The Moon Over Kilmore Quay Read online

  THE MOON OVER KILMORE QUAY

  Carmel Harrington

  Copyright

  Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

  Copyright © Carmel Harrington 2021

  Cover photographs © Buffy Cooper/Trevillion Images (woman), Peter McCabe/Alamy Stock Photo (background landscape), Shutterstock.com (all other images)

  Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Carmel Harrington asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008415877

  Ebook Edition © May 2021 ISBN: 9780008415884

  Version: 2021-04-30

  Dedication

  For Catherine Ryan Howard and Hazel Gaynor

  We started out as book friends, but

  I’m so happy that somewhere along

  the way we’ve become best friends too.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue: Bea

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2: Bea

  Chapter 3: Lucy

  Chapter 4: Lucy

  Chapter 5: Bea

  Chapter 6: Bea

  Chapter 7: Bea

  Chapter 8: Lucy

  Chapter 9: Lucy

  Chapter 10: Bea

  Chapter 11: Bea

  Chapter 12: Bea

  Chapter 13: Bea

  Chapter 14: Lucy

  Chapter 15: Lucy

  Chapter 16: Bea

  Chapter 17: Bea

  Chapter 18: Bea

  Chapter 19: Lucy

  Chapter 20: Lucy

  Chapter 21: Bea

  Chapter 22: Bea

  Chapter 23: Bea

  Chapter 24: Bea

  Chapter 25: Bea

  Chapter 26: Bea

  Chapter 27: Bea

  Chapter 28: Lucy

  Chapter 29: Lucy

  Chapter 30: Bea

  Chapter 31: Bea

  Chapter 32: Lucy

  Chapter 33: Bea

  Chapter 34: Lucy

  Chapter 35: Bea

  Chapter 36: Bea

  Chapter 37: Bea

  Chapter 38: Bea

  Chapter 39: Bea

  Chapter 40: Bea

  Chapter 41: Bea

  Chapter 42: Bea

  Chapter 43: Lucy

  Chapter 44: Bea

  Chapter 45: Bea

  Chapter 46: Bea

  Chapter 47: Bea

  Chapter 48: Bea

  Chapter 49

  Read on for …

  Acknowledgements

  Author Q&A

  Reading Group Questions

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  Also by Carmel Harrington

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  BEA

  31 March 2020

  Innisfree, Prospect Avenue, Brooklyn

  I thought I had life all figured out. Yet it only took one letter and a devastating secret to turn my world upside down. But I’ve also learned that sometimes change can bring you to where you need to be.

  If you’d asked me who I was before recent events, I’d have replied that I was Bea O’Connor. A proud daughter and granddaughter of Irish immigrants. (Yes, both!) Brooklyn-born and reared in a house called Innisfree – a three-storey brownstone that my Great-Great-Uncle Richard bought and planned to fill with a family of his own. But destiny had another purpose for him, one that didn’t include a wife and children, which in turn changed my grandfather’s life, because Innisfree became his home and he filled it with all of us instead.

  Great-Great-Uncle Richard, my grandparents and my mom are all gone now. Grandad always said that when you leave a place that you love, you never really go. Your echo can still be heard if you listen closely enough.

  Oh God, I hope so. There’s something so comforting in knowing that the people I love, both those here and those that are gone, are around me still. Loving me. Catching me when I fall.

  My Irish heritage is a big part of who I am. I grew up listening to my grandparents speak of their birth country in revered tones. Ireland was a greener, friendlier, funnier, happier place than New York was. Every anecdotal tale they shared was cushioned in a cloud of nostalgia. It was the same for Dad and Uncle Mike too. As first-generation immigrant kids, most conversations at their dinner table included a trip down memory lane to our beloved Ireland. And then there were the ballads. I learned pretty quickly that these songs of Ireland went hand in hand with being a member of the Irish-American diaspora. And as we Irish tend to love a good sing-song, most of us have one special song where every lyric and note is a reminder of Ireland, family and home. A what might have been. ‘Danny Boy’, ‘The Streets of New York’, ‘The Mountains of Mourne’, ‘Spancil Hill’. For the O’Connor family, it has always been ‘The Isle of Innisfree’, the song that inspired the name of our home. At the many gatherings that were held in our large family room over the years, we’d sing about folks who were dreamers. Folks who were just like me.

  I’ve dreamed of Ireland, the birthplace of my mother and grandparents, my entire life. And every time I sang ‘The Isle of Innisfree’ I felt, deep down inside of me, the siren call of home. But there’s the rub. How can I call myself a New Yorker if I’m not sure where my heart belongs? They say home is where the heart is, yet somehow my heart is split in two. The city I live in and love, and the home of my ancestors – somewhere I lived only in my dreams.

  This is why I had no choice but to go looking … looking for the truth of who I really am, where I came from and where I belong.

  It’s quite a story as it goes and, as I’ve got time on my hands for a while, I’ve decided to write it down. You see, I’ve had to hit the pause button on my life for a bit and there’s nothing like time on your hands to make you reflect on the events of the past couple of months. My story belongs to my parents too, because the ripples of their life pooled out wide to touch the lives of so many other people too.

