Avenged. Jacqui Rose

Чтение книги онлайн.

       4

      Mary O’Flanagan sat on her bed in the darkness and shivered. She was soaking wet and there was no way she was going to be able to get herself warm. There’d been a power cut. Nothing unusual there; it was a regular occurrence in the village, but tonight the difference was that she was alone.

      There was no way she’d be able to start the parlour fire without her da. Besides, the logs in the yard were probably soaking wet, which meant she’d have to get the wood from the shed in the back field on her own; and one thing Mary O’Flanagan hated was the dark.

      Her parents had gone out; taking it upon themselves to join the search party for Patrick’s father. She wasn’t quite sure what good they’d do. Her own father was a tiny, timid man and if he were to come across the formidable Tommy Doyle hiding out, she was certain he’d bag himself. Not unkindly, Mary laughed out loud at the image in her head.

      Thinking about Tommy Doyle made Mary wonder about Patrick. She hoped he was all right. She hadn’t been able to talk to him but he’d looked as handsome as he ever did when he’d stood soaking wet in the church that evening.

      She and Patrick had been friends as far back as she could remember; much to her parents’ dismay. And a few months ago he’d made her swear she’d marry him once he’d made his fortune.

      ‘Patrick Doyle, I’m a good Catholic girl and good Catholic girls don’t swear. Perhaps if you came to church more often you’d know that.’

      ‘Don’t be acting the maggot with me, Mary O’Flanagan. The Dublin chancers would blush to hear the mouth on ye.’

      She’d pushed him gently. ‘Feck off, Paddy!’

      ‘Ah, you see. How can I make ye me wife, Mary, if you’ve a tongue which would eat the head off a viper?’

      ‘I never said I’d be your wife, Patrick Doyle, and you’re no more likely to make your fortune than poor Bridget Henley with those rotten apples she sells.’

      ‘Well, that’s a fine thing to say to a man, Mary O’Flanagan!’

      She’d scoffed, but the kindness had shone through her eyes. ‘A man, Paddy? You’re nothing more than a boy.’

      ‘I’m sixteen, Mary, and I can hold me own.’

      She’d fallen silent before saying, ‘And if I were to marry you, Patrick. What would we name our first child?’

      Patrick had pondered on the question. ‘I take it, it’ll be a boy.’

      Indignantly, she’d replied. ‘It’ll be no such thing. It’ll be a girl and I shall call her Franny.’

      Patrick had burst out laughing. ‘Franny? And what sort of name is that?’

      ‘Francesca. Franny for short. And for your information, it’s a good Catholic name, Patrick Doyle – but that’s something you’ll know nothing about either.’

      ‘Well, I won’t allow it! Franny. Have you ever heard the like?’

      She’d pulled a face but she’d had a twinkle in her eye. ‘And have you ever heard what a pig you are, Patrick Doyle? And, to be sure, I certainly won’t be marrying you now.’

      ‘Then I’ll just have to marry old Bridget Henley.’

      ‘You’ll do no such thing … and to think I had a present for ye. I shan’t give it ye now.’

      Patrick’s face had lit up. ‘For me? You remembered me birthday?’

      She’d spoken haughtily. ‘I did indeed. Not that you deserve anything, not now you’re going to marry Bridget Henley.’

      ‘Oh Mary, you know you’re the only girl for me. And I reckon if I kissed poor Bridget her false teeth might fall out.’

      She’d grinned at the thought and then taken a tiny box out of her coat pocket and handed it to Patrick.

      He’d opened the box with delight on his face. In it was a silver chain with a tiny cross on it.

      ‘Do you like it?’ she’d asked eagerly. ‘I saved up all year.’

      His eyes had glistened with tears. ‘I love it, Mary. Like I love you. I should give you something.’ Patrick had looked around, then seeing an early bloom of gorse, the bright yellow pea-flower which in the spring months seemed to light up the landscape of Kerry, ran to pick some.

      She’d shouted. ‘Patrick, you’ll tear your hands on the prickles—’

      ‘Then tear them I will. I have to give my girl a blossom.’

      After СКАЧАТЬ