Twenty

Henry Prince rose from his seat in the first-class Pullman car as the train slowed down, drawing into King’s Cross. He stepped off the train the second it stopped, and in an instant a porter sprang towards him and took his overnight case.

‘A cab,’ Henry said. ‘Quick as you can! Victoria.’

If he was lucky he would catch the last train to Reigate. If he missed it he’d have to stay overnight at his club, and that he didn’t want to do. He was anxious to get home. He had telephoned Miriam from Opal’s so that Tompkins, his chauffeur, would be waiting for him at Reigate.

‘How are you? Is Graham all right?’ she’d asked. ‘Is he there? May I speak to him?’ She had wanted to keep him talking on the telephone but he had cut her short.

‘I’ll have to go or I’ll miss the train,’ he said. ‘Don’t wait up!’

I hope she won’t, he told himself as his cab sped through the labyrinth of streets towards Victoria. All the way from Yorkshire he had thought about Graham, and about the girl, Breda. He should never have sent the boy to Opal’s. He had good connections in the trade; there were half a dozen stores in London and the home counties which would have welcomed his son, places closer to home, where he’d have continued to mix with his own kind.

It was too late now. He still reckoned that Opal had let him down, but she hadn’t agreed. ‘I couldn’t have done anything differently, Henry,’ she’d said as he was leaving.

‘You could have sacked her.’

‘You don’t suppose he’d have stopped seeing her? It would have had quite the opposite effect. You know better than I do how obstinate he is.’ A chip off the old block, she’d thought. ‘Anyway, aren’t you making too much of it?’ she’d asked. ‘It could be worse!’

Would Miriam see it in that light, he wondered, paying off the cabby at Victoria, hurrying for the Reigate train and catching it by the skin of his teeth. He hoped once again that she would have gone to bed. One thing was certain: he wouldn’t bring up the subject tonight. A good sleep was what he wanted. Time enough for the rest in the morning.

On the verge of sleep, Miriam opened bleary eyes and half-raised herself as Henry tip-toed into the bedroom. ‘Was everything all right?’ she asked drowsily.

‘Quite all right,’ Henry said firmly. ‘Go back to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.’

When he came down in the morning, having slept longer than usual, Miriam was already at the breakfast table, slim and trim, her greying hair becomingly waved. She smiled at him and spoke in a cheerful voice. ‘You had a good sleep, darling! Were you very tired?’

‘I was.’

She poured his coffee and handed it to him.

‘So! How did it go? How was Graham? When will he be home? Was Opal pleased with him?’

‘Very pleased. Good reports all round.’

‘That’s lovely! I shall be pleased to see him back.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that,’ Henry said.

A piece of toast was halfway to Miriam’s mouth. She put it back on the plate, and looked at her husband. He was never the most cheerful man in the world at breakfast, but now he looked unusually grim. ‘What do you mean, not simple? I don’t understand. Is something wrong?’

‘You’re not going to like this, Miriam. Graham has got himself engaged to be married!’

She stared at him, not believing her ears. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said, Graham has got himself engaged to be married.’

‘I don’t believe it!’ she said. ‘How in the world has that happened?’

‘I assume in the way it usually does!’ Worry made him brusque. ‘He said “Will you marry me?”; she said “Yes!”’

‘You know that’s not what I mean,’ Miriam said. ‘Has he . . . ? Is she . . . ?’

‘She is not pregnant,’ Henry said. ‘And having met her, I’d say she’s not that sort of a girl. No worries on that score.’

‘So what sort of a girl is she?’ Miriam demanded. ‘Please, Henry! You’re telling me nothing!’

‘She’s young – eighteen. She’s pretty. She’s very bright. And I’d say she’s as much in love with Graham as he is with her – which is a lot.’

‘But? There is a but. I can tell by the look on your face.’

‘She’s an unsophisticated country girl, not long from Ireland. She’s an assistant in Opal’s store. Although she’s bright, she’s not educated.’

‘And her family? What about her family?’

‘She’s living with an aunt and uncle in Akersfield,’ Henry said. ‘I didn’t have time to meet them. Graham says they’re decent people.’

‘Whatever that means!’ Miriam said. ‘And it probably means she won’t fit in. And she’s undoubtedly after him for his position and his prospects.’

‘I don’t somehow think so,’ Henry said.

Miriam hardly listened. ‘Oh, why did Graham have to be so foolish? And why didn’t you bring him right back with you so that we could talk some sense into him?’

