Secrets of Our Hearts

‘Ah well, you look very fit on it. ’Tis a lovely complexion ye have.’

It was not in the least artful, but Niall felt a blush spread over his cheeks, and he took a quick sip of beer. Despite having managed to shake off the acute shyness of his youth, outside the family home he remained self-consciousness and he did not appreciate being stared at so directly. When confronted thus, in the manner of a dog his eyes would flick away as if to divert the watcher’s gaze. This time, however, it failed to have the required effect, and he was compelled to blurt: ‘I thought it’d be busier than this, being payday!’

Seeing not the miserable countenance that Niall conjured of himself, but the face that his friends and neighbour saw, one that was quiet and strong and approachable, she removed her eyes from it to steal a quick glance at the mahogany clock on the wall. ‘Oh, don’t worry, they’re just biding their time for a good night. We’ll be rushed off our feet in half an hour.’ She took his money to the till, saying on her way, ‘I haven’t seen you in here before. Just passing through, are ye?’

Disappointed, though unsurprised, that his previous visit had made no impact on her, Niall chuckled softly. ‘No, I’ve lived round here all me life.’

‘A bit longer than me then. This is only my fourth week of working here.’ She beamed as she gave him his change.

This would be the time for him to move away from the bar and find a table. He could have taken his pick tonight, but chose to remain where he was for the moment, wanting to continue the dialogue but not sure how. He took another sip of beer, hoping she would help him. Instead she began to potter about the bar, refilling shelves with bottles. It was perforce left to him.

He licked the foam from his long upper lip and cleared his throat nervously as she came past, and said, ‘You’re from Ireland then?’

‘How very perspicacious of you.’ A smile removed the barb from what might be misinterpreted as snide.

However, this comment instantly demoted her in Niall’s estimation – he had enough of such sarcasm at home, people thinking they were being clever or witty – and the fact that she did not appear to intuit his annoyance served to deplete her standing even further. Instantly he revised his former opinion of her as a kind, old-fashioned type. Nevertheless, he was forced to stay put for she was still speaking and it would have been rude to turn his back.

‘I know what you’re thinking – how the divil did I get away with a heathen name like this in Ireland!’

Eyes fixed on his glass, he shook his head, still annoyed about her previous sarcasm. ‘I wasn’t even aware of your name.’

‘There’s me told then.’ She grinned, but was obviously stricken with embarrassment from the way she seized a cloth and began to polish a nonexistent smear on the mahogany counter.

‘Sorry … I just haven’t heard anyone mention it.’ Despite himself, he wanted to make her feel better, and asked, ‘What is it then?’

This appeared to restore her friendliness. ‘Aw, me and my big mouth – I could’ve got away with it. I’m not sure I want to tell you now.’ She tilted her head as if paying the matter great consideration, but this was merely play-acting. ‘Ah, go on then. It’s Boadicea Merrifield.’

Niall couldn’t help but be impressed. ‘That is a rum’n!’

She laughed gaily at his expression. ‘Don’t I know it – and all my father’s fault.’ Still only the two of them at the bar, she leaned both forearms on it and, without the slightest prompting, launched into the story of her life whilst Niall sipped his drink and listened.

Her father, a sergeant in the army and resolutely English, had fallen in love with a colleen whilst on duty in Ireland, and against natural disdain of its inhabitants had sought permission to marry her. This had been refused at first by her family, until he had become a convert. With Boadicea’s father often away for years at a time on foreign service, and her mother declining to go with him, she had been born and brought up amongst her mother’s kin. Hence the Irish accent. Up against them and the Church, her father had been forced to baptise his child Mary, but in his presence she continued to be Boadicea, and the brother who followed her, Arthur. Her name had caused all sorts of friction, and even without the nuns’ insistence on it she would have called herself plain Mary at school so as not to draw attention to herself. ‘Even when I came over here I got an awful lot of leg-pulling – ’tis a wonder I’m not walking round with one leg longer than the other, the amount I got. Not that I care. ’Twas the name my father chose for me and I’m sticking to it.’ Her smile showed that she was immensely fond of her father. ‘I rather like having a name that no one else has – well, not many, anyhow.’

‘So how come you are over here, then?’ asked Niall, having warmed to her again.

