Leaving Clare Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Tara’s Destiny

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook Published 2012

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  E-mail: [email protected]

  © Geraldine O’Neill 2009

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Typesetting, layout, design, ebook © Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781781990797

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  Note on the author

  Geraldine O’Neill was born in Lanarkshire, Scotland, and now lives in County Offaly in Ireland. She is married to Michael Brosnahan and has two grown-up children, Christopher and Clare.

  Also By Geraldine O’Neill

  Tara's Destiny

  Tara Flynn

  Tara's Fortune

  The Grace Girls

  A Different Kind of Dream

  Published by Poolbeg

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Paula Campbell and all the staff at Poolbeg for their valued support and encouragement. A special mention to my editor, Gaye Shortland, for her work and dedication in reducing the manuscript, without losing the essence of the story or her sense of humour!

  Warm thanks to Mandy, James and all the staff at Watson-Little for their constant support of my writing.

  I am indebted to my mother-in-law, Mary Hynes (Brosnahan) for her patience with my research about the dance halls, fashions and lifestyle in Ireland in the fifties. Whilst Kilnagree and my characters are all fictitious, authentic details about the time and area help make them feel real.

  Thanks to the many people who encourage my writing: the O’Neill and Brosnahan families, and people in Stockport, Ireland and Scotland. I must also mention my good friends Page and Eric in Annapolis.

  I wish Brother Baiste good luck with his continuing travels, and I look forward to his long descriptive e-mails from different corners of the world.

  To all the pupils in Daingean National School, many of whom show great talent in writing. I promised two of my pupils that they would see their names in my book so hello to Corey Galvin and Michael Matthews!

  A warm welcome to our lovely twin nephews, Cormac and Lorcan O’Neill, and Michael O’Hara and Isabelle Brosnahan.

  A final thanks to my readers here and abroad who continually lift my spirits by asking when the next book is due.

  As always, loving thanks to Mike and Chris and Clare.

  With love to Michael and Alison Murphy

  friends through the good and not so good times

  Change is the law of life.

  And those who look only to the past or present

  Are certain to miss the future.

  John F Kennedy

  Chapter 1

  April 1958

  County Clare, Ireland

  Rose Barry woke at half-past eight to a blue sky more suited to August than April, and the smell of bacon and sausages wafting through the small cottage that she shared with her parents and grandmother Martha, her seventeen-year-old brother Paul and her two younger sisters Eileen and Veronica.

  One of her first thoughts was whether Michael and Ruairí Murphy would call in at Slattery’s pub that afternoon. Most of the local girls had an eye for them but working part-time in the only pub-cum-shop in the area gave the dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Rose a distinct advantage. Well, if they didn’t come in during the afternoon for their usual Saturday game of cards, they would definitely be there later on. The two lads spent most weekend nights in Slattery’s, joining in with the music sessions – Michael on the fiddle and Ruairí on the accordion.

  Rose smiled at the thought of the day ahead and threw the bedcovers back.

  Martha Barry had been up and about a good hour or more before Rose stirred. Dressed in her customary cross-over, flowery apron, she had lit the stubborn old Stanley range and then set about cooking breakfast for the whole family as she routinely did at the weekends. Rose’s mother, Kathleen – a dark-haired, good-looking woman who was an older version of her daughter – had left the house around eight o’clock as usual. She worked in the local Guards’ Barracks, doing all the cooking and washing and general looking-after of the Guards.

  “You should have taken a bit of a lie-in for yourself,” Rose told her grandmother as she sat down at the white-painted kitchen table. The comment was only perfunctory, as it would have been a sad Saturday if she had no cooked breakfast made for her.

  “Ah sure, a young girleen like you needs a decent bite when you have a good walk ahead of you and then be on your feet all day at work.” Martha put the plate of bacon, sausage and black and white pudding in front of her grand-daughter, then affectionately tousled her thick, straight hair. “You can make a start on that. I have a bit of fried soda bread and an egg still cooking in the pan for you.”

  Then she went back to the range where she would stay contentedly for most of the morning until all the family had been fed.

  The twenty-minute walk down to Slattery’s bar at the quayside was all the more pleasant since it was such a lovely sunny morning, and Rose called out or stopped to chat to various neighbours who lived in the whitewashed cottages along the way. On a fine morning there were always people around the houses, bringing in turf or emptying ashes or going in and out tending to the cattle.


