Sarah Love 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 1 Leaving Clare

  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]

  www.poolbeg.com

  © Geraldine O’Neill 2010

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

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

  ISBN 9781781990803

  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

  Born in Scotland, Geraldine O’Neill lives in Co Offaly, Ireland with her husband, Michael Brosnahan. She has two adult children, Christopher and Clare.

  Sarah Love is her eighth book.

  Also by Geraldine O’Neill

  Tara Flynn

  Aisling Gayle

  Tara’s Fortune

  The Grace Girls

  The Flowers of Ballygrace

  (Also published as A Different Kind of Dream)

  Tara’s Destiny

  Leaving Clare

  Published by Poolbeg

  Acknowledgements

  Once again, thanks to Paula and all the lovely staff at Poolbeg for their work and expertise on Sarah Love – and Gaye for her excellent editing skills.

  As always, I’m very grateful to Mandy and the staff at Watson, Little, who look after my literary world in such a professional, warm and supportive manner.

  I really enjoyed writing Sarah Love, and it was wonderful to take a trip down the memory lanes of Newcastle-Upon-Tyne – although Pilgrims Lane and the shops are purely fictitious, as are the characters. Newcastle is special to me as I trained as a teacher in Ponteland College of Education in the mid-1970s. It is also where I met my husband, Mike Brosnahan, and I am eternally grateful to Newcastle for that! Writing Sarah Love brought back happy memories of our student days and all the friends we made there, including Ann Shaftoe and Phil Read, Kathy Bowes, Dave Rumney, Steve Hall. And of course, memories of my sister, Kate.

  I’d like to pay tribute to the late, great Catherine Cookson whose many books gave me hours of happy reading in the college library when I should have been studying!

  Thanks to Alma McManus, the style guru from Clothesology in Fermanagh, who patiently taught me the basics of sewing, shared her expertise in dress design and miraculously helped me make my first skirt!

  Also, thanks to Judi James from Fenwick Department Store in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne for helping me with the history of the store in the 1960s.

  Go raibh míle maith agat to Tullamore artist, Siobhan McCormack-Ryan for inviting me to join her in Duan, the Celtic Celebration in New York, for St Patrick’s Day 2010. Siobhan exhibited her exciting, vibrant paintings at the event in the Irish Consulate whilst I read from recent work. We had a wonderful week exploring New York before the event and are very grateful for the support of our families and around fifty friends who travelled from Offaly. Warm thanks also to the lovely staff in the Irish Consulate.

  Thanks to the New York Offaly Association who invited us to join them in the St Patrick’s Day Parade, and to Page and Mae from Annapolis and Rod and Nancy Girvin from San Diego (and daughter, Allison!) who travelled to New York to meet us.

  I’m indebted, as always, to Mike, Chris and Clare for their loving support in all I do.

  Congratulations to John and Adele on their forthcoming wedding in an Irish castle!

  Finally – a heartfelt thanks to all my readers near and far who make all the solitary hours at the computer worthwhile.

  Sarah Love is dedicated to my sisters,

  Teresa, Kate, much missed Patricia, Berni

  and my brother, Eamonn.

  The family I was born into and the family

  I would have chosen.

  Take your needle, my child, and work at your pattern;

  It will come out a rose by and by.

  Life is like that; one stitch at a time taken patiently

  and the pattern will come out all right, like embroidery.

  Oliver Wendell Holmes

  .

  Chapter 1

  Tullamore, County Offaly

  September, 1964

  When the morning sky gave enough light to see clearly, Sarah Love checked her watch. She slid out of the narrow single bed and walked barefoot on the cold, cracked linoleum over to the old wardrobe. She opened the door inch by inch, wary of the loud creak it made when opened quickly.

  She tucked a long strand of white-blonde hair behind her ear, then carefully lifted out the heavy hanger. It was weighed down with the long white lace wedding dress she had been working on for the last few months. She often did alterations and made items for local people, but this dress was different. It was the first wedding dress she had made – and it was her own.

  She hung it on the outside of the wardrobe and then sat back on the bed, scrutinising it for any flaws. So far, she had found none. The pattern had been ordered through a shop in Dublin and then she had waited two weeks until it arrived from London. It had been worth the wait. No bride in Tullamore would have a dress like it. She still had a few small details to finish – loops for the pearl buttons on the back and the cuffs, and some small white roses to sew on the neckline. But she had plenty of time. The wedding wasn’t for another two weeks.

