Prologue

While American women were chucking their bras into dustbins and their counterparts in the UK were under the spell of Beatlemania, the women in Ballygreen, Ireland spent the sixties untouched by the cultural revolution. Busy raising their large families, the rhythm of their lives punctuated by births and baptisms, Christmas, family gatherings, and the background disquiet of the “Troubles” in the north, there was little time for such introspection or frivolity.

But as the seventies ground on, the winds of change and discontent were slowly seeping in under the doorstops and prising at the chinks in the edifice of the once unassailable hegemony of the Catholic Church. A quiet revolution was slowly but determinedly starting to unfold, and Nell O’Brien was soon to become a protagonist in a culture shift that some thought long overdue while others viewed it as verging on the heretical.

Chapter One

Nell hung the wet nappies on the line strung over the bathtub. Her hands were red from the cold rinsing and wringing of the white rectangular cotton cloths that, despite their bleaching, stubbornly bore the stains of years of service. She would move them close to the fire once they stopped dripping. No point in hanging them outside while the November rain pelted obliquely against the windowpanes. With little Tommy finally down for his afternoon nap, now was her time to retreat to the living room with a cup of tea and her latest book.

She withdrew from the cold bathroom with its draughty windows and peeling paint and hurried to the warmth of the kitchen where the oil stove kept her kettle on a constant ready boil and brewed a pot of tea. She poured herself a cuppa and headed for the living room, picked up her book from its place on the mantelpiece, and settled down into her armchair by the fireplace for a good read. She exhaled deeply and allowed the epic tale to transport her to other worlds as she swept a mounting heap of discontent into the corners and recesses of her consciousness.

Comparing herself to her immediate neighbour, Mrs. Murphy was another antidote she often used to bolster her flagging enthusiasm for her place in the world. She had little to complain about compared to Mrs. Murphy. That husband of hers was a waster, drunk every payday, with the gall to roll home singing at the top of his lungs some droning rendition of “Kevin Barry” or, God preserve us, a whining attempt at “Boolevogue.” As soon as he staggered over his doorstep, the recriminations would start, with the muffled sounds of acrimony penetrating through the stone walls. Nothing decipherable but the sound of furniture moving clumsily as Pat Murphy stumbled and swore until he had had enough and threatened her into silence. Her Ted may lack ambition, but he was at least reliable. He would lavish a small portion of his wages on a few ounces of plug tobacco, withholding only a couple of shillings. The rest he handed over to her management.

Nell was a good money manager except that she had a weakness for shoes. Her shoes set her apart from her neighbours. She chose them for quality and style, with function taking a backseat. In all other respects she dressed in the same drab, shapeless attire as that of her neighbours, except for Sundays, of course, when they all dressed up. Sometimes she hid a new pair of shoes, wearing them secretly in the house or when walking to the village alone, only venturing to let Ted see them on her when they had a lived-in look. He wasn’t that observant, so it was only when she fell for a particularly vivid colour, eventually donning them for Mass, that his eyebrows would raise and let slip a comment about her putting on airs. She compensated for this affluent habit by making a lot of her own clothes. Given that she had been pregnant for much of the last fifteen years, the patterns she used were simple and accommodating. She made most of the boys’ sweaters on a knitting machine given to her by Ted’s maiden aunt. The contraption was stored under the stairwell when not in use, and the half-finished sweaters smelled faintly of mothballs and boot polish.

Their marriage had produced five sons: Joe, Frankie, Eoin, Paddy, and Tommy. The firstborn, Joe, had been a great source of pride for the two of them. A physical manifestation of the passion and pleasure they had lavished on each other during the first two years of their marriage. Frankie, their secondborn came into life with slightly less fanfare but captured his mother’s attention when he developed pneumonia as an infant. The terror of sleepless nights by the fire where Nell had sat for hours trying desperately to breastfeed him was emblazoned in her psyche. Breastfeeding seemed impossible as the little mite choked for breath against her ample bosom. Her fear had halted her milk flow, and, in desperation, she resorted to an eyedropper filled with warm cow’s milk that she painstakingly squeezed, releasing the warm fluid drop by drop into his gasping little mouth. Frankie recovered but continued to be plagued by intermittent respiratory infections for his first four years. He received more than his fair share of Nell’s attention and, though she couldn’t admit it, perhaps more than his fair share of her love, if one can share love in the way she carefully sliced a loaf of bread for their school sandwiches each day.

