The First Time I Said Goodbye (40 page)

“It could have been different,” he whispered. “Oh Stella, it could have been so different! We could have been so different.”

At this, she couldn’t resist any longer and she rushed to his arms, feeling a peace settle in her very bones as he hugged her back.

Crying, she whispered into his ear, “I’m so, so sorry I broke your heart, Ray. I loved you with every fibre of mine.”

She felt him kiss the top of her head, felt him hold her close. She allowed herself to sink into his embrace, to feel the warmth of his arms around her.

“Oh my Stella,” he whispered. “I always knew. I always knew you loved me. And I always knew, someday, some way, you would find me again.”

“
When Life says give up
,” she whispered her mother’s wise words, “
Hope whispers, ‘Try one more time’
.”

The End.

Acknowledgements

I have worked as a journalist for the last fifteen years and the great thing about the job is that you never know where it will take you. Every day has been a school day as I have learned new stories and been invited into people’s lives.

Two summers ago I was tasked to cover the story of a Derry woman returning to the town she loved so well after almost fifty years, with the man she had fallen in love with in the late 50s.

Avril and Bob, who later married, inspired me with their personal happy ending. While this story is not theirs, with their permission and help it certainly borrows from their shared experience. I could not have written it without them both sharing their belief that love never gives up hope or that you can find happiness at any age. I also could not have written it without Avril sharing so beautifully and openly many of the details of her youth in Derry in the 1950s – from the beautiful dresses, the factory experiences, the make-up, hair and the stolen kisses.

Any historical errors are my own. And some dates have been played with to suit the chronology of the story of Stella, Ray, and her family.

Thanks must go to all the GI brides who offered their help or shared their experiences, and to family and friends who filled in details of life in Derry in the 50s and 60s.

This book was also hugely inspired by the people of Derry and their spirit and hardworking ethos. It was inspired by my grandparents who worked hard to raise their families in difficult circumstances.

The cameo character of "Anne" is based on Derry woman Anne O'Kane, whose daughter Denise paid for her cameo role in support of local charity Circle of Support (COS) who offer support to families of children with Autism. COS carry out amazing work in the Derry area and I have been happy to support them in whatever way I can. I hope Anne enjoys her 15 minutes of fame.

In addition I need to thank all those who encouraged me throughout the writing process. As always thanks to my husband and children for allowing me to disappear into a different world for hours at a time – and to my mammy and daddy for supplying a kitchen table with no distractions for the crucial final push and for believing in my ability to do it.

Thanks to my brother and sisters, and to my nieces and nephew for providing cuddles and support when I have needed them. And to Blue the dog for keeping me company during the mammoth writing sessions at that kitchen table.

This book was written with the unending support of my friends – who read, or encouraged, or planned launches, or listened to me tell the story over and over again. In particular Julie-Anne, Marie-Louise, Carla, Joanne, Edel, Auntie Raine, Nuala, Fionnuala Kearney, (Auntie) Kaela and the “rascals” for getting excited on my behalf.

Thank you to the media and the booksellers who have shown their support over the years and to my writing friends and Twitter followers who have been there for me over the last year.

To my colleagues at the
Derry Journal
– thanks once more for your support – and to my editor Martin McGinley who sent me out on that fateful day to meet Avril and Bob.

My agent Ger Nichol has once again been my
biggest cheerleader while I have been writing this book and I cannot thank her enough for her faith in a story which marked a change in direction for me. This was a book I had to write and she encouraged that every step of the way.

And to the team at Poolbeg Press, including Gaye Shortland who once again has been a pleasure to work with. Every book has been better because of Gaye’s input.

Special thanks to Paula Campbell – who has stood firmly behind this book and this story and who has championed me over the last seven years. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

And to you, lovely readers, you make this happen. Thank you. xxx

Now that you’re hooked why not try

What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?

also published by Poolbeg

Here’s a sneak preview of chapter one.

Chapter 1

Kitty

The bomb dropped at 4.17
p
.
m
.
on a Thursday. It had been a fairly ordinary kind of day before then – maybe even a good kind of a day. The shop had been busy and I had made two mammies and two bridesmaids cry with joy. Two brides-to
-
be had left feeling like the most beautiful girls in the world.

I had been planning on making celebratory lasagne to mark the general loveliness of the day and had developed a craving for a very nice bottle of Merlot that
I knew they sold at the off-licence two doors down from Mark
’
s office. I had tried to call him to ask him to pop in and get it but, rather unusually for a man whose Blackberry even went to the toilet with him, he hadn
’
t answered
.

