Redemption - Leon Uris [116]
Molly O’Rafferty remained sadly silent, as she had tried to do since Sixmilecross. Jeremy swayed this way, then that way. He tossed in his sleep, awakened sweating. He cursed Conor Larkin for betraying him and making him a dupe. And he still loved Conor, confusingly.
“Latin has its way of turning the old mind about,” Molly said. “Back to your studies and on with them.”
Jeremy returned to his desk and once again questioned the value of Latin.
“Just think, when you’ve conquered Caesar, you get a go at Cicero.”
“I’d rather dine on a pail of maggots.”
Thank God, Molly was determined to tutor him. Thank God for Molly for everything. Jeremy’s snarling dimmed as she soothed him with the chords of her guitar.
Jeremy glanced back at her and fell in love with her once again, as he always did every time he glanced at her or touched her or held her.
It had been that way from the very first eye contact. He and his mates went to the Lord Sarsfield, a student pub on the river Liffey quay, where Molly sang folk ballads on Saturday nights. The voice that reached him was more pure than the tinkle of any crystal or silver bell in Hubble Manor.
I spied a fair damsel far fairer than any,
Her cheeks like the red rose that none could excel,
Her skin like the lily that grows in yon valley,
She’s my own bonnie Annie, my factory girl.
That was it, then, now, and forever, Jeremy lad. Molly O’Rafferty barely past sixteen, newly out of convent school, and an apprentice teacher.
The marchers outside had passed for the moment and Jeremy was lulled into his Latin. He went at it diligently. When she saw him tire, Molly set down her guitar and hovered behind him checking his work and at the same time keeping enough distance to duck her skirts out of the way of his constant reaching back for her.
Mal Palmer burst in! One knock and in! Mal discombobulated the atmosphere of serenity once again.
“Oh, if Napoleon had the breastworks of that Atty Fitzpatrick, he’d have won at Waterloo.”
“For God’s sake, Mal,” Jeremy snapped.
“I just wanted to hear what the Fenian avengers had to say.” Mal touched the Sixmilecross button on his jacket. “Oh, oh,” he said slipping it quickly into a pocket.
There was no use insulting or dressing Mal down. He was uninsultable, undressdownable, and had little sensitivity to Jeremy’s situation. Somehow, he remained a pal. He was a good rugby player and terribly humorous at times…otherwise useless.
“Well, it is Saturday night. Are we off to the Lord Sarsfield to hear our Molly girl’s angel voice?”
“You take Molly over,” Jeremy said, “I’ll catch up with you.”
“I was saving a surprise for you, Jeremy,” Molly said. “Nell McCaffery is singing in my place tonight.”
“Pity, what,” Mal said. “I hope old Nell knows some frog songs to harmonize with her voice. Jeremy, this pains me, old chap, but can I ding you for a fiver? Damned allowance hasn’t arrived.”
“You shouldn’t gamble, Mal, you’re no good at it,” Jeremy said.
“Well, I am pressed for a fiver so on with your sermon.”
Jeremy gave him the money and Mal said he loved them both and was off to scour the square for other mates for additional fivers.
“Poor Mal,” Molly said, “what an ugly game he and his father play. Mal deliberately runs up gambling debts and Daddy pays them in a rage. This proves to Mal that his daddy truly loves him, although his daddy truly despises him.”
“Trinity College is the bottom of the toilet bowl for all us good Anglo chaps who have disappointed our fathers by failing to get into Oxford.”
“That’s enough Latin, Mal, and rallies for one evening,” Molly said closing his books.
“You didn’t tell me you weren’t singing at the pub tonight.”
“I wanted to surprise you before himself burst in. I’m planning to give you a private performance tonight, m’lord. Jeremy, I can stay the night and all day tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s bully! How