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  She’d forgotten the closeness and community spirit of village life, especially around Christmas time. Living in an affluent suburb in Dublin, going to Mass on Christmas Morning in that big cold Corpus Christi Church which was their parish church, couldn’t compare with this joyful morning in Star of the Sea. Maybe if she had children of her own it would have been different up in Dublin.

  Now, as she entered the sturdy wooden doors of the church, Helen felt almost like a child again. Some things never changed. The wooden posts along the nave were entwined with holly and ivy. The altar was a picture in green and red-berried glory. To the right, behind the altar rails under the big statue of Our Lady, an enormous crib with large realistic figures of the Nativity was the focus of wide-eyed wonder as children crowded two and three deep to look.

  Passing under the gallery, Helen could hear Nancy Farrell, the organist, tuning up as the choir shuffled their music and cleared their throats. Helen knew they were in for a treat. The choir was the pride of the county and they had been practising for weeks. She saw the Todd sisters and their niece Maureen heading up to the gallery at speed. They were the stalwarts of the choir and had the sweetest voices. It was something she really looked forward to, coming back and hearing St Margaret’s Bay Choir sing the hymns of her childhood. How she wished Anthony was with her to share it. He would enjoy the carols, they were the part of Christmas that he liked most. Helen felt a surge of resentment. If it wasn’t for that old bitch Stephanie and her carry-on, they would have been together.

  She had called him last night from the phone opposite Mooney’s bar, because Maura and Pete didn’t have a phone. Stephanie answered the phone, full of beans, and not at all like someone as near to death’s door as she was supposed to have been.

  ‘Oh Helen, it’s yourself!’ Knowing that her daughter-in-law was more than a hundred miles away and in no danger of taking her darling son away from her this Christmas, Stephanie could afford to inject a note of artificial warmth into her voice. ‘I’m feeling much better, you know. It’s such a tonic having Anthony with me. He’s a wonderful son. It’s going to be a splendid Christmas. He’s taking me to Midnight Mass in the Pro-Cathedral. I haven’t been for years and I’m so looking forward to it. Then the entire family are coming over tomorrow evening for mulled wine and mince pies. Such a shame you’re down there in . . . where is it . . . St Mary’s? You’ll miss it all.’ The honeyed falseness of her mother-in-law made Helen’s fingers curl in her palms. Oh what a two-faced bitch that woman was. There had been nothing wrong with her at all. It had all been a great big act to have Anthony to herself for Christmas. And he, the fool, couldn’t see that. He had swallowed the act, hook, line and sinker, and because of it he was up in Dublin and she was here feeling furious and resentful. Why couldn’t he stand up to his mother when it really mattered? Sometimes Helen wondered if her husband felt, deep down, that he had married beneath him. God knows Stephanie had indoctrinated him enough. It was far from mulled wine Helen had been reared on, certainly, but she could carry herself anywhere and had always known how to behave. Her parents might have been from a small country village, and not have been very well off, but they had taught all their children manners and how to treat other people with respect. Stephanie would think that St Margaret’s was so parochial. Anyone outside the Pale was a peasant as far as she was concerned. For all her airs and graces and so-called breeding, the woman was pig-ignorant.

  Anthony sounded mightily pissed off when he came to the phone.

  ‘I miss you, darling,’ he sighed.

  ‘I miss you too,’ Helen said with forced cheeriness. ‘But I’m having a ball here with Maura and the kids. It’s all such fun.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Anthony sounded a little surprised that she seemed to be enjoying herself. Well tough luck, if he was stuck with Stephanie, that was his choice. Not hers. Let him be miserable on his own. She wasn’t going to play the role of martyr, she thought crossly.

  ‘Well enjoy yourself,’ her husband said.

  ‘Oh I will, Anthony, and you too. God bless, love,’ Helen said firmly. Let Anthony feel sorry for himself, she was going to enjoy her Christmas. But the phone call had upset her. The spite of her mother-in-law in setting up the whole thing and her husband’s failure to see through her really annoyed Helen. It meant he was putting Helen second in his life. That depressed her, especially when she saw the closeness of Maura and Pete in comparison.

