BY MICHAEL BARRINGTON
Copyright is held by the author.
“Will you have me blushing, James?”
He hadn’t noticed how close she was standing until she spoke. She moved past him then, carrying the tray, the faint clink of china marking her path into the kitchen.
“And you’re long past calling me Miss Clabby,” she added over her shoulder. “Nollaig will do. I’m no longer your teacher; that was 14 years ago; 1923.”
He followed her to the doorway but didn’t step inside. The room was small, warm from the range, a kettle murmuring somewhere just below a boil. She set the tray down and began clearing it with practiced ease, as if she had done it a hundred times.
“It’s strange. Being back in Ireland. Coming home.”
“It always is — for a while.” She didn’t turn.
He watched her rinse a plate, her sleeves rolled up just enough to show her wrists, the movement of her hands steady, unhurried. Nothing in her manner suggested surprise at his return.
“I didn’t expect . . .” He stopped, unsure what he meant to say.
“No one ever does.” She glanced at him, a quick look, measuring. “But here you are.”
He nodded, though the words hadn’t taken hold yet, but their impact was undeniable.
“How is she?”
The question hung in the air between them.
Nollaig dried her hands before answering. “She’s resting.”
“That bad?”
She leaned back against the counter, folding the cloth between her fingers. For a moment she said nothing, as if weighing how much to give him.
“Dr. Lynch comes once a week,” she said finally. “He does what he can. But it’s mainly pain control.”
James felt the answer more than he heard it.
“And the rest of the time?”
“I’m here.” A small pause. “As much as I can be.”
He took that in — the matter-of-fact way she said it, as though there was no other possibility.
“You come every day?”
“After school. I only teach in the afternoon.” She gave a faint shrug. “It’s not far.”
“And at night?”
“I stay.”
Something in the simplicity of it unsettled him.
“And in the mornings?”
“I stay until noon.” She met his eyes again. “Your mother doesn’t like a fuss made over her.”
That, at least, he understood.
“She never said anything in her letters. About being ill.”
“No. She wouldn’t.”
The kettle began to rattle. She turned away to lift it from the heat, pouring water into two cups without asking if he wanted one.
“You should sit,”
He didn’t move. “And my father?”
The question came out sharper than he intended. Her hand paused briefly on the teapot.
“What about him?”
“Nobody wrote to me.”
She nodded.
“How did it happen?”
She put the pot down deliberately, as if the answer required a careful touch.
“In Monahan’s. He collapsed. Drink still in his hand.”
“A heart attack?”
“That’s what Doctor Lynch said.”
Jamesbowed his head slightly. It was the end of an era, and he didn’t need to know more.
“And the funeral?”
“Was attended,” she said, not unkindly.
He almost smiled at her choice of words.
“Few, I take it.”
“Enough.”
She brought him the cup holding it out until he took it. Their fingers brushed, just briefly. He noticed the warmth of her hand, the steadiness of it.
“Sit, James,” she said again, softer this time.
He pulled out the chair and lowered himself into it. The wood creaked faintly under his weight.
For a moment they said nothing.
“I’m sorry.”
He looked up. “For what?”
“For speaking so plainly.” A small breath. “You’ve only just come home.”
“I’d rather know.”
“Yes. I thought you might.”
She took the chair opposite him but angled slightly away, toward the window where the last of the light was fading.
“You should look in, but she’s sleeping. You can talk with her in the morning. She tires easily.”
“You’ve been managing all this on your own?”
“Not entirely.” She smiled faintly. “There are others who come and go. But I’ve had the easier part of it.”
“Easier?”
“I’m not family.”
He frowned. “That makes it easier?”
“In some ways.” She looked down at her hands. “You can do what’s needed without… remembering too much.”
The words lingered.
He took a sip of tea.
“I didn’t think it would be like this.”
“How did you think it would be?”
He shook his head. “Different.”
“It always is.”
The light had almost gone now. The room seemed smaller for it, the walls drawing in.
“Will you stay?”
The question surprised him.
“I’ve only just arrived.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
He held her gaze but didn’t answer. She nodded, as if she hadn’t expected one.
“You must be tired,” she said, rising. “You know where your old room is. It’s all made up.”
“And you?”
“I sleep in with your mother, in case she needs me. I’ve a cot in her room.”
There was no hesitation in it. No sense that it required explanation. She moved past him toward the hallway, then paused.
“Come along. You should take a look at her. Then, you’ll need your rest.”
He followed her, aware of the quiet between them, aware too that something had already begun — something neither of them had named.
Outside, the wind stirred faintly against the walls. Inside, the house held its breath.
In the days that followed, James fell into a rhythm that did not feel like his own yet required no effort to keep. He rose early, before the light had fully settled over the fields, and walked the boundary of the farm. The land was smaller than he remembered, though not diminished—only clearer now, its limits more honestly drawn. Fences needed mending. A gate hung loose on its hinges. The outbuildings leaned slightly, as if time had pressed a quiet weight against them.
