The Delaney Woman (8 page)

Tom had left the lamp on in the hallway and the small peat fire had taken the chill from the room. He kissed Heather good-night, reminded her to brush her teeth and watched her climb the stairs to her room.

Kellie went immediately to the hearth, stripped off her gloves and held her hands over the flame. The shivering that had once been controllable and confined to her jaws and teeth spread throughout her body. The cold was painful.

Tom came up behind her. “Are you all right?”

She nodded and rubbed her arms.

He took both of her hands in her own. “You're freezing.”

Again, she nodded.

“Kellie, you're ill,” he said gently. “Come with me. I'll get you to bed immediately.”

Unresisting, she allowed him to lead her into the bedroom where he removed her coat and shoes and tucked her snugly beneath the down comforter. Then he rummaged through her chest of drawers, pulling out and tossing aside articles of clothing until a small white pile had formed on the floor. Frowning, he sat back on his heels.

“What's the matter?” Her teeth chattered.

“Where do you keep your pajamas?”

“I don't wear them.”

“Why not?”

“I'm out of the habit. Usually the duvet is warm enough.”

“Tonight, in your condition, it won't be.”

“I have flannels for exercising. They're hanging in the closet.”

She watched him push the hangers aside until he found a pair of gray leggings and a flannel shirt.

“These will do,” he said, tossing them to her.

Unwilling to lose an ounce of the warmth, she stared at them over the edge of the duvet.

“Brace yourself,” he said. “It will only take a minute and you'll be much warmer.”

She nodded and reached for the clothes. Under cover of the heavy comforter, she removed her skirt and jumper, dropped them on the floor beside the bed and tugged on the leggings and shirt.

Tom picked up the discarded clothes, hung them in the closet and walked toward the door. “I'll fix you a hot drink and bring in an electric grate. If you're ill it won't help much but if it's just the cold you'll be fine in the morning.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

He was back with extra pillows and a cup filled with a fiery liquid that tasted of lemons, honey and alcohol. Kellie's head swam and the burning sensation that seared its way past her lungs gave way to a delicious numbness. Cool pillows were slipped under her head and once again the duvet was tucked tightly around her shoulders. She was no longer cold, only tired, very tired, and only too grateful to allow Tom to minister to her needs.

Her last thought was that the Whelans were lovely people, especially the warmhearted Kate. It would be too much to expect that she would find a friend in Banburren. Friendship, however, real friendship, required full disclosure and that wasn't possible. She couldn't confide in anyone. Still, someone to pass ideas with or to stop in occasionally and share a pot of tea with would be wonderful. Perhaps that, at least, could be achieved. “Your music is lovely, Tom,” she whispered before drifting off to sleep. “I liked it very much.”

S
he looked down the nearly empty street. He'd caught her alone, outside the bakery. It was early. She'd biked into town to pick up a loaf of fresh bread for breakfast, preferring the early hours when fewer people walked the streets.

At first it seemed like nothing, the hand on her arm, a polite moving her out of the way. But when she turned to smile, her blood ran cold. He was a large man with a nose spread across his face, heavy-lidded dark eyes and a wary, closed look about him.

“Hello, Kellie,” he said softly.

She nodded. “Hello.” The word came out without air, her voice unrecognizable to her own ears.

“Shall we walk a bit?”

It wasn't a question at all. She knew that, just as she knew who he was. Everyone who'd grown up in Andersonstown recognized the type—thick, beefy, tattooed men with cropped hair, thick necks, a single hoop earring piercing their left earlobes, black leather jackets and blue denims with a bulging pocket, men no one argued with or asked questions of.

“Please,” she whispered.

“I'm not going to hurt you.”

She swallowed and nodded.

“McGarrety's gone to quite a bit of trouble to find you.”

Dennis McGarrety, brigade leader of Belfast's Irish Republican Army, an assassin.
“Oh?” Instinct told her to say something.

“He would like to ask you some questions.”

She waited.

Kellie opened her mouth to explain and then closed it again. Perhaps she should see McGarrety. She had questions of her own, but not here in the middle of Banburren. “Not now,” she said firmly.

“When?”

“Tomorrow, at nine o'clock Mass.”

“That's a crowded one.”

“Eight o'clock then.”

He nodded and walked away.

Tom sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. He looked up when she walked in. “Good morning. You're out early. Are you feeling better?”

“Much better.” She held up the bread. “It's better when it's just fresh.”

“So it is.” He regarded her steadily.

Uncomfortable, Kellie babbled about nothing. “I thought I'd work on the computer today if you'll be out, and if you don't mind,” she added. “Of course if you need it I can find something else to do. Perhaps they need help at the library today. Never mind. It doesn't matter. Whatever you like.” She sounded ridiculous.

He continued to stare at her, saying nothing. Something close to amusement flickered in his eyes.

Deliberately, Kellie closed her teeth around her tongue, setting the sharp edges around the most sensitive part. She would say nothing more until he spoke.

Tom folded the paper, sugared his tea and drank half of it down. “You're welcome to the computer. I've a pipe order to work on.”

“Do you have many at one time?”

“Usually no more than three. It isn't fair to hold someone up if he's interested in playing. It takes some time to get one out. Although—” He stopped.

“What?”

“I've accepted a deposit for an order, quite a large one, from a fellow in England, but I can't reach the man. If he's changed his mind, I should return the money.”

“How can you return the money if you can't reach him?”

“Therein lies the problem.”

“Is his name a common one?”

“As a matter of fact it is. Austin, I believe he said. Austin Groves.”

Kellie froze. Surely she couldn't have heard correctly. Austin Groves was the name on one of Connor's passports. Her mind wasn't working. That was it. The encounter with McGarrety's man had muddled her brain. She would wait for the drumming to stop and then she would ask again. It was impossible, an incredible coincidence. Austin Groves was an ordinary enough name. It couldn't be Connor. He didn't play the uillean pipes. He was fairly proficient on the oboe, but the pipes, no. And yet Connor had communicated with Tom Whelan.

“I'll wake Heather,” he said after a bit.

“Wait.” She bit her lip. “I know—” She stopped. “I knew an Austin Groves, but he may not be the same one. What does he look like?”

Tom shook his head. “I've never met him.”

“Where does he live?”

“Somewhere in the south of England, I think, although he sounded Irish. Apparently his sister loves the pipes. They're very close. He wanted to please her by taking them up. I take it he's already a bit of a musician.”

Kellie could no longer feel her fingers. “Are you saying that your only association with Austin Groves was to make him a set of pipes?” Her voice sounded high and shrill.

Tom frowned. “Aye. What is this all about, Kellie? You're white as bone.”

“I'm not sure yet,” she whispered. “I have to think.”

He sighed and stood. “You'll let me know when you've sorted it out?”

She nodded and automatically began pulling out the pans she needed for breakfast.

The library was the loveliest building in Banburren. Wooden shelves, thick with books, were spaced far enough apart for two people to peruse opposite sides. A reading room with deep chairs, warm lighting and long windows faced the hills. A librarian sat behind a desk advertising both circulation and research, and smiled benevolently at visitors. Now she smiled at Kellie. “May I help you, love?”

“I'm Kellie Delaney and I'm looking for Mrs. Jamison. Kate Whelan said she might need some help.”

The woman beamed. “I'm Barbara Jamison. It was lovely of her to think of me. Do you have a Leaving Certificate?”

“Yes.” Instinct told her not to mention her university degree. She would do that after she'd settled in, after she had a chance to look at the computer.

“On Wednesdays and Fridays the schoolchildren come and check out books for pleasure and various projects. It does get a bit much for me with all of them wanting something at the same time. Are you available on Wednesday and Friday mornings?”

“I am. When would you like me to be here?”

“If you come at half past nine on the first day, I'll have time to show you what to do before it gets crowded. After that you can come at ten.”

“Thank you. I'll be here.”

The woman frowned. “We haven't discussed wages.”

Kellie interrupted her. “It doesn't matter.”

“I'm afraid we can't offer much above the minimum.”

She was desperate for a computer. “The minimum will be fine. Do you have a computer with access to the Web?”

“We certainly do.”

“Would you mind terribly if I used it from time to time, after my workday is over, of course.”

“Not at all.”

“May I use it now?”

“Absolutely, love. It's in the room with the glass window.” She pointed to an office space surrounded by clear glass. “I'm afraid I can't be of much help to you except to point in the right direction. I'm an old dinosaur when it comes to computers. I've neither the avocation nor the interest.”

“I'll manage. Thank you.”

Kellie sat down in the chair and pressed the power button on the computer. She waited for the computer to boot The monitor leaped to life. Plenty of memory and RAM. Good. She moved the mouse to the Internet icon and clicked. Fortunately, the password was automatically stored. She could open the files on her own. It wouldn't be a good idea for Mrs. Jamison to view the web site she was researching.

The green Sinn Fein logo rolled onto the screen. The menu followed. Bypassing the introductory page, she clicked on the Recent News bullet. The Nationalist newspaper masthead,
Anphoblacht
, replaced Sinn Fein. Articles were highlighted in red. She scrolled down stopping occasionally to click on those that might be relevant. None of them were. Perhaps Recent News wasn't the place to look. She entered a random year, 1995, and quickly scanned the list. Nothing there. She entered another year. Still nothing. This time she typed in a year much earlier, 1989. Her heart pounded as the screen filled with text and pictures. She'd found what she was looking for. Tom and Claire Whelan were definitely not saints. Perhaps she hadn't made a mistake after all. But what did it mean? It was all too much of a coincidence. If she was here because Connor had ordered a set of Irish pipes— Settling herself in, she began to read.

Two hours later she let herself into the house she shared with Tom and Heather. Quickly she glanced in the hall mirror. She looked all right, paler than usual, but still herself. A fire burned steadily in the hearth. Tom was home.

“Hello,” she called out tentatively.

“Hello,” he answered from the room that served as his study. “I thought you would be longer.”

She stood in the doorway. “I thought you were out for the day.”

“I changed my mind.”

“I spoke with Mrs. Jamison. She needs someone a few mornings a week. I'd like to help her.”

Casually, he cleared the computer screen. “Do it.”

“It doesn't pay well.”

“Nothing here pays well. Since when has that stopped anyone?”

She shrugged and turned away.

“Kellie.”

She turned back.

“I didn't mean to be dismissive.”

She tilted her head. What did she have to lose? “
Dismissive
isn't the right word.
Sarcastic
would be a better one.”

He looked at her for a full minute. “I'm sorry,” he said at last. “It wasn't my intent.”

“We rub each other the wrong way, don't we?”

He thought a minute. “Now that you mention it, I suppose so. I wonder why.”

She shrugged.
Damn her telltale Irish skin.
The last thing she wanted was for him to know it bothered her. “It happens sometimes,” she said airily, and left the room.

He watched her go, already regretting his lie. He knew exactly why. She reminded him of Claire. Claire, his wife, who made his heart thump at the mere thought of her walking through the door. But he wasn't about to tell that to this woman despite her lovely voice and her quick smile and her sweet ways. It was past time to face the facts. Claire was gone and there was no going back. But even after seven years the loss of her was like a rawness on a wound that wouldn't scab over.

There had never been a moment when he hadn't loved Claire Donovan. She was part of his youth, those innocent days when he believed goodness and proper behavior were all it took for life to be fair, long before he knew how the world cut a piece out of a man, knocked him to his knees, humbled him in the eyes of those he most wanted to impress. Claire had been one of those. At first.

Even as a child she was lovely with her front teeth missing and a spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks. He did everything to be near her. His first job had been washing dishes at Fahey's Pub. He remembered the epiphany that hit him when he was elbow deep in bubbles, his mind on Claire and the evening before.
I'm going to marry Claire Donovan and live with her for the rest of my life
. He remembered the surge of warmth in his chest, the hope in his heart, the sheer joy of believing that a woman, the right woman, was all a man needed. He was fifteen years old, in love for the first time with a girl so beautiful his head swam. And the best of it was she wanted him.
Claire Donovan with her sparkling eyes and lovely smile wanted no one else but him
.

When had that changed? Tom knew the answer to that one. It had dawned on him one day after months had passed without either touching the other. Why hadn't he brought it up? Kissing and caressing and the wonderful silky slide into sex were the glue that cemented relationships. It carried a couple through the difficult times when each wondered what they had done, why they were together in the first place. Why hadn't he brought it up? Because he hadn't wanted it, either. Because Claire, the rabid revolutionary, no longer appealed to him. After his sojourn in Long Kesh, the entire nightmare of life on the run no longer appealed to him. Nights spent with an ear for a door crashing open. Wet palms every time a member of the RUC walked past. Always on the move, no roots, no spot to settle in, not a single moment of rest. And then the wasted, lonely years in prison. It hit him solidly one morning, after he had been shuffled out into a frosty dawn with others like himself, that this could be his life. He wanted none of it. After that he'd become a model prisoner, unobtrusive, obedient, submissive. The prisons were crowded. His sentence had been reduced by half. He'd come home bursting with gratitude for another chance, this time getting it right.

But Claire had seen things differently. During his prison years, she'd become more heavily involved than ever. She'd told him what she'd done, the missions in which she'd participated. The pride in her voice terrified him. He talked of leaving Banburren, moving to the Republic, beginning again. She wouldn't hear of it. They became strangers sharing a house, she coming and going, he adjusting to life outside prison walls. He would have left her. But the miracle of her pregnancy stopped him. Surely, he'd thought, a child would turn her around. He was mistaken. Claire had disappeared for nearly a week before he learned where she was. Indicted for the murder of Lord Mountjoy, she was transported to Maidenstone, the women's prison, where she awaited trial. Tom hired a lawyer but Claire would have none of it. She wasn't a criminal, she'd told him. She was a soldier, a member of a guerilla army who did not recognize the jurisdiction of the British government or its servants.

Tom would never forget that morning when the barrister walked back into the room where he waited. The man had shaken his head and returned the check for services rendered. “She won't speak to me,” he'd told him.

Then Tom had seen her. He'd pleaded, threatened, painted a graphic picture of days and nights in a British prison. But Claire was adamant. She would take nothing from him. He washed his hands of her after that, hardened his heart against her and the child she carried. Self-preservation, he called it, when his conscience smote him. She was an adult and she'd refused him. What else could he do?