  ‘Can I sit on your knee ’cos I can’t see anything?’ A much-loved voice interrupted her musings. Helen looked down to see Paula, looking adorable in a little red hat and muffler, gazing up at her.

  ‘Certainly you can, my darling,’ she beamed, leaning down and lifting her niece in her arms. Of course, if it wasn’t for Stephanie she wouldn’t be spending Christmas with her precious dote. She followed Maura, who led the way into a seat near the front of the church, and had to smile when the rest of the gang trooped in after her. Maura, Pete and their offspring took up a whole pew.

  The bell rang. The organ played forth and the glorious sound of sopranos, contraltos and baritones complementing each other in harmony as the choir raised the rafters with their first offering, The First Noel, brought a lump to Helen’s throat. This I am going to enjoy, she decided firmly. And to hell with the Larkins and their mulled wine and mince pies!

  It was a scrumptious dinner, the stuffing – her favourite – tasted divine but now the washing-up was all done and the next exciting event was about to take place. Paula felt a tingle of anticipation. There was an enormous pile of presents awaiting her under the Christmas tree. Presents from their nanas and grandads and aunts and uncles. There had been loads of visitors after Mass and the house had been bursting at the seams. She was in her element having finally got to wear her high heels and nurse’s uniform. Everyone oohed and aahed at her and told her she was cute and gorgeous. Her earlier bad humour evaporated and she swanned around feeling terrifically important.

  But now Paula was glad all the hustle and bustle was over and it was finally time to settle down to the opening of the presents. Her mother was ensconced in the armchair beside the twinkling Christmas tree. Her father put more coal on the blazing fire and the rest of them sat on the floor, waiting patiently for the ceremony to begin.

  ‘Come and sit on my knee.’ Auntie Helen held out her arms, but Paula shook her head. She wanted to be right beside her mother, to be first to get the presents. She didn’t see the brief expression of hurt that flashed across her aunt’s face. All she was concerned about was her presents.

  Maura reached down and pulled out an intriguing-looking parcel wrapped in bright paper. ‘To Paula from Nana and Grandad Matthews.’

  Paula beamed around at her brothers and sisters. She’d got the first present, she felt like the cat that had got the cream.

  This was the part of Christmas Day that she liked best, Maura decided as she settled in her armchair and prepared to snooze. The fire was blazing up the chimney, bathing the room in a yellow-orange glow. In the corner, the magnificent tree, with its twinkling fairy lights, shone with a soft magical incandescence that was beautiful to behold. It was just getting dark. Soon she would have to pull the curtains and switch on the lamps, but this was her favourite time, when peace descended on the household after the hectic gaiety that had gone before. Pete was already asleep in his chair, and she could see Helen struggling to keep her eyes open as she read the Agatha Christie novel that had been part of the children’s present to her.

  Maura smiled happily to herself. There wasn’t a peep out of her offspring as they sat in various poses, on the floor, or on the sofa, deeply engrossed in the annuals which had been the presents from Mammy and Daddy under the tree. Rebecca was swapping her Bunty for Louise’s Judy, and John, Joseph and Thomas were up to their ears in The Beano, The Dandy and Boy’s Own, jaws chomping on their toffees. Paula, her nurse’s hat awry, her beloved slippers half off her feet, had her arms curled around her teddy and was fast asleep. The face of her that mor
ning when she trailed down the stairs in her bare feet with her presents under her arm and walked into the sitting-room and saw the tree and all the decorations. It had been such a precious moment for herself and Pete to see the awe and delight on their children’s faces. It had been worth all the hard work and lack of sleep.

  They grew up so quickly. Louise had confided that she didn’t believe in Santa and Maura felt like crying. She wished she could freeze this moment for ever, that things would never change, that her children would always stay as they were. But that was wishful thinking. It seemed like only yesterday that Paula was a baby. One day she’d want to go shopping for real high heels. Today would be just a memory. A very treasured memory.