  A door creaked somewhere in the cottage and then the familiar rattling in the kitchen told her that her brother James and his wife Martina were up. It would be another half an hour or so before she would feel comfortable about joining them.

  When Martina moved into Loves’ cottage eighteen months ago, she had made it perfectly clear that she liked to have the mornings alone with her husband. When Sarah joined the
m, the stilted conversation indicated that Martina didn’t want her sister-in-law around until she and James had their first cup of tea together and eased themselves into the day.

  At the beginning it had upset Sarah, being made to feel like an unwanted lodger in her own home. But there was nothing she could do about the situation. As the oldest and only boy in the Love family, James had been left the cottage and she was now living there under sufferance.

  She had endured it, and in a few weeks she would have her own kitchen and would be sitting down to breakfast with her own husband every morning.

  Sarah wondered whether it was worth starting work on the dress now or whether she should wait until after breakfast. She glanced at a book on the cabinet by her bed, and then her gaze moved to the sewing table beside the window with her collection of needles and threads, and the new boxes of trimmings for her dress.

  She went over to the wrought-iron stand where she washed every morning. She lifted the white tin jug and poured water into the basin. Then she took a bar of soap and washed her hands in the cold water and dried them on a rough towel. She wouldn’t risk marks on the white material.

  As she worked away, stitching the satin rosebuds around the neck of the dress, Sarah lost herself in the details of her wedding day. She rehearsed every minute of the morning from leaving the cottage on James’s arm until she was walking up the aisle with her two friends, Sheila Brady and Patricia Quinn, walking behind her in the pink dresses she had made for them.

  Then, she saw herself standing at the altar beside Con Tierney – the local lad she had been courting for the last three years. They would take their vows in front of nearly sixty people, and after that they would go to Butler’s Hotel for their wedding breakfast.

  Later on that evening they would take the train up to Dublin, and spend their first night together in a small hotel in Bray.

  Sarah’s thoughts always came to a halt after that. She couldn’t begin to imagine herself and Con alone in the hotel room for a whole week. Herself and Con in a big double bed for the first time. She supposed she would just handle it like every new bride. Take it a night at a time.

  When she decided that it was safe to venture out into the kitchen, Sarah finished the rosebud she was on, hung the dress back up, slid her feet into her slippers and went into the kitchen.

  Martina was over at the stone sink, washing the plates and mugs.

  “Good morning,” Sarah said. “It doesn’t look too bad out.”

  Her narrow-hipped sister-in-law turned towards her. “Are you on a split shift in the hotel today?”

  “I finish at four and then I’m back on again at six for the evening.”

  “We need flour and tea.”

  “I’ll get them,” Sarah said. “But can it wait until tonight? I wasn’t going to come home because Sheila invited me to have dinner out at their house.” Sarah’s old school-friend lived with her elderly parents in the middle of Tullamore and was always happy to have Sarah’s company for a few hours.

  Martina turned back to the sink without answering, the way she often did.

  Sarah’s chest tightened. “We’re not that short of tea and flour, are we?” She went over to check the flour bin. “There’s enough for three or four loaves, and the caddy is half full.”

  Martina took up a linen teacloth and began to dry the wet cups and plates.

  Sarah waited for a few moments, to see if there would be any more to the conversation. There wasn’t. The silence hung in the air, making her wonder if she should change her plans and come home with the tea and flour during her afternoon break.

  Then, she caught herself. If her brother’s wife wanted her to bring the things home, she could ask like a normal person. Trying to read Martina’s mind had got her nowhere in the past. Her moods were so changeable that Sarah could cycle all the way back home with the flour and tea to be met with a bemused half-smile.

  Having a nice hot meal put down to her in Sheila’s welcoming house was a far better option. She put the kettle back into the middle of the range to boil and then cut two slices of brown bread and buttered them.

  As she poured hot tea into her mug, she looked over at Martina who was now scrubbing the sink. “Will I pour you a cup of tea?”

  The scrubbing continued for a few more seconds. Then eventually she said, “No . . . I’ve had enough.”

  Sarah lifted her plate and mug and headed towards her bedroom where she could relax with her breakfast.

  “Thank God the timing has worked out well,” Martina suddenly said.

  Sarah halted in her tracks. “Timing for what?”

  “The wedding . . . we’re going to need your room.”

  Sarah turned to look at her.