  Rose’s Saturday shift started off on a high note when she arrived at the pub to find that the landlord and his wife were all dressed up and ready to head out for a day in Galway. Mary Slattery was bustling around in her good red coat between the bar and shop, her black court shoes tapping on the old stone floor, while Joe was huffing and puffing about being made to wear a suit and kept running his finger inside the neck of his starched white shirt.

  “Will you leave your shirt alone, for God’s sake!” Mary hissed as she went to the till in the shop with a bag full of copper which would be needed for change.

  Joe looked at Rose, rolled his eyes to the ceiling and sighed loudly.

  Mary put her hands on her hips and gave him a long look. “Get yerself out to that car and get it warmed up,” she told him, “and don’t be acting the eejit with me this morning!”

  Joe shook his head and smiled. “You’re easy riled, Mary Slattery, you’re easy riled.”

  Mary banged the small sack of coins down on the bar counter and then turned to look at Rose with a resigned look on her face. “What would you do with an amadán like that?”

  Rose just smiled. She listened carefully as Mary Slattery ran through a list of instructions for the day.

  “Now remember, no tick in the bar – under any circumstances – for Noel Pearson, and no tick in the shop for the Mullens and the Foleys.” She tutted loudly. “I could kill that Joe for startin’ that racket off – letting them pay when they like! They think we’re running a charity here!”

  Rose nodded her head understandingly, although she had already been told by the landlord to give a loaf and a few potatoes to the two aforementioned families any time they were in need. But always to make sure his wife wasn’t around.

  Mary picked her handbag up. “I know you’re a sensible girl, Rose, and I can trust you to manage things on your own like you did when we went to the wedding. And if I’m satisfied, there might be a little bit extra in your pay this evening.”

  With a final glance about the premises, she went to join her husband.

  Rose stood at the door of the pub watching as the landlord’s car disappeared off along the coast road, then she went back inside, delighted to have the place to herself for the day.

  It was rare that Rose had anywhere to herself. It was very hard to be alone in the Barrys’ house. Especially in the colder weather when everyone congregated in the kitchen seeking the warmth and comfort of the old range. Occasionally on a warm summer day, Rose would go into the bedroom she shared with her grandmother and younger sisters, to lie on her bed and enjoy a few minutes of cool solitude. But it never lasted. After a while the younger ones would come looking for her, and if she chased them out her mother would appear shortly afterwards to check that she was all right.

  Rose never quite found the words to explain her need for a bit of peace and quiet, to have some time to herself just to think. It always came out sounding a bit strange and broody.

  “As long as you’re all right,” her mother would say. “As long as there’s not something wrong . . . something you don’t want to tell us.”

  And so it was easier for Rose to keep smiling and pleasant and join in with the general hustle and bustle of the house.

  As she entered her teenage years and was allowed a bit more freedom, Rose found that walking down to the shop or post office on her own allowed her to have the space and the peace that she couldn’t find at home. The mile or so there and back – feeling the fresh sea breeze running through her hair and the warmth of the sun on her face – gave her exactly what she needed. There were times when she walked really quickly to allow herself a short break later along the strand. Rose loved that. She could lose herself in the sound of the waves and among the small sea-pools in the rocks on the shoreline.

  As she closed the door of the empty pub behind her, Rose decided that the chores could wait. Instead she slowly wandered around the bar, pausing at one of the four windows to gaze across the street to the small post office and the grey stony hills of The Burren which stretched out far beyond.

  Nothing stirred apart from a few cattle in the field opposite.

  Drifting to the back of the pub, she looked out over the shimmering, bluish-green water of Galway Bay where local fishermen eked out a seasonal living.

  Then the bell from the small shop rang out, shattering the absolute silence and heralding the first of the morning’s customers.

  Rose had completed most of the tasks on the landlady’s list by the time Ruairí and Michael Murphy arrived in the bar. She was delighted to see them but her pleasant, casual manner gave no indication that she held them in any greater affection than the other local lads.

  After she served them, Rose gave half her attention to the glasses she was rinsing and drying and the rest to the two fair-haired brothers as they played cards at the table by the window.

