Special Smashwords Edition
Morna
by
Mary Kate Brogan
Special Smashwords Edition
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Published by
Melange Books, LLC
White Bear Lake, MN 55110
Morna ~ Copyright 2012 ~ Mary Kate Brogan
ISBN: 978-1-61235-282-4
Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Credits
Copy Editor: Barbara Bradley
Line Editor: Jane Bonander
Format Editor: Nancy Schumacher
Cover Artist: Caroline Andrus
Dedication
For Colleen, Michael T., Michael J.J., Patricia, Gillian, Katherine, Shauna, Maureen and Aeva.
And in memory of my beloved husband, Mike.
Acknowledgments
I wish to thank Dr. Paul V. McGuire for his help in providing medical information.
Morna
by
Mary Kate Brogan
In nineteen-fifties Ireland, Morna Reilly wages war between God and the devil for the love of a man determined to become a priest until a fatal accident rocks the foundation of Catholic Glentown and challenges much of what Morna holds sacred.
About the Author
Mary Kate Brogan grew up in Ireland. She holds a degree in English Literature and visual art from the University of Windsor, Ontario, and taught a college English composition course. She is the author of another short story as well as three novels—two romance and one mainstream. She exhibits oil paintings with an art group, and is presently working on another mainstream novel.
Blog: http://www.marykatebrogan.blogspot.com
* * * *
Other works by Mary Kate Brogan published by Melange
‘The Gift’ in Warm Christmas Wishes Anthology
* * * *
Coming Soon
Her Sister’s Secret
Chapter One
Ireland 1958
I opened my eyes and stared at Mama’s empty bed, at the hollow in the feather mattress, the black rosary curling like a thin snake from beneath the white pillow. I wondered why my heart beat so fast, why today I felt much older than fourteen.
The distant lowing of a cow brought me fully awake. Dishes rattled, and the comforting smell of frying bacon drifted toward me.
“Morna, get up, a ghrá,” Mama called.
A ghrá. My love. If only Máirtín would call me that. “I’m getting up.”
“We have a lot to do before Bridget comes.” Mama sounded anxious. “You’ll have to go to the shop for a few things.”
I stared at the wooden slats of the ceiling. Only when I slept could I forget that Bridget Flaherty had come back to Clonmore from America two days ago, and that three months from now, she’d be living in this house, married to Tom, my brother. No doubt, the things from the shop were for her to eat when she came visiting, this evening.
If only I could talk to someone about what I’d read in that woman’s letters. Letters Tom kept hidden in the top drawer of his dresser beneath his folded shirts.
I slid from the bed and shivered when my bare feet touched the cold linoleum. Cattle lumbered past the house, sending a bucket clanging against the front gate. I slipped on my socks and shoes, and then stared outside. Dew beaded on the pink roses growing along the cement wall and on the mauve hydrangeas on either side of the gate. A film of mist trailed over the black cattle and hid Flanagans’ fields and the distant village of Kinmara. Chestnut, the pony, was no more than a blur.
I pulled my nightdress over my head and accidentally touched my breasts. They were still no bigger than the crab apples in the garden. I touched a finger to a nipple and felt a shiver of sensation. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a grim-faced Saint Anthony staring at me from his place on the wall and I quickly dropped my hand. Another sin to tell in Confession. It’s been two weeks since my last Confession. I’ve had bad thoughts ten times. I touched myself impurely. I couldn’t always remember, so sometimes I had to invent a number.
After I dressed in the old white blouse and grey skirt I wore for working around the house and farm, I combed my hair. I wondered if Máirtín would like me better as a blonde. Still, people said I was pretty with my dark hair and pale skin.
I lifted down my prayer book from the mantelpiece, knelt beside my bed and blessed myself murmuring the Irish words, In ainm an athair, agus an mhic, agus an spioraid naoimh. Amen.
The page with the Morning Offering opened easily and I looked at the photograph of Máirtín I had cut from the June 1958 Irish Independent. The caption read: “Winner of Mathematics Competition for Glentown School.” Because the picture was black and white you couldn’t tell that Máirtín’s eyes were a beautiful blue or his hair the color of wheat. God, he must be the handsomest boy in all of Ireland.
I sighed, then read the prayer:
“O Jesus, through the Immaculate Heart of Mary,
I offer you my prayers, works,
joys and sufferings
of this day for all the intentions
of Your Sacred Heart.”
Then I said three Hail Marys for my father’s repose. If only he were here, he’d put Bridget soundly in her place.
I snapped the prayer book shut, then trudged down the hallway, past the parlor and into the living room.
Wearing a flowered overall to protect her clothes, Mama sat in front of the fire, her broad shoulders hunched, a teacup in her hand. She glanced at me. “Good morning, a ghrá.”
“Morning, Mama.” With her silver hair pulled back in a bun and the map of Ireland etched into her face, Mama looked older than her fifty-nine years. “You look awful worried.”
“Ah, it’s just that I want everything to go all right this evening when Bridget comes.”
The door beside the fireplace creaked open and Tom stepped into the room, his fair hair tousled. He stretched out his arms and yawned. “Don’t forget, I want you to help me with the hay, today, Morna.”
“How could I forget when you never stop pestering me about it?”
When he reached out a hand, I ducked before he could pull my ear.
* * * *
That evening, I watched Mama set out the special china, the delicate cups, saucers and plates with the royal blue stripe, little pink flowers in the middle and a gold rim at the edges. I knew Mama cherished these dishes because they had belonged to her mother.
I straightened the white tablecloth. The currant treacle bread I’d baked yesterday sat in the middle of the table, as well as the Jacob’s Custard Cream Biscuits I bought at Maddens’, the small shop half a mile across the fields.
I tucked my pink cotton blouse into my plaid skirt, clothes I’d helped Aunt Ellen sew on her treadle sewing machine. No doubt, Bridget would wear something fancy and talk with that put-on American accent.
