Chapter 16
Quincy, Boston Massachusetts was wetter and colder
than England had been that month. Kathryn’s mother lived in a
spacious New England-style house built in the twenties and just
within reach of the spray from the bay during a strong
south-westerly gale. The neighbourhood had not changed much since
Kathryn was a child apart from the cars parked in the thickly
tree-lined street where mothers still let their children play.
Every house squatted on its own plot, a small garden in front, a
larger one in back, with none of the inhabitants apparently
obsessive about gardening. The wooden siding that covered the
exterior of the house had seen a new coat of paint in recent years
but the detached garage in the far corner of the back garden could
have done with a lick and a new layer of felt on the roof. A wide
porch cluttered with retired lounge furniture took up much of the
front of the house and the front door in the centre of it was wide
enough to march a generous dining table through without too much
manoeuvring. It all had a lazy, old feel to it.
The ground floor was a sprawling living room, which
the front door opened directly into, and across a short hall, where
a staircase led up to the second floor, was a spacious kitchen, the
centre occupied by a solid wooden table that Kathryn used to play
table tennis on with her brothers. Upstairs were half-a-dozen
bedrooms and one large bathroom; the wooden floors creaked in all
of them. Dusty, tired rugs covered most of the old carpeting. The
house was evidently occupied by an old person but filled with
memories of youthful, bustling times. Framed pictures had claimed a
piece of just about every level surface and were evidence that
several generations of the same family had lived in the
house.
Kathryn stood in the kitchen looking through a
window at Janet and Helen playing in the back garden. They were
pushing a small wheelbarrow around collecting bits of rubble,
pretending to be construction workers. They reminded her of her own
childhood when the house was also home to her sister, two brothers
and four adults. Now her mother lived alone, the children all grown
up and gone, and her father, aunt and uncle all in St Mary’s church
cemetery.
A car pulled into the drive and stopped in the back
garden in front of the garage. The heavy driver’s door creaked open
and a sprightly woman in her sixties, wearing a well-tailored dress
suit and a new brittle hairdo, climbed out.
‘Grandma, Grandma!’ Janet and Helen shouted as they
dropped their tools and building materials and ran to her. A broad
smile spread comfortably across the woman’s craggy face as she
embraced the girls.
Kathryn didn’t move from the window as she watched
her mother open the trunk and pull out several bags stuffed with
groceries. Janet and Helen took a small item each and flanked their
grandma as she headed for the back door.They walked under the
window, where Kathryn looked down on them, and then up a short
flight of steps to the back door.
Kathryn’s mother led the way in, puffing under the
load and put the bags down heavily on to the kitchen table. She
took the items from the two girls and rested her hands on her knees
to catch her breath and also to look into their little faces.
‘Thank you,’ she said, squeezing them on the cheek one at a time.
‘At least someone around here is kind enough to help an old lady
out,’ she said dryly in her thick, Boston accent.
Kathryn didn’t react. It was an old record. Her
mother was a habitual critic as far as Kathryn was concerned.
Kathryn had built up a kind of immunity, although it was rather
like being in a tank: the bullets bounced off harmlessly but the
sound was still psychologically discomfiting.
‘I need a cold drink,’ her mother said as she took
a glass from a cupboard.‘The air’s dry today.’ She opened the
icebox and removed a bottle of fruit juice. ‘You haven’t washed the
plates from breakfast.’
Kathryn remained quietly staring out of the window
as her mother poured the juice into the glass.
‘Two days you’ve been here and you’ve not lifted a
finger to help with the housework. I’m not the maid, you
know.’
Kathryn watched a seagull land on the garage roof.
It reminded her of the times her brothers used to lie in wait in
their bedroom overlooking the garden, clutching loaded catapults
and a supply of ammunition in readiness for just such a target. She
would wait and watch with them, stealthily crouched, nose level
with the window ledge, fascinated, but never enough to want to take
a shot herself. In that regard she was quite the typical little
girl. Her fun, as she remembered it, was dolls, playing mommy and
dressing up for pretend parties.
‘I have enough to do by myself,’ her mother
continued. ‘You could help out, you know.’
‘Mom, leave it alone.The house isn’t exactly
falling down around your ears.’
‘Is that what you’re waiting for before you do
anything?’
Kathryn rolled her eyes. ‘I have a few things on my
mind. Just cut me some slack will you, please?’