Her face clouded slightly and she tapped her short fingernails on the bar. ‘Oh, things …’

‘Are your parents still there?’

‘No, my mother died—’

‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’ His softly uttered sentiment was genuine; he knew what that felt like.

‘Thanks,’ she was equally sincere in her response, ‘but it’s been a good few years now. Anyway, with her gone, there was no reason for Dad to be in Ireland, what with all the back-biting he suffered. So he came back here with Arthur. He’d left the army by then, o’ course, though they did call him up to train the recruits during the war – I suppose you’d have been too young to see any fighting?’

Niall nodded quickly. Like many of his age, it was rather a sore point that he had not contributed.

She mimicked his nod. ‘Anyway, as I say, he and Arthur came back to live here. I stayed on for a while with Mammy’s folks, but I couldn’t get work, so that’s why I came over, and also to be nearer to Dad and me brother – although I’m not so near as I was, me being in York now and they in Manchester. I only get to visit them a couple of times a year.’ Seeming to think she had spoken long on herself, she smiled and asked ‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’

Immediately Niall shook his head, then looked awkward. ‘Well, I did have a brother, but we don’t see each other.’ Before she could ask why, he posed a query of his own. ‘Don’t you miss Ireland?’

‘Oh, sure.’ Her eye was momentarily wistful. ‘It’ll always be home.’

‘Whereabouts are you from?’

The wistfulness turned to impudence. ‘Would you be any wiser if I told ye?’

Niall felt his jaw twitch in irritation; she was doing it again. ‘I just meant what county.’

‘Mayo,’ she eventually revealed.

‘That’s where we’re from!’ exclaimed Niall.

Boadicea seemed to find this hilarious. ‘Sure, ye don’t sound like it!’

That really annoyed him, for he was immensely proud of his Irish heritage. But he kept his tone equable. ‘Aye, well, maybe that’s because we’ve been here sixty years.’

‘Nor do you look that old,’ came her teasing addition.

‘I meant my great-grandparents.’ He decided to end this humiliation there and then by tipping back his head, draining his glass and bidding the barmaid a curt farewell, leaving her smile fading to bewilderment.

‘Have you been upsetting my customers again, Miss Merrifield?’ quipped the landlady, a no-nonsense type of Yorkshire woman, having witnessed the terse departure, moving to stand beside her.

‘Heaven knows.’ Totally mystified, Boadicea shook her head. ‘And here’s me thinking I was giving him compliments. Sorry for losing you business, Mrs Langan.’

‘Nay,’ the woman’s tone was dismissive, ‘he’s only a one-pint Willie. It’ll hardly break the bank.’

Boadicea laughed at the terminology, and prepared to welcome the group of more amiable-looking customers who had just barged into the saloon, and from that instant was run off her feet for the rest of the night. Nevertheless, she was to remain disappointed over her miscommunication with the shy and handsome man with the serious face and the smile that came from nowhere. When he came in again she would have to apologise.

However, she was not to get the chance, for Niall had decided to abandon his foolish notion. Having emptied his conscience at confession on Saturday and been absolved for his lustful thoughts, he had assumed that to be the end of the matter. Had he not bumped into her in the street during the following week he doubted he would have seen the rude biddy ever again.

It was a somewhat embarrassing encounter. There had been a cattle market and, that Monday evening, the main route to his house was splattered with dung, the air rich with its scent. He had successfully evaded it so far, then had rounded the corner and encountered a great quantity on the pavement.

Too late to dodge this one, he was standing under a streetlamp and using the kerb to scrape it from his boot and so avoid taking it home, when someone said in a familiar Irish lilt: ‘Blasted nuisance, is it not?’

And he spun round to see Boadicea emerge into the pool of lamplight. The weather having turned cool again, she wore a long fitted coat with a golden fur collar that was almost the same shade as her hair. As wide as a shawl, it enveloped her shoulders, making her seem smaller, more vulnerable than the person who had issued such impudent banter last week.

‘Oh … hello,’ Niall muttered lamely, then went back to cleaning his boot.

Ignoring the hint, she explained her presence: ‘I just thought I’d nip to evening Mass before going to work.’

‘Right.’ Niall moved his head in acknowledgement.

