Copyright Page

Copyright © 2018 Rachael English

The right of Rachael English to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Ireland in 2018 by

Hachette Books Ireland

First published in Great Britain in 2022 by

HEADLINE REVIEW

An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

This Ebook edition published in 2022 by Headline Review

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication – apart from the obvious historical figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978 1 4722 9471 5

Cover images © Olga Sabelnikova/Shutterstock

Cover design by Phil Beresford

Author Photograph © Eoin Rafferty

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About the Author

Rachael English is a bestselling novelist and presenter on Ireland’s most popular radio show, Morning Ireland. During more than twenty years as a journalist, she has worked on most of RTE Radio’s leading current affairs programmes, covering a huge range of national and international stories. The American Girl, The Night of the Party and The Paper Bracelet were all top 5 Irish bestsellers.

Also by

By Rachael English

Going Back
Each & Every One
The American Girl
The Night of the Party
The Paper Bracelet
The Letter Home

Praise

Praise for Rachael English

‘A true storyteller who keeps you turning the pages’

Cathy Kelly

‘A compelling read’

Sheila O’Flanagan

‘Fantastic storytelling looking back at Ireland’s dark past’

Liz Nugent

‘Utterly moving and compelling. That first line...wow! I was hooked’

Patricia Scanlan

‘A powerful, important, beautiful book’

Sinéad Crowley

‘An impressive debut from a skilled novelist . . . English is certainly a force to be reckoned with’

Irish Independent

‘Anyone who has wondered what life might have been like if they’d stayed together with a summer love will be charmed by [Rachael English’s] warm, heartfelt debut novel’

The Irish Times

‘Richly imagined and searingly empathetic, The American Girl makes for compelling reading’

Sunday Business Post

‘An evocative read . . . powerful . . . If you read authors such as Diane Chamberlain, Sheila O’Flanagan or Maeve Binchy then you should also check this out’

Between My Lines

‘Enchanting, emotional, heart-breaking, ultimately uplifting and just perfect . . . Rachael English is a wonderful story-teller’

Being Anne

‘Subtle and delicate, it is a passionate and intense family drama . . . Filled with sorrow, joy and tenderness and highly recommended by me’

Random Things Through My Letterbox

‘A remarkable read with a very captivating story at its core’

Swirl and Thread

About the Book

January 1982. In the rural village of Kilmitten, the Crossan family is holding its annual party during the biggest snowstorm Ireland has seen in decades. By the end of the night, the parish priest has been found dead, in suspicious circumstances.

For Tom, Conor, Tess and Nina, four teenage friends who were there, life will never be the same. One of them carries a secret and, as the years pass and their lives diverge, a bond that won’t be broken silently holds.

As the thirty-fifth anniversary of the priest’s death approaches, Conor, now a senior police officer, has reason to believe that Tom – a prominent politician – can help identify the killer. As his dilemma draws the four friends back together, all are forced to question their lives and to confront their differences.

Dedication

For the Englishes,
a family of great storytellers

Part One

1982

Chapter 1

County Clare, January 1982

They had never seen anything like it.

The first snowflakes arrived on Thursday afternoon. Before long, the flurries blurred into a steady fall, the snow folding itself around Kilmitten until everything was white. People took to the streets, beaming at the wonder of it all. ‘Look at that sky,’ they said. ‘It’s not finished yet, you know.’ Children shrieked with delight, and adults turned into children. Snowballs went zinging through the air, while kids on makeshift sleds – here a coal sack, there a tea tray – zoomed down Toomey’s Hill.

By Friday morning, the entire country was covered. On the radio, the newsreader warned against unnecessary journeys. Dublin was at a standstill, he said, and Wicklow was cut off.

Best of all, there was no school.

Tom Crossan sat at the kitchen table, swirling a spoon around his Ready Brek and listening to his parents have one of those conversations that was actually two separate speeches.

‘I still say we’re making a mistake,’ said his mam. ‘Nobody’s going to come out in this weather. We’ll be wasting good money on food and drink.’

‘The front room looks like something out of a tenement,’ said his dad. ‘Could you not dry those clothes elsewhere?’

‘You’d swear we had money to waste.’

‘Why don’t you bring them in here?’