  “We’ve a baby on the way now, so we’ll need more space.”

  Sarah’s face broke into a smile. “That’s great news!” She turned back to put her breakfast things on the kitchen table. “You both must be delighted.”

  Martina leaned against the sink. “I suppose we are . . . I’m still getting used to it.”

  “It’ll be lovely for you to have a baby around the house.” She suddenly noticed her sister-in-law’s pale face. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m not too bad.”

  “Do you feel sick in the mornings? Do you know when it’s due?”

  Martina’s face tightened. “I’m grand – I’m not making a big issue of it and I don’t want you to be going around telling everybody.”

  Sarah caught her breath at the assumption. “I wouldn’t say a word until you –”

  “It’s private business,” Martina continued. “And I’m keeping it in the family for the time being. I’ve my mother warned to say nothing for a while, and I’m not telling the sisters yet because they’re nothing but a pair of yaps.”

  “Well, I’m delighted for you and James.” Sarah lifted her mug and plate. “I’ll be in the room sewing until it’s time to go to work.”

  “Sarah . . .” Martina said. “Have you decided what you’re doing with your hair yet for the wedding?”

  “I’ve had a chat with the hairdresser,” Sarah’s voice was deliberately light, “and she’s going to try the head-dress with my hair loose or up in a bun.”

  “You’ve far too much hair for a bun,” Martina stated. She narrowed her eyes. “I thought you were going to have a good bit cut off it?”

  Sarah shook her head. “I never said that. You suggested it to me last week and I told you then I didn’t want it cut.”

  “Please yourself!” Martina snapped. “I just think you’re going to look like a ghost in a white dress with all that whitey hair around you. If you had it cut to an ordinary shoulder length, the head-dress would sit better.”

  “I’m not having it cut.” Sarah went into her bedroom and closed the door. There were a lot of things she wasn’t confident about, but the one thing she knew was that she had nice long hair. Since she was a little girl, people had commented on the colour and the fact it was so long she could sit on it. Occasionally she found herself on the receiving end of snide remarks from other girls. She remembered being teased by two particular girls in school, that even though she didn’t have pink eyes, the colour of her hair meant she was half-albino.

  When she came home crying, her father had told her that they were only jealous of her unusual, beautiful hair and she must learn to ignore them. Sarah now recognised that same jealousy in Martina and was determined to ignore her advice.

  * * *

  The hotel dining-room was busy at lunch-time as it was a market day for the farmers who had travelled earlier in the morning into the town. Sarah went back and forth to the kitchen carrying plates of cabbage and bacon, roast beef and chicken. She then brought out dishes of potatoes and vegetables and jugs of gravy. This was followed by apple tarts and trifle.

  When the rush quietened down, her time was spent clearing tables and setting fresh tablecloths and cutlery for the evening meals. It was hard work, but the hotel was a nice place to w
ork in, and she was more grateful for it than ever since Martina had moved into the house. The staff were cheery and friendly, and there was always a bit of banter in the kitchen with the other workers.

  Sarah could find herself working anywhere depending on how busy things were. She was often asked to come in on a Friday or Saturday morning to help with the bedrooms after the commercial travellers who usually stayed mid-week had departed. She found the work in the bedrooms satisfying, and enjoyed looking at the shiny sinks and taps and freshly ironed sheets on the bed when she had finished. But any time she had a quiet minute to herself, Sarah drifted off into daydreams about the dresses she was making and the ones she planned to make after her wedding. At some stage in the future she would love to work for a good-quality dressmaker where she could spend all day working on the small details that made a garment stand above the rest.

  That was one of the things that she and Con had in common – dreams for the future. He worked as a painter and decorator, and had plans to open his own shop one day, selling wallpaper and paints and, further down the line, carpets and furniture. He had saved up and bought a van in the last year, so that he could travel further afield, and often worked late into the evening.

  Over the last few months, Con had been busy doing up the small cottage just outside the town where he and Sarah would live. It was within easy cycling and walking distance for work. An old uncle had left it to him and his three brothers. Con had given the others the price of their fares over to England and a bit extra to tide them over until they got settled in jobs, and they had willingly given him the run-down cottage.

  Sarah had made curtains for all the windows while Con had plastered and painted and hung wallpaper. Over their year-long engagement, they had saved up and bought rugs for the stone floor and had put a new range in the kitchen for cooking and to keep the place warm, and a sturdy pine table and chairs.