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he was sure it was not proper to do so. He could not have endured meeting Liam. He needed another day or two to become accustomed to the fact that Liam Dooley was now Nora Carrick’s husband, that she was now Nora Dooley. Finbar Sweeney took Liam’s place as pall-bearer, walking at the back end of the coffin with Michael Carrick. Tom and Stephen took the head; Joe and his Uncle Francis the middle. As they walked slowly down the long drive to the church, Joe was on the schoolhouse side. He saw Nora standing alone at the door but he did not turn his head to look at her as the cortege passed the house. She watched the ambling procession pass. When she saw the tears that Joe could not restrain she stepped quickly inside, closed the door and leaning back against it, wept bitterly.
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Apprehensively Joe waited for the response to his knock. What would he say? How would he act? How could he keep his raw emotions covered and soothed? He glanced along the lane to the main road. An army lorry drove by with a camouflaged tarpaulin over the rear. He saw the soldiers lolling over the tail-gate, laughing, shouting, some of them whistling at a girl on the road.
Joe knocked again, gently, as if he did not really want to be heard. He looked at the schoolhouse with a lacerating nostalgia that opened again those searing emotions he was trying to heal, like a burning wound. It took so little to cause a lot of pain. The schoolhouse appeared rather grimy, despite its relative newness. In places the plaster was falling away, exposing the stone underneath, and the dark green paint on the windows and door was cracked and peeling.
‘Everything’s getting so old and worn,’ he thought.
He was about to walk away when he heard a sound inside. His heart hammered at his ribs, and he felt weak to his knees. The door opened. Nora stood there in a blue and white apron, her hands powdered with flour. Her face turned pale as the flour, but she managed a weak, brief, uncomfortable smile.
‘Nora,’ Joe said softly, but more calmly than he had expected. ‘May I come in?’
‘Joe, it’s you. I wasn’t sure if I heard a knock or not. Yes, of course; come in. It’s suddenly gone cold for this time of year.’
He followed her into the house. The fire was banked high and burning brightly. The blackened kettle on the hearth-stone gently gasped out wisps of steam.
Libros Libertad 