MEARA – FRANCE 1990

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A brass bell hangs beside a solid door.  The door is set in a high wall that shuts the convent away from the outside world.  Séamus tugs the frayed knotted rope from side to side resulting in sonorous notes filling the air.  The sound dies away.  He does not wait for long before a metal bar is lifted on the other side and the door swings inward.  A man, as primordial as the hills themselves, stands before him.  He is wearing a battered straw hat and from beneath grey shaggy eyebrows reptilian creased eyes stare out at him.

Séamus shows him his empty water container and asks, in stilted French, if it can be filled for him.  The man takes it resignedly and, closing the door behind him, leaves Séamus standing on the other side.  This is not problem, for he spends the time observing the sisters working in the vineyard, on the far side of the narrow wooden bridge.

Six minutes later the bar is lifted and the door swings open again.  Séamus smiles his thanks as the man hands him the filled water container.  He has purposefully left it until the close of day before approaching the nunnery and now, in halting French, he asks if there is somewhere for him to shelter for the night.  He already knows how far the nearest town is – too far to get there before nightfall – and there are no farms within reasonable walking distance – an observation he made from his perch on the mountainside.

The man nods wearily, almost as if he had expected such a request or perhaps it is a common appeal from hikers.  He steps out of the doorway, past Séamus, and gestures for him to follow.  They head towards a sprawl of outbuildings consisting of a large barn and several small stables that line the river bank.  These he had seen from his OP on the mountainside.

The man escorts him into the barn and says he will be back later with some dinner.  Séamus thanks him profusely.  As he watches the man walk away he realises he will need to find a reason to prolong his stay… at least until he has located Meara.

Right on time, the convent bells begin ringing. Séamus takes a tin whistle from his rucksack and walks outside.  He sits on a pile of logs stacked against the barn wall and stretches out his legs, hoping to look like a man enjoying the last remnants of sunshine as he plays a favourite boyhood instrument.  In reality, he is hoping Meara is one of the garment clad figures hurrying across the bridge and that she might, by some small miracle, recognise him or the tune he is playing, thus save him the trouble of trying to recognise her.

He notices coveted glances thrown his way.  He nods his head politely.  He doesn’t recognize any of them as being Meara.  The obvious approach would be to openly ask for her at the convent.  The problem is, if she is an ordained nun then her name would have changed to something like Margaret or Teresa… or literally any of the hundreds of available saints whose name she could have taken on.

As the last group makes its way over the bridge, he heaves a frustrated sigh.  What had he expected?  He is no longer the long-haired fifteen-year old she saw frog-marched out of house by Lord William Morton, to be exiled to The Corps of Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers, known as REME and stationed in the UK.  And she probably doesn’t look anything like the thirteen-year old crying her heart out on the doorstep, as he waved goodbye, fighting back his own tears.  She is all he had left in the world.  The only person he had left to love.

Going back into the barn, he finds a paraffin lamp hanging from a hook.  He lights it and goes exploring.  There are indeed stables behind the barn and he can hear the whinny of horses and the bray of donkeys.  He is looking forward to the relative comfort of a night on straw as opposed to a rock ledge.

At eight o’clock the old man shuffles in.  He carries a woven basket. There are slices of homemade bread, jam, fruit and a bottle of wine inside it.  Purposely keeping his French to the halting dialect he has adapted, he slaps several notes in the man’s hand and asks permission to stay a couple of days.  He tells the man he twisted his ankle during his hike and, although a lot better, he would like to rest it up for a couple of days. He offers to clean the barn stables and to do any other necessary work.  For a moment, he thinks the man will refuse but the old man nods ponderously and leaves.

The next morning, Séamus is up bright and early, shaving beside the river from his tin mug, as the first wave of nuns crosses the bridge on their way to attend to their daily chores in the orchids and fields.  He smiles up at them and from one or two of the younger ones he hears stifled giggling.  But a sharp ‘humph’, from an older nun puts them quickly in their place and they hurry on eyes averted.

He has not seen her… or, if he has, he has not recognized her.  Nor has he noticed anyone paying him more than a fleeting glance and he begins to wonder if Hugh might not be mistaken about the location of the nunnery.  Perhaps it is one of the ones in the next valley.  Jesus, he hopes not.    Then again he doubts if Hugh would send him on a wild goose chase knowing how important finding Meara is.

He sees the old man approaching.  This time the covered basket contains a plate of steaming porridge, a mug of milky tea, toast and a jar of honey.  The old man points to Séamus’ foot and says something about a doctor.  Séamus most certainly does not want a doctor examining a foot that, on closer inspection, would reveal it has nothing wrong with it at all and so he thanks the man but says he should be alright in a day or two.

It is midday and Séamus having swept out the barn is resting in the doorway on the handle of the broom when he sees a decrepit Citroën rattling into the convent grounds.  The driver’s door swings open and to his surprise a young woman gets out.  She is dressed in the short uniform of a novice sister but wears no head-covering and her thick black hair is wound into a chignon on top of her head.  Even at this distance he sees she is stunningly beautiful.

She opens the rear door, reaches in, picks up a straw hat from the seat and places it on her head.  There is something about her that has his heartbeat thumping in his chest like a stranded fish.   He wonders if it is possible…?  She takes out a large black doctor’s bag and, closing the car door, turns towards the convent.

Surely, it must be her?  But his wits have completely deserted him and before he can think how to attract her attention the gate of the kitchen garden opens and she is walking past the old man and briskly down the path.  The gate shuts firmly behind her and she is lost to his sight.