  Chapter Eight

  A long appreciative wolf-whistle brought a smile to Paula Matthews’s lips as she made her way past the building site where the new Credit Union premises was being built. It was early, only seven-fifteen, but the builders were there already, shinnying up and down their scaffolding with lithe agility. Paula loved walking past the site. She enjoyed covertly eyeing up the bronze bare-chested men with their rippling muscles. They were ever so sexy. Now that she was fifteen, a teenager at last, she was almost grown-up. She had a boyfriend, Conor Harrison, Doctor Harrison’s son. He was quite a catch and three years older than her. Conor had just finished his Leaving Cert and, if he got enough honours, was going to UCD in September to study medicine. Much as she liked Conor, Paula was enough of a realist to know that once her boyfriend went up to the big smoke, he wouldn’t be thinking of the girl he’d left behind. Not unless she gave him something to think about . . . She smiled to herself as she walked past the whistling workmen. There was one whom she particularly liked. He was in his early twenties, fair-haired, about six foot, with a body that would tempt any virgin. He was a good bit older than her, of course, but then she was attracted to older men. They were so much more sophisticated, not like the spotty gawky youths of her own age. God, she wouldn’t give them a second glance. Jim Carr and Cormac Walsh were always mooning after her, pretending to be two real hard chaws, smoking and boasting and swaggering around in two awful moth-eaten leather jackets.

  Did they actually think that she was the slightest bit interested? Pathetic geeks like them with their spotty acne and greasy hair. At least Conor had a bit of class and sophistication. His father, of course, being a doctor, was loaded and Conor always had plenty of money to treat her like a lady. He had bought her heated rollers and a curling tongs last Christmas and her friends, not to mention her sisters, were pea-green with envy. Rebecca’s fella had given her one of those soap and talc sets and she’d been furious. And would you blame her? If any fella ever gave her one of those cheapie sets he’d have his walking papers before he knew it. Anyway, Rebecca was only going out with Niall Cronin because she was desperate to have a bloke. Niall Cronin was a lazy good-for-nothing who didn’t even wash himself half the time. The smell off him sometimes. Paula wrinkled her pert nose as she walked past Mooney’s bar. If she’d been Rebecca, she’d have given him back his soap and talc set and told him to use it on himself. How her sister could let that smelly oaf near her, Paula could not fathom.

  He was such a shit too, he’d actually made a pass at her. Now Paula knew that men in general found her attractive. She was rather pretty, she had to admit, she mused, as she walked past the Star of the Sea and saw Father Doyle going in to prepare for eight o’clock Mass. Probably Father Doyle secretly fancied her as well, for all she knew. She giggled happily to herself. It was nice that men fancied her. Conor was always telling her how beautiful she was and no doubt Niall just got carried away and couldn’t help himself. But to seriously think that she would be interested in him with his BO and he her sister’s boyfriend. She didn’t know which she had found the more insulting. The trouble with Niall was that he thought he was such a cool dude, well there was nothing cool dudey about Niall BO Cronin and she had told him so in no uncertain terms. He had been most upset when she called him a cretin and suggested he treat himself to a bath. She hadn’t told Conor about Niall’s pass. He’d go mad and probably sock him on the jaw. He was always very possessive of her. Maybe she just might let it slip and see what happened. Somehow the idea of men fighting over her was rather appealing.

  Paula walked briskly through the village, her long blond hair blowing behind her in the warm breeze. She was really looking forward to today and what a beautiful day it was. It was a scorcher, just the way she liked them. If there was one thing Paula loved it was lying in the sun. A tan always looked really well on her and accentuated the deep blue of her eyes and highlighted the blond of her hair. Today, she was going to look very well as she already had a light bronzed glow. Today she was going to be a bridesmaid at her sister Louise’s wedding. Today was her last day in her summer job. Today was the Day of Days and tomorrow . . . she felt like doing a little twirl of happiness. Tomorrow she would be in Dublin with Helen for the last few days in July and the whole month of August. What joy! What bliss! Helen’s house was pure luxury and Paula had a gorgeous room all to herself. A delightful room where the curtains matched the bedspread, there was even a matching lampshade and waste basket.

