To Have and To Hold

‘Yes I did. I enjoyed my time there,’ Paul said. ‘Matthew is there now, studying engineering.’

‘Can you speak fluent French?’

‘Pretty much. Did you take French at school?’

Carmel suppressed a smile at the thought of French introduced at the little county school in Letterkenny. It was as likely as someone having two heads or taking a trip to Mars, but she answered seriously enough. ‘No, Paul. French wasn’t offered in my school.’

Paul seemed surprised. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I thought it was pretty well standard now, but there you are. Anyway, when Matthew gets back, he will join the old man at the factory. Without him, I might not be on my way to being Dr Connolly, or not at least without some argument and unpleasantness.’

‘I nearly didn’t get here either,’ Carmel said.

‘Was there some opposition from your parents too?’ Paul asked, and then without waiting for a reply went on, ‘Your father, I bet. Lots of fathers object to their daughters working. Hell of an old-fashioned idea today, I think. Was that it?’

Carmel wondered what Paul would say if she was to answer, ‘No, Paul, not quite. My father had me out grafting for his beer money since I was fourteen years old and the opposition he felt when I attempted to escape his clutches led to him beating me so severely I still have the marks of his belt on my back.’ But she wouldn’t say that, couldn’t say it. Instead she said, ‘Something like that.’

She knew that Paul moved in circles far different from her own. His family owned a factory, for heaven’s sake. Paul and his brother had probably gone to private school, places where the teaching of languages was standard, and they could both swan off to France without causing any sort of financial constraint. He lived in the sort of world where many daughters did stay at home until they were married, where it wasn’t considered quite the done thing to go out to work, but did it matter that friends came from different backgrounds?

However, Paul wanted more than friendship. He knew he was risking the relationship they had, speaking from his heart, and yet he felt he had to tell Carmel how he felt because it was chewing him up inside.

He slid his arm tentatively round her shoulders. Usually he never touched her, but what she had allowed him to do in the cinema had heartened him and he was filled with hope when she didn’t throw his arm off.

In fact Carmel thought she should, for she remembered Lois’s word about playing fast and loose with Paul’s feelings, but she didn’t want to. It felt just so right resting there.

Paul said ‘If friendship is all you can offer me, I will take it and welcome, for I value that highly, but you should know that I love you with all my heart and soul. I have done since the moment I saw you in the Bull Ring and I imagine I will go to my grave loving you. Whether you return that love or not, I have to tell you how I feel.’

Carmel didn’t reply straight away. Then she chose her words with care. ‘This has come as a bit of a shock,’ she said. ‘I mean, I knew how you felt about me once. I suppose I thought you’d got over it, come to your senses.’ She stopped, gave a sigh and then said, ‘I don’t know how I feel about you now and that is the honest truth. What I will say is that I have a higher regard for you

than any other man I have ever met.’

‘Will you think about what I have said?’

‘Of course, but what if I cannot return your feelings?’

‘Then we will go on as before.’

‘Won’t that be hard for you?’

‘It’s hard for me now.’

‘Maybe,’ Carmel said, ‘it would be better for you to cool our friendship, give you time to meet someone else who could love you the same way you say you love me now.’ She realised as soon as the words were out of her mouth how upset she would be if he did that, but for his happiness she would bear it.

Paul suddenly caught her hand and swung her round to face him. ‘It would break my heart if I were never to see you again,’ he said earnestly. ‘That is the honest truth.’

They had reached the door of the nurses’ home, and Paul leaned over and kissed Carmel on the cheek. ‘Sweet dreams, Carmel,’ he whispered softly.

She was smiling as she closed the door behind her.

The room was quiet and in darkness, Jane and Sylvia asleep, Lois not in yet, and Carmel was glad of it. She had to sort out her feelings before she would be able to share them and she was soon in bed and reliving the time she had spent with Paul again and again.

