Chapter 1
The village of Ballymore nestled neatly into the rugged West Cork coastline.
Its bright pink-, yellow- and blue-painted houses were a cheering sight on bleak, grey winter days, as storms beat relentlessly in from the Atlantic.
The fifteen hundred residents were used to the rain, which had been known to fall continuously for three months without respite.
They only endured the long winters knowing that a glorious summer would follow.
The sky would become azure, and young and old alike would spend long days on the golden beaches for which the area was famed.
They knew that, for those few short weeks, there was no better place to be on God’s earth.
Sorcha O’Donovan followed the rest of the village out of the church and into the bright April air.
‘’Tis a beautiful morning!’ smiled Mary O’Donovan. ‘I think spring has arrived at last.’
‘Yes, it’s grand altogether, Mammy,’ nodded Sorcha, eager to be gone. ‘Mammy, can I go over to Maureen’s before lunch? I promised I’d help her with her maths.’
Mary had spotted a friend and was waving to her.
‘Yes, but be sure to be back for one o’clock. You know how particular your daddy is.’
‘Yes, Mammy.’
Sorcha watched as her mother turned and started to make her way through the crowd towards her friend.
Then she retrieved her bicycle from the side of the church and set off through the gates in the direction of Maureen’s house.
When she was out of sight of the crowd outside the church, she turned a corner and pedalled as fast as she could along the path that led away from the village towards the sea.
Fifteen minutes later, having cycled the two and a half miles to the beach, she hid her bicycle in a hollow, then perched on a sand dune to catch her breath and smooth her wind-strewn hair.
It wasn’t more than a few seconds before she heard the sound of Con’s guitar and the mellow tone of his voice drifting closer to her.
Sorcha leapt to her feet and searched about her.
‘Con, Con, it’s me!’ she shouted, competing with the sound of the waves as she ran joyfully through the dunes, covering her mass dress in sand. ‘Con! Where are you?’ An edge of confusion had crept into her voice. ‘Con? I—’
There was a friendly roar from behind her. Sorcha didn’t even have time to turn before she was jumped upon. The pair fell softly onto the beach, rolling over and over until they came to rest in a hollow.
Sorcha looked up at him lying on top of her, his huge blue eyes set under a pair of full dark eyebrows, framed by lashes so long and curly they were almost feminine.
His skin was still tanned from the sea air even after a long winter, and his thick black hair fell in waves to his shoulders.
She knew she’d love him for the rest of her life, whatever the cost.
‘Hello, Sorcha-porcha. Have you missed me?’ He smiled down at her, giving her a trademark wink. ‘I’ve certainly missed you.’
A lump came to her throat. She nodded, then stroked his cold cheek with her finger. ‘Oh yes, Con. Oh yes.’
His lips came down hard onto hers, and she felt his hand slowly creeping up her thigh. She enjoyed the sensation for a few seconds before her conscience won out.
‘Con, you promised me!’ She wriggled away from him and lay on her side.
‘I’m mad for you, Sorcha-porcha. I think of nothing else, I swear. I even wrote a song for you last night.’ Con gently caressed her hair. ‘I’m going to get my guitar and sing it for you.’ He jumped up and raced over a dune.
Sorcha lay still, her eyes closed, wanting to record every second they shared so she could think about it when she was alone at night without him.
He was back.
‘I’ve called it “My One True Love”.’
She turned over and watched him as he began to sing to her.
‘Ah, Con, ’tis a beautiful melody. Did you really write it for me?’ Sorcha asked when he’d finished.
‘Yes. And I meant every word.’ He reached over to her and planted another kiss on her lips. ‘Must you go?’
Sorcha was brushing the sand from her dress and straightening her hair.
‘You know I have to. Daddy will be fierce cross if I’m not back in time for dinner.’
His arms enveloped her. ‘Ah, Sorcha. Come live with me and be my love,’ he quoted. Then he tipped her face up to his. ‘You know we can’t go on like this. You’re seventeen in a few months. Then no one can stop us.’
‘They can. You know they can.’ She nestled into his chest.
‘Not if you come with me across the sea. I can’t stay here much longer. It’s only you that keeps me from leaving immediately.’
‘Please, Con, don’t say that.’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. You’re going to have to decide, Sorcha-porcha.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. I’ll come on Wednesday, after school.’
‘I’ll be in my hut, waiting for you.’ He kissed her once more. ‘Goodbye, my love.’
‘Goodbye.’
Reluctantly, she left his arms and began scrambling across the dunes.
Sorcha shivered as the wind whipped around her bare legs.