Her smile was tentative, her voice soft and her breath visible on the cold evening air. ‘Ye haven’t been in to see us for a while …’

‘No.’ Niall felt ill at ease, wishing she would not watch as he dragged his boot along the kerb this way and that.

‘I’ve been hoping ye would, Mr …?’ Blue eyes fixed upon his face, she waited for his name.

Eventually he said it, obviously reluctant and not a little morose. ‘Doran.’

‘Mr Doran, I think I might owe you an apology. Maybe you thought I was being rude to ye last time ye came in.’

Still occupied in ridding his footwear of cow dung, Niall frowned, pretending not to know what she was talking about.

‘You might’ve thought I was mocking your Yorkshire accent – I wasn’t, I think it’s lovely.’

How could one remain hard-hearted to such charm? He donned a self-effacing attitude and stopped cleaning his boot, attending more politely as she went on, ‘Sure, I ought to know better, folk taking a rise out of me with their top o’ the mornings and begorrahs and all manner of rubbish. Anyhow,’ she inclined her head graciously, ‘I apologise. I meant no harm.’

‘None done. I can’t even remember it,’ lied Niall, but hoped his attitude projected how happy he was to see her again.

‘Well … that’s all I wanted to say, really.’ Obviously relieved, she flashed him a smile, then turned and began to melt into the darkness, but paused in anticipation when it looked as if Niall was eager to speak.

But he simply blurted, ‘Er, thank you anyway – even if there was no need!’

Her lips retained their smile, though Niall thought he saw a hint of disappointment in her blue eyes as she gave a little nod, then went on her way and he on his. And, as he went, he thought about what she had said about going to evening Mass, and made a note to himself to look out for her at church on Sunday, for he had not noticed her there before, being too involved in his devotions. He hoped, though, that he would see her again much sooner than that.

For the first time in days he felt his spirits elevate, thoroughly restored from the gloom that had descended since his altercation with her. Hence, upon nearing home and seeing his boys playing football under a streetlamp, he cantered up to join in a lively kickabout until, remembering that he was supposed to be grieving for Ellen, he swiftly composed himself, gave his boots a last rake on the iron scraper set into the wall, then went indoors, though his mood was to remain light-hearted.

That night he started visiting The Angel again.

Gradually becoming inebriated by the woman who served it, rather than the alcohol itself, Niall increased his excursions to five nights of the week from then on. Whilst this was all very well on a Monday, or even a Wednesday, when, the bar being relatively quiet, he could sit and watch her to his heart’s content – perhaps even be lucky enough to share a word or two with her when he acquired the pint he had rationed himself – Friday turned out to be a different matter. Having arrived somewhat later than on previous visits, he encountered a wall of people the moment he came through the door. The place was so packed, he had to navigate his way through a labyrinth of elbows to acquire his drink. At last, there she was. Forced to raise his voice above the hubbub, he returned Boadicea’s smile of welcome and asked for the usual. He noted briefly that there was something different about her tonight, but didn’t know what it was until a few moments later he heard one of the female customers call to her from the passage, ‘I love your new dress, dear!’ And the recipient of this praise joked, ‘I’m glad somebody noticed.’

Ah, that was what it was. Niall hardly ever paid attention to such detail, but studied her garment more closely now. It was blue with flowers on it, and made of silky stuff that emphasised every curve – which was probably why he had noticed neither the pattern nor colour before. With all the tables occupied and his usual nook taken, he remained at the bar to watch and to yearn. But sadly there was to be no chat with her tonight, for after serving him she was instantly off to serve another, maintaining this hectic pace all the while he was there.

Crammed in from all sides, alert to straying elbows that might jolt and spill his pint, he made tentative sips of it, whilst his eyes followed Boadicea to and fro behind the bar. His ears too strained to attend her, to decipher her Irish lilt from the blunt Yorkshire vowels that obscured it, to detect every word from her smiling lips – and were just becoming attuned when a roar went up. Niall turned his head in vexation to see what had ruined his evening. Unable to discern the origin, he was soon to be made aware, as a piano was set upon with gusto, the whole pub erupting into lively accompaniment.