Nell’s quiet reading time was brought to an abrupt end as the kitchen door swung open and two of her children burst in, followed by their dog, Scamp.

“Quick, hide, hide!” urged Eoin as he dashed behind the sofa, while Paddy took cover behind the high back of his mother’s chair.

Shortly afterwards Frankie came storming in.

“I’ll kill ye, ye little thieves,” he threatened.

“For God’s sake, what’s up with you, Frankie?” asked Nell.

“It was an accident,” piped up Eoin from behind the sofa.

“A terrible accident,” chimed in Paddy, who, along with Eoin, was the focus of Frankie’s wrath.

“Will somebody please tell me what’s going on,” Nell insisted.

“They stole my beetle collection and let all the beetles out,” fumed Frankie.

“Ah boys, ye didn’t.” Nell knew full well what that collection meant to Frankie. Too spindly to play hurling with his classmates, Frankie spent hours in the nearby woods poking through the undergrowth, removing moss, and upturning rocks to look for new and interesting creepy crawlies. Eoin struggled to explain the situation.

“We were just having a look, you see. You have to open the jar to get a proper look because the labels are in the way. Then I tipped it on its side, so they had room to move and not be all piled up on each other. I was just about to put the lid back on when Frankie roared at us, and I dropped the jar. Scamp jumped on them and started eating them. It was an accident,” he concluded, starting to sob.

“My collection is ruined,” said Frankie, tears welling up in his eyelids. Nell tried to comfort him but to no avail.

“Ah, they didn’t mean it, pet,” she said.

“Yes, they did!

“No, we didn’t, honestly,” said Eoin.

Baby Tommy started to cry. The clock struck four, and Nell feared she was never going to get the dinner on the table before Ted got home.

“Go back out to the woods, the three of ye, and help Frankie find more beetles.”

“But it’s raining,” they whined in unison.

“Won’t do you any harm. In any case, it’s starting to lighten up.” She marched them all out the door. “You have one hour before dusk. Come home as soon as it starts to get dark.”

After ushering her older children back into the elements, Nell turned her attention to baby Tommy, whose sorrowful moans announced that nap time was over. He was normally a happy little fellow who greeted the world with a wide-eyed smile that exploded into giggles at the least encouragement.

“Tommy, Tom-Tom,” said Nell, raising him up to her eye height. He smiled through his tears, stuffing his little fist into his mouth, pressing it against his raw gums that were causing him so much distress. At eight months, his first two teeth had erupted without much fanfare, but this last batch was causing both him and Nell much anxiety. She gave him his teething ring and paced back and forth between the kitchen and the living room until he fell asleep once more. She placed him in the homemade pen that Ted had built after Joe’s birth. It served many functions depending on which child was using it. The oldest two, Joe and Frankie, had used it as a jail when playing cops and robbers until very recently. Eoin and Paddy used it as a fort when playing F-Troop, modelled after their favourite TV show. Paddy also climbed inside to spend time with his little brother, Tommy, the only sibling that was younger than him. The pen was a bit worse for wear, with the hinges starting to creak and two of the bars being a bit loose. Nell was concerned that if one of them gave way, Tommy might get his head stuck in the gap, so she had rammed that side of the pen against the wall to guard against the possibility of this happening.

At 5:15 p.m., Nell turned her attention to making supper. Ted would be home at 6 p.m. and expect to be fed. She turned the oven back on and peeled the potatoes. There were pork chops in the fridge that would cook quickly. She layered them with onions, chopped celery, and thinly sliced potatoes. At 5:30 pm she was running out of time. Anxiety took over. She stopped peeling the potatoes and quickly sliced the rest of them with their skins on. Adding them as a final layer, she poured a can of condensed mushroom soup on top before shoving the concoction into the oven.

