It Was Only Ever You (42 page)

As the song rose in a crashing crescendo,

Because it’s true... it was only ever you... the one I love with all my heart... and have done from the start...

Patrick kept his eye on the beautiful blonde vision, although it was not until the song came to its soft, teasing, close,

It was only ever you... my love... yes... It was only ever you

that he realized she was real. It was, actually, Rose standing there, in the flesh. The last time he had seen her in that spot he had walked across the empty room, kissed her and brought his life to an end.

Yet, he was still here, and so was she. Along with nearly a thousand other people, all screaming for him.

Patrick barely saw them as he hopped down from the side of the stage and walked towards Rose. The crowd surged around him so that he became trapped, the people pawing at his chest, congratulating him, girls telling them they loved him, everyone begging for his attention. Patrick panicked as he found that he could not move. He was drowning in adulation.

Then he saw Rose’s white-blonde hair emerge through the sea of faces, like a beacon rising to the surface of a stormy ocean.

She reached in and grabbed his hand, and Patrick knew he was saved.

We hope you enjoyed this book.

For an exclusive preview of Kate Kerrigan’s
The Dress
, read on or click the following link

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For the post depression years up to JFK’s visit to Ireland in 1963, it was possible for the Irish to enter America with a passport and an assurance there would be a person to meet them at the other end. They did this in their droves until, in the early 1960s, Ireland’s Taoiseach (Prime Minister) Sean Lemass asked President John F Kennedy not to give Ireland an allotment of US visas in an attempt to stop the brain drain in Ireland. This led to the introduction of a rigorously policed visa system that remains to this day.

Thank you to Judd Ruane for his invaluable research on the showband scene.

Helen Falconer for use of her big brain.

Ella Griffin for daily writing support.

Joe Queenan of Foxford Woollen Mills for research.

Elaine Tighe for writing the lyrics for ‘It Was Only Ever You’ and wonderful Tommy Fleming for bringing the song to life and recording it.

My assistant Danielle, on hand always, brilliant as ever.

My student Frederique Bresson for her sterling work.

Brendan Hoban for swift replies to ‘priest queries’.

My mother Moira for her cheerleading and unconditional love.

My husband Niall, for his endless tolerance and respect.

My sons Leo and Tommo – for giving me the reason to work.

My agent Marianne Gunn O’Connor and Pat Lynch for their faith and constancy.

Amanda Ridout and her Head of Zeus team: Nia, Liz, Clémence, Madeleine, Jessie, Suzanne, Victoria and, of course, Anthony Cheetham for starting up such a vibrant, creative, supportive house in the first place. I feel very lucky indeed.

Last, but certainly not least, my indomitable, awesome editor, Rosie de Courcy. I value your opinion above all others and thank you for taking the time to make this book come alive. It was a close one, but we did it! Thank you for making me a better storyteller and a better writer.

Read on for a preview of
The Dress

Lily Fitzpatrick loves vintage clothes – made all the more precious because they were once owned and loved by another woman. Thousands follow her vintage fashion blog and her daily Instagram feed. But this passion for the beautiful clothes of the past is about to have unforeseen consequences, when Lily stumbles upon the story of a 1950s New York beauty, who was not only everything Lily longs to be, but also shares Lily’s surname.

Joy Fitzpatrick was a legend. But what was the famous dress which she once commissioned – said to be so original that nothing in couture would ever match it again? What happened to it – and why did Joy suddenly disappear from New York high society?

Kate Kerrigan’s enthralling novel interweaves the dramatic story of Joy, the beautiful but tortured socialite and that of Lily – determined to uncover the truth and, if possible, bring back to life the legendary dress itself.

Ireland, 1935

The schoolmaster found the boy collapsed against a stone wall at the side of the road. His nose was smashed and bloody and his right eye so swollen that he could barely see out of it.

‘Dear God, Francis, what happened to you?'

The boy looked at him and shrugged. His eyes were defiant, angry.

‘Your father?'

John Conlon held out his hand to help the child up, but Francis waved him away and forced himself to stand alone. His legs were shaking. He had taken some battering that morning. His father had caught him unawares and dragged him from the bed. To stop himself from crying Francis reminded himself that he had fought back and given his father as good as he got. It was the first time he had stood up to his father, and that was how Francis knew it was time for him to leave.

The last thing Francis wanted was his teacher's pity. He was a man of fifteen, he could look after himself now. John held out a handkerchief and he took it.

‘I'm leaving anyway,' he said, wincing slightly as he put the cotton square up to his nose to stem the flow of fresh blood. ‘I'm going to America.'

