To Lorraine, Trish, & Loni, for your sound advice, honest insights, and inspired good sense. If only I’d listened!

PROLOGUE

 October 1938 - The Road To Dublin

The chill of the westerly wind wrapped itself around her legs like a fretting dog. Clasping the neck of her woollen coat to prevent its fingers from delving deeper, she settled at what she perceived was a hopeful spot.

Brake lights on a speeding, two-door saloon helped dispel the uncertainty building in her mind, bringing the car to a hurried stop about 30 yards in front of where she was standing. When the red lights cut out and the car started to reverse, she caught her first glimpse of the two men occupying the front seats. The brakes screeched again, causing her to quickly retract her extended right arm. Its aggressive arrival extinguished the inward light that it had first brought as quick as her own breath had smothered a thousand burning wicks in days past.

The car doors swung open in timely unison, followed swiftly by its two occupants. Identical twins, mid-twenties, wiry statures, slicked back thick mops of red hair. Their exacting duplicity bedazzled and vexed her in equal measure, not least by how it veined its way purposefully down to the very heels of their black leather brogues.

Compelled by common sense to assess the congeniality of the two potential Galahads in quick speed, she was drawn first to the driver when he kicked off the conversation, bringing him into sharper focus. But the scar running diagonally below his right eye did little to alleviate the feeling of uncertainty, in the pit of her stomach, about his true character. The one who occupied the passenger seat stood confidently in the doorway, his left hand stretched over the car’s roof, his right, idly drumming the top of the door frame. Switching her focus towards him, her eyelids flickered to make out the letters tattooed across his knuckles; four, maybe five, although she could only be certain of just two.

 ‘Now then, what have we got here, Tommy? A damsel in distress, is it?’

‘Aye, and a grand looking one at that, wouldn’t you agree, Aidan?’

 ‘That I would, Tommy, aye, that I would.’

Each brother spoke with an air of practiced assuredness that failed to transpose itself onto her, all the while running their devilish eyes over her entire body, stripping her naked. An involuntary shiver spiralled down her spine.

And for the first time since leaving the bosom of her mother’s parting affections, she had a longing for the reassuring presence of someone she knew

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

 Earlier that Day - Sligo Bus Station

 Choosing a seat by a window towards the rear of the bus, an inward smile radiated throughout her body. ‘I’ve done it!’ she whispered to herself. All at once, her inner voice spoke to her of the great adventures and the craic that lay ahead. A love affair…?

 Not that she knew anything of love affairs, other than what she had gleaned from having once read a supplement printed in the Irish Independent of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. If the fairies were kind, maybe she would find her own Mr Darcy in London.

Eighteen now, her virtue was still firmly intact. Innocent in most ways of the world, yet strong enough to turn her back on the tiny farming village where she’d spent her entire life. Her aim was to follow the same well trodden road Rose and Helen had taken, more than a year earlier, in search of a better life outside of Ireland; a life away from the hardships and endless poverty that had attached itself to each of them, so steadfastly, the very moment they drew their first breath after leaving the sanctuary of their mammy’s womb.

As hard as it was saying goodbye to her mammy and Tom, she felt no such qualms about the overly eager lads of her village - a scrubby bunch of horny mother’s boys, who viewed her as the perfect future wife. A perfect farmer’s wife! A prized combination of head turning good looks matched with the skill to plough a field and milk a cow as true and as fast as most. And it didn’t go unnoticed that she was as feisty as any bull in all the county, demonstrated avidly at the potato harvest crossroad dance, in late August, when she allowed Kieran Molley to kiss her fully on the mouth. His moment of triumph short lived, when he suddenly felt the meaningful slap of her hand across his face, the same moment when he contrived to cover her breast with his own hand. The undoing, witnessed in glorious sniggering by a ruddy row of mates, who, seconds before, gawped like eejits, all wishing they were in his shoes.

She settled her head against the window at the same time as the driver cranked up the engine, instantly engulfing in a cloud of black toxic smoke the dozen or so well wishers who had come to see off their loved ones. When the offending bus turned out of the station, oblivious to its pernicious discharge, she scorned herself for being amused at the expense of the poor souls left in its wake, their involuntary coughing and spluttering rising in perfect harmony to the churn of its ageing engine.

Though she had never travelled the road before, once the bus made its way out of Sligo and into the surrounding countryside, she quickly lost interest in the similarity of the view on offer to that surrounding her own village. A hotchpotch of small grassy fields, separated by an interwoven mixture of scrubby hedgerows and crumbling dry stone walls, pen and cud to the local farmers’ preferred brand of milking cows; Irish Moiled. A disturbing thought came to the forefront of her mind - perhaps they were going the wrong way.

Hitting the crest of a particularly hilly stretch of road, the bus driver and all the passengers onboard were relieved to see the early morning drizzle being swept away by the westerly coming in off the Atlantic. Patches of autumn blue dotted the horizon and a peek of weak sun offered the promise of something more positive to come.

