Historical LGBT Fiction Series Set In Belfast, Ireland
Finding Their Way Home by Constance Emmett
Series Excerpt
“For heaven’s sake,” Annie growled when the alarm went off, but Meg smothered the harsh sound quickly. She dressed and crept down the stairs in stocking feet. All the lights were on high in the kitchen, revealing spots on the walls where they’d scrubbed off grime and the hospital green paint with it. Meg peeked into the parlour and saw David’s form buried under old blankets on his pallet on the floor.
“David,” she urged quietly.
He struggled into a seated position.
Meg continued into the kitchen. The aroma of farl and bacon frying filled the room. “You didn’t have to rise so early to make …”
Clad in their mother’s heavy drab-brown dressing gown, Jinny turned from the range and pointed a fork at her. “It’s no bother and I wanted to talk to you before you left. You must forgive Annie … what she says. She means less than half of it. It’s merely … lashing out.”
“I know that, some of the time.”
Placing her hand on Meg’s arm, Jinny shook her head. “None of it was your fault—you were only a girl yourself. It was Father who insisted that she work. She didn’t have to, because we were all working and paying in, and it was us older girls who thought Aunt Polly would be lovely to her, and we knew her better than you—or thought we did. You were right, what you said, but so was she, about me. I should have spoken up, stopped her being taken by them. I’ll never forgive myself.”
David shuffled into the kitchen, his black hair standing on end. “Morning,” he mumbled, scratching his stubbly chin.
“Morning,” said Jinny and Meg in unison.
“I’ve hot water for your shave,” said Jinny.
Jinny waited until he’d gone out the back door before continuing. “She’s not got over what was done to her, and I don’t expect she will. We must make allowances for her, even for her rages.”
“We all do, and I know she suffered, but the things she says to me.”
“I know you’ve your own troubles, seeing that poor man killed yesterday, for one.”
“And she never blames Father for any of it. She never rages at him, I notice.” Meg was immediately ashamed that her voice rose in complaint.
Jinny looked very sad. “He brought the boys up to the farm where he’d been raised—just to visit, to show his sons off to the family. Out of the blue, him and the boys showed up at Aunt Polly’s and Uncle Jack’s, the next farm over, so they saw the state of Annie. Annie begged to come home and he brought her home. You remember how she looked? She’ll never blame him to us, but I think she does. Her anger seems bottomless sometimes.”
“Poor Ned.”
Jinny’s voice fell to a whisper. “Aye, well, he’s taking on a lot marrying her, but so is she with him and his religion … not to mention his mother.”
David reentered the kitchen. “I’ll be ready in two ticks, Meg.” He headed for his shaving kit, stored in the scullery.
Jinny patted Meg’s arm reassuringly. “Anyways, you have a grand time today. I’ll wrap the farl and bacon with the sandwiches. Tea’s ready.”
* * *
Minutes after he’d gone into the hall to put on his boots, David opened the front door and answered a hearty greeting from the street. Meg grabbed the packed rucksack, kissed Jinny goodbye, and hurried to join her brother. Beyond his grinning face, she beheld a handsome young man with brilliant blue eyes sitting atop a horse-drawn cart. Two large, thin dogs stood wagging their tails, excitedly waiting to greet David.
“Here’s Martin!”
* * *
The path ascended sharply from the strand in the centre of Portrush. The dogs, wet from their first gallop along the edge of the water, raced ahead of them. David’s whistle brought them back in continuous orbit.
Looking at the small islands offshore, Meg and David stopped to take in the intensely blue sky and golden light on the rocks. Once they’d climbed to the top and the cliff edge, the vista opened before them: the breadth of the curve of the strand and the blue-green sea crashing far below their feet.
“Look! Is it Donegal? I think it is.” Meg pointed to the west.
To the east, the snowy White Rock was visible from this height, as though it had risen as Meg and David had risen. The humans on the strand below were tiny figures. Standing near a clump of sharp beach grass with a hand shading her eyes, Meg marvelled at the colours on the horizon, of sea meeting sky. “I’ve never seen such a day. There’s even a purple mixing with the blue and green of the sea. Do you see it?” Closing her eyes, she welcomed the warm red color inside her eyelids and enjoyed the sound of the crashing surf.
“The view’s even better down here.” A woman’s voice startled Meg and she whirled.
David chuckled. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t say it.” He took a step to peer over the edge.
Meg gathered her courage and looked over too, but saw nothing save for the surf and rocks.
“Over here,” the disembodied voice said again, this time more loudly.
Meg and David looked at each other. He shrugged and they followed the voice around the headland of the deep tufted grass and sand to find the source: a woman tucked into the reddish cliff face, hidden from the path, with a sketchpad on her knee.
“Come down.” She pointed to a small path worn in the grass.
David shook his head. “I’d better stay up here with the mutts. They’ll have us all in the sea, bounding around. We’ll walk along a while and come back for you.” Waving, he climbed back up.
Meg nodded, eyed the tiny winding path, and then proceeded to walk down the cliff, despite her fear. It turned out to be easier than she imagined, and within a moment, she arrived at the woman’s perch. Young, on the small side, and wearing a crimson piped blazer, she shifted and patted the spot open beside her. Meg sat and saw that the stranger had painted a watercolor of the strand and sea down to Ramore Head.