“The turf is wet.” Mama stood in front of the fireplace, watching a feeble flame struggle against clouds of smoke. “Get some dry sods before Bridget comes.” She shook her head. “Isn’t it terrible cold for July?” Mama shook her head. “The Yanks are always cold when they come home to Ireland.”
“People who were born in Ireland aren’t Yanks,” I said. “Anyway, Bridget can freeze to death for all I care.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say about poor Bridget.”
Memories now ached like an open sore. I was six again, walking the two-mile distance home from school. I trailed far behind the fourteen-year-old girls, hoping they would leave me alone. But they waited at the usual spot.
“Let us throw her down,” Bridget would shout. And then, like a rabbit, I’d freeze in place until Bridget sent me tumbling down the hill. Jagged stones cut into my flesh, drawing blood.
Now Bridget planned to do something worse.
“You don’t know what I went through with that stupid woman, pushing me down the hill the way she did.”
“Tch. It’s about time you forgot about all that.” Mama shook her head. “Try to be nice to her, a ghrá. Sure, she didn’t have an easy life before she went to America. ‘Twas hard having a father who drank all their money away. Isn’t she great that she’s come home to take care of her mother?” Mama shook her head. “Sure, and didn’t I have to do the same thing meself when my own mother took sick.”
“If you hadn’t come back from America, you wouldn’t have Tom and me.”
Mama reached out to touch my face. “My own girleen.” She straightened and stared at the smoldering chimney. “Will you get the turf or do I have to go out meself.”
“Tch. All right, I’ll get it.” I hurried outside, breathing air laden with the scent of newly mown hay. I stared down the boreen that stretched from the side of the house toward the gate leading to the village road. No sign of Bridget. Beside the boreen, where the black cattle grazed, a few crows pecked among blades of grass, their raucous cawing shattering the stillness.
Staring at the dismal dark clouds, I imagined things that might stop the wedding. What if Bridget suffered an accident that left her so lame she could hardly walk? Or that might leave her with a scar down one cheek? And a broken nose that would remain crooked. These disfigurements would surely make her undesirable to Tom. Better still, the accident might kill her. I smiled as I imagined Tom staring down at Bridget in her coffin. Another sin to tell in Confession.
The safest and best solution would be that Bridget would return to America and never come back.
Tom strode from the back of the house, dressed in a clean shirt and his Sunday trousers. Bo, our tan and white sheepdog, trotted beside him. Tom glanced down the boreen for a moment, then his eyes full of mischief, advanced toward me. “Let me see if I can swing you around the way I did when you were small.”
“Leave me alone. You can swing Bridget around, instead.”
“Lord, but you’re awful cranky.”
Suddenly, the dog growled, then bounded down the boreen.
Bridget! I felt as if I had swallowed ashes.
“Bo,” Tom called. “Come here, boy.”
Bridget picked her way toward us, stepping carefully as though to avoid the cowpats and stones. The breeze tossed her shoulder length brown hair and swirled the skirt of her blue frock about her long, thin legs. The cattle lifted their heads from the grass and stared at her as though they knew her arrival spelled trouble.
I rushed to the reek of turf by the end of the house. My arms full, I hurried inside. “Mama, Mama. She’s here.” I flung the turf into the wooden box near the fireplace and brushed bits of it from my blouse.
Mama hurried in from the kitchen, her face set in the special smile she wore for visitors. She pulled down the long sleeves of her white silk blouse, and buttoned them at the cuffs. “Get the broom and sweep up them bits of turf from the floor. Quick.” She gathered an armful of sods and shoved them, one by one, into the fire amidst a cloud of acrid smoke and a burst of sparks.
Bridget and Tom stepped inside. Bridget carried a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.
“Hello.” Mama extended a hand toward her. “And welcome.”
I inhaled the flowery scent of Bridget’s perfume. She smiled, and her thin cheeks dimpled, her teeth large and white against her red lipstick. Her eyes were the grey of a stormy sky, her nose long and sharp. She shook Mama’s hand. “How are you, Mrs. Reilly?”
“I’m great,” Mama said. “And how is yourself?”
“Marvelous. I brought you a sweet cake.”
Mama accepted the package. “Oh, thank you very much. Sure, you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”
Just as I had expected, Bridget was putting on airs with that American accent.
“And this is Morna.”
My grip tightened on the broom handle as Bridget looked me up and down, her expression suspiciously close to amusement.
Bridget chuckled. “You’ve grown like a weed since I was home last year.”
I couldn’t tell if she’d complimented me or insulted me by comparing me to a weed. But I reluctantly accepted her handshake and instantly wished the skin on my own hands were soft and white like hers instead of red and scratched, with broken nails.
She moved to the middle of the room and looked around like a queen surveying her realm. Then she stood in the doorway of the back kitchen and peered inside. “Not much in here.”
“Sure, there isn’t,” Mama said. “Just the bucket of water and bags of spuds.” She pointed to the wooden box near the side wall. “That’s where we keep the salted bacon.” She nodded toward the door next to the kitchen. “That bedroom is small and when we get the running water we’ll make it into a bathroom.” She clasped her hands. “Er…the outhouse is out back near the pine trees. Morna will show you if you like.”
Bridget shrugged. “Not right now.”
Mama led the way into the parlor and I perched on the arm of the tan chesterfield.
“Do you like tan?” Mama looked worried.
“I do. I also love green.”
“Mama thinks green is an unlucky color,” I said. “She says green is the favorite color of the fairies and if you have too much of it in the house, they will be jealous and kill your cattle and ruin your crops.
Bridget laughed. “That’s just silly Irish superstition.”
“It is silly,” Tom agreed. “Sure, isn’t the grass green, and the leaves on the trees?”
Bridget smiled. “I once met an Irishman who thought it was unlucky to meet a red-headed woman.” She moved close to Tom. “I guess you never had any luck with a red-headed woman.”
Tom blushed, and I suspected Bridget had made a crack about Kathleen Mannion, whom people thought Tom would marry because he’d escorted her home from a dance a few times.