The weather was changing, suddenly and dramatically, as it was prone to do in West Cork.
She turned and saw Con gazing out to sea at the storm that was brewing.
She perhaps had ten minutes before the heavens opened, and consequently serious problems explaining her soaked clothing to her mammy and daddy.
Sorcha wheeled her bicycle onto the road, climbed on and began to pedal for home.
The figure who had watched the two of them for the past forty minutes scurried away unseen.
‘Mary, mother of God! You’re drenched, child! How did you manage that on a two-minute cycle from Maureen’s? Get upstairs with you and change. I’ll be putting the dinner on the table in three minutes.’
‘Yes, Mammy.’ Sorcha hurried up the stairs.
She headed for the bathroom and locked the door behind her.
Then she climbed into the bath and began to undress, shaking each of her garments thoroughly.
When she was naked, she climbed out of the bath and ran the taps, swirling the tell-tale golden sand away down the plughole.
When Sorcha reappeared downstairs, her father was already sitting at the highly polished mahogany table in the dining room. It was always cold in there, and there was a musty smell because it was never used more than once a week.
‘Sit down then, Sorcha,’ said her father.
Sorcha obeyed, as her mammy brought in the piece of beef which had been cooking since seven this morning. Mary placed it in front of her husband.
‘I hope you’ll find ’tis tender, Seamus,’ she said nervously as he picked up the carving knife.
The two women sat in silence as Seamus pedantically cut the joint into perfect slices. Only when he’d cut all three portions was Mary allowed to fill the plates with vegetables.
All that hard work, thought Sorcha, lifting her fork. And by the time we get to eat it, it’s no more than lukewarm.
No one spoke. Seamus did not approve of chat during dinner. After the food was finished, the plates were cleared away by Sorcha while Mary brought in a perfect apple pie from the range in the kitchen.
Sorcha watched her daddy as he ate. She wondered whether he’d been born with a frown, or had frowned so often his face was simply frozen that way.
Whichever the reason, he always looked cross.
Sadly, everyone said Sorcha resembled him.
She certainly had his thick, curly, auburn hair and green eyes.
She was tall, too. Her friends at school called him handsome and said how lucky she was to have such a fine-looking father, but Sorcha often prayed at night that she hadn’t inherited his personality.
When she’d been small, she’d been afraid of him and his readiness with the back of his hand, but now . . . she despised him.
‘Can we have the radio on, Mammy?’ she asked.
‘You know your daddy won’t want to be disturbed after lunch.’
‘Quietly?’
Mary shook her head as Sorcha knew she would. ‘Maybe later.’
Sorcha began to dry the wet dishes.
‘Mammy, can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you love Daddy?’
‘Sorcha!’ Mary blessed herself. ‘What a question to ask! Surely you know I do.’
‘I suppose. I . . . well, I’ve been reading a book for English lessons. It’s called Wuthering Heights. It’s about love and . . . passion.’
‘I see.’ Mary continued to wash up.
‘Were you ever madly in love with Daddy? I mean, so bad that you couldn’t sleep at night, that it was grand just to be near him, that when he kissed you, you thought you would burst with happiness?’
Mary stopped washing up and studied her daughter. Sorcha’s eyes were alight, her face flushed.
‘I . . . yes.’ She nodded. ‘I was once mad for someone . . . I mean your daddy, in the way you describe. But Sorcha, that kind of feeling can’t last. A few months, maybe; in rare cases a couple of years.
But then life gets in the way, real life.
’ Mary gazed out of the window at the raindrops plopping heavily onto the pane.
‘In all honesty, it’s rare you marry the man you really love. ’
‘But you did.’
Mary looked at her daughter and smiled weakly. ‘Of course I did. Now, have you your homework to finish?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then get along with you up to your room. I’ll do the rest of this.’
Sorcha kissed her mother’s soft cheek. ‘Thank you, Mammy.’
Upstairs in her spacious, comfortable bedroom, Sorcha reached for her satchel, unloaded her textbooks, paper and writing equipment onto her desk and sat down.
Once she was comfortable, her fingers felt for the envelope at the bottom of her pencil case and she drew it out.
It was crumpled, the small photograph inside even more so.
She laid it in front of her and traced the contours of his face, as she’d done a thousand times before.
Sorcha could see her fingerprints all over it.
‘Con . . . Con,’ she murmured as she stared at her love. The picture was terrible, out of focus and missing a left ear because of the way she’d cut it from the flyposter advertising his band’s latest gig. But that hardly mattered.
Closing her eyes, Sorcha cast her mind back to the very first night, three months ago now, when she had first kissed him . . .