Transgressions, Volume 4 Page 2

  She would not retreat. She was beaten on logic, but not on will. “But Dad, if no one ever moves on anything, we’ll go on fighting each other forever. My children will live and die for exactly the same things your parents did, and we’re doing now! We’ve got to live together someday. Why not now?”

  Connor’s face softened. He had more patience with her than he did with Bridget. He picked up his cup in both hands, as if he were cold and warming himself on it. “Rosie, I can’t afford to,” he said quietly. “I’ve made promises I have to keep. If I don’t, I have no right to ask for their trust. It’s my job to bind them together, give them courage and hope, but I can only lead where they are willing to follow. Too far in front, and I’ll lose them. Then I’ll have accomplished nothing. They’ll feel betrayed and choose a new leader, more extreme, and less likely to yield to anything than I am.”

  “But Dad, we’ve got to yield over something!” she persisted, her voice strained, her body awkward as she leaned across the table. “If you can’t in education, then what about industry, or taxes, or censorship? There’s got to be somewhere we can meet, or everything’s just pointless, and we’re all playing a charade that’s going to go on and on forever, all our lives! All of us caught in a madman’s parade, as if we hadn’t the brains or the guts to see it and get out. It isn’t even honest! We pretend we want peace, but we don’t! We just want our own way!”

  Bridget heard the hysteria in her voice, and at that moment she was sure Roisin was pregnant. She had a desperation to protect the future that was primal, higher and deeper than reason. Perhaps it was the one real hope? She stepped forward, intervening in her own instinct to shield.

  “They’re just people with a different faith and political aim,” she said to Connor. “There must be a point where we can meet. They’ve moderated a lot in the last twenty years. They don’t insist on Papal censorship of books any more …”

  Connor looked at her in amazement, his eyebrows rising sharply. “Oh! And you call that moderation, do you? We should be grateful to be allowed to choose for ourselves what we can read, which works of philosophy and literature we can buy and which we can’t, instead of being dictated to by the Pope of Rome?”

  “Oh, come on, Dad!” Roisin waved her hand sharply. “It’s not like it used to be …”

  “We are not living under Roman Catholic laws, Roisin, not on marriage and divorce, not on birth control or abortion, not on what we can and cannot think!” His voice was grating hard, and he too leaned forward as if some physical force impelled him. “We are part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and that is the guarantee of our freedom to have laws that are the will of the people, not of the Roman Catholic Church. And I will die before I will give away one single right to that.” His fist was clenched on the table top. “I don’t move from here!”

  Roisin looked pale and tired, her eyes stunned with defeat. When she spoke it was quietly. “Dad, not everyone in the party is behind you, you know. There are many who want at least to listen to the other side and make a show of being reasonable, even if at the end we don’t change anything that matters.” She half reached towards him, hesitated, then her hand fell away. “It’s dangerous to appear as if we won’t move at all.” She was not looking at him, as if she dared not, in case she did not complete what she felt compelled to say. “People get impatient. We’re tired of killing and dying, of seeing it going on and on without getting any better. If we’re ever to heal it, we’ve got to begin somewhere.”

  There was sadness in Connor’s face, Bridget could see it and pity wrenched inside her, because she knew what he was going to say. Maybe once there had been a choice, but it had gone long ago.

  “We don’t begin by surrendering our sovereignty, Roisin,” he said. “I’ve tried all my life to deal with them. If we give an inch they’ll take the next, and the next, until we have nothing left. They don’t want accommodation, they want victory.” He let his breath out in a sigh. “Sometimes I’m not even sure they want peace. Who do they hate, if not us? And who can they blame every time something goes wrong? No.” He shook his head. “This is where we stand. Don’t try to push me again, and tell Eamonn to do his own errands, not send you.” He reached across as if to touch her hair, but she backed away, and Bridget saw the tears in her eyes.

  “I’m frightened for you,” Roisin said softly.

  He straightened up, away from her. Her movement had hurt, and that surprised him.

  “If you stand for your beliefs, there’ll always be people who fight you,” he answered, his lips tight, his eyes bitter. “Some of them violently.”

  Bridget knew he was thinking of the bombing nearly ten years ago in which his mentor had lost both his legs, and his four grandchildren with him had been killed. Something in Connor had changed then, the pain of it had withered compassion in him.

  “Would you rather I were a coward?” he demanded, looking at Roisin. “There are different kinds of deaths,” he went on. “I’ll face mine forwards, trusting in God that He will protect me as long as I am in His service.” Emotion twisted his face, startlingly naked for an instant. “Do you admire a man who bends with the wind because it might cost him to stand straight, Rosie? Is that what I’ve taught you?”

  She shook her head, the tears spilling over. She leaned forward very quickly and brushed his cheek with her lips, but was gone past him before he could reach out his arm to hold her, and respond. She looked at Bridget for an instant, trying to smile. Her voice trembled too much to say more than a word of good-bye, and she hurried out. They heard her feet down the hall, and the front door slammed.

  “It’s Eamonn,” Connor said grimly, avoiding meeting her eyes.

