The Lonesome Heart is Angry

Chapter One

Life went on in Castlemartin, like it had been doing for nearly one hundred and thirty years. That was how long it had been since the first church had been built on the rich lush land, not so far from the shore of Lough Neagh. This small Ulster village was nestled between two orchards, one with apples and one with pears. In Castlemartin another day began the same; (mostly) the things the six hundred and seventeen residents did they’ll do again.

This particular day hadn’t been a day to remember in a way that say, for instance, 22 November 1963 had been a day the world was incapable of forgetting. No, nothing like that day at all. Michael Gilmour, matchmaker to the parish of Castlemartin, County Derry in Northern Ireland, could recall in great detail the events of 22 November 1963. He could remember every single thing he’d said and done and, equally, he could recollect every personal thought he’d had.

But save for a meeting with the Kane twins, Michael Gilmour could remember precious little about the other day we are discussing. It had been a Sunday, of that he was sure. Sure because farmers could not, and would not, take time – excepting the Sabbath – from their fields or their chores for the recreational purpose of finding a wife.

The matchmaker’s wife had shown the Kane twins, Joe and Pat, into the ‘good’ room, just like she would have done with any other prospective clients. This particular room – sometimes referred to as the Sunday room, the parlour or even the sitting room, but mostly the ‘good’ room – was so named because it was saved only for special occasions. As such, it had an unused smell and feel to it. The furnishings were nearly all good as new, not because they were new but because they, like the room, were hardly ever used and whenever marks accidentally appeared on the table, chair, sideboard or anywhere else, the matchmaker’s wife could be seen, apron and spittle at the ready, frantically removing the offending stains. This precious furniture always smelt freshly polished, unlike the battered pieces in the living room, which the furniture from the ‘good’ room would eventually replace but only when the matchmaker and his wife could afford to upgrade.

The sooner this could happen the better because the furniture in the living room suffered a continued threshing from the matchmaker’s three children: Paul, ten years old, and Nick, five years old, separated by Marianne at seven years old. As well as the general wear and tear, there was also the negative impact caused by the continued smell of food, dogs and children.

The good room was at the front of the white-washed, pebble-dashed, two-storied house, although all callers to one of the oldest houses in the area entered by the back door. Neither Michael nor his wife Dorothy could remember the last time anyone had entered or left the house through the front door. In fact, in trying to recall such an historic event, they guessed it would have to have been some twelve years prior – before they were married and while Michael was still living under the same roof as his parents. Michael’s father had used the front door – or, at least, it had been used on his behalf – while making his final journey out of the house following a wake the entire village of Castlemartin was to talk about for years.

It was not intentional, nor however a disadvantage, that people in search of husbands or wives would have a chance to view the happiness of the matchmaker’s family as they looked through the living-room window while crossing a busy and toy-packed yard to the back door.

No, Michael could remember little about that fateful day. He knew that his wife would, as ever, have encouraged him to fasten the top button of his shirt and tighten up the knot of his tie. She would also most certainly have gone to their bedroom and fetched Michael’s ‘good’ jacket – a Harris Tweed – and helped him to put it on before answering the door.

There is also an odds-on chance that Dorothy, on showing the twins through to the front room where Michael would have been waiting to greet them, large leather-bound notebook always nearby, would have offered the twins tea and home-baked shortbread. And she would have delivered the tea and shortbread shortly thereafter, serving it on their best china.

Before the arrival of the liquid refreshments the matchmaker would have indulged in small chat with the twins. Then he would have used Dorothy’s timely interruption as a key point to shift the direction of the conversation. After his wife had left the front room, social chores accomplished, Michael would have gotten down to the business at hand: the matchmaking.

Michael Gilmour knew of the twins, having gone to the same school as as they had. They were still what could loosely be described as fresh-faced. They were definitely good looking, in a Paul Newman kind of way. They were identical, slim, green-eyed and about five foot ten-and-a-bit inches tall. Michael the matchmaker could tell them apart only when they smiled. Joe had a stern, begrudging and somewhat unforgiving smile, whereas Pat had a warm inviting grin that lit up his entire face. It seemed to Michael that Patrick Daniel Kane, to give him his full name, liked to laugh. On the other hand, Joseph David Kane laughed only when he felt it would be inappropriate not to do so.

