‘Thinking is different to knowing,’ he snapped. ‘And knowing’s what I’d need before letting you into danger.’
For years there had been little warmth between us. But in that moment I could see in his face the loss of his eldest child, and his brother, and the nephew he’d scarcely known. Da had aged a hundred years since I’d last allowed myself to really look at him. So I hugged him tightly. I thought of Finbarr’s letter. Would there be anyone left in Ballycotton who’d know to write to me if he died? We didn’t have a telephone. Certainly the Mahoneys didn’t, there was hardly even electricity in Ballycotton.
‘You look green around the gills, Nan,’ my mother said that evening. She checked my temperature again. She couldn’t keep her hands away from our faces. ‘You’d better rest. I’ll bring you a plate.’
I sequestered myself in my room, both hands spread across my belly. I didn’t have the flu. I had something else. My mother’s fear of influenza had replaced, at least temporarily, her fear of pregnancy. It made her blind to what really ailed me. She couldn’t know that for this brief span of time, whenever she touched me or held me, she touched and held her grandchild, too.
Colleen had been my age, almost to the day, when she tossed herself into the Thames. I wouldn’t ever let that happen to my mother again. I didn’t tell Megs and Louisa I was pregnant because I didn’t want them fearing what would become of me. And I wouldn’t give my father a chance to thunder me away. I’d get myself across the Irish Sea and marry Finbarr. Even if he were dying, it was better to be a soldier’s widow than a soldier’s fool. The small detail of ‘I do’s’ and a priest’s blessing would render the difference between heroine and pariah. All I had to do was get myself from my island to Finbarr’s.
The only place my mother went these days was the grocer’s. As soon as she was out of the door, I went to her room and pulled out the tea tin she’d shown us. Between the money she’d secreted away and the pound note Finbarr had sent me, I’d have just enough to get to Ballycotton. I shook my grandmother’s ring into my hands and considered slipping it onto my finger. Instead, I put it back in the tin. I didn’t need to disguise myself as a married woman. I’d be the real thing soon enough.
The last of my money went to the fisherman who carried me in his mule-pulled cart from the train station to the Mahoneys’ white clay cottage in the village. Masts from the harbour dinged and gulls swooped and sang. I knew Alby was not allowed inside but slept underneath the house, and was disappointed he didn’t bound out to greet me. But perhaps that meant Finbarr had recovered and was off making a good wage herding.
Mrs Mahoney opened the door. I’d met her before, at Sunday church services. But then she’d been smiling. She was a tiny woman, with shoulders so bony I could see the sharp ‘V’ of them through her cardigan.
‘You can’t see him,’ she said, before I could even remind her who I was. ‘It’s not safe for you.’ Still, she stepped aside to let me in, then lit the stove to make a cup of tea. It was cold in the house and I wanted to pull my chair closer to the fire, but I didn’t want to insult her. The floor beneath my feet was dirt. At another time the sight of boats through the window might have been cheerful but just then they looked to me like everything in the world Finbarr didn’t want. Noticing my gaze, Mrs Mahoney stood up, went to the window and drew the shutters closed.
‘I’m Jack O’Dea’s niece,’ I said.
‘I know who you are.’
I could tell she wanted to say something about Seamus and Jack. Perhaps offer condolences. Perhaps blame them – Finbarr would have gone over there, wouldn’t he, before they’d fallen ill. She slid the cup of tea in front of me without offering milk or sugar.
My eyes roamed the small kitchen. There were two doors – the one I’d come in, from the outside, and the one leading to the rest of the house, firmly closed.
‘Is Finbarr here?’ I asked his mother. ‘Is he all right?’
‘He’s here and he’s not all right and he doesn’t need you upsetting him.’ She sat down to her own tea. From the way she refused to let her eyes rest on me longer than a few seconds I could tell it was an effort to refrain from kindness. Did she know? About me? Or was her coldness due to worrying over her only child?
‘Is it the flu?’
‘It is and you mustn’t catch it. We must get you out of this house straight away. I’ve been tending him day and night; I could be carrying it myself. I’m sure I am.’
‘If I could just see Finbarr—’
‘You can’t.’
‘I could stand in the doorway.’
‘Are you deaf, girl? I said no.’
‘Nan,’ I said. ‘My name’s Nan. Finbarr wants to see me. I know he does.’
She looked away, towards the shuttered window. She had black hair like Finbarr’s, streaked through with grey. Like his would be one day. I’d thought her rosy cheeks were caused by the cold but up close I saw there were little broken blood vessels along her cheekbones. Careworn. She would have been beautiful once. Finbarr told me she wished she’d had a hundred children. Now here I was offering her one more.
‘Where’s Alby?’ I asked.
‘Traded off for provisions during the war.’
Would they have written to tell him? Or had Finbarr arrived home and found Alby gone? I imagined him whistling around the house till his father finally gathered the strength to admit what had been done. Finbarr would have worked extra hours at every farm near Ballycotton, first to earn my passage home and then to buy his dog back.
I reached into my bag and pulled out one of Finbarr’s letters. ‘Look,’ I said, holding it towards her. ‘He wants to marry me. He sent me money to come here. So we could be married.’ I pointed to the words on the page. ‘He promised.’
She stared at me, unmoved. I shook the letter under her eyes. A horrible feeling, when something you think holds power turns out to be useless.
‘And don’t you know,’ said Mrs Mahoney, ‘that’s what a man says, to get a woman to do what he wants. The trick is in saying no. That’s how you get a man to marry you. Before. Not after.’
How did she know? It must have been my urgency that gave me away. I was as thin as I’d ever been. Still, there was no use arguing. ‘He wrote this after,’ I said simply, then put my head down on the table. I was so tired. And suddenly horribly, horribly hungry.
‘Don’t you cry,’ she said.
As if it hadn’t occurred to me until I heard the words, that’s exactly what I did. Great, guttural sobs, filling the small house. For a moment I felt embarrassed, but then I thought, if Finbarr heard me, perhaps he’d will himself out from wherever he was, and come into the kitchen. He’d tell his mother the truth. He’d insist on marrying me that very day. But no matter how I sobbed, he didn’t appear, and his mother didn’t soften. I cried until I fell asleep, my head resting on my arms.