By midmorning he would return to the house.
Nollaig was always there. Sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes in his mother’s room, sometimes stepping out into the yard with a basket of washing balanced against her hip. She moved through the place without hesitation, as though she had long ago learned where everything belonged.
He noticed how little she spoke unless spoken to. Not out of reserve, but economy. Nothing unnecessary passed her lips.
His mother had good hours and bad ones. On the better mornings she would wake enough to recognize him, her eyes clearing just long enough to take him in.
“You’ve come home,” she said once, as if confirming something she had suspected all along.
“For a while.”
She studied him, smiled faintly. “We’ll see.”
Then she drifted back into sleep.
Nollaig stood at the foot of the bed, hands loosely folded, watching without intruding.
“She knows you,” she said later, when they were alone.
“I wasn’t sure.”
“She always would.”
He wanted to ask more, but the moment passed.
***
They walked together sometimes. Not far — just along the narrow lane that curved past the hedgerows and dipped toward the low fields beyond. Nollaig would wheel her bicycle beside her, one hand resting lightly on the handlebars, the other tucked into the pocket of her coat.
“You could ride,” he said once.
“And leave you behind?” A flicker of amusement crossed her face. “I wouldn’t think that very kind.”
“I’d manage.”
“I’m sure you would.” She glanced at him. “But that’s not the point.”
They walked on. There were things he wanted to ask her — about her life, about the years between — but each time the questions formed, they seemed to belong to another kind of conversation, one they had not yet reached. Instead, they spoke of smaller things. The school. The children. Who had left, who had married, who had died. Names he half-remembered. Others he did not.
“You’ve been away too long,” she said once, not unkindly.
“Perhaps.”
“And yet you’ve come back.”
“For now.”
She let that rest.
One afternoon, rain kept them inside. The house held the sound of it—the steady tapping against the windows, the soft hiss along the thatch. Nollaig sat at the table with a stack of copybooks, a pen moving steadily across the pages.
“You still mark them by hand?”
“How else would I do it?”
“I thought perhaps things had changed.”
She looked up briefly. “Some things don’t need to.”
He watched her work.
“You read them all?”
“Every word.”
“And they read what you write?”
“They do.” A faint smile. “Whether they like it or not.”
He pulled a book from the shelf, more to occupy his hands than from any real intention to read. After a few minutes he realized he had not turned a page.
“You’ve done a great deal here.”
She didn’t look up. “It needed doing.”
“For my mother.”
“For your mother,” she agreed.
“And my father.”
At that, her pen paused.
“He required less attention,” she said, and resumed her work.
James leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t have to stay,” he said after a while.
“No.”
“But you did.”
“Yes.”
He waited, but she offered nothing more.
“Why?”
This time she looked at him.
“Does there have to be a reason?”
He held her gaze. “I think there usually is.”
She considered that, then set the pen down.
“Your mother needed someone. And I was able. That’s all?”
She gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head, as if dismissing the question rather than answering it. “Sometimes that’s enough.”
***
He began to notice the small things. The way she paused at the doorway before entering his mother’s room, as if gathering herself. The way she sat beside the bed — not too close, not too far — her presence offered but never imposed. The way she listened, even when there was nothing to hear.
Once, late at night, he found her sitting in the kitchen, her head bowed slightly, eyes closed. He thought she might be praying. But when she opened them, there was no sign of it—only a quiet tiredness she quickly put aside.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“In a while.”
“You’ve been on your feet all day.”
“As have you.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
He had no answer for that.
It was not one moment, but many, that altered things. A hand brushing his as they reached for the same cup. Her voice, low and close, as she spoke to him in the fading evening light. The way she said his name — without formality now, but without familiarity either. Something in between. Once, standing beside him at the gate, she rested her hand briefly on the post near his.
Not touching. Close enough.
He felt it all the same.
In his old room, sleep came slowly. The house held different sounds now. The soft movement from his mother’s room. The occasional tap of a window shutter. The faint closing of a door. He found himself listening for them.
One night, unable to settle, he stepped into the hallway. A thin line of light leaked from beneath his mother’s door. He hesitated, then knocked lightly.
“Come in,” Nollaig’s voice whispered.
She was seated beside the bed, a book open in her lap, though she wasn’t reading. His mother slept, her breathing shallow but steady.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You didn’t.”
He stood in the doorway.
“You should rest,” she chided.
“So should you.”
“I will.”
But she made no move to rise.
He took a step into the room.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, quietly: “She won’t last long.”
He nodded, though the words struck deeper than he expected.
“I know.”
She gave him a look; something unguarded in her expression. “It’s easier, sometimes, to say it out loud.”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“Goodnight, James.”
“Goodnight.”
