short streets, going out of her way to call in on a friend and to spend some ten minutes chatting whilst her bored infant was made to sit and wait. Finally, she resumed her errand, a relieved little boy almost dragging her along the street as they made for the main thoroughfare, where he knew there to be other sweet shops.

They had reached the corner, and were about to turn into Walmgate, when suddenly two bicycles appeared on the pavement as if from nowhere, racing at full speed side by side. Two shocked faces loomed large, the young riders displaying panic as all parties realised there was about to be a collision. Her instinct to protect her child, a horrified Ellen yanked on the little arm, lifting Batty off his feet and out of the path of danger, crying out as she herself was hit by one of the speeding bikes, and falling into the path of the other, its rider flying through the air and landing on his head in the road.

‘I wonder who she’s met this time,’ sighed Nora when her daughter had not returned after half an hour, and the table had been laid with bread and butter for tea. Ellen was an incorrigible gossip, who had been known to spend two hours over a short trip to the corner shop. ‘Go and see what’s keeping her, Dom. Tell her we’d like those peaches for tonight’s tea, not Christmas.’

From his chair, Niall threw her a wry smile and went back to reading the newspaper.

But his eldest son had not reached the door before there came a series of knocks on it, a rapid, urgent summons.

Niall lowered his News of the World and exchanged puzzled looks with the others, whilst his son revealed the caller.

‘Oh, Mrs Beasty!’ Gloria’s limpid blue eyes brimmed with tears as she addressed Nora first, then directed her look of compassion at Niall, clutching a handful of blouse as she spoke. ‘It’s your Ellen … you’d better come …’

They all rose as one then and converged anxiously on Gloria, demanding to know what was amiss.

‘Knocked over … ambulance …’ Words tumbled disjointedly between the unaccustomed dentures, invoking panic in the listeners.

And then they were all running in the direction of her pointed finger, Niall, Harriet, Dolly and Nora – and the children.

‘Stay!’ their father turned back to command them harshly, then ran on, not knowing what he was running to, his heart almost pounding out of his chest as he headed for Walmgate, the terrified mother and sisters in his wake.

Immediately they saw the ambulance. But even as Niall ran towards it, the vehicle was pulling away from the crowd of onlookers. He and the women called after it, frantically waving, yelling and shrieking for it to stop.

‘Here’s the husband!’ People were pointing and gesturing, amongst them Father Finnegan, who also tried to arrest the vehicle, dashing into the road and waving both arms, but its driver paid no heed as it departed, bell ringing.

His senses ripped apart, Niall thudded to a halt as he reached the scene to be met by the priest, but his frantic blue eyes were to travel beyond Father Finnegan’s entreating features, taking in fresh horror. There were smears of blood on the road and on the pavement. Then he saw Batty in the arms of a nun, not a scratch on him, and his whole being was swamped by relief. Ignoring Father Finnegan’s attempt at ministration – ‘I’m sure she’ll be all right, Nye!’ – he shoved his way through the curious onlookers and took charge of his little boy, kissing and hugging him, but the child did not say a word, his eyes round with shock. Nora, Harriet and Dolly came screaming after him, frightening the child further with their reaction, whilst the priest and the nun tried ineffectively to calm them.

They were all taken in charge then by a policeman who, quickly ascertaining that these were relatives of one of the victims, gave brief explanation as he hurried them to a car, which took them to the hospital; where, after a long wait, they were met by an apology and the abrupt announcement that Ellen had died.

Mingled with the cries of grief was incomprehension. How could she be dead? The sun was shining! This same thought served all. But for Niall the shock was manifold, his mind harbouring a deeper, darker impact of guilt. He had wondered, imagined time and again, what he would feel if his wife were to meet with a fatal accident, and here it was, happened.

It was all right for them. They were women, they could wail and weep and sob and beat their breasts. Men couldn’t do that – well, his brother might have done when Evelyn died, but Sean was weak, and everyone knew just how genuine that display had been when he’d married someone else five minutes later. No, Niall could not do that. Consumed by guilt that he had wished it on her – caring Ellen, so loving of her children, so missed by them – he could only stare and hang his head. In previous imaginings he had rehearsed his own role as one of affected grief. But it wasn’t pretend. He truly did throb with sorrow. How could he not?

Prior to an investigation, there had been anguished debate amongst family and friends – how could one be killed by so innocuous a vehicle as a bicycle? Then the inquest had revealed that Ellen had died due to a fractured skull, received not directly from a bike but from the kerb upon which she had fallen. Whilst the youth who had landed on his head had suffered only a gash, Ellen’s skull had been as fragile as an eggshell.

Pending any more serious charge, the youths had been summoned for riding their bicycles on the pavement, their fate yet to be decided – not that it could ever be as bad as Ellen’s, condemned those who had loved her. At the Requiem Mass Father Finnegan had asked the mourners to pray for those wretched sinners. Stupefied as he was by this trauma, Niall had felt the palpable wave of anger that emanated from Ellen’s womenfolk, rippling like magma along the pew, but they had voiced no comment until now, when, in the privacy of their home, they gave vent to their revulsion, protesting vociferously about the priest’s request.

‘I don’t care if they are repentant!’ raged Harriet to the throng of grief-stricken relatives, friends and neighbours crammed alongside that monstrous sideboard on borrowed chairs, who sipped respectfully from their glasses of sherry, the plates of ham sandwiches and fruit cake barely touched. ‘I’d kill them myself if I had them here before me!’ Agitated fingers picked at a black-edged handkerchief, seeking a patch that was not sodden. In the puffy face, her eyes were as dull and empty as stones, but her angular jaw oozed resentment. ‘I mean, one of them landed on his bloody head, for Christ’s sake! How come he walks away scot-free, and poor Nell …?’ Faced with her sister’s bereaved children seated all forlorn in black, her nasal anguish was to terminate in a fresh bout of sobbing.

‘Murderers,’ denounced a red-eyed Nora, her own voice leaden and morose. ‘That’s what they are. God might forgive them, I never will.’ There was a combined rumble of agreement from the gathering.

Two more of Ellen’s sisters, Mary and Kate, continued to sob quietly, their husbands offering awkward condolence, their movements stiff and unaccustomed to these black suits and starched collars. Distant relations of Niall were here too, and his friend Reilly, whom he hardly ever saw, had hurried to his side with characteristic loyalty, but these were outnumbered by the Beasty followers.

One of the neighbours, Mrs Dunphy, sighed pityingly and shook her head. ‘Eh, two in one year, Nora.’

‘At least there was nobody at fault in poor Eve’s case,’ sniffled Dolly, blowing her nose for the umpteenth time, her eyes similarly lifeless. ‘I mean, it was terrible to lose her but there’s not much you can do against a disease, is there? But there’s plenty can be done about those buggers – I’m sorry to swear but that’s what they are! And how Father Finnegan can even ask us to forgive them – they deserve hanging!’ There were more murmurs of agreement and more tears.

Then she and everyone else looked to Niall for similar declaration. Soused in guilt as he was for the many times he had imagined his wife dead, the best he could deliver was a shuddering sigh and a shake of head.

Taking this to indicate that the widower was too choked by grief for words, the tearful women rallied to him, reached out supportive hands, assuring him they would be here to assist in his hour of need and ever after.

‘Don’t you worry, lad,’ murmured Nora in stalwart tone. ‘We’ll always be here.’

You would think that something like that would turn one’s routine on its head, thought Niall, but no. Weeks after the mourners had taken home their chairs, here he was doing exactly the same things at the same hour, amongst the same people, albeit one less of them. And the strange thing about it was, he still expected her to be here when he came home on an evening.

The routine might be the same but life was not – how could it be, burdened as he was by such tremendous remorse? Never in his selfish imaginings had he stopped to think what Ellen’s death would do to her offspring. But he did now. If he had been left prostrate at the age of twenty by the loss of his mother, what agony must such little children feel? Even though they had gone back to school the day after the funeral, and were once again to be seen playing their childish games in the street, the devastation they had suffered could so easily be resurrected, tears never far from the surface. One might have expected little Batty to be worst hit, he being witness to his mother’s death; and perhaps this was true, for no one could see into another’s head. Yet the five-year-old seemed to have suffered few ill effects. No, it was Brian and Juggy who were most clingy, the latter seemingly terrified to let Niall out of her sight, lest her one remaining parent not return.

For the third time that week he heard footsteps behind him and looked over his shoulder to find himself shadowed. With a doomed sigh, he stalled and waited for his younger daughter to catch up. Scolding her gently, he told her to go home and get ready for class, and remained there for a moment to make sure she obeyed, casting a stern expression in response to the beseeching one that she threw over her shoulder.

Whilst he stood watching, another figure came out with a bag in her hand, crouched towards the child and spoke gently for a mere second, before running up the street to accost the father. Having been about to turn away, Niall gave another inward sigh and waited for Gloria, trying to avoid looking at those breasts that appeared to have no synchronisation as they bounced this way and that beneath the floral pinafore.

‘Me mam says I have to bring you these to have with your break, Niall!’ Earnest of face, failing to hide her admiration of him, Gloria pressed the paper bag in his hand; it contained two buns. ‘I made them meself,’ she lisped through toothless gums.

With his smiling nod of gratitude, she hovered for a second, then, with a last adoring look, turned and ran back down the street. Upon reaching her doorstep she turned to fling a last gaze at him, but by this time another neighbour had accosted Niall to donate yet another gift, and, robbed of his smile, Gloria turned sadly indoors.

‘Here, take these with you, love,’ whispered old Mrs Powers, the skin of her hand paper thin and displaying a network of veins as she donated a small package. ‘Two rashers of bacon – you’ve got a stove in your hut, haven’t you?’

Niall replaced the cap he had just tipped. ‘Aye, I’m grateful of it an’ all, what with these nippy mornings.’ Gracing her with a polite smile, he took off his haversack and inserted the package, and even though his needs had been well provided by Nora, he told the donor, ‘I’ll have them for me dinner. Thank you very much, it’s very kind of you.’

‘It’s no more than you’ve been towards me, dear.’ With a beneficent nod, old Mrs Powers backed indoors – only to be replaced by her neighbour, Mrs Whelan, who had come out to collect her milk from the step.

This time, though, there was only verbal contribution. ‘Eh, how’s them poor little mites of yours, Mr Doran?’ No one looked their best in a morning, but Mrs Whelan’s appearance would not improve during the day, the worry of her husband’s constant unemployment adding years to her scraggy features. ‘I wish there was some way I could help …’

‘There’s nowt much anybody can do, love – but thanks.’ Niall gave a tight smile, his eyes straying to check on Juggy, as he itched to be off.

‘I know,’ sighed Mrs Whelan, ‘but I just wish I could make it right for you. You’ve done so much for us over this past year. I’d never make ends meet without all them rabbits and coal you’ve given us—’

‘Ooh, keep it under your hat, love!’ he said hastily, ‘or I’ll be losing my job.’ By rights everything on the line, whether it be a few lumps of coal or a rabbit caught in a snare, belonged to the LNER. A soul of great integrity, Niall would steal from none, but in this case he had no regret: what loss was a few bits of coal to a huge railway company? And what was moral about a soldier who had fought for his country being subjected to the means test?

Tipping his hat to Mrs Whelan, and checking that Juggy had finally gone indoors, he resumed his eager stride. However inhospitable the conditions, he had become glad of his work, for it took him away from that pain-filled mien and that of her siblings; for the daytime at least.

But it would always be waiting for him when he got home.

‘I don’t know how I’d cope without you, Nora,’ he informed his mother-in-law, having arrived home after dark on that same day, to an ordered house, a nourishing meal on the table, and his offspring washed and ready for bed, he himself now sated. ‘I’m really grateful for you looking after them so well.’

Her hawkish face calm, yet still etched with the pain of losing too many children, Nora waved aside her role as she supervised the reluctant exodus to bed, then removed Niall’s empty plate. ‘It keeps me busy. Anyhow, I’ve got Hat and Dolly to help.’

Niall acknowledged this too as he accepted a cup of tea from the latter. ‘I know how hard it must have been for you all.’ Any denigrating opinion he might have of them was swept aside; no one could have been kinder to him.

‘It’s the least we can do for our Ellen’s husband,’ replied Harriet, touching his shoulder.

Niall felt himself blushing and thanked God they could not peer into his soul. But he simply nodded and to cover his awkwardness said, ‘Mrs Powers gave me some bacon as I was on me way to work this morning, and Gloria ran after me with a couple of buns.’

Dolly smirked. ‘You’ll be needing a new set of teeth then.’

‘She’s only trying to help,’ said her mother, more generously. ‘I’ve been glad of her and Mrs Lavelle meself, I can tell you.’