Their arrival at the matchmaker’s house, on that Sunday in the long distant past, went pretty much unnoticed and unheeded by all apart from the matchmaker himself. Even Dorothy soon forgot they were in the house; Michael was in a session so she helped herself to a cup of the freshly brewed tea, turned on the radio and resumed her knitting – a large barrel affair of a jumper, supposedly for her husband but which threatened to grow out of control and become a multi-coloured bedspread unless she took command of the constantly swishing needles.

No, the Sunday we are discussing, that Sunday in the long distant past, had not been a day to remember – it was just another non-descript lazy Sunday afternoon. A Sunday afternoon when you are happy to have nothing to do so you can relax and lounge off your large meal, maybe go for a bit of a walk over the fields or steal a nap on the sofa, with your peace being disturbed by nothing other than the distant chimes of the ice-cream van.

But this particular Sunday was a day that drove the twins, the matchmaker, Dorothy and a few others onto an path of unavoidable conflict. A path which would become etched in the brains of all those involved and a path that, in its own way, proved to be as significant, volatile and life-changing as the event which had forever rattled the foundations of the entire world a little over a year earlier on Friday 22 November 1963.

Chapter Two

It should also be pointed out at this stage that Michael Gilmour was not in the least surprised when Pat and Joe Kane turned up on his doorstep, seeking out his specialist skills. He was nonetheless shocked, as in very shocked, by their unique request.

If truth be known, the matchmaker had been expecting a visit from one, if not both, of the twins. They were both of that awkward age of either finding a wife or being forever doomed to bachelorhood. They were in their late twenties – so late in their twenties, in fact, that their next birthday would see them leave their twenties forever, if Michael was not mistaken. And Michael made it his business never to be mistaken in such personal details.

Two summers past, the twins had been made parentless when their mother, ‘who’d a good innings’, passed away peacefully in her sleep, outliving her husband by ten years.

The matchmaker had guessed that right around the time they came calling on him, the two would have just begun to miss a woman’s touch about the house. He had guessed correctly. Neither Pat nor Joe had much time in the day, or inclination for that matter, for domestic chores. No, they were forced to work all the hours God sent them, and some more besides, to make their small farm just pay for itself.

‘Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?’ the matchmaker asked, as he reached for his leather-bound book, which he had rested on the sideboard to his right. He spoke with a distinct Ulster accent, which was part hurried, part jovial.

The twins had chosen to sit together on the sofa. They looked so out of place both in the somewhat formal setting and from the discomfort they were experiencing wearing their Sunday best.

Joseph Kane, the twin seated furthermost from Michael, used the opportunity of the matchmaker’s opening question to raise his teacup to his lips, thereby encouraging his brother to answer.

Michael considered Patrick and Joseph Kane as he awaited an answer to break a silence as bleak as a dawn walk by the nearby shores of Lough Neagh.

The twins’ suits were matching in cut and style but differed slightly in colour. They were perched on the edge of the sofa, like two hyper magpies on a fence, juggling teacup, saucer and shortbread. The matchmaker knew full well that should the brothers be in the comfort – and disarray – of their own farmhouse, the tea would be in rinsed-out mugs grasped firmly in fists while the other hands shovelled biscuits, or usually something more substantial and nutritious, like a sandwich or a chicken leg, down their throats.

But here they were, jet black hair permanently dishevelled due to receiving the threat of a comb only once a week, usually on Sunday mornings following their weekly shave. They were trying so hard to fit in with the matchmaker’s surroundings, to show him that they could fit in so that he would ‘take them on’. But they weren’t (fitting in) and the harder they tried, the more awkward the opera became.

Patrick smiled, half to himself, noting that Joe was keeping the teacup to his lips, frozen in a mock sucking pose, for an incredible amount of time, and half to the matchmaker indicating that he, the twin with the natural smile and sparkling eyes, was to be the spokesperson on this issue.

‘Well, it’s like this. We’ve been told – Joseph and me, that is – that you can … that you could find a wife for a man. Is that true?’ Patrick enquired, thinking that it seemed such an easy solution to their problem – well, at least the first part of their problem. He now raised the white china cup to his lips as a signal to the matchmaker that he had completed his question.

‘Yes.’

Michael Gilmour smiled as he opened his well-worn book and removed a fountain pen from his inside pocket. He unscrewed the greenish marble-patterned top and fixed it on the other end, exposing a nib that betrayed signs of blue ink. There was nothing unusual in this except that he executed the manoeuvre with one hand, a trick neither Joseph nor Patrick had ever seen before. They both openly marvelled at this display, impressed as though they were children discovering for the first time that there are not, in fact, little men sitting inside your wireless.

