скачать книгу бесплатно
‘Right.’ Niall moved his head in acknowledgement.
Her smile was tentative, her voice soft and her breath visible on the cold evening air. ‘Ye haven’t been in to see us for a while …’
‘No.’ Niall felt ill at ease, wishing she would not watch as he dragged his boot along the kerb this way and that.
‘I’ve been hoping ye would, Mr …?’ Blue eyes fixed upon his face, she waited for his name.
Eventually he said it, obviously reluctant and not a little morose. ‘Doran.’
‘Mr Doran, I think I might owe you an apology. Maybe you thought I was being rude to ye last time ye came in.’
Still occupied in ridding his footwear of cow dung, Niall frowned, pretending not to know what she was talking about.
‘You might’ve thought I was mocking your Yorkshire accent – I wasn’t, I think it’s lovely.’
How could one remain hard-hearted to such charm? He donned a self-effacing attitude and stopped cleaning his boot, attending more politely as she went on, ‘Sure, I ought to know better, folk taking a rise out of me with their top o’ the mornings and begorrahs and all manner of rubbish. Anyhow,’ she inclined her head graciously, ‘I apologise. I meant no harm.’
‘None done. I can’t even remember it,’ lied Niall, but hoped his attitude projected how happy he was to see her again.
‘Well … that’s all I wanted to say, really.’ Obviously relieved, she flashed him a smile, then turned and began to melt into the darkness, but paused in anticipation when it looked as if Niall was eager to speak.
But he simply blurted, ‘Er, thank you anyway – even if there was no need!’
Her lips retained their smile, though Niall thought he saw a hint of disappointment in her blue eyes as she gave a little nod, then went on her way and he on his. And, as he went, he thought about what she had said about going to evening Mass, and made a note to himself to look out for her at church on Sunday, for he had not noticed her there before, being too involved in his devotions. He hoped, though, that he would see her again much sooner than that.
For the first time in days he felt his spirits elevate, thoroughly restored from the gloom that had descended since his altercation with her. Hence, upon nearing home and seeing his boys playing football under a streetlamp, he cantered up to join in a lively kickabout until, remembering that he was supposed to be grieving for Ellen, he swiftly composed himself, gave his boots a last rake on the iron scraper set into the wall, then went indoors, though his mood was to remain light-hearted.
That night he started visiting The Angel again.
Gradually becoming inebriated by the woman who served it, rather than the alcohol itself, Niall increased his excursions to five nights of the week from then on. Whilst this was all very well on a Monday, or even a Wednesday, when, the bar being relatively quiet, he could sit and watch her to his heart’s content – perhaps even be lucky enough to share a word or two with her when he acquired the pint he had rationed himself – Friday turned out to be a different matter. Having arrived somewhat later than on previous visits, he encountered a wall of people the moment he came through the door. The place was so packed, he had to navigate his way through a labyrinth of elbows to acquire his drink. At last, there she was. Forced to raise his voice above the hubbub, he returned Boadicea’s smile of welcome and asked for the usual. He noted briefly that there was something different about her tonight, but didn’t know what it was until a few moments later he heard one of the female customers call to her from the passage, ‘I love your new dress, dear!’ And the recipient of this praise joked, ‘I’m glad somebody noticed.’
Ah, that was what it was. Niall hardly ever paid attention to such detail, but studied her garment more closely now. It was blue with flowers on it, and made of silky stuff that emphasised every curve – which was probably why he had noticed neither the pattern nor colour before. With all the tables occupied and his usual nook taken, he remained at the bar to watch and to yearn. But sadly there was to be no chat with her tonight, for after serving him she was instantly off to serve another, maintaining this hectic pace all the while he was there.
Crammed in from all sides, alert to straying elbows that might jolt and spill his pint, he made tentative sips of it, whilst his eyes followed Boadicea to and fro behind the bar. His ears too strained to attend her, to decipher her Irish lilt from the blunt Yorkshire vowels that obscured it, to detect every word from her smiling lips – and were just becoming attuned when a roar went up. Niall turned his head in vexation to see what had ruined his evening. Unable to discern the origin, he was soon to be made aware, as a piano was set upon with gusto, the whole pub erupting into lively accompaniment.