“The room looks nice.” Bridget traced her fingers along the drop leaf walnut table sitting in front of the window. “This is a nice piece.”
“Let us go back and sit by the fire.” Tom took Bridget’s arm.
In the kitchen, I filled the kettle from the bucket of spring water, and when I returned to hang it on the crane, everyone sat around the fire, engrossed in conversation, their glasses half filled with Bushmills whiskey.
Mama had left a glass of mineral on the table for me. I took it and pulled up a chair to sit close to Mama. I lifted my glass and watched the tiny bubbles rush upward, the ruby color glow in the light from the fire. Then I took a huge gulp and burped.
Bridget raised her eyebrows.
My cheeks burned. “Excuse me.”
Bridget droned on about the various people from Ireland whom she used to visit in New York, and about the presents people gave her at the ladies’ dress shop where she worked as a sales clerk. “They gave me sheets and cutlery, and some fancy under things.” She smiled at Tom, and he flushed a deep pink.
“I’ve been planning to buy cutlery and towels in Galway,” Mama said.
Tom smiled. “Now, you won’t have to.” Then he and Bridget exchanged glances.
I glanced at Tom. Maybe he wasn’t going to let Bridget evict Mama and me after all. Still, I wanted to be sure. I knew now I’d have to risk his displeasure and tell him, as soon as possible, what I had read in his love letters.
“Is your mother any better at all, Bridget?” Mama asked.
Bridget shook her head. “No. She seems to be getting worse. Last night, she got up out of bed and went outside in her nightdress and bare feet. I found her half way down the road. The doctor said it’s Alzheimer’s and that she’d be safer in a nursing home.”
Mama sighed. “Ah, the poor creature. She’s very lucky she has you. I suppose your father could never take care of her.”
“He couldn’t. Sometimes, she hardly knows me.”
Tom placed an arm across Bridget’s shoulders.
I pressed my lips tightly together. Bridget was just pretending to be kind in order to impress Tom.
“I suppose you’d rather be living in America,” Mama said.
Bridget nodded. “I would, but I have no choice.”
I remembered hearing Bridget tell Tom last year that she hoped he’d move to America with her, someday. Oh, God, it would be terrible if Mrs. Flaherty died and Tom moved to America.
The lid of the kettle rattled, and I went to get a rag so I could lift it from the crane. When I had served the others ham sandwiches and cake I returned to my chair.
Suddenly Bridget shrieked and sprang to her feet, her cup, saucer and plate sliding from her lap, crashing to the floor. “A mouse! It ran right under my chair.”
I clamped a hand over my mouth at the sight of Mama’s precious china in smithereens.
Mama stood, her eyes wide, her face flushed. “Lord save us, Tom! Didn’t you say you caught that mouse?”
“I did, but there must’ve been more than one.”
Mama began to pick up the bits of china.
“For God’s sake, sit down, Mam.” Tom grabbed the broom from the corner and swept the rest of the broken china into the ash pit while Mama stared at the fragments in her hand. He glanced at Bridget, who had her hands pressed to her cheeks. “Why would you be so frightened of an auld mouse, for God’s sake?”
“I’m really sorry,” Bridget said. “I’ll replace the dishes.”
Mama shook her head. “They’re old and you can’t get that pattern anymore. But sure, it makes no difference.”
“Mama really loves those dishes,” I said, my voice rising to a near shriek. “They belonged to her mother, and now there’s only five settings left.”
Mama stared at me. “Sure, don’t you know Bridget didn’t break them on purpose?
Tom glared at me. Then, he moved his chair so close to Bridget’s their shoulders touched.
Chapter Two
The following day, Mama sent me into Glentown to buy lamb chops for dinner and mail a letter to Aunt Katherine in America. I clutched my shopping bag and looked down the length of the town’s paved main street, past the pastel pebbledash houses and shops where red geraniums blazed in window boxes. To my right, Guard Brannigan stood in the doorway of the garda barracks, a one-story grey concrete building. Brownish globs of horse manure lay strewn along the street, its stench lying heavy on the air. A few of the town’s children sat on Haffertys’ steps, playing a game with marbles.
Máirtín hurried down the footpath toward his house. Seán Mulligan’s rough voice thundered through the square, which was situated to the right, its back end bordered with shops.
“Hey, Máirtín, catch.”
“Yeah, Marty boy, you can do it,” Bosco Ryan yelled.
“What’s the matter, are you deaf?” Seán shouted. “I said catch.”
Máirtín glanced sideways as the ball zoomed through the air. I cringed when it smashed into his forehead. Máirtín stumbled and fell.
I raced down the street and reached him as he scrambled to his feet. In the square, the boys shrieked with laughter.
“Máirtín! Are you all right?” I asked. A bruise had already formed in the sensitive area near his eye, and blood streaked down his cheek, bright crimson against the fairness of his skin.
“Kiss it and make it better,” Mike shouted.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Morna, sure, I’m all right,” Máirtín said.
I wanted to reach out and push a strand of blond hair from his face, but knew he wouldn’t want me to touch him with the other fellows watching.
I loved Máirtín, loved the way he helped me with my sums, the way he’d sympathize with me after Seán pulled my hair. I’d never forget his kindness in walking home from school with me one day during a storm because he knew thunder and lightning terrified me. Unlike most of the other boys in school, he was polite and never swore. Standing inside the altar rails at Mass in the white surplice he wore as an altar boy, with the light turning his hair to gold, he looked like an angel.
He removed a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed at the bruise, then stared at the splash of red on the cloth. “No fellow could fight all three of them together.”
“’Tis true for you.” I had never known him to fight anyone. In any case, he could never best a devil like Seán Mulligan.
He threw back his shoulders. “Anyway, it’s nothing. Just a scratch. See you later, Morna.” He broke into a run and headed toward home. I watched him a moment, then crossed the road and stood at the edge of the square.
Bosco ran to retrieve the ball, then threw it to Seán, who looked me up and down.