‘Because he’s not a child,’ Henry said impatiently. ‘He’s a grown man. He’ll come home when he chooses, and I can tell you for certain, he’ll not come without Breda.’

‘Breda?’

‘Breda O’Connor.’

‘She sounds very Irish.’

‘Irish to the core.’

‘I suppose we’ll have to see her,’ Miriam spoke with the utmost reluctance. ‘I’ll write to Graham.’

‘Don’t get the wrong idea about this,’ Henry warned. ‘It isn’t a question of you getting her down from the North of England, inspecting her to see if you approve. If she’s not welcomed as Graham’s future wife, then he won’t stay either.’

‘But Henry, what will they do? For a start, what will they live on? His future is good, but he has nothing now, and we must make that plain to her.’

‘Unless the girl is accepted by us, he won’t go into Prince and Harper,’ Henry said. ‘That’s for sure! And whatever he decides to do, she’ll support him.’ And they’ll be happy together, he thought suddenly. They’ll be truly happy. Nothing I can do, or his mother can do, will prevent that. He felt a swift pang of envy.

‘So we must welcome her,’ he said to his wife. ‘We have nothing to lose if we do and a great deal to lose if we don’t.’

‘You can’t say we’ve nothing to lose,’ Miriam protested. ‘I had such plans for Graham. There’s Fiona Palmer, a lovely girl, and all her family such good friends . . . ’

‘It doesn’t do to make plans for one’s family,’ Henry said. ‘I’ve discovered that. Anyway, look on the bright side. You might actually like the girl!’

‘And did you?’

‘I think I did,’ Henry said thoughtfully. ‘Yes. In the end I did.’

‘You always fell for a pretty face,’ Miriam said tartly. All the same, she must meet this girl, and the sooner the better. It was surely not too late, once Graham saw her in his own environment, for him to change his mind?

While Henry Prince was in the train, speeding south, Graham and Breda were walking arm in arm in Sutherland Park.

‘He doesn’t like me,’ Breda said. ‘He doesn’t approve of me.’

‘I don’t think that’s true,’ Graham assured her. ‘I think he likes you at least as much as he’d like anyone else in the same circumstances. It’s just that it’s come as a big surprise to him. My father likes everything to go according to plan.’

‘His plan,’ Breda said.

‘That’s true. He’s used to getting his own way. But it makes no difference. He knows we’re engaged, he knows we intend to marry when we can. He can’t change that, and he knows it.’

The bell sounded across the park, signifying that the gates were about to be closed before darkness fell.

‘Sure, I don’t want to go home yet,’ Breda said. ‘There’s a lot we have to talk about – and besides, won’t Auntie Josie be bursting to ask me a thousand questions?’

‘I don’t want you to go. So we can walk around the streets, or we can go to the coffee bar, or have a drink in a pub. Oh Breda,’ Graham said impatiently, ‘I long for the day we’ll have our own home to go to!’

‘And do you think I don’t? Nor do I care what it’s like. One room of our own, just anywhere, would be heaven. But in the meantime we’ll go to a bar and I’ll have a Guinness to remind me of home.’

The public house was crowded, but they found a small table in a corner. Graham watched Breda while she lifted the glass and sipped the dark liquid, the pale gold froth clinging to her upper lip.

‘Did you drink Guinness in Ireland?’ he asked.

‘Indeed I never did, though everyone else drank it. But tonight I felt like it.’

‘Does that mean you’re homesick, my love? I don’t want you to be homesick.’

‘’Tis only because I’m suddenly not sure of anything,’ Breda said. ‘But then, I was no longer sure of anything in Kilbally. Wasn’t that why I left?’

He took the glass from her hand and put it on the table, then grabbed her by the wrists and held her tightly. ‘Breda, you must never say that, do you hear? Never! We love each other. We’re together. We’re sure of each other, and beside that nothing else matters.’

‘Will nothing and no-one separate us?’

‘Nothing!’ Graham said firmly. ‘And no-one. You must believe that.’

‘Then I do,’ Breda said.

‘And if you’re really homesick, why don’t we go to Kilbally for a few days? We both have some holiday to come. Besides, I want to meet your family, I want to see where you grew up. I want to know everything about you from the day you were born!’

‘Sure, there’s little to know,’ Breda said. ‘But I would like you to come to Kilbally with me.’