His faint disgust must have been apparent, for when his eyes returned to Boadicea, he received a signalled command from her to cheer up and join in with the singing, her mouth pretending to mimic his in an exaggerated sulk, and though he didn’t sing he was forced to smile back. She responded with a grin of commendation, every feature of her face participating in that smile and her warm eyes focused completely on him, which made him feel on top of the world. It was not to last for long, her services required elsewhere, but Niall was to treasure this little piece of attention as if she had pinned a medal to his chest.
With a practice born of necessity, the level of his glass was reduced sip by sip over the next hour. Whilst around him others grew merrier and more boisterous, singing at the top of their voices, he remained sober, all the better for watching the object of his desire, making out, when she caught him studying her, that he was enjoying the singsong with the rest. Seeing others treat her to a drink, he wished he could buy her one too. Maybe next week, he could wangle extra allowance from Nora. But if he were to stand Boadicea a drink, he would make sure it bought him her full attention.
‘Are you ready for another, sir?’
Realising the question was directed at him, Niall tore his eyes from Boadicea and glanced at the landlord who asked it, before checking his almost empty glass. ‘Er, no, thanks, I’m all right.’
‘I just thought as you’d been stood there for a while,’ persevered Mr Langan, a respectful yet commanding figure in his black suit, his brawny hands pressed to the counter, ‘you might be waiting to get served.’
‘No, no.’ Niall’s reply was casual. ‘I’m just here ’cause I can’t get a seat.’
The firmly patient tone became strained and the large face was thrust deliberately closer. ‘Only you’re keeping other customers from the bar!’
Not until then did Niall realise he was being castigated. ‘Oh – right, sorry!’ He could have retained his place by buying another half – might have done had it been Boadicea who hovered to serve him. Alas, she was away at the far end of the bar, so he picked up his glass and began to squeeze himself away through the throng, seeking another space from which to watch her. But there was none. Nor was there a way back: immediately he had moved, another rushed to fill his slot and that was the last chance Niall had of speaking to her for the remainder of his time there.
Still, by drawing himself up to full height, he could glimpse her golden head bobbing its way back and forth along the row of drunken patrons, whilst he sipped his drink and the crowd bawled in unison, ‘Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are ca-a-lling!’
The songs, the sentiments bequeathed by their grandfathers, were Irish, though the voices were not, the lyrics delivered mainly in loud Yorkshire tones as the participants sang of the old country that their ancestors had departed long ago. And in this alone, despite his Yorkshire name and his Yorkshire accent, Niall felt his Irish heart at one with them.
Inevitably, after stretching it out for so long, he was finally unable to drain another drop from the glass. Even so, he continued to stand there. Thwarted at having to share her with so many others, he was loath to depart – though not from this mob, who had grown increasingly drunk. How irritating it was to be amongst such a crush when oneself was sober. Look at them – how foolish they appeared as the maudlin tune gave way to a gayer refrain and set them jigging. No matter that it was crowded, one of their number was performing a strenuous dance, arms akimbo, lifting his knees in the air. The big Irish drover was well known in the area, usually good-natured, but boisterous in his cups. Niall could see what was about to happen – tried to warn the drunken buffoon that there was someone about to pass behind him with a tray of drinks – but his voice was lost amid the deafening entertainment. The drover hopped backwards, bashed into the man with the tray and there came the sound of shattering glass. A few heads turned, there were groans from behind the bar, but these were lost amid a cacophony of ivory keys and discordant voices. Nothing could still the dancers, who proceeded to crunch across the carpet of shards, singing to their hearts’ content whilst the poor fellow who had just paid for the drinks was left to stare in dismay at his empty tray.
‘’Scuse me!’
Niall looked on sympathetically as the victim tried to catch the attention of the big Irish fool who continued to dance about like a lunatic, eventually managing to tug at his sleeve.
‘You might offer to pay for them!’
But the author of the disaster stopped only briefly to weigh up the little fellow, and to demand with a contemptuous sneer and a thick Irish brogue, ‘What’re ye going to do about it if I don’t, Johnny-boy?’ Then he cackled out loud and went back to his dancing, flailing his arms and legs about like a maniac.
He was not to do so for long. His victim might be a foot shorter but he had a weapon in his hand. Lifting the tray, he dealt the Irishman an almighty blow to the back of his head, so hard that the tray instantly buckled and so did the man’s legs – but only for an instant, for he wheeled round in anger and was about to take a swing at the one who had assaulted him, when another grasped his arm.