Seán came to stand, spread-legged, before me. I’d been cool to him since the day last winter when he’d driven past in a donkey-cart, and pitched a forkful of manure onto the icy slide Fiona and I had made near the crossroads.
He was the worst ruffian in Ireland. Probably worse than any Protestant in the North. Imagine swearing at your teachers and never doing homework. Always being sent home for picking fights with the other boys, for pulling girls’ hair and shoving frogs in their faces. I heard people say Mr. Mulligan, the town tailor, asked Father Finnegan to talk his son into becoming an altar boy in the hope it would hunt the devil out of him.
Aunt Ellen said Mrs. Mulligan told everyone he was a scoundrel, that serving on the altar hadn’t done him one bit of good. People said the reason he had turned out so bad was because his real mother died when he was born, and his father had found him a wicked stepmother.
He tossed the ball high and caught it before sauntering back to me. The stench of sweat and nicotine hung in the air. “You are the rottenest, most evil person in the world, Seán Mulligan. I hate you. I wish I could throw that ball and blacken your eye. I wish that your head would fall off.”
The boys shrieked with laughter. Seán pushed the ball toward me. “Here, see if you can blacken my eye. See if you can knock my head off.”
“I would love to, you amadán, you eejit. I’m not afraid of you, you big stupid bully.” I wouldn’t dare hit him, for he was three years older, and bigger and stronger so I turned and strode toward the post office, followed by a chorus of wolf whistles.
I pushed in the heavy oak door and stepped onto the cement floor. Kathleen Mannion sat behind the counter, sorting through a stack of forms. The sun shining through the window set her curls afire so that they formed a red nimbus around her face.
I handed her Mama’s letter. “This is going to America.”
“How are you getting along?” Kathleen asked, opening the stamp drawer.
“Oh, all right.” I shrugged. I couldn’t relate my worries about Bridget or say I wished the woman would tumble off the Cliffs of Moher. If Kathleen told anyone, the whole town would be talking and Tom would be embarrassed.
“That Seán Mulligan has put me in bad form,” I said. When I told what he’d done to Máirtín, Kathleen shook her head.
“Tch. Terrible.” She smiled. “But sure, maybe he didn’t intend hitting Máirtín with the ball.” She attached the stamp to the envelope.
I sighed. I might have known Kathleen would defend Seán, for she pitied him because of his stepmother’s unkindness.
“How are your mother and Tom?” Kathleen asked.
“Great.” There was no sense in telling her that Tom and Bridget planned to shop in Galway within the next few days for towels and sheets and to see The Importance of Being Earnest at the Abbey Theatre. Because I suspected Kathleen still loved Tom.
* * * *
That evening, after I milked the cows and baked a cake of soda bread, I sat against a cock of hay with my art pad and colored pencils. Since Bridget had taken Tom for a ride to the lake in her brother’s car, he wouldn’t be pestering me to help with the haymaking.
I began sketching a picture of the oak growing a short distance away and mused about the way my teachers praised my drawing, encouraging me to study painting when I finished secondary school. By then, they reasoned, I’d be employed as a shorthand typist and could afford the tuition.
Ever since I’d seen an outdoor art exhibition in Galway last summer, I imagined myself in one of those booths surrounded by my own paintings. Oh, how I would love to know how to paint in oils. I’d create landscapes, pink roses, green apples in a bowl. Portraits.
But my most compelling daydream was to be a famous artist living in America and married to Máirtín Tobin. I imagined his eyes glowing with pride when he stood beside me at my first exhibition.
* * * *
A car spluttered and choked to a stop outside the gate, tainting the air with the smell of exhaust. I peeked around the haycock and saw Tom and Bridget though the car window, kissing.
I drew back. Sorrow rose within me. I thought of what Bridget had written in a letter to Tom: Do you think there will be enough room in the house for all of us? Maybe your mother and sister could move in with your Aunt Ellen.
The car door slammed, the motor roared and the sound receded and faded away.
Tom strode toward the house, whistling If I were a blackbird.
I sprang to my feet and hurried after him. Tom!”
He swung around. “What?”
My hands shook. “I hope you’re not going to let Bridget hunt Mama and me out of the house when ye get married.” I’d carried this worry around so long I felt as if I’d flung a bag of turf from my shoulders. But the ache from the load remained.
Tom’s face paled. “Where did you get that idea?”
“I read it in a letter you got from Bridget.”
He clenched his fists, making the muscles in his arms bulge. “You had no right to read my letters.” He advanced toward me and I stepped back, ready to run if he touched me.
I stared at him. “I want you to tell me you won’t change your mind and let her throw us out. Well, answer me. Are you going to make Mama and me leave?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them they glistened. “Did you tell that to Mama?”
“I didn’t, because with her high blood pressure an’ all, it might kill her.” My voice trembled. “I’d like to live with Aunt Ellen since I don’t want to be in the same house as that Bridget. But I know Mama won’t want to leave her home, and I’m not going anywhere without Mama.”
No one’s asking ye to go anywhere,” he said. Then, he turned and strode away.
Chapter Three
On Monday, beneath an overcast sky, Mama and I set off down the road on our way to Glentown. Mama carried a black canvas shopping bag in one hand and shoved the other inside the pocket of her navy blue raincoat. Excitement rushed through me at the prospect of seeing Máirtín. I hadn’t seen him yesterday, in spite of waiting outside the church after Mass. Father Finnegan had probably kept him back to tidy up the sacristy.
Mama said that when we were in town we’d buy the lovely blue cotton fabric I had admired in Joyce’s Drapery so that Aunt Ellen would have my frock made in time for Tom and Bridget’s wedding.
I sighed. It seemed that neither God nor St. Anthony planned to answer my prayers to stop the marriage, for I’d seen the two of them kissing down by the outer buildings. Outside the iron gate, moss covered stones on top of the walls running along either side of the village road. I stopped to pick a ripe blackberry, examining it carefully for worms before I bit into it. The scent of hay and wildflowers hung in the damp air. Within the grass growing along the walls, buttercups, daisies, shamrock and foxgloves fought for survival alongside sharp nettles.
