front door in the centre of it was wide enough to march a generous dining table through without too much manoeuvring. It all had a lazy, old feel to it.
The ground floor was a sprawling living room, which the front door opened directly into, and across a short hall, where a staircase led up to the second floor, was a spacious kitchen, the centre occupied by a solid wooden table that Kathryn used to play table tennis on with her brothers. Upstairs were half-a-dozen bedrooms and one large bathroom; the wooden floors creaked in all of them. Dusty, tired rugs covered most of the old carpeting. The house was evidently occupied by an old person but filled with memories of youthful, bustling times. Framed pictures had claimed a piece of just about every level surface and were evidence that several generations of the same family had lived in the house.
Kathryn stood in the kitchen looking through a window at Janet and Helen playing in the back garden. They were pushing a small wheelbarrow around collecting bits of rubble, pretending to be construction workers. They reminded her of her own childhood when the house was also home to her sister, two brothers and four adults. Now her mother lived alone, the children all grown up and gone, and her father, aunt and uncle all in St Mary’s church cemetery.
A car pulled into the drive and stopped in the back garden in front of the garage. The heavy driver’s door creaked open and a sprightly woman in her sixties, wearing a well-tailored dress suit and a new brittle hairdo, climbed out.
‘Grandma, Grandma!’ Janet and Helen shouted as they dropped their tools and building materials and ran to her. A broad smile spread comfortably across the woman’s craggy face as she embraced the girls.
Kathryn didn’t move from the window as she watched her mother open the trunk and pull out several bags stuffed with groceries. Janet and Helen took a small item each and flanked their grandma as she headed for the back door.They walked under the window, where Kathryn looked down on them, and then up a short flight of steps to the back door.
Kathryn’s mother led the way in, puffing under the load and put the bags down heavily on to the kitchen table. She took the items from the two girls and rested her hands on her knees to catch her breath and also to look into their little faces. ‘Thank you,’ she said, squeezing them on the cheek one at a time. ‘At least someone around here is kind enough to help an old lady out,’ she said dryly in her thick, Boston accent.
Kathryn didn’t react. It was an old record. Her mother was a habitual critic as far as Kathryn was concerned. Kathryn had built up a kind of immunity, although it was rather like being in a tank: the bullets bounced off harmlessly but the sound was still psychologically discomfiting.
‘I need a cold drink,’ her mother said as she took a glass from a cupboard.‘The air’s dry today.’ She opened the icebox and removed a bottle of fruit juice. ‘You haven’t washed the plates from breakfast.’
Kathryn remained quietly staring out of the window as her mother poured the juice into the glass.
‘Two days you’ve been here and you’ve not lifted a finger to help with the housework. I’m not the maid, you know.’
Kathryn watched a seagull land on the garage roof. It reminded her of the times her brothers used to lie in wait in their bedroom overlooking the garden, clutching loaded catapults and a supply of ammunition in readiness for just such a target. She would wait and watch with them, stealthily crouched, nose level with the window ledge, fascinated, but never enough to want to take a shot herself. In that regard she was quite the typical little girl. Her fun, as she remembered it, was dolls, playing mommy and dressing up for pretend parties.
‘I have enough to do by myself,’ her mother continued. ‘You could help out, you know.’
‘Mom, leave it alone.The house isn’t exactly falling down around your ears.’
‘Is that what you’re waiting for before you do anything?’
Kathryn rolled her eyes. ‘I have a few things on my mind. Just cut me some slack will you, please?’
Kathryn’s mother could drift from one mood to another with surprising ease. Not that a shift meant the original mood, or subject, was necessarily closed for the day.
‘It’s been a while since I came out of the store with this much produce. Mrs Franklin asked me if I had an army moved in . . . Must be five years since Mark left home. Boy, could they eat, his wife and those three boys of his.’
‘Seven,’ Kathryn corrected.
‘What?’
‘Seven years. They left seven years ago.’
‘Can’t be more than five.’
‘They left before Helen was born and she’s six and a half.’
‘He’s had another baby, did you know that?’ her mother continued without further debate, but leaving the impression Kathryn was wrong. ‘Another boy. A terror just like the others. He lets those kids do whatever they want. What can you expect from a Polish wife, I guess. At least they’re Christian. I suppose that’s something.’
‘She’s not Polish, she’s American.’
‘She’s as Polish as you are Irish.You know what I mean. Why do you have to be so argumentative all the time? You can’t just have a normal conversation.You always have to be awkward.’
Kathryn’s mother took two popsicles out of the freezer and gave one to each of the girls, who had been standing between them listening. ‘There you go.That’s for being such good little angels. Now go on and play.’
‘Say thank you,’ Kathryn said.
‘They don’t need to say thank you. It’s theirs to have.’
‘Thanks, Gramma,’ Helen said anyway and the girls left the kitchen and headed upstairs.
Kathryn felt her mother was the most irritating dichotomy. She was so incredibly annoying, and at the same time so generous, especially with the children. Kathryn had thought she might be able to bear it for a few months at least, but even that was now looking impossible.
‘Mrs Franklin might come around to see you later,’ her mother continued. ‘She couldn’t believe it when I told her what happened to Hank.’
‘You told her?’
‘And why not? It’s not every day we have a kidnapping in the family.’
‘Mom, I don’t want everyone knowing.’
‘She’s practically a friend of the family.’
‘I don’t want anyone knowing.’
‘Why not?’
‘I told you. Because the publicity won’t do Hank any good.’
‘Baloney.The British have fed you a load of horse manure. The publicity would be good for everyone except the British. If you don’t believe me ask the Father. He agrees with me.’
‘You told him?’ Kathryn asked, growing angry.
‘Of course.The Father is the one person who could make some good out of this.’
‘I can’t believe you told him.’
‘For God’s sake, girl. Your husband’s been kidnapped by our own people. There’s no one in a better position to deal with it than the Father. Sure, he probably even knows who did it.’
Anger flushed through Kathryn, making her face redden. ‘Now just hold on one goddamned minute—’
‘Don’t you swear at me, young lady.’
‘You are not going to treat Hank’s kidnapping as some kind of political tool.’
‘For the sake of Christ, will you listen to yourself? Are you blind, deaf and stupid, girl? Anyone who’s kidnapped becomes a political tool.’
‘He’s my husband! Your grandchildren’s father!’
‘Some things about you never change, do they?’ Kathryn’s mother said, shaking her head. ‘Always stubborn and thinking you know everything. The Father will make sure no harm comes to Hank and he’ll make the most out of it at the same time. The Brits have to be made to suffer for what they did and he’ll make sure they do.’
‘I don’t want Father Kinseller getting involved in this,’ Kathryn said, vexed.
‘He’s more than just a priest, young lady. I know.’
Kathryn rolled her eyes in frustration.‘I know what Father Kinseller is, Mom. I’m not stupid. I knew when we were kids that he recruited boys for the IRA.’
‘Then you’ll know not to say that out loud,’ she said in a hushed tone.
‘Mom, everyone knows Father Kinseller works for the IRA. He used to collect for them in every bar in the
