DANCING AT THE CROSSROADS

                                    Part Two

                                                               Chapter Seven

                                                                  Scene One

 

Michael stirred himself as if from a trance. For a few moments he was uncertain of his whereabouts, until the sight of his sister sitting just a few feet away reminded him of his task, and of his return to Ballymay. The way the dancing at the crossroads had disappeared just like a puff of smoke the moment he heard the voice of a relative. His delight that 'the green' for so long little more that a vague background in his memory, still seemed the same as when he last saw it.  And the cottage, once the family home where five children were born and raised, was also, from the front at least, as he remembered.  

        As the blur slowly cleared he remembered that he had started to tell Molly of his journeys; and he remembered the large dish of Irish stew which she had put before him before she had turned quickly away. He knew she thought he had not noticed her dabbing the tears from her eyes, but had seen them.

        He remembered too closing his eyes wondering where to start when Molly had insisted on hearing his story; "From beginning to end." she had emphasised.  Now that he had told her he looked once more across the little room where she sat, comfortable on a chair matching the one he was sitting on.

         With half closed eyes he exclaimed "My Lord; how long have I been talking? It's dark outside, it must have been hours."

        "Yes, it's been a long time. You seem to have had quite an adventure."

        "I have had some strange times I will admit, but that's it. You've heard it all, just as you wanted. Now you know why I came home."

        "That's as maybe, but I wonder if you truly know yourself."

        "Ah Molly." Michael raised himself slightly. "It's a question I've asked myself a hundred times; maybe a thousand; and even now I find it difficult to put into words." He closed his eyes for a moment before he continued. "I think the best way I can put it is to say that as time went by it became harder to think of a good reason not to."

        "Well I hope you find the reason because without it you will leave disappointed."

        Michael stood up and went to the window, staring for a while into the darkness, before drawing the curtains closed. "There’s a something I want to tell you that I may not have mentioned during my recollections. You will have gathered that I'm not short of a bob or two."

        Molly nodded. "Aye, I gathered as much."

        "Well it's more than that; I am a very wealthy man. I won't bother you with the numbers, but the main thing is that I want you to keep that part secret." He turned to face Molly. "It's important to me to become one of the family again, but the last thing I want is for you and my brothers to think I am trying to buy my way back."

        "It'll not be easy. There's a lot of mistrust."

        "I have to try. I must try. I want them all; most of all you Molly; to share in my good fortune, but more than that I want them to remember me for who I am and not just because they were left a pound or two in my will."

       " Well I'll help you all I can, but you make it sound as though you are going to 'pop off' any minute."

        "Ah that." Michael went back to his chair and sat down rather heavily. "You see Molly." Michael stopped for a moment while trying to find the words he needed. He had practised this time and time again, but he always stumbled, uncertain and a little afraid. "You see Molly; you asked me a few minutes ago if I truly knew why I wanted to come home. Well this is a big part of it. A few months before I set off I saw my doctor for a check up. I hadn’t been feeling too well at the time; in fact I hadn't been feeling all that good for quite a long time before but I put it down to pressure of work. And when Jessie got herself killed I put it down to that, despite putting on a brave face I thought it might be to do with losing her. Well it wasn't."

           Molly started to speak, but decided to await Michael's announcement. "Anyway, the doctor sent me for some tests and the outcome was that I have a serious heart condition and a form of leukaemia."

        "Oh my god Michael, what a shock for you. Are you having treatment?"

        "I have some tablets to ease the pain. I was offered chemo but I decided not to take it up."

        "But why?"

        "Because I don't want it to take over my life. They told me that with chemo and other things I might have a couple of years in me or maybe ten; they just don't know.."

        "And without?"

        "Nine months maybe; a year, maybe two. If I’m luchy a little longer." Michael looked on helpless as his sister was close to tears. "But my heart could pack up tomorrow. Iv'e too much to do to spend the rest my time in a hospital ward."

        Molly was crying now.  "I'm sorry to lay this on you sis, but maybe you can understand now why I have to do what I am doing, and also why I ask you to keep it between ourselves."

        Molly had lived a pretty tough life emotionally, and she had learned how to put her feelings to one side, but this had come out of the blue. "All these years ago we lost you and now you are telling me that we will be losing you again."

        "It might be years yet and in any case I'm not sure that there's many who will miss me." He got up and placed a gentle kiss on his sister's cheek. "Apart from you."

        Molly was still crying and Michael put his arms around her, and for ten minutes they sobbed together.  Eventually Molly pushed her brother away, and when he got up she got up too. "Now there is something I must tell you, something that might change everything."

        "What's that sis?" Michael asked, not expecting that there might be something else to consider.

        "It was all for nothing, that's what."

        Michael was surprised at the touch of anger that had crept into her voice.