She eventually fell into a deep sleep, so deep she didn’t hear Lois come in. She dreamed that she was back in Ireland with her drunken father roaring at her mother and lashing at her and any who tried to go to her aid. When she felt the belt cut across her back, she was jerked awake with a yelp of terror. She lay back down and tried to still the panic. It was just a dream, she told herself, that was all. This here and now was reality.

Eventually, her breathing got easier and she was ready to drop off again, when suddenly her eyes shot open as she suddenly realised that she owed it to Paul to tell him all about her background. She shouldn’t have secrets about where she came from, what her beginnings were, though she had never wanted to bring that sordidness and brutality into her life here. Ah, dear Christ, she thought, when Paul knew the type of home she came from, it would wipe the love from his eyes all right.

Should she break off any friendship they shared before they got in any deeper? But then she remembered him saying that his heart would be broken if she did that, and the bleak look in his eyes when he said it. Could she inflict that hurt on someone she cared for?

The dilemma she found herself in drove sleep well away and when it was eventually time to rise she felt like a bit of chewed string. She hoped that Lois wasn’t going to ask questions about Paul, but fortunately she was more interested in talking about her and Chris, and Carmel was grateful.

As soon as her shift was over and she had eaten a scratch meal, she set off for the church, knowing the priest would be there to hear confession in the evening. She wanted so badly to pour her feelings out to someone.

When Father Donahue saw Carmel enter the church, and the dejected stance of her, he rushed forward and led her to one of the pews. ‘Carmel, my dear child, what is all this? Are you in trouble of some kind?’ He hoped, even as he spoke the words, that she wasn’t in that kind of trouble.

Carmel looked at the priest, her eyes glistening with tears and said. ‘It’s trouble of my own making, Father, for I think I must tell Paul our friendship is over.’

‘And why is this, my dear?’ the priest asked gently, sitting down beside her.

‘It’s because of something from my past. Something no one can help me with.’

‘I see,’ the priest said. ‘And this thing—was it something you did, something you could confess, get forgiveness for and put behind you?’

‘It wasn’t anything I did, Father.’

‘But you are not responsible for the sins of others.’

‘I know that deep down, Father,’ Carmel said. ‘It’s just…I can’t expect Paul to…He’s going to be a doctor, Father.’

Father Donahue had seen Carmel in the church a few times with Paul and had been delighted that she had found herself a good Catholic boy. Carmel’s duties prevented her from doing more than attending Mass on Sunday and Holy Days and she had been unable to go to any social events where she might meet other Catholic young people.

When he expressed this regret not long after Carmel made herself known to him, she had told him not to worry; that she didn’t intend marrying anyone. He had hidden his smile, though he did say she was young to make such a momentous decision. He couldn’t help thinking, however, that a doctor was a good catch for this girl, whom the nuns had told him came from one of the most desperate families in Letterkenny.

Suddenly the priest knew what Carmel was talking about because shame and degradation were mirrored in her eyes and he said gently, ‘Carmel, I know the sort of home you come from and the sort or rearing you had.’

Carmel’s head shot up and she looked at him in sudden alarm.

He went on in the same soothing voice, ‘The nuns told me. They thought I should know.’

‘Oh, Father,’ Carmel said, and the tears began trickling down her face. She covered her face with her hands and moaned.

The priest took hold of those hands and pulled them from her face as he said, ‘Come, come now, Carmel. Don’t distress yourself like this. There is no need. Have I ever treated you differently because I had this knowledge?’

Carmel made an effort to control herself. ‘No, Father, you haven’t,’ she said. ‘In fact you have always been kindness itself to me. But that isn’t the same everywhere. In Letterkenny, for example, there were many there who looked down on us and I can’t expect Paul to want even friendship from the likes of me.’

‘Are you ashamed of your family, Carmel?’

‘Aye, Father,’ Carmel said. ‘And ashamed of being ashamed.’

‘Then be ashamed no more,’ the priest said. ‘Pity them instead. Take responsibility just for yourself. Seek out your young man and tell him about your background and see what he says.’

‘I couldn’t, Father,’ Carmel said. ‘I couldn’t bear it if he despised me.’