Shadows in Heaven Page 4

  ‘Now then, we won’t be having talk like that.’ Father Jerry frowned. Keeping a check on the violent nature of Sarah’s father was a challenge he struggled to meet.

  ‘Well, if he does even harbour such a notion, ’twill be McGuffey that suffers,’ said Seamus. ‘He has not a friend from one side of the country to the other, and what the feck is he talking about – the man is never sober enough to take a straight aim. Michael and Sarah, they were sweethearts, after all. Pledged to each other, they were. The only person who didn’t know that was McGuffey, and doesn’t that tell you all you need to know.’

  ‘And Rosie O’Hara,’ said Mrs Doyle, boldly, but no one heard, as was often the case when Rosie’s name was mentioned.

  Ellen Carey pulled herself up to her full five feet three inches and spoke. ‘Seamus, Sarah McGuffey, she is to be married to Jay Maughan, and soon.’ Her eyes darted about the room and rested upon Father Jerry. ‘There, I’ve told him.’

  She hoped no one would ask her how she knew. Jay Maughan had dropped a bolt of fabric around the back of the shop and asked her to make her two dresses for Shona, his grandmother. She’d made the last one for her over five years ago. Ellen told no one. Business was bad enough without a curse from Shona to make it worse. She had never spoken to Shona, none of the villagers had. It was Jay who did the talking and he’d been very keen to talk to Ellen, when, after dark, he had called around the back to collect the dresses.

  Seamus had heard nothing of this. He was speechless with the shock of it and could only look aghast at Father Jerry, seeking confirmation.

  Father Jerry removed his dudeen and laid it against his chest in a clenched fist. The air felt heavy, the fire spat. ‘’Twill not be happening in my church. The tinkers, they have their own priest. ’Tis a sin McGuffey is committing, marrying her off to a man she can’t abide. And a cruelty, too, I would say, when the man is a tinker like Jay Maughan. Not to speak of his sinful grandmother, Shona, cursing and calling on the Devil as she does.’ He looked down apologetically at the sawdust floor. ‘I’m afraid ’tis true, Seamus. She will be married, I would think, even before Michael is home.’

  ‘Is… is there nothing you can do, Father?’ Seamus stammered the words. His son was coming home, but if he returned to find his Sarah married, it would be worse to him than the pain of any wound inflicted by the Germans. His gut tightened at the horror of it. The girl Michael had written about in every single letter home for the past five years was to be married, and to Jay Maughan of all people. Right under their very noses.

  ‘I cannot come between a man and his own wishes for his family,’ Father Jerry replied.

  All present knew this to be the truth. Kevin McGuffey was a madman and Father Jerry was as scared of him as everyone else in the village.

  Paddy voiced what they were all thinking. ‘He’s a wicked one, that McGuffey. He’s spent too much time in his own company out at sea, fishing. He has a temper on him worse than any bull in any field, so he does.’

  Brendan was standing by the fire, warming his backside and pulling on his pipe. ‘Paddy, is Bee working tonight?’

  They all turned to look at him. This was usual: when Brendan spoke, everyone listened. Bee Cosgrove was Sarah’s aunt and worked evenings at the bar to relieve Josie.

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have a word with her then. Such news will be best coming from family, do you not agree, Seamus? Angela and Sarah should know what the rumours are, what McGuffey and Maughan have been putting about, in case there is any alternative action to be taken.’ Brendan looked over to Father Jerry. ‘Now I’m not sure it isn’t all talk from the big man, but Sarah has a right to know, and I can’t imagine she does, wouldn’t you be saying, Father?’

  Father Jerry frowned, met Brendan’s eye, put his pipe back in his mouth and said nothing.

  Brendan was well aware that the father would never condone any mortal being undermining the way a man ran his family business, regardless of his personal opinion. The fact that the father had remained silent in the face of his question told him all he needed to know. ‘Right, well, leave it to me then,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a quiet word in Bee’s ear and see what can be done.’

  Seamus banged his pot on the table and retrieved his cape. ‘I have to leave you good people now. I’m away home to tell Nola, Pete and Daedio the news.’

