He needed to confront the demons. He needed forgiveness from the very person he had hurt. But that was not to be, and so he had learned to live with the guilt.
‘Come on now, Harry Boy,’ Kathleen said cheerfully, as she waddled back up to the house. ‘Let’s get your man inside.’
Hoisting his yawning son into his arms, Harry took a moment to follow, his attention still trained on number twelve. So, Judy had gone, and now he might never be able to make amends.
He let the past take him for a while.
Then he turned and hurried after Kathleen.
THE MINUTE HE walked into Kathleen’s cosy little parlour, Harry felt at home. He stood, the child once more deeply asleep in his father’s arms, and took a long look about him.
On the whole, it had not changed from the place he had fondly remembered all those years. The wood-panelled door was still the same, with its brass knocker and big iron handle, and the prettiest stained-glass window right at the top.
Once inside the tiny parlour his senses warmed to the familiar scent of snuff. He recalled how Kathleen had a weakness for it. When she thought no one was looking, she would take the smallest pinch of brown powder from the little silver box, pop it on the back of her hand, then she’d sniff it up her nose until her eyes watered and the ensuing sneeze took her breath away. Harry had always thought it comical, how after a pinch or two, the snuff formed an odd kind of moustache round her top lip.
It was oddly comforting to think she still enjoyed that secret ‘little pinch o’ snuff’.
The old leather chair that used to sit beside the fireplace was gone, and in its place was a smart brown chair with wide arms and long wooden legs. The old chair had been special to Kathleen’s husband, Michael.
Harry had not forgotten the news which Kathleen imparted when they first spoke on the phone. ‘I’m sorry about Michael,’ he said awkwardly now.
Her smile momentarily disappeared. ‘Me too,’ she murmured. Then, in her usual robust manner, she deliberately changed the subject, took a deep breath and brought Harry’s attention to the new décor. ‘As you can see, I’ve changed a thing or two these past years.’
Looking about, Harry noticed the new lemon-coloured curtains, where before there had been pretty floral curtains of pink and green. The rug before the fireplace had been a crescent-shaped one, a rag rug that Kathleen had made herself. Now though, there was a smart, oval red rug with a border of cream-coloured roses; and the old brown horsehair sofa had been replaced with a dark blue cloth-covered one, with big round wooden feet and wooden arms where you might easily rest your cup of tea.
Kathleen’s idea of comfort was as old-fashioned as the darling woman herself. Her home was a welcoming place where folks could put up their feet and rest awhile, or stay a week, whichever suited.
‘We’ve got gas fires now,’ Kathleen proudly informed him. ‘Oh, and we’ve got rid of the old bed,’ she revealed. ‘Lord knows, I’ve been cracking me head on them iron knobs for long enough. Sure, it’s a wonder me old brains aren’t scrambled.’
She went on with a grin. ‘As you well know, my Michael loved that bed, creaks and all. For years I fought him tooth and nail for a new one, but the stubborn old eejit was having none of it.’
Recalling the fierce but friendly arguments concerning the bed, Harry was curious. ‘So how did you manage to persuade him?’
Kathleen gave out a raucous laugh, then quickly shushed herself. ‘Michael had a night out with his mates down the pub, dominoes and drinking till the early hours, the buggers! The ting is, he staggered home totally blathered, setting off the dogs and waking up the street, he was! Then he was singing and now he was threatening at the top of his voice: “Me name is Michael O’Leary, an’ I’ll knock out the lights of any man who gets in me way!”’
Harry had to laugh. ‘So, did anyone challenge him?’ Going to the sofa, he gently laid the child down.
‘No, thank the Lord. Sure, they’d have more sense than to tackle the likes of him! Well, anyway, I heard him arriving – in fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the whole world didn’t hear him! He fell in the door, crawled up the stairs and crumpled into bed. Five minutes later he was away with the fairies.’
Harry had always thought Michael to be a lovable old rogue. ‘But if he was asleep, he couldn’t cause you any trouble, could he?’
‘Aye, well, you’d think so, wouldn’t you, eh?’ she sighed. ‘Had a nightmare, he did, thrashing about in a fight with some fella down the pub. The old bed was a-shaking and a-heaving, and suddenly it collapsed. The bedhead fell over and trapped Mikey by the neck. He was yelling and bawling, and saying how he could “feel the vengeance of the Lord”.’
With a hearty chuckle she finished the tale. ‘I told him to shut up his yelling, or he would feel the vengeance o’ me yard-broom across his backside!’
Harry was laughing as he had not laughed for weeks, until he thought of poor Michael. ‘He wasn’t hurt bad, was he?’
‘Aw, bless ye, Harry Boy … sure he wasn’t hurt at all; or if he was, he didn’t admit it.’
Taking a breath, she went on, ‘The very next morning he was off for a game o’ pool with his mates, but before he left, he called Patrick Mason. He asked would he call round and see if he could mend the bed. A while later, Patrick came and took a look. “I’ll have it good as new in no time at all!” he said.’
There was a definite twinkle in her eye. ‘I asked him how much would it cost to have it mended, and he said four pounds, so I gave him six and told him to say it was beyond repair. So there it is! Everyone was happy. Michael had the satisfaction of knowing that he was a better man than the bed, Patrick found a few quid in his pocket, and I got the new bed I’d been after for years. So there youse have it!’
She laughed out loud. ‘Sure I couldn’t have planned the whole thing better if I’d tried.’ Making the sign of the cross on herself, she muttered humbly, ‘Poor Mikey … may the Lord rest his soul.’
‘And may the good Lord forgive you, Kathleen O’Leary.’ Harry mimicked her Irish accent well. ‘You’re a wicked woman, so ye are.’
Her burst of laughter was so infectious that Tom stirred in his sleep. ‘Away with ye, Harry Boy!’ she cried. ‘A woman has to beat the men at their own game, so she does.’
Her Irish eyes dimmed over. ‘All the same, it’s a pity he never lived long enough to enjoy the new bed,’ she sighed. ‘If he hadn’t gone into that beer-drinking contest, he might still be here to this very day.’ Then she gave a cheeky grin. ‘Mind you, I reckon he had a fine old life, and if you ask me, he’s up there with his mates – the lot of ’em drinking and carrying on like they ever did … bless their merry hearts!’
It was a tonic for Harry to hear her stories and her laughter, for it took him away from the grief and the loneliness of these past weeks. ‘You’ll never change, will you?’ he said affectionately. ‘Honestly, Kathleen, you can’t know how good it is to be here with you.’
Smiling
