Mother’s Only Child (58 page)

‘Don’t worry about your parents missing out,’ Maria said with a laugh. ‘They might just get more than they are bargaining for.’

‘How come?’

‘Well, according to Jack, it isn’t fair that your children have got secret grandparents just come to light and he hasn’t. Your Shirley told him that when we are married and all one family, they will be his grandparents as well. And I will say if anyone can break any stiffness that might be there in the first few meetings with your parents, it will be my first-born son.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Greg with a smile. He kissed her on the lips, but gently because of the delicate state of his ribs. ‘Oh God,’ he said, ‘I can’t wait to be out of here and back home with you.’

‘I feel the same,’ Maria said. ‘It’s less of a home without you in it. The children are missing you quite dreadfully—and not just yours either.’

‘Let’s have less of my children and yours, Mrs Hopkins-to-be,’ he said in mock severity. ‘Soon they will just be ours. I hope you understand that.’

‘Certainly I do, Mr Hopkins,’ Maria said with a grin. ‘Ooh, and I love it when you are being masterful.’

‘You wait until I leave this place,’ Greg said with a licentious leer, ‘and you will soon see how masterful I can be.’

He kissed her again gently and Maria felt her innards tighten in delicious anticipation of her future together with this man that she loved so very much.

There was hardly a dry eye in the abbey on 16 April. Maria, in a gown of apricot satin, was attended by five beautiful bridesmaids in dresses of pale blue, and Patsy in a costume to match Maria, as maid of honour. ‘To keep us all in order,’ Sally said knowledgeably.

Jack had refused point-blank to be a pageboy. Eight months on from Patsy’s wedding, he declared it a babyish thing to do. Greg said he shouldn’t be forced and had taken him out and bought him a new suit of clothes, a shirt and the shiniest black shoes imaginable. He looked as smart as paint, and Martin, in a sailor suit, was just adorable.

But just as important as the clothes were the people who had come to wish the couple well: Joanne from Derry, and Dora and Bella, brought all the way in Ned Richards’ car. According to their letters, Ned was turning Moville around, and people said it was lovely to see the boats bobbing about in Greencastle Harbour again. Just as important were Greg’s parents and two sisters, the rift between them and Greg healed at last. Greg’s parents, desperate to get to know their granddaughters, were all staying in Greg’s house for a few days to give Martha and Sean a hand with the children, as Greg was taking Maria away for a week’s honeymoon.

Maria would have been happy with a caravan in Wales, for she had been nowhere, but Greg had poohpoohed that idea. ‘I thought the South of France,’ he said. ‘In fact, I have already booked the hotel.’

Maria had given a squeal of delight and thrown her arms around the man’s neck. ‘Oh, Greg, what can I say?’

‘The only words I want to hear, Maria, are that you love me and will continue to love me till the breath leaves your body.’

‘That is such an easy promise to make,’ Maria said, ‘except that I think I will love you more with every passing year.’

‘And I you, you darling desirable, beautiful woman,’ Greg said. When their lips met, Maria’s moan was one of pure, unadulterated desire.

She thought of this, walking down the aisle on Sean’s arm, Patsy and the children falling in behind her. As she drew close to the altar, Greg turned to look at her with such love mirrored on his face that she felt her own heart stop beating for a moment or two. Sean relinquished her arm and she gave her bouquet to Patsy and stood beside her beloved for the priest to bind them together until death should part them. She knew she loved Greg as she had never loved any other and never would love any other, and she also knew that their love would never fade, but just grow stronger.

This book was written in memory of my uncle Willie MacDonald who actually did own a boatyard in Greencastle at the time in which this is set, though the family lived in Moville, the next village. He also worked for the military in a self-employed capacity in the docks in Derry once the war began and did have a accident such as I describe and the search, when it was realised he was missing, was hampered by the blackout, possibly increasing the severity of his injuries. He was paralysed from the waist down ever after and received no compensation, just like Sam Foley, but there the similarity ended.

My cousin, Maura MacDonald-Reynolds, who filled me in on parts of the story on which I was hazy, was just a child when these things happened, not sixteen as my Maria. Years later, a teacher spotted Maura’s talent in dressmaking and wanted her to try for a scholarship in Dress and Fabric Design to the prestigious Grafton Academy in Dublin and though she was sure Maura would gain a place, there was no money to enable her even to try. I am indebted to my cousin for giving me the nub of this story. The rest is completely fabricated.

