The Way Home

After a slightly shaky start, Siobhan's career in the arts took off and after several years she was flooded with commissions. Her other little dream came true, too. A specialist publisher loved her idea of a series of art books for children and young persons and they took off. A bonus was that we both qualified for the Republic's tax breaks for those who make their living in the arts.

We loved each other and life couldn't have treated us better.

Ballynahoe 2000

My Auntie Polly died peacefully in hospital. It was not entirely unexpected for she was in her nineties but it wasn't really the years that carried her off. Like many Irish women of her generation she was a fairly heavy smoker and she had suffered from severe emphysema for several years. I was with her when she passed. Siobhan would have accompanied me but she had a very urgent work project to complete. Unlike England, and in the absence of suspicious circumstances, Irish funerals tend to take place within three days or so. We laid Polly to rest and the next day I had an appointment with her solicitor. Save for a generous donation to lung research, she had left me everything. Which gave me an idea.

We weren't getting any younger, Siobhan and I. Siobhan's glorious red hair was fading although to me she was still the beautiful girl I had fallen for so many years previously. And each time I looked in a mirror I swore I could see an extra grey hair or two. We were both small town girls and I was starting find Dublin oppressive. I felt the change would do us the world of good.

"I've got a suggestion," I told Siobhan the evening I returned from Ballynahoe, "If you like it, grand. If you don't, then I'll forget it. Rather than sell the cottage, what say we move to Ballynahoe and make our home there? It's a nice wee place and there's countryside around with clean, fresh air. Both of us can work from home so that's no problem."

My darling didn't hesitate. "That's a brilliant idea," she said. Echoing my own thoughts she added: "We're not getting younger and Dublin's seems to be more wearing every day. Let's do it."

"Okay, as soon as your present job is finished, we'll take a few days off to check the place out."

* * * * *

It was settled. My Siobhan loved the cottage, she loved the village and she loved the surrounding countryside.

We walked down to Rafferty's store to stock up on groceries we might need for a few days. The shop was empty save for Peter Rafferty and his mother behind the counters. "As I live and breathe, it's Kathleen Sheridan," said Peter, "Good to see you. And you must be Kathleen's friend, the lovely Siobhan..." addressing my lover "...Polly told us of you."

"And it's sorry we are about your poor Auntie," added Mrs Rafferty, "She hadn't been with us all that long but she was a lovely lady and quite popular here."

"I suppose you'll be looking to sell the cottage now?" asked Peter.

"Not a bit of it," I told him, "we're looking to move into it and live in Ballynahoe."

"Ah, that's grand!" Mrs Rafferty gave us a huge smile. "It'll be good to have some new faces in the village."

"Yes, it'll be grand so it will, but..." Peter looked a bit embarrassed.

"What is it?"

"Well, it's none of my business so just tell me to shut my big gob if you want, but... are you two more than just friends?"

"Peter!" exclaimed Mrs Rafferty, sounding outraged.

I looked at Siobhan who shrugged. "You might say that," I told Peter.

"Well now, times are changing and people with them. You'll not find many in the village now who'd object to you. It's Father Duggan... You've met the parish priest, Kathleen?"

"Just briefly, at Auntie's funeral."

Peter nodded. "He's the one to watch out for. The man's a king-sized arsehole and a bigoted arsehole at that."

"Peter! That's no way to speak of the priest."

"Ah, come on, Mammy. The man's a total feckin' gobshite and you know it."

"It's still no way to speak of the priest..." the old woman gave us a sly wink "...even when he is a total feckin' gobshite..."

* * * * *

The move into Ballynahoe went smoothly and we spent our first few days sorting things out. The cottage had a wooden summer-house built by Auntie Polly's vendor, with electricity laid on and an efficient wall heater. This became my office. There was also a sturdy brick outhouse with electricity and heating. When cleaned up and with large picture windows installed, this became Siobhan's studio.

Then after a few days we had our first encounter with the 'total feckin' gobshite'. From what we had heard of him, he was a hangover from the old days when parish priests ruled the roost. Father Duggan couldn't get his head round the fact that those days were gone for ever.