Niall agreed that everyone had been so good, many of the neighbours continuing to play their part in helping the bereaved husband, running after him in the street to offer some little bit of comfort. ‘But I wish they’d just leave off a bit now—’ He broke off abruptly as there came a tap, and the face of yet another neighbour appeared round the door.

‘I’ve not come to bother you, Mrs Beasty.’ In respectful manner, the monkey-like Mrs Hutchinson set a tin of peaches on the table. ‘I’ve just brought you these from town. It’s nice to have a little treat through the week, isn’t it?’

Niall saw his mother-in-law’s jaw twitch in anger. And though she managed to contain it under a veil of politeness, as she thanked the woman for her thoughtfulness, Mrs Hutchinson was sufficiently intimidated by that steely-eyed face to remove herself from it within seconds. ‘Well, let me know if you need anything else, dear!’

Immediately the door closed, Nora said of the peach tin – the kind that Ellen had gone to purchase on the day of her death – ‘Stick ’em in the cupboard, Dolly! I couldn’t stomach the blasted things if I was starving.’ Her tone was one of deep loathing. ‘You can’t say anything when they’re only showing concern but, by God, I don’t know how I stopped meself from crowning her with it.’

Niall’s eyes followed Dolly as she relegated the peaches to the back of a cupboard, his voice hollow. ‘Aye, I were just about to say, when she came in, I wish they’d just leave me to get on with it now. Every time I open the front door I can feel their eyes on me, brimming with pity.’

The women agreed that it was the same for them, Dolly voicing what all had experienced. ‘Whenever you see any of them gathered together they clam up – you can tell they’ve been talking about Nell.’

‘People love a tragedy,’ pronounced Nora, her eye and tone become bitter.

‘They make me sick,’ seethed Harriet, revisited by her own grief. ‘Acting all teary and concerned – it’s not their tragedy it’s ours.’

Niall chewed his lip, noting how quickly they turned, how they hated to be on the receiving end of the gossip. So did he.

‘And the worst thing is,’ declared Nora mournfully, ‘they’ll have got over it in a few weeks. We never will.’

Dreading Christmas, Niall found it even worse when it finally arrived not crisp and white but wet and miserable. Telling himself it was for the children’s sake, he tried to make the best of an overcast celebration, scrimped on his own pleasures to take them all to a pantomime, and to buy each the type of present they would normally not receive. Yet, at the end of a very testing day, there remained an empty bed and a sobering indictment: no gift he had bestowed could replace their mother.

The winter months of 1935 were tough. Battling his way up the line through flurries of January snow, he had never felt so desolate. The wolf was obviously finding it arduous too in these foot-high drifts, for the vulpine spoor that defaced the pristine blanket led investigators not to a savaged sheep but to the remains of tinier mammals. Despite these giveaway tracks, the predator continued to remain at large. Wishing he too was a lesser beast, so as not to think and to feel emotion, Niall tried to inject himself with hope; told himself that spring was just around the corner.

But even after the upland streams and tributaries had thawed and their icy contents came tumbling down from the hills to swell the Ouse and Foss and threaten the city, before mercifully receding, Niall was to remain swamped in desolation.

Is this it? he was often to ask during the months after Ellen’s funeral. Was this what he had wished upon himself? Why, he was even worse off than before. At least he had had a wife to cuddle up to on a night. However much she might nag him over his shortcomings, Ellen had been good at heart, knitting him jumpers and socks, making sure he was warm and well fed before setting off to work on winter mornings, treating him to his favourite sweets whenever she went into town. How could he have been so lacking in imagination, so perverse as to think he would not miss her as much as anyone else in this house? Steeped in melancholia, for months he had crucified himself over his last words to her. He had told her to bugger off, and she had. For good. And all over a tin of bloody peaches! Grief superseded by anger, he raged at the stupidity of it all. I told her I’d go for them! Why does she never listen? And then the anger had reverted to misery, for that was another thing: the habit of referring to her in the present tense; expecting her still to be there when he got home on a night, waiting to take his coat and to rub his cold hands with her warm ones, to steer him towards the fire …

But he had imagined her dead and now he had got his just deserts. Life held no further pleasure than to see his children become adults, and marry, and hopefully make better decisions than he himself had done. And isn’t that sufficiently worthwhile, a sudden, inner voice demanded at his lowest ebb. At least you can help to guide them, make up for your failure as a husband. And there would be grandchildren. Yes, yes, of course there were things that were still meaningful. And thereupon the tide of self-pity began to recede. Never even to contemplate re-marriage, Niall decided then that, with his mother-in-law willing to cook and to wash and to lay out his clean underwear for him, his children would be enough; must be enough. Accordingly, from that point of catharsis, it was to Nora he handed his wage packet, and she who took over from Ellen in the running of his life.

4

Despite the apparent return to normality, both for Niall and those who lived alongside him, there remained an air of emptiness in the house, and the women could not help but feel how unsatisfactory this was for a man.

‘He’s lonely, is the lad,’ Niall overheard his mother-in-law murmuring to her daughters one night in early March, with greater understanding than he gave her credit for. ‘God knows, I miss Nell, but her husband must miss her twice as much.’

Drying his hands in the scullery, he cringed and gripped the rough towel, listening to the three talking about him for a while, and taking a few moments to compose himself before hanging the towel on its hook and wandering in to join them.

The only one still draped in black, Nora glanced up sympathetically from her knitting as he entered. ‘All right, love?’

He nodded, his face pensive and his voice loaded with regret. ‘I shouldn’t have let her go on her own. If the bike had hit me it wouldn’t have done any damage …’

Stricken by a bolt of agony, she rebuked him, ‘Eh, now don’t start that!’

‘How can you be to blame?’ demanded Harriet and Dolly, both misty-eyed.

‘Here!’ Resting her knitting on her lap, full of bluster to mask her grief, Nora made a grab for her purse and dug out some coppers. ‘We were just saying you need summat to take your mind off things. Get yourself out for a little bevy.’

Having enjoyed this pursuit only a handful of times during his entire marriage. Niall was taken aback, and did not seem particularly keen to go, for instead of taking the money from her he stared at the manly wrist in its delicate little gold watchband and shook his head.

But his mother-in-law’s hand remained extended, gesturing deliberately as she urged in a kind but forceful manner, ‘Go on! It doesn’t do you any good to be sitting with us women night after night. Go and find some male company. Anyway, you earned it.’

As of course he had. And so, in reluctant fashion he took the money, donned his cap and his army surplus greatcoat, and picked up the evening paper, saying, ‘I’ll take the press with me in case there’s nobody to talk to.’

The night was dark and cold; the kind of damp, depressing cold that permeates one’s bones and dilutes the marrow. Set between two rivers, which ever-threatened to break their banks, in its scooped-out saucer of land this city was not a good place to be in winter; like an overfilled cup in a puddle of tea, its lower reaches constantly a-drip. Niall was glad of his greatcoat, tugging its collar around his neck, chin and ears against the drizzle, as he made his way towards Walmgate, welcoming each intermittent splash of lamplight, before being plunged into gloom once more.

From behind a closed door came the sound of a man and women arguing violently, and pots being thrown; from another, a child’s pathetic wail. Niall jumped and stopped dead as a dog came barking at him out of an alley, and he kept a wary eye on it as he walked on. Seeking a drinking partner, he went straightaway to the abode of his friend Reilly, a short distance away on the other side of Walmgate. Pals since their schooldays, the two had gone their separate ways upon leaving there – Niall to the railway, and Reilly to Terry’s factory – and had met only a couple of times a year since then. They had last reunited at Ellen’s funeral. It might seem odd to some that such close friends did not get together more regularly – especially at such time of strife – but Reilly had said genuinely then, if Niall ever needed him he knew where to come, and that provided solace enough. It would be nice to meet again in happier circumstances and Niall found himself looking forward to it, as, just before the Bar, he turned off this main artery that was Walmgate, and entered a primary vein. Travelling beyond its many capillaries – the overcrowded alleyways and courts – he went down to its far end where, by a cut of the River Foss, was to be found his friend’s dwelling, a similar two-up, two-down to his own.

Reilly’s wife, Eileen, answered the door, warily at first, until she discerned his identity through the darkness – then she was immediately pleased to see him. An attractive little woman, dark of hair and eye, her face cracked into a munificent smile and she threw open the door.

‘Eh, look who it is after all this time – what’s your name again?’ And she gave a bubbling laugh. But in the next breath she was to issue disappointment. ‘Oh, you do right come when he’s working nights! He’ll be that mad at having missed you, Nye. Anyway, come in and have a cup of tea with me and get the neighbours talking. Eh, how lovely to see you!’ With an encouraging sweep of her hand she prepared to welcome him in.

Reminded of how this might appear to others, Niall went only as far as the doormat, though he retained his friendly smile as he took off his cap. ‘Er, no, I won’t stop, Eileen, thanks all the same. Me mother-in-law’s given me the money for a pint. I daren’t waste it; she might not grant me the opportunity again!’ Nevertheless, he did not leave immediately, taking a few moments to enquire after Eileen’s wellbeing – for he liked this small, but generously proportioned woman very much – and to share with her news of his children, about whom she was always quick to ask. If ever a woman was made for motherhood, this was she, with her soft ample bosom upon which a small head could rest, and her kind eyes and patient nature. It was a great shame the Reillys were childless.

‘Eh dear,’ she sighed, when he had finished bringing her up to date on his sons and daughters’ emotional welfare – particularly Juggy, ‘you never can tell what’s running through a bairn’s mind, can you?’

Niall gave a sombre shake of his head. ‘I try to buck them up as best I can, but—’

‘Oh, I’m sure you do, love!’ Eileen pressed his arm.

‘—it’s not the same as their mam, is it?’ he finished.

‘I’ll tell you, lad,’ bolstered Eileen, ‘you do a lot better than most.’ Acquainted with Niall for many years, she had never met a man so mindful of his children’s happiness. That alone would have earned her admiration, but he had also proved a loyal friend to her and Reilly too, at short notice – even in the middle of the night – coming to their aid when the flood waters threatened their furniture, and helping to shift it to higher ground. ‘They’re lucky to have you as a father – and you’re lucky to have them.’

‘Well, I don’t know about the first bit,’ came his self-effacing reply. ‘But you’re right about the second.’ Absent-mindedly, he wrung his cap.

Eileen studied his abstracted pose. ‘And how are you managing without her?’

‘So, so …’

She served a thoughtful nod, knowing that Ellen had been the only buffer between Niall and his awful in-laws. Personally, she had never been enamoured of Ellen either, thinking the pair badly suited, but one could not say this to a bereaved husband.

‘Anyway!’ Niall broke away from the spell that thoughts of Ellen had created. ‘I won’t keep you standing here being nithered to death.’ He gave a smile and a shiver, before backing away and replacing his cap. ‘Tell me laddo I’ll catch up with him another time.’

‘I will, love!’ With a brisk, smiling gesture, Eileen waved him off. ‘He’ll be that jealous I’ve seen you and he hasn’t!’ And with a last warm farewell, she closed the door.

Niall felt at a loss now as he made his way back towards Walmgate. There were a dozen public houses in this vicinity and he had no idea of where to dispose of his coppers. Eschewing the most notorious hostelries, which were a regular feature in the local press, he re-examined the one on the corner of the road from which he had just emerged. This might sport the usual advertising posters on its side wall, its brickwork chipped and scruffy, but it did not emit rowdy voices. He paused for a while, trying to see through the window but its glass was frosted and etched with fancy scrolls that advertised the commodities within: Wines, Spirits and Beer. The light from a gas jet illuminated a sign overhead: ‘The Angel’. He couldn’t get into much trouble in there, could he?

His self-conscious entry was quickly allayed by the bright warm atmosphere: a fire burning merrily in the hearth, gleaming brass, polished tables, sparkling mirrors, and pictures on the walls depicting scenes of fox-hunting and horse-racing. The bar shimmered with rows of spotless glasses. On its top shelf, above a row of optics, was an assortment of brightly coloured ceramic barrels, and other such decorative items relating to the trade. Removing his cap and flicking it to remove the droplets of rain, Niall folded it inside out, put it into his pocket and strolled across the tiled floor towards the counter of polished mahogany. The woman behind it smiled at him in a friendly but polite fashion – amply proportioned, but not one of your blowsy types, he decided with relief, more of a country lass, fair-skinned, fresh-complexioned, blue-eyed, and competent-looking – and there was a Celtic lilt to her tongue. Asking for a pint of bitter, he noted her strong-looking fingers on the pump. Strong, but not those of a peasant, for the nails were trimmed short and clean, and the skin was smooth with no blemish, as was that of her face. She was wearing lipstick, he suspected, though it was not heavily applied. Having lived here all his life, he knew most of the folk round this area, if not by name then by sight, but he had never laid eyes on this one before. He would have remembered that smile, that shape …

His inspection was knocked aside by guilt. It was not yet five months since his wife had died, scarcely time for her blood to be washed from the pavement, and here he was looking at another. He was as bad as Sean. Handing over his coppers, he gave peremptory thanks, then glanced around for a nook in which to sit and read his paper. First, though, he blew his nose, which had developed a dewdrop, courtesy of the roaring fire. Much too warm now to sit in his overcoat, he hung it on a stand before settling down to read.