Connolly’s black and white sheep dog trotted along the road, his tongue hanging out like a flag, his tail in the air.
“Clipper,” I called. “You look awful happy, you bad dog.” I’d heard the Connollys complain that Clipper often stayed out all night running after bitches.
“Indeed he’d be paying his usual visit to McLaughlins’ dogeen,” Mama said.
I glanced toward the door of McLaughlins’ thatched cottage, but there was no sign of my special friend, Fiona, with whom I shared confidences. Instead, Fiona’s brother, Eamon, a lanky fellow with brown hair, stood waving from the doorway.
“Amadán,” I muttered under my breath. He was an idiot, all right, for blathering to the whole countryside that he’d seen Bridget and Tom lying together near the lake.
“Eamon said that Bridget had her knickers off,” Fiona had confided. “And Tom was putting his thing into her. He’ll have to marry her now because no other fella will want her.”
At the crossroads, another school chum, Delia Feeney, waved from the doorway of Burke’s white pebbledash house. I waved back. Poor Delia. She always looked so sad. But then, who wouldn’t be sad when the girls at school called you a bastard because your mother wasn’t married when you were born?
I glanced toward the field across from Burkes’ where a travelling film company had set up a large tent.
“I hear they’re showing Separate Tables with Deborah Kerr, Rita Hayworth and Burt Lancaster,” I said. “They’re only going to be here another week. Could we go see it before they leave, Mama?”
“Sure, maybe we can if it isn’t raining.”
When they reached the town, Mama stared at the sky where black clouds converged like cattle before a storm. “Lord save us, we forgot the umbrellas. But maybe we can borrow one from Aunt Ellen. Go to Haffertys’,” she said, a little out of breath. She pushed money, a list and the shopping bag into my hand. “I’ll meet you later at Aunt Ellen’s. Don’t forget I have to go to the doctor for my blood pressure tablets after I buy the material for your frock.”
I began to worry. Mama’s face had turned pale. “Mama, are you feeling all right?”
“Just a bit tired, a ghrá, but I’ll be all right when I have a cup of tea at Aunt Ellen’s. I’ll be goin’ now.”
Unable to shake my feeling of unease, I watched Mama trudge down the footpath, shoulders slumped. Then, I told myself not to worry since the doctor would see Mama soon.
After I’d gathered everything on Mama’s list, I sat on the steps of the old town pump that was situated near the wall of Haffertys’ shop and took a bite of the chocolate bar I’d bought. I had two more in the shopping bag, one for Mama and one for Tom. Seán Mulligan and Bosco Ryan trudged across the square toward me, their leather boots pounding the cement. They stopped and stared at me.
I licked chocolate from my lips.
With a grin, Bosco settled his cap more firmly on his thatch of red hair and continued down the street toward his parents’ pub, which was located at the front of their home.
“Come on, give us a piece.” Seán dug his hands into the trouser pockets of his rumpled suit. His tweed cap sat an angle. He looked at the chocolate, dark eyes narrowing.
“Why don’t you buy your own?”
“I can’t. I haven’t any money.”
Afraid he’d pull my hair as he often did, I broke off a section and shoved it toward him.
He popped the chocolate into his mouth, then squeezed past me and climbed the pump steps. The handle creaked and groaned as he levered it up and down for a drink of cool water.
When the last of the delicious chocolate slid down my throat, I crumpled the wrapper and stood.
“Where are you going now?” Seán wiped a hand across his mouth.
“I don’t think it’s any of your business.” I lifted the shopping bag.
“No doubt to see your boyfriend, Máirtín.” He gave a harsh laugh.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Well, he won’t be much longer, anyway.” With a smirk, he pushed his cap back on his head. “Did you hear the news about him?”
I shifted the shopping bag to my other hand and stared at him. “What news?”
“He’s going to be a priest.” His dark eyes gleamed as though with satisfaction.
“What?” The shopping bag began to slip, but I caught it in time. “You’re coddin.’”
He threw back his head and laughed. “You’ll soon find out I’m not coddin’. His auld lady told my stepmother she’s almost certain he’s got the vocation.” He ended on a high note as if trying to imitate Mrs. Tobin.
I struggled to catch my breath. “Máirtín wants to be a teacher.”
“Sure, can’t he be a priest as well as a teacher? Me father said the teachers in that school he’ll be going to in September will rein him in soon enough.”
I stared at the sky. Dear God, please don’t let it be true. How could I live without Máirtín? And then I caught myself. Father Finnegan always asked his parishioners to pray for vocations and I had just done the opposite. Another sin to tell in Confession.
“Ah, cheer up. ‘Tisn’t the end of the world.” Seán reached out and grabbed a strand of my hair, filling the air between us with the stale smell of cigarettes. I cried out in anticipation of pain. Then, I watched the strange look that came into his eyes before he dropped his hand. He turned away. “I have to go home and sweep the floor of the bloody shop.” He waited until a man driving a horse and cart went by and then crossed the road, ambling across the square toward the tailoring shop, next to his home.
I hurried down the street, the shopping bag bumping against my leg. The sound of men’s laughter and the smell of tobacco and alcohol drifted from the open doorway of Ryans’ pub. I reached Tobins’, out of breath. Máirtín’s mother stood in the front garden watering a bed of red roses. Her blonde hair was tightly curled and she wore a pink frock.
She straightened, holding the watering can at her side. “Well, Morna. And how are things in the country?”
“Great.” I shifted my weight. “Is Máirtín in?”
Mrs. Tobin stared until I looked down. “No, he isn’t,” she said, her tone clipped. “He’s down visiting Dr. Dempsey’s boys.”
More than ever, I was convinced this woman didn’t want me associating with her son.
“It’s not just you,” Fiona had said. “She doesn’t think there’s a girl in the whole world that’s good enough for him.”
I backed away. “Well, I’m going to meet my mother at Aunt Ellen’s.” I’d have to pass the doctor’s house to get there, so maybe I’d see Máirtín after all.