Kathryn’s mother could drift from one mood to
another with surprising ease. Not that a shift meant the original
mood, or subject, was necessarily closed for the day.
‘It’s been a while since I came out of the store
with this much produce. Mrs Franklin asked me if I had an army
moved in . . . Must be five years since Mark left home. Boy, could
they eat, his wife and those three boys of his.’
‘Seven,’ Kathryn corrected.
‘What?’
‘Seven years. They left seven years ago.’
‘Can’t be more than five.’
‘They left before Helen was born and she’s six and
a half.’
‘He’s had another baby, did you know that?’ her
mother continued without further debate, but leaving the impression
Kathryn was wrong. ‘Another boy. A terror just like the others. He
lets those kids do whatever they want. What can you expect from a
Polish wife, I guess. At least they’re Christian. I suppose that’s
something.’
‘She’s not Polish, she’s American.’
‘She’s as Polish as you are Irish.You know what I
mean. Why do you have to be so argumentative all the time? You
can’t just have a normal conversation.You always have to be
awkward.’
Kathryn’s mother took two popsicles out of the
freezer and gave one to each of the girls, who had been standing
between them listening. ‘There you go.That’s for being such good
little angels. Now go on and play.’
‘Say thank you,’ Kathryn said.
‘They don’t need to say thank you. It’s theirs to
have.’
‘Thanks, Gramma,’ Helen said anyway and the girls
left the kitchen and headed upstairs.
Kathryn felt her mother was the most irritating
dichotomy. She was so incredibly annoying, and at the same time so
generous, especially with the children. Kathryn had thought she
might be able to bear it for a few months at least, but even that
was now looking impossible.
‘Mrs Franklin might come around to see you later,’
her mother continued. ‘She couldn’t believe it when I told her what
happened to Hank.’
‘You told her?’
‘And why not? It’s not every day we have a
kidnapping in the family.’
‘Mom, I don’t want everyone knowing.’
‘She’s practically a friend of the family.’
‘I don’t want anyone knowing.’
‘Why not?’
‘I told you. Because the publicity won’t do Hank
any good.’
‘Baloney.The British have fed you a load of horse
manure. The publicity would be good for everyone except the
British. If you don’t believe me ask the Father. He agrees with
me.’
‘You told him?’ Kathryn asked, growing angry.
‘Of course.The Father is the one person who could
make some good out of this.’
‘I can’t believe you told him.’
‘For God’s sake, girl. Your husband’s been
kidnapped by our own people. There’s no one in a better position to
deal with it than the Father. Sure, he probably even knows who did
it.’
Anger flushed through Kathryn, making her face
redden. ‘Now just hold on one goddamned minute—’
‘Don’t you swear at me, young lady.’
‘You are not going to treat Hank’s kidnapping as
some kind of political tool.’
‘For the sake of Christ, will you listen to
yourself? Are you blind, deaf and stupid, girl? Anyone who’s
kidnapped becomes a political tool.’
‘He’s my husband! Your grandchildren’s
father!’
‘Some things about you never change, do they?’
Kathryn’s mother said, shaking her head. ‘Always stubborn and
thinking you know everything. The Father will make sure no harm
comes to Hank and he’ll make the most out of it at the same time.
The Brits have to be made to suffer for what they did and he’ll
make sure they do.’
‘I don’t want Father Kinseller getting involved in
this,’ Kathryn said, vexed.
‘He’s more than just a priest, young lady. I
know.’
Kathryn rolled her eyes in frustration.‘I know what
Father Kinseller is, Mom. I’m not stupid. I knew when we were kids
that he recruited boys for the IRA.’
‘Then you’ll know not to say that out loud,’ she
said in a hushed tone.
‘Mom, everyone knows Father Kinseller works for the
IRA. He used to collect for them in every bar in the neighbourhood
and also the church, for God’s sake. He used to take Mark and me
along on Friday nights to help carry the bags of coins. I’ve seen
you give him money hundreds of times, in this house!’
‘And a fine job he does too. I only wish I could
have done half as much for the cause myself.’
‘You’re such a hypocrite, Mom. Why didn’t you let
him recruit Mark and David if you felt so strongly about it?’
Kathryn’s mother continued packing away the
groceries as if she had not heard.
‘When the boys were older you used to discourage
them from going to Father Kinseller’s confessionals, didn’t you?’
Kathryn continued.‘That’s how he recruited the young men.
He used the confession box to get inside their
souls.’