John Conlon leaned against the wall with his pupil. He had taught the Fitzpatrick boy from when he was five, until last year. His mother had died and his younger brother, Joe, had been put in with the nuns, so Francis was left alone in the house, with his brutal pig of a father. The area they belonged to was broad and remote, a vast hinterland of bog and mountain. It was a place where a man could hide his wife and children away from the eyes of the world, but not those of a prying Irish schoolmaster. John Conlon made it his business to know every child in the area and managed to persuade most of the parents to leave them in school, until they could read and write. Francis had been with him until he was thirteen, but had left then to stay at home to nurse his sick mother. Now she was dead and the baby had been taken away, so there was nothing left at home for him. He was a bright young man and John believed he could have had a future. However, with a father like that, he never stood a chance.

‘America? That's a long way off,' said John.

Francis glowered at him; he could feel himself starting to crack. He had no idea how he was going to get there, but his mother had a brother in New York and before she died she gave him a letter, saying he would secure Francis a job if he could get himself to America. The only thing Francis knew for certain was that he was never going back home. Not ever.

‘Will you come back to the house and have a bite to eat with us, before you head away?'

Francis knew he could not walk another step that day; it would be dark soon and he did not want to sleep on the side of the road, so he followed the teacher to his horse and cart. He hated to take charity from anyone, but John Conlon was different, and Francis felt the teacher genuinely liked him. Maybe John would lend him enough money to get him as far as Dublin, where he could pick up a job and start earning for his passage to America.

They drove to Bangor town in silence. John could see the boy was exhausted, scrawny and weak; he hadn't eaten for days. Francis was five miles from his home when the teacher picked him up. He might have died there and would anyone have cared? Would anyone have even noticed?

When they arrived at the Conlons' terraced townhouse, John's wife Clare made a huge fuss of him at the door.

‘Would you look at the state of the child? Mother of God, he should be in a hospital!'

She sat Francis down on the settle, fetched a blanket, draped it over his shoulders, then set about cleaning his face.

‘This might hurt a bit,' she said and, before he could object, she twisted his broken nose back into place with a loud crunch, then wiped away the blood with a warm cloth.

Francis leaned his cheek into her hand. Her touch put him in mind of his own mother. When he was very small, he remembered her tending to him like that, but not for a long time now. Clare Conlon was assured and matronly: a strong loving woman. His own mother had been too weak, too afraid to love her sons, for fear of upsetting her husband.

Francis closed his eyes and, as his face reached for the touch of maternal love, he felt tears starting to pour down his cheeks. Clare wiped them away softly, pretending not to have seen, until he opened his eyes and said, ‘May I use the toilet?'

‘Of course,' she said, laying down the cloth. ‘You go out back and I'll fetch you some clean clothes. Then we'll have tea. There's no better medicine than a cup of hot, sweet tea.'

As he left the kitchen to go out into the yard, Francis paused in the scullery and overheard the couple talking about him.

‘Surely to God, John, something can be done about that man.'

‘I'll go and have a word with him.'

‘You'll do no such thing – your interfering will only make things worse. Francis can stay here with us.'

‘Clare, be practical. We have the baby now.'

‘Well, we can't send him back to that brute, and I'll not see him in one of those industrial schools...'

The boy had heard enough. He had intended to ask John for a loan, but he could tell, now, from the way they were talking, that they thought he was still a child. They could send him to the reform school, which was no better than a prison, and he might never get out of it. No. He had to get away. He knew Clare kept cash in a tin on the second shelf of the dresser, next to where he was standing. He had seen her take it out to pay a turf man, once, when he was studying there, after school. Francis would eat with them, stay overnight on the settle bed in their kitchen and then leave at first light. Clare would not notice the money gone for days, weeks maybe. He wasn't a thief. He would write from America and explain. He would send her a gift – jewellery perhaps, a pair of gloves – he just needed a start.

His heart was thumping as he reached up for the tin. His hands shook. He reached in and took out a handful of notes, but as he was stuffing them in his pocket he heard a noise behind him. He started slightly, then saw that it was the Conlons' baby, who was in a pram just outside the open back door. She was sitting up and looking straight at him, her head, in a frilly bonnet, cocked to one side. She was frowning, as if she knew what he was doing. If she started crying, John and Clare might wonder why he wasn't already outside in the lavatory, in the yard, and guess what he was at. He went over to placate her, but as he moved forward, something in the child's gaze stopped him in his tracks. Her eyes were locked on his. She was not a pretty child. She had a big round face and an almost comical scowl, but her eyes radiated the kind of deep knowing you would expect from a wise old woman. It was as if the baby could see inside his soul. In that moment Francis felt so ashamed that he turned to put the money back in the tin, but, as he was reaching to take it out of his pocket, Clare walked in, so he kept it where it was.

‘Ah,' she said, ‘you're back. I'll just feed the baby, then I'll put the dinner on. You go and sit by the fire with John and rest yourself.'

As Clare picked up the baby and laid her across her shoulder Francis looked across at the strange child and, as he did, she smiled, a huge toothless grin. All is forgiven, he thought. He pulled a face at her, and the baby giggled.