He lingered a moment longer, then turned and left. But the stillness of the room followed him.
By the end of the week, he realized that leaving would not be simple. Not because of the farm. Not even because of his mother. But because something had begun to take shape between himself and Nollaig — quietly, almost without consent. And once noticed, it could not be set aside.
One evening, the wind had picked up after supper, pressing itself against the cottage walls, slipping through whatever cracks it could find. Nollaig rose without a word and lit the fire. The turf caught slowly, the flame steadying, throwing a low, lambent light across the room. James watched her from a chair by the table.
She moved with that same quiet assurance he had noticed before—nothing wasted, nothing hurried. When she bent to place another sod of turf on the fire, a strand of hair slipped loose and brushed her cheek. She didn’t notice. Then she turned to the sink.
“Leave them.”
She glanced back. “Leave what?”
“The dishes. They’ll keep.”
She studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod and wiped her hands on a cloth. When she sat down, it was beside him rather than opposite, close enough that he could hear her breathing, her gaze, and shoulders turned toward the firelight.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Outside, something rattled — loose metal, maybe, or a branch catching the gutter. The sound came and went. Inside, the fire settled into itself.
“You’ve changed the place,” he said finally.
“Only what needed changing.”
“And the rest?”
She shrugged. “Some things aren’t improved by being moved.”
The silence returned, but it was different, heavier now, carrying the weight of something newly unsettled between them.
“Nollaig.”
She looked at him, not fully, just enough.
“I was thinking . . .” He stopped, the words suddenly awkward in his mouth. “About staying.”
“I thought you might.”
“You did?”
“You don’t come all this way just to leave again.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Not unless you’re running from something.”
“And am I?”
“Only you can answer that.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It wouldn’t just be the farm.”
“No?” she said, though her voice had softened.
He shook his head. “There are . . . other reasons.”
She looked back at the fire, as if the answer might be written there.
He was moved watching the firelight fall across her face, faintly framing features he had failed to fully notice before — folds, forged perhaps by time, or by a life lived without indulgence.
“You should be careful, James.”
“About what?”
“About what you think you’ve found.”
He felt something tighten in his chest. “And what do you think that is?”
“I think,” she said slowly, choosing each word, “you’ve come home to a place that feels smaller than the life you’ve made in England. And you’re trying to make it fit.”
“That’s not it.”
“No?” She turned, meeting his eyes fully for the first time. “Then tell me what it is.”
He held her gaze, but the certainty he’d felt moments before slipped away.
“It’s you,” he said, quieter now.
She didn’t move.
“I didn’t expect . . .” He gave a short, uncertain laugh. “I didn’t expect anything, if I’m honest. But since I’ve been back ”. . .
He stopped again. The fire shifted and crackled in the grate. Nollaig’s hands were clasped in her lap, but lacked the steadiness he’d assumed.
“You should stop.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.” There was no sharpness in it, only a kind of weariness. “You remember a classroom. A girl who knew her books. A girl who loved to teach. A girl who taught you. A woman you’ve turned into something else.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
He sat back, the bluntness of her words hanging in the air, sharp and unrelenting, forcing even silence to recoil.
“And what if it isn’t?” he said after a moment. “What if it’s not memory? What if it’s now?”
She closed her eyes briefly, as if bracing herself.
“James . . . I am not —” She stopped, then tried again. “I am not the woman you think I am.”
“Then tell me who you are.”
A long silence.
When she spoke, her voice was lower. “I am 14 years older than you. I am a woman who has already lived the better part of her life. I have made my peace with that.” She looked at him again. “And you are just beginning yours.”
“That doesn’t mean —”
“It means everything.” Not harsh, but firm. “There are things you will want. A life. A family. Children.”
He didn’t answer.
She watched him, searching his face.
“You think you can set that aside now,” she said. “But time has a way of asking for it back.”
“And what if I don’t want any of that?”
She almost smiled. “Then you are the first man I’ve ever met who doesn’t.”
The wind struck the side of the cottage again, harder this time. The shutters rattled, then settled.
He stood before he’d quite decided to. She followed him with her eyes but did not rise. For a moment he hesitated — then crossed the small space between them. Up close, he could see the uncertainty she’d tried to hide. It was there, just beneath the surface.
“I’m not mistaken.”
Her breath caught, just slightly.
“You might be,” she whispered.
“Then let me be.”
That was when she looked away. Not in refusal — something closer to surrender.
He reached for her then, slowly enough that she could have stopped him. She didn’t. After drawing her to her feet, there was a brief, fragile pause — something unspoken passing between them, equal parts fear and recognition.
“This is foolish,” she murmured.
“Probably.”
“And people will talk.”
“They always do.”
At that, she let out a breath that might have been a laugh. When he kissed her, it was tentative at first, as if both were waiting for the other to pull back. Neither did. Her hand came to rest lightly against his chest, not pushing him away, not pulling him closer — just there, as if to confirm he was real. When they finally separated, she didn’t step back.
