Page 4 of The Last Love Song
Upstairs in her spacious, comfortable bedroom, Sorcha reached for her satchel, unloaded her textbooks, paper and writing equipment onto her desk and sat down. Once she was comfortable, her fingers felt for the envelope at the bottom of her pencil case and she drew it out. It was crumpled, the small photograph inside even more so. She laid it in front of her and traced the contours of his face, as she’d done a thousand times before. Sorcha could see her fingerprints all over it.
‘Con...Con,’ she murmured as she stared at her love. The picture was terrible, out of focus and missing a left ear because of the way she’d cut it from the flyposter advertising his band’s latest gig. But that hardly mattered.
Closing her eyes, Sorcha cast her mind back to the very first night, three months ago now, when she had first kissed him...
2
January 1964, three months earlier
‘There’s a band playing at the GAA hall Saturday week,’ Mairead informed the girls as they filed out of the hall after morning prayers.
Her three friends raised their eyebrows as they walked down the corridor towards their classroom.
‘I heard they’re meant to be fierce good,’ Mairead continued. ‘They’ve put up posters in the town. You’ll see after school.’
‘What sort of band?’ asked Katherine O’Mahoney as they entered the classroom. ‘And who’s in it?’
‘A proper band, with guitars and drums. Con Daly’s the lead singer.’
All four girls sat down at their desks and opened their satchels.
‘He’s a bad ’un,’ imparted Maureen McNamara gravely.
‘With his daddy having been a drunken eejit and his mammy dying when he was small, what chance did he have?’ asked Katherine. ‘Living in that godforsaken hut all alone on the beach. I’d say he needs to be pitied.’
‘You always did have a soft heart, Katherine O’Mahoney. My brother says Con has a grand voice, though. He heard him in a bar in Clonakilty a while back,’ Mairead concluded.
Sister Benedict’s heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor.
‘Well, I’m on for going,’ whispered Mairead. ‘Who’ll join me?’
There was no time for further discussion as Sister Benedict entered the classroom.
The four girls reconvened after school. On the walk down the hill into Ballymore village they discussed the situation.
‘All the St Joseph’s boys will be there. My brother Johnny.’ Mairead nodded in Katherine’s direction. She blushed. ‘Tommy Dalton.’ Mairead looked at Maureen who studied her feet. ‘And for you, Sorcha, any boy who takes your fancy.’
‘And how are we meant to be getting out of our houses on a Saturday night to watch a band?’ asked Sorcha.
‘Don’t worry your heads about that. I have it all worked out,’ Mairead added confidently.
‘Go on then,’ challenged Katherine.
Mairead looked smug. ‘Well, my mammy and daddy are going up to Milltown on Saturday morning to see my auntie. They won’t be back until Sunday lunchtime. Johnny’s meant to be looking after me. So, you can tell your parents you’re all coming to stay the night. They don’t need to know Mammy and Daddy are away. As long as we’re all there for mass on Sunday morning, they’ll not be suspicious at all.’ Her eyes shone with pride. ‘There now, what do you think?’
The three girls looked at each other.
‘And what if they found out where we’d been? Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I’d be crucified!’ said Maureen.
‘They won’t, though, will they? They’d never think that their sweet little daughters would be dancing the night away with boys!’ giggled Mairead.
Sorcha shook her head uncertainly as they came to her turning on the road. ‘I’m not sure, so, Mairead.’
‘Well, you think about it, Sorcha O’Donovan. Most of us are nearly seventeen. We’re not babies any more. So what ifthey do find out? Will they put us in Cork city jail and throw away the key? I doubt it!’
Sorcha blushed. ‘You’re right, Mairead. I’ll think about it. See you tomorrow.’
She waved and walked down the narrow winding street into the large Georgian McCurtain Square. In the centre, enclosed within iron railings, was a formal garden with a small fountain that gurgled meekly. The professional people of the town resided here, in terraced, four-storey houses that were the envy of many. Sorcha crossed the square and approached her front door. On the left-hand side was a shiny brass plate that read:
