The Boatman's Wife(13)

Niamh lay down on her back, watching the smoke from the joint spiralling above her head. Could she run away? Would her mam be all right if she took off? It was so clear to her now. She didn’t belong in Brendan’s dangerous world any more. The anger was gone, and she just wanted out.

But Brendan had warned her, the night she’d been sworn in. ‘Remember, Niamh, you can never go back,’ he’d said. ‘Once you join up, it’s for life.’

She’d insisted she was sure. Raised her left hand and said the words:

‘I, Niamh Kelly, promise that I will promote the objects of the Irish Republican Army to the best of my knowledge and ability, and that I will obey all orders and regulations issued to me by the army authority and by my superior officer.’

But she’d only been sixteen. Her cousin should have stopped her. He’d done nothing of the sort. Pulled her in deeper, and now she was stuck.

Niamh closed her eyes, let herself drift. She was going to be late for work, but she didn’t care now. She let herself dream of leaving Ireland, dozing until she woke an hour later, stiff and cold.



Her mam had fallen asleep on the couch in the kitchen. She was still wearing her An Post pale blue shirt, with the little An Post insignia on the breast pocket. Her head was tilted back with Pixie, their collie, curled up on the cushions next to her.

‘Get down, Pixie,’ Niamh admonished the dog, who slunk reluctantly off the couch, giving her a guilty look.

Niamh leant over and gave her mam a gentle shake. ‘Mammy, you need to go to bed,’ she whispered.

Her mam woke up instantly, giving Niamh a wild-eyed look.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Strange dreams,’ her mam said, stirring on the couch. ‘What time is it?’

‘Seven,’ Niamh said, picking up her jacket. ‘I’d best go.’

‘Take the van,’ her mam said. ‘It’s lashing. You’ll get soaked on the bike.’



Time ticked slowly in Murphy’s Bar on a wet Monday night. Niamh put the telly on with the sound off. The movement and light of the screen gave an impression of warmth and company. The bar felt chilly and damp, smelt of all the years of cigarette smoking and beer swilling. There were three regulars up at the bar – Paddy O’Mahony, Tommy Fox and Pat Feeney. She lined up their pints of Guinness on the counter and they waited for them to settle.

‘Hey, turn up the volume, Niamh,’ Pat asked her.

The news was on. More deaths up north. Three IRA members found dead in different parts of South Armagh. Suspected informers to the police in the north, the Royal Ulster Constabulary, or RUC. It was believed they’d been shot dead by the IRA.

‘At least they weren’t disappeared into the bogs like some of the poor bastards,’ Paddy commented.

The news story made Niamh feel sick in her belly. Here they were, just a few miles from the border, almost too quiet, and yet across in the north, life was worth less. She thought about the bag Brendan had given her.

The door of the pub opened and in walked Joseph O’Reilly, but not on his own tonight. With him was the American boy, Jesse. Niamh could feel her cheeks blooming, much to her annoyance.

‘Good evening, Niamh my dear,’ said Joseph, tugging on his white beard. ‘Have you met my young apprentice, Jesse?’

‘Hi,’ she said, drying a pint glass with a towel as she watched Jesse stride across the sticky floor of the bar.

‘We’ve already met,’ Jesse said, smiling at her. She didn’t return it. His familiarity annoyed her.

‘You have?’ Joseph asked, raising his eyebrows.

‘This morning, on my way to the boatyard, Joseph,’ Jesse said. ‘Though it seems so long ago now. How’s the knee?’

‘Fine,’ Niamh said, stiffly. ‘It was only a scratch.’

‘Jesse has come all the way from his home in America, to study how to make boats just like me,’ Joseph said proudly.

‘My dad was Irish,’ Jesse explained. ‘Loved boats, and he told me about the tradition of wooden boatbuilding in the west of Ireland. It’s always been my dream to learn the craft.’

‘Well now, isn’t that something?’ Joseph said to the company in general, slapping Jesse on the back. ‘Get the boy a pint of Guinness, Niamh.’

While Joseph settled at a table with the other three old fellows, Jesse stayed standing at the bar in front of Niamh, even after she’d served him his Guinness.

‘Would you mind if I sit up here with you?’ he asked her, hopping onto a high stool.

She shrugged, but couldn’t help feeling a little flattered.

‘You’re the first person I’ve met my own age since I arrived,’ Jesse told her.

‘Have you not been into any other pubs in town?’ she asked.

He shook his head.

‘You should go to Flanagan’s or the Harbour Bar; this place is dead,’ she told him.

He gave her another smile. ‘I’m happy enough for now,’ he said, his eyes on her as she polished the last clean glass. She felt a little self-conscious.

‘So, did you grow up here?’ Jesse asked her, taking a sip of his pint.

She nodded.

‘Oh boy, this is good,’ he commented, admiring the black liquid in his pint glass.

‘This place might be a dump, but we serve the best pint of Guinness in Mullaghmore.’