This Irish House (8 page)

Kate Nolan was nothing if she wasn't predictable. Deirdre could set her watch by her mother's familiar routine. Only once in all the memories of her childhood had her mother faltered. She wouldn't think of that now.

“It's time I was seeing you home, lass,” Liam announced, throwing a twenty-pound note on the table. “You need your beauty rest and I'm for bed.”

Deirdre slid out from behind the table and walked toward the door and the row of coats on hooks along the wall. She found hers and was slipping her arm into the sleeve when someone jostled her from behind.

The young man from her political science class smiled down at her. “I'm sorry, miss. It's Deirdre isn't it? How are you?”

“Well, thank you.”

“Are you coming or going?”

“Going.”

“May I walk you back?”

Deirdre shook her head. “I'm here with my uncle.”

He pulled his cap down over his forehead. “That's all right then. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Liam's voice interrupted them. “Are you ready, Dee?”

She took his arm and addressed the boy. “This is my uncle, Liam Nolan. I'm sorry but I don't know your name.”

“Peter,” he said after a brief pause. “Peter Clarke.” Liam extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Peter. How do you know my nice?”

“We have a class together. We had a few last term as well.”

Deirdre stared at him. How had he remembered that? She'd barely recognized him. He was rather decent looking in a normal sort of way, not bad at all, but nothing that would make him stand out in a crowd.

“What are you studying?” Liam asked.

“Archaeology.”

Liam looked impressed. “An ambitious lad, are you?”

Peter grinned and Deirdre's eyes widened.

“Not ambitious enough for my father,” he said. “His preference would have been law or business.”

“Those are every father's preferences.” Liam lifted an eyebrow. “Shall we walk back to Queen's together or are you staying for a bit?”

“I came for the music. Michael Flynn plays a grand whistle.”

“That he does,” Liam agreed.

Deirdre studied the boy's face. “Do you live at Queen's, Peter?”

“Not this year. I did last term.” His glance moved beyond her. He nodded and waved. “Pardon me,” he said, his eyes on her again. “I've friends waiting.”

“Do you live in Belfast?” she persisted.

“Aye. But that's another subject. I've kept the lads waiting long enough.” Once again he shook Liam's hand. “A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Nolan.”

Deirdre watched him walk away.

“He seems a pleasant enough lad,” Liam said thoughtfully.

“I suppose.”

“He's taken with you.”

Deirdre frowned. “How do you know?”

“He was nearly incoherent whenever he looked at you.”

Ordinarily she would have been pleased, or at least embarrassed. But for some reason she wasn't. Instinct told her that her uncle's observation wasn't entirely accurate. Peter Clarke had been coherent enough before Liam had joined them.

After her uncle dropped her at her door, she pushed Peter from her mind, checked over her French essay, showered and called her mother. Kate's voice, serene, predictable, warm oil on chapped hands, never failed to soothe her. It was only when Deirdre mentioned Liam that she detected a small change, a hesitation, as if Kate were holding her breath. Then she smoothed over the silence.

“Does he come around often?” her mother asked casually.

Deirdre thought a minute. “Every few weeks. He doesn't want me to be lonely.”

“Why should you be lonely, Deirdre? Surely you have friends your own age, friends who would be more suitable companions than Liam.”

“They aren't family, Mum.”

“I see.” Again Deirdre sensed a brief holding back, a small microscopic note of disapproval. Her stomach tightened. Her mother's acceptance had always been unconditional, as unrelenting and sure as spring rain. She hurried to fill in the gap, grasping at the first thing that came to her mind. “We met someone at dinner, a boy from school. His name is Peter Clarke.”

“How nice.” The warmth was back in Kate's voice. “Tell me about him.”

“He's nice enough. Liam said he was taken with me.”

Her mother's musical laugh relaxed the knot in Deirdre's stomach and her words dissolved the last of it. “Of course he is. How could he not be?”

“You're biased, Mum.”

Again that delicious gurgle, Kate's laugh. “I should hope so.”

Deirdre closed her eyes and gripped the phone. She was luckier than most. No one had a mother like Kate. “Good night, Mum. I'm going to bed now.”

“Deirdre?”

