Page 212 of The Missing Sister

‘Whatever it is, Mum, don’t worry, we’ll understand. Won’t we, Jacko?’ said Mary-Kate.

‘Course we will,’ Jack smiled at me encouragingly. ‘Come on then, Mum, get on with it.’

So I told them the story of Bobby Noiro, and about how he’d come up to uni in Dublin while I’d been at Trinity.

‘Trinity was, and still is, a Protestant university, and University College was Catholic,’ I explained. ‘These days, of course, it hardly matters, but back then, when what the Irish have always called “the Troubles” were beginning, it mattered a lot. Especially to somebody like Bobby Noiro, who had grown up in a household with an intrinsic hatred for the British, and what he and many Irish republicans saw as the theft of Northern Ireland for their Protestant citizens. Catholics who ended up stuck across the border in the North often weren’t well treated and were always last in line for new housing and any jobs on offer.’ I paused, struggling to simplify what was such a very big story. ‘Anyway, I settled into university very well, and absolutely loved it – what with Ambrose teaching Classics there, and me studying the same subject, it was what you two would call a no-brainer for me to follow in his footsteps. However, Bobby didn’t approve – I think I mentioned him to you when I was telling the story of my childhood in West Cork, Jack.’

‘You did. He sounded like a really weird kid.’

I then told them what had happened in Dublin.

‘All these years, I’ve lived in fear that he’d find me, or send his friends in the IRA to hunt me down. I know it sounds ridiculous, but he was terrifying,’ I gulped. ‘And as I told you, he was imprisoned for burning down a Protestant family’s house. Well, that’s why I left Ireland and ended up in New Zealand.’

Mary-Kate came and sat down next to me on the edge of the bed where I’d been perching and put her arm around me.

‘It must have been terrible for you, thinking that he was after you for all these years, but it’s all over now, Mum. He can never harm you again, can he?’

‘No, he can’t. Today is the first time I actually know that.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us any of this before?’ asked Jack.

‘Let’s be honest, even if I had, would you have been interested in listening? Is any child ever really interested in hearing stories of their parents’ past? I used to hate it when Bobby went on about the Irish revolution, singing those Fenian songs. My mum and dad never said anything about their past, because of the family rift.’

‘What family rift?’ asked Jack.

I was very tired now. ‘It’s a long story, which if youareinterested, I’m happy to tell you one day. However, tomorrow morning, I’m packing both of you off to the Michael Collins Centre up at Castleview. At the very least, you can learn about the local hero who originally released Ireland from the grip of the British.’

Mary-Kate rolled her eyes, which made me smile.

‘See?’ I said. ‘You’re not interested. But as he did have a big impact on my own upbringing and subsequent life, you’ll just have to put up with it for a couple of hours.’

‘Was this Michael Collins Bobby Noiro’s hero?’

‘As a matter of fact, Jack, quite the opposite. Anyway, let’s get something to eat, shall we? I’m starving.’

When I returned to the room, I saw the message light was flashing on my phone. It was from Katie, just asking me how I’d got on, trying to track down ‘your friend’, as she put it.

I dialled her mobile number and she answered on the second ring. ‘Well?’ she said.

‘I’ll tell you when I see you, but the good news is, that even though Bobby isn’t dead, he’s certainly never going to come after me again.’

‘Then I’m so happy for you, Merry. You must feel quite a weight off your shoulders now.’

‘Oh, I do, Katie, yes. Also, while you’re on, I popped down to the church in Timoleague this afternoon and I was wandering round the family graves. Then I looked for Father O’Brien’s, but I couldn’t find him. Do you know what happened to him?’

‘I do indeed, Merry. As a matter of fact, I saw him myself only this afternoon.’

‘What?! How?’

‘He lives at the old people’s home in Clonakilty where I work. He never budged from his Timoleague parish, even though I know he was given offers of promotion. Anyway, he finally decided that he was getting too long in the tooth to carry on, and he retired five years ago when he turned eighty. You’ll be remembering that draughty old presbytery he lived in, so a year ago, despite protesting he could take care of himself and he wanted to die in his own bed, he was brought to us. Would you like to see him?’

‘Oh, Katie, I’d love to see him! Is he... all there?’

‘You mean, does he have all his marbles? He does, ’tis only his body that’s after letting him down. Riddled with arthritis, he is, God bless him, from all those years o’ living in that house, I shouldn’t wonder. They’ve built a new one for the next priest, which is sheltered from that evil wind which rattled through the panes.’

‘I’ll come to visit him tomorrow morning then.’

‘Grand job. I’m up at John and Sinéad’s, baking for the family hooley on Sunday.’