  As he made for the door, Paddy walked with him. ‘Don’t be worrying about any wedding, Seamus. I haven’t seen sight nor sound of the Maughans in weeks. No, ’tis all gossip and don’t you be worrying about any of it. Not at all, do you hear me?’

  Seamus raised his cap in farewell, fastened his oilskin cape at the throat and went out to untie his horse from the post. A group of farmhands were coming around the corner on their way to Paddy’s, and Keeva was ahead of them, already running up the path to the bar. Grabbing hold of the door jamb, afraid of going inside the bar, she shouted from the door, ‘Mrs Doyle, the post office is full of people wanting to know what was in the telex. Am I to tell them?’

  Seamus couldn’t hear Mrs Doyle’s reply. The farmhands, all of whom he’d known all of his life, raised their caps to him and shouted their greetings. He shouted back, ‘’Tis a bad afternoon, you’ll be needing a stiff whiskey to get your blood running again,’ but as he did so he couldn’t help wondering if it had been one of them who’d told Kevin McGuffey about Sarah being with Michael on his last day. Had one of them seen her from the fields where they were working? Had they known about Michael and Sarah? It was that which had started the trouble. He felt a weight in his heart when he thought of it, recalling what Bridget had told him, how Sarah and her mother had suffered at the hands of McGuffey.

  He began hitching the horse to the cart. He could hear the murmur of the farmhands’ voices as they entered the bar and it seemed the news of Michael’s homecoming had reached them already. They must have passed John O’Donnell on the way – he was almost as big a gossip as his wife. Seamus stopped to listen a moment.

  ‘There won’t be any trouble, Paddy, keep your hair on.’

  ‘There’s no need to be worrying about Michael. He won’t be here for long enough, so he won’t.’

  ‘Sarah’s father will shoot him dead before he takes his boots off, you know the temper on McGuffey.’

  ‘If Jay Maughan doesn’t get there first! He and Sarah will be married as soon as McGuffey gets back from his smuggling trip to the North. The deal has been done, sure. Anyway, Michael will have forgotten her name already.’

  So it was true, Seamus thought. McGuffey had promised Sarah to Jay Maughan. It seemed that everyone knew – everyone except those who needed to know. He heard Josie firing back her angry response, giving the farmhands as fierce a tongue-lashing as she had John O’Donnell. He sighed as he heaved himself into the cart. Josie would have her work cut out for her if that was how everyone was to carry on when they heard the news of Michael’s return.

  He pulled the oilskin tight over his knees and shoulders, flicked the reins and directed the horse towards the boreen that would take him up Tarabeg Hill and home. As he turned onto the track, he glanced along the coast road. There was no distant glimpse of the ocean today, thanks to the rain, but he did catch sight of Bee Cosgrove, Sarah’s aunt, further along the road. She was making her way towards the village, ready for her shift at Paddy’s. He decided not to wait for her; she would find out soon enough, and he was keen to take the news to Nola.

  As the wheels of the cart trundled from one deep rut and puddle to the next, he kept his eyes focused on the pricked-up ears of the horse in front of him. With a heavy heart he prayed that Michael would come home to Tarabeg Hill first, home to the farm and not to the McGuffeys’. He might have dodged German bullets in a field, but when McGuffy returned, there might be only one bullet heading towards him, at close range. Nola’s heart might be broken after all.

  Chapter 3

  Shona Maughan lived in a caravan with her grandson Jay and, from time to time, a stole
n child. They roamed the backroads and villages of Mayo and beyond, camping where they could, rarely welcome to stay very long. With her wild long white hair, no one knew how old she was and even the storyteller, at the Tarabeg harvests, fairs and dances, could not recall a time or even a story that Shona had not been a part of. She was the force of darkness in Tarabeg and every villager was terrified of being crossed by her. Every villager except Bridget McAndrew, Tarabeg’s seer, a woman who lived by her visons of the future and her conversations with the dead, and Michael’s grandfather, Daedio.

