wartime activities to anyone. But I reckon she had a story or two to tell.”
Nora turned the page. Two young men stood side by side in a black-and-white photograph, their faces smiling and their arms around each other. They were standing outside a whitewashed cottage. Both were wearing suspenders, white shirts, and caps, and each had a cigarette dangling from his fingers. “That’s your grandfather,” Margaret said, pointing to the man on the left. “My da. And that’s his younger brother, Roger. This must have been taken before Roger went to Dublin.”
“Why did he go to Dublin?”
“Well, you have to remember it was all one country back then, so it wasn’t unusual to move around for work. But Roger was a soldier through and through. Da never talked much about him, except to say he was a prison guard for a time. He died quite young. Here, the date’s on the back. April 4, 1923. It’s a shame and a pity.” Aunt Margaret crossed herself absentmindedly.
She kept turning pages, stopping to point out relatives and tell Nora what little she knew of their lives.
“Wait,” Nora said suddenly, driven by some impulse she couldn’t name. “Go back a page.”
Margaret obliged, and Nora’s teacup rattled on its saucer.
It was the man from her dream.
His eyes stared out at her from the page, and she heard his voice in her head. Come find me, Nora. It was unmistakably him—his nose, his cheekbones, even his prematurely gray hair. Nora stared back, her heart in her throat. Was this really happening? Had he led her here, to this photograph in her aunt’s living room? She shivered despite the warm cup of tea in her hands.
“Are you all right, dear?” Margaret asked, looking between Nora and the photo.
“Who is this?” Nora whispered, unable to tear her eyes away. “Who is this man?”
“I have no idea,” Margaret said. “A friend of my father’s, I assume. Let’s see if there’s anything written on the back.” She gently prized the photograph from the corner tabs holding it to the page. Scrawled on the back in faint writing, it read: Thomas Heaney, IRA. Killed in action, 1923.
Chapter Six
Margaret forced another cup of tea on Nora and closed the photo album, laying it on the coffee table.
“Can I keep this?” Nora asked, still holding the photo of Thomas Heaney. She’d searched through the rest of the album for other pictures of him, but this seemed to be the only one.
“I suppose there’s no harm in it, but are you going to tell me what this is about? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Maybe I have. “Are you sure you don’t know anything else about this man?”
“I told you, I have no idea, save for what it says on the back. But it seems to me that you know something about him.”
“I don’t,” Nora admitted. “It’s just . . . I saw him in a dream. Several dreams, actually. He looked exactly like this. I’m sure it was him.” The longer she stared at the picture, the more certain she felt. He had the same look of longing in his eyes, as if he were far away . . . or wished to be.
Margaret crossed herself and muttered, “Mary, save us.” She took the photo from Nora and examined it, then handed it back. “’Tis never a good sign to dream of the dead. But perhaps you’ve seen his photo before and have just forgotten.”
Nora shook her head vehemently. “No, I’ve not seen him before. Only I’ve been dreaming about him for months now. He’s even spoken to me.”
Margaret’s gray eyebrows arched. “Oh, aye? And what did your man have to say?”
Haltingly, Nora told her aunt about how the dreams had increased in clarity until the man—Thomas Heaney—had finally spoken to her and told her to find him in Kildare. “I wasn’t even supposed to come back to Ireland—I had planned to go to Kenya for my break. But the same night he told me to go to Kildare, I found out my friend had been killed. So I came home instead.”
Margaret watched her warily but said
Nora turned the page. Two young men stood side by side in a black-and-white photograph, their faces smiling and their arms around each other. They were standing outside a whitewashed cottage. Both were wearing suspenders, white shirts, and caps, and each had a cigarette dangling from his fingers. “That’s your grandfather,” Margaret said, pointing to the man on the left. “My da. And that’s his younger brother, Roger. This must have been taken before Roger went to Dublin.”
“Why did he go to Dublin?”
“Well, you have to remember it was all one country back then, so it wasn’t unusual to move around for work. But Roger was a soldier through and through. Da never talked much about him, except to say he was a prison guard for a time. He died quite young. Here, the date’s on the back. April 4, 1923. It’s a shame and a pity.” Aunt Margaret crossed herself absentmindedly.
She kept turning pages, stopping to point out relatives and tell Nora what little she knew of their lives.
“Wait,” Nora said suddenly, driven by some impulse she couldn’t name. “Go back a page.”
Margaret obliged, and Nora’s teacup rattled on its saucer.
It was the man from her dream.
His eyes stared out at her from the page, and she heard his voice in her head. Come find me, Nora. It was unmistakably him—his nose, his cheekbones, even his prematurely gray hair. Nora stared back, her heart in her throat. Was this really happening? Had he led her here, to this photograph in her aunt’s living room? She shivered despite the warm cup of tea in her hands.
“Are you all right, dear?” Margaret asked, looking between Nora and the photo.
“Who is this?” Nora whispered, unable to tear her eyes away. “Who is this man?”
“I have no idea,” Margaret said. “A friend of my father’s, I assume. Let’s see if there’s anything written on the back.” She gently prized the photograph from the corner tabs holding it to the page. Scrawled on the back in faint writing, it read: Thomas Heaney, IRA. Killed in action, 1923.
Chapter Six
Margaret forced another cup of tea on Nora and closed the photo album, laying it on the coffee table.
“Can I keep this?” Nora asked, still holding the photo of Thomas Heaney. She’d searched through the rest of the album for other pictures of him, but this seemed to be the only one.
“I suppose there’s no harm in it, but are you going to tell me what this is about? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Maybe I have. “Are you sure you don’t know anything else about this man?”
“I told you, I have no idea, save for what it says on the back. But it seems to me that you know something about him.”
“I don’t,” Nora admitted. “It’s just . . . I saw him in a dream. Several dreams, actually. He looked exactly like this. I’m sure it was him.” The longer she stared at the picture, the more certain she felt. He had the same look of longing in his eyes, as if he were far away . . . or wished to be.
Margaret crossed herself and muttered, “Mary, save us.” She took the photo from Nora and examined it, then handed it back. “’Tis never a good sign to dream of the dead. But perhaps you’ve seen his photo before and have just forgotten.”
Nora shook her head vehemently. “No, I’ve not seen him before. Only I’ve been dreaming about him for months now. He’s even spoken to me.”
Margaret’s gray eyebrows arched. “Oh, aye? And what did your man have to say?”
Haltingly, Nora told her aunt about how the dreams had increased in clarity until the man—Thomas Heaney—had finally spoken to her and told her to find him in Kildare. “I wasn’t even supposed to come back to Ireland—I had planned to go to Kenya for my break. But the same night he told me to go to Kildare, I found out my friend had been killed. So I came home instead.”
Margaret watched her warily but said
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