He felt a familiar pain rip through his heart and Maura felt it too and was instantly compelled to soothe it. Her husband, her lovely Tommy, was a man who had been through so much. He carried a guilt in his heart and she could only imagine how heavy it felt. There was no atonement to be found for the murder of a priest, no church in which to make confession. Redemption and the pathway to heaven was blocked for Tommy and they lived their life aware that there would no longer be a together forever. She shifted her weight and her lips found his. Her hand moved swiftly down to the inside of his thigh and slowly upwards as she gently caressed him. As was always the case, Tommy responded instantly, and their kisses held an urgent, life-affirming intensity. He would warm her shoulder when she was cold – and she would always be there, to take away his pain.
Chapter Three
On one day each week, Maura travelled all the way into Ballynevin to collect the post and to pick up butter, meat, sewing or mending. Other food was delivered to her from the shop in Ballynevin on the back of a van every other day. When they had moved to Ireland, she had never thought she would miss queuing outside the fish shop on a Wednesday morning, or the butcher’s jokes and ribaldry as much as she did. Her weekly trip out now was reliant on one of the farm carts passing by, or the weekly delivery with the Guinness dray to hitch a lift back.
Her last stop of the afternoon had been to Mrs Barrett at the tailor’s where Maura discussed the cuts Cleary had inflicted on Harry’s hands in detail.
‘Well, we can have that sorted in no time,’ Mrs Barrett said. ‘I have just the thing in my press for your Harry’s hands. We are used to Cleary around here. He should be retiring soon, the age of the man.’
‘Not soon enough for me,’ said Maura as she placed her overladen basket down on the floor and flopped onto the wooden chair on the customer side of the counter. No one just walked in, conducted their business and left. That would have been considered very rude.
‘Shall I wet the tea?’ Mrs Barrett asked. ‘And while I’m at it, I’ll find that medicament.’
While Maura waited, she gazed out of the window, past the wooden mannequin in the window wearing a man’s suit that would only be bought for a wedding, followed by a lifetime of Sundays. She felt tears prick at her eyes and brushed them away with the back of her hand, irritated at her weakness. Pull yourself together, woman, she thought to herself. What the hell is wrong with you? Her thoughts returned to Harry and the cuts across his palms which were turning nasty. Every morning when she took the dressings off, she’d hoped to see an improvement, but this morning the hands had been hot, the wounds yellow and angry-looking.
Mrs Barrett returned, first with the tea and then with a dark green glass bottle with a handwritten label.
‘Bridget made this and she’s been the village seer at Tarabeg for as long as I can remember,’ Mrs Barrett said. ‘We don’t need doctors here, not when we have Bridget.’ She removed the cork stopper and smelt the liquid. Her head recoiled and her eyes watered. ‘It has the kick of a mule, so it does,’ she said as she passed the bottle to Maura who read the label. Apply with lint, and blow.
‘What’s in it?’ asked Maura, squinting.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Mrs Barrett, ‘but Daedio Malone out at Tarabeg used it for years on his knees and he was dancing in the street at ceilidhs when he was well past a hundred. This will definitely do the job.’
Maura slipped the bottle into her basket. ‘Well, I’m clean out of ideas myself and it can’t make his hands any worse, that’s for sure.’
On this particular outing, she had hitched a lift back with Liam Deane in his van. The light was fading as they turned onto the road that led out to the coast, the mountains slipping from green to grey as, laden down with provisions, she squeezed onto the front bench alongside Liam. She would only just make it back before opening time and, no doubt, her least favourite customer would be waiting at the door. But her heart was lighter now than when she’d left. There were letters in her coat pocket waiting to be opened and savoured at the end of the night when she and Tommy sat and enjoyed their nightly whiskey. She would open them, one by one, and read the contents out loud.
She could tell by the envelopes who they were from: Kathleen Deane, Liam’s own mammy; Maggie Trott; one from Malcolm at the Seaman’s Stop, which was somewhat of a surprise, but the thickest was from Sister Evangelista, who would be giving her all the news about the school, the mother’s union and, even all the way across the sea, Maura would be told who was failing in their obligation to attend mass and be given chapter and verse about the carnival arrangements.
There was a letter from Peggy, too, and she had felt a sense of relief when she turned the envelope and read the name and address of the sender on the back. If Peggy was writing, all must be well, and last but not least, because it was bound to be trouble, a letter from the docks board.
‘You have a wicked grin on your face,’ said Liam.
‘Have I? Well, I have letters from home, including one from your own mammy and that’s always a treat. Nothing I can buy on any weekly shop would bring me as much pleasure as
