Secrets of Our Hearts. Sheelagh Kelly

      ‘Mr Doran, I think I might owe you an apology. Maybe you thought I was being rude to ye last time ye came in.’

      Still occupied in ridding his footwear of cow dung, Niall frowned, pretending not to know what she was talking about.

      ‘You might’ve thought I was mocking your Yorkshire accent – I wasn’t, I think it’s lovely.’

      How could one remain hard-hearted to such charm? He donned a self-effacing attitude and stopped cleaning his boot, attending more politely as she went on, ‘Sure, I ought to know better, folk taking a rise out of me with their top o’ the mornings and begorrahs and all manner of rubbish. Anyhow,’ she inclined her head graciously, ‘I apologise. I meant no harm.’

      ‘None done. I can’t even remember it,’ lied Niall, but hoped his attitude projected how happy he was to see her again.

      ‘Well … that’s all I wanted to say, really.’ Obviously relieved, she flashed him a smile, then turned and began to melt into the darkness, but paused in anticipation when it looked as if Niall was eager to speak.

      But he simply blurted, ‘Er, thank you anyway – even if there was no need!’

      Her lips retained their smile, though Niall thought he saw a hint of disappointment in her blue eyes as she gave a little nod, then went on her way and he on his. And, as he went, he thought about what she had said about going to evening Mass, and made a note to himself to look out for her at church on Sunday, for he had not noticed her there before, being too involved in his devotions. He hoped, though, that he would see her again much sooner than that.

      For the first time in days he felt his spirits elevate, thoroughly restored from the gloom that had descended since his altercation with her. Hence, upon nearing home and seeing his boys playing football under a streetlamp, he cantered up to join in a lively kickabout until, remembering that he was supposed to be grieving for Ellen, he swiftly composed himself, gave his boots a last rake on the iron scraper set into the wall, then went indoors, though his mood was to remain light-hearted.

      That night he started visiting The Angel again.

      Gradually becoming inebriated by the woman who served it, rather than the alcohol itself, Niall increased his excursions to five nights of the week from then on. Whilst this was all very well on a Monday, or even a Wednesday, when, the bar being relatively quiet, he could sit and watch her to his heart’s content – perhaps even be lucky enough to share a word or two with her when he acquired the pint he had rationed himself – Friday turned out to be a different matter. Having arrived somewhat later than on previous visits, he encountered a wall of people the moment he came through the door. The place was so packed, he had to navigate his way through a labyrinth of elbows to acquire his drink. At last, there she was. Forced to raise his voice above the hubbub, he returned Boadicea’s smile of welcome and asked for the usual. He noted briefly that there was something different about her tonight, but didn’t know what it was until a few moments later he heard one of the female customers call to her from the passage, ‘I love your new dress, dear!’ And the recipient of this praise joked, ‘I’m glad somebody noticed.’

      Ah, that was what it was. Niall hardly ever paid attention to such detail, but studied her garment more closely now. It was blue with flowers on it, and made of silky stuff that emphasised every curve – which was probably why he had noticed neither the pattern nor colour before. With all the tables occupied and his usual nook taken, he remained at the bar to watch and to yearn. But sadly there was to be no chat with her tonight, for after serving him she was instantly off to serve another, maintaining this hectic pace all the while he was there.

      Crammed in from all sides, alert to straying elbows that might jolt and spill his pint, he made tentative sips of it, whilst his eyes followed Boadicea to and fro behind the bar. His ears too strained to attend her, to decipher her Irish lilt from the blunt Yorkshire vowels that obscured it, to detect every word from her smiling lips – and were just becoming attuned when a roar went up. Niall turned his head in vexation to see what had ruined his evening. Unable to discern the origin, he was soon to be made aware, as a piano was set upon with gusto, the whole pub erupting into lively accompaniment.

      His faint disgust must have been apparent, for when his eyes returned to Boadicea, he received a signalled command from her to cheer up and join in with the singing, her mouth pretending to mimic his in an exaggerated sulk, and though he didn’t sing he was forced to smile back. She responded with a grin of commendation, every feature of her face participating in that smile and her warm eyes focused completely on him, which made him feel on top of the world. It was not to last for long, her services required elsewhere, but Niall was to treasure this little piece of attention as if she had pinned a medal to his chest.

      With a practice born of necessity, the level of his glass was reduced sip by sip over the next hour. Whilst around him others grew merrier and more boisterous, singing at the top of their voices, he remained sober, all the better for watching the object of his desire, making out, when she caught him studying her, that he was enjoying the singsong with the rest. Seeing others treat her to a drink, he wished he could buy her one too. Maybe next week, he could wangle extra allowance from Nora. But if he were to stand Boadicea a drink, he would make sure it bought him her full attention.

      ‘Are you ready for another, sir?’

      Realising the question was directed at him, Niall tore his eyes from Boadicea and glanced at the landlord who asked it, before checking his almost empty glass. ‘Er, no, thanks, I’m all right.’

      ‘I just thought as you’d been stood there for a while,’ persevered Mr Langan, a respectful yet commanding figure in his black suit, his brawny hands pressed to the counter, ‘you might be waiting to get served.’

      ‘No, no.’ Niall’s reply was casual. ‘I’m just here ’cause I can’t get a seat.’

      The firmly patient tone became strained and the large face was thrust deliberately closer. ‘Only you’re keeping other customers from the bar!’

      Not until then did Niall realise he was being castigated. ‘Oh – right, sorry!’ He could have retained his place by buying another half – might have done had it been Boadicea who hovered to serve him. Alas, she was away at the far end of the bar, so he picked up his glass and began to squeeze himself away through the throng, seeking another space from which to watch her. But there was none. Nor was there a way back: immediately he had moved, another rushed to fill his slot and that was the last chance Niall had of speaking to her for the remainder of his time there.

      Still, by drawing himself up to full height, he could glimpse her golden head bobbing its way back and forth along the row of drunken patrons, whilst he sipped his drink and the crowd bawled in unison, ‘Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are ca-a-lling!’

      The songs, the sentiments bequeathed by their grandfathers, were Irish, though the voices were not, the lyrics delivered mainly in loud Yorkshire tones as the participants sang of the old country that their ancestors had departed long ago. And in this alone, despite his Yorkshire name and his Yorkshire accent, Niall felt his Irish heart at one with them.

      Inevitably, after stretching it out for so long, he was finally unable to drain another drop from the glass. Even so, he continued to stand there. Thwarted at having to share her with so many others, he was loath to depart – though not from this mob, who had grown increasingly drunk. How irritating it was to be amongst such a crush when oneself was sober. Look at them – how foolish they appeared as the maudlin tune gave way to a gayer refrain and set them jigging. No matter that it was crowded, one of their number was performing a strenuous dance, arms akimbo, lifting his knees in the air. The big Irish drover was well known in the area, usually good-natured, but boisterous in his cups. Niall could see what was about to happen – tried to warn the drunken buffoon that there was someone about to pass behind him with a tray of drinks – but his voice was lost amid the deafening entertainment. The drover hopped backwards, bashed into the man with the tray and there came the sound of shattering glass. A few heads turned, there were groans from behind the bar, but these were lost amid a cacophony of ivory keys and discordant voices.