But for some reason he could not concentrate on the pages and found his gaze being dragged back to the barmaid. He liked the honest way she had looked him straight in the eye when serving him, her face a sweet, open book. There was someone who would never belittle a man, thought Niall, someone who’d never cheat or lie or steal. Part of this assumption was to be proved correct a few moments later when she called out to a chap who had forgotten his change. She could just have kept quiet and pocketed it, but she hadn’t. Niall liked that. Affecting to read his paper, casting surreptitious glances from the print, he continued to observe as she chatted and laughed with other customers, his interest in part for the nice manner she had about her, but mainly for the attractive swellings under her jumper. Embarrassed to find himself reacting to them in base fashion, he tore his eyes away. What was the point in tormenting oneself over something one could not have? With no hope of concentrating on the press, after downing his pint, he went home.

Nora was there alone, waiting up for him. Harriet and Dolly had gone up to bed, the only trace of them being the scent of cocoa that wafted from their coats as he brushed against them in the passage. The elderly widow was partially ready for bed too, for her grey hair was dangling in a long plait over one shoulder. But for now, she sat by the firelight, employing its weak glow and that from the one remaining lamp as she squinted over her mending. Her iron jaw relaxed into a smile, as he hung his coat on a hook and came to join her by the fire. ‘You weren’t long. Didn’t you enjoy it?’

His nose beginning to run again from the sudden change in temperature, Niall pulled out a frayed handkerchief and trumpeted into it before answering, ‘Aye, it was a nice break, but I were hoping to have Reilly as company and he was working.’ His tone was dull and he made absentminded dabs at his nose. ‘No point being sat on me own. I might as well be in bed.’

Nora put aside her mending, lifted heavily corseted hips from her chair and went to fetch him some cocoa. ‘Never mind, he might be available next time.’

Her son-in-law nodded, shoved his handkerchief away, then sat rubbing his hands and staring into the glowing embers, conjuring pictures from them. Yet even then he could not concentrate, for he found his absent thoughts depicting not Reilly, but the smiling girl behind the bar.

Is this some fluke, asked a wary Niall, when his moment of wakening failed to produce that sensation of dread, or is it some miracle? Seemingly overnight, the weather had taken a turn for the better too. The sun shone, the air was crisp instead of damp, and the sky was clear and blue. The odd daffodil began to flutter along the grassy ramparts of the city walls. Where yesterday had been a brown and barren tangle of dormant briar along the railway embankment, there were primroses, and bees that zigzagged between them. At the shrieking whistle and clattering wheels of a train, startled lambs bucked and skittered, kicking their heels in the air. A stoat came out of hiding to enjoy the sun, his beady little eye ever alert for the delighted man who watched him as he darted like quicksilver among the rocks at the side of the track, his lissom body dipping and gyrating into nook and cranny, the sunlight gleaming on his russet coat, his entire being conveying the sense of rejuvenation that Niall himself felt.

With the following days proving that this was no aberration, at the end of the week when his mother-in-law doled out pocket money from the wage packet he had just handed her, Niall clinked it thoughtfully, before saying, ‘You know, I reckon you were right about that little trip to the pub doing me good …’

‘It must have done.’ She cast a shrewd eye at him. ‘If it’s made you visit the barber at last.’

Niall rubbed his shorn neck defensively, and sat at the table with his children. ‘Aye, well, I thought I’d better smarten meself up. I got a few disapproving looks from the landlady the last time I was in. I thought I might just trot along for another pint later on – don’t worry!’ He saw Juggy’s face turn anxious. ‘I’ll only be half an hour – that’s if Gran doesn’t mind?’

Pleased to be able to ease the widower’s unhappiness, Nora said generously as she served his meal first, ‘Why would I mind?’

‘Well, it is Lent …’ A time of self-denial.

‘Ah, yes,’ replied Nora and, to his consternation, she said nothing more on the subject as Harriet and Dolly finished bringing the rest of the plates. Whereupon, she sat down to murmur grace.

Niggled by disappointment, Niall hardly tasted the fish upon his fork, as he inserted it time after time into his mouth, all the while machinating how to get around this problem. But it turned out he did not have to, for later, after the children had gone to bed, Nora spoke again on the subject. ‘I’ve been thinking, you’ve been through enough deprivation lately – and it’s not as if you’ll be overindulging.’

Startled, Niall looked to Harriet and Dolly for agreement. ‘I don’t want to go upsetting anybody …’

‘You won’t upset me.’ Hardly seeming to care, Harriet flicked over the pages of her magazine, Dolly too murmuring permission as she mended the hem of her overall.

‘Oh, thanks!’ He projected a somewhat relieved gratitude at all of them.

‘I almost wish I could join you myself.’ Neither she nor her daughters would ever frequent such a venue, but, added Nora, ‘It’d be good to have a change of scenery sometimes.’

Niall was keen to oblige with the next best thing. ‘Well, if you can’t go there it’ll have to come to you. I’ll bring a couple of bottles home for you and the lasses – maybe some chips an’ all if you’re good,’ he added with a wry smile, as he went to towards the scullery, intending to tidy himself up.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

He swirled round at Harriet’s sardonic query.

‘Lent?’ she reminded him with a smirk. ‘Some of us are good little Catholics.’

Dolly emitted her goatish bleat of a laugh. ‘Don’t believe her, Nye! She reckons to have given up sweets, but she’s got a bag of mint humbugs tucked down the side of her chair. Don’t think I haven’t seen you cramming them in when you think nobody’s looking!’ She gave another mocking laugh at her sister’s outrage.

‘Mints don’t count as proper sweets,’ retorted Harriet, under her mother’s disapproving eye.

Niall feigned to wince, and said to Nora, ‘So, no beer and chips then – I’d better get out while the going’s good.’ And he shut the scullery door on them.

But Nora’s disapproval had only been pretence, and in his absence she exchanged warmer words with Harriet and Dolly. ‘He seems a lot chirpier does the lad, doesn’t he? Aye … I’m glad there’s something made him feel better, poor soul. ’Then she gave a heavy sigh and reverted to her faraway state of bereavement, her face haggard, and uttering wistfully, ‘I wish a glass of beer’d have the same magic properties for me.’

After a quick wash and shave, and a change of attire, Niall went upstairs and popped his head into the children’s bedrooms to bid them good night and also deliver a word of warning for them not to read too long in bed.

‘Dad, will you tell her to stop kicking me?’ begged Honor, from her cramped corner of the room that had been divided into two in order to separate boys from girls. ‘I keep reading the same sentence over and over.’ Lifting herself from the pillow, she tugged one of her plaits from beneath her head, with exasperation.

‘I’m not doing it on purpose!’ The small face protruding from the other end of the bed burst into angry tears. ‘There’s a lump under me bum.’

Niall laughed softly as he came to perch on their bed and to mop the tears. ‘I don’t think I want to know what it is.’

‘I mean the bed!’ Juggy sat up and gave a furious thump at the mattress.

‘You’re doing it again!’ Honor laid down her book in despair, and whilst her father tried to settle the younger child, she indicated the empty bed that was only eighteen inches away. ‘Couldn’t I just lie on that while I finish me chapter? I promise I’ll pull the covers straight and be off it before Aunty Doll and Aunty Harriet come up.’ Her aunts would be cross if they found their bed rumpled.

Since their mother had died, Niall had found it hard to deny them anything. ‘Go on then, but don’t fall asleep on it – and don’t let on it were me who gave you permission!’ Giving each girl a fond peck, he made for the other side of the partitioned room.

‘Right, untie your brother and get into bed now!’ His expression turned stern as he waited for Batty and Brian to remove the gag from Dominic’s mouth.

‘It’s all right, Dad,’ reassured his eldest boy with a grin, ‘I’m just letting them practise.’

‘For what – getting themselves a prison sentence?’ Impatient to be off, Niall seized Brian, who was seated astride Dominic’s torso, and put him in his rightful place in the bed, then helped free Dominic’s wrists from the bonds that Batty had tied. ‘That’s my belt! Now lie down, the lot of you, or I’ll be taking it to your backsides!’ But the boys saw him laugh to himself as he left.

‘’Night, Dad!’

‘Good night, sleep tight, mind the bugs don’t bite!’ called Niall cheerfully.

Downstairs, set to depart, he experienced a thrill of anticipation.

‘I hope your friend’s in this time,’ Nora called after him as he left.

‘Who?’ Niall stopped by the door, and wheeled quickly to frown.

‘Reilly, you clot!’

‘Oh!’ He had not even considered visiting his friend, but laughed swiftly now to cover his guilt, ‘Aye, well, if he is he is, and if he isn’t he isn’t. See you later.’

The night was still as dark and still as cold, yet not half so damp as it had been earlier in the week, and any chill he felt at being without his greatcoat was soon overcome by an eagerness of step. Neglecting Reilly, Niall went without delay to the public house he had visited last time, wondering whether she would be there to serve him.

She was. The saloon being almost devoid of other patrons, apart from one grizzled old toothless codger puffing on his pipe by the fire and a couple more playing darts, the golden-haired young woman approached him immediately with a smile of enquiry. Niall asked for a pint, then fell silent to await it being poured, snatching a glance at her whilst she concentrated on her task. Taking in as much about her as was possible without staring, he saw that her hair was shortish, though not, he noted with gladness, that severe kind of shingle that some women had adopted since the war, that looked as if it had been hacked at by garden shears; there was still enough of it to afford her femininity, and it certainly did the job for him, rippling in soft waves about her neck. In fact, despite the pink lipstick she didn’t seem one of those modern types at all, her face being in a way rather old-fashioned, which could have belonged to any period in history. No film-star glamour, just an overall impression of a really nice girl – well, he called her a girl but it was just a manner of speech; she was probably thirty or even more. But although he liked the look of her, and despite being the only customer at the bar, he made no attempt to engage her in conversation, for being a shy sort, Niall was hopeless at small talk. Segregated from females by his Catholic upbringing for the entirety of his schooldays, he had never really been able to relate to them since.

Wondering what she saw when she looked at him, he sought a glimpse of his own reflection, and was immediately dismayed at the wolfish face that stared back. There was a jaw that held too many teeth, and in consequence a few of them crossed over others – only slightly, but enough to annoy him. He had hoped to conceal them behind a close-lipped smile, yet this only made his mouth look bigger, for his lips were long and curled up at the outer edges, this prominent feature emphasised by the deep lines that ran from either side of his mouth to his sharp nose. His cheeks were tattooed with high colour by the elements. It was, in general, the raw-boned countenance of one who laboured hard to make an honest living, yet not, he decided, one to inspire female trust. The women in his street had known him since childhood, but strangers were another matter. And so, for fear of humiliation, Niall held his tongue.

Yet he was to experience a wave of pleasure when she herself instigated a dialogue, if only about the weather, saying in her soft Irish lilt, ‘How lovely it is to see the sun again, don’t ye think?’ She had been eating a cachou. Her breath smelled of violets, wafting all the way over the counter at him, raising foreign but deeply pleasurable emotions. ‘I could hardly believe it, winter just behind us and the yard like a sun trap – oh, it must have been seventy degrees! Sure, I only sat out for half an hour to take my break and came in like a tomato – well, half a tomato.’ She laughed and cocked her head, presenting one pink cheek for him to view.

Possessed of the kind of smile that came from nowhere, a chink of blue sky amongst grey cloud, Niall forgot any attempt at hiding his teeth and used them to full effect now. His eyes came bright with amusement, the skin around them crinkling, as he noted how very fair her skin was, and how easily it would burn. ‘Ooh dear, I bet you suffer in a real heat wave.’ It might not be eloquent, but Niall was rather pleased with himself for managing to uphold the discourse.

‘Aw, I certainly do! If I stay out too long I peel in strips – I look like the hanging gardens of Babylon.’

He laughed. ‘Wouldn’t suit you to work outside every day like I do, then.’

A fair, swan’s-wing eyebrow was arched, showing interest. ‘Oh, and what line of employment would you be in?’

