The Boatman's Wife(77)

‘What about the baby?’ Brendan had asked.

‘He’s fallen asleep.’

They’d both glanced over. True enough, Connor’s eyes were closed.

‘Come on, it’s freezing,’ Brendan had said, opening the back door of his car.

They’d clambered inside, burying themselves under a blanket, as Niamh had pulled off her jeans. It had been urgent, intense, and nothing like the sex she’d had with Jesse. Afterwards, she had felt like screaming, because she still missed Jesse so much – but she couldn’t tell Brendan that. He had smiled, stroking the side of her face.

‘We’re a great team, Niamh,’ he’d whispered to her, tracing his hand down her cheek. ‘You and me, eh?’

On her drive home, Niamh had immediately regretted her actions. Being with Brendan had only intensified how lonely she felt. She’d slammed her hands on the steering wheel in frustration.

And yet they had met again, at her instigation, two more times over the past few months. Brendan had never asked her to say she loved him, or to be his girlfriend or wife. He just gave her sex when Niamh had found herself getting in deeper and deeper. She had wanted her freedom from the fight for a united Ireland so badly, and yet now she was even more involved than ever before. She even had a codename: The Boatman’s Wife. She hated it. Not just because she wasn’t married, or because Jesse had been a boatman, but because of what it symbolised. The Boatman was a mythical figure, Brendan had told her. Like the ferryman who brought the dead across the River Styx to Hades.

‘So, you’re saying I’m an agent of death,’ Niamh had said, taking a drag on the joint before passing it back to him.

‘Well, what else do you think these guns are for?’ Brendan had replied, flicking the butt into a puddle of bog water before taking off across the fields. She had watched him move so fast, like a creature of the night, lithe and quick. When she was with Brendan, she felt safe. But once he was gone, the fear descended. Her hands had trembled as she’d hefted the hold-all of guns onto her shoulder and lugged them back to the car. Pulling out the floor of the boot, she’d hidden them where the spare tyre should have been, and put the carpet back over them.

His words had stuck in her head on the drive back home. She had tried not to think about the consequences of what she’d been doing over the years. This was where she belonged, and Brendan and Tadhg were part of who she was.

Brendan might not ask for her love, but he had her whole life in the palm of his hand.





Chapter Twenty-Three





Mullaghmore, 16th November 2017





As Lily and Rosemary ate dinner, finishing off a bottle of wine, Lily imagined Connor sitting at this very table, refusing to eat his grandmother’s vegan casserole and frying up a pan of kippers instead. She imagined Connor at the age of nine or ten, sitting up at the table, uniform askew, his cheeks sticky from his grandmother’s rhubarb jam on bread. This had been his home, where he had grown up into the man she had fallen in love with.

The vegetables melted in Lily’s mouth; the casserole was divine. She had never tasted such fresh vegetables before.

‘This is so delicious,’ she enthused.

‘Thank you, darling,’ Rosemary said. ‘Most of the vegetables came from the garden. I store them in the shed. Too much for me on my own, so it takes ages to get through them. And my secret ingredient is seaweed – dulse to be specific, which I collect myself.’

‘Oh yes!’ Lily said enthusiastically, delighted at the evidence Connor had shared something with her about his time with his grandmother. ‘Connor told me you harvested seaweed together.’ She put down her spoon and rubbed her arm again. It was so itchy. Angry and red. Driving her crazy, especially since she’d forgotten her medicated cream.

‘Is your arm all right?’ Rosemary asked her.

‘Oh yeah,’ Lily said. ‘I’ve very sensitive skin. When I’m stressed, I get really bad rashes.’

‘Remind me after dinner,’ Rosemary said to her. ‘I’ve something which might help with that.’ She topped up their wine glasses. ‘So, you asked me about what happened to Niamh, Connor’s mother.’

‘Yes, if it’s not too painful for you,’ Lily said gently.

‘I can honestly say I’m not quite sure what has happened to my daughter by now,’ Rosemary said.

‘Sorry, I don’t understand. What do you mean?’ Lily asked, looking at Rosemary’s troubled face.

‘I’ve given up on her ever coming back, but that’s my fault.’

Lily nearly choked on her vegetables. She put her fork down and took a sip of the wine. ‘I’m real confused, Rosemary, because Connor told me his mother was dead.’

A dark look loaded Rosemary’s eyes. ‘It was easier to tell him that when he was tiny; she vanished overnight. But when he was older, I told him the truth. I guess he chose to keep it simple and tell people she was dead. I tried to explain to Connor, but he was so angry. Said she’d abandoned him. That his mother was dead to him. But it was me who told her to go.’ Rosemary shook her head. ‘Connor never knew that, Lily. I didn’t want him to hate me.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I was wild with rage. What she did, what she’d been doing, was so terrible that I believed at the time she wasn’t a fit mother. Connor was so tiny and vulnerable.’