‘No, son, you won’t.’ Niall shook his head and, straightening, he chucked his youngest with sad affection before turning away.
‘Away now,’ said Nora in a gruff voice that betrayed deep emotion. ‘Let’s get to Mass.’
Whilst the women put last-minute touches to the youngsters’ appearance, Niall wandered outside to where Honor lingered miserably by the front window. A dejected figure in her grammar school uniform and beret, she remained with eyes downcast, so as not to see her friends with their bunches of flowers.
‘It’ll get better,’ he murmured, trying to convey in his manly way that he understood how it felt to lose one’s mother. ‘I know you won’t think so at the moment, but it will. And when it does, you’ll feel guilty for laughing or whatever …’ The face beneath the school beret looked up at him then, giving away a hint that Honor had already experienced this sensation. ‘But you shouldn’t,’ he added quickly, ‘because your mam wants you to be happy. Still … it’s only fitting that you’ll feel sad today.’ He placed a helpful hand to steer her. ‘Come on, you and me’ll set off and let t’others follow.’
As they walked, Honor was quiet for a while, before blurting, ‘I feel guilty about something else, Dad.’
Niall looked down at her, his face kind and quizzical.
‘I can’t tell you what it is. It’s too awful.’ She was obviously racked with conscience. ‘I can’t even tell Father Finnegan at confession, but if I don’t …’ Her face told what would befall her.
Niall was becoming worried, but had to coax this out of her with a gentle squeeze of her shoulder. ‘I can’t think you’ve done anything so bad—’
‘I wished it were Gran who died instead of Mother!’ She hardly dared look at him.
But her father seemed relieved it was not worse. ‘Don’t think too badly of yourself, Honey. Your gran’s old; she’d probably wish exactly the same thing.’
Taught by nuns, Honor remained anxious. ‘But God knows all the secrets of our hearts …’ She saw the look of shock that pulled her father up in his tracks.
Niall recovered his step quickly, but felt totally wretched, for if Honor only knew, his own secret was so much worse. It was one he had to live with, but his child did not. ‘Yes, He can see into your heart and He can tell it’s a good and pure one, and that you didn’t mean it,’ came his words of comfort, he desperately trying to draw comfort from them himself as he assuaged his daughter’s worry. ‘He wouldn’t punish you for wanting to keep your mam alive. I’m sure of it.’ Whether or not God would punish him for imagining Ellen dead, was another matter. Try as he might to allay his child’s fears, to convince her of a merciful Creator, the doctrine that had been impressed upon him both mentally and physically from childhood caused him to fear for his own soul.
However, it seemed to help Honor. Appreciating the firm pressure of his hand on her shoulder in its navy blazer, she did not look up but took reassurance in the love of her one remaining parent, and, leaning into Niall’s steadfast presence, she accompanied him to church.
Despite his having reassured her, all in all, it was a melancholy day for Niall, the trip to the cemetery where his children laid flowers on their mother’s grave overshadowing all thoughts of Boadicea.
Not until he removed his clothes for bed did he allow her to steal into his mind again. Placing the suit on a hanger, and giving it a gentle brush before putting it away and climbing into bed gingerly so as not to wake Brian, he was reminded of his thoughts upon donning it that morning, and before he fell asleep he wondered again if there was any way he could wear it for his date tomorrow night.
Awakening to that same image on Monday morning, he was forced to relinquish it, for there was no way round this. He was desperate to look his best for Boadicea, but that would immediately give the game away. Best clothes on a weekday? Must be going to see a woman! It was with some irony that he recalled a similar phrase directed at his brother. And now he was taking the same furtive path as Sean – not that they were cast from the same mould; no, he wouldn’t have that. Sean’s only reason for deceiving his mother-in-law had been to save his own skin, whereas Niall’s action was to prevent her being hurt. For as much as he had condemned Nora in the past for her tyrannical nagging, she had been so good since Ellen’s death, so compassionate in her handling of him, he could not have expected better treatment from his own mother. How could he hurt her by announcing that he had met someone else? The time would come when he would have to tell her. But not yet, not until there was really something to tell.
Yet despite this professed noble reason, his choice of venue was not without guile. The dark interior of the picture house would help to shroud him, and make it less likely that he be spotted. Imagining himself there beside Boadicea, perhaps with his arm around her to quell her squeals of fright at the horror film, the feelings of anticipation and sexual excitement grew, so that by Monday tea-time he could barely sit still for five minutes – not that he had the luxury for there was less than half an hour before the rendezvous, leaving him little time for ablutions.
To this purpose, unaware that he was being watched, he wolfed down his tea.
‘You’ll give yourself bellyache,’ observed Harriet, turning a page of the evening newspaper. ‘What’s the rush?’
‘I’m off to the flicks.’ He had been dreading this moment of explanation. But apart from the murmur of slight surprise, Nora and her girls seemed pleased about his change of pastime.
‘Well, I hope you weren’t thinking of going to the Rye,’ Harriet chuckled, without looking up from the paper.
Pricked by guilt, Niall hoped she would not comment on his blush. ‘Why’s that?’ he asked, head lowered, still eating.
‘It’s burned down.’
‘What?’ His eyes shot up. ‘When?’
‘Saturday. It’s in here.’ She held up the print for him to see. ‘I was just saying to Mam, that explains all the fire engine racket we heard.’
His fork still poised midway between plate and mouth, his plans so unexpectedly demolished, Niall groaned.
Misreading his dismay, Nora asked, ‘Was it something you really wanted to see?’
‘What?’ He turned vague eyes on his mother-in-law who, with his children lined up before her, was performing her weekly search for nits, roughly positioning each head over a white cloth on her lap before running her comb through it. Breaking away from his thoughts about Boadicea, he set upon his meal again, saying hastily, ‘Oh no … no, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go somewhere else.’
‘There’s a good one on at the Picture House!’ Dolly jumped in eagerly. ‘I wouldn’t mind coming with you.’
Luckily, Niall had researched the programme. ‘That’s one o’ them soppy ones, isn’t it? I don’t really fancy that. I might try George’s instead.’
‘Oh, if it’s that historical thing about the Duke of Wellington you can stick it,’ sniffed Dolly, as he had known she would, and she went back to plaiting Juggy’s hair ready for bed.
‘It won’t go, Dad!’ On his hands and knees, little Brian had been attempting to shove a homemade toy lorry across the square of carpet at the centre of the room, but now hurled it away in frustration.
‘Eh! We’ll have less of that,’ warned Niall. Then, at a show of repentance, ‘It’ll wheel better on lino, son.’ And he indicated the brown linoleum around the edge of the room, to where Brian quickly shuffled.
‘Well, I’d best get ready then.’ Still chewing, Niall clattered his knife and fork onto the empty plate and carried it briskly towards the scullery. ‘Can I just have a wash before you do the pots?’ Nora granting his wish, he climbed over Brian, and pulled the door shut after him.
Ensconced