A square-set man with thin lips and cold eyes, he hailed us in the street one morning. "You'll be the two who've moved into Miss Cleary's old cottage."

To be polite I held out my hand. "That's right---I'm her niece, Kathleen Sheridan."

He ignored my hand. Indeed, the whole time of our conversation he fingered his pectoral cross as if to guard himself against unholy emanations. "I want to know your status. Are you living together in unnatural sin? Are you defiling each other?"

"I don't know what business it is of yours, our life-style!" snapped Siobhan.

"It's my business to protect the welfare and the souls of the good Catholic people of this community," the priest replied, "I will not tolerate an intrusion of moral turpitude. You..." he went on, turning to me, pointing an accusing forefinger "...I have read one of your books and found it to be a cesspit of sinfulness.

"You will both come to me to make confession and if I consider you suitably repentant I will grant absolution. I will also arrange therapy to convert you from your abnormal way of life."

I'd had enough. "I'll tell you what we'll do, Father Duggan, we'll carry on the way we are, sinful and unnatural and minding our own business, and you can fuck off!" We left him there in an apparent state of shock, most likely unused to any parishioner defying him and telling him to fuck off. From then on, if we wanted to go to Mass, which wasn't often, Siobhan and I would pile into our car and go to Cork or some other nearby town.

We heard from others that the 'good' Father Duggan preached against us frequently, although being careful not to name names. I don't know if a parish priest has ever been sued for slander but there's always a first time. He went so far as to order the congregation not to read my books. But as several people said to us: "Ah, fuck him!"

We spent the next few years in armed truce with the Church. It was the one sour note in an otherwise pleasant and happy life.

* * * * *

Came the time when we had lived in Ballynahoe for several years that we took a week's break in Killarney to visit the island of Innisfallen together with Lough Leane and the other beautiful lakes. We hired a holiday cottage for the privacy and just let ourselves relax.

On returning home we went straight to Rafferty's for groceries. "Ah, the wanderers return," said Peter as we entered the store, "It's a great drama you were missing while indulging yourselves. Father Duggan had a terrible bad stroke and was taken to hospital in Cork. They think he'll survive but likely to be in a bad way for the rest of his life."

"That's awful," I said while Siobhan added: "I'd not wish that on anyone no matter what they were like."

"I suppose we'll be getting a new priest soon," Peter commented, "We can only hope that he's an improvement."

A couple of weeks later, when Siobhan and I were having our mid-morning cup of tea break, there was a knocking at the door. I opened to find a pleasant-looking, grey-haired man, probably in his late fifties standing there. That was the good news. The bad news was that he wore a clerical collar.

"You'll be Miss Sheridan---I've seen your photo in the bookshopes."

"I'm Kathleen Sheridan," I snapped, "What is it?"

"I'm Father Connolly, the new parish priest. I was hoping to have a few words with you and Miss Kearney. May I come in?"

I was about to snarl "No!" and slam the door on him when Siobhan appeared behind me. I think she read my mind for she whispered in my ear: "Give the man a chance." Turning to the priest, she said: "Come in and welcome, Father. Will you take a cup of tea with us?" Siobhan was surely showing more hospitality and charity than I was feeling.

Father Connolly smiled, a friendly smile, and replied: "I'm already awash with tea from every house I've visited this morning, but thank you, I will."

Suspicious, I gestured to him to sit. When he had his tea, he began: "The local people have been telling me that my predecessor gave you quite a hard time because of your life-style. From what I've heard, you weren't alone, he had a down on a number of people for various reasons. I shouldn't criticise a colleague, perhaps, but he was not a charitable man, I'm afraid.

"I've come to let you know that I'm a quite different person and you'll find no bigotry here. I came late to the cloth. I was married for thirty-odd years until my lovely Marion died. Cancer. It was only after I was widowed that God called to me. So I have a different attitude to Father Duggan. I believe that love is love in all its manifestations and that Our Lord cannot possibly object to it." The priest waved a hand towards the ceiling. "It's a big universe out there and I'm sure He has more to concern himself with than how two people love one another. What I'd like to say is that you are welcome to return to the church if you wish, although I can understand if you do not."