“Yes.”

“Be careful, love.”

Deirdre's forehead puckered. “Why?”

“We've come a long way but things still aren't all they should be, not even in Belfast.”

“I don't understand.”

Her mother hesitated.

“Tell me.”

“I don't think Clarke is an Irish name.”

The words slammed into Deirdre's stomach. She managed to end the conversation, replace the phone and crawl beneath her comforter. The possibility that she could have made such an error horrified her. She'd never had a Protestant friend. Protestants attended Queen's University although they were in the minority. She knew who they were, sat beside them in class and occasionally nodded to them in passing. She did not study with them, eat with them or share their conversation. The glass curtain separating Nationalists and Loyalists, Catholics and Protestants, was a way of life, solid, inflexible, permanent. The enormity of her mistake swept through her. She, Deirdre Nolan, daughter of civil rights attorney, Patrick Nolan, had introduced her uncle, a man who'd spent time in Long Kesh for Nationalist political activities, to a Protestant.

Everyone knew of Patrick Nolan and his untimely death. Everyone knew he was her father. Peter Clarke could be no exception. How dare he approach her as if they were the same, as if it made no difference. Deirdre's back teeth locked. She was coldly, furiously angry.

K
ate kept her hands on the steering wheel and leaned over to kiss her son's cheek. He stared straight ahead, through the windshield, barely tolerating her lips on his skin.

She swallowed and waited for the digital clock to move forward one digit. “It's time, Kevin,” she said gently. “You'll be late for school.”

He nodded, opened the door and stepped outside, all without saying a word. Not bothering to close the door, he walked across the grass to the entrance.

Kate sighed, released her seat belt and reached across the passenger seat to pull the door shut. Motherhood hadn't turned out quite as she'd expected. For that matter, nothing had turned out as she'd expected.

The nagging unease that rode on her shoulder whenever she had a moment to think resurrected itself. Life wasn't supposed to be this way. Everything had run so smoothly when Patrick was alive. She would never get used to the frightening sense of anxiety that never left her, or the pressure of knowing that everything now depended on her alone, a terrifying realization for a woman who'd never, before the death of her husband, balanced her own checkbook, called for an airline reservation or filled her car with petrol.

Turning back through town, Kate followed the signs to the B47. Her lunch meeting with Robbie Finnigan was scheduled for one o'clock in Belfast, enough time for her to pass through the government buildings and finish her report on the dismal progress of integrating the police force.

Kevin ducked his head, avoided eye contact with the group of boys standing near the water fountain and walked quickly down the long hallway to the open door of his first class. If he moved fast enough, with purpose in his step, perhaps no one would stop him.

“Kevin,” a voice called out from behind him.

Damn.
He'd
almost
made
it.
Reluctantly he turned. A sandy-haired, freckled boy ran to catch up with him.

“I called you last night,” John Gallagher said. “Did your mother tell you?”

Kevin stared straight ahead, maintaining his pace, making no concessions. “Aye.”

“Why didn't you call me back? It's my birthday today. I wanted you to come for the party. Mam's making a cake and my sisters are home.”

“I can't,” Kevin mumbled.

“Why not?”

“I have school work.”

“How do you know? You haven't been to school in two days.”

“That's how I know. Have you ever been gone and not had work to finish when you came back?”

John considered the question and then nodded his head reasonably. “I suppose so. Still, you'll have time to finish. No one will ask for it by tomorrow, not when you've been away two days.” He clasped Kevin's shoulder. “Hold on a minute. Were you sick?”

Kevin shook his hand off. “Aye.”

“What about tonight?”

“I don't know.”

John stopped in the middle of the hall. “What's the matter with you?”

Kevin threw back his head and faced his friend, his expression defiant. “Nothing's wrong. Just leave me alone, will you?”

The other boy's face stilled. “I'll leave you alone, Kevin,” he said quietly, “if that's what you want.” Then he brushed by him and walked into the classroom.

Kevin groaned, leaned against the wall, and breathed deeply.
Why
couldn't
he
ever
get
it
right?
A minute passed. The bell rang. He waited another minute. Mustering a semblance of self-control, Kevin walked through the door, wove his way through the maze of tightly packed desks and students and sat down in the back of the classroom. Brother Andrew was writing on the board. Kevin's breathing normalized. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a pen and notebook and focused on his paper.