“Mary O’Neill,” the painter smiled. She put the brush down, wiped her hand with a cloth, and offered it to Meg. “I watched you walking up the path.”
“Margaret Preston. Meg.” She shook the slender hand and gestured toward the top of the cliff. “And my brother, David.”
Pointing, Mary said, “You can see the headlands over the Giant’s Steps, the White Rock. Look straight out and you’ll see the earth’s curve today. It’s rarely so clear. Have you ever seen such a day? Below us you can see the basalt rocks of the area, like the ones at the Giant’s Causeway, have you been there?”
“No. I mean, yes. I’ve been to the Giant’s Causeway. But no, I’ve never seen such a clear day. Do you live here?”
“I live in Portstewart. And yourself?”
“Belfast. Here on a day trip, to walk and to run David’s dogs,” responded Meg, removing her soft brown hat.
Mary O’Neill resumed painting and they fell into silence. Meg pulled a tiny pink flower out of the pinch of soil it had called home on a rock face. “This is such a beautiful place, peaceful and quiet.” She pressed the uprooted flower back into its berth.
“As long as you don’t mind pounding surf and screaming birds,” Mary muttered, focused on her painting.
Meg scanned Mary’s fair-haired head as she bent over her work. “Speaking of peace and quiet, I’ll leave you in peace.” She began to get up.
“No, don’t. Come to tea. Let’s find your brother.” She put aside the brush.
“Are you sure? Don’t you want to finish your painting?”
“No, it’s no good today, and I would prefer company … if you don’t mind mine.”
Meg shook her head and smiled.
“That’s Thrift, by the way, all over this cliff,” said Mary, nodding at the little pink flowers. “My mother calls it by the Irish name, ráhban. I’ll show you a view off the beaten track. Come on then.” She placed the pad, paints, and brushes into a small wooden box.
“But see here, I’ve tea and sandwiches.”
“‘See here’ is it? You’ll be saying ‘I say!’ next. You sounded very British.” Mary laughed.
Meg flushed, trying not to frown, and failing. Annie often accused her of trying on a British accent too, and laughed at her for it.
“Ah, come on then, we’ll have your sandwiches and my view,” she said cheerily.
* * *
Mary led Meg, David, and the galloping dogs over the grassy little hills and dunes behind the cliffs. They tramped in the same direction for quite a while, during which Mary never left off talking. She named the birds that soared overhead and the flowers at their feet—such as Crane’s Bill and Mountain Avens (or maybe it was Heavens, Meg wasn’t sure).
“David, would you keep the dogs out of the dunes please?” Mary asked, motioning to the wind-blown mounds. “The kittiwakes are nesting in them now.”
She chirps, just like a little bird, but she’s used to getting her way. She’s bird-like, small and light, but with a tough core—you wouldn’t want to cross her. Meg couldn’t stop looking at her.
When they reached a crossroads, Mary walked up to the cliff’s edge and pointed to Portstewart, then hurried them down a gently sloping path to what looked like the back of a golf links.
Meg felt this intriguing woman was carrying them away, like a bird, as if she’d grabbed hold with talons and flown off, high over land and sea. It made her dizzy.
Mary finally ceased talking about the view. “Do either of you golf?”
The question astonished Meg; to think someone thought they had the time or money to learn and play golf.
His bushy black eyebrows raised, David appeared amused. “No. Do you?”
“Oh yes, we play these links, the Old Course, as often as we can,” replied Mary, not explaining who “we” might be.
They crossed through the rough behind the fairway and climbed through an old stile to a narrow twisting road. At the end of the road, they arrived at a large open iron gate set in high stone walls, a lush verdant garden in the distance.
Mary started down the pebbled drive inside the gate. “This is where I live,” she explained casually. Meg stared in amazement at the enormous, attractive house ahead. “I live with my mother. She’s the housekeeper and we live there, in that cottage.” She pointed to a miniature version of the main house and hastened to lead them to the small arched door.
David grabbed Meg’s arm. “Listen, I have to get some miles into these two. I’ll take them back to Portrush and run them along the strand. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
Mary walked back. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” answered David with a quick wave. “It’s just that I have to exercise the dogs for a certain amount of time, and at speed. They need to run in the water. It’s good for their legs. They’re racers, you see. I’ll take them back to the Portrush strand and Meg can meet me later … em, you too, if you like.”
Mary smiled self-consciously. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve taken over your day, haven’t I?”
“No, no, it’s fine, don’t worry,” David assured her. “If you don’t see us on the strand when you come down the cliff, we’ll be in the pub near the station.”
Meg stared at her brother, uncertain what to do. The day had been taken over by this stranger. Why am I letting her do this?
“Honestly, the pair of you—this is fine. Enjoy yourselves and I’ll meet you later. If you take too long, we’ll be at the station in time for the train, Meg.”
“Will you find your way back?” asked Mary, her brow creased.
David’s mouth set into a hard line. “Of course.”
For several seconds, Meg watched as he walked away, his shoulders straight, his head up, then turned and followed Mary inside.
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