        "What was all for nothing?"

        "You; running away."

        "What are you saying?"

        "I'm saying it was all for nothing. You running away because you thought you had killed a man; your friend Co'lin. Well you didn't. He recovered and later he married the girl you were fighting over."

        Michael was stunned and stared at Molly for ages before he could speak. "But I don't understand. He was dead in the ditch."

        "He was not dead. He might have died, but you didn't care. All you cared about was saving your own skin. If he had died it would have been your fault twice over."

        Only moments ago they had been comforting each other, and now Michael was shocked at the anger in his sister's voice. Shocked too to discover that she was right. It had been all for nothing. He sat down his mind in a whirl remembering all the times he hid himself from the law; living rough, too scared to be seen; of waiting for the tap on the shoulder. And now, after all that, knowing why it never came.

        But mostly he thought of Connie who might have become his wife, and the baby she was carrying. "The baby," he whispered, "what happened to the baby."

        "Why should you care about the baby?" Molly look at her brother once more, wondering if she would ever get to know him.

        "Because that was my baby."

        "Oh Michael!" was all Molly could say before once again she broke down, struggling to speak. "Can it get any worse?"

        "I think you've heard the worst of it."

        "Thank the Lord for that." she replied, "and here's you telling me that you might be facing the almighty in less than a year. When 'He' hears what you have done how are you going to avoid being cast into hell for all eternity?"

        "Well to start with he already knows, but if I have blown it with him at least I may be able repair the damage with the people I love."

        "The people you love you say! They are the same people you ran away from. How can you say you love them?"

        "They were not the one I ran away from Molly. I realise now that I was trying to run away from myself, and from what I had done."

        "And did you?"

        "At first it seemed like it, but you were always there, all of you, in my heart."

        Molly had inherited her parents common sense attitudes. She, like they, had not benefited from advanced education and yet when it came down to basics she was always able to see the essentials, the practical way forward.  "You've got a job on your hands and no mistake," she said, "but if you're to have any chance at all you will have to be as honest with your brothers as you have been with me."

        "Will they listen?"

        "You must make them," she said, "but don't try to be smart with them. They've lived without you all these years that it would mean nothing to them if you go out of their lives again."

        "This time for good." Michael added.

        "That's up to you." Molly replied. "You have some time - not much I grant you - but you must use that time to make them love you. Then maybe when you leave us again they will have you in their hearts."

        "And Connie?"

        "Ah Connie. I confess that I cannot see a way to help you there. She must despise you, and I can't see any way you can change that."

        "But I must try. Her son is my son too."

        "After she married Co'lin they lived a quiet life out of the village and I didn't get to know her very well, but I can tell you this. There's none that I know of who didn't believe until the day he died that Co'lin was the father of their son. You might find it hard to convince them now, even if it is true, that he was not."

        Once more Michael was stunned. Not because of Molly's summing up of the situation. In this she was no doubt correct, but for the unexpected reference to Co'lin's death.

        "I can hardly believe first you say that Co'lin is alive, and now you say he's dead."

        "Yes he's dead. For you he's been dead for forty four years, but for us in Ballymay he's been dead just under two years."

        It was a cruel barb and Molly knew that it had hurt Michael, but despite her wish to draw her eldest brother back into the fold, she could not ignore the enormity of his sins. Stabbing remarks like that, some intended and some not, were going to be part of the penance that Michael would have to pay in his battle to win the respect of his family, never mind their love.

        Michael knew that too, just as he knew that the task on which he was now set would probably be the final deal in his turbulent life, yet it was more important than anything he had ever done before. The rewards for success if judged in money terms would be nil, but in terms of value to his heart and soul they would be beyond all his dreams. Failure on the other hand would be incalculable.

        It had been a long and tiring day even though most of the time they had been sitting down, but Michael and Molly chatted into the night going over his story. She wanted to know more about his life before he ran away. More about Connie who, despite past history, or maybe because of it, she had never really managed to get to know. And about Co'lin, who she had known well when the two lads were growing up together as friends. Most of all she wanted to know about the baby.

        "It's a classic story," Michael said, "two men in love with the same woman, and both thinking that the baby she was carrying was theirs."

        "It's a strange tale all right, but how do you know the child was yours."

        "I always thought;  no; I knew it was mine."

        "But how did you know? After all Co'lin must have - you know - with Connie for him also to claim to be the father. And anyway, all those years you thought you had a son ..." she caught Michael's look, "OK;  you knew you had a son; but you never came back."

        Michael sensed some bitterness in Molly's tone. "It's just as well as it turned out. Connie and Colin getting wed. It would have only made it worse if I had returned."

        "But you didn't know that. You thought Co'lin was dead. Poor Connie might have been destitute for all you knew; or cared, by the sound of it."