‘I’m a platelayer on the railway.’ Niall leaned on the bar, thought better of it and stood erect again.

‘And what does that involve?’ she asked, her hand still on the pump and a careful eye on the beer that had almost reached the top of the glass.

‘Well, besides initially laying the track, I maintain it every day, walking along making sure it’s in good repair and that…’ It didn’t sound much of a job; he wished he had given a better explanation. ‘To make sure it’s safe.’

‘A very important position then.’ Handing over the beer, she took his money.

He gave a self-effacing shrug. ‘That’s not for me to say.’

‘Ah well, you look very fit on it. ’Tis a lovely complexion ye have.’

It was not in the least artful, but Niall felt a blush spread over his cheeks, and he took a quick sip of beer. Despite having managed to shake off the acute shyness of his youth, outside the family home he remained self-consciousness and he did not appreciate being stared at so directly. When confronted thus, in the manner of a dog his eyes would flick away as if to divert the watcher’s gaze. This time, however, it failed to have the required effect, and he was compelled to blurt: ‘I thought it’d be busier than this, being payday!’

Seeing not the miserable countenance that Niall conjured of himself, but the face that his friends and neighbour saw, one that was quiet and strong and approachable, she removed her eyes from it to steal a quick glance at the mahogany clock on the wall. ‘Oh, don’t worry, they’re just biding their time for a good night. We’ll be rushed off our feet in half an hour.’ She took his money to the till, saying on her way, ‘I haven’t seen you in here before. Just passing through, are ye?’

Disappointed, though unsurprised, that his previous visit had made no impact on her, Niall chuckled softly. ‘No, I’ve lived round here all me life.’

‘A bit longer than me then. This is only my fourth week of working here.’ She beamed as she gave him his change.

This would be the time for him to move away from the bar and find a table. He could have taken his pick tonight, but chose to remain where he was for the moment, wanting to continue the dialogue but not sure how. He took another sip of beer, hoping she would help him. Instead she began to potter about the bar, refilling shelves with bottles. It was perforce left to him.

He licked the foam from his long upper lip and cleared his throat nervously as she came past, and said, ‘You’re from Ireland then?’

‘How very perspicacious of you.’ A smile removed the barb from what might be misinterpreted as snide.

However, this comment instantly demoted her in Niall’s estimation – he had enough of such sarcasm at home, people thinking they were being clever or witty – and the fact that she did not appear to intuit his annoyance served to deplete her standing even further. Instantly he revised his former opinion of her as a kind, old-fashioned type. Nevertheless, he was forced to stay put for she was still speaking and it would have been rude to turn his back.

‘I know what you’re thinking – how the divil did I get away with a heathen name like this in Ireland!’

Eyes fixed on his glass, he shook his head, still annoyed about her previous sarcasm. ‘I wasn’t even aware of your name.’

‘There’s me told then.’ She grinned, but was obviously stricken with embarrassment from the way she seized a cloth and began to polish a nonexistent smear on the mahogany counter.

‘Sorry … I just haven’t heard anyone mention it.’ Despite himself, he wanted to make her feel better, and asked, ‘What is it then?’

This appeared to restore her friendliness. ‘Aw, me and my big mouth – I could’ve got away with it. I’m not sure I want to tell you now.’ She tilted her head as if paying the matter great consideration, but this was merely play-acting. ‘Ah, go on then. It’s Boadicea Merrifield.’

Niall couldn’t help but be impressed. ‘That is a rum’n!’

She laughed gaily at his expression. ‘Don’t I know it – and all my father’s fault.’ Still only the two of them at the bar, she leaned both forearms on it and, without the slightest prompting, launched into the story of her life whilst Niall sipped his drink and listened.

Her father, a sergeant in the army and resolutely English, had fallen in love with a colleen whilst on duty in Ireland, and against natural disdain of its inhabitants had sought permission to marry her. This had been refused at first by her family, until he had become a convert. With Boadicea’s father often away for years at a time on foreign service, and her mother declining to go with him, she had been born and brought up amongst her mother’s kin. Hence the Irish accent. Up against them and the Church, her father had been forced to baptise his child Mary, but in his presence she continued to be Boadicea, and the brother who followed her, Arthur. Her name had caused all sorts of friction, and even without the nuns’ insistence on it she would have called herself plain Mary at school so as not to draw attention to herself. ‘Even when I came over here I got an awful lot of leg-pulling – ’tis a wonder I’m not walking round with one leg longer than the other, the amount I got. Not that I care. ’Twas the name my father chose for me and I’m sticking to it.’ Her smile showed that she was immensely fond of her father. ‘I rather like having a name that no one else has – well, not many, anyhow.’

‘So how come you are over here, then?’ asked Niall, having warmed to her again.

Her face clouded slightly and she tapped her short fingernails on the bar. ‘Oh, things …’

‘Are your parents still there?’

‘No, my mother died—’

‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’ His softly uttered sentiment was genuine; he knew what that felt like.

‘Thanks,’ she was equally sincere in her response, ‘but it’s been a good few years now. Anyway, with her gone, there was no reason for Dad to be in Ireland, what with all the back-biting he suffered. So he came back here with Arthur. He’d left the army by then, o’ course, though they did call him up to train the recruits during the war – I suppose you’d have been too young to see any fighting?’

Niall nodded quickly. Like many of his age, it was rather a sore point that he had not contributed.

She mimicked his nod. ‘Anyway, as I say, he and Arthur came back to live here. I stayed on for a while with Mammy’s folks, but I couldn’t get work, so that’s why I came over, and also to be nearer to Dad and me brother – although I’m not so near as I was, me being in York now and they in Manchester. I only get to visit them a couple of times a year.’ Seeming to think she had spoken long on herself, she smiled and asked ‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’

Immediately Niall shook his head, then looked awkward. ‘Well, I did have a brother, but we don’t see each other.’ Before she could ask why, he posed a query of his own. ‘Don’t you miss Ireland?’

‘Oh, sure.’ Her eye was momentarily wistful. ‘It’ll always be home.’

‘Whereabouts are you from?’

The wistfulness turned to impudence. ‘Would you be any wiser if I told ye?’

Niall felt his jaw twitch in irritation; she was doing it again. ‘I just meant what county.’

‘Mayo,’ she eventually revealed.

‘That’s where we’re from!’ exclaimed Niall.

Boadicea seemed to find this hilarious. ‘Sure, ye don’t sound like it!’

That really annoyed him, for he was immensely proud of his Irish heritage. But he kept his tone equable. ‘Aye, well, maybe that’s because we’ve been here sixty years.’

‘Nor do you look that old,’ came her teasing addition.

‘I meant my great-grandparents.’ He decided to end this humiliation there and then by tipping back his head, draining his glass and bidding the barmaid a curt farewell, leaving her smile fading to bewilderment.

‘Have you been upsetting my customers again, Miss Merrifield?’ quipped the landlady, a no-nonsense type of Yorkshire woman, having witnessed the terse departure, moving to stand beside her.

‘Heaven knows.’ Totally mystified, Boadicea shook her head. ‘And here’s me thinking I was giving him compliments. Sorry for losing you business, Mrs Langan.’

‘Nay,’ the woman’s tone was dismissive, ‘he’s only a one-pint Willie. It’ll hardly break the bank.’

Boadicea laughed at the terminology, and prepared to welcome the group of more amiable-looking customers who had just barged into the saloon, and from that instant was run off her feet for the rest of the night. Nevertheless, she was to remain disappointed over her miscommunication with the shy and handsome man with the serious face and the smile that came from nowhere. When he came in again she would have to apologise.

However, she was not to get the chance, for Niall had decided to abandon his foolish notion. Having emptied his conscience at confession on Saturday and been absolved for his lustful thoughts, he had assumed that to be the end of the matter. Had he not bumped into her in the street during the following week he doubted he would have seen the rude biddy ever again.

It was a somewhat embarrassing encounter. There had been a cattle market and, that Monday evening, the main route to his house was splattered with dung, the air rich with its scent. He had successfully evaded it so far, then had rounded the corner and encountered a great quantity on the pavement.

Too late to dodge this one, he was standing under a streetlamp and using the kerb to scrape it from his boot and so avoid taking it home, when someone said in a familiar Irish lilt: ‘Blasted nuisance, is it not?’

And he spun round to see Boadicea emerge into the pool of lamplight. The weather having turned cool again, she wore a long fitted coat with a golden fur collar that was almost the same shade as her hair. As wide as a shawl, it enveloped her shoulders, making her seem smaller, more vulnerable than the person who had issued such impudent banter last week.

‘Oh … hello,’ Niall muttered lamely, then went back to cleaning his boot.

Ignoring the hint, she explained her presence: ‘I just thought I’d nip to evening Mass before going to work.’

‘Right.’ Niall moved his head in acknowledgement.

Her smile was tentative, her voice soft and her breath visible on the cold evening air. ‘Ye haven’t been in to see us for a while …’

‘No.’ Niall felt ill at ease, wishing she would not watch as he dragged his boot along the kerb this way and that.

‘I’ve been hoping ye would, Mr …?’ Blue eyes fixed upon his face, she waited for his name.

Eventually he said it, obviously reluctant and not a little morose. ‘Doran.’

‘Mr Doran, I think I might owe you an apology. Maybe you thought I was being rude to ye last time ye came in.’

Still occupied in ridding his footwear of cow dung, Niall frowned, pretending not to know what she was talking about.

‘You might’ve thought I was mocking your Yorkshire accent – I wasn’t, I think it’s lovely.’

How could one remain hard-hearted to such charm? He donned a self-effacing attitude and stopped cleaning his boot, attending more politely as she went on, ‘Sure, I ought to know better, folk taking a rise out of me with their top o’ the mornings and begorrahs and all manner of rubbish. Anyhow,’ she inclined her head graciously, ‘I apologise. I meant no harm.’

‘None done. I can’t even remember it,’ lied Niall, but hoped his attitude projected how happy he was to see her again.

‘Well … that’s all I wanted to say, really.’ Obviously relieved, she flashed him a smile, then turned and began to melt into the darkness, but paused in anticipation when it looked as if Niall was eager to speak.

But he simply blurted, ‘Er, thank you anyway – even if there was no need!’

Her lips retained their smile, though Niall thought he saw a hint of disappointment in her blue eyes as she gave a little nod, then went on her way and he on his. And, as he went, he thought about what she had said about going to evening Mass, and made a note to himself to look out for her at church on Sunday, for he had not noticed her there before, being too involved in his devotions. He hoped, though, that he would see her again much sooner than that.

For the first time in days he felt his spirits elevate, thoroughly restored from the gloom that had descended since his altercation with her. Hence, upon nearing home and seeing his boys playing football under a streetlamp, he cantered up to join in a lively kickabout until, remembering that he was supposed to be grieving for Ellen, he swiftly composed himself, gave his boots a last rake on the iron scraper set into the wall, then went indoors, though his mood was to remain light-hearted.

That night he started visiting The Angel again.

Gradually becoming inebriated by the woman who served it, rather than the alcohol itself, Niall increased his excursions to five nights of the week from then on. Whilst this was all very well on a Monday, or even a Wednesday, when, the bar being relatively quiet, he could sit and watch her to his heart’s content – perhaps even be lucky enough to share a word or two with her when he acquired the pint he had rationed himself – Friday turned out to be a different matter. Having arrived somewhat later than on previous visits, he encountered a wall of people the moment he came through the door. The place was so packed, he had to navigate his way through a labyrinth of elbows to acquire his drink. At last, there she was. Forced to raise his voice above the hubbub, he returned Boadicea’s smile of welcome and asked for the usual. He noted briefly that there was something different about her tonight, but didn’t know what it was until a few moments later he heard one of the female customers call to her from the passage, ‘I love your new dress, dear!’ And the recipient of this praise joked, ‘I’m glad somebody noticed.’

Ah, that was what it was. Niall hardly ever paid attention to such detail, but studied her garment more closely now. It was blue with flowers on it, and made of silky stuff that emphasised every curve – which was probably why he had noticed neither the pattern nor colour before. With all the tables occupied and his usual nook taken, he remained at the bar to watch and to yearn. But sadly there was to be no chat with her tonight, for after serving him she was instantly off to serve another, maintaining this hectic pace all the while he was there.

Crammed in from all sides, alert to straying elbows that might jolt and spill his pint, he made tentative sips of it, whilst his eyes followed Boadicea to and fro behind the bar. His ears too strained to attend her, to decipher her Irish lilt from the blunt Yorkshire vowels that obscured it, to detect every word from her smiling lips – and were just becoming attuned when a roar went up. Niall turned his head in vexation to see what had ruined his evening. Unable to discern the origin, he was soon to be made aware, as a piano was set upon with gusto, the whole pub erupting into lively accompaniment.

