July 1866, Hackett’s Cross
Norah
The letter arrived in July, exactly a year after the first. Norah held it against her heart, a gesture she knew was pointless. One look at the handwriting was enough for her to guess at the message within.
With Barney sitting beside her, she opened the envelope and read.
Dearest Norah,
I’m sorry to inform you that our lovely Bridget has passed on. The final two months were difficult, but her last day was as peaceful as anyone could wish for. Father Kennedy gave her the last rites, and Martin, Delia and Patrick were there at the end. They’re keen for you to know that she also asked for you.
Martin has requested that I tell you how much your letters meant to Bridget. When one arrived, she would read it over and over again before giving the rest of us your news. Knowing you were well and happy made it easier for her to enjoy her final months. Although adamant that she was too young to be a grandmother, she was very excited that you were expecting a baby. It’s a shame she didn’t live long enough to hear about the birth.
She was relieved to know that you remain on friendly terms with Mary Ellen. Before she died, she told me that the only person she would never be able to forgive was Henry Frobisher. Any ill will she’d had towards our sister disappeared many years ago. Indeed, she said that when the time came, she hoped you would inform Mary Ellen of her death. If you could do that, we would be most grateful.
For my own part, I can say that no matter how many Irish people make the journey to America, the country will never send a finer person than your mother. She was loved and admired by all who knew her. Hundreds of people turned out for her funeral Mass. Everyone in the neighbourhood wanted to pay their respects.
I hope her letters have given you an insight into her character. Even though she told us what she was writing about, we all suspect she revealed more to you than to anyone here.
Despite almost twenty years in Boston, our homeplace in Clooneven was always in Bridget’s thoughts. For many years, she tended not to talk about Ireland, and it was only in recent months that she started to recount some of her stories.
I don’t know if you ever visit Clooneven or our home townland, Boherbreen, but should you find yourself there, please remember your mother.
By the time this letter reaches you, your baby might have arrived. If so, I hope he or she is healthy and strong.
I would like to wish you, Barney and the baby a long and contented life. Please do continue to write.
Yours sincerely,
Francie Markham
When she’d finished reading, Norah rocked slowly from side to side. For a year, she’d had a second mother. Admittedly, she’d only known her through her words. She couldn’t picture her face or hear her voice. Yet Bridget had been as real to her as Barney. As real as the baby wriggling inside her or the couple who’d raised her. She knew the loss was far greater for Delia, Patrick and Martin, but still she felt a deep sadness for a woman who’d deserved a much longer life.
Her mother was more distressed than she had expected.
‘I should have written to her,’ Mary Ellen kept saying, as she walked the room. ‘That’s what I should have done. There were things I should have said.’
Norah didn’t know how to respond. ‘Mam, she was content. She had a strong marriage and a family who loved her. And you’ve heard what Francie said: she bore you no ill will. For what it’s worth, I believe that. She always enquired after you.’
‘Yes, only I should have written to thank her for allowing us to have you.’
Again and again, Norah tried to find the right words. She left the house knowing she’d failed, the weight of a past she couldn’t remember heavy on her shoulders.
Her father arrived the next morning. Barney was at work, and Norah was in the cottage on her own. The baby, due any day now, had spent the night kicking and dancing. Not only was she tired, she remained raw with grief.
The set of his face revealed that something was wrong.
‘Your mother told me about the letters,’ he said, as he sat down. ‘You might have let me know.’
‘What way is Mam?’ she replied, choosing to ignore his tone. ‘She was in low humour when I left yesterday.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Because you’re volatile, she felt like saying. Because I knew you would react like this. Norah wasn’t able for an argument, however, and she chose her words carefully. ‘Because the letters were between me and Bridget. She’s gone, so it doesn’t matter, does it?’
‘What matters is that both you and your mother have been dishonest. Does Barney know?’
‘He does.’
Her father cracked his knuckles, a habit that had always irritated her. ‘And what does he think?’
‘He encouraged me to write to Bridget and he was delighted that she sent so many letters.’
‘I see.’ Another knuckle crack. ‘I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but she was a ferocious troublemaker. She had a vicious tongue on her. She was always looking to poison your mother against me. You do realise that, don’t you?’
One of the things that Norah had noticed was how infrequently Bridget had spoken about her father. There were shopkeepers, neighbours and distant cousins who’d received more mentions than the man sitting beside her. That, she supposed, told its own tale.
‘She came across very well in her letters.’
One more crack. ‘I didn’t say she was stupid. She was far from it. It’s a shame she didn’t put her intelligence to better use.’
‘I’m mourning her death,’ said Norah, ‘and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop maligning her.’
He leant forward and rested a hand on her arm. ‘If I were you, I’d destroy those letters. I’ll do it this minute if you like.’
‘No, you won’t.’
‘Where are they? We can throw them on the fire and be done with it.’
Norah saw that he was serious. ‘No,’ she repeated.
‘No good will come of holding on to them,’ he said, his voice steady. ‘You’ll only spend your time getting emotional about a woman you can’t ever meet. Be a sensible girl and hand them over to me.’
She got to her feet. ‘They were sent to me, and it’s for me to decide what happens to them. Now, before you upset me any further, I think you should go home.’