So I did something I never, ever do because I didn
’
t ever want to seem like one of those
needy wife types who calls her husband at work. He didn
’
t have a direct line
,
you see
,
and I would have to go through the gatekeeper
,
aka the harridan of a receptionist
,
who worked at his building
.
I chewed on one of my false nails, balking at the slightly plastic taste while I contemplated just picking up a bottle of wine from the supermarket. But no, even though it was
only a Thursday, I decided we should treat ourselves. A bottle of wine. A nice feed of lasagne. Maybe an early night? I smiled as I dialled his office number and asked for him.

It was then
,
in the second between me asking
“
Hi, can I speak to Mark Shanahan
,
please?
”
and the receptionist answering
,
that something shifted forever in my world.

That
’
s all it took
–
the time it took her to breathe in and start to speak – for things to shatter. I kind of wish I
’
d known. I can
’
t help, when I look back at it now, but feel like a bit of a stupid bitch for smiling so brightly as I spoke to her. If I had known
,
my voice would have been more sombre, doom
-
laden
. . .
I might even have sobbed.

“
Mr Shanahan doesn
’
t work here any
more
,”
she cheeped.
“
Can anyone else help you?
”

It was the strangest thing. I heard what she said and it did register – and a weird floating feeling came over me
–
but I felt kind of calm and maybe even a bit giddy.

“
No, no, it
’
s fine,
”
I said.

“
Okay then. Can I ask who
’
s calling?
”
she cheeped back.

I suppose a part of me wanted to just hang up, but another part of me was thinking of the lasagne which probably wasn
’
t going to get eaten and the bottle of wine that I had really been looking forward to and I knew things had changed – and changed utterly.

“
Kitty Shanahan,
”
I replied
. “
His wife.
”

There was a pause, and I could hear her sharp intake of breath. I could almost hear her brain ticking over and as she spoke, softly and slowly
,
all hints of the cheerful but very guarded gate-keeperness gone, I almost felt sorry for her. She must have felt in an utterly awful position
,
to be honest.

“
I
’
m sorry,
”
she said.
“
Mr Shanahan left last week. I
’
m sorry.
”

I thought of Mark, doe
-
eyed and smiling as he fixed his tie that morning and turned to kiss me as I left to open the shop.
He had looked at his watch and declared he was running late and wouldn
’
t be long leaving after me and had rushed downstairs and into the kitchen. He had shouted to me if I knew where his keys were and I had replied that
,
yes, they were on the worktop.

It had been ordinary
,
absolutely ordinary
,
and now it really wasn
’
t. I put the phone down, resting the old
-
fashioned cream Bakelite receiver on the hook and I sighed.

Her sense for scandal piqued
,
my stepmother Rose peeked at me over the rim of her glasses and raised one eyebrow.
“
Everything
okay?
”

“
Hmmm
,”
I replied, not quite sure what was going on. I didn
’
t want to say my husband had been going out to a fictitious job for the last week and I had known nothing about it
,
so I sat back on the cream
-
covered stool behind my desk and looked at my hands.

“
Hmmm good, or hmmm bad?
”
Rose asked, putting down the delicate lace she had been hand
-
stitching in her armchair in the corner of our workroom and looking at me again.

I couldn
’
t lie to Rose, especially not when she was giving me her full and unadulterated attention.

“
Mark
’
s not at work,
”
I mumbled, lifting my mobile phone and walking absentmindedly down the spiral staircase to our dressing room and on through the French doors to the garden. I knew Rose would follow me, and I would let her, but now I had to try Mark again even though I knew he already had at least four missed calls from me logged on his phone and that if he wanted to call me then he would have done. I supposed, then, if he had wanted me to know he had – for whatever reason – left his job a week before
,
he would have told me.

His phone started to ring and I tried to keep my breathing calm even though there was a distinct increase in the volume of adrenalin coursing through my veins.

It went to answer
-
phone and I listened to his voice jauntily telling me he couldn
’
t take my call right now but would get back to me if I just left my number. As the message beeped to a halt, heralding my turn to start talking, I heard a strangled squeak spring forth from my lips.

“
It
’
s Kitty
!
Your wife
!
Call me
!”
And for effect I added the number of the shop
,
even though he knew it or at least had it in his phone and would easily be able to find it
.
I hung up and turned
,
nodded to Rose who looked utterly confused – but not as confused as I felt – and dialled his number again. He would answer this time. I felt it in my water. It would be fine. There would be two Mark Shanahans working in his office and the other one would have left
–
or the gatekeeper had just been feeling extra
-
vicious and gate-keeper-y and had decided to tell me a big fat lie. No. Everything was fine.

My waters were wrong, as it turned out. He didn
’
t answer. He didn
’
t even answer when I rang back a third time and shouted
“
Answer the shagging phone!
”
at the handset in my hand. Rose walked towards me and very calmly said
, “
I think maybe we should close the shop early.
”