‘And have you seen the state of the roads? Seriously, if you think I’m driving into Templemorris, you’d want to think again. I could end up in a ditch. I suppose I’ll have to buy the drink locally, and you know how much that costs.’

‘It’s a shame we had to take down the Christmas decorations. They brightened the place up. Could we string up a few lights, do you think?’

Tom zoned out. For as long as he could remember (which was eight years’ worth of memories – he couldn’t recall much before the age of four), his parents had held a party in early January. It’s such a miserable month, they’d say. People need cheering up. He’d worried that this year the weather would put them off. He should have known better. The snow could be roof-high, and still his dad wouldn’t cancel a get-together. He liked to boast that no one was turned away from his house: no matter how snooty, no matter how hard-up, everyone was welcome.

Tom had heard that there were places where people went an entire year without clogging up each other’s houses, where there were no rowdy gatherings of red-faced men and overly perfumed women, no card games in the kitchen or ballad-singing in the front room, no morning-after gossip. What a pain that would be. Everybody in Kilmitten liked a party, and while their parents were busy making fools of themselves, the village’s youngsters got to experience some freedom. Tonight, Tom planned on making the most of it.

‘You’re quiet, Tommo,’ said his dad, as he poked a knife at the concrete-hard butter. ‘Are you not looking forward to a day in the white stuff?’

‘I’m going to call up to Conor in a second.’

‘Well, be careful not to fall over or do anything stupid,’ said his mam, who was an expert in things going wrong. ‘And don’t forget I’ll want you back here good and early. There’ll be work to do. Oh, and eat up that breakfast, would you?’

Tom returned to his cereal. His mother was always baffled when teachers complained about him being too talkative. ‘There’s barely a word out of him at home,’ she’d say. ‘I can’t imagine what he goes on about at school.’ What she didn’t understand was that, for most of Tom’s life, there hadn’t been any space for talking. If his sisters and their friends weren’t yap-yap-yapping at each other, his parents were arguing or storytelling. Now that his sisters were gone, there were more opportunities for him to have his say, but what was the point in speaking when nobody listened?

‘Ah, Cora,’ said his dad. ‘Don’t spoil the lad’s fun. Sure how often do we get a fall of snow like this?’

‘Don’t “Ah, Cora” me, Haulie. The last thing I need is a child with a broken leg or a head full of stitches.’ She rose from her chair and began piling dishes into the sink. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t you be getting off to work?’

‘I can’t see there being much business today.’ He leaned back and smiled. ‘Throw us on another piece of toast there, pet.’

‘Throw it on yourself. And if you’re not going down to the pumps, you can wash these cups.’ She patted her cloud of red hair. ‘I’ve a hairdresser to see.’

There was chaos on Toomey’s Hill with everybody skittering around at different speeds. One of the O’Grady brothers was shoving fistfuls of snow down the back of the girls’ coats, or at least he was until Liesl Talty (her mam was obsessed with The Sound of Music) gave him a slap across the face. Tom was impressed. He wouldn’t dare hit an O’Grady. Two other brothers whizzed past on election posters belonging to their uncle Paddy, who represented the county in Dublin. Majella Sexton slid by on a wooden pallet. A fourth O’Grady said she’d get splinters in her backside but he’d help her to remove them. Majella told him he’d never get that lucky. Some of the little kids from the new houses near the creamery were building a monster of a snowman. In the middle of it all, a stray dog ran around in circles, barking like he might have rabies.

Toomey’s wasn’t much of a hill, but it was the best Kilmitten had to offer. For miles around, the land was flat. Great farming land, the adults said. They also said there was no money in farming, these days, and that soon enough everybody would be living in Dublin or London. Or New York, like Tom’s sisters.

Tom and Conor’s progress had been slow. Conor had insisted on stopping every few steps and sticking out his tongue until a snowflake settled there. Tom’s best friend was a long skinnymalinks of a fellow with grey eyes and sandy hair. At the front, one bright red tuft stood up, as though it belonged on someone else’s head. Almost everybody liked Conor, but even if they didn’t, they had to be nice because his mother was dead. His father, Flan Varley, was the local sergeant. Tom’s dad maintained that this was the easiest job in Ireland: the last time there’d been a proper crime in the village, Queen Victoria had been in charge.

On Main Street, they’d passed Father Galvin, who was wearing a huge furry hat, like a Russian on the TV news. ‘Morning, boys,’ he’d called. ‘How’s the day off school treating you?’

‘Great, Father,’ said Tom. ‘Did you get a day off Mass as well?’

Conor gave him a look that suggested this was a dumb question, but Father Galvin laughed. ‘That’s a good one,’ he replied. ‘No, I’m afraid the Lord’s work has got to continue. I’ll be seeing you later, though. I hope your mam’s not going to too much trouble.’

Father Galvin always came to the Crossans’ parties and he always brought the same gift: a bag of Lucky Numbers and a box of Maltesers. He liked to drink a small Paddy with a dash of water and no ice. (Tom tried to remember everybody’s favourite drink. This made it more likely that they’d slip him fifty pence – or even a pound.) As priests went, Father Galvin was okay. His Masses were short, and he handed out hardly any penance, just a Hail Mary or two and a warning to behave yourself in future. The year before, there’d been a visiting mission and the priest had given Tom two decades of the rosary. Two decades! Tom wouldn’t have minded but he hadn’t confessed all of his sins. He’d left out the part about looking at his dad’s dirty magazines.

The two might have stayed talking to the priest, only they saw Noel O’Grady coming. Father of the dreaded brothers, Mr O’Grady was a total bore. Tom’s dad said he always looked like he was one fried breakfast away from a heart attack.

They were at the top of the hill, laying out the fertiliser bag they’d taken from Conor’s shed, when a familiar voice rose up behind them.

‘Are we still on for tonight, boys?’

It was Tess Fortune, smothered in a massive grey overcoat, a pink woolly hat pulled low over her green eyes. Tess was even thinner than Conor, so thin that one of the lads at school had called her a Cambodian. Without missing a beat, she’d given him a dirty look and said, ‘It’s Kampuchea now, you ignoramus.’ Tess was tough. She had to be. She had no dad, and people gossiped about her mam, saying she spent too much time in Pilkington’s Lounge. Her mam was younger than most parents. Oh, and she was beautiful. Not as beautiful, mind, as Tess’s best friend, Nina Minogue, who was the best-looking girl in Kilmitten.

‘Yep, we’re definitely on,’ said Tom, as he glanced around for Nina. No sign. What if she didn’t like the snow and decided to stay at home tonight? He’d bet his life that the Minogues’ house was good and warm. He couldn’t imagine Nina seeing her breath when she got up in the morning or having to wipe the ice from the bedroom window with the sleeve of her pyjamas. Nina’s father was a doctor, so he probably knew all about the importance of central heating. Of course, the Minogues were loaded, which must help with heating and such.

‘You will be able to get away, won’t you?’ continued Tess. ‘I mean, won’t your mam and dad want you to take people’s coats and fetch drinks and that?’

She was wearing long silvery earrings and the reflection from the snow made it look like they were shimmering and dancing against her face. She had a really small face.

‘It’ll be fine,’ said Tom, with a wave of one hand. He wished he’d taken off his gloves. You wouldn’t catch the O’Gradys wearing gloves. Gloves were soft. ‘I’ll have to hang around for a while. But once they’ve had a couple of drinks, I’ll be able to escape. Don’t worry.’

‘And I’ll get out the window, no bother,’ said Conor, digging his hands deep into the pockets of his Christmas anorak. It was a genuine Lord Anthony with thick grey fur around the hood, not an imitation, like Tom’s.

‘Cool,’ said Tess, as she twirled away. ‘I guess I’ll see you then.’

‘And—’

She turned back, a grin splitting her face. ‘Don’t panic, Tom. Nina’s coming too.’

The Crossans’ house was big. Big and ugly, according to Tom’s mother, who was always talking about selling up and getting a nice modern bungalow with fitted wardrobes and wall-to-wall carpet. Tom’s dad had spent all his life in the grey detached house and wouldn’t hear of moving. If you were being kind, you might describe it as in need of some work. If you were being honest, you’d say it was dilapidated. Tom didn’t care. True, the ceilings sagged, water streamed down the walls and wind whistled through the windows. True, there were so many rooms that as soon as one was fixed up, another was calling out for repair. But how many people were lucky enough to live in a house where it was possible to hide? Where you could dodge interfering parents and annoying sisters for hours on end?

