A Kiss and a Promise by Katie Flynn Page A

been alive, he would have considered trying to find a job in Dublin, but now there was simply no point. City living was not for him, never had been. Now, all his thoughts were centred on the farm in Kerry which he had not seen for so long.
    He had been paid off by the Navy, and because his wages had been so overdue he had collected a tidy sum, so he could have caught a train, which would have taken him home in a matter of hours. Instead, he decided to tramp it. He knew he would get lifts from time to time because his fellow countrymen were always anxious to help one another, and once he was on the road he was glad he had taken the decision to walk. The first person to stop for him was a baker, driving out to replenish his stocks of a certain type of wheat flour. The baker was a talkative little man and when Michael was afoot once more, he knew most of what there was to know about Mr Flanagan, his seven children and his ingenious little wife who made all their clothes and kept the house spotless, yet worked in the bakery six days a week.
    Despite the fact that it was still winter, it was mild enough for Michael to creep into a haystack on one occasion when darkness found him far from the nearest village or farm, but apart from that he found someone willing to give him a bed every night. He always offered to pay but when they discovered that he was a sailor and had been fighting the Huns, they assured him that payment was not necessary; they were glad to do their bit for such a one as he.
    It took him two weeks to cross the country and all that time he was in a fever to get home. He could not forget Stella, did not want to forget her, but in the back of his mind he believed that once he was home again, the pain of loss would diminish and the recollection of her lovely face and sweet, gentle ways would gradually fade. So when he found himself walking up the narrow lane, with steep banks on either side, that led to his home, his heart gave a bound of joy. He would return to his old life and his old ways, look to his parents and old friends for companionship and start to forget the misery of the war and the worse misery of losing Stella.
    He rounded the corner of the lane and there was the cottage. It had not changed at all. The white cob walls were kept clean by the salt-laden breeze coming off the sea, which was only a matter of twenty or thirty yards from the end of their orchard, and the thatched roof overhung the windows like the shaggy hair overhanging the eyes of an old English sheepdog. Because of the strong winds which drove inshore from the Atlantic, the thatch was criss-crossed with ropes which were attached to boulders and it was this alone, during winter gales, which kept the thatch in place. As it was January, a thread of blue smoke came from the chimney and there was no one working in the garden. It was a fine day, however, the pale blue sky arching overhead, so probably Michael’s daddy would be out in his fishing boat and his mammy occupied within doors.
    Michael raised his hand to the latch and was halfway through the small wicket gate when something whacked him in the back with such ferocity that he nearly fell over. Even as he turned to see who – or what – had hit him, he knew. It was old Dan, his father’s sheepdog, and one of his own best friends, for boy and dog had spent many hours together as Michael roamed the woods, meadows and coastline, searching for gulls’ eggs, collecting blackberries or nuts, or sitting patiently on the rocks and casting out a line in the hope that some fat and foolish fish would take his bait.
    The dog was yelping with excitement, jumping up and trying to lick Michael’s face, and when Michael put both arms round him and lifted him off his feet he was in ecstasy, licking Michael’s countenance so thoroughly that not an inch of it remained dry.
    ‘Well, so that’s what all the fuss was about! You’ve had your turn, Danny, now leave the boy alone so’s he can give his