‘I think you ought to pay for his drinks,’ demanded Niall.
Restricted by the iron grip, the drover turned his hostility on the one who held him and, wrenching himself free, threw a punch at Niall, which was easily parried. With this insufficient to halt the attack there was only one way to terminate it: Niall dealt a blow that knocked him to the ground.
The crowd, which had drawn aside like two separate curtains at the first sign of trouble, now swept back together, laughing and singing along with the piano player, who had not even missed a beat, whilst the avenging angel Niall rubbed his knuckles and looked down at the bully, who lay out cold on the glass-sprinkled tiles.
‘Sure, I wouldn’t want to be upsetting you!’ laughed an Irish voice close to his ear, a kinder female one this time.
It was Boadicea, come to try to sweep up the mess, though she was not allowed to do so until the obstacle had been removed by his friends. The piano player changed to a gentler tempo and the crowd took an interval from their dancing.
‘Sorry, I just can’t stand people like him!’ Niall increased his pitch against the raucous strains of ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’.
She wrinkled her nose and bent to her task. ‘Aw, he’s all right really.’ Twas just the drink talking.’
Realising this did not present him in a good light, Niall felt he should justify his action. ‘I’m not usually so quick to hit somebody! He gave me no option; it was him or me.’
‘Sure, I know that!’ She did not sound at all recriminatory. ‘He was asking for a few tours of the parade ground, as my old dad would say, and you were only looking out for the little fella. Your man’ll be regretting it tomorrow, so he will. Likely be offering to buy you a drink!’
‘That’s probably true,’ agreed Niall, still rubbing his scuffed knuckles, his attention more on Boadicea now, for it was suddenly and delightfully brought home to him that he usually only ever saw her from the waist up. Taking advantage of this new perspective – the young woman crouching unawares – he examined first the wide hips, then followed the line of a rather shapely calf in a tan silk stocking, to the finely boned ankle that protruded from the high-heeled court shoe. ‘They’re a strange lot, the Irish,’ he concluded.
‘Ye cheeky article!’
He was forced to tear his eyes from her leg as she came upright with a look of faked offence, and dealt him a dig with her arm.
‘I hope you’re including yourself in that remark?’
So, she had remembered what he had told her then, about being of Irish stock. This and the little nudge of familiarity pleased him no end, and he grinned at her. ‘Aye, well, there’s some’d say I’m nobbut strange meself.’
Boadicea grinned back, her eyes sparkling, but already her attention was being stolen by another who was thrusting a coin in her hand to pay for the spilled drinks, and soon she was set to return to the bar, her shovel piled with glass. Still, she included Niall in an afterthought as she left him. ‘Would you be after a refill an’ all?’
‘No, thanks, I’ve had my quota for the night.’
‘See you again then!’ called Boadicea, before being swallowed up by the revellers.
Aye, you’ll see me again, thought Niall warmly, her final smiling comment topping off the evening nicely for him, as he took one last covetous look, then went out into the night.
Friday’s episode being too boisterous for one of such a quiet disposition, he decided it was pointless to call in at the pub over the rest of the weekend, for he would see very little of Boadicea. But oh, the aching emptiness this involved … Being without her for two nights was as hard a separation as he had ever experienced, tearing at his gut in a way that was almost physical in its intensity. It was a crime in itself to attend confession and be forgiven for his sinful thoughts, when he had every intention of repeating that sin, but Niall went along anyway, if simply for the fact that his parish priest was one of the few to whom he could unload such a burden – though he did not name names, of course, but restricted the information to a generalised confession of impure thoughts. So long as those thoughts were not put to deed he could rely on Father Finnegan’s understanding; he was a man himself, after all.
Already conscious of the worried looks that were exchanged between Nora and her daughters, as he had gone off to the pub night after night, he dared not extend his itinerary to the Sabbath, though he would dearly have loved to, for come Sunday he was as thoroughly depressed and agitated over his withdrawal from Boadicea as an alcoholic might be from his whisky. Hence, by Thursday of the following week, his good intentions of limiting his visits looked set to collapse, for he had been to The Angel four times in as many days, and in all probability would be there on a fifth.