His faint disgust must have been apparent, for when his eyes returned to Boadicea, he received a signalled command from her to cheer up and join in with the singing, her mouth pretending to mimic his in an exaggerated sulk, and though he didn’t sing he was forced to smile back. She responded with a grin of commendation, every feature of her face participating in that smile and her warm eyes focused completely on him, which made him feel on top of the world. It was not to last for long, her services required elsewhere, but Niall was to treasure this little piece of attention as if she had pinned a medal to his chest.

With a practice born of necessity, the level of his glass was reduced sip by sip over the next hour. Whilst around him others grew merrier and more boisterous, singing at the top of their voices, he remained sober, all the better for watching the object of his desire, making out, when she caught him studying her, that he was enjoying the singsong with the rest. Seeing others treat her to a drink, he wished he could buy her one too. Maybe next week, he could wangle extra allowance from Nora. But if he were to stand Boadicea a drink, he would make sure it bought him her full attention.

‘Are you ready for another, sir?’

Realising the question was directed at him, Niall tore his eyes from Boadicea and glanced at the landlord who asked it, before checking his almost empty glass. ‘Er, no, thanks, I’m all right.’

‘I just thought as you’d been stood there for a while,’ persevered Mr Langan, a respectful yet commanding figure in his black suit, his brawny hands pressed to the counter, ‘you might be waiting to get served.’

‘No, no.’ Niall’s reply was casual. ‘I’m just here ’cause I can’t get a seat.’

The firmly patient tone became strained and the large face was thrust deliberately closer. ‘Only you’re keeping other customers from the bar!’

Not until then did Niall realise he was being castigated. ‘Oh – right, sorry!’ He could have retained his place by buying another half – might have done had it been Boadicea who hovered to serve him. Alas, she was away at the far end of the bar, so he picked up his glass and began to squeeze himself away through the throng, seeking another space from which to watch her. But there was none. Nor was there a way back: immediately he had moved, another rushed to fill his slot and that was the last chance Niall had of speaking to her for the remainder of his time there.

Still, by drawing himself up to full height, he could glimpse her golden head bobbing its way back and forth along the row of drunken patrons, whilst he sipped his drink and the crowd bawled in unison, ‘Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are ca-a-lling!’

The songs, the sentiments bequeathed by their grandfathers, were Irish, though the voices were not, the lyrics delivered mainly in loud Yorkshire tones as the participants sang of the old country that their ancestors had departed long ago. And in this alone, despite his Yorkshire name and his Yorkshire accent, Niall felt his Irish heart at one with them.

Inevitably, after stretching it out for so long, he was finally unable to drain another drop from the glass. Even so, he continued to stand there. Thwarted at having to share her with so many others, he was loath to depart – though not from this mob, who had grown increasingly drunk. How irritating it was to be amongst such a crush when oneself was sober. Look at them – how foolish they appeared as the maudlin tune gave way to a gayer refrain and set them jigging. No matter that it was crowded, one of their number was performing a strenuous dance, arms akimbo, lifting his knees in the air. The big Irish drover was well known in the area, usually good-natured, but boisterous in his cups. Niall could see what was about to happen – tried to warn the drunken buffoon that there was someone about to pass behind him with a tray of drinks – but his voice was lost amid the deafening entertainment. The drover hopped backwards, bashed into the man with the tray and there came the sound of shattering glass. A few heads turned, there were groans from behind the bar, but these were lost amid a cacophony of ivory keys and discordant voices. Nothing could still the dancers, who proceeded to crunch across the carpet of shards, singing to their hearts’ content whilst the poor fellow who had just paid for the drinks was left to stare in dismay at his empty tray.

‘’Scuse me!’

Niall looked on sympathetically as the victim tried to catch the attention of the big Irish fool who continued to dance about like a lunatic, eventually managing to tug at his sleeve.

‘You might offer to pay for them!’

But the author of the disaster stopped only briefly to weigh up the little fellow, and to demand with a contemptuous sneer and a thick Irish brogue, ‘What’re ye going to do about it if I don’t, Johnny-boy?’ Then he cackled out loud and went back to his dancing, flailing his arms and legs about like a maniac.

He was not to do so for long. His victim might be a foot shorter but he had a weapon in his hand. Lifting the tray, he dealt the Irishman an almighty blow to the back of his head, so hard that the tray instantly buckled and so did the man’s legs – but only for an instant, for he wheeled round in anger and was about to take a swing at the one who had assaulted him, when another grasped his arm.

‘I think you ought to pay for his drinks,’ demanded Niall.

Restricted by the iron grip, the drover turned his hostility on the one who held him and, wrenching himself free, threw a punch at Niall, which was easily parried. With this insufficient to halt the attack there was only one way to terminate it: Niall dealt a blow that knocked him to the ground.

The crowd, which had drawn aside like two separate curtains at the first sign of trouble, now swept back together, laughing and singing along with the piano player, who had not even missed a beat, whilst the avenging angel Niall rubbed his knuckles and looked down at the bully, who lay out cold on the glass-sprinkled tiles.

‘Sure, I wouldn’t want to be upsetting you!’ laughed an Irish voice close to his ear, a kinder female one this time.

It was Boadicea, come to try to sweep up the mess, though she was not allowed to do so until the obstacle had been removed by his friends. The piano player changed to a gentler tempo and the crowd took an interval from their dancing.

‘Sorry, I just can’t stand people like him!’ Niall increased his pitch against the raucous strains of ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’.

She wrinkled her nose and bent to her task. ‘Aw, he’s all right really.’ Twas just the drink talking.’

Realising this did not present him in a good light, Niall felt he should justify his action. ‘I’m not usually so quick to hit somebody! He gave me no option; it was him or me.’

‘Sure, I know that!’ She did not sound at all recriminatory. ‘He was asking for a few tours of the parade ground, as my old dad would say, and you were only looking out for the little fella. Your man’ll be regretting it tomorrow, so he will. Likely be offering to buy you a drink!’

‘That’s probably true,’ agreed Niall, still rubbing his scuffed knuckles, his attention more on Boadicea now, for it was suddenly and delightfully brought home to him that he usually only ever saw her from the waist up. Taking advantage of this new perspective – the young woman crouching unawares – he examined first the wide hips, then followed the line of a rather shapely calf in a tan silk stocking, to the finely boned ankle that protruded from the high-heeled court shoe. ‘They’re a strange lot, the Irish,’ he concluded.

‘Ye cheeky article!’

He was forced to tear his eyes from her leg as she came upright with a look of faked offence, and dealt him a dig with her arm.

‘I hope you’re including yourself in that remark?’

So, she had remembered what he had told her then, about being of Irish stock. This and the little nudge of familiarity pleased him no end, and he grinned at her. ‘Aye, well, there’s some’d say I’m nobbut strange meself.’

Boadicea grinned back, her eyes sparkling, but already her attention was being stolen by another who was thrusting a coin in her hand to pay for the spilled drinks, and soon she was set to return to the bar, her shovel piled with glass. Still, she included Niall in an afterthought as she left him. ‘Would you be after a refill an’ all?’

‘No, thanks, I’ve had my quota for the night.’

‘See you again then!’ called Boadicea, before being swallowed up by the revellers.

Aye, you’ll see me again, thought Niall warmly, her final smiling comment topping off the evening nicely for him, as he took one last covetous look, then went out into the night.

Friday’s episode being too boisterous for one of such a quiet disposition, he decided it was pointless to call in at the pub over the rest of the weekend, for he would see very little of Boadicea. But oh, the aching emptiness this involved … Being without her for two nights was as hard a separation as he had ever experienced, tearing at his gut in a way that was almost physical in its intensity. It was a crime in itself to attend confession and be forgiven for his sinful thoughts, when he had every intention of repeating that sin, but Niall went along anyway, if simply for the fact that his parish priest was one of the few to whom he could unload such a burden – though he did not name names, of course, but restricted the information to a generalised confession of impure thoughts. So long as those thoughts were not put to deed he could rely on Father Finnegan’s understanding; he was a man himself, after all.

Already conscious of the worried looks that were exchanged between Nora and her daughters, as he had gone off to the pub night after night, he dared not extend his itinerary to the Sabbath, though he would dearly have loved to, for come Sunday he was as thoroughly depressed and agitated over his withdrawal from Boadicea as an alcoholic might be from his whisky. Hence, by Thursday of the following week, his good intentions of limiting his visits looked set to collapse, for he had been to The Angel four times in as many days, and in all probability would be there on a fifth.

It did not matter that often he had not even the chance to converse with her other than to obtain his drink of choice; he was content be in her presence, to watch and to listen and to admire. Barely able to afford even the one pint per visit, he had foregone other things, walked miles to work where once he might have caught the bus, in order just to sit nursing the glass that permitted him to be near her; a nearness that became almost unbearable as he witnessed others do what he himself would love to be doing. He was deeply jealous of the ease with which they chatted to her, though he told himself he had no right to be. It was not as if she belonged to him.

Which in turn made him ask, did he want her to? Sitting there on his own, night after night, levered away from the bar by those more extrovert, and by his own lack of confidence, in his unobtrusive corner he had been privy to all manner of discussion about the fair Irish barmaid, and would have known if there had been a rival. He had even heard one fool comment that she was a bonny enough lass but there must be ‘summat up with her’ to remain a spinster at her age. Well, here was one who would have her.

Acutely conscious where this would lead, and how it would hurt Ellen’s family and possibly his children, and that he was a hypocrite for the way he had condemned his brother yet was following the same route himself, Niall tried hard to overcome his feelings … but maybe not hard enough … or maybe it was just that he did not really want to. He could not remember experiencing such a reaction over anyone, not even Ellen in the first flush of courtship. He had not even known it was possible to feel a passion that took over one’s entire life. Which was why, finally abandoning all self-delusion, all pretence of noble resistance, and surrendering to a baser, masculine selfishness, he decided he must pluck up the courage and ask her to go out with him.

Yet, whilst his happiness flourished over this decision, so too did his guilt, for, acting totally against character, he had lied to those at home about the recent change in his social habits, had made out that he had joined the Railway Institute where there were all kind of activities to take one’s mind off one’s sorrows – feeling guiltier still at using a dead wife as his excuse. But nothing could have deterred him now from seeing that lovely Celtic lass.

Obsessed as he had become in his mission, hoping like some callow schoolboy to disguise his tracks by way of sucking peppermints, Niall did not realise for a while that such uncharacteristic behaviour had spurred others into action. Not until that Friday evening did he see disaster loom. He had opened the door of the pub, about to enter, when, alerted by a police whistle, he turned swiftly to see two officers bearing down on a youth who ran for his life, their truncheons at the ready. But it was something even more unnerving that caught his eye. Looking as startled as he himself felt, Harriet stopped dead in her tracks, making it obvious she had been following him.

Instantly defensive, Niall took a step backwards into the street, allowing the door to swing shut as he turned to confront her, his stance indignant. ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’

His sister-in-law’s expression of guilt was quickly replaced with one of determination, as she bustled up and thrust her face at him. ‘And what are you playing at? Cracking on you were going to the Institute—’

‘Can’t a bloke change his mind? I decided I couldn’t be bothered to trail all that way – me legs do get enough punishment at work, you know!’

She tapped his chest knowingly. ‘You can’t pull the wool over my eyes! What’s going on, Nye?’

‘Nothing!’ But Niall felt the heat of embarrassment as it rose up his neck, turning his face red. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

Confronted by his anger, Harriet failed to interpret the underlying guilt, but instead took it as indication that her mother had been correct, he was trying to conceal something. ‘I’ll bet you’ve been nowhere near the Institute. You’ve been coming here all the time, haven’t you?’

‘I haven’t!’

‘I don’t believe you!’ came the blunt accusation.

‘And what if I have?’ he demanded testily. ‘What has it got to do with anybody else? You’ve no right to be following me!’

Harriet grasped his upper arm in an act of concern. ‘Look, Nye, it’s only for your own good. We can see how you miss Ellen. I still can’t believe she’s gone so it must be ten times worse for you, losing your wife …’

At the sound of her name his belly flipped again. How could he have let himself be caught out in such shameful fashion? Now he guessed how his brother must have felt.

‘But you can’t drown your sorrows, you know,’ said Harriet. ‘You’ll just pickle your liver, and then where will your children be?’

When her victim continued to frown at her blankly, obviously unwilling to admit his problem, she added a lively incitement. ‘If you think you’ve been covering it up with peppermints you’re wrong!’

