1949 (17 page)

“Can you still see?” he asked. She did not answer. He would not be able to hear her anyway. A chorus of nine hundred children had begun an exultant paean to Mary. This was the prelude to the
Panis Angelicus
, which would be sung by the world-renowned Irish tenor, John McCormack.

People swaying in an excess of emotion, music soaring…

Finbar's body against hers…

He lowered her to stand on her own feet. Pressed against him. With his arms still around her.

Neither of them moved.

Before the liturgy began a shiver of anticipatory exultation ran through the crowd. Ursula closed her eyes.

The great crowd murmured, breathed, took on a life of its own. Life in the sun. In the Park, in the Garden…

In the kitchen of the Halloran farmhouse, as in most homes in Ireland, was an oil-lit Sacred Heart lamp. From spring through autumn a small vase of flowers always stood beneath it. When Ursula lived at the farm one of her duties had been to change the water every day and replace the flowers when they wilted. She had never questioned a ritual that was as much a part of life as eating or sleeping.

The liturgy of the Mass was the same. She did not need to hear the Latin the priests intoned; it was carved on her bones.

Mass was a mighty river in which they were a million tiny little droplets glistening in the sun. Flowing together toward God.

Kneel. Stand. Give the responses
.

Finbar behind me. Still touching me. Still touching. Flesh and spirit joined…

She felt his hands on her waist again. Touching her as lightly as a butterfly's caress.

The sacrament continued, carrying them toward God.

Finbar's hands slowly eased along her ribs until they reached the sides of her breasts. Ursula's entire consciousness concentrated in the tiny area of flesh touched by his fingers. She should pull away at once. She should turn around and slap his face.

She did not move.

His breathing grew ragged. His hands slipped farther forward. Cupped the soft swell of her breasts.

Until that moment Ursula had never known that her breasts ached to be touched. Never known that it would bring a profound sense of completion to her whole being.

Eyes still closed, she leaned back against Finbar Cassidy.

Her nipples were painfully erect. Her body knew exactly what it wanted him to do. She made a tiny movement that brought her nipples into contact with his searching fingers. He gave a gasp.

No one noticed. The pair of them could have died where they stood and no one would have looked around, enthralled as the great crowd was with the moment and the Mass.

Enthralled, Ursula let Finbar explore the uncharted topography of her heart.

 

A blare of trumpets sounded. “King of Kings!” thundered the chorus. “Lord of Lords!”

As it had done when Saint Patrick celebrated the Mass all those centuries ago, a bell signaled the moment of transubstantiation. The bread and wine of the Eucharist were transformed into the actual body of Christ. A million heads bowed. A million fists beat a million breasts.

The congregation as one turned its eyes toward the altar.

In the silence one could hear the wings of seagulls overhead, on their way to the sea.

 

Finbar's face was flushed. “Are you all right?” he asked in a choked whisper. “I never meant to—”

“I'm all right.”
Don't ruin it by saying anything, Finbar. Please don't!

 

The estimate of a million people in the Park had been, if anything, conservative. When the Mass was concluded, the huge crowd formed itself into a giant procession. Men and women marched together, alternately praying and singing as they slowly left the Park and made their way toward O'Connell Bridge. Thousands of spectators lining the route joined in the hymns and prayers. Many adults had tears of joy streaming down their cheeks.

“Christ Himself is here with us,” a ruddy farmer was telling anyone who would listen. “I saw him with me own two eyes. He came down out of the sky as a white dove.”

 

Ursula's entire body was ablaze with heat. It lay bog-thick in her throat, choking her.

Appalled by his own temerity, Finbar was afraid Ursula would never speak to him again. He took a firm grip on her arm and let the crowd carry them to O'Connell Bridge, where another altar was set up. There a final blessing was given to the people as evening shadows lengthened.

At the foot of the bridge another crew from 2RN was conducting interviews. They recognized Ursula and waved her over. “Say something to the nation, Miss Halloran,” a man urged, thrusting the microphone into her face. “Tell us what this experience means to you.”

My first time on the wireless. Now's my chance. But the heat, the crowd…Finbar touching me…

“I'm speechless,” she blurted.

Her interrogator smiled. “I am certain that would apply to tens of thousands today. Thank you so much for your insight, Miss Halloran.” He turned away to interview someone else, leaving her furious with herself.

“Would that be Miss Ursula Halloran by any chance?” A man stepped forward from the crowd on the bridge.

The handsomest man Ursula had ever seen.

A tall man with a neat moustache and sharply cut features. His eyes were sky blue. When he removed his hat his hair gleamed gold, like wheat in the sun.

“You
are
Miss Halloran?” His upper-class English accent represented everything Ursula had schooled herself to hate.

Yet his deep, mellifluous voice resonated in her bones.

“I don't believe we've been introduced,” she said faintly.

“My name is Lewis Baines.” He held out his hand. “I've heard Felicity speak of you many times and I must say, her description fits you perfectly.”

“You know Fliss?”

“We're great chums. Our fathers were at Cambridge together and her brother and I served together in the war. When Felicity heard I was coming to Dublin, she insisted I knock you up.”

“Sorry?”

“You know, call on you. Are you unfamiliar with our English slang?”

Ursula drew a deep breath to steady herself.
A voice like that should be registered as a lethal weapon. He makes ordinary words sound like poetry
. “Forgive me, Mr. Baines; of course I know what the phrase means. My train of thought is a bit derailed just now, that's all.”

“I found the Mass quite moving myself,” Baines acknowledged, “though only as an observer. I've been covering the Congress for the
Daily Mail
in London.”

“You're a newspaperman?”

“A foreign correspondent, actually, but it's more a hobby than a profession. Something to do whenever I want a spot of travel. A cousin of mine owns the paper so I'm always assured of an assignment.”

