The Quiet Woman by Terence Faherty

Author:Terence Faherty [Faherty, Terence]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Terence Faherty

They’d set a time for meeting Donal Conneely but not a specific place, an omission Frank mentioned more than once during their hasty breakfast. Neither Furey was worried, Kerry because of his confidence regarding the day’s success and Danny because she’d come to think of Conneely as the type of penny that would always turn up.

He hadn’t turned up by nine, so they drove into town, slowly, through a mist as thick as a fog. They found Conneely standing in front of the Oughterard Hotel, smoking one of his truncated cigarettes, oblivious to the weather. Danny made room for him by joining Kerry in the backseat, and the old man climbed in beside Frank, smelling of witch hazel and very wet wool.

“Good morning to you all,” he said, beaming about him. “What a splendid car. Large and wonderfully appointed. So, where shall it take us? Will we defy the elements and visit White o’ Morn? The gloom may add to the emotional resonance of the place, that shell of its former glory.”

Though the Fureys hadn’t conferred at breakfast regarding a change of plans, having been outnumbered by Frank and his warning bones, they spoke out now from one mind.

“About last night,” Kerry said.

“That story you told us,” Danny said on top of him, jumbling their words together.

“What’s this now?” Conneely asked. “You’re not mad at me for walking out on you surely. You’d never be upset over that trifling lapse of manners. I’d had too much brandy is all. I needed some air.”

“We’re not mad,” Danny hastened to assure him. “We’re just curious. Last night you mentioned Bridey Finnerman’s diary. You said you were confident it existed. Did you mean the story came from someone you trust?”

“Someone I know, say. So many of these old stories go about with no name attached to them that just to know the source for once, to be able to tie the thing to a flesh and blood human being, is a comfort. Though I suppose you could say that I trust May O’Shaughnessy. Trust her word. But I wouldn’t leave her alone with a bottle I hoped to see again. Not May.”

“Who is this May?” Frank asked.

“No one important ever. A housewife, most of her life. A housemaid, once. Housemaid to Squireen Finnerman, Seamus Finnerman, the dead girl’s brother. How May came to hear of the diary, I couldn’t tell you, because I’ve never been told myself. But she was in a position to have heard of it.”

“And she’s still alive?” Kerry asked. He was all but in the front seat himself, his head squeezed in between the headrests, his sister mashed into a distant corner.

“Certainly she is. That is, I think she is. I’ve heard no contrary reports. And I would have, recluse though she be. My contacts in this part of the country are still reliable.”

“Then she lives in this area,” Danny said.

“South of here and a little west. Near Screeb. Children raised and gone and her husband dead. He was a character.

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