It did not matter that often he had not even the chance to converse with her other than to obtain his drink of choice; he was content be in her presence, to watch and to listen and to admire. Barely able to afford even the one pint per visit, he had foregone other things, walked miles to work where once he might have caught the bus, in order just to sit nursing the glass that permitted him to be near her; a nearness that became almost unbearable as he witnessed others do what he himself would love to be doing. He was deeply jealous of the ease with which they chatted to her, though he told himself he had no right to be. It was not as if she belonged to him.
Which in turn made him ask, did he want her to? Sitting there on his own, night after night, levered away from the bar by those more extrovert, and by his own lack of confidence, in his unobtrusive corner he had been privy to all manner of discussion about the fair Irish barmaid, and would have known if there had been a rival. He had even heard one fool comment that she was a bonny enough lass but there must be ‘summat up with her’ to remain a spinster at her age. Well, here was one who would have her.
Acutely conscious where this would lead, and how it would hurt Ellen’s family and possibly his children, and that he was a hypocrite for the way he had condemned his brother yet was following the same route himself, Niall tried hard to overcome his feelings … but maybe not hard enough … or maybe it was just that he did not really want to. He could not remember experiencing such a reaction over anyone, not even Ellen in the first flush of courtship. He had not even known it was possible to feel a passion that took over one’s entire life. Which was why, finally abandoning all self-delusion, all pretence of noble resistance, and surrendering to a baser, masculine selfishness, he decided he must pluck up the courage and ask her to go out with him.
Yet, whilst his happiness flourished over this decision, so too did his guilt, for, acting totally against character, he had lied to those at home about the recent change in his social habits, had made out that he had joined the Railway Institute where there were all kind of activities to take one’s mind off one’s sorrows – feeling guiltier still at using a dead wife as his excuse. But nothing could have deterred him now from seeing that lovely Celtic lass.
Obsessed as he had become in his mission, hoping like some callow schoolboy to disguise his tracks by way of sucking peppermints, Niall did not realise for a while that such uncharacteristic behaviour had spurred others into action. Not until that Friday evening did he see disaster loom. He had opened the door of the pub, about to enter, when, alerted by a police whistle, he turned swiftly to see two officers bearing down on a youth who ran for his life, their truncheons at the ready. But it was something even more unnerving that caught his eye. Looking as startled as he himself felt, Harriet stopped dead in her tracks, making it obvious she had been following him.
Instantly defensive, Niall took a step backwards into the street, allowing the door to swing shut as he turned to confront her, his stance indignant. ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’
His sister-in-law’s expression of guilt was quickly replaced with one of determination, as she bustled up and thrust her face at him. ‘And what are you playing at? Cracking on you were going to the Institute—’
‘Can’t a bloke change his mind? I decided I couldn’t be bothered to trail all that way – me legs do get enough punishment at work, you know!’
She tapped his chest knowingly. ‘You can’t pull the wool over my eyes! What’s going on, Nye?’
‘Nothing!’ But Niall felt the heat of embarrassment as it rose up his neck, turning his face red. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’
Confronted by his anger, Harriet failed to interpret the underlying guilt, but instead took it as indication that her mother had been correct, he was trying to conceal something. ‘I’ll bet you’ve been nowhere near the Institute. You’ve been coming here all the time, haven’t you?’
‘I haven’t!’
‘I don’t believe you!’ came the blunt accusation.
‘And what if I have?’ he demanded testily. ‘What has it got to do with anybody else? You’ve no right to be following me!’
Harriet grasped his upper arm in an act of concern. ‘Look, Nye, it’s only for your own good. We can see how you miss Ellen. I still can’t believe she’s gone so it must be ten times worse for you, losing your wife …’
At the sound of her name his belly flipped again. How could he have let himself be caught out in such shameful fashion? Now he guessed how his brother must have felt.
‘But you can’t drown your sorrows, you know,’ said Harriet. ‘You’ll just pickle your liver, and then where will your children be?’
When her victim continued to frown at her blankly, obviously unwilling to admit his problem, she added a lively incitement. ‘If you think you’ve been covering it up with peppermints you’re wrong!’
In the wonderful realisation that he was not being accused of anything worse, Niall felt his chest flood with relief, eventually demanding with a forced, dry bark, ‘You think I’m turning into an alcoholic?’
‘You might not accept it, but this is how it starts,’ reasoned Harriet.
But this evinced only humour, Niall shaking his head and his face creased with laughter, such was his relief. ‘You daft bugger! How could I afford it with your mam doling out my spending money?’