In the wonderful realisation that he was not being accused of anything worse, Niall felt his chest flood with relief, eventually demanding with a forced, dry bark, ‘You think I’m turning into an alcoholic?’

‘You might not accept it, but this is how it starts,’ reasoned Harriet.

But this evinced only humour, Niall shaking his head and his face creased with laughter, such was his relief. ‘You daft bugger! How could I afford it with your mam doling out my spending money?’

At this, Harriet let go of his arm and paused to consider the matter, her face undergoing a gradual dawning.

‘In fact,’ Niall went on strenuously, ‘I’ve been told off by t’landlord for making my pint last an hour and a half. Come and ask him if you don’t believe me.’ It was a safe enough invitation; she would never be seen in a bar.

‘No, no!’ His sister-in-law was looking somewhat relieved herself now. ‘I’ll take your word for it … of course it makes sense … sorry, it’s just that we’ve all been so worried for you, Nye.’ She inclined her square jaw in an attitude of repentance, her glassy grey orbs searching his.

‘Thanks,’ he said with gratitude, though suddenly awash with renewed penitence at so deceiving her. ‘But don’t be. I just need to get out of the house for a while. These dark evenings are getting me down …’

‘Well, I hope you’re not staring into your glass, moping.’ She wagged a finger at him, though satisfied enough with his explanation.

‘No, there’s usually a game of darts or dominoes to occupy me.’ That was true; at least there would have been had he wanted to disrupt his happier pursuit for a more trivial one.

Accepting this at last, Harriet apologised again. ‘Well, I’m sorry we thought the worst of you. Carry on and enjoy yourself.’ And with that she backed away into the darkness, saying she would go home now and vindicate him with her mother and sister.

Glad of her departure, Niall considered himself lucky, told himself he should be more careful and should not pursue this doomed liaison. And at that moment he seriously considered it. But, pushing open the door to the saloon, his eyes lit up as they settled upon Boadicea, and just as quickly, his former resolution was quashed.

Tonight would mark a turning point, he decided, as she greeted his arrival at the bar more warmly, more personally than usual. There was a definite connection between them – he was sure of it from her eyes. The exchange with Harriet had fired him up. Upon asking for his pint in the normal fashion, he found the nerve to blurt an additional request. ‘Could you get tomorrow night off and come out with me?’

There was fleeting disconcertment. Then Boadicea raised her fair eyebrows and, with a rather mocking chuckle, said, ‘It’s good to tell you’re not accustomed to pubs.’

Taken aback by this unexpected response, he looked blank.

‘Saturday’s our busiest night!’ she declared.

His embarrassed laughter joined hers. ‘Oh aye, sorry, I was forgetting what day it is!’ She had done that to him – made it so he could think of nothing else. Sometimes he was unsure what planet he was on, never mind what day of the week it was. Undeterred, he blurted quickly, ‘Sunday then?’

‘I’m afraid I’ll be working that too. Sorry.’ Wearing an apologetic smile, she finished pulling his pint and handed it over.

Not wanting to sound desperate in asking which night she was free, he nodded quickly, handed over payment and murmured, ‘Maybe another time then,’ and he hid his discomfiture in his glass.

Boadicea dealt him another brief smile, though not another word, before moving on to serve someone else. Receiving no encouragement, Niall retired to his usual corner to nurse his wounded pride.

Deeply disappointed and utterly confused by her attitude – one minute seeming to welcome his attentions, the next giving him the brush-off – he chose not to go to the pub on Saturday, almost managing to remove his mind from her by helping his children prepare for their coming roles in the St Patrick’s Day procession.

At least, though, he did manage to grab sight of her on Sunday, if only at Mass. She looked so lovely, so angelic with her rosy cheeks, and her golden hair curling from under a new green hat, he couldn’t understand why no other man seemed as interested as he. But to feast his eyes on her would give him away, though the glimpse he allowed himself was totally insufficient, and the thought of another evening without her unbearable.

His eye on the clock for opening time, directly after tea he decided to risk his mother-in-law’s wrath and visit Boadicea at her place of work.

There were more stunned faces, naturally, over this detour from the normal Sabbath routine.

‘Not going to Benediction? But you always love to go!’

It was indeed Niall’s favourite service, but, ‘Not tonight. I don’t feel like it.’ However, it was obvious he was intent on some venture for he had risen.

‘Where you off then, Dad?’ asked Juggy.

‘Mm?’ Niall examined himself in the mirror. Seeing that the sprig of shamrock in his lapel was rather wilted, he went to the scullery and delved into the bucket for a fresh one and was pinning it on as his daughter asked again: ‘Where you off?’

He looked down at her now. ‘Oh … nowhere.’

‘The same place he goes the rest of the week,’ muttered Nora, casting a tight-lipped expression at Harriet and Dolly, who looked similarly disapproving.

Niall ignored this, but catching the six-year-old’s fearful expression, he addressed her more gently. ‘Don’t worry, Jug, I’ll be here when you get home from Mass.’

Hardly noting that his daughter was not fully reassured, he turned to Nora. ‘Would you mind taking the kids?’

‘I suppose I’ll have to,’ retorted his mother-in-law somewhat sniffily at being taken for granted.

‘Thanks.’ Warning his children to be good, Niall went directly along the passage to the front door, as he did so overhearing a stern addendum from Nora.

‘A good job there are more dutiful souls around to maintain the children’s religion whilst others fall prey to the evils of drink!’

But he chose not to heed the disparaging comment, and soon his entire thoughts were once again fixed on Boadicea, determined that she would be swayed.

Needing no other alibi than it was Sunday, his weekday casual garb was displaced by a navy-blue double-breasted suit and tie, a silver watch chain gleamed upon his waistcoat, his shoes were buffed to a high gloss, and his dark hair also groomed. How could she turn him down? There was a fresh confidence to his step, a sparkle to his eye, as he swung open the door of the saloon, marred only by the fact that she was not behind the bar when he arrived, and so did not immediately witness this new Mr Doran. For the moment that did not concern him, for she might be serving in the snug. It was busier tonight, being St Patrick’s Day, the bar all decorated in green.

Provided with his glass of Guinness by the landlord, Niall remained at the counter in the expectation of chatting to Boadicea when she did finally come around this side, occasionally running a finger around the inside of his starched collar, and admiring his reflection in the mirrored glass behind the bar, what little there was of it between the bottles of liquor and the row of green pennants. The pint had been three-quarters consumed by the time he accepted that she was not coming.

Forcing himself to sound casual, swilling the dregs of his pint round his glass as a prelude to buying another, he remarked, ‘Barmaid’s late tonight.’

‘She doesn’t work on a Sunday,’ Mr Langan informed him.

Niall’s heart dropped. And then he immediately stiffened, the surge of disappointment being quickly overwhelmed by anger that she had lied to him – lied simply to get rid of his unwanted advances. Tossing the last of his drink down his throat, he wished the man a curt good night and left.

5

‘Not going out?’ enquired Nora on Monday evening, when her son-in-law remained in his work clothes for longer than was usual – long after the children were in bed – and sat in preoccupied fashion staring into the fire.

Still deep in thought and brooding over being made a fool of, Niall took a moment to glance up at her and the other women who closely examined him, then shook the frown from his brow. ‘No, I think I’ll have an early night …’

Harriet and Dolly exchanged looks of relief that he was not resorting to alcohol again; though both were to feel concerned that his recent good mood should have relapsed so quickly, as he added in lacklustre voice, ‘I just can’t bring meself to go to bed.’

Nora empathised with his reluctance. ‘Too much room in it, I know. ’Sfunny, when my Dom was alive I was forever bashing and prodding him, trying to grab meself more space, but afterwards …’ Her voice trailed off in a wistful sigh.

His mind somewhere else, Niall picked at the hard skin on his workman’s fingers. ‘Seems a bit daft, me having that double bed all to meself, and the rest of you squashed in together. Why don’t we have a shuffle round, and I share with the boys?’ His suggestion came out of the blue.

Though it choked Nora to say it, she broached a possibility; for if one brother could do it, then so could the other. ‘Well, I didn’t like to suggest it meself. I thought maybe you might decide you want to get married again some day.’

He looked shocked that she might have guessed what had been behind his nocturnal jaunts, and tried to read what was in her eyes whilst delivering adamant rebuttal. ‘No, no, there’ll never be anyone else for me.’ After his humiliation by Boadicea, he had finally decided to be content with his lot. ‘Unless of course I lose my chief cook and bottle-washer,’ came the half-jocular addendum.

His mother-in-law looked gladdened by this show of allegiance, her masculine face and steely grey eyes projecting warmth, as much as they were able. ‘No, I’ll always be here to see you’re fed and watered. I just thought I’d make sure. Wouldn’t want to hold you back … I should have known you better,’ she concluded fondly. Harriet and Dolly too looked pleased about his loyal decision.

‘Well then,’ Nora rubbed her hands thoughtfully, as if intending business, ‘if you’re quite sure, Nye, we will have that shift about tomorrow.’

His soulless nod conveyed certainty. ‘If you wait till I get home I’ll give you a ha—’

‘Nay, just you leave it to us!’ Nora’s tone impressed upon him that she would not dream of this. ‘You work hard enough as it is, me and the lasses’ll organise everything, won’t we?’

‘Well, if you don’t mind—’ began Niall.

‘Mind?’ cried Harriet, springing up to make cups of cocoa and tweaking his cheek playfully in passing. ‘I thought you’d never ask! After twelve years of having our Dolly’s toes stuck in me face, I’ll be up at the crack of dawn to turf you out of bed.’

There was soft laughter then, and discussion over who would sleep where.

Hence, for Niall, it was his last night alone. From then onwards, he would sleep alongside his boys.

For a whole week he managed to stay away from the pub. Yet try as he might, he could not forget Boadicea, nor her lie that had so hurt and insulted him. It niggled at him day after day, demanding an explanation. If nothing else, he would have that.

Staving off any qualm from Nora and her daughters, he convinced them that tonight’s venture was not a regression to his previous drinking habits. ‘But I reckon I should force meself to go out once a week, if only for the sake of sanity – mindst, I could have changed me mind by the time I come in!’ That was certainly true, the outcome dependant on Boadicea’s apology.

It might have been an idea, thought Niall after a catastrophic evening, to grant her the chance to offer one first, before steaming in with a smart comment. The look on her face as he said it…

‘You must have long arms, being able to pull pints when you’re somewhere else.’

It was obvious she had translated the remark, for she had the grace to blush. ‘Oh, yes, Mr Langan said you’d been in …’ Slightly flustered, she picked up a glass and prepared to fulfil his requirement.

‘Get a better offer, did you?’ He did not meet her eye, hoping it was obvious that underneath his stiff exterior he was furious with her.

‘No,’ she said firmly, grasping the ivory handle of the pump. ‘I was at home. I had things to do.’

‘If you didn’t want to go out with me why didn’t you just say?’

‘It’s not that …’ She fought for an explanation. ‘I was just thunderstruck that you’d even ask. I wasn’t expecting it from a married man. I didn’t know what to say.’

Niall’s blue eyes brimmed with indignation. ‘You think I’d ask you out if I was married?’

Her own eyes were cynical. ‘A bachelor has no reason to visit a pub in order to get his newspaper read. Sure, I know a married man looking for a bolthole when I see one.’

‘Oh, so now I’m a liar as well!’ He was grossly insulted.

‘If I’m wrong then I beg your pardon, but either way it proves we don’t really know each other, doesn’t it?’ Ill at ease, she worked the pump, filling the selected glass to a creamy head. ‘I think it’s best if we just keep our conversation for the pub.’

‘Suits me! On second thoughts, don’t bother with that!’ And thus saying he turned his back on the glass she had presented, went directly from the bar, and was to prowl in the darkness for half an hour in the hope of composing himself by the time he got home.

He might have succeeded in pulling the wool over Nora’s eyes. He might even have convinced himself that all was well, as he went on to perform his usual tasks during the ten days that followed. But all was not well, for despite every effort he failed to overcome his obsession with Boadicea. His face might often bear a smile but his heart was a vacuum. And eventually, that inconsolable longing was to drive him back.

That others might suffer because of this decision he was hardly to notice. Coming home that evening, his sole intention to fill his belly before going straight out again to The Angel, he found that the rain that drenched his clothing had also driven his children indoors. Juggy and her friend had set up a ‘house’ in the passage, laying out blankets and pillows for their dolls, talking to them as if they were naughty children. On seeing her adored father, the little girl beamed, and looked set to jump up.

‘Do you want me to come in now, Dad?’ she asked him.

