Patrick had pondered on the question. ‘I take it, it’ll be a boy.’
Indignantly, she’d replied. ‘It’ll be no such thing. It’ll be a girl and I shall call her Franny.’
Patrick had burst out laughing. ‘Franny? And what sort of name is that?’
‘Francesca. Franny for short. And for your information, it’s a good Catholic name, Patrick Doyle – but that’s something you’ll know nothing about either.’
‘Well, I won’t allow it! Franny. Have you ever heard the like?’
She’d pulled a face but she’d had a twinkle in her eye. ‘And have you ever heard what a pig you are, Patrick Doyle? And, to be sure, I certainly won’t be marrying you now.’
‘Then I’ll just have to marry old Bridget Henley.’
‘You’ll do no such thing … and to think I had a present for ye. I shan’t give it ye now.’
Patrick’s face had lit up. ‘For me? You remembered me birthday?’
She’d spoken haughtily. ‘I did indeed. Not that you deserve anything, not now you’re going to marry Bridget Henley.’
‘Oh Mary, you know you’re the only girl for me. And I reckon if I kissed poor Bridget her false teeth might fall out.’
She’d grinned at the thought and then taken a tiny box out of her coat pocket and handed it to Patrick.
He’d opened the box with delight on his face. In it was a silver chain with a tiny cross on it.
‘Do you like it?’ she’d asked eagerly. ‘I saved up all year.’
His eyes had glistened with tears. ‘I love it, Mary. Like I love you. I should give you something.’ Patrick had looked around, then seeing an early bloom of gorse, the bright yellow pea-flower which in the spring months seemed to light up the landscape of Kerry, ran to pick some.
She’d shouted. ‘Patrick, you’ll tear your hands on the prickles—’
‘Then tear them I will. I have to give my girl a blossom.’
After five minutes of Mary giggling and Patrick struggling with the stems of sharp tiny spikes, he’d conceded defeat and returned with just a dozen yellow gorse petals.
‘When we’re married, Mary, I’ll fill our house with flowers, but for now here’s a petal for every month of the year. Every month that I love you.’
She’d taken the petals and smiled sweetly. ‘Well, to be sure, it’s true to say in me life I’ve never wanted a whole bunch of flowers. Why would I want that when the real beauty is in the petals?’
Patrick had winked at her, grateful for her kind nature.
‘You know what they say around here, Mary? When gorse is out of blossom, kissing’s out of fashion; so it looks like we’re in luck.’
They’d laughed as they always did, pushing and shoving each other in jest, then Patrick had caught hold of her and leant in for a kiss.
Sitting on the bed, Mary jolted herself out of her memories; not wanting them to go any further because she certainly didn’t want to have to confess them to Father Ryan on Sunday.
On the day Patrick had kissed her, she’d cycled all the way to the church at Kenmere – almost twenty miles away – to make her confession. Even though the hard seat on her bike had rubbed and caused painful blisters on her inner thighs, it’d still been better than having to confess to Father Ryan.
She certainly wasn’t keen on making the long trip again and she certainly wasn’t going to make a confession here, at St Peter’s, so the easiest thing was to have no more thoughts of Patrick, especially in the direction they were beginning to head.
About to take a deep sigh, Mary suddenly held her breath. She heard the creak of the wooden stairs. There it was again. It wasn’t her parents; they always yelled a cheery hello as they entered through the side door. The creak sounded again, only this time louder.
Mary’s mouth began to dry as her heart pounded. Almost immediately her eyes filled with tears as her whole body began to shake, terror gripping her.
As the howl of the wind swirled through the trees, and the rain struck against the arched window, Mary heard footsteps coming along the landing. Petrified, she opened her mouth to cry out. Then she heard her name.
‘Mary? Mary?’
Cautiously, Mary got up; tentatively crossing to the other side of the room.
‘Mary?’ The voice, just outside, was gentle and hushed.
‘Patrick? Patrick? Is that you?’ She reached for her bedroom door, opening it quickly, but she suddenly let out a scream. A large hand pressed against her face and a small beam of torchlight hit her eyes.
‘Mary, for the love of God, I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. Just don’t scream.’
The hand was lowered from her mouth and Mary stood staring into the face of Tommy Doyle. She stepped backwards, reaching out for the wall behind her.
‘What … what are you doing here?’ Mary tried not to show her fear but she could hear it in her voice. ‘You do know the Gardaí are out looking for ye?’
‘Ah Jaysus, Mary. Don’t look so frightened. I never meant to give you a fright. Patrick would have me guts if he thought I’d scared ye.’
Seeing her fear, Tommy spoke again. ‘I never did it love. I swear.’
‘Then why don’t you tell them that?’
Tommy shook his head. ‘When I heard they were looking for me, I knew I’d never stand a chance. Who’s going to believe me? I know what they all think of the likes of me.’ There was a long pause as Tommy stared pleadingly at Mary. Tears brimmed in his eyes. His voice was soft as he spoke. ‘Connor was my friend; there’s no way I would hurt him, or Clancy for that matter. For all her nagging ways she was a good woman.’
Even though Mary could smell the alcohol on Tommy as he spoke, she began to feel more at ease. She smiled. ‘I know, Mr Doyle. She was a lovely woman; fierce kind to me.’
‘Call me Tommy.’
Mary bristled, yet again feeling uncomfortable. It didn’t feel right to call an adult by his first name. Then, as if he could read her mind, he spoke.
‘To be sure, if you prefer to call me Mr Doyle, I’m grand with that as well.’
In the distance, above the sound of the storm, voices and barking dogs were heard. Tommy turned in panic to Mary. His face was strained, his voice full of urgency.
‘You’ve got to help me.’
Mary turned her head towards the sound of the voices. They were coming closer and they were sure to be here in a few minutes. ‘I can’t … I …’
‘Please, Mary, I can’t think of anyone else. They won’t be suspicious of you.’
‘What about Patrick? He’d help you. I know he would.’
‘I can’t risk going back home; they’ll be bound to be waiting there and I’m not going to jail for something I didn’t do.’ Tommy’s eyes were wild with fear. ‘Please, you’ve got to help me!’
Just then, a voice came from downstairs. ‘Mary! We’re back. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this storm was the wrath of God. I’ve been a God-fearing man all me life and I’ve never …’
The voice became inaudible as a crack of thunder broke above the small house. Mary looked at Tommy.
‘That’s me da, Mr Doyle. Even if I wanted to help ye; it’s too late now. I’m sorry.’