‘Yes, that is what I do, Pat: I make matches. You see, in the first half of this book of mine,’ Michael paused as he used his thumb to flick through the pages, ‘I take down all your details, along with all the other men I deal with. And in the second half of the book,’ again, for effect, he flicked through the pages, ‘I have the details of all the women looking for husbands – and I see if I can match them up. Mind you, my father, when he passed all this over to me, he told me never to forget the words of Oscar Wilde: Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious. So the perfect match may not always be the perfect match to start off with.’

The matchmaker felt, as ever in these circumstances, it was inappropriate, not to mention untimely, to reveal the end of Wilde’s quote, it being, ‘Both are disappointed’.

Pat looked at the book on the matchmaker’s lap. Joe’s eyes were still glued to the fountain pen as he tried to work out if he could pull off the same trick.

‘Let’s get the business bit out of the way first, shall we?’

The twins nodded in agreement.

‘Fair play to you both. I charge you ten pounds to register with me, in this special book of mine, and then if and when I match you up satisfactorily and you get married or move in together’ – the matchmaker showed a sign of disapproval regarding this last option but he was, first and foremost, a businessman, and if a couple chose to commit the ‘big sin’, they weren’t going to be allowed to commit another even bigger one by not paying him – ‘I charge a final 100 pounds – that’s calculated as fifty from the lady and fifty from the gent. In my experience, the man always tends to pay the hundred; whether it’s the lady’s cash or not is none of my business.’

The twins, without consulting each other, nodded agreement to the matchmaker’s terms.

‘So, who do we get then?’ Joe chipped in at last, speaking with his mouth full of biscuit.

‘Ah, well, it’s not as easy as that, I say, it’s not as easy as that. As I’ve already mentioned, I need to take down your details, all your particulars as it were: your age, build, height, weight, hair, teeth – you know, all those personal kind of things, plus all my own notes and observations. And I’ll need to know about your financial position, details about the farm, the stock, the debts, all your assets. All this stuff might seem a bit nosey, lads, but it’s all stuff I need to know in order to allow me to make a good match. And then I need to know, well, if you would want to have children and how many, or, equally, if you are not prepared to have children,’ Michael advised them. He’d already started to make his notes and after a bit of nib scratching across the clean page he continued: ‘Then I’ll need to know what each of you is looking for in a wife. Looks, age, whether you want your prospective wife to have a dowry. You have to think what you’re really looking for – a wife? A housekeeper? A mother for your children? Financial support for you and for your farm or –’

‘Isn’t that all the same person?’ Joe enquired.

‘No. Well, no, not really; some people don’t really want anything other than someone to look after them and after the marriage has been consummated, well, they don’t really want to be called upon for, well, to … look, shall we just say they won’t want to be responsible for those kinds of chores any more, if you know what I mean.’

The twins nodded, signalling that they knew exactly what the matchmaker meant.

The matchmaker refilled the twins’ cups with tea and invited them to help themselves to milk and sugar (three for Joe and one for Pat).

‘So, Pat, shall we start with yourself? Shall I take your details first?’

Pat did not reply, rather he merely allowed his face to transmit a dumb grin, just like a drunk who has fallen on his behind and finally realised he doesn’t have the wherewithal to resume the vertical.

‘Look, ah, would you feel more comfortable if we did this part separately?’ the matchmaker offered, thinking he’d found the reason for the resistance.

‘No!’ Joe replied, very nearly shouting the word. He eyeballed his brother with a ‘you tell him’ kind of stare.

‘Look, this is a bit awkward,’ his brother began, putting his tea down on a small pinewood coffee table in front of him and slipping back into the full wealth of the sofa’s comfort. Joe followed suit but kept his cup and saucer with him, one hand supporting the saucer from underneath and the other thumb and forefinger poised on the handle of the cup, ever ready to raise the cup to his mouth when either silence or thirst decreed the necessity.

‘Well, I’m sure you’ll understand, Michael, we’ve only a small farm.’

Joe rolled his eyes.

‘And you know it’s barely able to support the two of us,’ Pat continued, ignoring his brother. ‘You know, I’m amazed at how our parents managed to get by – I mean, when we were growing up I don’t remember being poor.’

‘We certainly weren’t rich,’ Joe interrupted.