But, intent on one pursuit, Niall was to stride over the obstruction she had created. ‘No, you’re all right to play for a while, love,’ he told her, briefly ruffling her hair before moving straight to the living room, and leaving a crestfallen face in his wake.

Her siblings were to fare no better, their pleasure at seeing him rewarded with a smile of lesser value, the younger ones’ request for a bedtime story receiving short shrift.

‘Oh, I’m a bit tired tonight, lads,’ was all their father murmured abstractedly, as he gulped down his tea. ‘Maybe somebody else’ll oblige.’

‘I’ll read you one,’ a kind-hearted Dominic told his little brothers. But it did not escape his notice that Father seemed not too tired to go out again.

The moment Niall walked into that pub his spirits miraculously soared. However, they were soon to plummet, for the object of his dreams appeared not to have missed him at all. She was chatting to some other man when he went up to the counter, and seemed reluctant to tear herself away, until the landlord prompted from the other end of the bar, ‘Eh, missus, are you going to serve Rockefeller?’

Smirking at Mr Langan’s pun, Boadicea came up to enquire of Niall, ‘The usual, is it?’

No apology, no how are you, even. Cut to the quick by her indifference, he nodded and placed the correct money on the bar. She served him as politely as she would anyone else, then wandered back to her previous conversation partner. Niall carried his pint to a table, pulled out a stool and sat with his back to her, inwardly sobbing with anger and frustration. Before he knew it his glass was empty. Against habit, he took it back to the bar for a refill.

It was the landlord who served him this time, affecting great astonishment. ‘Another? ’Struth! Don’t tell the taxman I’ve doubled me profits.’

Niall gave a sour smile, but accepted the teasing in good part, and, instead of returning to his table he remained at the bar to share a few desultory words with Mr Langan, cheered up slightly by the latter’s humorous ancedotes. Soon, though, the landlord was called away, and with no one to entertain him, Niall took a self-conscious sip of his beer, put down the glass and stared into its depths, his heart aching.

‘I feel a bit responsible.’

He knew it was her but did not glance up. ‘For what?’ he asked dully.

‘Driving you to drink.’

He could have said don’t flatter yourself, in fact he did consider it, but he was not so openly rude, and he liked her too much. Oh God, how he liked her, and how it hurt that she didn’t care for him. And so he said nothing.

‘Do you always sulk when women turn you down?’

He did present his face then.

Taken aback by the intense sadness upon it, she flinched and appeared repentant. Still he did not reply. This was not a man for games. A glint of compassion in her eyes, Boadicea weighed her words carefully. ‘It isn’t that I don’t want to go out with you personally, just that I’ve made it a rule never to go out with customers. If I do it for one I’d have to do it for another.’

Niall continued to stare at her unhappily, feeling no better at learning that she regarded him as just another customer. ‘So why didn’t you just tell me that there and then? I’d rather be told the truth than all that palaver …’

This stung her to irony. ‘Like the palaver you fed me?’

Niall forced himself to remain calm. ‘If you’re on about me being married—’

‘Don’t kid me you’re not.’ She showed disbelief.

‘I used to be, but my wife died.’

‘Aw, God, I’m so sorry!’ Boadicea’s face was momentarily distorted, and she covered her mouth, imagining how difficult it must have been for him. ‘And me accusing you of such indecency! She must have been young … how long is it since ye lost her?’

He was ashamed to say six months, didn’t want to see those sympathetic eyes turn hard and to hear her say you don’t waste your time, do you? Hence his reply was ambiguous and his gaze downcast. ‘Oh … a fair while now.’

‘Still, it’s awful! I hope you’ll accept my apology.’ She formed a quick, sad smile. ‘Sure, I always seem to be apologising, don’t I?’

‘Ah well, no harm done,’ murmured Niall, lifting his eyes to her again.

‘You’re very gracious.’ Even now she remained annoyed with herself. ‘After I treated you like that, not even granting you the chance to say otherwise …’ She shook her head in self-punishment.

Forgiving her everything, Niall took advantage, smiling warmly as he said, ‘Does that mean you’ll reconsider my invitation?’

She looked at first amazed. ‘You still want me to go out with you after that?’ Then, at his keen nod, she became flustered. ‘Well … I would, but you see …’

‘You don’t go out with customers,’ he provided.

‘No, yes, no, what I mean is—’

‘Some might say I deserve to be exempt from that rule, having putting up with such injury.’ How daring that was for him to say!

Her attempts to explain were stilted. ‘’Tis awkward … you don’t really know me…’

But this only gave Niall further encouragement, for it was plain from her expression and the lack of an outright no that she very much wanted to say yes. Now it was he who was the better orator, his tone calm and reasonable and kind. ‘I thought that’s why people went out together, so they can get to know each other.’

‘Sometimes you never really get to know a person.’ In the course of those few moments, despite her apparent attraction towards him, Boadicea seemed to have become inexplicably edgy. ‘Anyhow, what I really meant was, you’ve no idea what you’d be getting yourself into.’

‘I won’t know unless I’m granted the chance.’ From the way she had uttered her latest remark, and her determination to hold him at arm’s length, Niall got the strong impression that she had been hurt by someone; could see a struggle taking place behind that fair visage. He was about to reassure her, but just at that moment a customer slammed his glass on the other end of the counter and bawled for a refill. Apparently relieved at being rescued, Boadicea swiftly excused herself and hurried away.

Niall continued to watch her closely, denouncing his former lack of confidence as he did so, for he saw now that although she did use that smile of hers to great effect on others, her eyes did not behold them in the way they did him. And so, for once undeterred, he was content to bide his time while she rushed about and pretended to be busy. If he had to stand there all night he would have a positive answer.

This he told her after she had been compelled to return to the vicinity, unable to ignore his signal for a top-up. ‘If I have to drink meself to death in order to get your attention then so be it.’ Encouraged that she did not immediately dismiss him, he leaned nearer to her, conscious that he might be overheard, issuing his plea in a low earnest murmur. ‘Just give us a chance. Then if you decide you don’t want to go out with me again I’ll gladly stand aside – well, not gladly, but you know what I mean.’ He wondered if she did know what he meant; if his roundabout bumbling fashion had been sufficient to let her know how he truly felt about her.

Somehow, it must have struck a chord, for she too leaned forward to whisper, ‘Look, Mr Doran, I like you—’

His face and spirits brightened considerably, though his voice was gruff. ‘I like you, an’ all. And me name’s Niall.’

But she sought to temper any excitement her remark may have caused. ‘– so I’m going to tell you something and I’m not sure you’ll feel the same afterwards.’ She waited a second, checked that no one else could hear, then whispered, ‘I’m married.’

Immediately she saw his shocked eyes go to her ring finger. With the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, she rubbed self-consciously at the denuded digit. ‘I took it off when he left me. I don’t know where he is and I don’t care.’

‘I knew you’d been hurt!’ Niall exclaimed.

‘Ssh! Nobody else knows, not even the people I board with.’

‘Why? It’s none of your fault. I’d say he’s the one to blame for running out on you.’ Niall found himself full of hatred for the one who had got there first.

‘I just don’t like people knowing my private affairs,’ whispered Boadicea firmly.

‘Neither do I.’ Still shaken, but pleased to find something that they shared, he confirmed, ‘They won’t hear it from me.’

She smiled and tilted her head in appreciation. ‘But now you can see why I’m not really free to walk out with you or anybody. Much as I’d like to,’ came her sincere addition, her eyes endorsing this as they held his face.

Searching them, he pondered her answer for a while. In fact he was not to say anything else on the matter, for Boadicea was taken from him again. When she returned he had almost finished his pint. Deep in thought, mainly ones of jealousy, he emerged to ask, ‘What will you do if you never see him again?’

She shrugged, took up a cloth and wiped spills from the counter. ‘It’s no loss.’

Niall shook his head. ‘No, I meant it’s not much of a life being on your own.’

Instead of identifying with this statement she exclaimed with a smile, ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Sure, I’m happy enough with the folk in my boarding house.’

He kept his voice low, their conversation interspersed by the sporadic thud of darts into a board and occasional applause. ‘So you’d never contemplate marrying anyone else? I’m not hinting or anything!’ he hastened to add with a laugh. ‘I’m just interested to know, being in a similar position. Even if you were free—’

‘Never,’ she said adamantly. ‘Once bitten and all that.’

Stricken by bitter disappointment, Niall wondered if this showed. ‘Still, it can’t feel good knowing you’re tied to somebody, yet not married in the real sense.’

‘Marriage isn’t for me,’ she said with certainty.

It hadn’t been for him a couple of weeks ago. How swiftly could one’s life change. Desperate, utterly consumed by his need to possess her one way or another, he exclaimed, ‘Tell you what! How about coming out with me just as a friend then? We both know where we stand. I can’t see it’d do any harm and we like each other’s company – least I think we do,’ he ended with an embarrassed laugh.

She hesitated, probing his eyes warily, before replying, ‘I suppose so …’

‘Next week?’ Having rationed himself to one night out per week, it might look suspicious to Nora if he were to start making regular outings again. ‘What day?’ He half expected another excuse.

But no. ‘I’ve got next Monday evening off,’ she told him. ‘In fact every Monday evening from now on ’cause they’re changed my hours.’

Niall’s heart soared in triumph, and though he tried his best to disguise this for fear of scaring her away, his face appeared brighter than she had seen it for weeks. ‘Do you like the pictures?’ At her enthusiastic nod, he began to list the options. ‘There’s Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi at the Rialto – or maybe you prefer Greta Garbo?’

‘No, give me a good fright any day.’ She cocked her head knowingly. ‘I see you’ve already checked to see what’s on. I admire your confidence.’

‘I wasn’t confident at all, just hopeful.’

Her eyes were warm but stern. ‘Remember we’re just friends.’

‘Just friends.’ But his gut was taut with excitement.

‘The Rialto it is then.’

He grinned his delight at the venue so easily being agreed. Then, with a care as to who might see them, he added, ‘Shall I meet you outside? It’ll have to be second house ’cause I’m working away and I sometimes don’t get home while seven.’

‘That’ll be grand,’ smiled Boadicea.

And the deal was struck.

Niall could hardly believe this was happening – would refuse to believe it until she was standing there outside the cinema – and he bade himself not to become overexhilarated. Even so, there were plans to construct. For a start he would need more than his usual pocket money from Nora. Without wanting to explain what the extra amount was for, he took it from his wage packet on Friday before handing it over. The slightest hesitation as she opened it showed that she had noticed the packet had been tampered with, though to his relief she did not remark on it.

Then there was the question of his whereabouts. Having allotted Monday as his night out there would be no trouble getting away, but with two films and a newsreel to watch, he would be out much longer than usual. Whilst he laboured on the railway line, he was to mull over a list of excuses. But why not be truthful? At least half truthful? It wasn’t illegal for a man to go to the pictures on his own and that was what he would let them assume.

Having made that decision, his next concern was what to wear. It bothered him that he could not dress in suit and tie, and he fretted over this as he donned these for Mass on Sunday. But there was much more to bother him that morning, for this was no ordinary Sabbath. Only the most thick-skinned of men would have enquired what ailed the children, who sat all misty-eyed and forlorn in preparation of their trip to church. Where others would offer flowers and prayers of gladness on this, Mothering Sunday, Honor, Dom, Juggy, Batty and Brian would only be reminded of their still raw loss, and Niall’s heart went out to them, knowing how empty was this festival for those without a mother. His eyes pricked with tears when Juggy was the one to articulate her own despair and that of her siblings. ‘I wanted to make one for you, Gran,’ she murmured sadly, as she examined the cards on the sideboard that had been sent by Nora’s daughters, ‘but, ’teacher wouldn’t let me. She said we could only make one for our mothers …’

Everyone looked round as Honor rushed outside. Not knowing what to do, a concerned Niall glanced at Nora, but she shook her head as if to say leave the child be.

Whilst the boys hung their heads, Juggy turned her attention back to the cards. ‘I told her I didn’t have a mam any more – Mary Kelly put her hand up, an’ all – but ’teacher said it wasn’t called Grannying Sunday and those of us who didn’t have a mam could do jobs instead, so I had to bash the chalk out of the blackboard duster.’

‘Stupid bloody woman,’ muttered a tearful Harriet to her mother, as she turned away to put on her hat.

Niall was angry too, but his voice was soft as he bent over to address his little daughter. ‘If you want to make your mam a card,’ he said firmly, ‘then you can. And this afternoon we’ll go on Low Moor and pick her some flowers and lay them where your mam’s put to rest.’

‘Will we see her when she’s had her rest?’ came the hopeful query from Brian.

‘No, son, you won’t.’ Niall shook his head and, straightening, he chucked his youngest with sad affection before turning away.

