The Boatman's Wife(4)

Niamh braked, balancing each foot on her tiptoes on the road. She scanned the thick green foliage. She could hear the singing so loudly, and then she saw the little creature. Of course: the tiny wren, with such a big voice.

‘Good morning, Jenny Wren,’ she greeted the bird, before pushing off again. She felt happy to have seen the little bird; it reminded her of the times she and her mam had spent listening to birds when she was little. Her daddy there, too. How many years had he been gone? She had been twelve. So, ten years. Hard to believe. She kept on pedalling, feeling weary now.

So many hours had passed since Niamh had gone to work the day before, and yet the short summer night had felt so fleeting. One moment, Niamh had agreed to stay on for the lock-in, and the next they were all stumbling out the door of the pub at daybreak. It had felt like she’d drunk herself sober. She’d clambered onto her bicycle and pedalled off, waving her hand behind her as the others took off by foot.

Early morning was so pure. For the first time, she understood a little why her mam claimed her job was the best in the world. Up at the crack of dawn every day, in all weathers, driving around in her An Post van, delivering letters and parcels to all the local townlands. Up and down the twisty, bumpy boreens. Careful of all the little creatures of the hedgerows, which kept the same time as her mam. Right now, in the middle of summer, there were wild rabbits running hither and thither all over the road. Her mam was in a constant state she’d knock one down, taking hours over the post round, going at snail’s pace, just to make sure.

Niamh kept on cycling uphill, the final push making it worth the effort as she caught sight of the Atlantic Ocean winking blue in the distance across the marshy fields and tumbled drystone walls. Every day, the Atlantic Ocean looked different, the play of light upon the water constantly shifting and transforming.

With the sea wind behind her, she slung her bicycle down the other side of the hill, her feet lifting off the pedals. Imagined herself as if from above, a lone speck spinning her way home in a tiny corner of north-western Ireland.

There was freedom to be had, away from the city. The rules which applied to city dwellers didn’t stick to them. No one minded getting the post a little late because Rosemary Kelly didn’t want to run over a rabbit.

Still, there were many days when Niamh longed for the anonymity of city life. There had been talk in her last year at school of going up to Dublin, and sharing a flat with her best friends, Aileen and Teresa. But in the end, Niamh hadn’t bothered applying for college, and her mam had forgotten the closing date.

‘You’re so clever, Niamh,’ her mam had complained when she’d found out. ‘Why didn’t you remind me?’

Niamh had shrugged her shoulders. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve the job in Murphy’s.’

Her mam had snorted. ‘You can’t spend your days working behind a bar. Don’t waste yourself!’

Niamh had known even then, three years ago, she couldn’t leave Sligo. Her mam was part of why, but she couldn’t tell her that. There was so much Niamh couldn’t tell her mam.

She thought of the great days, when her mam was full of the joys. Baking soda bread as soon as she got back from her round, and feeding crumbs to the robin redbreast on the kitchen windowsill. Catching hold of Niamh and making her dance with her in the kitchen. But then some days, her mam didn’t even make it out of her bed. The black clouds would descend and she’d burrow under the covers. Niamh would try to get her to shift, but her mam squeezed her eyes shut, begging her daughter to leave her be. On those mornings, Niamh had to deliver the post for her.

The truth was, her mam wasn’t the only reason Niamh couldn’t leave home. It was why she craved getting lost in a big city and disappearing forever. Becoming forgotten, in a way her father, and everything he stood for, could never be.

‘He’ll not be forgotten,’ her father’s cousin, Tadhg, had said to her at the funeral. Gripping her hand and squeezing it tight. Staring into her eyes with a look of fury which had matched her own. She’d been so angry.

Niamh pedalled hard up the last hill home. Could she ever move on? Aileen had got a green card in the lottery and was already set up in New York, and Teresa was in London. Her friends were in transition, but where was she going? She wasn’t even at a standstill. Her life was going backwards, always. Back to the day she’d lost her father.

Niamh paused on the top of the hill. Behind her was the vast sweep of the Atlantic Ocean, and before her, fields and bogs. In the distance, she could see the blue hills of Donegal. They lived just a few miles from the border with the North of Ireland. Crossing back and forth had been part of her life since she was little. Back then, the troubles hadn’t seemed to happen in the damp fields between counties Sligo, Leitrim and Fermanagh. They’d belonged in Belfast, with the car bombs and tit-for-tat shootings. Sure, Niamh had never considered how dangerous her home could be until that terrible day.

Niamh sucked in her breath. Why was she stirring it all up now? When her head was heavy from the drink and lack of sleep? She began to pedal down the last hill home, picking up speed, lifting her legs and letting the pedals spin. The rush felt good, as if she could take flight with all those sweeping birds. She let herself go faster and faster. There was nothing on the road; most people were tucked up in bed at this hour. The bike swept around the corner, and to Niamh’s horror, she saw a flicker of movement as a man stepped out from the bushes, his back to her.