  “I know,” she agreed. She wanted to excuse Roisin and make him understand the fear she felt, the fierce driving need to protect the child Bridget was more than ever sure she was carrying. And she wanted to ease the hurt in Connor because he was being questioned and doubted by the daughter he loved, even if she had no idea how much, and he did not know how to tell her, or why she needed to know.

  “He wants to impress her,” she tried to explain. “You’re the leader of Protestantism in Ireland, and he’s in love with your daughter. He needs her to see him as another strong man, like you, a leader not a follower. He admires you intensely, but he can’t afford to stand in your shadow—not with her.”

  Connor blinked and rubbed his hand wearily across his face, but at last he looked at her, surprise and a fleeting gratitude in his eyes.

  Bridget smiled. “It’s happened as long as young men have courted great men’s daughters, and I expect it always will. It’s hard to fall in love with a man who’s in your own father’s mould, just younger and weaker. He has to succeed for himself. Can’t you see that?” She had felt that about Connor twenty-five years ago. She had seen the strength inside him, the fire to succeed. His unbreakable will had been the most exciting thing she could imagine. She had dreamed of working beside him, of sharing defeat and victory, proud just to be part of what he did. She could understand Roisin so well it was as if it were herself all over again.

  Bridget had been lovely then, as Roisin was now. She had had the passion and the grace, and perhaps a little more laughter? But the cause had grown grimmer and more violent since then, and hope a little greyer. Or perhaps she had only seen more of the price of it, been to more funerals, and sat silently with more widows.

  Connor stiffened. The moment was past. He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly time we were going. Be ready in twenty minutes. Where’s Liam?” He expected her to know, even though she had been here in the kitchen with him. The requirement for an answer was in his voice.

  “He’s gone to see Michael. He knows when to be back,” she answered. She did not want an argument just as they were leaving, and they would have to sit together in the car all the way to the coast, verbally tiptoeing around each other. Liam would side with his father, hungry for his approval whatever the cost. She had seen his uncons
cious imitating of Connor, then catching himself, and deliberately doing differently, not even realizing it when he began to copy again. He was always watching, weighing, caught between admiration and judgment. He wanted to be unique and independent, and he needed to be accepted.

  Connor walked past her to the door. “He’d better be here in ten minutes,” he warned.

  The journey to the coast was better than she had feared. The bodyguards followed behind so discreetly that most of the time she was not even aware of them. Usually she did not even know their names, only if she looked at them carefully did she notice the tension, the careful eyes, and perhaps the slight bulge of a weapon beneath their clothes if they turned a particular way, or the wind whipped a jacket hard against the outline of a body. She wondered sometimes what kind of men they were, idealists or mercenaries? Did they have wives at home, and children, mortgages, a dog? Or was this who they were all the time? They drove in the car behind, a faintly comforting presence in the rearview mirror.

  She still wished they were all going west to the wildness of the Atlantic coast with its dark hills, heather-purpled in places, bogdeep, wind-scoured. It was a vast, clean land, always man’s master, never his servant. But even this gentler coast would be good. They would have time together to be at ease, to talk of things that mattered only to them, and rediscover the small sanities of ordinary life. Perhaps they would even recapture some of the laughter and the tenderness they had had before. Surely neither of them had changed too much for that?

  She spoke little, content to listen to Liam and Connor talk about football, what they thought would happen in the new season, or the possibilities of getting any really good fishing in the week, where the best streams were, the best walks, the views that were worth the climb, and the secret places only the skilled and familiar could find.

  She smiled at the thought of the two of them together doing things at which they were equally skilled, no leader, no follower. She was prepared to stand back and let that happen, without thinking of herself, or allowing herself to miss Connor because he gave his time, and his pleasure in it, to someone else. She was glad he had the chance to let go of the responsibility, not have to speak to anyone from the Party, and above all not to have to listen to their bickering and anger. She would be happy to walk alone along the beach and listen to the sound of the water, and let its timelessness wrap itself around her and heal the little scratches of misunderstanding that bled and ached at home.

  They reached the village a little after five. The sun was still above the hills and only beginning to soften the air with gold. They stopped to buy fresh milk, eggs, an apple pie and a barbecued chicken to add to what they had brought, then drove on around the curve of the bay to the farther headland. Even Connor seemed to be excited when they pulled up at the cottage standing alone in a sheltered curve, almost on the edge of the sand. He looked around at the hills where they could climb, then across at the windows of the village where the first lights were beginning to flicker on, the dark line of the jetty cutting the golden water and the tender arch of the fading sky above. He said nothing, but Bridget saw his body relax and some of the tension iron out of his face, and she found herself smiling.

  They unpacked the car, the guards, Billy and Ian, helping, Billy slender and energetic, his dark hair growing in a cowlick over his forehead, Ian fair-haired with freckles and strong, clever hands. It was he who got the gas boiler going, and unjammed the second bedroom window.

  When everything was put away they excused themselves. “We’ll go up the rise a little,” Billy said, gesturing roughly behind him. “Set up our tent. It’s camouflaged pretty well, and in the heather up there it’ll be all but invisible.”