“My Uncle Henry bought a newspaper in America a few years ago.”
What am I thinking about at all! Imagine me showing off for an Englishman!

Finbar Cassidy cleared his throat in the manner of a man who had cleared his throat before and no one noticed.

Ursula gave a start. “Oh, I
am
sorry. Mr. Baines, this is Finbar Cassidy. Finbar, may I introduce…”

“Howd'youdo,” said Finbar. He and Lewis Baines locked eyes in instant antipathy. “I'm sorry, Mr. Baines, but I need to take Miss Halloran home. She's had an exhausting day, what with the heat and the emotion and so forth.”

Baines made a gallant little bow. “Quite, old fellow. By all means take care of her. Miss Halloran, will you permit me to call on you when you've recovered a bit? Tomorrow evening, perhaps? I have your address, Felicity gave it me. She neglected to include your telephone number, though. Perhaps—”

“Many of us are not on the phone,” Finbar interjected.

Baines gave him a penetrating look. “I see.”

Ursula said, “You don't see at all, Mr. Baines. I should like it very much if you would call on me tomorrow. I shall be home from work by seven if that's convenient. Good day.” She shook his hand again, then turned and walked away. With an athlete's ardent stride, long-legged and free. Both men followed her with their eyes.

After an awkward moment Finbar muttered, “Excuse me,” and hurried after her.

When he caught up with Ursula she would not look at him. “How dare you do that!” she hissed out of the side of her mouth.

“Do what?”

“You know what I mean. Have I ever said or done anything that would give you the right to imply to Mr. Baines that you and I share an address?”

“I did no such thing, Ursula.”

“My mother could smell a lie at fifty paces and so can I,” she said. “I'm going home. You can walk with me or not, just as you like.”

“But I thought we were going to have a meal.”

“I'm going home now,” said Ursula Halloran.

 

The following day was a Monday, but the spell cast by the events of the preceding week lingered. People went to work as in a dream. Ursula's thoughts kept drifting; she had to snare them like rabbits. She did remember to congratulate the outside broadcasting teams on a job well done, and one of the men replied, “You're the bright spark around here for sure, Miss Halloran.”

That evening Lewis Baines called to take her to dinner. He brought Ursula a box of violet creams from Fortnum & Mason's, and had booked a table at Jamet's.

Dublin's premier restaurant was almost empty, a sure sign of the times. There were fresh flowers on the table and new candles. The heavy silver flatware gleamed. The handwritten menu was three pages long. Lewis studied the much shorter wine list, then summoned the headwaiter. After a conversation punctuated with French phrases, a dusty bottle of a superior vintage was produced from some hidden cache.

Whatever Lewis Baines did was marked by total self-assurance. Ursula had never seen anyone so at home in his own skin. Sitting at ease in Dublin's most expensive restaurant, he might have been at home in his own parlor.
Drawing room
, she mentally corrected.
He would have a drawing room, not a parlor
.

Ursula had never been to Jamet's, but fortunately Surval had prepared her for dining in luxurious surroundings. The school also had equipped her with rules for a variety of social situations, including dinner with a man one did not know well.
Begin with neutral pleasantries. Then seek mutual acquaintances. Find a subject of interest to both of you for general conversation. Avoid unpleasant topics
.

And try to control the butterflies in your stomach
, Ursula admonished herself as Lewis began to talk to her in his mesmerizing voice.

The conversation opened with a discussion of American jazz, after which Lewis related several anecdotes about Fliss and her brother Cedric, who was now a pilot with the Royal Mail service, then moved on to the subject of aviation in general. Not once did he mention the depression. His glance never wandered around the room. The moment Ursula's glass was empty he summoned the waiter with the lift of one eyebrow.

Ursula never mentioned her work at 2RN. She only wanted to listen. Over cheese and biscuits, Lewis described a few of his experiences as an aviator during the Great War. Thrilling battles in the skies. Tiny planes duelling thousands of feet above the earth. Pilots on both sides saluting one another before opening fire.

Forgetting herself entirely, Ursula leaned forward with her elbows on the table. When Lewis flew his hands through the air to demonstrate aerial acrobatics, her eyes sparkled. “How I envy you! Are you still flying now that the war's over?”

“I have a little plane of my own, a DH Moth. She's in Bristol now but I might fly her over one of these days and take you for a ride. In fact, you should have a pilot's licence, Ursula. You'd make a fine aviatrix.”

“Oh, I've thought about it,” she lied airily.
If feeding a horse is expensive, what must it cost to take flying lessons?

Lewis locked her eyes with his. “Don't just think about it. At the end of life one only regrets what one did not do. I once sat in a plowed field holding my copilot's head in my lap after we'd crashed. He was dying and we both knew it. He said to me, ‘I never walked on a beach barefoot, Lew. Not once. And now it's too late.'”

Lewis took out a silver cigarette case from which he extracted a black Turkish cigarette. “You don't mind, I trust,” he said, without waiting to see if she did. The waiter hurried forward to light it for him.

Ursula thought the cigarette smelled like burning tar. But she did not complain.

 

The full moon slipped through ragged cloud like a coin falling through a hole in a pocket. As Ursula stepped out of the taxicab, a sudden wash of moonlight illumined the sculpted face of Lewis Baines.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she told him.

He gave another of his courtly little bows. “If I didn't have to return to London in the morning, we would do it again tomorrow night. But we shall meet again. I promise.”

Bending down, he took her face between his two hands and kissed her. Slowly and very thoroughly.

Without saying anything more he walked her to her door, and waited until she was safely inside before going back to the taxicab.

Ursula stood with her back against the closed door. Eyes closed.

I promise
.