Kathryn’s mother threw her a warning glance and
went back to packing tins of food into cupboards.
‘Why wouldn’t you let the boys get involved? Come
on, Ma, tell me that.’
‘They were not suitable for that kind of a life.
Mark was an artist.’
‘He’s a plasterer, Mom . . . And what about
David?’
‘David wasn’t very strong.’
‘And so you sent him to a military academy in
Vermont. Give me a break.’
‘He wasn’t strong in the head. He’d have done
something stupid.’
‘Who are you trying to kid, Mom? You didn’t mind
other mothers’ sons joining in the fight, but you didn’t want your
own.’
Kathryn’s mother slammed a can on to the table and
glared at her. The seagull left the garage roof and flapped into
the air. ‘Your grandfather did his part, and his father before
him,’ she said. ‘Your great grandfather on your father’s side, God
bless him, was shot by the British just for standing in the road in
defiance. There are families out there, in this very street that
have given money to the cause but have never spilt a drop of blood
for it. This family has done its bit.’
The old woman took a moment to gather herself
before carrying on with her unpacking. Kathryn sighed, hating the
argument.
‘Mom, I’m not saying you should’ve given them Mark
and David. I’m glad you didn’t, obviously I am. I’m just saying,
well . . . I wish you hadn’t told Father Kinsella about
Hank.’
The phone rang. Kathryn’s mother went to where it
hung on the kitchen wall and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ she
said into it. ‘That’s right.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, she is,’ she said,
looking at Kathryn, who was suddenly curious. ‘That won’t be a
problem,’ Kathryn’s mother continued. ‘That’ll be fine then . . .
Goodbye.’ She put down the phone and went back to her work.
‘Who was that?’ Kathryn asked.
‘The Tribune.’
‘The newspaper? What did they want?’ Kathryn asked,
already suspecting the answer.
‘They want to talk to you about Hank.’
‘You told the newspapers?’
‘No. The Father did.’
Kathryn shook her head in utter frustration. This
was spinning out of control.
‘Tell Father Kinsella from me he is wasting his
time. I’m not going to talk to them or anyone about Hank.’
Kathryn’s mother stopped what she was doing and
stared coldly at her daughter. Kathryn could not remember the last
time she saw such an uncompromising look in her mother’s eyes and
it froze her. ‘Since when did you become sympathetic with the
Brits?’
‘Don’t go down that road, Mom. You know I have no
love for the Brits. Your ambition is to further the cause. Mine is
my children and their father, and it starts and stops there.’
There was a knock at the front door. Kathryn’s
mother glanced towards the lounge then moved to the sink and
started cleaning up the dishes. ‘Go answer the door,’ she said in a
way that telegraphed she knew who it was. Kathryn didn’t move,
suspicions flying in from all directions.
‘Who is it, Ma?’
‘I said go and get the door.’
The knock came again. Her mother turned to stare at
her. Kathryn started to look defiant, but she could not win. She
never could against her mother.
She left the kitchen, walked through the lounge and
paused at the front door. The figure behind the frosted glass was a
large one. She opened the door.
Standing on the porch, blocking out a lot of light
and smiling like a snake-oil salesman was Father Kinsella. Kathryn
wasn’t surprised.
‘Kathryn, Kathryn, Kathryn,’ he said, beaming. ‘You
look as beautiful as ever.’
‘Hello, Father Kinsella,’ Kathryn said somewhat
demurely, standing back to let him in. And in he strode.
‘Well, well. It’s been quite a few years since
these tired old eyes have settled on your pretty face. I’ve missed
you, so I have. How long’s it been?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Your mother told me your children are here.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You know, I’ve always been disappointed you never
brought them home and let me be the one to baptise them,’ he said,
still smiling, but there was a shadow behind his pale blue eyes.
Kathryn forced a smile and began to mouth an excuse, but she
couldn’t and stopped herself from trying. He unnerved her.
‘Where are the little ones, anyway?’ he said,
letting her off the hook and looking around the room.
‘They’re upstairs. Mom’s in the kitchen.’
‘Well, I tell you what. We’ll bother them later.
It’s you I’m here to see anyway. Sit down, sit down,’ he said, as
if it were his own house.
