No Way to Say Goodbye - Anna McPartlin [74]
“Yeah, and I have no reason to doubt him,” she said, injecting enough hurt into her voice to elicit the truth.
“Ha! Try heroin. The guy’s a loser and my advice to you is to stay clear.”
“So you’re telling me that Mia Johnson had a long-term relationship with a heroin addict?” she said, with glee.
“Excuse me?” he said, clearly alarmed by the change in her tone.
“You’re right – I am from a small town in a small country, but it looks like I’m going to be the one to break Mia’s sordid love story. Maybe you could pass on my number just in case she wants to comment. After all, these revelations can have a life of their own. If he was a junkie, maybe she was too. Maybe she drove him to drugs – or was she the angel who saved him?”
“You’re swimming out of your depth,” Leland warned.
“But I’m not the one sinking,” she said, and hung up. She poured herself a glass of vodka with a shaking hand and pondered as to whether or not she would hear from the lady herself.
The sun was out and Sam had taken to playing his guitar in the back garden. He had woken with the idea for a melody that refused to go away so instead of fighting it he spent the morning working out the chords and, like the Pointer Sisters many years before, losing himself in music.
Mary popped up from behind the wall, scaring the crap out of him. “Nice song,” she said. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“‘Nothing’. I like it. It has a nice ring to it.”
He laughed her off.
“Are you ready?” she asked. “For my surprise trip?”
He put the guitar down. “I’ll meet you out front.”
Once in the car they drove across the bridge and eight kilometres down a narrow, winding road. When they got out, they had to walk through a rain-soaked field of grazing cows. She refused to give him any indication of where they were or what they were doing until they reached what could only be described as the burned-out shell of a stone hut that housed two donkeys.
She stopped and took a photo.
“Well?” he said.
“This was your granny’s family home.” She smiled.
“You’re kidding me?” he said, his voice laced with awe.
“Of course, it’s buggered now, but I found an old map in the library and this article about the fire. I’m sorry about that.” She nudged the map into his hand.
He was still staring at the remnants of his grandmother’s house. “How did you know where to look?” he asked.
“You mentioned your granny’s maiden name to Ivan who mentioned it to me. I spoke to my dad, who spoke to Jerry Letter, whose ancient ex-neighbour Dick Dogs had known your grandmother’s brother David. I researched the rest in the local library.”
“I didn’t think there would be anything left,” he said.
“I was pretty surprised myself,” she admitted. “And look over here!” She walked towards a stand of tall trees.
He followed, wide-eyed.
“Someone thought to put up a plaque. It must have been your grand-uncle Tim, seeing as he was the only one to survive.”
Sam read it.
AT THIS PLACE CALLED HOME SIOBHÁN AND COLM BRESLIN, MOTHER AND FATHER TO FIVE, REST WITH THEIR SONS VINCENT, JACKIE AND DAVID. THEY WILL BE FOR EVER MISSED BY TIM AND LENA.
A lot of text followed but it was in Gaelic.
“Lena was my grandmother’s name,” he said. “Can you translate?”
“I can. I had to look it up. I was always rubbish at Irish.” She read the transcription: “‘May God grant you always a sunbeam to warm you…’”
He joined in: “‘… a moonbeam to charm you, a sheltering angel so nothing can harm you, laughter to cheer you, faithful friends near you. And whenever you pray, Heaven to hear you.’” He smiled. “It was a blessing my grandmother’s father used to whisper to her each night before she fell asleep.”
“A family blessing. That makes sense.” She nodded as though something had clicked into place. “It’s a bit of a weird prayer for the dead.” She snapped a photograph.
“I can’t believe you did this,” he said, touched by all the trouble she’d gone to.
“Me neither. Usually I’m pretty lazy.”
Later, walking to the car, he told her the story of how his great-grandparents and their three eldest sons had perished in a fire a year after his