Excited for what lay ahead, she put her mind to work pondering the sights and sounds she expected to encounter in London, recalling the descriptive passages she’d received via her sister’s letters. London’s architecture was the main feature for Rose, especially the majesty of the Royal houses, as she referred to them. Buckingham Palace, The Tower of London and Westminster Abbey, all shared a strong prominence. On the other hand, Helen’s pen filled the page with descriptions of the fashion and the buzz; the jaw-dropping array of trinkets and dresses to be had at fancy department stores, Harrods and Selfridges being her two favourites. Not that she or Rose had the means to afford even a sleeve of one of their designer dresses. ‘Couture for the rich and famous, darling!’– Helen wrote in exclamation, which made her laugh out loud each time she read it. Still, they could dream. Friday and Saturday night dances. Live bands and lots of flash Harry men. Of all that Rose and Helen wrote about, it was Helen’s description of the dances that fired up her imagination the most.

 Her dozing ended abruptly when, without warning, she was thrown forward, striking her head on the steel frame of the seat in front. Shocked and dazed, her head throbbing in tune with her racing heart, she instinctively gripped the offending frame, only half-daring to look, as the bus lurched from one side of the road to the other, causing all manner of upset, confusion and spilt bags from every quarter, before finally coming to a stalled stop on the wrong side of the single-carriage highway.

Throughout the whole commotion, her travelling companion, a young, pallid faced nun, kept her eyes squeezed shut, her white knuckled hands enshrined in rosary beads, clutched close to her breasts, while her rakish lips moved in feverish pace, delivering a hurried stream of blessed Hail Marys. Thankfully, at least for the passengers in close proximity, the young Sister’s prayers of penance seemed answered, as the oncoming lane was empty of traffic, and it appeared that they had all escaped more or less unscathed.

Joyed by His saving grace, the Sister led the praise in reverence to the Almighty by crying out, ‘It’s a miracle! Praise be to God, for He has saved us!’ This brought a thankful ‘amen’ from all around. However, her pious good spirits were quickly replaced by more subdued tones of remembrance rising from the front of the stricken bus. The outpouring of noise and wails coming from that direction, alerting those seated further to the rear as to what had been the cause of the unscheduled stop.

Requesting everyone to hush, an upright, bespectacled gentleman, who was now standing at the front, announced in a low, respectful voice that it appeared that the driver had suffered a catastrophic heart attack and was dead. On hearing this, the whole bus unified in making the sign of the cross, while simultaneously chorusing to the Sister’s lead: ‘May the good Lord have mercy on his soul’ and echoing testimonies of - ‘Ah, it’s a terrible thing, so it is.’

Blessings complete, a dozen lively debates erupted to decide the best course of action to help resolve their current predicament. Though a dozen different solutions were offered in quick succession, it was left to the same upright gentleman, who had delivered the sad news on the demise of the driver, to hush the agitated congregation once more, before pronouncing his own deliberation.

‘We’ll have to get word to the local police sergeant so that he can get in touch with his colleagues in Sligo to let them know what’s happened. No doubt a replacement driver will be sent out as soon as possible, along with an undertaker to take this poor man away. I expect the police may want a statement, which I’ll be happy to provide on everyone’s behalf. I can only assume that we will probably be here for several hours to come.’

It was his last words that got stuck in her throat, and, even after swallowing hard, she still couldn’t quite digest them. With his pronouncement unchallenged, he pulled the emergency lever that opened the front door, exited the bus, and, in what she detected to be a growing, authoritative manner, proceeded to describe in colourful detail to the growing crowd of passers-by, the events of the past few minutes.

Her thoughts turned towards her own predicament. Concerned that a long delay may result in missing her ferry, she decided that the best course of action would be to ditch the bus and cadge a ride, hopefully, with one of the band of inquisitive onlookers forming outside. Excusing herself from the company of her Sisterly neighbour, she quickly made her way towards the front of the stricken bus. As she neared the exit, an involuntary instinct caused her to look in the direction of the dead driver, only to immediately wish she hadn’t, when met straight on with the dead man’s eyes. A jolt of pain splintered across her temple as she stepped down onto the tarmac.

Surveying the line of inquisitive onlookers, she looked to pick out a friendly face who might be willing to provide a ride for the rest of the way. Straining on tiptoes to see 10 above the throng of mainly, middle aged men, she found relief, spying a woman to her right who she thought might provide assistance, only to find disappointment when the woman informed her that she and her husband had come from Dublin and were on their way to Sligo. Wishing them well, she continued her enquiries, but without success, as even those who were travelling to Dublin didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry to leave the scene that she was so keen to get away from. Determined to make her ferry, she collected her suitcase from the luggage hold, deciding it would be better to walk on a little further and try her luck undertaking another new experience - thumbing a ride.