The back garden, too, was untamed. For large parts of the year, the grass came up to Tom’s waist. If he lay on the ground, no one could see him. Every now and then, his dad would be overcome by a fit of busyness, and they’d all have to go out the back and hack down the grass and weeds and briars. When they’d finished, his dad would hold out his arms and say, ‘Isn’t it a fine old place all the same?’ In no time, the garden would be as wild as ever.

At the bottom, beside the hedge, there was a wooden shed packed with years – no, decades – of rubbish. Tins of paint jostled for space with damp rolls of carpet and prehistoric tools. It smelt of creosote and mould. That was where Tom and Conor were now, sitting on two overturned tea chests, their only light provided by an old torch. Their shadows looped and flickered against the walls, making the shed feel like the opening of Tales of the Unexpected. Two brown bottles of Harp stood on the floor. Tom’s pockets held three John Player Blue, a box of matches and a bottle-opener.

‘Maybe they’re not going to come after all,’ said Conor.

‘They’ll be here,’ Tom reassured him, although his knees were doing a nervous jiggle. He, too, was starting to have doubts. Tess’s mam and Nina’s parents were at the party, and both girls should have been able to escape. So why weren’t they here? Come to think of it, what had he been doing, inviting them over for a drink and a smoke? They probably got scores of invitations. There was every chance that at this very minute they were somewhere else, having a laugh at him.

Despite the snow, almost everybody on his parents’ invitation list had turned up. A few who weren’t on the list had arrived too. Before the doorbell began to ring, Tom’s father, who’d put on his multicoloured sports jacket, had got into a tizzy about the house being too cold. He’d made Tom place two pages of The Irish Field in front of the fireplace until the flames roared up the chimney. ‘Will you stop that, Haulie?’ his mother had said. ‘You’ll set the chimney on fire, and then what’ll we do?’

‘We’ll enjoy the heat, that’s what,’ he’d replied.

Tom’s mother, who was wearing her best blue dress, the one with fake diamonds on the belt, laughed. This made him suspect that she’d already started on the Cinzano.

It was that kind of night. To begin with, there was the usual phoney politeness. ‘Just a small G&T for me, Cora. I had far too much over the Christmas,’ and ‘Go easy with that brandy, Haulie. I’ve milking in the morning.’ As the numbers multiplied, Tom was called into action, filling drinks, finding ashtrays and carrying extra chairs from the back kitchen. He handed around sandwiches, cocktail sausages and little pieces of cheese on sticks. The noise rose from a low mumble to a babble to an all-out roar, like a class with no teacher. Party-goers asked Tom about the snow, what he’d got for Christmas and how he was getting on at secondary school. Then they asked if he had a girlfriend. Finally, they forgot he was there at all. For a short while, he listened in, in case he might learn something important. One woman had the big C, apparently. ‘Riddled with it,’ according to Mercedes Talty. Somebody else was in the family way (‘and not a boyfriend in sight’) while another neighbour was ‘inside, drying out’. Noel O’Grady told a story about New Year’s night when he’d driven home from Pilkington’s with a hand over one eye to stop himself seeing double.

‘You’ll know all about it if Flan Varley catches you,’ said Tom’s dad. ‘The guards are taking the drink-driving very seriously, these days.’

‘Leave Flan to me,’ replied Mr O’Grady, in a way that suggested he had few worries about the law.

Conor’s father was beside the window with Tess’s mother and Father Galvin. What they found to talk about, Tom didn’t know. Save for the fact that all three were on their own, they didn’t have much in common. He wondered if Mr Varley would ever find a new wife. Not that he’d say it to Conor. Even though he rarely mentioned her, it was obvious that Conor missed his mother. One day in religion, Miss Casey had been boring on about what happens when someone dies, and Conor had turned the colour of watery rice pudding, then barged out of the room. Seánie O’Grady said Conor was acting like a poof, but Seánie was a moron who stuck out his tongue when he read, so nobody took any notice of him.

When Tess and Nina did arrive, it was with a rat-tat-tat on the door, a burst of freezing air and a rush of apologies. Nina said it was her fault they were late. Her parents had hired a babysitter for her younger brother, and the sitter had insisted on watching Nina too.

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