Bruar's Rest

lot of muck. Sure they’d be better set on fire.’
    ‘I’ll help you, and don’t bother telling me I’ll ruin my hands. Good God, woman, what are hands for?’ She lifted her own filthy cardigan and shook it. Something fell from the pocket. ‘What’s this?’ she thought, then remembered the letter. Ever since Michael had given it to her, she’d kept it on her person.
    The old woman scooped it from the floor and said, ‘Is this yours?’
    ‘Yes, it’s a letter from...’ she wanted to tell her about Bruar, share his memory. After all, her boys had died as a result of war, she’d understand.
    ‘My husband, and before you say anything, he’s dead.’ It was obvious by the woman’s shocked look that her strong religious convictions were uppermost in her mind.
    Megan pointed and said, ‘In that letter is the proof he’s dead. Go on, read it if you don’t believe me.’
    Mrs Sullivan sat on a small stool and opened the letter. Bits of heather and moss fell from its folds. She shook it and smoothed it flat with the palm of her hand and began to read, out loud at first, then she stopped abruptly.
    ‘Go on, read it. Michael’s already told me what’s it says, so it’s alright.’
    Mrs Sullivan finished reading the letter silently, then said, ‘Megan, can you read?’
    ‘No, of course I can’t, that’s why he read it for me.’
    ‘And did Michael organise this?’
    ‘Yes, but why the look of disgust? Surely your religion has nothing against a widow remarrying?’
    ‘Oh, I’m not thinking about that. This letter says nothing about anyone being dead. I’m puzzled, not disgusted.’ Touching Megan’s arm, she shook her head and re-read the letter out loud. ‘Private Stewart, having been pronounced mentally incapacitated, has been transferred from Kingsland House to Horton Home, London, where he shall spend the remainder of his life. Wives of Army officers fund this establishment.’
    Each word opened floodgates: her heart was once more upon the braes of the Angus glens; there he towered in all his Highland splendour; there he stood on the mountaintops with windblown hair, holding his big strong hand to her, there once more was the face of her beloved Bruar whom she’d buried in the darkest recesses of her mind. Tears rolled freely down her face and ran onto the white lace collar of her blouse. The letter was indeed from the Army authorities, but Michael had blatantly lied.
    Mrs Sullivan set about her chores, while Megan went into her room and packed. Paddy hadn’t left yet for Dublin, but when he did, she’d go with him.

     
    Michael was brushing a slender chestnut mare, whistling happily, when she entered the stable with the opened letter in her hand. ‘Don’t say a word, my love, because I know why you did this. I feel very honoured to have been for a short while your intended wife. I’ll never forget or stop loving you. But this letter, and your lies, prove that my path still leads elsewhere.’
    Michael knew no amount of grovelling excuses would change her feeling for him; if he’d dared to hope for her respect, it was now gone. Like a child found stealing, he buried his head in his hands and cried like a baby. He, a fine upstanding son of one of the finest families in Ireland, had been reduced to lying to such an extent that he’d even said someone was dead while knowing full well that person was as alive as himself. He made no attempt at begging forgiveness. She was lost to him. He knew it.
    She said her farewells to Mrs Sullivan, but not so much as a sideward glance did she afford Michael as she left him standing, stiff and dejected, and galloped off with Paddy.
    The entire journey to Dublin’s fair city gave her time to think. Paddy sat in silence, and only when they reached the city did he say, ‘Michael asked me to give you this. He said it will help put right his wrong, but only in a small way. He’ll never marry any woman instead of you, and maybe it’s just as well. Now he’ll get back to breeding the finest racers. What will you do?’
    The ferry had docked, the passengers hurried on board. There were lots more eager faces than when they came. Megan was fond of Paddy, and as they kissed their farewells she whispered an answer to his enquiry. ‘I have a man waiting for me somewhere, Paddy.’ The choppy water slapped noisily against the ferry’s hull, and she remembered one man who might be the better of a wee bit of good news. ‘Will you tell Nicholas O’Connor