        Michael was looking down at his feet as Molly spoke, her disapproval clear, contempt barely hidden. "Nothing you can say will make me feel any worse about myself than I do." he muttered. "I've lived with my shame all these years, and it's like a punishment to learn that if I had shown a little more courage and had been prepared to stand up and face the music, that boy may know me as his father."

        "I think Co'lin might have had something to say about that. And don't forget Connie; she's only the mother you know, or doesn't that count?" Molly held nothing back.

        "How could I have been so blind, such a pudding head. I've paid a high price for my stupidity." Michael sat with his head in his hands.

        "Ay, well it's right that it is you being punished and not them." Then without warning she stood up. "It's way beyond my bed time and I'm very tired, so I'll be leaving you, but you've got some thinking to do if you want to sort this out and still have some friends left, and if you're lucky, a little dignity."

        Michael was on his own suffering the two extremes of a light head and a heavy heart. He was glad he had told Molly the whole story - and in return had received her summing up which pulled no punches - for somehow he felt that he had a better idea of the task ahead. 

        But it seemed like an impossible choice. He could not see a way to succeed in his quest, which did not run the risk losing everything. Conversely he hardly dared to believe that the only way he might win, was to give it all up.

 

Chapter Seven

Scene Two

 

The reaction within the Cassidy clan at Ballymay to the news that they might after all see Michael again - their lost relative and the black sheep of the family - had been mixed. Amongst his brothers he had once been the legend of their youth, but gradually he had been forgotten. It was true that there was some excited anticipation, but there were also some misgivings. Also it was not only within the family where uncertainties were harboured, for the feeling was shared by others in the village. When Molly had let it be known that she had received a letter from her missing brother there was almost a feeling of disbelief, for his silence over the years had been so complete that most people simply assumed that he was dead. As the news spread within the community, curiosity sometimes gave way to ironic, or even sardonic laughter. In some cases when it was learned that he was planning to return there was even fear for his safety. Some of the older folk had long memories; memories of a young man who's conduct had not  brought credit to either himself, his family, or the village of Ballymay.  Michael's homecoming would not be universally welcome.

        Even during that first day signs of animosity were seen. Michael never got the rest he needed, for even as he finished the stew the door opened and there stood a stranger.

        "Come in and shut the door." Molly spoke quietly but with an authority that was not questioned. "Come and meet your brother."

        The stranger walked forward and offered his hand in greeting. But it was not an enthusiastic handshake, and the face of the stranger was unsmiling, lacking both warmth and sincerity, while the terse uttering did nothing to dispel that feeling.

        "Michael." he said tersely, withdrawing his hand before recognition was acknowledged.

        There was an awkward silence before Michael responded, lightly, hoping to ease the strain.  "Now which one would you be then?  Richard? Donald? Brian? It's been so long, and I guess you all look alike."

        His smile and light banter, intended to break the tension seemed to have been wasted, for Michael's brother's response was decidedly cool. "No, we don't look alike, but at least you remember our names. That's something I suppose."

        "This is Brian, your youngest brother. You've just met his son Saemus," Molly was trying to keep things nice, but she was well aware of the gulf. "you'll soon get to know each other."       

        "That's as maybe, but I've got work to do. Bye Michael; just called to be polite. Bye Molly."

        With that he was off, leaving his two eldest siblings to watch as he closed the door behind him.

        "Now you know where Seamus gets it from. The young-uns not quite all there poor lad, but they're all the same; none of them can say more than half a dozen words at a time."

        That had been the previous day and Michael smiled, remembering that brief introduction and wondered if his other brothers would be equally cold. He was grateful for his sister's support, but aware that it was paper thin. More than that, he knew that if Richard and Donald felt the same as Brian, he had a lot to do if he were ever to be accepted back into the family.

        Later in the day he met Donald, who everyone called Donny, the middle one of his brothers. He was polite and not unfriendly, but if he was pleased to see his eldest brother it did not show. He did however sit down for a few minutes, making small talk over a cup of tea. It was an uneasy meeting and Michael felt that his brother's ‘politeness' was more for Molly's benefit than his. But at least he had not detected any outright hostility. 

        But of Richard, the older of Michael's trio of brothers there was no sign. Despite a message from Molly requesting that he should call, he did not and neither did he send a message.  He was, as no doubt he intended to be, conspicuous by his absence.

        Michael had some vague memories of them all as boys, but nothing after that, and he was conscious of his complete lack of knowledge of them as they had grown older following his hurried departure. How he wished he had made contact during his time away. At first he was too scared to do so, thinking his whereabouts would be discovered which would almost certainly be followed by a murder charge. Then gradually, as his new life took over the old one receded until it became just a blur.

        Now that he knew he had made that sacrifice for nothing, he wished even more that he had not done so. But wishing could not put the clock back, and he pushed the thought away.