  Time passed as she pottered about behind the bar. It was lovely to be able to do things at her own pace without having to keep watching out for Mary Slattery. She glanced over at the two brothers again and Ruairí, the younger, caught her eye. She immediately felt herself blush. They were both good-looking lads but it was Michael she preferred.

  Ruairí held up his almost empty glass, the white frothy Guinness dregs sliding to the bottom. “We’ll have another two pints when you’re ready, Rose!”

  The shop bell sounded.

  “I’ll be back in two ticks,” Rose said, putting her drying cloth down on the counter.

  She went through the door behind the bar and stepped down into the little shop.

  Two thin, pale faces looked up at her – Patrick and Ella Foley. Around ten or eleven years of age, they were somewhere in the middle of a squad of nearly a dozen children. Like the other members of the family, they were inadequately dressed and to Rose’s mind they looked too skinny and underfed.

  “A stone of spuds, Rose,” Patrick said, heaving an old battered shopping bag up on the counter. The handles of the bag had broken and were reinforced with pieces of twine.

  Rose weighed out the stone of potatoes for them and piled more on top, just as Joe would have done if his wife wasn’t in the vicinity to witness it. Then she reached under the counter to the tray of currant buns and gave them two of the staler ones, left over from the day before.

  “Don’t tell a soul I gave you them,” she ordered, “or Mrs Slattery will take my life.”

  As soon as they were finished eating, the two children lifted the heavy bag between them again and Rose held the door and stood watching as they started the good mile’s walk back home with their awkward load.

  Rose was just putting the head on the pints of Guinness when the bar door swung open and a large group of lads came through, loudly discussing the match they were all heading for. Rose felt her cheeks immediately flame up, uncomfortably aware of being the only female in the place – and because she would have to serve them all herself. The fact that her younger brother Paul was in the middle of them didn’t help. She would have the worry of him trying to sneak a glass or two of Guinness when he wasn’t eighteen and risking the wrath of her father if he found out. As usual, he gave her the briefest salute of acknowledgement before disappearing into a corner with the noisy crowd.

  She carried the pints over to the Murphys, earning two big smiles from them. When she came back she was inundated with orders from the other group and time flew as she drew pints and poured lemonade.

  Eventually there were only three lads left leaning on the bar. She flushed as she realised one of them was Liam O’Connor.

  “Rose Barry! The finest lookin’ girl in Kilnagree!” he announced, his hands drumming lightly on the counter. “‘The Darlin’ Girl from Clare’!”

  Liam O’Connor was the tallest and most athletic-looking of all the lads in the parish and was hugely admired for his skills on the hurling field, being the only one of them to have reached the level to play in the county team. He worked hard and he played hard. Like many of the local lads, he kept two job
s going, working on the small family farm with his elderly father and helping his brother out with deliveries in his greengrocer’s shop in Gort. He also did bits and pieces of woodwork and often helped his neighbours out with complicated repairs on furniture and windows.

  Rose took a deep breath. “Now, lads,” she said, affecting a casual manner she didn’t at all feel, “what can I get ye?” She lifted the bar cloth and started to polish a glass she had already dried and polished earlier.

  “I wouldn’t mind a kiss,” Liam went on, winking at the other two, “but I suppose, since it’s the middle of the afternoon, I’ll just have to make do with a pint of stout.”

  Rose gave an embarrassed smile and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what time of the day it is,” she retorted lightly. “It’s only drinks I’m serving.”

  One of the other lads clapped him on the back. “By Jaysus, O’Connor, you’re the boyo when it comes to the women!”

  Rose turned away now and, as she stood on her tip-toes to reach up to the shelf for the three glasses, she felt suddenly conscious of her skirt moving up higher on her legs and the flush on her cheeks grew deeper.

  “If you want to take a seat, lads, I’ll bring the drinks over to you when they’re ready,” she told them, anxious to remove herself from the spotlight of their stares. Especially Liam O’Connor’s stare. The close attention he gave Rose always made her feel slightly unnerved.

  “Go on, you two,” Liam told his companions with a nod of his dark curly head. “I’ll be across in a minute.”

  The two lads moved away from the bar now, used to taking the lead from him.

  Liam paid and Rose started to pull the pints.

  “It’s a fine day,” she said, keeping her eyes well away from Liam’s face. She nodded towards the windows at the back. “I see there’s a few fishing boats out now, taking advantage of the good weather . . .”