‘No, perhaps not,’ Pat continued unperturbed, appearing almost to smile at the memory. ‘But I don’t remember us ever going hungry, or going without clean clothes on our backs, or suffering the embarrassment of hand-me-down school uniforms. I never really thought about it at the time. I suppose I really was guilty of taking for granted what my parents did for us. But now that I am aware of their limited resources, I appreciate it all the more.’

The matchmaker couldn’t be sure, but he thought that Joe faked a yawn behind his brother’s back. In the end Michael gave the apparently reluctant twin the benefit of the doubt, graciously figuring the yawn came not from disrespect but from the hours on the fields.

‘We’ve had a few bad years since our father died,’ Pat offered. ‘It’s been touch and go sometimes, I can tell you. Any time we get a few bob in, the bank manager is there, knocking on our door, threatening to call in the papers on our loan and take the farm away from us. But now we’re getting the hang of it and I think we are beginning to make it work, but only just. However, since our mother died, well, her part of the housework – her chores – well, that’s all been a bit of a disaster, if you know what I mean.’

‘Fair play, to you,’ was the matchmaker’s only reply.

‘Some days we don’t even get a chance to eat at all we’re so busy and then by the time it gets to the end of the day we’re too tired to worry about cooking or cleaning or washing or anything other than sleeping,’ Pat Kane said, as he continued to circle the point.

‘Yes, I understand. That’s perfectly understandable. Now you want wives and you don’t have a chance to go to dances or socials or parties to meet the women, so you’ve come to me. That’s all perfectly normal, nothing to be ashamed about,’ Michael coaxed, as he proceeded to write Patrick Daniel Kane in the left-hand column of his opened page.

‘Yes, we know and we’re fine with all of that – aren’t we, Joseph?’ Pat said, not venturing from the safety of his circle.

‘Yeah,’ came the indignant reply from his brother.

‘But, as I was saying, well, it’s a small farm and the money from the crops is spoken for and, well, you know, I don’t think that it could support two more people, well, at least not at this stage … but ….’

‘Oh, I see! One of you wants to get married immediately and the other one wants to wait?’ the matchmaker prompted hopefully.

The twins looked like they were Native Americans trying to converse with Palefaces for the first time.

‘Well, lads, which of you drew the short straw?’ the matchmaker gamely asked, not realising he was risking his own scalp. His long ginger mane would have made a fine trophy on anyone’s belt.

Joe stared at Pat with another of his ‘you tell him’ stares.

‘No, no – it’s not like that. You don’t understand … I … well, we … you see ….’

Joe placed his cup and saucer firmly on the coffee table, his impatience getting the better of him.

‘Look, Mr Gilmour, what my brother … what Pat is trying to tell you is that we – the both of us – want to take the same wife!’

Chapter Three

‘Absolutely out of the question! Totally impossible,’ the matchmaker hissed, spluttering his most recent mouthful of tea in a spray over the carpet and his shoes. He regained his composure, but only slightly, to continue, ‘Not to mention illegal in every county on the island of Ireland. What do you want to do to me – put me out of business?’

Joe started one of his ‘I told you he wouldn’t understand’ stares at Pat who, now he was able to come in from his circling, was happier to get into the conversation with the matchmaker.

‘No, no, not at all!’ he said, sounding enthusiastic for the first time. ‘Tell me what part of what we’re suggesting is illegal?’

‘I’m sorry, lads, but there’s a little thing called bigamy. God, if anyone even knew I was having this conversation with you I’d, I’d, I’d …’ When the matchmaker obviously couldn’t imagine anything worse that could, or would, happen to him, he took a different tack. ‘I don’t know whether to laugh or throw you both out on the street.’

‘Look, Michael, we don’t want to get you in trouble, nor do we wish to get into trouble ourselves and we certainly wouldn’t like to start a relationship off with a poor girl by having her commit bigamy,’ Pat started.

‘Well, that’s good to hear,’ the matchmaker stated, feeling compelled to interrupt. ‘I say that’s great to hear.’

‘But don’t you see, Michael, she wouldn’t be? She wouldn’t be committing bigamy; she’d only be marrying the one of us!’

‘What? But I thought you said—’

‘No, no! Look, let me explain. We’ve thought about this, thought about it a lot, and believe me there is absolutely nothing illegal about what we are suggesting. We just need to find a partner who will agree to it,’ Pat said, as he smiled at the matchmaker.

The matchmaker had the feeling the twin had reasoned this through a lot in his mind. Even Joe forced a smile of hope as his brother, circling over, continued to plough the field.

