17 years later
And how God had sent them children.
Sometimes, she hardly could seem to remember a time when she had not either been pregnant or nursing or carrying a toddler on her hip.
There were six of them around the house, with Rose still in diapers, and the beginnings of a seventh gave her nausea in the morning and a general draining feeling of fatigue.
She knew all that from her previous nine pregnancies. She knew she would somehow get through that tiring phase once again. All she had to do was simply go on and on even when she thought she was going to faint there and then, which had never actually happened and probably wouldn't ever.
She was not going to complain.
She had no right to. They were not living in abundance, but there was a warm fire in the hearth and dinner on the table every day, and the children might be wearing hand-me-downs, but at least they were clean and healthy and able to go to school instead of working from the earliest possible age.
She had long ago stopped dreaming of the things she might have had if events had taken a different turn, like fine winter coats or silken dresses or good, new clothes for each child that was born.
She had learned to be grateful for what she had.
There was a crash, a shout, and Kieran came stomping into the kitchen, cheeks flushed with rage, and began to tell a lengthy story about how Francis had done him wrong.
Maureen only half listened and sighed inwardly. All that bickering, all of the time. Like a madhouse.
"What's the matter, Kieran?" a breezy voice called out from behind him, and a big hand appeared and ruffled the boy's dark hair. Seconds later, Ryan's whole tall figure appeared in the doorway. "Feeling hard done by again? Who's it this time? Frank or Katie?"
"Frank, of course. He said …"
"Hey, you're a big boy, aren't you? You won't let your baby brother get you down with a few stupid words, will you? And haven't you said nasty things to him at times, too?"
Kieran pulled a face and grudgingly nodded.
"C'mon, Kee, give me a smile. No reason for looking like a month of wet Sundays. I can't possibly take you to the game tomorrow with a face like that. No way. No way at all. So sorry." He shrugged theatrically and tilted his head with a melting look of sadness and regret.
Very slowly, Kieran's face brightened until he grinned crookedly at his oldest brother.
He adored Ryan, who could make him do just about anything, while Maureen often found it hard to cope with Kieran's sullen, moody nature and was quick to lose patience with him.
"That's better. Now be off with you, it's past your bedtime already. I'll see you tomorrow." Ryan clapped the young one on the shoulder companionably.
Kieran disappeared without another word, and Ryan bent to kiss his mother on the cheek. "I'll get going. Don't wait up for me again. You need your sleep. Bye then!"
He turned to leave, but Maureen caught him by the sleeve. "Ryan … is that your good suit? And your best white shirt, too! Don't you think …"
"Mother, don't you worry, I'm not going to get into any trouble tonight. I intend to keep those garments impeccable. Angela Derringer is going to be there with her brother, which means I'll have to look my best and my most serious and trustworthy." He winked conspiratorially, and Maureen couldn't help laughing.
"Well then. Go and be serious and trustworthy."
She wished he would for once. She had scrubbed her fair share of dirt and blood from her elder sons' clothes in the aftermath of many a Saturday night on the town that had come to a messy end.
Niall at least had enough sense not to wear his very best for those occasions, but Ryan was incorrigible. He was very particular about his appearance and more likely to go hungry than to wear anything remotely shabby or unfashionable.
She couldn't really blame him.
He was handsome and he knew it, there was no changing that, and Angela Derringer was indeed a nice girl, not one of those immodest slatterns you saw so often these days. Hopefully, something serious would come out of that fling they were having. She would not mind having Angela for a daughter-in-law.
Sweet fantasies of Angela and Ryan on their imaginary wedding day were floating through her mind as she went about her work, tidying up the kitchen, looking in on the kids to make sure they were in bed.
Before she went to bed herself, she stepped out into the yard to take down the laundry she'd hung out to dry in the morning. Better not leave that outside during the night. Last time she did, Ivy Hollis's cat had ripped up the skirt of Katie's best dress, nasty little beast.
Coming back to the front of the house, Maureen cast an idle glance down the street and frowned. A bunch of figures was staggering along in the light of the dim gas lamp on the corner.
Drunks, either on their own or in clumps of two or three, were a familiar sight on Saturday nights, but something was wrong about these two men supporting, or rather dragging, a third between them, who had apparently had so much that he could hardly keep his feet.
The noise, Maureen realized. It was the noise that was missing. There was no inebriated singing, no shouting, no good-natured insults, no stopping to throw up noisily in the gutter.
What was more, she knew those boys. That was Anthony Dupree on the left, and the unmistakable stocky build of Dylan Kelly on the right.
It was rare seeing Dylan Kelly without Ryan Cleary by his side on a Saturday night, she mused, but Ryan was probably still charming the pretty Angela under her elder brother's watchful …
"Oh no", she groaned tonelessly as the unfortunate threesome drew nearer and she got a closer look at the young man in the middle, limp and lurching between his friends, at the dark hair that fell over his face, at his head lolling forward, at the huge stains of something dark across his shirt front, at the hand that clutched at his chest.
Another messy Saturday night after all.
Too much booze, drinks, or worse, spilled on shirts and trousers, a dreadful hangover in the making, and, in all likelihood, there had been yet another fight.