“I saw your aunt getting on the bus to Galway. The bus won’t be back till five.” With a stiff back, the woman turned and entered her house. I stared at the closed door. What a snooty woman, thinking she was better than everyone else. She was nowhere as good as Mama.
Just then, I saw Mama, her head bent and her shoulders slumped as though with exhaustion, trudging down the road, carrying a parcel. I hurried to meet her, took the parcel and put it into the shopping bag.
“That’s the material for your frock,” Mama said.
“Didn’t you get your own material?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t have enough money, but I’ll get it in time. Aunt Ellen wasn’t home.” She placed a hand on her forehead and took a deep breath. “I wonder where she is.”
“She went to Galway. Mrs. Tobin told me.” I stared at her, worried that she seemed breathless and distracted. “Mama, are you all right?”
“Ah, yes, just tired. I would’ve liked a cup of tea. Well, let us make haste before we get caught in the rain.”
Outside the town, I lagged behind, my mind on Máirtín. I’d be daft to believe anything that devil, Seán Mulligan, told me. Yet, in spite of my efforts to reassure myself, I couldn’t help but worry. I knew Father Finnegan was a frequent visitor at Tobins’. It was quite possible he went there to talk Máirtín into becoming a priest.
I found wild strawberries in the ditch, popped one into my mouth, then spat it out because it was sour. “Mama,” I called. “I bought you a chocolate bar.”
“Good girl.”
“Do you want to eat it now?”
“Ah no, a ghrá. I’ll wait till we get home.”
Mama stopped by the crossroads and put a hand to her chest.
I hurried to catch up with her as the first drops of rain fell. I let out a cry when Mama slumped back against the ditch.
“Mama, what’s wrong?” I dropped the shopping bag and placed my hands on her shoulders.
“Oh, a terrible pain.” Mama’s eyes were screwed tight, and her lips moved as if in prayer.
I glanced from left to right to see if a cart or a car might be coming so we could get a lift back to the doctor, but the road was deserted.
“Help me get up.” Mama leaned on my shoulder and struggled to her feet.
I grabbed the shopping bag. A car passed on the way to the town. “Will I signal that car for a lift back to the doctor?”
“Ah no, a ghrá. I’m all right now.” But when we crossed the road, she gasped. “I’ll sit here a minute. She lay back against the ditch, beside a small pump. She placed a hand on her head. “My head is sore, too.”
I set down the shopping bag. “Do you have a handkerchief?”
“In my pocket.”
The pump handle was stiff as I levered it up and down. When water finally trickled out, I wet the handkerchief and applied it to Mama’s forehead. Fear rippled through me when I noticed the purplish color of Mama’s face.
“Say a Hail Mary,” Mama murmured.
“I will, Mama. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…” A lump formed in my throat. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…” I finished the prayer. “Mama, shouldn’t we go back to the doctor?”
“No, no, I don’t want to go back.” Mama began praying the Hail Mary in Irish:
“Sé do bheatha, a Mhuire, atá lán de ghrásta,Tá an Tiarna leat. Is beannaithe thú idir mná…”
The words trailed off, and I stroked my mother’s face. Her skin felt cool. I knew Dr. Dempsey’s loud voice frightened Mama. People said he had such a bad temper he wasn’t even fit to treat animals. “Do you want to take a tablet now?”
“No… I… took one already. Help me up.”
I blinked misty rain from my eyes and helped Mama struggle to her feet. “Just a little way now and we’ll be home.” When we reached McLaughlins, I wanted to go in but Mama shook her head. “No, I’m all right now.”
I exhaled in relief when I saw Pat Flaherty’s car parked near the gate to the farm. That meant Tom would be home. Inside the gate, Mama collapsed by the stone wall, almost dragging me down with her.
“Oh, Mama…” I picked up her rain-splattered glasses from the ground and slid them onto her face. The wrinkles in Mama’so forehead and around her eyes seemed deeper than before. Her legs were splayed in front of her, and her frock and coat were pushed up to reveal the white flesh above her stockings. I tried to pull down her clothes but they were wedged beneath her hips. The rain pelted down, and splashed onto her glasses and face.
“Get Tom.” Mama’s voice was weak.
“I will,” I whimpered, “but first let me cover you a bit so you won’t get too wet.” With trembling fingers, I opened the wrapped package and covered Mama with the blue material. “I’ll be right back.”
I raced down the boreen and tripped over a stone, crashing to the ground. My knees scraped and stinging, I sprung to my feet. Tears stung my eyes.
“Tom! Tom!” I barged into the house. The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece was thunder in the silence. A few dead coals peeked through white ashes in the fireplace. Tom’s bedroom was empty.
I hurried outside, my mouth dry as ashes. Last night, Tom had said he planned to cart hay into the big garden, behind the outer buildings. My chest felt ready to explode. I rushed across the yard to the opening in the wall. “Tom! Tom!”
He stood behind the huge haystack, brushing hay from his trousers. Bridget stood beside him, her frock rumpled, tufts of hay protruding from her hair. They weren’t wet, so they must have been burrowed deep within the hay.
“What’s wrong, Morna?” Brow furrowed, Tom hurried toward me.
“It’s Mama. Come quick.”
His eyes widened. “God Almighty! What happened?”
“I think she’s… she’s… she might be… Oh, hurry, Tom. She’s down by the gate.”
He broke into a run, and I raced to keep up with him. Bo, who had suddenly appeared, bounded ahead.
Mama still lay by the gate. Bo whined and sniffed at her face. Tom pushed back the soaked blue cloth, and stared down at Mama. Her mouth was open, her breathing heavy and labored.
“Mama.” He knelt beside her. “Mama. Can you hear me?”
Mama’s only answer was her loud breathing.
“Oh, Mama…” Tom stood and lifted her into his arms.
Bridget hurried toward us.
“Go for the doctor, Bridget,” Tom said. “Hurry.” His eyes looked wild.