The teacher turned. “Kevin Nolan.” Brother Andrew's sonorous voice called out.

His stomach twisted. “Yes, Brother,” he managed to reply.

“You're wanted in the headmaster's office. Take your belongings with you.”

Kevin's legs froze. He tried to move them, but they wouldn't cooperate.

“Now, Kevin.”

Shakily Kevin got to his feet. Swinging his pack over his shoulder he walked out the door and down the hall toward the administrative offices. What could the master want with him? Only the most serious of offenses was brought to the attention of the headmaster. He racked his brain. What could he have done that anyone here at St. Anthony's would know about?

Drawing a deep breath, he paused a moment before the intricately carved door, then pulled it open. He inhaled the smell of varnish and old dust. Thick books lined the shelves, their spines bare, titles worn away long ago. A counter separated the waiting area from the desks where two women typed soundlessly on late-model typewriters. Behind the desks were offices, one large and one small.

Kevin waited for several minutes. Finally he cleared his throat.

One of the women looked up. “Yes?”

“My name is Kevin Nolan. The headmaster asked for me.”

The woman stood and walked to the door of the larger office. “Wait one moment, Kevin.” She knocked, opened the door and disappeared inside.

Kevin heard the murmur of voices. The woman came out again. “He'll see you now.”

Kevin, heart hammering, feet like lead, walked around the counter and across the floor to the office door. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he stepped inside. The man behind the desk had his back turned toward him. Two large wing chairs took up most of the floor space. Kevin glanced around the room and his eyes widened. James McKenna, headmaster of St. Anthony's Catholic School for Boys, was a master fisherman and from the trophies on the shelves, a proficient golfer. Framed pictures of dignitaries with their catches lined one wall and politicians holding golf clubs filled the other. Mounted on the wall above his head was the largest fish Kevin had ever seen.

Mr. McKenna turned around. His piercing blue eyes settled on the boy and then on the fish. “It's a sailfish,” he said, “caught off the coast of Mexico.”

“Did you catch her, sir?”

“I did. Do you like to fish, lad?”

Kevin nodded.

“Have you done much?”

“When my da was alive. I've done none since.”

“Hmm.” The headmaster motioned toward one of the chairs. “Sit down and I'll tell you why you're here.”

Kevin tore his eyes away from the sailfish and sat. “Your instructors tell me your marks have slipped. You've been recommended for probation.”

Kevin sighed with relief.
If
that
was
all
—

“What have you to say for yourself, lad?”

“It's true, sir.”

“Why is it true?”

Kevin's mind sorted through the possible replies. “I haven't been applying myself.”

“Why not?”

The
truth.
Tommy
Dougherty
once
told
him
that
it
was
always
better
to
stay
as
close
as
possible
to
the
truth.
“Because I don't see the point. I've no interest in attending university.”

“Your mother is educated, Kevin, as was your father. I'm sure your da would have wanted you to follow in his footsteps.”

Kevin stared at the headmaster.
Was
the
man
mad?
“I think my father would have wanted me to do what pleased me, sir.”

“I agree.” The laser-blue eyes pinned him to the back of the chair. “What is it that you want, Kevin?”

He wanted the art school but that was a pipe dream. “I don't know yet.”

“But you know what you don't want?”

“Sir?”

Mr. McKenna stroked his chin. “Tell me if I understand you properly. You don't want to attend school and you don't want to go to university.”

“That's right.”

“Have you given any thought to your future?”

“I have.”

McKenna waited.

“I'll find work,” began Kevin, “in Dublin or Belfast, maybe even London.”

“What kind of work?”

Again Kevin shrugged and said, “I don't know yet.”

“Do you have a propensity for anything?”

“Excuse me?”

“A talent, Kevin. Do you have a talent?”

The boy flushed. What kind of question was that? “I don't think so.”

“Well then, it had better be university. Those without talent won't be succeeding in this world without an education.”

