Barbara Taylor Bradford - The Triumph of Katie Byrne

Katie’s glance swept over it as she climbed the flight of stone steps; these cut down through the green lawn which sloped away from the flagged terrace at the front facing the road.

For a moment she paused to admire the house, and her pleasure in its appearance brought a quick, bright smile to her face. New England Colonial in style, it had a white-painted clapboard façade, dark-green shutters and a slanted, black roof.

The original house dated back to the 1880s, and although its good bones had been retained throughout, some of the interior rooms had either been restored or remodelled by her father.

Michael Byrne prided himself on his knowledge of Colonial architecture, which he had always loved, and, in fact, he had turned his boyhood passion into a profitable business a few years after leaving school. He was one of the few local contractors who had a superior knowledge of Colonial design, and because of this he had managed to find plenty of building and restoration jobs, once he had established himself in business.

Katie’s father and her elder brother, Niall, kept the house looking pristine, and devoted a great deal of their free time to its care and upkeep. It seemed to Katie that they never had a paintbrush out of their hands, and even her younger brother, Finian, the intellectual with his nose permanently in a book, did occasionally put the book down to dip a brush into a pot of white paint. It struck her often that twelve-year-old Finian was now as addicted as the other two males in the family.

When Katie reached the terrace she veered to her right, headed for the side door and went into the house. A blast of lovely warm air hit her in the face as she stepped into the back hall and closed the door behind her. Once she had hung her jacket on a wall peg, she hurried down the corridor to the big family kitchen. This had always been the hub of the house, the spot where everyone congregated, and it was a congenial and comfortable room. This evening it was filled with a warm rosy glow which emanated from the old Victorian glass lamps, placed strategically around the room, and the pile of logs blazing in the big stone fireplace.

Pieces of copper and brass winked and gleamed in this lambent light, and the room was alive with the most cheerful of sounds…the fire crackling and sputtering in the hearth, the kettle whistling atop the stove, the clock ticking on the mantel, and, in the background, soft music playing on the radio.

And even the air itself was special, weighted with the most delicious mixture of mouthwatering smells…an apple pie put out to cool on a board near the sink, loaves of bread baking in the oven, an Irish stew simmering in a huge pot and emitting fragrant wafts of steam.

For a split second, Katie stood in the shadows by the door, breathing all this in, wallowing in the sheer joy of the familiar and much-loved atmosphere…the cosiness, the smell of her mother’s appetizing cooking, the warmth after the cold meadows. But most of all she relished the feeling of safety, the sense of belonging that came from being a cherished member of her family.

Her best girlfriends were not so lucky, she knew that, which made her appreciate her own family that much more. Carly, more often than not, went home to an empty house, because her mother worked at an old people’s home and kept most peculiar hours, and her father was long dead.

As for Denise, she was in much the same situation, in a sense. Her parents owned a small bar and restaurant in nearby Kent, and they were always there cooking and serving their customers at all hours of the day and night. Even so, it wasn’t all that profitable, according to Denise. Katie often wondered why they bothered to keep it open; she supposed it was the only way they knew how to eke out a living.

Of the three of them, Katie had long realized that she was the one who was the most fortunate, the one who had been truly blessed. Even though her mother also worked, she did so at home, keeping the books and doing the paperwork for the Byrne family business. She had a small office at the top of the house, and so she was always there for Katie and Finian. Niall, who was nineteen, was already working with his father in the building company.

At last Katie took a step forward and moved into the kitchen. Her mother was standing near the stove with a spatula in her hand, and she straightened and glanced over her shoulder on hearing the sound of footsteps.

At the sight of her daughter, Maureen Byrne’s face lit up. ‘Well, there you are, Katie Mary Bridget Byrne! But late again, so I see.’

‘I’m sorry, Mom, I really am. I got caught up with another rehearsal.’ Rushing across the floor, Katie flung her arms around her mother and hugged her tightly. Maureen Erin O’Keefe Byrne was the best. The very best.

Against her mother’s hair, Katie whispered, ‘I’ll make up for it, Momma. I’ll finish the cooking and set the table and do the dishes later. Just say you’re not angry with me.’

Drawing away, Maureen stared into her daughter’s bright blue eyes, twin reflections of her own, and said with a light laugh, ‘Oh don’t be so silly, mavourneen, of course I’m not mad at you. And don’t worry, there’s nothing much left to do, at least there’s no cooking anyway. Still, you could be setting the table for me…that’s a grand idea.’

Katie nodded and exclaimed, ‘I do feel awful, Mom, letting you down this way. You’ve had to do everything yourself and you’re not well yet. I should have been home earlier.’ She bit her lip, guilt-ridden, knowing her mother was still debilitated after her six-week bout with bronchitis.

‘Oh get along with you, Katie, ‘tis not important, and I’m feeling much better today. Besides, Finian helped me.’ Her lilting laugh rang out again. ‘Why, that boy’s becoming the perfect little assistant, I can tell you.’

Katie laughed with her, peered around the kitchen and asked, ‘And where is our little scholar?’

‘I suspect he’s off watching TV in the back room. I told him he could, once he’d peeled the vegetables, put out the garbage, and washed the pans in the sink. He’s a good boy really.’

Thinking out loud, Katie murmured, ‘I wonder why Finian has suddenly decided to become such a paragon of virtue, Mom? Could there be an ulterior motive?’

Maureen nodded. ‘I’m sure of it, Katie. He’s trying to please me for some reason.’ She smiled indulgently. ‘He’s a nice boy, but he’s brilliant, and like you I also think he’s plotting something. But what that is I can’t imagine. ‘Tis not important, darlin’.’

‘I guess not,’ Katie agreed, knowing that her mother was correct about Finian’s brilliance. He had an extraordinary mind for a boy of twelve, and in some ways he was old beyond his years.

Maureen, meanwhile, brought her attention back to the stove, began to stir the onions she was frying in the skillet, explaining, ‘I’ll pop these in the lamb stew for a bit of extra flavour, then I’ll help you set the table. After that we can –’ Maureen did not finish her sentence. She broke off, unexpectedly afflicted with a violent attack of coughing. Putting the spatula down quickly, she dug into her apron pocket for a tissue and covered her mouth with it.

The coughing went on for so long Katie became alarmed, and she eyed her mother with apprehension. ‘Are you all right, Mom? Can I get you anything? What can I do?’

Maureen was unable to answer; she simply averted her head.

Katie cried, ‘Why don’t you sit down? I’ll finish everything.’

Gradually Maureen became quieter, and she finally murmured, ‘I’m fine, Katie darlin’. Don’t fuss so.’

‘Take it easy now, Momma. I can set the table by myself,’ Katie answered in a more assertive voice, and immediately strode over to the Welsh dresser in the corner of the room. After taking down the white plates they used every day, she carried them over to the large square table near the picture window. The table had already been covered with a red-and-white checked cloth, and once she had deposited the plates, she went to get the other items they needed for supper.