  It all begins with a letter I wrote to my future self, when I was ten years old …

  1

  December 2003

  Innisfree, Prospect Avenue,

  Brooklyn, New York

  Dear future me

  Hello from the past! This is Bea. You. Me!

  If you are reading this, then it means that my teacher Ms. Dryden did post our letters as she promised she would! We’ve been working on a project in school on how we think the world will look in the year 2020. That gave Ms. Dryden the genius idea that her students would all write letters to our future selves. She will hold them in a time capsule until New Year’s Day 2020. She als
o made us spend hours practicing our handwriting. Not so fun. Jimmy Del Torio, my least favorite person in school, reckons there will be flying cars in 2020. While I’d love to own a car that could fly me over the Statue of Liberty, I hope he’s wrong. I sometimes daydream that Jimmy trips up and falls down a manhole. I don’t want him to die or anything, but a few months without him in school would be nice. He is “so good” all the time—or at least that’s what he wants everyone to think. When we were in first grade I saw him kick a tiny baby bird who’d fallen from its nest. He only stopped when I launched myself at him, knocking him to the ground.

  I ran home and told Grandad what he’d done and Grandad said, ‘His halo is held up by the devil’s horns. Watch out for boyos like that Bea.’

  I told my family that I never want to leave Innisfree. Grandad says why would I? The park and subway are a minute’s walk away, the church and school up the road. He says when he lived in Ireland he lived in the arsehole of nowhere, which makes Gran laugh and give out, because it’s not nice to say. He says he had to cycle his bike for hours to get anywhere. I told him that I want to go to Innisfree in Ireland one day, but Gran says that Innisfree is actually anywhere in Ireland that your heart desires it to be, because it represents home. I love them both so much. They say that I am the light of their lives. And they are my favorite people too, except for when they make me do a jig or sing because they want some entertainment and there’s nothing on the T.V. I mean, come on, we have seventy-five channels! And when I do give in and sing for them, Gran always cries. But Grandad says they are happy tears.

  We did a project last week about the dangers of cigarettes. I gave my project to Uncle Mike to read, because he is always sneaking out the back of our house to have a smoke. But I don’t think he appreciated my efforts. I worry about Uncle Mike. We all do, because he nearly died two years ago during the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Uncle Mike is an NYPD police officer. He says that it’s his job to help people, but I still get nightmares thinking about that time. We didn’t know where he was for hours and all we could do was pray and wait. Uncle Mike doesn’t like to talk about it much, but sometimes he gets this look on his face and I know he’s remembering all his cop friends who died. Grandad used to smoke but he stopped because of a wheeze. I told Uncle Mike that people can die from a wheeze. And lots of other horrible diseases like pneumonia, emfisina emphysema and lung cancer. I will never smoke. Because I plan on living till I’m one hundred years old so that means I have to be careful what I put into my body. If I do have to die young, I want it to be from a parachute jump that goes wrong. Or in the line of duty when I save the president from the clutches of a dastardly villain. I’m very concerned about President Bush’s safety. I told Uncle Mike about my concerns and he said he would talk to the president personally to make sure he takes extra precautions. Because of Uncle Mike’s job, he knows everyone. Grandad says it is very handy having a police officer in the family.

  Oh, and I have most definitely decided that in 2020 I will never, ever, cross my heart and hope to die, eat Brussels sprouts. So gross. While I don’t hate school, I’m not overly fond of it either. My favorite subject is recess, when I get to play with my best friend forever Stephanie. I’m not too keen on math, English or geography. And judging by my test results, they are not too keen on me either. When I’m older I’m going to be a world-famous detective. I will solve all the unsolvable crimes. People will pay me huge sums of money to find the president when he is kidnapped by the Russians or the Chinese. I will speak at least four languages, to help solve all the crimes. I have a brand-new friend who is Serbian – Katrina Petrovic. I think I will be fluent in Serbian pretty soon. She starts school tomorrow and will be in my class. She is very cool. Gran said she’s a little too cool for her liking. Her family moved into the house next door to us yesterday. Katrina was wearing a cropped top over a pair of leopard-print skin-tight leggings, listening to music on her headphones. I’ve never seen a cooler person in my life.

  ‘That young wan will catch her death,’ Gran said, tutting and sighing as her eyes moved up and down Katrina’s scantily clad body. I half expected her to run out and put a coat over her. I would have literally died if she had.

  ‘I think she looks cool,’ I said quickly, and moved my body closer to the door in case Gran did decide to do anything mortifying. Dad and Uncle Mike both spluttered that over either of their dead bodies would I ever wear a cropped top like the one the girl had on. Good job they don’t know that I spent last night cutting up my new green T-shirt.

  Is Dad still a famous author? He won’t let me read his books yet. There’s probably bad words in them. Like the F word. When I am twelve, Dad said he will think about letting me read them. Yesterday Dad collected me from school and we spent the afternoon at the American Museum of Natural History. He is researching a new storyline for his next novel. I helped him find the right trees and plants that would be found in the forests in the 1890s when his book is set. Dad says I’m really good at finding things. It’s my number one favorite thing to do. I just wish there was a way to find my mom.

  I have so many questions about her and her life in Ireland. Like, did Mom have Spock ears same as I do? I can’t tell from the photographs because her hair is covering them. All of the O’Connors have perfect round ears. So I think it must be a thing from her side of the family. I haven’t told Dad this, but I sent my aunt, my mom’s sister, a card today to wish her Happy Holidays. Maybe she has the same ears as me too.

  Sometimes I pretend Mom didn’t die. I ask her to help me choose my clothes when Gran tells me to wear something “nice” for Mass. I can never work out what “nice” is, because my jeans and T-shirts are all lovely as far as I’m concerned. I know Mom can’t hear me in heaven. I’m not crazy. But I can hear her voice in my head when I need her.

  I wonder if Mom is annoyed that Dad has a new girlfriend? If he’s still with her now, as you read this, it means my plan to split them up has failed. Gran says it’s time that Dad met someone new and that I should be a big girl about it. It’s been seven years since Mom died. But why did he have to choose my teacher out of all the people who live in New York? I mean, it’s mortifying because he’s making a spectacle of himself, as Gran would say. When he came to the school gate yesterday to pick me up, he was all over Ms. Dryden. Everyone was watching. I put salt in her coffee last week, but she just took a sip, made a face, then put the cup down and never said a word. I mean, what kind of a person doesn’t try to find out who put the salt in? I was all ready to declare my innocence and make Dad take my side. But Ms. Dryden is very very tricky.

  I thought I’d put Uncle Mike’s police officer handiness to the test. So I told him to run a full background check on her. See if Ms. Dryden has any hidden husbands. Uncle Mike wasn’t too keen, he said Corinne was a fine-looking woman and to leave them be. But what would he know? He’s single and always ready to mingle as he forever tells everyone. Gran says Uncle Mike has the worst taste in women. If she’s a bad ’un, he’ll pick her, she says. He doesn’t seem to mind. He told me he’s having the time of his life picking up the bad and the good ’uns, saying the women love the uniform. Maybe it’s the shiny buttons.

  Stephanie and I love to watch Full House. Sometimes I daydream that I’m married to someone who is as handsome and nice as Jesse is. But NO children, thank you very much. They seem like a lot of work. Stephanie is the prettiest girl in our class. But she reckons that title belongs to Tiffany. I am not a fan of Tiffany. She cries too much. Yesterday she cried because she spilled her milk at lunchtime – literally cried over spilt milk. Stephanie on the other hand is made of sturdier stuff and rarely indulges in any boohooing. We met on our first day in St. Joseph’s School. She didn’t want to go inside the classroom and begged her mom to take her home again. So I opened my new pencil case and found my new unicorn eraser that Dad bought me. And I gave it to her. Her mom said, no, you can’t give away your new eraser, but I didn’t mind. I had a rainbow one too. Dad often buys sta
tionery. He says it’s the curse of all writers. Anyhow, on that first day, Stephanie linked arms with me as we walked into the class. I hope we link arms with each other for the rest of our lives.

  When I go to Irish dancing classes, Stephanie comes with me. To be fair, because as Gran says, it’s not always all about me, when Stephanie goes to her piano classes, I sit outside on the wall waiting for her to come out. She’s getting really good and yesterday she played LeAnn Rimes’s ‘How Do I Live’ from start to finish, without a single note wrong. I was so proud of her. When I get sad about Mom, Stephanie always listens to me. Like last year, on Mother’s Day, she knew I wasn’t really sick when I cancelled going to the Kings Plaza mall for a class outing. I couldn’t face all of the banners that hung from every shop window talking about a mother’s love. The problem is, I don’t know what a mother’s love is. I’m not sad about that all the time or anything. But sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if she was still here. At holidays, it feels like I have a hole in my heart. Dad tries to fill the hole, and most days he does a really good job. He tells me how much she loved me, how she used to sing to me every day and loved to brush my hair and put it into pigtails. I feel so bad that I don’t remember any of that. She loved me and even though I don’t remember her, I love her too. Stephanie knew the real reason I didn’t go to the mall that day. And she wanted to make me feel better. So she collected photographs of Mom from Dad. Then she made a scrapbook for me. She glued pictures of me in Mom’s arms in all sorts of places. The mall, the park, the movies, the school gates. Stephanie said that way I could pretend they were real memories. That’s why she’s my BFF. She always always ALWAYS thinks of me first. And we’ll never stop being BFFs. Not till the day we die.

  I have written nearly eight pages now, which I think is enough. Ms. Dryden said she wanted at least four. Stephanie has only written half a page and I bet most of that was about Full House.

  I hope that you are living your best life. And that every day is full of fun and love for you, for us.