        He regretted that he had missed the transition of his brothers from boys into men, and that special time when they introduced their prospective partners into the family; each one who would shortly take her place as wife and then mother, as one by one they added a new branch to the Cassidy tree.

        Michael had seen none of this, and was not aware of the resentment borne, not so much by his absence, but of his return. There were clear signs of it now.  He could not help but wonder at the state of mind that his brothers, and indeed his sister, had gradually acquired over the years. He knew so little of them, of their characteristics and their mentality. Which of them, he wondered, would find a germ of understanding for his plight, for his need to find sanctuary. Would they ever understand why, at a time when most young men would be looking forward to the future, he had been faced with an over-riding need to run away from his? Could they ever believe him that at that time he did not feel he had a future? Which of them would be the first to truly welcome him as a brother?

        He had managed to glean from Molly something of the men, but she would say little of herself. She was quick to remind Michael that as the eldest son he should have inherited the family farm, but in his absence that privilege had gone to Richard. "Don't be surprised if he is suspicious of your motives." she warned.

        "Tell him not to worry on that account," Michael had responded "I'm not after his farm." In a rare moment he laughed. "I'm not after breaking my back; and I've got a bob or two in the bank;  more than he has I wouldn’t wonder."

        "Well don't expect him to fall at your feet, that's all."

        Donald, she told him, had married well, and owned a thriving and prosperous farm. His wife was the only child of a wealthy farmer, and all his inheritance had gone to her. "It's all hers really,"  she said, "but it might just as well be his, and it will all go to their children."

        Continuing her summery she reminded Michael that Brian the youngest brother was still at school he when he left home, but, she told him, he had spoiled his chances because he got a girl from the next village 'into trouble' when they were both only sixteen.

        "She was a bit of a handful, and I think her family were happy to get shut of her. Anyway they got no help from them, and Brian was just seventeen when he became a dad. They had three kids in no time at all, and never seemed to have a bean to spend on them, but somehow they managed." She paused a little awkwardly. "The first two were alright, but Seamus was never quite right. He's fit enough; he's nearly forty now but still looks like a teenager.  Such a shame that he's not quite right up here." She tapped her temple as if an explanation were needed. "He's a nice lad though for all that."

        Molly paused in her narrative, and Michael was able to try and fit her into the bewildering picture of strangers, of brothers that he had all but forgotten. Worse, for they were not just forgotten; it was almost as if he had never known them.       

        Of Molly at least he did have some recollections. His big sister, lively and bossy, looking after everyone except herself. She had been beautiful all those years ago, and he found it difficult to reconcile this elderly lady with the vivacious girl who had appeared in his mind whenever he had thought about her. In his imagination she was still a twenty something young woman. And yet, in another way she had not changed, for she had always been in charge, then just as now, and kept her brothers in check.

        Michael remembered how he used to try to get glimpses of her when she was washing or changing. Seeing her in her underwear was the high point of many a day for a young man, and once, only once, he had seen her naked when he opened the kitchen door just as she stepped out of the tin bath. He had never quite understood why she wasn't angry with him, but she simply walked to and then closed the door; in his mind it seemed like slow motion; wearing nothing but an enigmatic smile on her face, allowing the young man to enjoy a long look at her naked and very beautiful form.  It was a vision that set him alight, a vision that had stayed with him always for this was the first time he had seen a naked girl. Her white skin and full breasts and the dark area below her slightly rounded belly, were a sight he had only dreamed of. This was, he recalled, at a time when he had become aware of the opposite sex, but had not, as yet, had the opportunity to experience just what that meant.

        Looking at her now it was hard to reincarnate that image, and he wondered if she ever remembered his wide eyed and probably opened mouthed astonishment. He could not help but feel a certain sadness for her. For all her beauty then, her assurance and standing within the family and the wider community now, he felt certain that she would have bitterly regretted the hand that life had dealt her. She would have felt that she had been born for something better than being a nursemaid to her parents, and simply a maid for her brothers. But she had been trapped by circumstances of birth and custom, from which there had been no escape.

        It was little enough, but Michael felt a degree of relief that despite all his other shortcomings, he at least had not added to that particular burden.

        Michael had settled comfortably with Molly in her cottage. His sister had made the little house - which he remembered as a boy as being cold, hard, overcrowded and uncomfortable - into a very cosy home for herself.  Inside Molly had transformed it to a comfy place where a lady of standing in the village might dwell with pride.  An outside extension at the rear had allowed for a new kitchen downstairs, and a bathroom upstairs, while the addition of a narrow staircase had made it possible to install an additional bedroom under the roof with a window to the rear, boasting a clear view of the cradle. Molly was justly proud of her cottage, but Michael found it hard to see, even in its present form how it had once housed seven people. Nevertheless it had, and somehow they had managed.

