Morna

by Mary Kate Brogan

In nineteen-fifties Ireland, Morna Reilly wages war between God and the devil for the love of a man determined to become a priest until a fatal accident rocks the foundation of Catholic Glentown and challenges much of what Morna holds sacred.

Ireland 1958

I opened my eyes and stared at Mama’s empty bed, at the hollow in the feather mattress, the black rosary curling like a thin snake from beneath the white pillow. I wondered why my heart beat so fast, why today I felt much older than fourteen.

The distant lowing of a cow brought me fully awake. Dishes rattled, and the comforting smell of frying bacon drifted toward me.

“Morna, get up, a ghrá,” Mama called.

A ghrá. My love. If only Máirtín would call me that. “I’m getting up.”

“We have a lot to do before Bridget comes.” Mama sounded anxious. “You’ll have to go to the shop for a few things.”

I stared at the wooden slats of the ceiling. Only when I slept could I forget that Bridget Flaherty had come back to Clonmore from America two days ago, and that three months from now, she’d be living in this house, married to Tom, my brother. No doubt, the things from the shop were for her to eat when she came visiting, this evening.

If only I could talk to someone about what I’d read in that woman’s letters. Letters Tom kept hidden in the top drawer of his dresser beneath his folded shirts.

I slid from the bed and shivered when my bare feet touched the cold linoleum. Cattle lumbered past the house, sending a bucket clanging against the front gate. I slipped on my socks and shoes, and then stared outside. Dew beaded on the pink roses growing along the cement wall and on the mauve hydrangeas on either side of the gate. A film of mist trailed over the black cattle and hid Flanagans’ fields and the distant village of Kinmara. Chestnut, the pony, was no more than a blur.

I pulled my nightdress over my head and accidentally touched my breasts. They were still no bigger than the crab apples in the garden. I touched a finger to a nipple and felt a shiver of sensation. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a grim-faced Saint Anthony staring at me from his place on the wall and I quickly dropped my hand. Another sin to tell in Confession. It’s been two weeks since my last Confession. I’ve had bad thoughts ten times. I touched myself impurely. I couldn’t always remember, so sometimes I had to invent a number.

After I dressed in the old white blouse and grey skirt I wore for working around the house and farm, I combed my hair. I wondered if Máirtín would like me better as a blonde. Still, people said I was pretty with my dark hair and pale skin.

I lifted down my prayer book from the mantelpiece, knelt beside my bed and blessed myself murmuring the Irish words, In ainm an athair, agus an mhic, agus an spioraid naoimh. Amen.

Buy

PRINT

Genres