  “But don’t worry, sir,” Ian added. “One of us will be awake and with our eyes on you all the time.” He gave a slight laugh. “Not that I don’t feel a fraud, taking money to sit here in the sun for a week. Have a nice holiday, Mr. O’Malley. If ever a man deserved it, you do.” He glanced at Bridget, smiling a little shyly. “And you, ma’am.”

  She thanked them and watched the two of them get back into their car and drive away up the hill until they disappeared into what seemed to be a hollow where the track ended, and she turned back and went inside. The air was growing cool and she realized how happy she was.

  They ate cold chicken and salad, and apple pie. Liam went to his room with a book.

  Bridget looked across at Connor. It was twilight now and the lamp on the table cast his face into shadows, emphasising the hollows under his cheeks and the lines around his mouth.

  “Would you like to go for a walk along the beach?” she invited.

  He looked up as if the question had intruded on his thoughts.

  “Please?” she added.

  “I’m tired, Bridget,” he said, his voice flat. “I don’t feel like talking, especially if you’re going to try explaining Roisin to me. You don’t need to. I understand perfectly well that she’s young, thinking of having children, and she wants peace. Just leave it alone.”

  “I wasn’t going to talk!” she said angrily. “About Roisin, or anything else. I just wanted to be outside.” She added in her own mind that there used to be a time when they could have talked about anything, just for the pleasure of sharing ideas, feelings, or being together, but it sounded sentimental, and it exposed her hurt too clearly. And companionship was of no value once you had had to ask for it.

  She went out of the door onto the hard earth, and then a dozen yards across it, past the washing line and through the sea grass to where the sand was softer, cool and slithering away under her feet. The evening was calm, the wave edge barely turning over, pale under the starlight. She walked without thinking, and trying to do it without even dreaming. By the time she came back her face and hands were cold, but there was a warmth inside her.

  In the morning Connor seemed to be more relaxed. He was even enthusiastic about going fishing with Liam, and hummed to himself as he sorted out and chose his tackle, instructing Liam what he should take. Liam looked over his shoulder at Bridget and raised his eyebrows, but he accepted the advice goodnaturedly, secretly pleased. They took sandwiches, cold pie and bottles of water, and she watched them climb up the slope side by side, talking companionably, until they disappeared over the crest.

  It was a long day without them, but she was happy knowing how much it would please Liam. Connor had sacrificed much for the cause, and perhaps one of the most costly was time with his son. He had never spoken of it, but she had seen the regret in his face, the tightening of his muscles when he had to explain why he could not be at a school prize-giving, or a football match, or why he could not simply talk, instead of working. At times it had seemed that everyone else mattered more to him than his own family, even though she knew it was not true.

  At midday Ian came down to make sure everything was still working in the house, and she did not need anything. Billy had followed Connor and Liam, at a discreet distance, of course.

  “It’s fine, thank you,” she told Ian.

  He leaned against the door in the sun, and she realized with surprise that he was probably no more than thirty-two or -three.

  “Would you like lunch?” she offered impulsively. “There’s still some apple pie—enough for one, and I don’t want it.”

  He smiled. “I’d love it, Mrs. O’Malley, but I can’t come inside for more than a moment or two. Can’t see the road.”

  “Then I’ll put the pie on a plate, and you take it,” she said, going inside to fetch it before he could refuse.

  He accepted it with evident pleasure, thanking her and striding away up the hill again, waving for a moment before he disappeared.

  Connor and Liam came back, faces flushed, delighted with their success. For the first time in months Bridget heard him laugh.

  “We’ve caught more than enough for us,” he said triumphantly. “Do you want to go and ask Ian and Billy if they’d like a couple?” He turned to Bridget. “You’ll cook them, won’t you?�
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  “Of course,” she agreed, liking the thought, and beginning immediately as Liam went out of the back door. She had them ready for the pan when he came back again, walking straight past her to the sitting room. “Dad, I can’t find them!”

  “Go back and look properly!” Connor said with impatience. “And hurry up! Ours’ll be ready to eat in a few minutes.”

  “I have looked,” Liam insisted. “And I called out.”

  “Then look again,” Connor ordered. “They can’t be far. At least one of them is on duty. The other one could have taken the car for something. Maybe gone to the pub to fetch a crate of Guinness.”

  “The car’s there,” Liam told him.

  Connor put his newspaper down. Bridget heard the rustle of it. “Do I have to go and look myself?” he demanded.

  “I’ll go!” Liam was defensive, the friendship and the equality of the afternoon were gone. He marched past Bridget without looking at her, angry that she should have seen it shatter, and went outside into the darkness.

  She took the frying pan off the heat.

  It was another ten minutes before Liam came back alone. “They’re not there,” he said again, this time his voice was sharp, edged with fear.

  Connor slammed the newspaper down and came out of the sitting room, his face tight and hard, the muscle jumping in his jaw. He walked past both of them and went outside. They heard him shouting, the wind carrying his voice, fading as he went up the hill.

  Liam said nothing. He stood awkwardly in the kitchen, looking suddenly vulnerable, and acutely aware of it. He was waiting for Connor to return, successful where he had failed. He dreaded looking stupid in his father’s eyes, far more than anything Bridget might think of him.