His faint disgust must have been apparent, for when his eyes returned to Boadicea, he received a signalled command from her to cheer up and join in with the singing, her mouth pretending to mimic his in an exaggerated sulk, and though he didn’t sing he was forced to smile back. She responded with a grin of commendation, every feature of her face participating in that smile and her warm eyes focused completely on him, which made him feel on top of the world. It was not to last for long, her services required elsewhere, but Niall was to treasure this little piece of attention as if she had pinned a medal to his chest.

With a practice born of necessity, the level of his glass was reduced sip by sip over the next hour. Whilst around him others grew merrier and more boisterous, singing at the top of their voices, he remained sober, all the better for watching the object of his desire, making out, when she caught him studying her, that he was enjoying the singsong with the rest. Seeing others treat her to a drink, he wished he could buy her one too. Maybe next week, he could wangle extra allowance from Nora. But if he were to stand Boadicea a drink, he would make sure it bought him her full attention.

‘Are you ready for another, sir?’

Realising the question was directed at him, Niall tore his eyes from Boadicea and glanced at the landlord who asked it, before checking his almost empty glass. ‘Er, no, thanks, I’m all right.’

‘I just thought as you’d been stood there for a while,’ persevered Mr Langan, a respectful yet commanding figure in his black suit, his brawny hands pressed to the counter, ‘you might be waiting to get served.’

‘No, no.’ Niall’s reply was casual. ‘I’m just here ’cause I can’t get a seat.’

The firmly patient tone became strained and the large face was thrust deliberately closer. ‘Only you’re keeping other customers from the bar!’

Not until then did Niall realise he was being castigated. ‘Oh – right, sorry!’ He could have retained his place by buying another half – might have done had it been Boadicea who hovered to serve him. Alas, she was away at the far end of the bar, so he picked up his glass and began to squeeze himself away through the throng, seeking another space from which to watch her. But there was none. Nor was there a way back: immediately he had moved, another rushed to fill his slot and that was the last chance Niall had of speaking to her for the remainder of his time there.

Still, by drawing himself up to full height, he could glimpse her golden head bobbing its way back and forth along the row of drunken patrons, whilst he sipped his drink and the crowd bawled in unison, ‘Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are ca-a-lling!’

The songs, the sentiments bequeathed by their grandfathers, were Irish, though the voices were not, the lyrics delivered mainly in loud Yorkshire tones as the participants sang of the old country that their ancestors had departed long ago. And in this alone, despite his Yorkshire name and his Yorkshire accent, Niall felt his Irish heart at one with them.

Inevitably, after stretching it out for so long, he was finally unable to drain another drop from the glass. Even so, he continued to stand there. Thwarted at having to share her with so many others, he was loath to depart – though not from this mob, who had grown increasingly drunk. How irritating it was to be amongst such a crush when oneself was sober. Look at them – how foolish they appeared as the maudlin tune gave way to a gayer refrain and set them jigging. No matter that it was crowded, one of their number was performing a strenuous dance, arms akimbo, lifting his knees in the air. The big Irish drover was well known in the area, usually good-natured, but boisterous in his cups. Niall could see what was about to happen – tried to warn the drunken buffoon that there was someone about to pass behind him with a tray of drinks – but his voice was lost amid the deafening entertainment. The drover hopped backwards, bashed into the man with the tray and there came the sound of shattering glass. A few heads turned, there were groans from behind the bar, but these were lost amid a cacophony of ivory keys and discordant voices. Nothing could still the dancers, who proceeded to crunch across the carpet of shards, singing to their hearts’ content whilst the poor fellow who had just paid for the drinks was left to stare in dismay at his empty tray.

‘’Scuse me!’

Niall looked on sympathetically as the victim tried to catch the attention of the big Irish fool who continued to dance about like a lunatic, eventually managing to tug at his sleeve.

‘You might offer to pay for them!’

But the author of the disaster stopped only briefly to weigh up the little fellow, and to demand with a contemptuous sneer and a thick Irish brogue, ‘What’re ye going to do about it if I don’t, Johnny-boy?’ Then he cackled out loud and went back to his dancing, flailing his arms and legs about like a maniac.

He was not to do so for long. His victim might be a foot shorter but he had a weapon in his hand. Lifting the tray, he dealt the Irishman an almighty blow to the back of his head, so hard that the tray instantly buckled and so did the man’s legs – but only for an instant, for he wheeled round in anger and was about to take a swing at the one who had assaulted him, when another grasped his arm.

