Irish Lady by Jeanette Baker

and Niall were dead, killed in a pub bombing on Divas Street. Cormack and Davie, the merry, freckle-faced lads who had played soccer in the narrow streets of Clonard, were now hollow-cheeked, hard-eyed men who wore the traditional black jackets and blue jeans of the cause.
    Meghann stared at her soup. How could Annie bear it? Nine children and all of them marked targets. Later, while walking down the lamp-lit streets of Clonard, she posed the question to Annie’s only daughter.
    Bernadette linked her arm through Meghann’s and shrugged. “She bears it because she was born to it. Every mother in West Belfast knows that her children will struggle with the notion of joining the IRA. Some will join, others find it doesn’t suit them. Think of our history, Meghann. Two hundred years ago, a woman knew that only two out of her ten children would live past their fourth birthdays. We accept what is. There is no other alternative.”
    â€œThere was for me,” Meghann reminded her, “and for you.”
    Bernadette laughed, a rich, clear sound that lifted Meghann’s spirits and brought answering grins to two shaggy-haired young men sharing a smoke and a Guinness in the doorway of Feeney’s pub. “We’re the two, Meggie. Don’t you see? We’re the exceptions. You more than I. Never once were y’ tempted out of your cerebral calm. ’Tis nothing short of a miracle, considering what happened t’ your family.”
    Meghann looked straight ahead, hoping Bernadette wouldn’t notice the telltale blush staining her cheeks. Was that really how she appeared to the passionate, opinionated Devlins? Were they all so filled with themselves that they hadn’t seen how it was between Michael and an orphaned refugee from Cupar Street? “I was tempted,” she confessed. “It just didn’t work out the way I expected.”
    â€œIf you’re telling me that you were in love with my brother, I already know that,” announced Bernadette matter-of-factly. “It was inevitable. The signs were all there for anyone with eyes t’ see them. How could Michael, who read Yeats and Joyce until his eyes burned, whose mind was filled with rage and passion and romance, possibly overlook a girl like you?”
    Meghann shook her head. “Michael was not a womanizer.”
    â€œOf course he wasn’t. But there y’ were, living in his house, all wide-eyed and autumn-colored, with gorgeous legs and budding breasts. Only an idiot wouldn’t jump at the opportunity.”
    â€œThe others didn’t.”
    â€œNow, Meggie.” Bernadette patted her hand. “I know he loved you, too. He told me the day he was going t’ ask you t’ marry him. I tried t’ stop him, y’ know.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I know you. Y’ wanted no part of Belfast, at least y’ didn’t then. Michael had enormous potential t’ help us. We needed him here.”
    Meghann no longer felt the cold on her legs. They had walked much farther than they had planned. “Why do you think I want any part of it now?”
    â€œBecause you’re here.” Bernadette stopped and stepped in front of Meghann, forcing her to stop, too. “I know y’, Meggie McCarthy. Y’ aren’t here because my mother asked for you. Y’re here because y’ve stopped running away. Y’ve bedded down with the enemy long enough. It’s time t’ reconcile Cupar Street.”
    Bernadette Devlin was forty-six years old, but Meghann couldn’t see it. Her blue eyes flashed with the same fire they had twenty-five years before when she crossed the floor of the House of Commons to slap Reginald Maudling, the Home Secretary, after he had minimized the massacre of Irish Catholics at Free Derry Corner. She’d been twenty-one at the time, the youngest MP to be elected in over half a century.
    Sixteen-year-old Michael had fairly burst with