Читать книгу Secrets of Our Hearts - Sheelagh Kelly - Страница 7

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.