“I have to go back to your house for the car keys.”
“Damn it, will you hurry?”
Bridget raced back to the house, and I held my hand over Mama’s face to shield it from the rain.
* * * *
I was kneeling by Mama’s bed reciting the rosary with Tom when Bo’s loud barking startled me. A car pulled up, and before Tom and I could reach the front door, Dr. Dempsey stood in the hallway clutching his black leather bag.
“Where is she?” he yelled. His face was red, and the smell of alcohol and cigarettes clung to him.
Tom motioned for me to wait in the living room, then ushered the doctor into the bedroom. I was only dimly aware of the wind moaning around the house, and the rain lashing the windowpanes. The fire had turned to ashes, and the turf box was empty except for an old newspaper. Since my raincoat was in the bedroom, I went outside with no protection from the teeming rain. I met Bridget getting out of her brother’s car and, ignoring her, hurried toward the reek of turf.
“What did the doctor say?” Bridget wanted to know.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
When I went inside, Bridget stood staring into the empty grate. I placed the sods around the bits of red coals I found beneath the ashes, then shoved in some scrunched up newspaper. Smoke curled upward and the coals hissed beneath the rain dropping down the chimney. The paper caught fire, but the flame lasted only an instant before it turned to smoke.
“Let me try.” Bridget reached for the tongs.
I glared at her, flung the tongs to the floor and went to stare out the window.
A good fifteen minutes passed, with the doctor silent behind the closed bedroom door and only the patter of rain on the window and the ticking of the clock behind the crystal face, on the mantelpiece, to remind me I still lived.
The bedroom door opened. Tom let Dr. Dempsey out and the wind and rain rushed in. I trembled at the sight of Tom’s expression.
Chapter Four
Dr. Dempsey muttered to Tom, and I caught the name, “Kelly.”
At the mention of the undertaker, the bones in my knees seemed to dissolve. I stumbled into the hallway. “Tom?”
“I’ll stop at McLaughlins’ and tell them too,” the doctor said, and then Tom closed the door behind him.
My teeth clattered.
“Mama’s gone to Heaven,” Tom said, his voice cracking.
In a daze, I followed him into our mother’s room. Mama lay on her back, the way we had left her, arms folded over the blankets, looking as if she slept.
Tom stood by the far side of the bed and gently smoothed her hair from her face. “Dr. Dempsey is going to send the priest to pray for her.” He bent and kissed her cheek.
I placed my arms around Mama’s shoulders and pressed my lips to her face, feeling the coldness of her skin. I watched tears stream down Tom’s flushed face, then my shoulders shook as I gave vent to my own tears. Tom knelt by the bed and I joined him in reciting an Our Father and three Hail Marys in Irish. I’d never seen Tom cry before.
Surely, this was one of those nightmares from which I awakened when it reached the point of unbearable pain. Soon, I’d sit by the fire with Mama, relieved and reassured.
Bridget stood frozen in the bedroom doorway, hands over her mouth, eyes wide and round.
“Drive to the town and get Aunt Ellen,” Tom told her.
* * * *
At midnight, after the McLaughlins left, I stood beside Tom near the front door waiting for Aunt Ellen to leave. With her silver hair and long, thin face, I saw my aunt as the image of my father, her brother. What a tragedy that as a six-year-old, a fall from a cart had left my poor aunt lame and all because a doctor hadn’t properly set the bone. Yet, I had never heard her complain of her handicap.
“I’ll be here in the morning to help, a ghrá,” Aunt Ellen said. Leaning on her walking stick, she limped down the pathway, where Bridget waited to drive her home.
I sat by the fireplace, across from Tom, staring into the flames. My eyes sore from crying, and my head ached. I remembered the times I’d complained when Mama asked me to fetch water from the well or bring in turf or put out the ashes. If only Mama were alive, I’d cheerfully do anything for her.
The rain had changed to drizzle, but the wind still rattled the windowpanes. Bo, who usually slept by the fire, lay pressed against the far wall. Every once in a while, he raised his head from his paws and emitted a banshee howl as he gazed toward the hallway.
Tom finally shouted at him to stop.
“I think he knows,” I said. “Come here, Bo.”
Panting, the dog placed his two front paws on my lap. His fur glistened with rain, and he smelled of manure. “Down.” I pushed him gently to the floor. He laid his head on my lap and I petted him.
“We should go to bed,” Tom said. “We have a lot to do tomorrow.”
From the press built into the wall, beside the fireplace, I removed a sheet, a pillow and a flowered eiderdown. In the hallway, I glanced toward the closed door of the bedroom I had shared with Mama. Shivering, I entered the dark parlor. I’d have to light a candle because the light bulb was burned out. I laid the bedclothes on the sofa and groped along the mantelpiece until I found one of the brass candlesticks Mama had brought home from America. I turned my back to the lighted candle, and my shadow slanted across the wall. My nightdress sat in a drawer in the room in which my mother lay, and I was afraid to go in and get it. I would have to sleep in my petticoat and undershirt.
Lying on the chesterfield, I pulled the eiderdown over me. I was saying my prayers when the bedroom door creaked open. I went rigid with fear until I saw Tom standing there. He walked to the window and looked outside.
“It’s still raining, but not as hard.” He stared at the candle flame, his eyes a mirror of grief and helplessness. Finally, he said, “I’m going to bring the mattress from my bed in here for the night so you won’t be alone.” He left the room, and in a moment I heard the mattress dragging across the living-room floor.
After he made up his bed, he stared into the darkened hallway before he closed the bedroom door firmly and lay down.
When the first light of dawn stole through the lace curtains, I couldn’t recall having slept.
* * * *
That day, the village women brought food. Plates of sliced chicken, treacle and brown bread, raisin buns, fruit cake and butter, sat on the table, waiting for those who would come for Mama’s wake.
I sat by the fire while Mrs. Connolly and Mrs. Noonan prepared Mama. In the kitchen, Mrs. Connolly, a heavyset woman who had gone to school with Mama, washed bed linen and clothes in a galvanized tub, then I hung them outside on the line.