“God help us,” she murmured.
He didn’t answer.
The fire shifted again behind them, sending a brief flare of light across the room before settling into a steady glow. It had burned low by the time they parted. Time seemed to have stood still.
For a while, neither of them moved. The room seemed altered, as if something had been said aloud that could not be gathered back in. Nollaig turned first, not abruptly, but with a kind of quiet resolve. She bent to the hearth and settled the turf, her hands steady again, though he sensed the effort it cost her.
“You should sleep.”
It was the same words as before, but they carried something else now — distance, perhaps, or protection.
“And you?”
“In time.”
He hesitated, as if waiting for something more. When it did not come, he nodded and walked away.
The bedroom was colder than he expected. He sat on the edge of the bed without undressing. The silence pressed in, broken only by the faint movement of wind through the thatch. He replayed
the moment — not the words, but the spaces between them. The way she had not stepped back. The way she had responded.
God help us, she had said.
Not God help me.
He lay down fully clothed and stared into the dark.
In the morning, she was already gone. The kitchen was in order; the fire laid but not lit. A cup sat on the table, turned upside down to dry. Nothing out of place. Nothing to suggest the night before had been anything but ordinary. Only her absence made it otherwise.
His mother stirred when he entered the room.
“You’re awake early,” she said, her voice thin but clear.
“So are you.”
She studied him, longer than usual. “You won’t be staying.”
It was not a question. He felt the words settle in him before he answered. “I haven’t decided.”
She gave a faint smile. “You have. You’re just waiting to agree with yourself.”
He almost laughed, but didn’t.
“And Nollaig?” she asked after a moment.
He looked away. “What about her?”
His mother’s gaze did not shift.
“You’re not the first man to think he’s found something he can’t live without,” she said. “And you won’t be the last to learn otherwise.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” she agreed. “It isn’t.” The effort of speaking had tired her. She closed her eyes. “Go on now,” she murmured. “There’s work to be done.”
He walked the fields again that day but saw them differently. Where before he had measured fences and buildings, now he measured distance — between the house and the road, between the farm and the town, between the life he had lived in England and the Irish one that seemed suddenly within reach. Or just out of it. By late afternoon, the sky had lowered, pressing a leaden light over everything. He found himself on the road to Strokestown without quite remembering the decision to go.
Her cottage stood as he remembered it — small, contained, the door closed against the weather. He knocked once. No answer. Again. At last, he heard movement inside. The latch lifted. Nollaig stood there, still wearing her coat, as if she had only just returned herself. For a moment, they simply looked at each other.
“You came.”
“Yes.”
She stepped aside to let him in but did not touch him as he passed.
The room was cool.
“No fire? You didn’t light it?”
“I wasn’t sure I’d stay.”
“And now?”
She met his eyes, but there was something guarded there again.
“I don’t know.”
The honesty of it struck him more than anything she had said the night before. He took a step toward her.
“We can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Thinking about things. About us. Something one of us should do.”
He almost smiled at that, but the tension held.
“And what have you decided?”
She shook her head. “That deciding too quickly would be a mistake.”
“For whom?”
“For both of us.”
He let out a breath, turning away briefly, then back again.
“I’m not afraid of it.”
“No. You’re not.” A softness entered her voice. “That’s part of the problem.”
“And you are?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
“Yes,” she said at last. “I am.”
The admission seemed to settle the room.
“Of me?” .
“Of what comes after.”
He stepped closer.
“And if we don’t find out?”
She held his gaze, steady now. “Then we will spend the rest of our lives wondering. And perhaps that’s the easier burden.”
He stopped. The space between them remained.
Outside, the wind had dropped.
The quiet felt deliberate, as if the world itself were waiting. James studied her, seeking permission, or refusal, or some clean certainty he could hold on to. He found none. Only the same unresolved quiet he recognized in himself.
“I’m staying here,” he said finally. It was not a promise, not entirely. More a statement of intent, offered without demand. “I’m not going back to England.”
Nollaig nodded once.
“I know.”
Neither of them moved.
When he left the cottage, the light was already fading. He did not look back immediately. When he did, the door was still open, and she was still there.
Watching.
He raised a hand, not quite a wave.
She did not return it.
But she did not close the door.
***
Michael Barrington, has written 14 books, mainly historical & literary fiction, and published more than 60 short stories in the US, UK, & Europe. Take a Priest Like You is a memoir. His recent novel Colourblind recounts an untold World War II story of Black troops being welcomed with open arms by a small English village while the US military attempts to impose racism and segregation. His new collection of short stories, Midnight Express was published in July 2026. A former assistant editor for The Brussels Review, he is also the winner of The Mercer Cup (UK, 2026) for short story. www.mbwriter.net