And she would like to do it, she thought, before she had to meet Graham’s family. She wanted him to know where she had sprung from before he took her into the affluence of his own upbringing. She was not ashamed of her beginnings, not in the least, but it was essential to her that he knew them, and could accept them.

‘And after that,’ Graham said, ‘you must meet my family, especially my mother.’

She vowed to herself that she would not tell him, now or at any time, how much she dreaded the thought of that.

‘And afterwards?’ she asked. ‘What will happen afterwards? What will you do about a job? Where will you be? What will I do?’

‘I don’t know,’ Graham said. ‘But I’m not worried. We’ll work it out together.’

He was worried, but he would never admit it. If his mother would not accept Breda, then he would not work in Prince and Harper – but in that case where would he find work? On the other hand it was possible that his mother would take to Breda. His darling was surely an easy person to love.

At about the time Henry Prince was at the breakfast table with his wife in Reigate, Opal was already behind her desk. From the very first day she had opened the store she had taken pleasure in being at her job early. She loved the peace of it, before the telephones began to ring, before the day’s demands started. Equally, she would have admitted, she loved the moments when the staff began to arrive, when the covers came off the counters and everything was ready for the first trickle – or heavy rush if it was a sale day – of customers coming through the doors. Almost always she walked around the store at this time, inspecting, noting, asking questions, greeting the many customers who over the years had almost become friends.

This morning, however, she stayed in her office. This morning she expected George Soames early, and they had important business to discuss. And while she waited she pored over the sheaf of papers she had been given yesterday afternoon in Hebghyll. She had read them several times and she had made a list of questions to be asked, points to be discussed, when her brother-in-law arrived.

She didn’t have to wait long. He was as efficient as herself, and utterly reliable, which was why, before the war, when she had returned to the store from almost a year’s absence after her terrible accident and found almost everything except the restaurant, over which George Soames presided, going to rack and ruin, she had immediately pulled him out from that job and made him her General Manager. Without him she could never have rebuilt Opal’s store into the highly successful business it now was.

There was a tap on the door and he entered. ‘Good morning, Miss Opal!’

Though he had married her sister in 1938 and had therefore been an intimate member of the family circle for many years, in the store he still addressed her as Miss Opal.

‘I caught the early train from Hebghyll,’ he said. ‘Good thing I did because there’s trouble on the line and everything’s running late.’ He nodded towards the sheaf of papers. ‘So what do you think, now that you’ve slept on it?’

‘I haven’t slept much,’ Opal admitted. ‘I was too excited! But I still think it’s a good idea. I reckon we could make a go of it. Edgar thinks so too, though he was worried about me taking on more responsibility. I told him most of the responsibility would be yours. That satisfied him.’

‘Good! And Mary’s happy. She likes the thought of me working only ten minutes away from home instead of coming into Leasfield every day.’

It was not only the thought of her husband working closer to home which pleased Mary. Opal knew that. George had had a heart attack last year – a mild one, and he had recovered well, but Mary remained anxious, watching over him, though trying not to show it. He was the light of her life. She had met him when she had given up hope of marriage. They had no children. He was her only love.

The war years had been difficult in the store. There were shortages of everything; staff, because most of them were young, were constantly being called up into the armed forces, women as well as men, and there were coupons and rationing, and new regulations all the time. George Soames, above the age of conscription, had shouldered a great deal of the responsibility, and it had taken its toll.

‘It was smart of you to spot the business,’ Opal said.

She had been hankering, for almost a year now, to spread her wings, perhaps open up a branch in one of the towns within a reasonable distance of Leasfield. Harrogate, Ilkley, perhaps Skipton, had been in her mind – the store drew customers from all those areas – but it was George who had spotted the opportunity in Hebghyll.

‘It helped, living on the spot,’ George said. ‘I’d been noticing for some months now that Fawcett’s was running down. Well, you couldn’t help but notice it. I think the war was too much for John Fawcett. He hadn’t the reserves of Opal’s.’

It had been with this in mind that Opal had approached the owner of Fawcett’s store. It was easier to take over a going concern, however run-down, than to start from scratch, as she had done all those years ago in Leasfield. It was to this end that she had left Henry Prince to his own devices yesterday afternoon, and gone to Hebghyll with George.

‘I must say, I was appalled by the condition of everything,’ she said to George Soames now. ‘I found it more run-down than you’d described, and in spirit as well as physically. Which means, of course, we’ll get it for a reasonable price.’

