The Boatman's Wife(12)

Despite her new freedom from Mass-going, if Niamh was honest with herself, there was a small part of her which had missed the sense of community she’d got from going to church every week. Because she had had a tiny bit of faith before her mam had exploded into the church that Saturday afternoon and had woken her up to the hypocrisy of the Catholic religion. Her whisperings to baby Jesus had kept her going in the dark months after the loss of her father. She had needed so much to believe in something, because it was the only way to keep going.

That was where Brendan had come in. On those summer nights, wild camping in the woods, he would fill her head with stories of Ireland. Not only the ancient mystic Ireland, but the suffering Ireland of the Famine, the new hope with the War of Independence, the sorrows of the Civil War. He filled her in on the history of the Troubles, made sure she understood it was the Loyalists and the Brits who had started all the violence.

Of course, she’d had a massive crush on Brendan. It had never occurred to Niamh it was inappropriate for a fifteen-year-old to be making out with a twenty-year-old, and her second cousin to boot. Brendan had made her feel adult in a way no one else had ever done.

She had lost her virginity to him. So long ago, the memory of the experience had faded. All she could recall was it had been quick, and clumsy. She hadn’t even had time to take her skirt off as she felt the little stab of pain as Brendan pushed up into her. Afterwards, they’d shared a joint, and Brendan had talked about his beliefs again, as if it had never happened. After that, they’d had sex most times when they met up. Looking back, Niamh couldn’t help thinking it was a miracle they’d never got caught out. He’d claimed he was doing the withdrawal method, and she wouldn’t get pregnant, but she’d been so daft and flattered someone like Brendan would want to sleep with her, she’d never been too careful. Often, he stayed in until the end.

It had stopped when Brendan got a girlfriend. A blond girl with green eyes called Deirdre from Derry, who sometimes came with Brendan when he visited her. They’d been dating a long time now. Almost four years.

‘How’s Deirdre?’ Niamh asked Brendan now, as she followed his tall figure stomping through the woods.

‘Shush,’ Brendan said, stopping so suddenly she almost slammed into his back. He turned and looked into her eyes. They stared at each other, and not for the first time, Niamh was struck how like her daddy’s eyes Brendan’s were. Such a brilliant, clear blue. His skin so pale in contrast, and the red hair like a flame upon his head. For a moment, as his gaze softened, Niamh thought he was going to bend down and kiss her – but of course, that wasn’t why.

‘We’re so proud of you, Niamh,’ Brendan said.

She wasn’t sure if Brendan meant him and Deirdre, or him and his father Tadhg. But she didn’t feel brave. She was doing what she always did for Brendan. It was easier to say yes than no.



The soft misty drizzle laced her hair with tiny droplets and covered her cheeks in a damp film. She inhaled deeply as she lugged the heavy bag across their overgrown garden. The scent of all the lush wildness distracted her from her task. The aroma of huge sprays of floral lilac and sweet unpruned summer roses filled her lungs as she stopped, put down the bag and pulled one pink waxen petal off a rose. Held it up to her nose. Inhaled its sultry perfume. She closed her fingers over the rose petal, felt it sticking to her palm. The scent was so deeply romantic, it made her yearn for something she’d never experienced in her life.

Niamh shook herself, dropping the petal onto the wet grass. What was she doing, mooning around in the back garden with Brendan’s bag? What if her mam came home and asked her what was in it?

She pushed open the door of the outhouse. Inside it was exactly as if her daddy had just been in it. It was the reason why she always put Brendan’s bags in here. She knew for sure it was the one place her mam would never enter. All of her father’s tools were still in the same place on his workbench, covered now in a thick layer of dust. Niamh should have cleaned them and put them away in the toolbox on the shelf long ago. But every time she approached the work bench and looked at the big hammer, the saw, the screws and spanners, they all felt like messages from her father. The spray of sawdust where he’d been working. The half-made table still in the corner of the shed. Always, it reminded her of the injustice of what had happened to her family.

Niamh dragged Brendan’s bag over to the other side of the shed by the one smeared window. The view was of the overgrown bushes outside, as if the outhouse had sprung out of a dense jungle of Irish weeds. Niamh knelt down and lifted up the loose floorboards, then slowly and carefully lowered the bag into the space beneath. She had no idea what was in it. She preferred never to look. She slid the floorboards back in place. No one had seen her as she’d pedalled home with the bag strapped to the back of her bike. Broad daylight, and so blatant. But Brendan driving over, day or night, would attract more attention.

The shed was growing dimmer as the rain intensified outside, hammering on the tin roof above.

Niamh pulled the string on the lamp and sat on the old mattress which was shoved against the wall. She took the joint Brendan had given her out of her pocket and lit it up. The scent of the rose petal she’d plucked in the garden was still on her fingertips. It was so tender and delicate, it made her feel such deep longing for a different kind of life. How had she got into such a mess? She couldn’t tell her mam. She couldn’t tell anyone. Brendan was lucky. He had Deirdre. But she’d no one.