‘Firstly, you find us a potential wife and on the wedding day only one of us will be at the wedding. As you know, we both have D as a middle initial so this, this lucky woman will be marrying a D. Kane and even on the day she won’t know which one of us turns up, which one of us she will actually be marrying.’

The matchmaker couldn’t believe he was hearing what he was hearing. In all the years he and his father and his father’s father before that had been matchmakers there had been some weird and wonderful twists, but never, ever one quite as far around the corner as this.

‘There’ll be no fuss,’ Pat persisted, as Joe twisted nervously on the sofa. ‘We’ll go down to Belfast and do the business in a registry office – no-one from here will be aware of anything and then our wife will move into the farm with us and look after us both.’

‘I can’t believe you lads. I really can’t,’ Michael said, staring only at Joseph, since he felt Joseph D. Kane was the real culprit behind this folly. Joe refused to meet his stare so Michael continued. ‘How on earth do you think you’ll ever find a woman to agree to this? Eh? And I suppose you mean by looking after you both she’ll also be expected to have sexual relations with the two of you? God, if the wife knew I was even in a room where this conversation was taking place I’d be for the high jump!’

‘Come on, Mr Gilmour, it’s no big thing,’ Joe began. ‘It’s not a big thing with us – you know we’ll be too busy most of the time to even talk to our wife, let alone bother her, and we’ll give you a guarantee that our joint demands on her time, you know, in the bedroom, well, it will be no more than if she were married to just the one husband.’

‘Would you ever listen to yourselves, would you? You mean, of course, if she were married as normal, don’t you?’ Michael began to laugh. ‘I really can’t believe this – I’m sorry, but I really can’t.’

The matchmaker started to pour himself another cup of tea only to realise that his cup was still nearly full. He sat down and scratched his head with his thin fingers and sighed a few times before saying: ‘Look, part of the thing here is that when I am, in normal circumstances, asked to do this I take down all your details. I make a few notes of my own. I consider all the information I have. I then go to the back of the book and I check through the details of the ladies I have on file to see if there are any of them who I feel might make a good match. You have to know that I think about all this for a long, long time. I like my matches to work. Don’t you see? Good, solid, successful matches are like my best advertisements: successful matches are my reputation. I’m not like you. I don’t deal in things I can sell, things like potatoes, like milk, like hay or like cattle. I’m not a carpenter; I can’t make a great table or chair and take it into the market next Thursday in Magherafelt and sell it and feed the family for a week on the proceeds and have enough left over to buy some more wood to make another table and so on.’

The twins looked on and listened in amazement. They were like two kittens being chastised for playing with a ball of wool and now they watched, hardly daring to move a muscle, as their master rolled the wool back into its ball, all neat and tidy. However, given an opportunity, they would be right back in there, in the thick of it, messing with the wool again. The twins realised this was the time to remain quiet, so quiet they remained and let the matchmaker continue uninterrupted.

‘No, I’m a matchmaker, I’m proud of that. It’s a grand thing to be and it has served the last two generations of Gilmours well, very well. But, as I say, it’s all down to reputation. That’s all I have to sell – my reputation and to a lesser degree the reputations of my father and grandfather. So you can see I’m very careful and before I even suggest my matches I’m pretty sure something will work out. You know, even if it’s not love at first sight that’s OK. I’ll tell you what I believe to be true: where there is no love, put love and you will find love. My granddad always used to tell me that and I couldn’t get to grips with it when I was younger. But the older I grow and the more I see people together and working with each other, the more I believe that to be true. Of course the couple in question has to at least like each other in the first place. There has to be a basic bond and trust there. There has to be a willingness to try and make it work.’

The kittens were growing restless again but the matchmaker continued unperturbed.

‘So I make my match. I don’t work out a wish list in advance – I make my match and suggest it. I don’t have a second and third choice ready in the wings just in case the first doesn’t work out. A lot of people think that I do. But, Pat and Joe, let me tell you: it’s much more of an exact science than that, this matchmaking business. Obviously if it doesn’t work we go back to the drawing board and I consider why the match didn’t work before I’m willing to try another recommendation. But anyway, when I make the match I insist on a few casual meetings between the potential partners. You must remember we have to try to make this as natural a process as possible,’ the matchmaker added.

Four arched eyebrows confirmed that his audience was confused.

