The Boatman's Wife(78)

Rosemary clasped her hands, shaking her head slowly. ‘But I never meant for her to stay away forever. I guess that’s my punishment.’

‘Do you know where she is now?’ Lily asked Rosemary. She couldn’t help feeling a flash of anger on Connor’s behalf. Why had Rosemary banished her own daughter and separated her from her child? What could ever make someone do that?

‘I think somewhere in the States, maybe Arizona,’ Rosemary said. ‘She used to call me up, the first year she left. But then she just vanished.’ She put her knife and fork down on her plate, her appetite clearly gone. ‘To be estranged from your child is a terrible burden to bear, Lily.’



Lily watched Rosemary as she got up and left the room, returning a few minutes later with two photograph albums. Waves of sorrow and joy washed over Lily as she looked through all of the pictures of Connor with his mother and grandmother as a baby, and then just with Rosemary later on. Niamh had been a very striking woman, with dark red hair and green eyes.

The photograph albums then took Lily even further back, to before Connor was born. Pictures of Niamh as a little girl with her mother and father, within whose face Lily could see shadows of Connor. One picture, Rosemary paused on. It was a group photograph by a lough, and by the fashion it looked to be about the late eighties. Lily recognised Niamh and her parents, but not the other family.

‘That’s my husband’s cousin, Tadhg, and his wife Mary, along with their youngest, Brendan.’ Rosemary looked over at Lily. ‘Thereby hangs a very sad story.’ She pressed her finger down on Brendan, her voice suddenly hard. ‘He’s the reason I had to send my Niamh away.’

‘Will you tell me why?’ Lily ventured, rubbing her itchy arm again.

Slowly, she was piecing parts of the puzzle of her husband together. She realised now that for the picture to be complete, she needed to know all about Niamh, too. She had been with Connor for the first year of his life. What could have happened which had made Rosemary ask her to leave her son behind?





Chapter Twenty-Four





Mullaghmore, 27th May 1994





As she drove up to the checkpoint crossing, Niamh took a deep breath and glanced at Connor in the rear-view mirror. He was chewing on his toy bunny, cheeks red and shiny.

As she ground to a halt, a soldier leant in, winking at Connor. He looked younger than Niamh, with a thick mop of curly blond hair and even white teeth.

‘What age is the young one?’

‘Just over a year,’ Niamh said tightly.

‘Ah, same as my nephew.’ The soldier smiled at her. ‘They’re fun at that age, right?’

‘Yeah,’ Niamh said, doing her best to put on an act. Please God, let him shut up, she prayed.

At last, the soldier waved her on, and Niamh accelerated as smoothly as she could without drawing any more attention to herself. Her body was rigid with fear and guilt. What kind of mother used their baby as a cover to smuggle guns? She could hear Brendan’s justification inside her head.

This is a war, Niamh. Nothing will change without violence.

But I don’t want civilians to die, Niamh countered in her mind.

She could see him. In those dark woods, framed by ghostly white birch trees. She could smell him. So different from Jesse’s scent of salt and sea. Brendan’s power was drawn from the bleeding earth, heavy and overpowering. Brendan, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking into her eyes. All the times she had felt the pain of their ancestors blazing in his heart. Knew, without a doubt, he was willing to die for them. She had been once, too, but she wasn’t willing to give the life of her child.

Remember, your own father was killed, Niamh. Brendan’s voice again, as she drove along the roads of the north. Her cousin would never let her forget.



As Niamh drove into the yard at Tadhg’s house, she saw Brendan’s car parked out front, but no sign of him. Usually he was waiting for her outside. Sitting on a pile of old tractor tyres, smoking a cigarette in his long coat, no matter what the season.

Niamh got out of the car, leaving Connor in his car seat despite his little chubby arms reaching out to her. She didn’t want to linger, so walked quickly towards the house. The air felt thick, and she got the sense of something being wrong. That was it. The woods were silent behind the house, as if all the birds had flown away. No dog was barking. Where was Patch? He never strayed far from Tadhg.

She pushed open the front door, then let out a roar as she saw Patch lying in a pool of blood on the hall rug. White fear descended on her. She rushed into the kitchen, and what she saw there caused her to let out a wail right from the pit of her belly.

They were both dead. Tadhg had been shot in the face, sitting in his armchair by the Aga. Brendan had clearly tried to fight back. He was shot all over. Blood oozed from his chest, his back, pooled across the floor. A river of blood. ‘Oh God, Brendan!’ She fell on her knees, not caring about the blood seeping into her jeans, and reached down to check his pulse. Of course, he was dead. But his hand was still warm. Unmarred by the blood. She brought it to her face. Held it there.

‘No!’ she screamed. ‘Brendan, no!’ Tears flooded her face, dripping off her chin. She felt as if her heart would crack open. She raised her face to the ceiling. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Please, come back.’