As he got up to leave, Father Connolly said: "You got quite a reference from the fellow who runs the grocery store. He's some champion for you---wanted to make sure I didn't upset you." He turned to me. "I've read all of your books, got a full set. I enjoyed them. Perhaps when we're more accustomed to each other, you'll sign them for me."

And in time we returned to Mass in Father Connolly's church.

Marriage 2015

There came that wonderful, wonderful day, 16 November 2015, the day that same-sex marriages became legal in the Republic of Ireland. I think we were as astonished as anyone. There had been a referendum and I think most in this staunch Catholic country were expected to reject the proposition. Quite the reverse. It was approved and there was singing and dancing in the streets.

Siobhan and I quietly sneaked off to Cork for a civil marriage. The Church had proclaimed its strong disapproval and churches were closed to all marriages save straight ones. When we returned to Ballynahoe Father Connolly called to see us.

"You both know that I can't publicly approve your marriage," he told us, "the Cardinal has made that quite clear, nor can I even bless it in the church. However, if you wish I'll give you my blessing here." He was a good man making an offer he had no need to and we accepted with pleasure. We recognised that while the Church disapproved, one of its more liberal sons cared for us enough to stick his neck out.

Pandemic 2020

Forty-seven years we had been together when we married and we weren't to know that we had no more than five years remaining. Oh, neither of us were young, right enough, but we were healthy and felt much younger than our years. We fully expected to live well into our eighties if not longer.

But fate, in the form of COVID-19, struck. As I said at the outset, Siobhan was suffering a very bad cold and somehow picked up the virus. Surprisingly, tests showed that I was negative. I sat by my beloved's bedside, holding her hand as she slowly slipped away. Father Connolly visited whenever he could. He offered Siobhan the Last Rites and she accepted.

"I love you, acushla," I told her near the end.

"And I love you," she whispered, "Mary Kathleen, promise me you'll be strong..."

I think they were the last words she spoke. I'm not sure because I was so busy choking back my sobs. And then it was over...

A kind nurse brought me a cup of tea and told me I could stay with Siobhan as long as I needed. I stayed a couple of hours, holding her hand and stroking her hair, telling her how very much I loved her.

When I returned to the village, both before and after the funeral I was almost smothered under the weight of kindness shown to me.

The woman with the strange hat 2020

But deep down in my lost centre, all of that kindness was wasted. My grief was overwhelming. I still worked on my books which gave me some solace although truth to tell I found peace only when visiting Siobhan's grave.

Every Saturday afternoon without fail since her death I made the trip to the cemetery. I didn't feel that I could trust myself to drive any more so I travelled on Tommy Clarke's rattling old bus that left the village market place at noon and always returned at four. Tommy would drop me at the crossroads and I would walk the last half-mile or so down a lane which was lined with fine old trees, a lane that had been one of Siobhan's favourite walks.

Until the late nineteenth century the old church had served as the parish church which meant a long trek for the villagers each Sunday, tough on the elderly and the lame. Of course, back then Holy Mother Church still held that to miss Mass on a Sunday was a mortal sin condemning the offender to an eternity in Hell. Few were willing to risk this. Then in the 1880s a local boy, who had emigrated to America during the famine years and made good in business, returned. He funded the building of a new church in the village and the old church fell into disrepair and ruin. The only problem was that the new church had insufficient room for a cemetery and so the old one continued in use. To store up points in God's eyes, many of the village people ensured that the old cemetery was cared for and well-maintained.

Although in poor state, the old church wasn't entirely neglected. I couldn't see it myself but apparently it had a number of points of architectural interest that attracted scholars and students from different colleges.

During my visits I would tend Siobhan's grave, place fresh flowers, and sit and talk to her as always. If there were others around, my conversation was silent---if there was an afterlife, Siobhan would surely hear my thoughts. If I was alone, as I often was, I would talk aloud as it helped me a little. But I was always conscious that really there was nothing there other than a slowly-flattening mound and a plain marble headstone:

Mary Siobhan Kearney

31 March 1948---16 January 2020

Much beloved wife of Mary Kathleen Sheridan

In time my own name and life dates would be added to the headstone so that for a while, at least, people would see it as a monument to our love. I suppose some might not approve but I couldn't see the good Father Connolly objecting.