        Despite that, his physical comfort did nothing to ease his restlessness of spirit.

 

Chapter Seven

Scene Three

 

A few days had passed since Michael’s arrival, and he had not set the place alight. There had been a scattering of visitors, but they had mostly been the children of his brothers, sent, Michael suspected, as a kind of substitute. Of the brothers themselves, or their wives there had been no further appearances.

        Something had to be done to break the ice. Molly had tried and two of the brothers had promised to show themselves when they could. "As soon as I get that new fence done." one had said. "I've a heifer in calf," said another "having a difficult time. I'll be over when I can." But so far none of them had shown. The eldest of the three, Richard; simply refused. "He's waited over forty years," he said to Molly. "Let him wait another forty."

        Of Connie there had been little or no mention, despite his revelation to Molly that he had fathered her child. It was inevitable that sooner or later Michael announced that he would like to see her. "At least she might show a friendly face." he said.

        "And why would she?" Molly said when she heard of his intention. "You were just a fling when she was young, and she made a happy life for herself  with Co'lin.  Do you remember Co'lin?" Molly hissed. "You know, the one who was supposed to be you're friend; the one you left to die on his own."

        Michael was shocked. Not only at his sisters anger, but at what she had just said. "But you know I thought Co'lin was dead in that ditch. I truly thought he was dead; that's why I ran away."

        Now it was Molly's turn, but for her it was dismay rather than shock, and her anger turned to something like pity. "All these years you've been running away. Hiding like a hunted animal; and for what?"

        "But I didn't know. I thought he was dead."

        "So you ran away and abandoned that poor lass, pregnant and her man dead. Why on earth do you think that she'll want to see you?"

        "I told you that there were things I'm not proud of, and that's the main one. But I must try to make amends."

        "I think you're well over forty  years to late for that." Molly retorted, with little attempt to hide her disdain. 

        "You can't think worse of me than I do myself, but I must try."

        "She's a widow now, don't you think she's had enough to put up with."

        That was another jolt for Michael. To discover that his one time friend had not died by his hand was hard enough to take in; but now to find that fate had denied him the opportunity to beg his old friend for his forgiveness was a double blow.

       Now he was even more determined. After all, he told Molly, "Connie is the reason for all that has happened to me. Had I not fought for her? Had I not killed for her, at least in thought if not in deed." He stopped for a moment.  "Have I not condemned myself to exile because of her?”

        Molly was calm now, her anger somehow dissipated. "You did all that to yourself. Don't try to salve your conscience by blaming Connie."

        Michael slumped in his a chair, " Oh god." he muttered, "Did it sound as though I was trying to do that?"

        Molly made no attempt to further the discussion or to dissuade her brother from visiting Connie, save for one parting shot. "You seem determined to ruin her life all over. Even if all you say is true it's too late now. Why do you want to exchange her happy memories for misery?"

        "I must Molly; he's my son. Can't you understand?"

        "There's too much I don't understand, but if you must; you must. Away you go then, but remember you'll have me to contend with if you treat her badly."

        It didn't take long to find her. She and Co'lin had lived a comfortable life in a nice farm house not far from 'The Cradle', and now, finger on the bell Michael was about to come face to face with his past. He pressed, and when that produced no response, he gave two knocks with a cast iron lions head set by the door.

        He saw her first through the small glass panel let into the door, diffused and distorted by the random waves of  the refracted image. Even in that brief moment, realising that she would see him with the same degree of distortion, Michael wondered if somehow it was prophetic of the two people on either side of that glass. Would their memories of each other be equally defused?

        The door opened and there she was. Not the sprightly young thing he had kept in his memory. Not the slim beautiful young woman with the long flowing hair, energetic and sensuous, who had invaded his thoughts so many times when he had been thousands of miles away. In front of him stood a sixty year old lady, somewhat heavier than he expected, looking directly at him, unsmiling, and seemingly un-welcoming.

        "Michael." she said, a staccato one word greeting, followed by a long pause. "I've been expecting you. I heard you were back. Come in."

        'At least her voice is the same', Michael thought before he spoke.  "Hello Connie," he replied, ignoring her reticent reception. "There have been many times when I thought this day would never come."

        Connie was unrepentant. "I dare say; and there were very few days when I thought it would."

        Michael was stung, but there was nothing he could do to change the past, and little he suspected to change the future. Nevertheless, he felt that he must try.

        "I'm sorry to find that Co'lin has gone. He was a good man."

        "Ha!  A good man you say!  If it had been up to you he'd have been dead more than forty years ago."

        "I never wanted that, but it could just as easily have been me." He looked at Connie, hoping for some sign of understanding. "You know why we were fighting, but neither of us wanted that."