By now she was sweating, her forehead damp and dripping, her sweat mixing with the tears brought on from cutting the onions. She sat down and allowed herself a small dose of self-pity. Really, she didn’t understand why she felt this unease at times. Her children brought her great joy. She wanted a large family and had always imagined she would have many children. She had been lonely as a child herself, with only one sibling. James, six years older than her, had little time or interest in her. He had been sent to boarding school shortly after their mother died rather suddenly. She always envied her classmates who had younger siblings to care for and play with. She couldn’t wait to settle down and have a family. Ted was a good husband, she reminded herself. He worked hard and provided for his family, though he had become testy in recent years. As the family grew in number and size, she found it harder to stretch his income to meet its increasing demands. Ah, stop your complaining, she scolded herself as she snorted back her phlegm and set the table, preparing herself for her husband’s return.

Nell hadn’t cared that Ted was ten years older than her or that he had been considered less than an ideal catch for her. Her father had made that quite clear.

“A postman!” he had scoffed. “A dead-end job—little to no chance of advancement.”

A.J. MacMahon LLB had a law office in their small town that afforded him a high status if not a very lucrative income. Her older brother, James, had joined the practice as soon as he was qualified. Nell was shuffled off to business school and entered the practice as office administrator, a task she took to with little enthusiasm even though she was very capable. Constantly under the shadow of the two demanding men, it didn’t take much persuading for her to give it up for the attention of the earnest and attentive Ted. The man had a great physique and moved with confidence but without any swagger. She felt safe with him and strong at the same time. Besides, they did have a few things in common. Both had lost their mothers at an early age, and both loved to dance.

They met at the annual marquee, an event that lasted ten days. In that brief but heady timeframe, they had waltzed into love under the spell of Mick Delahunty and his dance band. Slender and petite, Nell felt a surge of joy as a tall, well-built stranger twirled and steered her around the dance floor. Finally, a partner who actually knew how to dance. The last fellow had grabbed her as if she were a filly about to bolt.

“Hang on,” he had shouted at her over the music as he grabbed her and started a stuttering attempt at a polka, hopping awkwardly from one foot to the other as he yanked her around the dance floor, bumping into several couples during the performance. But this man, who towered above her, guided her around with graceful ease, skillfully side-stepping any encroaching left-footed clodhoppers that threatened their flow. When that first dance was over, he whispered in her ear, “That was grand.” She blushed and returned to the women’s bench beside Josie Maloney, who had been assessing the situation.

“He’s a looker,” Josie said. “Did you see the creases in the back of his pants?”

“What!” asked Nell, hackles raising at what she thought might be a slight.

“I’ll bet you a shilling he has a car,” she announced. “He didn’t walk here. He drove. That’s why he has them creases.” Nell threw back her head and laughed and then let her eyes wander to the other side of the dance floor where the men who were not dancing congregated. He was standing off to one side chatting with a man she knew worked at the post office. As soon as the next set was announced, he headed straight back to where she was seated.

“May I have the next dance, Miss MacMahon?” he asked, extending his hand to her.

“I will if you tell me your name,” she said.

“Ted O’Brien, at your service,” he said.

They took to the floor together and danced with verve; their growing attraction was matched by a synchrony of movement that kept them on the floor for several sets at a time. And when the band took a break and they were forced to communicate in more verbal ways, Ted was courteous and considerate. He seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say. When the tent finally folded, leaving town with its attendant carnival and amusements in tow, Ted and Nell had already agreed to go steady. And Josie was correct; Ted did have a car. This gave them the freedom to travel and go to dances further afield on the weekends. Nell was having the time of her life.

Her father was not nearly as impressed with Ted as she was, but at twenty-three, Nell was quietly determined to ignore his put-downs and thinly veiled insults. That Christmas her father suffered his third and final heart attack, leaving everything to his son, James, with the provision that he take care of Nell until such time as she was married. All opposition to her union with Ted soon evaporated. James was glad to offload his responsibility to her as soon as possible. They married in late April—a simple affair, paid for by James, along with a gift of £1,000 to be placed with the Educational Building Society to help with a down payment for a house. That was the extent of her inheritance.

After their marriage, Nell moved in with Ted into the simple two-bedroomed terrace house in Ballygreen that he had rented for the previous ten years. The “Terrace” sat on the outskirts of the village like an afterthought of little consequence, much like the tenants occupying it. A long row of attached houses with stone walls muffling but not always obliterating the goings-on of one’s neighbour. Ted’s house had the advantage of being an end unit with a driveway curling around to the small backyard. This slight improvement was not enough to overcome Nell’s initial dismay at the drab stone-faced dwelling that bore little resemblance to the spacious house in which she had grown up.