She had been acutely reminded, looking over Fawcett’s yesterday, of the day she had discovered what was now Opal’s store. Fawcett’s, however, was very different. It was considerably smaller, much less than a quarter of the size of Opal’s, but the right size for Hebghyll. It was also old-fashioned, staid, shabby.

‘There’s a great deal we’d want to alter,’ she said. ‘And quickly, too. It needs an entirely new image.’

‘If you change the name to Opal’s, we’re halfway there,’ George said.

She pushed the pages of notes she had made across the desk. ‘I’ve had one or two ideas. You might like to take a look at them. And you’ll have your own ideas too. After all, you’ll be in charge. You must feel free to follow them once we’re going.’

‘We’ve usually thought much alike,’ George said. ‘I don’t foresee much difficulty there. Let’s go through your list, shall we, and then we’ll come to mine?’

It was almost noon before they paused in their discussions. Opal leaned back in her chair and pushed her hair from her face. ‘It’s nearly lunch time, and I’m hungry. Will it suit you if we pause for a while and have coffee and a sandwich here?

‘Oh George, I’m going to miss you so much!’ Opal said as they ate their sandwiches, ‘Yes, I know we’ll be in touch all the time, but it won’t be the same. I can never really replace you. Herbert Ransome’s very good, and I know you’ve taught him just about everything he knows, but he won’t be the same.’

‘Herbert will be just fine,’ George said. ‘And it’s time he had promotion, which he never will while I’m here. Which brings me to the question of staff in Hebghyll. I wasn’t over-impressed with what I saw there.’

‘Nor I,’ Opal agreed. ‘I dare say they’ve gone downhill with the business.’

‘That being so, I’d like to steal a few people from here,’ George suggested. ‘Not permanently, but until we get on a firm footing.’

Opal sighed.

‘And I expect you’ll want the crème de la crème?’

‘To start with, yes.’

‘I had an idea yesterday about which I haven’t had time to talk to you,’ Opal said. ‘But it is only an idea and you’re free to turn it down.’

‘So?’

‘You’ll need a deputy, someone to understudy you. What would you think of Graham Prince?’

‘Graham Prince?’ George’s mouth dropped open in surprise. ‘I wouldn’t have given him a thought. Besides, isn’t he due to go into Prince and Harper? Why would he want to work with me?’

‘For more reasons than one,’ Opal said. ‘But apart from that, how would you feel about it?’

‘I’m not sure,’ George admitted. ‘Of course I like him, and he’s done very well here. And there is one advantage in having someone new to the job; he could learn my ways from the beginning. I don’t particularly want to take on a member of Fawcett’s staff as my deputy. There might be a conflict of ideas there.’

‘You’re talking yourself into it,’ Opal said. ‘But it’s up to you.’

‘So why might he not go into Prince and Harper? His father said nothing of that yesterday.’

‘Poor Henry doesn’t know whether he’s on his head or his heels,’ Opal said. ‘Graham has got himself engaged to be married, to Breda O’Connor!’

‘The little Irish girl in Display?’

‘The same. She’s a nice enough girl. I’d be glad to have her for a daughter-in-law,’ Opal said wistfully. Sometimes she thought Daniel would never marry. ‘But she’s not what Henry had in mind, and still less will she appeal to Miriam. Miriam Prince has big ideas. So you see the difficulty. No way will Graham subject Breda permanently to the disapproval of his family.’

‘That’s in his favour,’ George said.

‘And there’s another thing,’ Opal pointed out. ‘If you took Graham, you’d have to take Breda O’Connor. He’ll not leave her behind, because the minute they can afford it they intend to marry.’

‘I’d be glad to have her,’ George said. ‘From what I’ve seen, their display work needs brightening up.’

‘And I don’t want to lose her,’ Opal said. ‘To my mind she has great potential. But if Graham goes, I can’t keep her. Anyway, think it over. But not too long, if you don’t mind. It would be nice to have it settled one way or another before either Henry Prince or Graham does anything rash.

The following day Graham made an appointment to see Opal.

‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘if I could take a few days’ holiday? I want to go to Kilbally with Breda. She’s already asked her manager and he’s agreeable.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Opal said. ‘You’re due for some holiday, and this isn’t the busiest of months. I take it you want to meet Breda’s family?’

‘I do.’

‘Well, it’s none of my business,’ Opal said. ‘But did you tell your father you intended this?’