        "I expect you were drunk, and an argument became a row, and a row became a fight, and a fight became . . ."

        Michael interrupted. "I can't believe . . . I don't believe that you did not know what the fight was about."

        "It's too long ago to be reaping that up; too much water under the bridge."

        "You were expecting and Co'lin claimed that he was the father, and I knew that I was."

        "And how did you know that?" Connie said, her voice raised "How did you come to know so much about me? You weren’t  the only one around you know."

        "I just knew, that's all, but I still need to hear you say it."

        "Then you'll be in for a long wait before you hear me say that."

        It was an uncompromising start, but for the first time since Michael had entered the house, he sensed a slight softening in Connie's voice. It was as though they had laid down their ground rules, and once that was established Connie was less hostile. Though they had not met or communicated since Michael ran away all those years before, Michael hoped, despite the long years and the fact that they were now both approaching old age, that Connie might feel something of their earlier attraction to each other.  Not love of course; he knew that would not happen, nor did he expect it. But he hoped that some memories of the time when they were a happy young couple sharing first love might emerge.  But there was nothing in Connie's demeanour so far to suggest anything of the kind. 

        Michael was torn however, aware that he had only limited time. Should he try to rekindle an old -long dead - flame, or to keep his relationship with Connie friendly but cool. After all, he knew that if he was successful in the first option it would only  bring her further heartache and grief. But to take the second course would reduce the chance of reconciliation with his son.  That was the main thing now, and Michael knew he would have to be bold.

        "How did you come to marry Co'lin?" he asked quietly.       

         With some difficulty she tried to explain. "You never knew did you. You were so full of yourself, that you never saw the love that Co'lin had for me. He told me while he was recovering from his injuries; which by the way very nearly did kill him," Connie glared. "You never knew that he knew that I was pregnant, and immediately claimed to be the father, telling everyone that as soon as he was fit, we would be married. Any sign of descent from me was quickly dismissed," she paused.  "and you were not there to challenge him. He simply wore my resistance down." she concluded.

        "It didn't bother you then that you would be marrying one man with another's kid in your belly?"

        "What a spiteful thing to say." Connie rounded, and Oh, don't you come it with your high moral tones Michael Cassidy." she blazed. "You are the one who abandoned me, remember; leaving me to face the world pregnant and alone, because you thought that Co'lin - the only other person who could take care of me - was dead."  She hardly took a breath. "Yes it was Co'lin, who by the way took months to recover by which time the pregnancy was obvious, who stayed to pick up the pieces. Time and time again he repeated that he was the father, and that he would marry me as soon as he was able. He told his friends to carry him to the alter if they had to. Just make sure that we are wed before our baby is born." he used to tell them."

        "I really did think he was dead."

        "Then you were a coward too."

        Surprisingly Michael thought he saw a change of expression, the beginning of a smile, but it was quickly gone. Connie looked him squarely in the eyes. "All that saved me from the disgrace of having a baby out of wedlock was his devotion. Worse still, but for him I might have an illegitimate child to a murderer. What could you have offered me to better a love like that?" she asked.

        She waited a while but there was no answer "I'd have been a fool to marry you even if you hadn't tried to kill him." she added emphatically.

        "I am your son's father." It was the only answer that Michael could come up with.

        "Oh yes, and what if you are?" Connie almost shouted, angry that she had so quickly intimated the admission she had been determined to withhold  "And Co'lin knew it."

        She glared at Michael, catching her breath, "And I'll tell you something else.  Colin told me just before he died that he knew, and he also said that he forgave you for trying to send him to Kingdom Come. He said it could just as easily have been him killing you, and if that was the only way to get me he'd do it again."

        She held out her arms expressively. "He was twice the man you were, and it nearly took a murder for me to see it."       

        Then she did smile. "Oh yes; perhaps I took a cowardly way out, but he loved me and I quickly learned to love him. You did us both a favour by running away."

        All this time Michael and Connie had been standing up. They had made it to the lounge, but so taught had they both been, that once the exchange had commenced, neither had held back, and sitting down had not become an option. Now Connie flopped into an easy chair and stared into the fireplace.

        Curiously the earlier atmosphere of open hostility had eased, but in its place Michael sensed something potentially more difficult for him to handle. Hatred perhaps, even loathing and contempt.

        But Connie put it more simply. "After all this time have you come back to shame me?"

        Clearly she had lived happily with Co'lin, and the paternity of their son had remained a secret they alone shared. Even to Michael it seemed clear that she had learned to accept that her husband was the father of their son. But now, Michael realized, she was really afraid that he had brought it back into sharp focus just to dishonour her. It was an idea he had to dispel at once.

        "There are a number of reasons why I came back; but shaming you is not one of them." He took a deep breath. "Shame you say and I say yes, but mine not yours. I came back because I was too ashamed to stay away any longer. I felt guilty on the day I ran away, and that guilt has never left me. I felt shame because I murdered my friend."