Later, when I entered the room, Mama lay in bed, dressed in the traditional brown St. Anthony’s habit, her black rosary wound around her fingers. On the washstand, a blessed candle glowed in the other brass candlestick she had brought from America.
“I removed her wedding ring and left it for you, Morna.” Mrs. McLaughlin, Fiona’s mother, nodded toward the washstand. “It’s in that little drawer. Put it away somewhere safe until the day you get married.”
I walked outside and stood by the garden gate. Nearby, a few men chatted and drank bottles of stout. My breath caught when I saw Máirtín cycle down the boreen, his head bent toward the ground as he pedaled. Even on a sunless day such as this, his blond hair shone like a halo. If anyone could lessen my pain it would be Máirtín, yet I couldn’t imagine the ache ever leaving. As I strolled toward him, he dismounted and set the bike against the stone wall. The color of the bruise near his eye had changed to purple, with a small scab in the middle.
“My mother couldn’t come,” he said, “but she’ll be at the church.” He ran a hand through his hair. “She doesn’t know I’ve come here, so I won’t be staying long. My father’s gone to Galway for a meeting with some of his fellow solicitors.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about your mother. What happened to her?”
“She had a heart attack.” My voice trembled. “I can’t believe I don’t have a mother anymore.”
He looked toward the sky. “Well, anyway, she’s happy in heaven now.”
That’s what everyone said, but I wanted proof. If only Mama would appear to me or give me a sign, I might be consoled. “Could we go for a short walk? I feel so nervous.”
He hesitated a moment before following me toward the old cottage situated to the left of the outer buildings. It looked more lonely and forlorn than ever, with the brown bog stretching behind it. The thatch had fallen completely away to reveal the galvanized roof beneath, and grey stains like tears streaked down the dirty, whitewashed walls.
At the age of five, I thought the point where the bog blended with the sky marked the end of the world, but now I knew great places such as America existed beyond that horizon.
“What’s that place?” Máirtín pointed to the cottage.
“You remember that house. That’s where we lived until ten years ago before my father and brother built our present house. We use it now for storing grain and things.”
“Oh, I remember. I was only four when your new house was built. Funny to think of you having lived in a place like that.”
My cheeks burned at the thought that he might be unfavorably comparing my family with his. Surely, my people were every bit as good as his. At the thought of Mama’s sweet smile, a knot of emotion wedged itself into my chest. Mrs. Tobin was nowhere as nice as Mama. I closed my eyes.
“Are you all right?” Máirtín asked.
I nodded. Beneath the warmth of his smile, my misgivings melted, and I told myself that the trauma of losing my mother had made me overly sensitive. I plucked a daisy from the grass and began to pull off the leaves. “Is it true you’re going to be a priest?”
Suspended between hope and uncertainty, I watched Máirtín glance toward the slate-grey sky as if he thought the answer might be written there.
“Father Finnegan and my mother want me to be a priest.”
“But what do you want?”
“Father Finnegan suggested I pray for a vocation.” He stared at me, and the droop of his shoulders seemed to carry the weight of his indecision and the pressure his mother and Father Finnegan exerted on him. “So that’s what I’ve been doing. One of these days, I’ll know.”
A tenuous hope nudged into my heart. If he were meant for the priesthood, wouldn’t he already know?
We retraced our steps and arrived at the house to find it overflowing with people. Each person shook my hand and said, “Sorry for your trouble.” But instead of soothing my pain, every expression of condolence, every sorrowful glance twisted my insides, driving deeper the terrible reality of Mama’s death.
I felt a tug on my elbow and saw my friend, Fiona, a pink beret sitting atop her auburn hair. In spite of her profusion of freckles, Fiona looked pale.
“I can’t believe it.” Fiona sniffed. “Your mother was always so good to me, giving me apples from your garden and things, and getting your Aunt Ellen to make clothes for me. I’m really going to miss her.”
Tears sprung to my eyes. “I can’t believe I don’t have a mother anymore.”
“Sure your mother’s spirit is here. She’d never leave you alone.”
I noticed Delia Feeney squeezing through the crowd, her face and fair hair made paler by her black beret. She wore her usual frightened expression, as though she feared someone might hit her. “Hello, Delia.”
“I’m sorry for your trouble, Morna,” Delia said, the words barely above a whisper.
I nodded. Máirtín emerged from Mama’s room, where he’d gone to say a prayer. Realizing he was about to leave, I took a step toward him to say goodbye. Before I could reach him, Mr. Kelly’s van pulled up in front of the house. My stomach clenched when Mr. McLaughlin and the undertaker lifted an unvarnished pine coffin from the back. Tom, his face ashen, gripped my arm and drew me into the living room.
The women converged around me, enclosing me as within a cage, their bodies exuding warmth, their eyes pools of sorrow. Soon, my wails mingled with theirs, the staccato banging of hammer against nail keeping time with the chorus of grief.
* * * *
That evening outside the church, I watched people stand back while Tom and the other pallbearers lifted the coffin from Mr. Kelly’s van and carried it inside for the prayer service.
The funeral would take place after mass tomorrow when Aunt Katherine arrived from America. Father Finnegan, looking haggard, as usual, with his beaked nose and cheeks sunk beneath high cheekbones, stood at the pulpit holding a black leather-bound missal. Máirtín and Seán, wearing white surplices sat behind him.
Squeezed between Aunt Ellen and Tom, I tried not to look at the coffin. Instead, I fixed my gaze on the priest and listened carefully in the hope he’d utter words to ease the ache within me. But nothing he said could banish my sorrow.
After reading prayers from his missal, he said Mama was a hardworking woman. That after spending many years in America, she willingly returned to the land of her birth to take care of her mother. She could have turned her back on her mother, selfishly pursued her dreams and lived an easier life, but being a good Catholic, she’d sacrificed those dreams in the name of duty. The younger generation would do well to follow the example of such a woman.