‘No. Breda and I didn’t decide ourselves until last night. But I’m not in his good books. He won’t approve.’

‘Oh well!’ Opal rose to her feet. She didn’t want to get further involved. ‘Off you go to Ireland, and have a good time. And my advice to you is not to make any decisions in a hurry – I’m talking about work now. You can always stay on here a little longer until you decide what you want to do next. I told your father that.’

The following Monday Graham and Breda took the boat to Ireland and then the train to Kilbally.

‘Sure we will stop off in Dublin on the way back so you can meet Moira and Barry, not to mention my godson. And we might meet Kathleen if we’re lucky, but not Kieran, for isn’t he away to England now?’

For the moment, she wanted it to be first stop Kilbally. She could hardly wait to get there, and, oh, how she longed to see Mammy!

There had been excited telephone calls between Akersfield and Kilbally, with the result that both Mammy and Luke were there at the station when the train arrived.

‘’Tis so good to see you, álainna,’ Molly cried, flinging her arms around her daughter. ‘And sure, you’re not looking a day different! Except that you look more grown-up, and you’re thinner, and your hair’s shorter!’

‘But otherwise I’m the same?’ Breda laughed. ‘Oh, Mammy!’

‘’Tis the spirit that is the same,’ Molly said. But now there was more to the spirit. She had never seen her daughter happier, not since she was a small girl with her Dada, and wasn’t that an entirely different kind of happiness?

‘I now have a motor car, as well as the old van,’ Luke said, leading them out of the station. ‘There it is! ’Tis not the grandest in all Ireland, but it goes well. You will be able to get around while you are on holiday!’

He turned to Graham. ‘Can you drive, then?’

‘Oh, yes!’ Graham replied.

I had not known that about him, Breda thought. There was so much to learn about each other, so many little things. Perhaps they would have a car one day, and if so, she also would learn to drive.

‘So how is everybody?’ Breda asked when they were in the car.

‘Your Grandma Byrne is not at all well,’ Molly said. ‘She is too old to live alone and she might have to come to live with us. Luke is willing, bless his heart.’

It was really not worth bringing the car for this short distance, Breda thought. They had walked it all their lives, but she guessed Luke was proud of his possession. Hardly had they settled in before they were back at the shop.

As Breda stepped inside the familiarity of it all overwhelmed her: the same smells of tea and cheese and bacon and soap; the same canisters on the same shelves. She could have found anything blindfold. She felt choked with emotion. Her eyes, meeting her mother’s, were bright and shining. Why was I so keen to leave here, she wondered? And why did I dislike Luke O’Reilly, who by any standards is a nice, kind man?

But if I had not left, she thought, I would never have met Graham, and wasn’t that the answer to everything?

‘The kettle is on the boil,’ Molly said when they were in the living room. ‘And since you will both be as hungry as hunters I will fry you some rashers and eggs. And there’s soda bread not an hour old.’

‘I could eat a piece of soda bread right away,’ Breda said. ‘Haven’t I longed for your soda bread!’

‘Doesn’t Aunt Josephine make it?’ Molly asked.

‘So she does, but ’tis not like yours!’

‘That’s one thing I don’t understand about soda bread,’ Molly observed. ‘Everyone uses the same ingredients and everyone’s turns out different.’

‘I will put your cases in your rooms,’ Luke said. ‘You will not want to be unpacking them before you have eaten.’

Never had a meal tasted better, Breda thought. Because of her stomach’s squeamishness she had not eaten since before they had stepped on the boat. She’d been as empty as a drum.

‘That was delicious, Mrs O’Reilly,’ Graham said, having cleared his plate. ‘I understand now why Breda goes on about your soda bread. And if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be off to bed now.’ Breda and her mother, he knew, would have things they wanted to say to each other, and not in his presence.

‘Won’t I do the same?’ Luke said. ‘These two women will stay up half the night talking and I have an early start in the morning!’

Breda, though she was delighting in seeing her mother, would also have liked to escape. She knew what Mammy would be saying to her the minute they were alone. She was not wrong.

‘Oh, Breda!’ Molly said. ‘He’s a lovely man, he is indeed, but why did you do it? Why did you not choose a Catholic man?’

‘I did not choose a Catholic and I did not choose a Protestant,’ Breda said. ‘I chose Graham, and he chose me. I would have chosen him if he had been a Hottentot! Can’t you understand that, Mammy?’