Kevin nodded. “Yes, sir.” He wouldn't win this one, not with Mr. McKenna. Better to take the easy road and agree with the man. Kevin knew from experience that agreement silenced an argument quite effectively.

“Are you happy here at St. Anthony's, Kevin?”

Kevin stammered and shifted in the leather chair. “Happy, sir?” Another one of those stupid questions. Dare he answer truthfully?

The headmaster waited.

Kevin threw caution to the winds. “Happy isn't the word I would use, Mr. McKenna.”

“What word would you use?”

“Please, don't take this Personally, sir. I wouldn't want to offend you.”

Was there a softening of the man's expression or was it a trick of the light filtering in through the long windowpanes? “Duly noted. No offense will be taken.”

“I don't dislike it here, Mr. McKenna. I suppose the correct word is
tolerate.
I tolerate the days. It has nothing to do with St. Anthony's. It's that I prefer not to attend school at all.”

“I see.”

Kevin doubted very much that he did. The conversation had turned decidedly uncomfortable and he had the sinking feeling that Mr. McKenna would be calling his mother. Kate didn't need another upset, not yet. Hastily Kevin scrambled to mend his fences. “St. Anthony's is a very good secondary school.”

“I'm happy to hear that you think so.”

“It would be best for me to continue here, in case I change my mind and decide to attend university.”

“It would be best,” the headmaster agreed.

“I'll raise my marks, sir.”

“I have every confidence that you will, Kevin,” the headmaster said dryly. “Because if you don't, I will inform your mother that this isn't the proper place for you. As it stands you are on informal probation.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good. You may go back to class now.”

Outside in the hallway, Kevin's legs gave out. He leaned weakly against the wall and closed his eyes. He was a wanker. If a small thing like low marks could leave him in this condition, he was a serious lightweight. He took another minute to collect himself, pushed away from the wall and walked slowly back to class. How had he come to this and how in bloody hell was he going to get himself out?

Robbie Finnigan was a toad. It pained Kate to think of him that way. She was a woman who tried to see the positive in everyone, but there was really no other way to see the chief of Ulster's Royal Constabulary.

“I don't understand what the problem is. You've had nearly a year to make this work.”

“These things take time, Mrs. Nolan. I can't just fire everyone on the police force and hire Catholics.”

Kate drummed her fingers on the table. “How many men have retired in the last nine months?”

“I can't say exactly.” Deliberately he avoided her gaze. “Four, maybe five.”

Kate's crisp voice cut him off. “Actually there were nine. Only three of the nine knew there was a large bonus and benefits due them.”

“Nine?” The chief constable frowned. “Really? I hadn't realized there were so many.”

“How many Catholics were hired to replace them?”

“I'm sure you know the answer to that as well, Mrs. Nolan.”

“I do, Constable Finnigan. Not a single new recruit is Catholic.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. Your hiring practices must change, immediately. You know that. Why aren't you operating under the terms of the Patten Commission?”

“I'm not running a charity operation, Mrs. Nolan. Our people must be qualified. There aren't many Catholics who aspire to join our forces. They're seen as touts, turncoats.”

She ignored his last comment. “I'm sure there are just as many croppies from West Belfast who can wield billy clubs, Constable.”

“But will they use them, Mrs. Nolan?”

“Probably not with the same alacrity but I won't be sorry. I'm sure a large majority of the population will agree with me.”

“I've already hired replacements for the retired men. They have families. Do you want me to sack them?”

“Catholics have families, too, Constable. You were precipitous in your hiring. I'm afraid you'll have to make your apologies unless you can think of another way to bring on nine new Catholic police officers. Fifty percent is the number we're working toward. You're hovering at a miserable eight. I'll expect everything to be in place by next Monday. Please, don't disappoint me or I'll be forced to go over your head.”

“I can't integrate fifty percent of my work force with Catholics by Monday.”

“Start with nine.”

“You're a hard woman, Mrs. Nolan.”

“Good day, Constable.”

Kate made it through the waiting area, out the door and across the parking lot before she began to shake. Managing her car keys, she unlocked the door, climbed into the car and rested her head on the steering wheel. Her lungs burned. She forced herself to relax, to breathe slowly, to wipe the conflict from her mind.