She dropped her laundry basket, wanting to hurry towards them, with a good mind to give him an earful about drinking himself half unconscious again, but she froze when they passed below the next street lamp and she became aware of the menacing red blossom on his white shirt, glistening with wetness.
Her hand went to her mouth as if on its own account, and then they had reached her, faster than she'd thought they would, and she cried his name and he looked at her for a second and took a step into her direction before his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed the same moment she flung out her arms for him and her knees buckled. They went down together and made a bumpy landing right on their own doorstep.
Dylan just stood and stared, shaking all over, before he turned away to be sick behind a trash can, while Anthony was stammering incoherently, trying to tell her what had happened.
Maureen heard him speak but couldn't make any sense of what he was saying other than "stuck him with a knife". She didn't ask who or where or why.
All that mattered was the heavy slack body in her lap and the blood, so much blood. It didn't make a difference who was the bastard that had pierced his heart.
She cradled Ryan's head against her chest, her eyes riveted on his beautiful face, so deathly pale against the ominous red that drenched his shirt and was beginning to stain her dress, too.
Silent tears were running down her face. How many times had she held him like that when he was a child, when he was ill or tired or simply wanted a cuddle? How could this have happened to the most promising and the most beloved of her children, his young life ending when it had hardly begun?
He stirred feebly, drew a shuddering breath and lay very, very still.
An inhuman, drawn-out cry exploded from her mouth, and she held on even tighter to her son's shoulders.
Somebody grabbed her by the arm and shouted something. Feeling put upon, she tried to shake the annoying hand off her sleeve.
"Mrs. Reilly! Mrs. Reilly, please!" a voice insisted. "Please let me have a look at him."
She knew that voice. It belonged to Sid Collins, the doctor who lived just around the corner.
What was Dr. Collins doing here? What business did he have looking at her dead son? Couldn't they just leave her alone with him this last time, just for a while?
She kept her gaze down on Ryan's white-lipped face and almost screamed when his eyelids began to flutter and his mouth twisted painfully.
"Dear God in heaven! You're alive!" she whispered.
He blinked at her and moaned, "Aw, Ma … let go of me, please. That … fucking … hurts!"
"Ryan! Mind your language!"
There were some chuckles from the small crowd that had gathered without Maureen ever noticing it.
She kept clutching his shoulder and kissed his face, and he let out a pained yelp. "Ma! Ouch!"
Only then did she realize that the knife had not gone into his heart at all.
There was a small rip in his shirt and an oozing gash in the flesh just below the left collarbone, in the very spot her thumb had pressed into.
"Sorry", she murmured contritely, retracted her hand and wiped it on her dress.
Anthony and the doctor helped Ryan, who said he was very dizzy, get up and sit beside her on the doorstep while Dylan angrily shooed away the gawkers.
By the light of the small lamp Ivy Hollis had been quick to provide, Dr. Collins removed the tatters of the bloodied shirt and inspected the injury. The knife had gone in deep, but it didn't seem to have damaged anything vital.
"You were lucky that your opponent was either too drunk or too sensible to go for your heart", Dr. Collins declared, setting about cleaning the wound. He fell silent as he stitched it up quickly and began to chat again when he applied the dressing. "I can't promise you won't get a slight fever, but that should pass quickly. Anyway, go easy on your left arm until this is properly healed. And try not to get into another fight too soon." Collins accompanied his advice with a little wink and an avuncular pat on Ryan's good shoulder and took his leave.
Biting his lip in pain, Ryan shuffled inside the house, leaning heavily on Dylan's shoulder.
Maureen, still weak in the knees but with relief now, made him a bed on the kitchen sofa. Sharing a bed with his brothers wouldn't do with his injured shoulder. With a look at his greenish face, she put a tin pail in place beside the sofa, just in case.
Just as she was finished, the door opened a crack, and two anxious little faces appeared. Kieran and Katie, clinging to each other tearfully.
"Ma … what's wrong with him? 'S he gonna die?" Kieran's voice quivered as he spoke.
Katie's huge glistening eyes asked the same question.
Maureen, instantly feeling bad because she had not thought of the other kids in her fear for her eldest, went and hugged them both to her side. "No, Kieran. God willing he isn't. He's been very lucky as it seems, and the doctor says he'll be all right. Now off with you, back to bed before the rest of you lot wakes up!"
The last thing she needed was the rest of her brood traipsing downstairs and getting all hysterical about their brother's mishap.
Obediently, the pair of the disappeared, heads down, faces solemn.
She pulled up a chair and watched Ryan sleep by the flickering light of a candle, now and then checking his brow for a rise in temperature and keeping an eye out for any telltale red seeping through the bandages.
Sleep overcame her at some point, and when a bang startled her awake, it took her a moment to realize where she was.
She straightened up and laid the back of her hand on Ryan's temple once more. It felt rather warm to the touch, so she rose to dip a clean dishcloth in water to make a cold compress. She was not going to take any chances.
The moment she placed the cool cloth on Ryan's forehead, the kitchen door flew open, a tall thin figure teetering in the doorway.