At this, Harriet let go of his arm and paused to consider the matter, her face undergoing a gradual dawning.
‘In fact,’ Niall went on strenuously, ‘I’ve been told off by t’landlord for making my pint last an hour and a half. Come and ask him if you don’t believe me.’ It was a safe enough invitation; she would never be seen in a bar.
‘No, no!’ His sister-in-law was looking somewhat relieved herself now. ‘I’ll take your word for it … of course it makes sense … sorry, it’s just that we’ve all been so worried for you, Nye.’ She inclined her square jaw in an attitude of repentance, her glassy grey orbs searching his.
‘Thanks,’ he said with gratitude, though suddenly awash with renewed penitence at so deceiving her. ‘But don’t be. I just need to get out of the house for a while. These dark evenings are getting me down …’
‘Well, I hope you’re not staring into your glass, moping.’ She wagged a finger at him, though satisfied enough with his explanation.
‘No, there’s usually a game of darts or dominoes to occupy me.’ That was true; at least there would have been had he wanted to disrupt his happier pursuit for a more trivial one.
Accepting this at last, Harriet apologised again. ‘Well, I’m sorry we thought the worst of you. Carry on and enjoy yourself.’ And with that she backed away into the darkness, saying she would go home now and vindicate him with her mother and sister.
Glad of her departure, Niall considered himself lucky, told himself he should be more careful and should not pursue this doomed liaison. And at that moment he seriously considered it. But, pushing open the door to the saloon, his eyes lit up as they settled upon Boadicea, and just as quickly, his former resolution was quashed.
Tonight would mark a turning point, he decided, as she greeted his arrival at the bar more warmly, more personally than usual. There was a definite connection between them – he was sure of it from her eyes. The exchange with Harriet had fired him up. Upon asking for his pint in the normal fashion, he found the nerve to blurt an additional request. ‘Could you get tomorrow night off and come out with me?’
There was fleeting disconcertment. Then Boadicea raised her fair eyebrows and, with a rather mocking chuckle, said, ‘It’s good to tell you’re not accustomed to pubs.’
Taken aback by this unexpected response, he looked blank.
‘Saturday’s our busiest night!’ she declared.
His embarrassed laughter joined hers. ‘Oh aye, sorry, I was forgetting what day it is!’ She had done that to him – made it so he could think of nothing else. Sometimes he was unsure what planet he was on, never mind what day of the week it was. Undeterred, he blurted quickly, ‘Sunday then?’
‘I’m afraid I’ll be working that too. Sorry.’ Wearing an apologetic smile, she finished pulling his pint and handed it over.
Not wanting to sound desperate in asking which night she was free, he nodded quickly, handed over payment and murmured, ‘Maybe another time then,’ and he hid his discomfiture in his glass.
Boadicea dealt him another brief smile, though not another word, before moving on to serve someone else. Receiving no encouragement, Niall retired to his usual corner to nurse his wounded pride.
Deeply disappointed and utterly confused by her attitude – one minute seeming to welcome his attentions, the next giving him the brush-off – he chose not to go to the pub on Saturday, almost managing to remove his mind from her by helping his children prepare for their coming roles in the St Patrick’s Day procession.
At least, though, he did manage to grab sight of her on Sunday, if only at Mass. She looked so lovely, so angelic with her rosy cheeks, and her golden hair curling from under a new green hat, he couldn’t understand why no other man seemed as interested as he. But to feast his eyes on her would give him away, though the glimpse he allowed himself was totally insufficient, and the thought of another evening without her unbearable.
His eye on the clock for opening time, directly after tea he decided to risk his mother-in-law’s wrath and visit Boadicea at her place of work.
There were more stunned faces, naturally, over this detour from the normal Sabbath routine.
‘Not going to Benediction? But you always love to go!’
It was indeed Niall’s favourite service, but, ‘Not tonight. I don’t feel like it.’ However, it was obvious he was intent on some venture for he had risen.
‘Where you off then, Dad?’ asked Juggy.
‘Mm?’ Niall examined himself in the mirror. Seeing that the sprig of shamrock in his lapel was rather wilted, he went to the scullery and delved into the bucket for a fresh one and was pinning it on as his daughter asked again: ‘Where you off?’
He looked down at her now. ‘Oh … nowhere.’