Shit!  Is she the doctor the old man wanted him to see?  Séamus waits impatiently for the old man to bring him lunch.  When he does so, he finds Séamus sitting on the barn floor nursing his foot.  He looks up as the man enters and asks, in what he hopes is a pained-filled voice, if docteur is still there and if docteur could see him after all?  His ankle has become worse.

The old man shrugs.  He will ask the docteur, he says.

Séamus’ stomach is a knot of anxiety and he finds himself not in the least bit hungry.  But he forces the food down through habit.  In the past there were times when another meal had not come his way for several days, forcing him to survive on his hunting skills or whatever he managed to steal.

It is late afternoon by the time the man reappears.  He beckons Séamus to follow.  Using a stout stick as an aid, Séamus deliberately keeps his pace slow.  The old man shuffles ahead like a petulant child coerced into going to the dentist.  Beyond the gate, the garden is a mixture of neat herb beds and flowers, nasturtium and the like.  Butterflies dart from one plant to the next and Séamus wonders if everything is grown purely for medicinal purposes.  He sees the woman sitting on a bench reading as she bites into a sandwich.  He falls back, his legs suddenly jelly, letting the gardener go on ahead.  She looks up as the man approaches.  She gives the old man a polite smile.  He doffs his hat and points back over her shoulder.  She nods and turns to place her book on the bench.  She has not yet looked in his direction and Séamus finds himself unable to move as he waits for her to do so.

The old man impatiently beckons Séamus forward and, for a moment, the woman is blocked from view.  The old man hurries away and now the woman and he are face to face.  Their eyes meet.  A frown begins to build.  She peers at him.  He sees a look of disbelief, the blood drains from her face, and, throwing aside the stick, he rushes forward, hoping she will not collapse onto the path in a faint.

‘Meara,’ he calls softly.  ‘It’s me.’

But she doesn’t faint.  ‘Séamus?’

‘Aye, Meara.’

‘Séamus…?’ she repeats.

She is taking sharp, short breaths, her chest expanding and contracting with visible effort.  Then a low anguish escapes her and suddenly she is no longer frozen into immobility but springing towards him.  She is upon him, her fists pounding his chest like a woman possessed.  ‘Bastard!  You fucking bastard,  Séamus McQuaid.  How could you do this to me?’

He manages to grab a wrist as his other arm encircles her waist.  He holds her tightly so she is unable to continue her pounding, but still a fist beats at his back ineffectually, getting weaker with each blow.  He can feel the tears seeping into his shirt.  ‘It was you and me, Séamus.’  Her voice catches in a sob.  But you left me and never wrote.’

‘I did, Meara.  I wrote,’ he says softly.

‘You never did.  Your never did,’ she whimpers.  ‘I wrote you, at the army.  I got your address off our Aunt.  But you only wrote twice.  In all these years, Séamus, only two letters.’

He is silent at that.  He had written more than that, nothing in the last few years but certainly in the beginning, yet it seems neither of them had received all the letters, for he had only received a couple of hers.  ‘Meara, not for a moment in these past years has my heart not been curled up in misery at being separated from you.  Trust me, I wrote.’

‘Why should I believe you?

His eyes flick anxiously over her head towards the windows of the convent.  ‘Come with me, so that we may talk without interruption,’ he murmurs with some urgency, concerned now someone may come out.  He indicates an area in the far corner of the garden that is out of view of the windows.

She makes no move to follow him.  Gingerly, as if grasping a ticking bomb, he takes hold of her hand and steps back.  He pulls her after him, praying no one is watching.  They reach the spot and he slips gratefully behind the screen of tall shrubs.

He pushes her onto a moss-covered tree trunk, conveniently positioned within an alcove of the garden wall and stands looking down at her, drinking in the sight of her.  He notices she has grown thinner, although she holds herself well, back straight, chin defiant, a poise perfected so well by the highborn and, it seems, by Meara Devereaux; although, like him, she is no longer a Devereaux but a McQuaid.

He is aware of the hurt and a suppressed anger in her eyes and suddenly he’s at a loss where to begin.  ‘It wasn’t by choice, you must believe me.  I had no choice,’ he repeats, not knowing what else to say in the face of her anger, which he had not expected.

‘There is always a choice, Séamus.  You cannot tell me that working for the British SAS is not a choice?’

He frowns.  ‘You know about that?’

Her eyes are spitting fire.  ‘Of course I know.  Sir William bloody Morton, who else,’ she snaps.  ‘He loved telling how well you were advancing through the ranks at the REME.  When you qualified for the SAS he wasted no time in telling me that too.  “Putting his Irishness behind him”, he said, all gloating.  It should have been you who wrote and told me Séamus.  Explained to me what made you betray everything our father stood for… our mam too.  But I never heard a word from you.  Had you forsaken me too, Séamus? ’

He shakes his head ashamedly.  ‘Aye, I should have tried to contact you; come to see you at the very least.’

‘Are ye proud of ye’self, brother?’

He winces, thinking of Dublin and the assignment he had been given. ‘Meara,’ he says gently, ‘I was sent to find you.  To take you back home.’

For a moment, she looks stunned.  ‘Home?’ she frowns.  ‘Where is home, Séamus?  And what is there that I should want to go back to?  Mam, pa, our brothers, all dead.  There is only you and I.  Give me good reason why I should want to go back.’

‘There is much I need to tell you, but not here…’ he casts anxious eyes towards the convent, ‘…is there somewhere we can talk in private, undisturbed… away from here? It is very important.’

This time she too looks towards the convent windows with their unseen eyes.  She nods.  ‘Meet me tomorrow morning by the car.  You can come visit my patients with me.  Where are you sleeping tonight?’

‘In the barn,’ he grimaces.

She stands quickly and, grasping him to her, hugs him tightly. ‘Nothing less than you deserve,’ she sighs.

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