‘I think you ought to pay for his drinks,’ demanded Niall.

Restricted by the iron grip, the drover turned his hostility on the one who held him and, wrenching himself free, threw a punch at Niall, which was easily parried. With this insufficient to halt the attack there was only one way to terminate it: Niall dealt a blow that knocked him to the ground.

The crowd, which had drawn aside like two separate curtains at the first sign of trouble, now swept back together, laughing and singing along with the piano player, who had not even missed a beat, whilst the avenging angel Niall rubbed his knuckles and looked down at the bully, who lay out cold on the glass-sprinkled tiles.

‘Sure, I wouldn’t want to be upsetting you!’ laughed an Irish voice close to his ear, a kinder female one this time.

It was Boadicea, come to try to sweep up the mess, though she was not allowed to do so until the obstacle had been removed by his friends. The piano player changed to a gentler tempo and the crowd took an interval from their dancing.

‘Sorry, I just can’t stand people like him!’ Niall increased his pitch against the raucous strains of ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’.

She wrinkled her nose and bent to her task. ‘Aw, he’s all right really.’ Twas just the drink talking.’

Realising this did not present him in a good light, Niall felt he should justify his action. ‘I’m not usually so quick to hit somebody! He gave me no option; it was him or me.’

‘Sure, I know that!’ She did not sound at all recriminatory. ‘He was asking for a few tours of the parade ground, as my old dad would say, and you were only looking out for the little fella. Your man’ll be regretting it tomorrow, so he will. Likely be offering to buy you a drink!’

‘That’s probably true,’ agreed Niall, still rubbing his scuffed knuckles, his attention more on Boadicea now, for it was suddenly and delightfully brought home to him that he usually only ever saw her from the waist up. Taking advantage of this new perspective – the young woman crouching unawares – he examined first the wide hips, then followed the line of a rather shapely calf in a tan silk stocking, to the finely boned ankle that protruded from the high-heeled court shoe. ‘They’re a strange lot, the Irish,’ he concluded.

‘Ye cheeky article!’

He was forced to tear his eyes from her leg as she came upright with a look of faked offence, and dealt him a dig with her arm.

‘I hope you’re including yourself in that remark?’

So, she had remembered what he had told her then, about being of Irish stock. This and the little nudge of familiarity pleased him no end, and he grinned at her. ‘Aye, well, there’s some’d say I’m nobbut strange meself.’

Boadicea grinned back, her eyes sparkling, but already her attention was being stolen by another who was thrusting a coin in her hand to pay for the spilled drinks, and soon she was set to return to the bar, her shovel piled with glass. Still, she included Niall in an afterthought as she left him. ‘Would you be after a refill an’ all?’

‘No, thanks, I’ve had my quota for the night.’

‘See you again then!’ called Boadicea, before being swallowed up by the revellers.

Aye, you’ll see me again, thought Niall warmly, her final smiling comment topping off the evening nicely for him, as he took one last covetous look, then went out into the night.

Friday’s episode being too boisterous for one of such a quiet disposition, he decided it was pointless to call in at the pub over the rest of the weekend, for he would see very little of Boadicea. But oh, the aching emptiness this involved … Being without her for two nights was as hard a separation as he had ever experienced, tearing at his gut in a way that was almost physical in its intensity. It was a crime in itself to attend confession and be forgiven for his sinful thoughts, when he had every intention of repeating that sin, but Niall went along anyway, if simply for the fact that his parish priest was one of the few to whom he could unload such a burden – though he did not name names, of course, but restricted the information to a generalised confession of impure thoughts. So long as those thoughts were not put to deed he could rely on Father Finnegan’s understanding; he was a man himself, after all.

Already conscious of the worried looks that were exchanged between Nora and her daughters, as he had gone off to the pub night after night, he dared not extend his itinerary to the Sabbath, though he would dearly have loved to, for come Sunday he was as thoroughly depressed and agitated over his withdrawal from Boadicea as an alcoholic might be from his whisky. Hence, by Thursday of the following week, his good intentions of limiting his visits looked set to collapse, for he had been to The Angel four times in as many days, and in all probability would be there on a fifth.