For the rest of the research, I used the internet extensively and the Palmer family of Moville run a wonderful website of ‘Moville. Then and Now’ with many photographs. The Londonderry and Lough Swilley Railway Company supplied old timetables, maps and general information, although a gentleman called Charles Friel also helped with transport links. Thank you, Charles.

However, reference books too are often invaluable. For example, Evelyn Ruddy wrote a book about the remoteness of life on Innishowen, calling it
Rekindling a Dying Heritage,
and a man known as John McLaughlin wrote
Carrowmenagh,
which is a village not that far away from Greencastle and Moville. Then there was the book
Our Town
by Naoi nGiallach about Letterkenny and the hinterland, and another,
Atlantic Memorial. The Foyle and Western Approaches 1939-1945,
was written as a souvenir catalogue by a team of people, and, as you might imagine, documents the story of Derry through the war years. I am so grateful to all these people.

For the Birmingham links, I used the
Golden Years Of Brum,
which is part of the ‘Memories’ series published by True North, as well as, of course, the works of Carl Chinn, who wrote, among many others,
Best of Brum
and
Our Brum,
and the newspaper extracts he compiles detailing people’s memories, together with
The Story of Erdington
by Douglas V. Jones, helped me enormously.

Altogether, though the war is well-documented, the years that followed are not and to write about this accurately, I bought
London in the Post-War Years.
I couldn’t find anything similar relating to Birmingham, so maybe that is another one that Carl could do when he has the time. I also bought
The 50s and 60s. The Best of Times
to help my readers relate to and possibly remember that era.

Erdington was easier, for I remember myself how it was, though Erdington Historical Society were very helpful with specific points. Maria’s house on the Pype Hayes Estate was the one allocated to our family when we were re-housed from our back-to-back in 1956; I went to the Abbey School, shopped in Erdington Village, swam in the swimming pool and borrowed books from the library. Nock’s Brickyard on Holly Lane really did exist and so did Hollyfield’s Sports Ground which the gardens on one side of Westmead Crescent used to run right up to.

My family are often at the forefront of my mind when I write. First and foremost is my husband Denis, who I love very much, his grey hair evidence of the hard life I give him. Then there are our three daughters and one son, son- and daughter-in-law, and my four adorable grandchildren, who are all so special to me. However, I cannot talk of the family without including Denis’s mother Nancy, who died on 29 January 2005. She has often been mentioned in the acknowledgements for the help she has given me. She was a lovely woman, full of fun, and usually had a smile on her face. I feel it was a privilege to know her, and she is and will be missed for some time.

My very good friend Judith Kendall has a special place in my life and my heart. Thanks, Judith, for all you do.

However, without the tremendous team at HarperCollins, I doubt my books would ever reach bookshelves anywhere. I hope you realise how much I appreciate all you do and immense thanks must go first to my wonderful editor, Susan Opie. Maxine Hitchcock no longer does my books, but I still consider her very important and not least for the fact that she is an excellent champagne cocktail drinking partner. Hey! A person could do worse. It’s a very important job. Ingrid Gegner, my marvellous publicist, is in a class of her own. She works incredibly hard and added to that, she is so lovely as well. Thanks, Ingrid, and thanks also to Peter Hawtin, who started the ball rolling and Judith Evans, now at Birmingham Airport bookshops, who was, and still is, so complimentary about my books.

Special thanks too must go to my superb and intrepid agent, Judith Murdoch, another whom I appreciate so much, who also always works so hard for me.

Last, but by no means least, extra and heartfelt thanks must go to you, the readers, the fantastic members of the public who not only buy and read the books but often take the time to write or e-mail to tell me how much you enjoy them. Without all of you, there would be no point to any of it.

So, thanks, thanks and once again thanks to each and every one of you.

Anne Bennett was born in a back-to-back house in the Horsefair district of Birmingham. The daughter of Roman Catholic, Irish immigrants, she grew up in a tight-knit community where she was taught to be proud of her heritage.

She considers herself to be an Irish Brummie and feels therefore that she has a foot in both cultures. She has four children and four grandchildren. For many years she taught in schools to the north of Birmingham.

An accident put paid to her teaching career and, after moving to North Wales, Anne turned to the other great love of her life and began to write seriously.
Mother’s Only Child
is her ninth novel. In 2006, after sixteen years in a wheelchair, Anne began to walk again.

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