‘OK, for argument’s sake, let’s say that you are not as busy as you are and you both have some time to spend in, em … shall we say, recreational pursuits. So you go to a dance, you go to a pub, you go to a party or you go to a friend’s house for a bit of craic. And you see a girl, a girl who catches your eye. Now, nine times out of ten you won’t do anything about it the first time you see her. You’ll wait until you see someone you know who knows her – could even be her brother or sister who happens to be a friend of yours. And you ask about this girl: what’s she like? Has she got a boy? Does she go to dances? Where does she hang out? You’d have lots and lots of questions. Then you’ll maybe go to a dance or a party or your friend’s house with an excuse to see her again without actually doing anything about it.’ Michael smiled – the twins didn’t realise he was recalling the exact way he’d chased his then wife-to-be, Dorothy.

‘Maybe you’ll be introduced, find an excuse to say something, just make that vital connection. So next time you see her, no matter where it might be, you’ll have the confidence to talk to her a bit more. And then you might check back in with your first friend to ascertain if she likes you. You might ask one of those hypothetical questions, you know, Em, you know, so and so, well, em, I was thinking: do you know what would happen if I … There’s this friend of mine and he really likes her and he was thinking, and I said I would check for him, so do you think if he asked her out, you know, would she go, you know, out with him? And the friend will probably answer, "Oh yes – where were you thinking of taking her to?"’

Pat and Joe smiled, forgetting the underlying concern the three men in the room were feeling.

‘Then you ask her out. You go for a walk, you talk a lot, you leave her home, but before she’s returned to the safety of her parents’ house you ask her when you can see her again, and bit by bit you get to know one another and start to like each other and it develops from there and maybe, just maybe, after a couple of years you will discuss marriage. Whereas when my potential matches go out for their first date, yes, even on their first date, marriage is on the agenda. It might be in the very back of the minds of both parties, but it is still there. So I’ll go along on the first two or three meetings and stay with the matched couple for the entire time. Then I’ll talk to both of them separately and try to gauge how sincere they are about each other. Then and only then will I suggest the couple go on a date with a chaperone. After they’ve had a few such dates I’ll chat to them again – separately and together – to see how it’s going. I’ll encourage the two of them to openly discuss with each other what they’re feeling and then, if it’s going to fly, I let them get on with it. But it’s important, vitally important, that the early stages are as natural as humanly possible. Do youse understand that?’

The twins nodded.

‘So at what point in this procedure were youse two perverts going to tell the sorry lass that she’d be sleeping with both of you?’

The matchmaker stood up, undid the top button of his white shirt and loosened his tie. Dorothy would be cross at this but he would do it back up again before she saw him. He always felt very uncomfortable with all his shirt buttons and tie done up, to the extent that his wife had started buying him shirts a size bigger to help him out, but all her efforts proved to be in vain. He was fine now though, at ease in his brown cords, light tan shoes, Harris Tweed jacket, starched white shirt and brown tie. He had a light frame at five foot eight inches tall and clothes hung well on him, the way they tended to on school teachers. The heat in the front room, either from the conversation or from the continuously burning peat and wood fire, had brought a flush to his cheeks to match his hair. He opened the window, allowing the sounds of the countryside to spill in.

‘Nah, nah! You’re making it all sound sordid,’ Pat complained.

‘Well, look at the facts, gentlemen; from where I’m standing it all sounds pretty sordid to me,’ the matchmaker replied. He had remained by the open window to bask in the cool breeze. ‘If I went and told the wife, if I said, Oh, by the way, Dorothy, you know the meeting I’ve just had with the twins? Well, they’re looking for a wife, and she’d say, Oh that’s nice, Michael, they’re good people, and I’d say, That’s what I always thought, but get this: they just want the one wife between the two of them. And do you know what she’d do if I told her that?’

If the twins did know, and they could only guess, neither of them was saying.

‘Well, I’ll tell you – she’d have us all out of this house and over in the mucky ditch across the other side of Apple Orchard Lane, Sunday clothes or not!’

‘No, look, Michael – it’s much simpler than that,’ Pat began.

‘It is?’ Michael replied, stretching the ‘is’.

‘Yes, look, here’s the thing: we – Joe and me – each go separately to these meetings and dates and whatever and when you feel the time is appropriate we can make our suggestion. It’ll have nothing whatsoever to do with you. No-one will be aware that you know anything about it. In fact, no-one, full stop – except for her, Joe and I and yourself – will be aware of the details. But when we make the suggestion, well, if it goes down as badly as you think it might, then we can make out that it was a joke all along and that we were only kidding.’

