been! Kathleen could have left with him, but she wouldn’t. Not that he blames her - her choices were hard ones.
He reaches out and with a finger gently traces the contours of his child’s face.He touches the freckles that run across the bridge of her nose, the rosebud mouth and silky red hair. He can still remember holding her as a baby, can still recall the sweet smell of her skin. He remembers her tiny fingers and toes. He feels his stomach twist. Other men craved sons, but not him; he had been overjoyed at the birth of a daughter.
If only Kathleen had trusted him, trusted to the love they’d once had for each other. He had made mistakes, done terrible things, but they could still have had a future together. When he’d tried to get in touch again, she’d gone. Ten months it had taken him to track them down, but she still refused to change her mind. A clean break, she’d insisted, begging him to leave them alone. He could still see those green-grey eyes, full of tears and pleading. ‘Please. If you truly love us, then you’ll let us go.’
Kathleen, with all those crazy Catholic notions of hers, had blamed herself, had believed it was all her fault, but it wasn’t - unless loving someone was a sin. He scowls. The Church, he thinks, has a lot to answer for. But he’d agreed to let them go . . . if not completely. For the past nineteen years he’s been paying someone to keep track of their movements, to deliver one treasured photograph of Iris every year. He deserves that one small consolation, doesn’t he?
Rubbing at his eyes, he sighs. He’s paid a hefty price for his mistakes. Iris is grown up now, but that doesn’t mean she has no further need of a father. There can only be one reason why she’s come back to Kellston and it has to be to do with him. She must be searching, just as he is, for what has been lost.
Does Iris imagine he abandoned her? To think of it provokes an ache deep inside. Because it isn’t true. He’s always been watching over, making sure that she’s safe. At the beginning he sent money too, but Kathleen always returned it. Fuck her! His hands curl into two tight fists. The knowledge of this, no matter how hard he tries, always makes him angry. Surely he was entitled to provide for his kid even if he couldn’t see her? There was principle and there was just downright stupidity. Kathleen was always too damn proud for her own good.
He stares down at the photographs. Well, he has stuck to his side of the bargain and, after nineteen years of silence, has the right to claim back what is his. That isn’t too much to ask, is it? And now that Lizzie is dead, now the bitch is six foot under, there are no more obstacles. He’s been hiding away for too long. It’s time to step back into the light. It’s time to reach out to his little girl again.
Chapter Eight
It was Thursday morning and time was dragging by. Iris found herself constantly raising her head to look at the clock on the wall, frustrated by how slowly the red second hand was revolving, by how much longer she would have to wait. She was counting down the hours until her appointment with Jenks and it wasn’t doing much for her concentration. William Grand had already returned two letters with an embarrassing number of typos.
‘Er, sorry, I’m afraid there are . . .’ He was not a man who liked to complain and had passed the sheets over with stumbling apologies, as if the fault was somehow his rather than hers.
The letters were important, both concerning an increasingly complicated repatriation. The dead man, being held in cold storage downstairs, had been with them for two months now, his body at the centre of an acrimonious family row. The wife wanted Connor Hills returned to Ireland, the son to have him buried in England. Solicitors had become involved and irate letters were flying back and forth.
At one o’clock, the corrections having been made, Iris went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. She retrieved her
He reaches out and with a finger gently traces the contours of his child’s face.He touches the freckles that run across the bridge of her nose, the rosebud mouth and silky red hair. He can still remember holding her as a baby, can still recall the sweet smell of her skin. He remembers her tiny fingers and toes. He feels his stomach twist. Other men craved sons, but not him; he had been overjoyed at the birth of a daughter.
If only Kathleen had trusted him, trusted to the love they’d once had for each other. He had made mistakes, done terrible things, but they could still have had a future together. When he’d tried to get in touch again, she’d gone. Ten months it had taken him to track them down, but she still refused to change her mind. A clean break, she’d insisted, begging him to leave them alone. He could still see those green-grey eyes, full of tears and pleading. ‘Please. If you truly love us, then you’ll let us go.’
Kathleen, with all those crazy Catholic notions of hers, had blamed herself, had believed it was all her fault, but it wasn’t - unless loving someone was a sin. He scowls. The Church, he thinks, has a lot to answer for. But he’d agreed to let them go . . . if not completely. For the past nineteen years he’s been paying someone to keep track of their movements, to deliver one treasured photograph of Iris every year. He deserves that one small consolation, doesn’t he?
Rubbing at his eyes, he sighs. He’s paid a hefty price for his mistakes. Iris is grown up now, but that doesn’t mean she has no further need of a father. There can only be one reason why she’s come back to Kellston and it has to be to do with him. She must be searching, just as he is, for what has been lost.
Does Iris imagine he abandoned her? To think of it provokes an ache deep inside. Because it isn’t true. He’s always been watching over, making sure that she’s safe. At the beginning he sent money too, but Kathleen always returned it. Fuck her! His hands curl into two tight fists. The knowledge of this, no matter how hard he tries, always makes him angry. Surely he was entitled to provide for his kid even if he couldn’t see her? There was principle and there was just downright stupidity. Kathleen was always too damn proud for her own good.
He stares down at the photographs. Well, he has stuck to his side of the bargain and, after nineteen years of silence, has the right to claim back what is his. That isn’t too much to ask, is it? And now that Lizzie is dead, now the bitch is six foot under, there are no more obstacles. He’s been hiding away for too long. It’s time to step back into the light. It’s time to reach out to his little girl again.
Chapter Eight
It was Thursday morning and time was dragging by. Iris found herself constantly raising her head to look at the clock on the wall, frustrated by how slowly the red second hand was revolving, by how much longer she would have to wait. She was counting down the hours until her appointment with Jenks and it wasn’t doing much for her concentration. William Grand had already returned two letters with an embarrassing number of typos.
‘Er, sorry, I’m afraid there are . . .’ He was not a man who liked to complain and had passed the sheets over with stumbling apologies, as if the fault was somehow his rather than hers.
The letters were important, both concerning an increasingly complicated repatriation. The dead man, being held in cold storage downstairs, had been with them for two months now, his body at the centre of an acrimonious family row. The wife wanted Connor Hills returned to Ireland, the son to have him buried in England. Solicitors had become involved and irate letters were flying back and forth.
At one o’clock, the corrections having been made, Iris went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. She retrieved her
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