the dying fire that night after her mother’s words, looking into the turf settled into the grate with a hiss and lick of orange flame, while the wind gusted around the cottage, trepidation and fear of what was before her, driving away tiredness. And then, her father came in, the door torn from his grasp by the wind, so it slammed against the wall with a crash. He brought in with him the cold of the autumn night and Rosie, unable to sit any longer and make inane conversation, after the declaration her mother had made, took herself off to bed.
The next day, Rosie awakened to a silent house. The morning was a dark one but the clock said it was half past seven and she knew her father would have been up a few hours or more, milking the cows. Guiltily, she pulled herself away from the warmth of her sisters curled up together, and began to dress.
Her mother turned from the fire before which she was sitting as Rosie came in. ‘That was good timing,’ she said. ‘I was just about to call you.’ The plate she laid before Rosie almost took her breath away – there were rashers, an egg, fried tomatoes, potato cakes, white pudding and fried bread.
Rosie couldn’t remember the last time her mother had cooked her breakfast, never mind a feast like this. ‘Mammy, this is marvellous.’
‘All brides should have a good breakfast on their wedding day,’ Minnie said. ‘Sets you up for the day and Lord knows when you’ll ever have one so good again.’
‘It’s like giving a condemned man one last request, the way you put it,’ Rosie complained, but with a smile. However, when her eyes met those of her mother’s and she saw her tight-lipped, an icy thread of apprehension trailed down her spine.
It vanished at the church when she saw Danny waiting for her at the altar beside Shay Ferguson, his best man. She walked slowly down the familiar church on her father’s arm, her four bridesmaids coming behind, when really she wanted to fly into the arms of her beloved.
The church was full of neighbours and friends of the young couple and Rosie heard feet shuffling in the pews and a few coughs or sniffs as women sat dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs. She wanted to say, ‘Don’t cry, I’m happy, I’ve never been so happy.’
But, of course, she said nothing. She reached the altar at last and gave her bouquet to Chrissie, slipping her arm from her father’s to stand beside Danny. He turned to look at her, and she felt her heart nearly stop and gave a short gasp at how handsome he looked. As for Danny, he thought he’d never seen a girl so beautiful. He knew in Rosie he’d met his soul mate who he would love till the end of his days, and at that moment vowed never to do anything that would hurt her.
Rosie came out of the church later, blinking in the rays of the October sun, on the arm of her husband and as she smiled at the crowds milling around them cheering the young couple Rosie felt warmed by their good wishes.
The wedding breakfast was laid out in the farmhouse. Trestle tables with benches had been borrowed from the church hall to seat people. Rosie sat at the end table with Danny, their parents either side of them, and looked at the spread put on and knew Connie and her daughters must have worked for days and days to provide for so many. Though her parents had paid for the food, Rosie knew her mother had not done a hand’s turn to prepare it.
The two-tier wedding cake had been a present from the baker in the village. ‘You keep the top tier for the christening,’ he’d said, with a nudge to Rosie’s ribs and then laughed uproariously as her face flamed with embarrassment.
It was fortunate that the day was dry and warm enough for the dancing to take place outside, and this gave Connie and her daughters time and space to clear away the dirty things. Rosie’s offer to help was waved away. ‘Not on your wedding day, bonny girl,’ Connie said. ‘Away and dance with your man.’
And Rosie did dance with him. She was seldom off her feet as the accordion, fiddle and banjo played the familiar reels and jigs and polkas while the bodhran beat out the steady rhythm.
It was a wondrous, tremendous day, and when the revellers eventually made their way home – and not all of them terribly steady, either – Danny and Rosie stayed outside while the velvety darkness closed about them. Danny had his arm around Rosie and she leaned against him in absolute contentment.
‘Are you happy, Mrs Walsh?’ Danny asked her.
‘Deliriously so, Mr Walsh,’ Rosie replied with a smile.
‘Shall we go in?’
Rosie, remembering her mother’s words, couldn’t stop the slight shiver that ran through her. Danny guessed immediately what she was nervous of. ‘Don’t be scared,’ he told her. ‘Not of me. I’ll not hurt you. Trust me.’
And she did trust him, of course she did, this was Danny, her Danny, who she’d lay down her life for. ‘I do trust you, Danny,’ she said. ‘It was the night air causing me to feel chilly, that’s all. Let’s go in.’
Danny knew it was no night air but he kissed Rosie on the cheek, took her arm and led her indoors, where he found everyone had prudently taken themselves to bed.
Rosie knew that they would be living with Danny’s family for a while, maybe for years, until a house of their own could be built near to the farmhouse. Connie guessed Rosie might find this strange and could well understand it. She had put her arm around Rosie’s shoulder one evening a few days before the wedding and said, ‘I don’t want you to feel that this is someone else’s house you are living in when you come here. From now on, this will be your home.’
‘Thank you, you’re all so kind.’
‘We should be thanking you,’ Connie had said, ‘for making our son such a happy man. In you I really feel I have gained a daughter. We must decide what you are to call me, for I know it has been awkward at times.’
Rosie had blushed. She had not known what to call Connie. Mrs Walsh sounded too formal and Connie too familiar, but she hadn’t been aware that the woman had known of her dilemma. Connie had gone on, ‘It was the same with me and my mother-in-law at the start, yet in a way it was easier for me: my own mother was dead and so I just called her Mammy.’
Rosie had thought of the love she’d experienced in this house in just the few months she’d been coming there, more by far than she’d ever had in her own home. She couldn’t ever remember her mother putting her arm around her the way Connie did with ease. Even Matt would catch hold of her hand or pat her on the shoulder as he passed and she realised these good, kind people were better parents to her than her own would ever be. She had turned to Connie and had said, ‘I would love to call you Mammy.’
‘You would?’ Connie had asked. ‘You don’t think your own mammy will mind it?’
‘I don’t think she will give a tinker’s cuss for anything I do,’ Rosie had replied bitterly. ‘It used to upset me, but now I have Danny, a new home and a new life and to an extent a new family. To call you Mammy will just be part of it.’
Danny was pleased his mother and Rosie got on so well together for he knew if there was any sort of friction between them, living in such close proximity would be untenable and there was nowhere else he and Rosie could live for the present, although he was doing his best to give them a private bedroom at least. As in most farmhouses, the main bedrooms led straight off the kitchen-cum-living room. The first one was the room that Elizabeth and Sarah shared and you went through that to reach the one Danny had previously shared with Phelan, just as it had been in her own home while Connie and Matt had the one room in the loft, up the stairs to the back of the kitchen.
Underneath the stairs was another room that had been used for storage and that was the room Danny had chosen. He and his father had worked hard before the wedding, moving all the junk to the barn and making sure the place was watertight and damp free.
Now Rosie stood at the threshold of the door and looked around in delight as Danny lit