‘A joke? Only kidding? I’ll tell you, youse two with all your jokes and kidding about, you’re funny enough to get on Sunday Night at the London Palladium. Fair play to you, aye, I say, fair play to you, but it’s certainly on the stage youse two should be.’

The twins could see that this particular ball of wool was about to be put away on a high shelf and out of their reach forever.

‘OK, why don’t we do this, Michael – why don’t we just give you all our details now and we pay you a tenner each today? We’ll go away and then you can think about it for a while and if you decide that you can’t or don’t want to do anything about it, well then that will be absolutely fine. There it will stay forever. Just think about it will you?’ Pat pleaded.

Forty minutes later the twins were walking down Railway Terrace, homeward bound to their small farm on the opposite side of Castlemartin on the way to the townland of Toome.

While the matchmaker was redoing his tie, Pat was hurriedly undoing his and the top button of his factory blue shirt. He walked in silence, deep in thought, for about fifty yards before he addressed his brother.

‘I told you he wouldn’t go for it, didn’t I?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you. Don’t you remember Gilmour at school? He was a tight bastard then and if he can make two hundred and thirty quid for the one match, and providing he can prove to himself that it’s not illegal – which it’s not – then, just as sure as the Pope’s a Catholic, Gilmour’ll go for it. Just you wait and see.’

Chapter Four

Michael Gilmour had heard many strange requests during his dozen years of matchmaking. Even before that he’d heard, on numerous occasions, his father’s forty years of matchmaking stories. But he’d never heard, never even heard of, a request as bizarre as the one the Kane twins had made to him.

Discussing the situation with Dorothy was purely and simply out of the question as far as he was concerned. However, should he have had the courage to entertain her opinion on this he would have found, to his surprise, that she would have had a much more liberal slant on the situation than he would have given her credit for.

Instead, he chose to discuss the unique circumstances with his wife’s sister, Margaret Watson. The matchmaker and his sister-in-law had always been very comfortable with each other and had often sought each other’s counsel on a variety of private and personal subjects.

This dated back to Michael and Dorothy’s courting days. How, in fact, does a matchmaker make a match for himself? In Michael’s case it was easy: he’d been good friends with Margaret at school and, as such, he’d discussed each and (well, very nearly) every move in his budding relationship with her sister. So in point of fact, you could say that Margaret had acted as matchmaker in that particularly smooth romance.

Margaret Watson had inherited her father’s spirit and her mother’s sculpted looks. Dorothy was much the opposite, but that was fine for Michael, since he found her qualities more reassuring in a wife. Margaret had shunned the attention of many a bachelor, some eligible with looks and money, some eligible with looks and no money, some eligible with money and no looks and some with none of the above but tempting nonetheless. Although tempted she seldom was. Not yet for her the married life; no, instead she helped to marry off her sister and, in the process, retained her own freedom to search for adventure. Dorothy, on the other hand, had been at that stage in her life where she needed a husband, needed to start a family. She’d been unlucky in love, but only, Maggie felt, because she’d been more preoccupied with the hurt she’d suffered, rather than considering that she’d had a lucky escape from a life spent with the wrong man.

Maggie adopted her sister’s new family as her own and by doing so she was filling a very evident gap in her own life – well … evident, that was, to all excepting herself. She liked Michael more than she ever felt she should like a brother-in-law, but because they both shared a genuine love for Dorothy there was never a moment of awkwardness between them. And on top of all of that, Paul, Nick and Marianne got to enjoy the unselfish love of their dear aunt.

‘Eh, you know the Kane twins, Joe and Pat, don’t you?’ Michael began tentatively as they walked away from his house and up and over the field that the neighbouring farmer rented from Michael to graze his small herd of cows and two horses.

‘Yes, yes, of course. Sure, weren’t we all at school around the same time? Oh God, Pat had such beautiful eyes – that was the only way I could tell them apart,’ Margaret replied, as she side-stepped a still-steaming fly magnet.

‘Well, it’s funny. I mean, it’s not really funny, but they came to see me a few Sundays ago and …’

Michael hesitated to such an extent his silence encouraged Margaret to offer: ‘What were they looking for – wives?’

‘No,’ he uttered hesitantly, shaking his head slowly, his ginger hair blowing this way and that with the wind, ‘not really.’

‘Not really? Sorry, so this wasn’t to do with your wedding