Kathryn obeyed. There were two people in her life
who withered her courage like a straw in a furnace and both were in
the house with her. Father Kinsella had a similar effect on most of
the community and for as far back as many could remember. Rumour
had it that in his younger days, before he got the call of the
church, he made his money in illegal street fighting. There were
even stories that it was the church or jail for him after some
dubious goings-on involving the Irish gangs that were behind a lot
of the organised crime in those days. It may have been many a year
since he swung a punch at someone, but he still had the look of
destruction in his eyes when he was displeased. As he looked at
Kathryn, his smile faded, a warning of a more serious topic of
conversation to come.
‘First of all, I’m here to say how sorry I am for
what has happened to your husband.’
Kathryn gave a perfunctory nod of appreciation.
‘How do you feel about what’s happened?’
‘Feel?’ she asked, unsure as to his meaning.
‘Yes. How do you feel, about what’s happened to
Hank?’
‘I feel like I want him to be released and come
home.’
‘And so he will be,’ Father Kinsella said. ‘So he
will . . . What I mean is, where is your soul in this matter, not
your heart?’
‘My soul?’
Father Kinsella seemed to be having a bit of
trouble getting Kathryn to see his point, which was unusual for
him, but in this matter he felt it was worth taking a little time
over. He knew Kathryn, at least her basic sensibilities. He had
formed his opinion about her when she was little, which is why he
had a lot of time for the young. Adults were more difficult to
figure out and therefore harder to manipulate. It was his
experience that a person’s fundamental character changed little
with age, and those that did could be revitalised with a little
gentle persuasion. ‘You didn’t like having to go to England, did
you?’
‘No.’
‘And not just because your mother told you the
English are our enemies.’
‘Father. I’m not seven years old any more, sitting
with you counting coins.’
He burst into sudden laughter and slapped his knee.
‘Ah, those were great days, weren’t they? Seems like only the other
day. That was your first job for the cause. And you were paid
handsomely if I remember. At least an ice cream or chocolate bar a
time.’
‘A nickel was a bullet and a dollar was a bomb,’
she said, smiling herself. ‘That’s how we used to total them up, in
bullets and bombs.’
‘Yes, those were fine old days. Bullets and bombs.’
He grinned a while before growing sombre once more. ‘I suppose the
world was a lot easier to figure out then . . . I need your help,
Kathryn.’
‘You need my help?’
‘Yes. What’s happened to Hank affects a lot of
people, not just you. But you’re in the best position to help all
of us, not just yourself.’
This was what she had been expecting. ‘And how’s
that?’ she asked.
‘You can be a voice.’
‘A voice? And what would I say?’ Antagonism was
slowly starting to surface in her. Father Kinsella could see it in
her eyes and played her carefully.
‘Kathryn. I’m not asking anything of you other than
to let people look at you. Let them know what’s happened. Your
husband, Hank, the father of your two beautiful little girls, was
used by the British as a political tool, and you’re both paying a
price.’
‘They said it was a mistake. Whoever kidnapped him
thought he was a Brit.’
‘Then where is he? Why haven’t they let him go?
Listen to me, Kathryn. I know what I’m talking about. Don’t be
surprised if the Brits even find a way of turning it around and
making it Hank’s fault.’
She wasn’t worldly enough to argue this with
him.
‘Look at it from another point of view for a
moment,’ he went on. ‘The IRA are not terrorists. They’re freedom
fighters. That’s not just a play on words. Terrorists want to
destroy a way of life. All we want is our country back. We don’t
want to destroy the Brits’ way of life. For God’s sake, it’s our
way of life too. But the Brits want to deny us our freedom and so
they play name games and call us terrorists. The whole world is
against terrorism, and me included, I might add. And so if you want
the world against someone, call them a terrorist. And to make the
Brits’ case even stronger it would suit them nicely if the
Americans were seen to be helping them against the IRA because it
would make them look all the more like terrorists. The Brits have
duped the Americans, the Irish and you.They sacrificed your
husband. Do you see what I’m saying, Kathryn? Doesn’t it make
sense?’
Kinsella had taken the fight out of her but he had
not pushed her far enough, not yet, not as far as he needed
to.
‘I don’t know enough to argue against anything
you’ve said, Father. And you could be right. But I don’t see what I
can do.’
‘You mean to say that if you believed the Brits had
used Hank as bait, risked his life for a political manoeuvre, that
wouldn’t make you angry?’
‘Of course but—’
‘Then there’s one thing you’d better be clear
about, Kathryn. And if nobody has suggested it yet, then I’m sorry
to be the one to have to say it, but you had better be prepared for
the possibility that you may never see Hank alive again.’