"Where's the bastard?" it roared.
"Luke! Shush! You're waking the kids!"
"I don't care if I wake the kids! Can't learn early enough what their fine bastard brother did!"
Maureen leapt to her feet and hissed, "Don't you call him that, Luke Reilly. Don't you dare."
"It's what he is, a bastard, isn't it?" he brayed. "Anyway, I want him out before the morning!"
Maureen wanted to slap him. "Have you drowned what little brains you ever had in your friggin' whiskey? He's hurt, you moron, and he's running a fever. He's going nowhere before he's better!"
"Did your fine little darling tell you how it came about that he ran into the wrong end of a knife?" Luke had to steady himself against the doorframe, but his speech was surprisingly clear. "Tried to throttle Niall, that's what he did. Had him by the throat and wouldn't let go of him, so can you blame the poor lad for trying to defend himself?"
"It was Niall that stabbed him?" Maureen asked, aghast.
"Sure it was! And it is Niall that's on the run now, 'way from the police. Sent me a message through Calvin Jenkins, said he was gonna join the Navy rather than go to jail. Might well never see my boy again, and it's all his fault!" He jerked a thumb at Ryan, who lay silent and unmoving, cheeks reddening with the fever, the white dressing across his chest and shoulder almost glowing in the murky candlelight.
Maureen buried her face in her hands.
Niall, of all people. Her stepson who had already had numerous run-ins with the local police. Last time he got into a fight and hit another young man over the head with a bottle, Officer Wells had promised him he would not turn a blind eye again. Niall had appeared to see the light and got himself a job at Jim Loughlin's warehouse, working hard and keeping his temper in check.
Until now.
This was a disaster. Niall was as much his father's favourite as Ryan was hers, and even though she refused to believe that it had all been Ryan's fault alone and Niall certainly wasn't all innocent, Luke would never forgive him.
She decided to remain silent.
Speaking up in Ryan's defence would help neither him nor her when Luke was in that kind of mood. Generally a sullen, silent man who rarely raised his voice or even spoke much at all, there was no telling what he would do when he flew into one of his booze-powered rages, and there was sheer murder in his eye now.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, stop blubbering", Luke barked at her. She dropped her hands to her sides to let him see she was not weeping at all and stared at him defiantly.
Unblinking, he pulled his own sheathed knife from his pocket, pointed it into Ryan's direction and coldly said, "He's out by the morning or I'll see to his pretty face. The girls won't be fawning over him quite as much when he's as ugly on the outside as he's on the inside. And I don't ever want to see him cross this threshold again."
With that, he turned, stomping out the front door to God knew where, and left Maureen to her terror.
She fell to her knees beside the sofa and studied Ryan's beautiful features in the candlelight, drinking in every detail, the echoes of that other horrible night almost twenty years ago resurfacing in her mind, of that other beautiful face framed by black curls, so utterly still and cold.
As the first thin daylight began to dawn, he stirred and woozily mumbled something.
She stroked his hot cheek with a lump in her throat. His shoulder felt warm, too, even through the bandages.
He would certainly not be going anywhere in this state, that much was sure, but she was just as sure that Luke would make good on his threat when he found him still there in the morning.
When Luke had not shown up by six o'clock, she made a decision and some strong tea.
She managed to wake Ryan from his feverish sleep and got him to drink two cups of tea while she explained things to him and outlined her plan. Then she helped him into a fresh shirt and his shoes, threw his jacket round his shoulders, stuffed some of his clothes from last night's laundry into a shopping basket and covered them with a large napkin.
With the basket over one arm and the other around Ryan's back, they slowly walked out the front door.
They had barely turned the corner when Luke came tottering back home and cursed wildly when he found the kitchen empty.
Fifteen minutes later, Maureen was back with a large plate of cake and a packet of coffee beans in her basket.
Luke was sitting at the table, drumming his fingers on the wood, and wordlessly nodded at the empty sofa with the crumpled blanket still on it.
"He was gone when I came downstairs", Maureen said without batting an eye. "Must've heard what you said and done a runner."
"Well then, good riddance." Luke bared his teeth in a sneer and studied her face for a moment. "You don't happen to know where he went?"
She shook her head and hoped to God she would not blush.
She turned to empty out her basket and made herself smile. "We'll have a good breakfast after church today, just the thing after all that commotion of last night", she said breezily, marveling at her own acting skills. "Orla's sister had a big celebration last night for her birthday, and Orla said to come over in the morning and pick up some of the leftover cake. So that's where I was. She gave me some of the coffee for good measure. Isn't that a treat?"
Luke's mouth twitched into a half-grin. "Sure it is. I'll go and wake them kids. We don't want to be late for Mass, do we?"
They were not late for Mass, nor did anything else change.
Other than that Niall was in the Navy now and that nobody ever spoke of Ryan again, because Luke wouldn't allow it.
With time, the older kids' memory of their flamboyant big brother faded, and the smaller kids couldn't remember him anyway, having been born after his departure.
But the wound in Maureen's heart was one of the sort that time cannot heal.