‘Sure I can,’ Molly said gently. ‘But you must see it’s wrong. It won’t work.’

‘We shall make it work,’ Breda said. ‘Other people have.’

‘Who do you know in Kilbally who has done that?’ Molly asked.

‘Oh, Mammy! Kilbally isn’t the world! ’Twould be difficult to find anyone who wasn’t a Catholic in Kilbally!’

‘It’s my world,’ Molly said. ‘It was yours.’

‘It was,’ Breda admitted. ‘And I love it, and always will. But it’s not my world now. My world is with Graham.’

‘Father Curran will want to speak to you,’ Molly warned her.

‘I don’t doubt he will,’ Breda said. ‘But he’ll be wasting his breath.’

‘Will you be doing me a favour?’ Molly asked. ‘Will you go to early Mass with me in the morning?’

‘Of course I will, Mammy. It’s never been in my mind to stop going to Mass. And will you do me a favour? Will you not bring up this subject again while I’m here? We have less than a week. I want Graham to get to know you. I don’t want him put on trial. And you can’t change me.’

‘I suppose I never could,’ Molly said. ‘But I had to say it. Isn’t it my duty?’

‘Shall we go to bed?’ Breda said.

Her bedroom looked exactly as she had left it, not a thing moved or out of place. The only difference was that on the other side of the thin dividing wall was Graham. It was the first time they had spent a night under the same roof. She put out her hand and touched the wall. How long before there would be no wall between them, and they would lie in the same bed?

The days flew by, each one filled with visits to places Breda wanted Graham to see, people she wanted him to meet, because they were part of her life. ‘And always will be,’ she said. ‘Even though I don’t live here, and perhaps will never do so again.’

She would have liked a future, though the details were hazy, in which she and Graham would live happily ever after in Kilbally, but she had enough sense to know that it was impossible.

‘Not impossible,’ Graham said. ‘Not if I made a living as a painter – and heaven knows there’s enough around here to keep a man painting for a lifetime! But unlikely, I grant you.’

They borrowed Luke’s car only twice: once to take them along the winding coast road to Ballyvaughan, and on another day to go to Galway.

‘My Dada came from Galway,’ Breda said. ‘I think he was always homesick for the sight of Galway Bay and, of course, he used to go to the races. If he won, he would bring us back presents.’

Most of the time they walked, often in the pouring rain. On the very first day she took Graham down to the strand.

‘Didn’t we all play here as children?’ she said. ‘And had picnics in the summer holidays. And when I wanted to be alone, or I was cross-tempered, I would climb the track and sit on the headland, and think furious thoughts.’

She showed him the small house where she had lived all her childhood. ‘How we fitted in I can’t think,’ she said. ‘But we were happy.’

They walked the path by the high cliffs, where Breda terrified Graham by standing too near the edge, looking down at the turbulent sea. They visited the small harbour, watched the boats going off for the fishing.

‘Dada went on his last trip from this place,’ Breda said.

The only fly in the healing ointment of the whole week was the short time she had spent with Father Curran, who had asked her to stay behind after Mass on that first morning. He had lectured her severely but she remained politely immovable.

‘Then if I can’t put the sense into your head, perhaps you’ll be bringing the young man to see me?’ he said.

‘I will ask him,’ Breda said, though in fact she didn’t do so. It occurred to her, both at the time, and later, that if Father Curran had been more understanding, mixed even a little warmth with the doing of his duty, she might well have asked Graham if he would consent to meet him. As it was, she had no intention of submitting him to Father Curran’s hostility, and said so, in private, to her mother.

‘Sure, you have got it wrong,’ Molly said. ‘He is not hostile, not at all. He is concerned about you.’

‘And are you still concerned about me, Mammy?’ Breda asked. ‘I mean, about me and Graham?’

‘Less than I was,’ Molly admitted. ‘Graham is a good man, and he loves you. I can see that. But you know what my concern is and I shall pray for you both about that.’

On the last morning a tearful Molly saw them off on the Dublin train. ‘Give my love to Moira and Barry, and the children. And Kathleen. I’m glad you’ll be able to see her.’

She waved until the train was out of sight, then turned and left the station.

She wished she was going to Dublin with them. She missed her children sorely, and knew she always would. When would she see Kieran again, now that he was in a far away place called Sussex? As for Patrick and Colum, she was almost resigned to never seeing them, though Luke still promised that one day they would visit America.