Now and in the Hour of Our Death by Patrick Taylor Read Free Book Online

O’Byrne stood back from the black cast-iron range when she heard knocking on the farmhouse door.
    â€œSammy’s meant to be coming over, but…?”
    Erin watched Cal cross the tiled kitchen floor. It was probably only Sammy McCandless—but it wouldn’t be the first time the Security Forces had paid an unexpected visit. It was no secret about her and Eamon Maguire, and since he was a convicted Provo she’d have been surprised if the O’Byrne family and the O’Byrne farm weren’t kept under surveillance.
    Cal opened only the upper half of the door. “’Bout ye, Sam. Come on in. Jesus, it’s really bucketing down.”
    Erin relaxed as Cal struggled with the lower door half.
    â€œBloody thing’s warped.”
    She heard Sam say, “Take your time. I’ll not melt.”
    â€œWould you move, you stupid thing?” Cal tugged at the door. “Never been right since Da died.”
    And you’ve still not got round to fixing it, big brother, she thought. One day I’ll do it myself.
    The door screeched open. Sammy came in, shaking himself like a spaniel after a water retrieve. He pulled a cloth cap off a mop of badly cut, straw-coloured hair and slapped the duncher against his thigh. “Morning, Erin.”
    â€œGet them muddy boots off you, Sammy,” she said, crossing the kitchen. “Don’t you be dragging all that clabber in here.”
    Sammy left his Wellington boots beside the door. She heard the cackling of a hen trying to come in, Cal yelling, “Get away on out,” and grunting as he pulled the door shut.
    â€œGimme your cap and coat.” She held out one hand.
    â€œJust a wee minute.” Sammy bent, pulled a pair of bicycle clips from the ankles of his moleskin trousers, stood, untied a length of baler twine that served as a belt, and shrugged out of his Dexter raincoat. “Here y’are.” He handed her the sopping coat and cap. He rubbed his hands. “I’m foundered. It would cut you in two out there.”
    â€œFancy a cup of tea?”
    â€œI do so.”
    â€œSit down at the table.” Erin hung the clothes on a coat stand in the corner of the kitchen. “Would you make Sam some tea, Cal? The kettle’s nearly boiled.”
    â€œNot at all. That’s woman’s work.” Cal’s tone was bantering. “You don’t buy a dog and bark yourself, do you, Sammy?”
    Sammy had enough sense to keep his mouth shut.
    â€œI’ll kill you, Cal O’Byrne, but I’ll see to it.” Erin went back to the range. She smiled at her brother. He was allowed to take liberties.
    He’d done it for as long as she could remember. He’d teased her even more since she’d been up at Queen’s University in Belfast and discovered that women didn’t have to spend their time barefoot in the kitchen or dropping babies like a brood mare. Like poor old Ma, dead of a haemorrhage after number six, Fiach, the youngest. He was off playing in a hurling match today.
    The other three were scattered, two sisters in America and a brother, Turloch, in Australia. She’d half-thought of going off to Australia herself. Maybe finish her degree there. It was warm in Brisbane, so Turloch said, and nobody was shooting at anybody.
    But then there was the Cause—and the farm.
    She’d grown up here, knew every hedgerow, every ditch, and the fairy tree in the back ten acres that no one would plough within fifty yards of for fear that the little people might sour the cow’s milk or have the lambs stillborn. Superstitious rubbish—and yet—Da had told her about the leprechauns. He’d believed in them, just as he’d believed in Irish freedom. And, like Da, she’d never budge in her belief that one day Ireland would be reunited.
    And until that day, she’d stay here on the farm that Cal as the eldest son had inherited after Da died of cancer two years