She overcame this disappointment with a spree of wallpapering, painting, and the sewing and hanging of curtains. The addition of the beautiful dining room table and chairs, left to her by her mother, added elegance to the otherwise functional furnishings. Besides, the freedom and acknowledgement of experiencing the small but meaningful privileges accorded to a married woman bolstered her diminished confidence in her own sex. She wore the title Mrs. O’Brien well and was happy enough to leave behind the MacMahon name, with all the expectations that had come with it.

Their sex life had been a riotous and passionate affair those first few years, both new to the experience. All signs of a possible mismatch melted in the marriage bed and cemented their vows of for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer. “You’ll be the death of me,” he often sighed at the end of their lovemaking. “Then you’ll die happy,” she assured him. But Frankie’s precarious infancy sucked the passion from Nell as her fretful attention to him drained her of her desire for bedroom distractions, and though she never refused Ted, their sex life descended into a perfunctory ritual. The babies came along with great regularity, and Nell prayed successively that the next one would be a girl.

Later that evening at 5:55 p.m., the rattle of Ted’s Austin Morris could be heard coming up the back lane. Almost simultaneously the boys arrived back from their foraging trip, bursting through the door, dripping wet and streaking the floor with their muddy boots.

“Wipe your boots—and take them off,” said Nell. “Here comes Daddy. Hurry, hang up your coats, boys.”

“I’m starving, what’s for supper?” asked Eoin.

“You’re not starving, Eoin,” said Nell, “but I’m sure you all have an appetite. Did you find many beetles?”

“Yes, Mammy,” said Frankie, seemingly recovered from his previous loss. We have all the kinds I lost and even a new one. I will have to look it up to see what it is.” Nell smiled and felt a warm glow of maternal love flowing into the spaces where fear and discontent lurked, pressing them firmly out of view. The smell of roasting pork chops mingling with vegetables produced an aura of domestic competency that gave Nell a sense of satisfaction, along with an expectation of appreciation for her efforts. She knew the boys would be very happy with the apple pie she had prepared earlier in the day. It was a family favourite.

Ted parked the car but kept it running. The news was on. This was his only chance to listen to it uninterrupted. He knew as soon as he walked through the door there would be a noisy racket, and he had a nagging certainty that Nell would have a list of tasks for him to tackle over the weekend. The super had ridden him hard this past week. There was way more paperwork and administrative work than in the old days, and Ted felt he got more than his fair share of it to deal with. The delivery van was more comfortable than a bike when it rained, as it often did, but it just wasn’t the same. He had further to go each day and more houses to deliver to, which meant sorting the mail took a lot of his time. He could no longer keep track of everyone on his route, and he certainly hadn’t the time to stop and chat at each door.

When he started the job almost thirty years ago, he had a cycling route with far fewer homes to deliver to. He knew everyone by name and where they lived. He planned his route around the comings and goings of the people so that when he knocked on the door there was someone to open it, and parcels could always be delivered. He knew which dogs were friendly and which ones were likely to take a round out of him if given a chance. He kept a supply of crackers with him that pacified all but the nastiest of the canines on his route. He had only been bitten once—by a large black and white collie that had silently sneaked up on him and quickly snapped at him, piercing his woollen trousers and bruising his skin, before retreating under a truck to lie in wait for his next victim. No one had been at home when he knocked on the door. He slipped the letters through the mail slot along with a hastily written note demanding that they tie up the dog if they ever wanted their mail delivered again.

Life was black and white for Ted back then, much like the colour of the beast that had bitten him. He was a man who knew how to keep his side of a bargain and expected no less from others and wasn’t interested in their excuses. His reliability and trustworthiness had served him well, but his forthrightness and inflexibility could rankle. The super was a vain man who expected his staff to show deference towards him in all matters. Ted was a thorn in his side, never accepting change without an argument. The super, in turn, was uneven-handed when divvying up the administrative tasks. This past week, as a penance for his latest run-in with the super, Ted had been stuck sorting the first rush of Christmas mail coming through the post office.

At forty-eight, he no longer had the vigorous, trim physique that had so attracted Nell to him. He loved his food, and Nell had always indulged him in that department. He started driving the larger route six years ago and had packed on fifty pounds since. He now had a rather impressive paunch that required braces to support his pants, his waistline having disappeared beneath the layers of fat. Ted sighed and turned off the radio, pulling his jacket tight across his belly so that he could close it before bracing himself against the weather and any domestic storm that might await him. His eldest son, Joe, came cycling down the back lane just as he was closing the car door. Good boy, Joe, he thought. He’ll make a grand altar boy when Fr. Mac is finished training him.

It turned out to be a more peaceful evening at the O’Brien household than Ted had expected. When he entered the kitchen, the boys were already seated around the table, all smiles and anticipation for the dinner about to be served. Baby Tommy was in his highchair with Frankie spoon-feeding him a mush of carrots and potatoes.

“Welcome home, Daddy,” the boys chimed in as Ted took off his jacket and hung it on the hook by the kitchen door.

“Mammy made apple pie,” said Paddy.

“Can we watch F-Troop tonight?” asked Eoin. “We don’t have any homework.”

“After the rosary,” said Ted

“And the washing up,” added Nell.

The rosary was a fixture every evening except Sunday, when Mass provided enough spiritual infusion to keep his family afloat until Monday. Ted liked routine and he liked order. He marshalled his children to a regimen that was strict while at the same time it provided a structure that was predictable. He knew Nell appreciated this order when it came to the children, but she seemed far less enamoured when he tried to apply it to her household management. It did cause some friction between them at times. But on this wet, cold November evening, Ted was too tired to notice the potatoes weren’t all peeled or that the washing was hanging over the bathtub, blocking him from his Friday night bath. The warm and satisfying meal that Nell had prepared had softened his mood. And though he didn’t acknowledge it as such, he thanked her in his own way by making sure that Frankie and Eoin attended to the dishes before they came into the living room where the rosary was recited before the TV was turned on.

Ted noticed that the boys kept a very close eye on the clock, and their responses sped up as the hour approached for F-Troop. Joe slowed things down a bit when it was his turn to start the Hail Marys, having a new-found devotion since his entry into the mysteries of serving as an altar boy and this pleased him. Frankie, on the other hand, compensated for Joe’s careful recitation by leading the response at a galloping rate, a cue that his siblings followed with gusto. He would have intervened another time, but he had a dull pain across his chest, and he was looking forward to getting up off his knees and sinking into his armchair. As soon as the final decade of the rosary was complete and the last amen intoned, Eoin jumped up and put the TV on. Ted eased himself into the armchair and lit his pipe and watched with satisfaction as Frankie held baby Tommy while Nell placed the partially dried clothes on the rack by the fire. She may no longer have the svelte figure of her youth, but her full body and soft curves still pleased him. He drew a deep gulp from his pipe and slowly released the smoke in a spiralling curl of satisfaction.

Later that night Ted prepared for bed silently as was his habit. He knew as soon as Nell rolled in beside him that an accounting of the day would start, a pre-coital ritual they had fallen into, each telling the other about their day in a parallel conversation, a little waltz of what was on their minds that had little intersection until after they had finished coupling.

“The Christmas rush has started,” said Ted.

“Baby Tommy is teething, and he has terrible nappy rash,” answered Nell.

Ted inched closer in the bed and laid his arm over Nell’s shoulder.

“The super wants me to take on an extra shift between now and Christmas. I don’t want to, but it will mean more Christmas money.”

“Frankie has a real passion for those insects of his. I wonder if we should get a microscope for him?” She ran her fingers through his thinning hair. A signal that he could proceed.

“The car has a tapping noise; I think one of the cylinders is misfiring, and it’s burning oil.” He fondled her breast and pressed himself against her. She turned towards him and offered herself passively.

“Will you drive me to Limerick on Saturday?” she asked. “I’ll try and get an installment plan for some Christmas presents for the children.” He felt her warm breath against his ear.

He lost himself in her warmth, and speech gave way to the language of his desire. “Hush now,” he choked, as he drifted from her and went into that deep place of release.

“I think I’m pregnant,” she said as he rolled to one side.

“I’ll take that extra shift,” he replied.