  Paula loved that room. She loved it much more than her grotty old bedroom at home. God, what a mess that was! Sharing with two other sisters was such a drag. Sleeping with Rebecca was an even bigger drag. They were always fighting. Rebecca was the noisiest person to sleep with, she was always cucking. Paula would lie in bed fuming while her sister gave a little snore and then a cuck, and then a snore and then a cuck. It was enough to drive anyone batty. When she couldn’t take it any longer she would give her an elbow in the ribs and tell her to keep her mouth shut and stop snoring. Then Rebecca would get mad and curse at her and there’d be a row. At least now that Louise was going they’d have a bed each. That was one of the joys of going to Helen’s for her holidays. Not only had she a bed to herself, she had a room to herself with an entire wardrobe for her clothes and a dressing-table full of fabulous creams and perfumes and talcs and exquisite nail varnishes. Going to heaven was surely only half as nice as going to her aunt’s house on holidays.

  And how glorious it would be to get out of boring St Margaret’s Bay. It was so dull, it drove her nuts. Paula cast a jaundiced eye around the neat little village overlooking the Irish Sea. A row of cottages, with the odd two-storey or dormer bungalow. Then Mooney’s Bar & Lounge. Beside it, Connolly’s supermarket and post office. Beside that, the Star of the Sea Church. Then there was the new Credit Union building that was under way. The poshy houses, where the priest and doctor and old Colonel Rogers and his alcoholic wife lived, bordered the site. The gardens were large and shrub-filled and all immaculately kept, in stark contrast to Walter Kelly’s ramshackle plot and tumbledown cottage which adjoined the colonel’s, much to his immense dissatisfaction.

  ‘You’re not in the army now, matey, so don’t be giving me any of yer lip,’ Walter would snort when the colonel periodically took him to task about the state of his property. When Walter went on one of his renowned benders he would stand outside the colonel’s house and holler drunken abuse until the sergeant came along with his uniform on over his pyjamas, and dragged him home, promising him that if he carried on like this again he’d find himself up in Mountjoy Prison. He had been promising Walter this for the last ten years.

  That was about the height of excitement of life in St Margaret’s Bay, Paula thought glumly as she walked past Walter’s neglected house and garden. If she thought she had to spend the rest of her life here she’d go mental, she assured herself.

  When she left secondary school in Waterford she was going to Dublin to live life to the full. Dublin was like an unbelievable dream to her. An Aladdin’s cave of delight. All the shops and hotels. The cinemas, the theatres and art galleries and restaurants. How wonderful it would be to be able to hop on a bus and be in the city centre in ten minutes. If you wanted to get to Waterford from this Godforsaken back of beyonds you had to hitch. Exc
ept for going to school, of course. There was a school bus for that. Louise was going to live in Waterford with her new husband, but Waterford was really only a town, not a city, not like Dublin, and Dublin was her Mecca, living there her ultimate goal.

  There was no way she’d miss Maggie’s Bay, that was for sure, she assured herself as she stopped to look across at the pier where Lancy Delaney was chatting to Mattie Fortune as Mattie sat mending some fishing nets. Lancy Delaney, according to her mother, carried a torch for Helen. Imagine! An ould eejit like that with Wellington boots covered in cow-shit and a jumper nearly down to his knees it was so stretched. Paula grimaced at the thought of him and her precious Helen, who was the height of elegance and Paula’s ideal.

  Gulls circled above screeching and diving as one of the trawlers disgorged its haul from a night’s fishing. The sun cast prisms of sparkling light on a tranquil sea that glittered more brightly than the most expensive chandelier ever could. Along the curve of the coast, green and gold fields were fringed by miles of clean white sand lapped by gently surging waves. The melody of birdsong echoed from tree to tree and shrub to shrub. The air was so fresh and sea-scented it invigorated mind and body. Yet Paula appreciated none of it. She had grown up with the view and the fresh unpolluted air and took it totally for granted. Dublin with its fume-filled streets and noisy traffic was a far more attractive proposition in her eyes.

  She couldn’t understand how tourists would prefer to come to somewhere as quiet as St Margaret’s Bay in preference to a place where they could shop in huge department stores and visit places of interest such as Trinity College to see the Book of Kells, or the Zoo and the Phoenix Park, or hundreds of other fascinating places. They could eat in the fanciest of restaurants and then go dancing in the night-clubs in Leeson Street. Or The Strip as it was known, according to Monica Boyle, who boasted of having been there.