Checking my calendar for something in late October, I noticed that the coming Saturday was Hallowe'en, All Souls' Eve. That seemed appropriate for my weekly visit to the cemetery. I promised myself that I would make an extra special effort when tending Siobhan's grave on that date.

On the afternoon of Hallowe'en I clambered aboard Tommy's old bus, Tommy himself giving me a hand because my arthritic knee made it difficult. Tommy Clarke was a decent man who had taken it on himself to provide a much-needed service to the community. Some years previously there had been a regular bus service but a mean-minded little bean-counter in the company had decided that the route was not economical. So Ballynahoe suddenly found itself without a bus service and that at very short notice. Despite a petition and Father Connolly's entreaties the company remained adamant. Tommy, a retired mechanic with time on his hands, asked around among friends, one of whom had eventually found this old bone-shaker. Tommy fixed it up and several times a week drove round the nearby villages taking people wherever they wanted to go. He charged just enough in the way of fares to maintain the vehicle.

When we reached the crossroads Tommy helped me to alight and as always offered to drive me down to the cemetery. "Are you all right now, Kathleen? Sure an' it would be no trouble at all to drive you down there."

As always I declined. "Thanks, Tommy, but Siobhan loved this walk. It's special."

"Okay, me darlin'. See you at the usual time unless somebody comes along to give you a lift."

As always I tended the grave although my frequent visits meant that little upkeep was needed. I told Siobhan how much I loved her and missed her and how the people in the village were so kind to to me. I told her how my latest book had just been accepted and, not needing the money, I had assigned all fees and royalties to medical research in the hope that any future pandemic would be waylaid before it could cause similar havoc to COVID. I told her of this and that as tonight was All Souls' Eve I would say extra prayers for her rest.

Then I had a sudden fright, an unexpected jolt and a few seconds of palpitations. I had thought myself alone but I wasn't. Standing no more than a few feet away and facing me was a young woman or girl. At least, I think it was a woman for she was wearing a long white dress or robe of some kind. The sun was behind her and dazzled---squinting into the sun like that made my eyes water, although perhaps I was still shedding silent tears for Siobhan. All that I could be sure of was the dress and an odd-looking hat the stranger wore, a turban-like thing with a very broad brim concealing her face in its shadow. Fumbling for a handkerchief, I bent my head to wipe my eyes. When I raised my head she had gone. I looked around but could see her nowhere in the cemetery. Possibly she had gone to look at the disused church.

Maybe I had been hallucinating, I'd once read somewhere that grief can do that to people. Even worse---horror of horrors---could I be developing dementia? I hoped not, that would be too terrible, especially if it made me forget Siobhan. I glanced at my watch. I didn't have much time to get back to the crossroads to meet the bus. I knew Tommy would wait a reasonable time for me but not too long.

At the stop I only waited for a few minutes and then the old single-decker came rattling its way along to slow down into a creaking halt. As usual at this time on a Saturday, it was almost empty. My arthritic knee had stopped troubling me and I climbed onto the platform without waiting for Tommy to help. I greeted him but he didn't reply, unusual for him, he being such a cheerful soul. I suppose he had other things on his mind. I had become something of a creature of habit, always choosing to sit in the same seat when possible. I settled, closed my eyes and lapsed into a reverie.

I felt the old bus pull away with its familiar cough and splutter. As always, my half-dreaming thoughts were of Siobhan and then something must have disturbed me for I awoke with a start to see, a couple of seats in front of me, the woman with the strange hat. It was odd, I couldn't recall seeing her at the stop. I suppose she had come dashing up after I had closed my eyes, had caught the bus with seconds to spare.

The sun was to the side of the bus, its brightness hurting my eyes and, as in the cemetery, I couldn't see much of the woman despite her closeness to me. I started to daydream again, this time about the woman in the hat. For the first time in nine months and some odd weeks and days I gave my attention to someone other than Siobhan. She was probably just an ordinary person but because of that peculiar and concealing hat I ascribed a number of interesting and exotic occupations to her: acclaimed film star; singer / songwriter; famous supermodel. I began to drift off...