She looked into his eyes searching for the lie,
but, surprisingly, all she saw was sincerity.
‘Why would they . . . why would anything happen to
him?’
‘It’s a game they’re playing, Kathryn, but not a
child’s game.’
‘But surely, being American, the best thing the IRA
could do is to send him home.’
‘Yes, they could do that. But that might not be the
most advantageous way to play the card that’s been dealt
them.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘There’s a lot you don’t understand.’
‘Explain it to me,’ she suddenly snapped, wanting
him to get to the point.
‘I’m not saying executing Hank is what they’re
thinking of or what they plan to do. I’m just making you aware of
their options.’
Her glare remained fixed on him, inviting him to
explain.
‘Struggles like the one in Ireland need support,
and not just local support and a bit of help from patriotic Irish
Americans. It needs to be shown to the world. The more the world
hears of the injustice, the louder it will call for its end.
Britain doesn’t care what Ireland thinks, but it cares what the
world thinks. A situation like this, Hank being kidnapped, is
something the world would take notice of. They have to take
advantage of that interest before it goes away.That’s why Hank
hasn’t been released yet and why he’s not likely to be in the
immediate future.’
‘But you said he could be killed.’
‘I’m getting to that . . . At the end of the game,
when all the publicity has been had out of the kidnapping, when the
world is getting tired of the news, to make the most of it, to
squeeze the last drop from it, there has to be a change in
direction, and a dramatic one. It can’t go on for ever. And so the
question has to be answered. Will Hank come home or not?’
‘You make it sound like a TV soap.’
‘Sadly, the entertainment industry has taught us a
lot about selling a story.’
‘But I don’t see why it would be an advantage for
the IRA to kill him. Surely they’d look good if they let him go
back to his family.’
‘It would seem that way, but history has taught us
something else. The happy ending might be the best way to end a
movie, but in the real world, sadly people only sit up and take
notice when all they are left with is horror. Mercy does not live
as long in memory as does horror. And the world will call even
louder for the Troubles to end . . . The IRA won’t back down, so it
will be up to the Brits to. History tells us they will. They’ve
already started. Now they need to be pushed back even
harder.’
It was as if Father Kinsella had been talking about
another world. Kathryn was suddenly overcome with fear for Hank and
loathing for everything else to do with the British and the IRA.
She had never seriously considered that Hank would not return
alive. Now all of a sudden, looking at it through Father Kinsella’s
eyes, it seemed certain he was going to die.
‘You think they’ll kill him,’ she said, a tremor in
her voice. It was not a question.
‘No, Kathryn. That’s why I’m here. If we can
provide the IRA with the grandstand they want from this it will
satisfy them. Don’t you see? If we point the finger at the Brits,
and the American government too, tell the world they’re playing
with the lives of our loved ones, making them pay the price for
their political games, trying to paint a grand body of freedom
fighters as terrorists, then the godfathers will benefit more by
releasing Hank. Do you see it, Kathryn?’ He reached out and
squeezed her hand. ‘Now do you see why we can’t just sit back and
do nothing?’
She pulled her hand away and looked at him coldly.
‘Is it them telling you or you telling them?’
The priest dropped his gaze, but more in an effort
to control his anger than hide any guilt. He then looked at her.
‘Whatever you think of me, or my beliefs, or how I deal with the
rights and the wrongs of the world, I came here to help you save
your husband. I’ll tell you straight, Kathryn Munro, I don’t think
it will be easy, but I’m willing to try.’
He stood up and straightened out his jacket. ‘Now,’
he said, ‘before I walk out that door I want to know one thing. Are
you going to help me save Hank’s life or not?’
She did not trust him, but he had her trapped. She
despised him more that moment than ever before.
‘Well. What’s it to be?’ he demanded.
‘What do I have to do?’ she asked quietly.
‘Nothing more than what should come naturally to
you. Whoever asks, newspapers or anyone else, just say you miss
your husband and want him to come home to his family, and that you
don’t trust anyone from the British or American authorities. We’ll
talk further tomorrow.’
Father Kinsella walked to the front door and out of
the house. It was only after he had closed the door behind him that
she remembered he had not seen her mother or children. She sensed
eyes behind her and looked around to the kitchen door where her
mother was watching her. Before she stepped back into the kitchen,
Kathryn thought she detected a look of guilt on her face.