        Michael looked at Connie, who was no longer staring at the unlit coals in the fire grate, but had turned to face her visitor. He raised his hand to stop her speaking. "Oh, I know he didn't die, but that was not because of me. When I left him sprawling in the ditch I thought he was dead. Anyway, even though I didn't kill him, I certainly murdered our friendship."

       He continued to speak, quietly now, almost as though he was in the confessional.  "I was ashamed for leaving my family with 'ma' and 'da' old and sick, and all the kids growing up. Everyone was relying on me and I deserted them all."

        Once more he looked at Connie, who was staring into the fireplace again. "But most of all I was ashamed of leaving you on your own with a baby coming - my baby! - and I left you to face the world on your own."

        Again with the same gesture Michael stopped Connie from speaking. "I know you brought up the child as Co'lin's, but I always thought that the child you were carrying was mine. I knew it was mine."

        This time his gesture was not enough, and Connie was on her feet in a flash. "What God-given right do you have to go around claiming children every time you put into town? And who do you think you are coming into my home - into my life - after forty odd years and expecting me to renounce my husband and my son.

        "My son."

        "Whether he is your son or not you can argue about; what you cannot argue about is that he is my son."

        Michael could not dispute that but something in Connie's manner had told him that he was right. Why otherwise had she not refused to see him, or at least asked him to leave?

        "My son Connie." he repeated, gently but firmly, but he was not prepared for her next outburst.

        In a voice that came from the heart she rounded on Michael. "Let me remind you again, regardless of who might or might not be the father, one thing is certain. I am the mother."

        Now she turned to face Michael and looked him squarely in the face. "And you forget another thing. "There’s more to being a father than just planting the seed." she started. "Any gardener will tell you that. There's the sewing and the tilling, the preparation of the soil and the watering and the weeding. Not to mention protection from the frost and the wind, and the predators who might steel your plant." She gave Michael a long hard look. "That's what makes a gardener. If a man just plants his seed and then walks away leaving another man to tend and nurture the plant until it is mature and fully grown, then tell me, which man is the gardener?"

        Connie stopped as though she had little else to say. When she had started this soliloquy her voice had been firm and strong, but by the time she finished it had dropped to little more than a whisper. She waited for Michael to respond, but when he did not once more she asked, her voice raised again.  "Well! who is the gardener?"

        Michael was uncertain of his next move, even tough he felt that Connie had given him the answer he sought, perhaps unintentionally, and in a somewhat oblique way.  Despite that he was chastened. "Yes, I know I am not the gardener," he said, "and that only adds more to my shame. One more sin to atone for, but you know as well as me, that I planted that seed."

        "And how would you know that. What makes you think you were the only man to fancy me when I was young? I was good looking then, and you were not the only one. Co'lin was just as handsome as you and just as persuasive, and at least he stayed around to see the result of his gardening - no thanks to you."

        Then why have you let me talk so long? Why did you not just show me the door?"

        "I owed you that much." Connie admitted "I did love you once, and even though you failed me, I felt I should at least talk to you."

        "And what about our son?"

        "My son. Connie was adamant. "His name is Matthew by the way. What about him?"

        "Doesn't he deserve to know?"

        "Doesn't he deserve to know what?"

`       "That I am his father."

        "You just don't get it do you?" Connie was angry again. "Just suppose that you are his father, what am I supposed to tell him?"

        "The truth."

        "Ha' the truth. A lot you know about that. Oh' by the way Matthew, your father is not the fine upstanding man you knew and loved, who spent every waking moment doing his best for his wife and son, providing a nice home and a safe happy environment. No!, he is really a murdering scum-bag who deserted me before you were born. Oh', and by the way, he never bothered to find out how we were, or how we were managing to survive. Oh yes, and then he turns up nearly forty five years later and wants to claim you."

        She gave Michael a withering look, contempt in every line on her face. "The truth, did you say? It's nothing to do with the truth and you know it. If anything it's more to do with a guilty conscience - yours." Connie almost spat out the words.

        "At least you're right about that. The biggest guilty conscience since Pontius Pilate I should think; but  there is something else." It was all Michael could manage after that outburst.

        "Well!"

        "You're forgetting his birthright."

        "His birthright! From you; don't  make me laugh."

        "I want to include him in my will. It'll be a tidy sum."

        "Oh , so you are trying to buy me now, is that it?"

        "I want to do what is right, that's all."

        "Right by who?" Connie snapped. "By Matthew?  By me? Or just by you? Or is it only your self esteem that you care about?"

        Michael knew he was not going to win Connie over while she was in this mood, but he understood. He had been in business too long to expect to get his way in the first round. This was not business of course, but surprisingly the rules were essentially the same. Both sides laying down their markers, ground rules being established, parameters being set.