‘Away now,’ said Nora in a gruff voice that betrayed deep emotion. ‘Let’s get to Mass.’

Whilst the women put last-minute touches to the youngsters’ appearance, Niall wandered outside to where Honor lingered miserably by the front window. A dejected figure in her grammar school uniform and beret, she remained with eyes downcast, so as not to see her friends with their bunches of flowers.

‘It’ll get better,’ he murmured, trying to convey in his manly way that he understood how it felt to lose one’s mother. ‘I know you won’t think so at the moment, but it will. And when it does, you’ll feel guilty for laughing or whatever …’ The face beneath the school beret looked up at him then, giving away a hint that Honor had already experienced this sensation. ‘But you shouldn’t,’ he added quickly, ‘because your mam wants you to be happy. Still … it’s only fitting that you’ll feel sad today.’ He placed a helpful hand to steer her. ‘Come on, you and me’ll set off and let t’others follow.’

As they walked, Honor was quiet for a while, before blurting, ‘I feel guilty about something else, Dad.’

Niall looked down at her, his face kind and quizzical.

‘I can’t tell you what it is. It’s too awful.’ She was obviously racked with conscience. ‘I can’t even tell Father Finnegan at confession, but if I don’t …’ Her face told what would befall her.

Niall was becoming worried, but had to coax this out of her with a gentle squeeze of her shoulder. ‘I can’t think you’ve done anything so bad—’

‘I wished it were Gran who died instead of Mother!’ She hardly dared look at him.

But her father seemed relieved it was not worse. ‘Don’t think too badly of yourself, Honey. Your gran’s old; she’d probably wish exactly the same thing.’

Taught by nuns, Honor remained anxious. ‘But God knows all the secrets of our hearts …’ She saw the look of shock that pulled her father up in his tracks.

Niall recovered his step quickly, but felt totally wretched, for if Honor only knew, his own secret was so much worse. It was one he had to live with, but his child did not. ‘Yes, He can see into your heart and He can tell it’s a good and pure one, and that you didn’t mean it,’ came his words of comfort, he desperately trying to draw comfort from them himself as he assuaged his daughter’s worry. ‘He wouldn’t punish you for wanting to keep your mam alive. I’m sure of it.’ Whether or not God would punish him for imagining Ellen dead, was another matter. Try as he might to allay his child’s fears, to convince her of a merciful Creator, the doctrine that had been impressed upon him both mentally and physically from childhood caused him to fear for his own soul.

However, it seemed to help Honor. Appreciating the firm pressure of his hand on her shoulder in its navy blazer, she did not look up but took reassurance in the love of her one remaining parent, and, leaning into Niall’s steadfast presence, she accompanied him to church.

Despite his having reassured her, all in all, it was a melancholy day for Niall, the trip to the cemetery where his children laid flowers on their mother’s grave overshadowing all thoughts of Boadicea.

Not until he removed his clothes for bed did he allow her to steal into his mind again. Placing the suit on a hanger, and giving it a gentle brush before putting it away and climbing into bed gingerly so as not to wake Brian, he was reminded of his thoughts upon donning it that morning, and before he fell asleep he wondered again if there was any way he could wear it for his date tomorrow night.

Awakening to that same image on Monday morning, he was forced to relinquish it, for there was no way round this. He was desperate to look his best for Boadicea, but that would immediately give the game away. Best clothes on a weekday? Must be going to see a woman! It was with some irony that he recalled a similar phrase directed at his brother. And now he was taking the same furtive path as Sean – not that they were cast from the same mould; no, he wouldn’t have that. Sean’s only reason for deceiving his mother-in-law had been to save his own skin, whereas Niall’s action was to prevent her being hurt. For as much as he had condemned Nora in the past for her tyrannical nagging, she had been so good since Ellen’s death, so compassionate in her handling of him, he could not have expected better treatment from his own mother. How could he hurt her by announcing that he had met someone else? The time would come when he would have to tell her. But not yet, not until there was really something to tell.

Yet despite this professed noble reason, his choice of venue was not without guile. The dark interior of the picture house would help to shroud him, and make it less likely that he be spotted. Imagining himself there beside Boadicea, perhaps with his arm around her to quell her squeals of fright at the horror film, the feelings of anticipation and sexual excitement grew, so that by Monday tea-time he could barely sit still for five minutes – not that he had the luxury for there was less than half an hour before the rendezvous, leaving him little time for ablutions.

To this purpose, unaware that he was being watched, he wolfed down his tea.

‘You’ll give yourself bellyache,’ observed Harriet, turning a page of the evening newspaper. ‘What’s the rush?’

‘I’m off to the flicks.’ He had been dreading this moment of explanation. But apart from the murmur of slight surprise, Nora and her girls seemed pleased about his change of pastime.

‘Well, I hope you weren’t thinking of going to the Rye,’ Harriet chuckled, without looking up from the paper.

Pricked by guilt, Niall hoped she would not comment on his blush. ‘Why’s that?’ he asked, head lowered, still eating.

‘It’s burned down.’

‘What?’ His eyes shot up. ‘When?’

‘Saturday. It’s in here.’ She held up the print for him to see. ‘I was just saying to Mam, that explains all the fire engine racket we heard.’

His fork still poised midway between plate and mouth, his plans so unexpectedly demolished, Niall groaned.

Misreading his dismay, Nora asked, ‘Was it something you really wanted to see?’

‘What?’ He turned vague eyes on his mother-in-law who, with his children lined up before her, was performing her weekly search for nits, roughly positioning each head over a white cloth on her lap before running her comb through it. Breaking away from his thoughts about Boadicea, he set upon his meal again, saying hastily, ‘Oh no … no, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go somewhere else.’

‘There’s a good one on at the Picture House!’ Dolly jumped in eagerly. ‘I wouldn’t mind coming with you.’

Luckily, Niall had researched the programme. ‘That’s one o’ them soppy ones, isn’t it? I don’t really fancy that. I might try George’s instead.’

‘Oh, if it’s that historical thing about the Duke of Wellington you can stick it,’ sniffed Dolly, as he had known she would, and she went back to plaiting Juggy’s hair ready for bed.

‘It won’t go, Dad!’ On his hands and knees, little Brian had been attempting to shove a homemade toy lorry across the square of carpet at the centre of the room, but now hurled it away in frustration.

‘Eh! We’ll have less of that,’ warned Niall. Then, at a show of repentance, ‘It’ll wheel better on lino, son.’ And he indicated the brown linoleum around the edge of the room, to where Brian quickly shuffled.

‘Well, I’d best get ready then.’ Still chewing, Niall clattered his knife and fork onto the empty plate and carried it briskly towards the scullery. ‘Can I just have a wash before you do the pots?’ Nora granting his wish, he climbed over Brian, and pulled the door shut after him.

Ensconced in the tiny scullery, he underwent a quick wipe with a flannel, generally smartening himself up, exchanging his working trousers for less ragged ones, his dusty boots for shoes. But that was the easy part. What the hell would he do about Boadicea now? What if she had heard of the Rialto fire and was in this same dilemma? He had no idea how to let her know, nor where she lived. The only thing for it was to head for the original venue and hope that she had reached the same conclusion.

His mind on this, he emerged from the scullery, again having to avoid Brian.

Hair in neat plaits, and in her nightgown, Juggy came straight to him. ‘Can I have a story, Dad?’

His thoughts interrupted, anxious to be off, Niall glanced down at the elfin face, still forlorn from yesterday, and immediately his glazed expression melted. Grabbing a book from a shelf, he led her to his chair. ‘Away then, sparrowshanks!’ He pulled her onto his lap, where she snuggled in, her head against his chest. ‘But don’t get too comfy, ’cause it’s just a quick’n!’ But this was issued with a hug. Batty came running too, in his striped pyjamas and with happy round cheeks, reminding his father of a character from a comic. ‘Away then, Tiger Tim!’ Niall hauled him onto the other knee, then shouted to the youngest – ‘Put that lorry down, Bri!’ – finally to read them four pages from All the Mowgli Stories, before thoughts of Boadicea were to overrule his good intentions.

After a swift good night kiss to his little ones – for there was now less than ten minutes to get there – he was on his way.

Sunny by day, it might have been, but it was still only April and the nights retained their wintry chill. Without his greatcoat and feeling the nip, Niall huddled into his jacket, his excitement tempered by concern as he travelled brisklythrough the dark, passing from the labyrinth of terraced streets and alleys, under the thick stone archway of Fishergate Bar and its crenellated battlements that were scarred both by time and civil rebellion, past the row of stinking cattle pens that ran directly parallel to these same medieval walls, along Fawcett Street, with its public houses crammed full of drovers from today’s fat-stock market, and on towards Fishergate.

An ominous smell of carbon hung in the air. Approaching the charred hulk of the cinema, he saw that he was not to be alone. A small number of other cinemagoers, unacquainted with the disaster, had turned up to see the film and were standing there in bemusement. To his great relief Boadicea was amongst them.

She did not see him for the moment, her profile slightly hidden behind her fur collar, which she had tugged around her neck and cheeks, but he knew it was her. Relaxing, he eased his pace and made a quick check of his attire before continuing, his lips twitching in fun as he moved up silently behind her.

‘If you didn’t want to go out with me you only had to say, you know. You didn’t have to burn the place down.’

She spun round at his comment, looking as relieved as he was, then giggling heartily at the joke. Then she covered her mouth in guilt. ‘Oh God, you’re terrible! It’s people’s livelihoods – we really shouldn’t be laughing!’ But all the same she expressed further mirth at the ironic concurrence and so did Niall.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d be here.’ He continued to appraise her lovingly, his smiling eyes fixed to hers, which were shining and alert, her cheeks and nose reddened by the keen air. ‘I didn’t find out meself till I got home, and then I realised I’d no idea where you live so I couldn’t let you know.’ Not expecting her to be so forthcoming, he was delighted when she did not hide her address.

‘You know where Dorothy Wilson’s Hospital is on Foss Bridge? Well, between there and the old Malt Shovel in Walmgate you might’ve seen an archway, go down there and you’ll find a Georgian mansion – sounds grand, doesn’t it? Oh, I’m terribly grand!’ She stuck her nose in the air, flicked it haughtily, then laughed at her own quip. ‘No, it’s just a boarding house, dropping to bits really, and we’re right next to a tripe dresser – stinks to high heaven – but the people are awfully nice. What about you? Do you live on Walmgate itself?’

Unlike her, he was imprecise, though not through any reason of concealment. ‘No, I live down one of the streets, down t’other end, near the Bar.’ He hovered self-consciously over what to do next, rubbing his large hands and looking around as if in search of a venue. ‘Well, we can’t hang about here in the cold … where would you like to go now?’

She followed his gaze to the Edinburgh Arms, and gave a cryptic smile. ‘Not in there, for sure.’

‘Aye, it’d be a bit of a busman’s holiday for you, wouldn’t it?’ laughed Niall. ‘Come on then, it’ll only take us ten minutes into town. We can make our minds up when we get there.’

They embarked on a long stretch of pavement that sloped in gentle descent through the darkness towards the floodlit Minster and bar walls, walking independently of each other yet with an air of closeness between them. To their left, merging with the night sky, loomed the tall, smoking chimney of the glassworks, and along the way lurked other sinister intrusions; yet, totally in thrall to his companion, Niall saw none of them, his eyes remaining steadfastly on the lighted path ahead.

As usual it was Boadicea who initiated the conversation, enquiring cheerfully, ‘Well then, Mr Niall Doran, and what have you done today at work?’

Having been struggling to think of a topic, he perked up instantly to tell her. ‘Have you read about the wolf that’s going round eating sheep?’

‘Oh, yes!’

‘Well, I saw him again today.’

Boadicea showed deep interest, sucking in her breath. ‘You’ve seen him before then?’

‘Aye! I was the first to report him – well, me and the rest of the gang!’ Niall hurried to correct the impression that he was bragging. ‘We’ve seen it plenty of times.’

‘Come on then, tell me all about it!’ she urged.

And so he did, this providing enough conversation to take them right the way into town.

Uninformed as to York’s picture theatres, and asked which one she would care to visit, Boadicea plumped for the Electric, simply because it was near to where she lived and, in passing, she had liked the look of it. This caused Niall a moment’s awkwardness. It might look like an ancient Greek palace, with its tall pillars, its huge archway graced with plaster garlands and swags and a theatrical mask, and be guarded by a grandly uniformed commissionaire, but beyond that entrance was a fleapit. However, there was another source to his discomfort as the usherette’s torch showed them to their seats, namely the main film on show, ironically titled The Man With Two Faces

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