Read Online The Young Wan by Brendan O'Carroll - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brendan O'Carroll
Tags: Historical, Humour
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you believe that?” Constance’s eyes began to fill. For she realized that no man had ever spoken those words to her before. Not even her father. Now here she was, penniless, just the clothes on her back, disinherited, and up to recently homeless. And for the first time she felt truly loved. As the warm, glistening tears sprang forth, she nodded her head to her new husband and whispered, “Yes. I believe that.”
Bosco smiled. He cupped his hand beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. Gently he kissed her on the lips. “I will never leave you, Connie, and wherever you go, woman, walk gently, for you carry the heart of this man with you.”
Constance smiled. “I will walk as if I am on feathers,” she promised.
Now he smiled. “Good. Now, there’s just one more thing.” He fished in his pocket and produced a headscarf. It was folded, and he placed it in her hand. She looked down at the scarf.
“What’s this?” she asked
“It’s yours,” Bosco replied. Constance was still puzzled.
“Where did it come from?” she asked.
“It came from around my leg, a long time ago.” A dawning crossed Constance’s face.
“You were the boy . . .” she stammered out.
“Aye. And you are the angel. Come, let’s make it official.” The rest was a blur to Constance.
At one point during the signing of the registry the priest leaned over to Constance and whispered, “I’m so sorry about the shouting during the ceremony.”
“What shouting?” Constance asked, and she meant it.
The wedding breakfast that followed was attended by over a hundred guests, including Pope Charlie, and was the usual bawdy affair, with just one note that should be mentioned. In his speech Bosco referred at all times to his new wife as “Connie,” and he would do so from that day onward. She would never hear the name Constance again. A new name, a new beginning, and a whole new world.
CHAPTER NINE
Over the first twelve months of their marriage, Bosco encouraged Connie to make an effort to reconcile her differences with her father. He knew well the dreadfully lonely feeling of being an orphan and would have given anything to have just one more day with his father. She did, but to no avail. She went to work every day, and not only did she have no words with her father, she never even clapped eyes on him. Her sisters had disowned her, and her mother was held incommunicado. Then, when Connie became pregnant, she retired from her job at the foundry, so the chances of reconciliation were further reduced.
On the sixth of December, 1934, Connie gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. She weighed in at six pounds and seven ounces. She had a mop of raven-black hair and screeched nonstop through her first ceremony when, four days later, she was brought to St. Jarlath’s and baptized Agnes Loretta Reddin, after the Blessed Agnes. The birth of Agnes prompted the last ever attempt to rejoin Connie with her family. With babe in arms, Connie boarded the tram and made her way to her former home in Kingstown. The house had not changed, but seemed bigger than she had remembered. She pulled the door chain. The door was opened by a maid. A new one. She was a good-looking young girl.
“Yes? Can I help you?” she asked.
“Could you tell Mr. Parker-Willis that Constance is here?” Connie smiled at the girl. She didn’t return it.
“What’s wrong with you, woman! Did you not see the sign on the gate? No beggars!” the maid scolded.
Constance held her temper. “I am his daughter, Constance Parker-Willis, and this is his granddaughter, Agnes. Now, if you cannot get my father, then send Mr. Pratchett out here.” Naming the butler had the desired effect, although the girl still made Connie wait at the door while she checked things out.
When the girl returned some minutes later, she was perplexed. “Mr. Parker-Willis says he does not wish to see you today or any other
Bosco smiled. He cupped his hand beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. Gently he kissed her on the lips. “I will never leave you, Connie, and wherever you go, woman, walk gently, for you carry the heart of this man with you.”
Constance smiled. “I will walk as if I am on feathers,” she promised.
Now he smiled. “Good. Now, there’s just one more thing.” He fished in his pocket and produced a headscarf. It was folded, and he placed it in her hand. She looked down at the scarf.
“What’s this?” she asked
“It’s yours,” Bosco replied. Constance was still puzzled.
“Where did it come from?” she asked.
“It came from around my leg, a long time ago.” A dawning crossed Constance’s face.
“You were the boy . . .” she stammered out.
“Aye. And you are the angel. Come, let’s make it official.” The rest was a blur to Constance.
At one point during the signing of the registry the priest leaned over to Constance and whispered, “I’m so sorry about the shouting during the ceremony.”
“What shouting?” Constance asked, and she meant it.
The wedding breakfast that followed was attended by over a hundred guests, including Pope Charlie, and was the usual bawdy affair, with just one note that should be mentioned. In his speech Bosco referred at all times to his new wife as “Connie,” and he would do so from that day onward. She would never hear the name Constance again. A new name, a new beginning, and a whole new world.
CHAPTER NINE
Over the first twelve months of their marriage, Bosco encouraged Connie to make an effort to reconcile her differences with her father. He knew well the dreadfully lonely feeling of being an orphan and would have given anything to have just one more day with his father. She did, but to no avail. She went to work every day, and not only did she have no words with her father, she never even clapped eyes on him. Her sisters had disowned her, and her mother was held incommunicado. Then, when Connie became pregnant, she retired from her job at the foundry, so the chances of reconciliation were further reduced.
On the sixth of December, 1934, Connie gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. She weighed in at six pounds and seven ounces. She had a mop of raven-black hair and screeched nonstop through her first ceremony when, four days later, she was brought to St. Jarlath’s and baptized Agnes Loretta Reddin, after the Blessed Agnes. The birth of Agnes prompted the last ever attempt to rejoin Connie with her family. With babe in arms, Connie boarded the tram and made her way to her former home in Kingstown. The house had not changed, but seemed bigger than she had remembered. She pulled the door chain. The door was opened by a maid. A new one. She was a good-looking young girl.
“Yes? Can I help you?” she asked.
“Could you tell Mr. Parker-Willis that Constance is here?” Connie smiled at the girl. She didn’t return it.
“What’s wrong with you, woman! Did you not see the sign on the gate? No beggars!” the maid scolded.
Constance held her temper. “I am his daughter, Constance Parker-Willis, and this is his granddaughter, Agnes. Now, if you cannot get my father, then send Mr. Pratchett out here.” Naming the butler had the desired effect, although the girl still made Connie wait at the door while she checked things out.
When the girl returned some minutes later, she was perplexed. “Mr. Parker-Willis says he does not wish to see you today or any other
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