The Triumph of Katie Byrne. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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the houses nestled so cosily below in a hollow of the hills.
It was with a sense of relief that she hit this main road. She stepped out onto the smooth tarmacadam surface, glancing back at the mist-laden meadows as she did, and she suddenly realized how glad she was to be leaving them behind. There had been something strange, almost ghostly, about those empty fields.
Slowing down as the road swept upwards to the church, Katie began her climb, her pace steady. When she reached the top she stood for a moment looking down at Malvern. She could make out the twinkling lights shining in the windows of the houses scattered across the hillsides, and the mingled smell of woodsmoke and damp leaves floated to her on the chill night air. She was suddenly struck by a sense of an early autumn, and she smiled. Fall was her favourite time of year, when the foliage turned gold and russet and red, and her grandmother baked upsidedown apple tart and cinnamon cakes, and the entire family prepared for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Fall was the beginning of the holiday season which her mother loved so much. As Katie passed the forest of Scotch pine trees on the right side of the road, her nose twitched, assailed as it was by the sharp, pungent smell of pine.
How reassuring everything was now that she was out of the damp meadows. Soon she would be home, where her mother was waiting for her. They would prepare supper for the family, set the table together and serve the food. A loving smile flickered across Katie’s wan face, giving it a touch of radiance, lighting up her blue eyes.
Although Katie loved her two girlfriends and was devoted to them, it was her mother who was the most special person in her life, to whom she was the closest, and whom she idolized. She thought of her mother as a faerie princess from Ireland. Certainly she was beautiful, with her flowing red hair and the bluest of eyes, which Katie had inherited. To Katie, her mother’s voice was mellifluous, warm, soft, resonant, touched with a hint of lilting brogue.
These thoughts of her mother galvanized her, and she began to run once more, her feet flying as she sped down the hill.
As her parents’ house came finally into full view, Katie was filled with a sudden rush of warmth, a sense of homecoming, and she continued to run, speeding down the road towards home as fast as she could.
Medium in size, and compact, the house sat atop a small hillock set back from the main road, and it was the only home Katie had ever known. She loved it dearly, as did her parents and her two brothers.
Tonight bright lights gleamed in some of the downstairs windows and plumes of grey smoke spiralled up from the chimneys; the house wore an air of friendliness, of welcome, and it appeared to beckon beguilingly.
Katie’s glance swept over it as she climbed the flight of stone steps; these cut down through the green lawn which sloped away from the flagged terrace at the front facing the road.
For a moment she paused to admire the house, and her pleasure in its appearance brought a quick, bright smile to her face. New England Colonial in style, it had a white-painted clapboard façade, dark-green shutters and a slanted, black roof.
The original house dated back to the 1880s, and although its good bones had been retained throughout, some of the interior rooms had either been restored or remodelled by her father.
Michael Byrne prided himself on his knowledge of Colonial architecture, which he had always loved, and, in fact, he had turned his boyhood passion into a profitable business a few years after leaving school. He was one of the few local contractors who had a superior knowledge of Colonial design, and because of this he had managed to find plenty of building and restoration jobs, once he had established himself in business.
Katie’s father and her elder brother, Niall, kept the house looking pristine, and devoted a great deal of their free time to its care and upkeep. It seemed to Katie that they never had a paintbrush out of their hands, and even her younger brother, Finian, the intellectual with his nose permanently in a book, did occasionally put the book down to dip a brush into a pot of white paint. It struck her often that twelve-year-old Finian was now as addicted as the other two males in the family.
When Katie reached the terrace she veered to her right, headed for the side door and went into the house. A blast of lovely warm air hit her in the face as she stepped into the back hall and closed the door behind her. Once she had hung her jacket on a wall peg, she hurried down the corridor to the big family kitchen. This had always been the hub of the house, the spot where everyone congregated, and it was a congenial and comfortable room. This evening it was filled with a warm rosy glow which emanated from the old Victorian glass lamps, placed strategically around the room, and the pile of logs blazing in the big stone fireplace.
Pieces of copper and brass winked and gleamed in this lambent light, and the room was alive with the most cheerful of sounds…the fire crackling and sputtering in the hearth, the kettle whistling atop the stove, the clock ticking on the mantel, and, in the background, soft music playing on the radio.
And even the air itself was special, weighted with the most delicious mixture of mouthwatering smells…an apple pie put out to cool on a board near the sink, loaves of bread baking in the oven, an Irish stew simmering in a huge pot and emitting fragrant wafts of steam.
For a split second, Katie stood in the shadows by the door, breathing all this in, wallowing in the sheer joy of the familiar and much-loved atmosphere…the cosiness, the smell of her mother’s appetizing cooking, the warmth after the cold meadows. But most of all she relished the feeling of safety, the sense of belonging that came from being a cherished member of her family.
Her best girlfriends were not so lucky, she knew that, which made her appreciate her own family that much more. Carly, more often than not, went home to an empty house, because her mother worked at an old people’s home and kept most peculiar hours, and her father was long dead.
As for Denise, she was in much the same situation, in a sense. Her parents owned a small bar and restaurant in nearby Kent, and they were always there cooking and serving their customers at all hours of the day and night. Even so, it wasn’t all that profitable, according to Denise. Katie often wondered why they bothered to keep it open; she supposed it was the only way they knew how to eke out a living.
Of the three of them, Katie had long realized that she was the one who was the most fortunate, the one who had been truly blessed. Even though her mother also worked, she did so at home, keeping the books and doing the paperwork for the Byrne family business. She had a small office at the top of the house, and so she was always there for Katie and Finian. Niall, who was nineteen, was already working with his father in the building company.
At last Katie took a step forward and moved into the kitchen. Her mother was standing near the stove with a spatula in her hand, and she straightened and glanced over her shoulder on hearing the sound of footsteps.
At the sight of her daughter, Maureen Byrne’s face lit up. ‘Well, there you are, Katie Mary Bridget Byrne! But late again, so I see.’
‘I’m sorry, Mom, I really am. I got caught up with another rehearsal.’ Rushing across the floor, Katie flung her arms around her mother and hugged her tightly. Maureen Erin O’Keefe Byrne was the best. The very best.
Against her mother’s hair, Katie whispered, ‘I’ll make up for it, Momma. I’ll finish the cooking and set the table and do the dishes later. Just say you’re not angry with me.’
Drawing away, Maureen stared into her daughter’s bright blue eyes, twin reflections of her own, and said with a light laugh, ‘Oh don’t be so silly, mavourneen, of course I’m not mad at you. And don’t worry, there’s nothing much left to do, at least there’s no cooking anyway. Still, you could be setting the table for me…that’s a grand idea.’
Katie nodded and exclaimed, ‘I do feel awful, Mom, letting you down this way. You’ve had to do everything yourself and you’re not well yet. I should have been home earlier.’ She bit her lip, guilt-ridden, knowing her mother was still debilitated