        "I want to do what is right for everyone. No one knows my shortcomings better than I, and yes, I do know a thing or two about truth, or the lack of it. Believe me I am learning that lesson the hard way right now. But now I have both the means, and the need, to pay my dues and to clear my moral debts to those I wronged."

        Was it a sincerity in his manner; something which until now Connie had not felt, or was it simply that she had become emotionally exhausted? She smiled a tired smile.  "But why now after all this time?" she asked.

         "Who knows. It's a mixture of fear, regret, opportunity, ability and necessity. Any one of those things, or all of them. But in the end it has become a matter of timing. Six months from now might be too late."

        He stood up and moved toward the door.   "I think I should go now while we are a little more friendly, at least,” he made a minor correction, “at least we are not shouting quite so loud. Thank you for receiving me, and I hope that you will believe me when I say that I do want only what is best."

        Connie followed Michael to the door. "There something else." she said. She was uncertain and seemed to hesitate, almost as though she was betraying a confidence.  "Matthew has twin sons and if you are right - and I do say 'if';" she paused searching, "well let's say I have two teenage grandsons."

        The words were said and somehow she had been unable to stop them, some force within telling her she too had to tell the truth.  Michael turned as he opened the door. He sensed the cost that those few words, the price Connie might have to pay, but it did not seem like a victory. "I would love to see them. I need to see them." he said very quietly.

        Somehow, despite the harsh words and the anger there was now a sense of calm, a truce.

         "I know."

         "Soon."

         Connie agreed to try to arrange a meeting with her son, on the strict understanding that Michael would not raise the subject of paternity. Some pretext would have to be devised to justify such a meeting, and it was Michael who solved that problem.

        "Until we both fell in love with you Co'lin and I were best friends," he argued, "no need to tell him all the gory details of the fight and everything."

        Connie agreed to that, and said she would introduce Michael as a friend just back from Australia, who has just heard about Co'lin. "Forgetting a few months in London, it's not far from the truth." Michael said.

        Michael raised his hand as he took his leave; not quite a wave, but more a mixed gesture of farewell and resignation. Then he was off, leaving Connie puzzled and confused. How was she going to explain to Matt? How could she tell him that the man he had known and loved as his father all his life may not be his father after all. And would he believe her if she told him  that in all these years she had truly loved Co'lin, even though perhaps his father had been someone else.

             Connie stood at her door watching Michael leave and long after he had gone from her view she remained, pondering, uncertain, and with a feeling that things were not going to work out in her favour.  For in her heart of hearts she could not deny that the man walking away from her was indeed the father of her son.  Though the thought had been suppressed for so long, confined after her early years with Co'lin to a dim recess in her subconscious as no longer relevant, Michael's return had brought it back into sharp focus.

        In their first decade of marriage she and Co'lin had so wanted another child, but no matter how hard they tried it never happened. Despite her disappointment she had never pushed for clarification or medical confirmation. The possibility that Co'lin might not have been able to father a child was not something she wanted to prove for his sake. Not for hers either. It was something she did not need to know, did not need the proof. And yet she knew.

        She knew.

        It was an uneasy truce, especially in Connie's mind. Her reticence was not through fear of Matt finding out; for she realised that with Michael's return and his persistence it would mean that sooner or later he would do that anyway. It was more because she did not quite trust this man who come back, so unexpectedly, into her life. After all, had he not let her down all those years ago when she was depending on him, leaving her as good as abandoned at the alter. And had he not let down his best friend, when he left him to die in a ditch.

        There was however one thing about which she was certain. Michael's return to Ballymay was not something for her to rejoice about. Too many years had gone by for to know if she could dare to trust him. Connie felt she had no illusions about Michael. Yes, she had loved him once and had borne his child, despite her reluctance to admit it to him. Yet somewhere in the depth of her soul, despite all that, she knew there was a little glow. 'Had it always been there?' she wondered, even though he had walked out of her life so long ago. 'Perhaps so', she conceded, for her son had been a constant reminder. Even if it were only in her deep subconscious Matthew was a constant reminder. But what had once been a flame was now, if indeed it existed at all, little more than the tiniest ember. Despite that she knew that she must resist getting too close, and any thoughts of loving him again must not enter into her head.

         Her main worry was how Matt would react when he found out that Co'lin was not his father, and she wondered whether she should try to stop him finding out. Indeed, she wondered whether it would be possible to stop him finding out for it was clear that Michael was very determined. Somehow she knew that she must tread an uneasy path of cooperation with him, not only for her own sake, but that of her son.

        Michael was long gone when finally she turned and entered her house, but as she did another thought occurred to her.    What had he meant when he said, "six months from now might be too late?