  Daedio had crossed Shona many years since and had safely made old bones, but he knew the scheming witch had something in store for him. He’d half expected she would take her revenge when his favourite grandson went off to war, and for five long years he’d feared that Michael might not return. Shona would use her powers to wound where it had the most impact – this Daedio was certain of. And hurting the family he loved would hurt him more. The worry had taken the use of his legs away from him shortly after Michael had left for the war. But he had Annie, his dead wife and former closest friend of Bridget McAndrew, to keep them safe.

  ‘Something is occurring, Daedio,’ Bridget confided in him when she called up to the farm for butter.

  Nola, Daedio’s daughter-in-law, was the best butter-maker in the village. No one called round just to buy butter. Everyone stopped, took tea and sat on Daedio’s truckle bed in front of the fire to bring him up to date with the village gossip.

  ‘I have plenty, Bridget,’ Nola said as she took the dish to fill from Bridget.

  ‘I have not the time to be making butter as well as potions,’ said Bridget. ‘I’m happy to pay for it, Nola.’ She made herself comfortable on the end of Daedio’s bed, which creaked in objection to the extra weight.

  ‘You will do no such thing,’ Nola replied as she headed out to the dairy, ‘but if you have a bottle for the rheumatism for me and one to keep Daedio’s appetite up, that would be grand.’ She paused at the door. ‘Now, don’t mind me, I’ve to be getting on with the chores before Seamus gets home from the village. Did you see him at all Bridget? It’s that wet out today, I’m behind with everything.’ Nola hadn’t waited for an answer and for that, Bridget was grateful. The door banged behind her as she headed for the dairy.

  ‘’Tis on the wind, Daedio. I can feel it,’ Bridget whispered to Daedio. She laid a herb-stained hand on top of his, which were bent and disfigured from years of tilling the land. ‘Shona, she is up to something.’

  Daedio’s eyes lit up. He had news of his own. ‘Bridget, my dreams are strong, so they are. I wake up troubled and not knowing why.’ He shuffled himself further up his bed as Bridget nursed the cup of tea Nola had placed in her hands. He was glad she’d called; she was the only one who understood.

  ‘That’s not dreams, Daedio, ’tis Annie.’ She stared into the flames of the fire. ‘Coming back to let you know she’s there for when you need her. ’Tis my guessing that she’s trying to make you see her more often, to tell you something, but you either don’t want to see it, or you can’t. They have their own way to let you know, gently like, often in a dream. She is only in the next room, but the walls of that room, well, sometimes she can see through them and you can see her back. She will pass across and draw a little closer to ye if she can, and knowing Annie Malone, she will, because never was there a more determined woman. She will protect her family in death, as she did in life. She is still here, Daedio. I can see her – she’s just here, now, stood by the fire. I’ve been looking at her, trying to make out what she’s saying to me.’

  A tear sprang into Daedio’s eye. ‘I can’t see her.’ His throat was thick and his voice croaked.

  ‘I know. ’Tis harder for men, but you can feel her, can’t you?’

  Daedio could, he could feel her so strong. Despite the heat of the fire, the air had cooled between them. ‘I can, and I feel she is trying to warn me of something because sometimes I feel uneasy, like when Nola and Seamus have had a fight and have gone to their room to blast it out and I’m left sat here – it’s that feeling.’ He propped himself up against the pillow. ‘As for Shona Maughan, Bridget – she has no trouble getting into my dreams. She’s been so often now, and she scares me. She’s never forgotten, you know.’

  ‘She’s a woman who lives for revenge, Daedio. She’s never going to forgive you for driving her out of the village and off the seven acres, sure she is not. She cursed you that day, and we both know it. But you have me and Annie to protect you, so stop your worrying. I can take on any mischief Shona Maughan or anyone else sends our way.’

  Daedio smiled with relief as Bridget gulped down her tea.

  What Bridget didn’t say was that she’d called into the farm today because Annie had paid a visit to her own dreams and had pulled her to Daedio.

  With her apothecary skills and gift of the sight, Bridget had worked hard up to now to keep Shona’s misdeeds at bay, but of the two of them, Shona, a tinker seer, was the stronger. Bridget’s greatest test was yet to come, of that she was sure, and she knew in her heart that at the root of it was the banishing of the Maughans from the land Daedio had bought, which had rendered them homeless. It had happened years ago, back even before Seamus was born, but the Maughans had long memories.

