Chapter Six

23 October 1957

Father Francis Mulcahy sank down in the easy chair beside the fire. It felt good to be home again, even if it meant facing up to unhappy memories. He looked around the room and saw that his housekeeper, Mrs O'Hare, had thoughtfully removed the 'With Sympathy' cards which had covered every available surface in his living room before his departure. It had been a month since Katharine's funeral – he felt it was time to move on. Although he wasn't altogether sure what he would move on to.

The door opened and Mrs O'Hare breezed in, chattering away in her harsh Irish brogue which remained undiminished however long she stayed in Philadelphia.

"Now then, Father. You get some of this tea inside of you - remind you what you've been missing while you've been doing the Lord's work in them foreign countries. Sure, you're a martyr to the cause, Father. And your poor sister not yet cold in her grave before they ask you to go jetting off around the world…"

She poured tea for him as she spoke, and graced his plate with a piece of rich fruit cake which looked extremely appetizing. He smiled at her kindly and gratefully began to eat as she turned to go.

When she reached the door, she stopped and began fumbling in her apron pocket, pulling out pieces of string and a rather grubby rag in her search for whatever it was she was looking for. Eventually, she found it and spun round on her slippered heels to bring it over to Mulcahy.

"Father, before I forget, I found this letter the day you left. It was in amongst the cards. I put all your sympathy messages in a box, but I thought this looked personal."

Mulcahy wiped the crumbs from his fingers and the sides of his mouth and took the small envelope from her. His heart thudded over in his ribcage as he recognized the writing on the front. It was, of course, from Sally.

"Thank you, Mrs O'Hare. That's all I need for now."

The brash Irish woman, though not the brightest tack in the box, was old enough and wise enough to recognize when a man needed to be alone in his own house, and she wordlessly left him in peace. As soon as the door closed behind her, he pushed away his teacup and looked at the letter in his hands.

Sally had kept to her promise ever since she left Korea. The letters began to arrive at the 4077th after only a month, the first one having been written from the evacuation hospital. They continued in a fairly regular basis after that. He received two more in Korea before he was drafted home. Then, somehow, (he guessed through Colonel Potter who knew where he was), letters began arriving at St Philomena's shortly after he began his new work Every letter which arrived saw Mulcahy imagining what news might lie within them. Perhaps there would be news of increasingly lucrative work in paediatrics, and a new flat not far from the centre of London. One letter contained a photograph and Mulcahy imagined it being of a happy smiling Sally on the arm of a handsome young man with a protective glint in his eye. He imagined what news they might contain because he never opened any of the letters. His promise had been to cut off all contact, and he felt that to read those letters would be in breach of his contract. He also knew that with one declaration of love, he would be on the next plane to London and his life would be in ruins behind him.

But now, as he sat smelling the envelope for any lingering traces of her scent, he began to wonder what life he had left. His job in this parish, although fulfilling, was unremarkable. He had the feeling that if he were hit by a bus tomorrow morning, another priest in exactly the same mould would arrive by the afternoon. His beloved sister, who had placed so much faith and trust in God, had died an undignified and painful death before his eyes. And suddenly, the idea of purgatory seemed a drop in the ocean compared to the agony he felt at the box of unopened letters which lay in his desk drawer. One letter couldn't hurt, if it only served to comfort him, could it?

He carefully tore open the flap and pulled out the folded lilac sheet within. There was only one page, and it was filled with Sally's wild, scrawling hand.

Dear Johnny,

Do you realise that this is the 50th letter I have sent you since I last saw you? I counted back in my diaries today and I was astounded to learn that fifty missives have flown from my pen to your hands. Fifty letters in which I have tried so very hard to keep you in my life, to keep you at the forefront of my mind and to hold that place in my heart where you always stay. Fifty letters in which I have tried to steal your heart. Fifty wasted letters.

And so this letter shall be the last. I think I mentioned briefly in my last letter about my friend Peter. He is a surgeon at the hospital where I work, and we have spent a lot of time together in the last year or so. He, like me, has always been too busy working to consider marriage. And so we've talked things over and he decided to ask me if I would marry him. And I have accepted.

There are no good reasons to back up this momentous decision - only boring practical ones. In January I shall be thirty years old, and my parents are beginning to despair of me. I am also growing tired of shouldering the responsibility of my role as a doctor on my own. Although I value my independence, there are times when I long to come home to someone at the end of the day and to talk through the hard sights and difficult decisions I have had to make. I long to come home to you, but I'm gradually coming to accept that will never happen. I've been writing to you for four years, and you've never once replied. Not even a postcard, or just something to let me know that you are receiving my letters. I don't even know if you'll get this. I don't even know if you are alive (although I pray every night that you are.) I can only hope, and somehow a life built on hope grows weak after a time.

There is one more reason why I have decided to marry Peter. Simply, there is no reason for me not to. I am very fond of him, and I enjoy his company very much. We are extremely compatible and both our families are delighted at the news. The only person in this world who I can love enough to devote my life to is you, and so I may as well be with someone with whom I can be friends. Our wedding will take place at All Saints Church in Cricklemead, Bishops Waltham, on Saturday 21st October.

I can't believe I'm finally saying goodbye to you, after all this time. Believe me, this letter is not truly expressing the pain I am feeling as I write. I feel numb and empty inside. But I cannot continue with an empty promise. Apparently, your deal with God does trump mine. You always did like to be right.

Goodbye, my darling Johnny. I will always love you, until my dying breath.

Sally x

Mulcahy had actually stood up from his chair and was about to call out to Mrs O'Hare to bring his coat and order him a taxi to take him to the airport. Then he thought to check the small perpetual calendar which sat on the mantelpiece beside the clock, and which Mrs O'Hare religiously updated every morning as she dusted.

The date read 23rd October.

Mulcahy sank back into his chair and cried silent tears of desolate grief.

As night fell, Mrs O'Hare came in with his usual cup of milk. She found Mulcahy fast asleep in his chair, glasses still on his face. All around him were letters written dreadful handwriting. An empty box lay on the floor beside his chair. And in his hand, he clutched a photograph of a young woman in an emerald green dress with dark chocolate eyes and a mass of dark curls.