  For reasons Bridget wasn’t party to, Daedio had bought the land in secret, telling no one but her and Annie. The Maughans had parked their caravan there for generations, on the patch of land between the Church of the Sacred Heart and the Taramore river, in the middle of Tarabeg. The village was a peaceful place, as close to heaven as anyone could want, but the Maughans were a blight, and everyone thought so. They snatched and traded in children, just as their forbears had done since the time of the famine, and the people of Tarabeg despised them for it. So, when the village awoke one morning to find the Maughan clan evicted from their camp near the river, there was nothing but relief.

  As they sat in front of the fire with Annie’s presence between them, Bridget and Daedio were both thinking back to that time, remembering. The flames roared up the chimney like the chained dogs out in the old house when a fox slipped past.

  ‘When are you going to tell Seamus about the land?’ Bridget asked. ‘Sure it’s a sinful waste, all those acres in the middle of the village sitting there doing nothing and no one but you knowing anything about it. Are you going to die and shock the life out of the lot of them too? Seamus could do something with that land, make something of it. Times are hard enough as it is.’

  Daedio’s eyes twinkled in the firelight. ‘Annie left me clear instructions, Bridget. ’Twill be soon. She said she will let me know when the time is right, and I think that’s what she’s trying to do now.’

  ‘Aye, well, she was a wise one, Annie, there’s no denying.’ Bridget looked into the flames again, a rueful smile on her face. ‘And I’m here for you, Daedio, should you need me.’

  ‘You know what Annie told me, Bridget,’ Daedio said, his gaze now fixed on the fire too. ‘She said that St Patrick banished the snakes from all of Ireland, but that when we bought that land, we banished the Maughans from Tarabeg.’

  He and Bridget clinked their mugs and smiled.

  *

  Seamus had made good progress despite the downpour and the heavy load along the boreen and up Tarabeg Hill. As the horse and cart followed the familiar route to the farmhouse nestled into the little valley just below the rocky heights of the mountain, he stared around him, thinking of his son and the two pieces of momentous news he’d just heard down at Paddy’s bar. If he were Michael, there was no way he could give all this up, he thought, glancing around appreciatively at the comforting landmarks of his home. The bog holes where the fairies lived, the bridges over the streams he’d helped Daedio build with his bare hands when he was just a boy – they were a part of his history. He tilted his head as the heavy grey clouds began to lift and let his gaze linger on the lush green fields, flung against the mountainside like a bolt of unfurled emerald velvet, set
ting into relief the old thatched white cottage before him.

  The cottage had once been the Malone family home, but they used it as the cowshed now. As he drew nearer, he saw Nola in the evening light, carrying a pail of milk back to the farmhouse. Hearing the horse and cart, she stopped, set the pail on the ground and waved to him. Her hair was wrapped up as always in a headscarf and her long apron hung from a bib, covering her dark blue pincord skirt. ‘You took your time,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll see ye back at the house.’ She picked up the pail again and carried on along her path to the back door and the dairy.

  Seamus made the sign of the cross and blessed himself, as he always did when he returned home and caught sight of the best woman in all of Ireland waiting for him. He was momentarily transported back to his boyhood and the countless times he had sat on the cart next to Daedio and they had waved to his own mother, Annie, carrying a similar pail, treading the same worn steps to their farmhouse, newly built and slate-roofed. Annie would shout to Daedio, scolding him for keeping the young Seamus out too long.

  He gathered the reins into one hand and raised the other to wave back to Nola. Seeing a gossamer vision of his late mother waving back at him took his breath away. He knew it for what it was, a warning.

  The image was dispelled when the horse got spooked and speeded up. The old nag was heading for home, focused on getting to his stable and his hay manger. ‘Whoa!’ shouted Seamus, but to no avail, and the cart turned the final corner on two wheels, just as it always did.

  Through the open doors of the old cottage came the voice of the farmhand, Pete Shevlin, who had made the place his home, preferring to bed down in the hayloft above the cowshed, where once the whole family had slept. ‘He will have you off one day,’ he shouted as the cart finally slowed and the horse made its way in under the arch, into the near darkness of the windowless shed.