A Man for Others

Chapter 1

Belturbet is a small Irish town parallel to a tributary of the River Boyne where so much Irish history has played out in battle over the centuries. Slightly shabby houses and stores lined a main street that traversed the town completely. Belturbet appeared to have as many pubs as people, but the Three Horses was its most popular.

Molly Coughlan owned the Three Horses pub and ran it with an iron fist. She knew most people in town agreed that Robert Emmet Coogan was the best Belturbet had on offer. Nearly everyone in the town had recognized him as special since the day he had rescued young Peter Keane nearly a decade ago.

The street rose at each end of town and fell in its middle. Flowerboxes filled every window as if those could cover the underlying madness.

At the northern end of town, the two churches tethered to each of its warring factions seemed to glare at each other across the street corner next to the post office. It was a community rife with bitterness and religious discord, a town torn by The Troubles between Protestants and Catholics.

Despite those differences, Molly would put money on the fact that people on both sides of the divide would agree that Robby Coogan was the brightest light pointing to the future.

Robby was now slightly over six feet tall with dark curly hair and blue eyes that promised much yet revealed very little. He chiseled face was imbued with kindness and a gentle nature that only disappeared on the football ground. There, he revealed a fierce countenance that no one would see in an ordinary encounter.

Molly had heard many women admit to one another in the pub that it was this fierceness that made him a regular part of their fantasy life. She’d smile to herself watching these women of Belturbet make a sign of the cross when Robby would pass them on the street. Often, their faces were filled with a combination of hopeful joy, lust, and shame. Younger women even had trouble speaking to him in an ordinary manner, mumbling and stuttering in an unaccustomed way, some avoiding eye contact altogether.

Despite the general agreement as to his bright future, arguments raged daily in Molly’s pub as to the path Robby should choose for his future. Most people in Belturbet felt pride and a sense of loss knowing that the town couldn’t hold him for itself. “Oh, if he would just stay, the leadership he could provide, what a bright future we could have. He might be the one to make it all work,” they would often mutter to Molly over a pint.

As was known to most, Robby was facing an immediate decision.

Men generally fell on the side of Robby becoming a professional footballer. They knew that eventually he could lead Ireland to the World Cup. Belturbet’s women, however, would snort derisively at this suggestion from the men.

On Wednesday and Sunday evenings, they would gather in the Three Horses and listen to Robby’s musical gift on the guitar, his melodic voice bringing forth the poetic lyrics he wrote. The women knew that he would someday command stages around the world to countless adoring fans. Women knew, because they adored him. “He’s already a more magical musician than his pa, Mike,” they told one another.

Mike had taught every one of their children music for years and was himself known for his gentleness and musical talent. Visiting musicians from around the world detoured through Belturbet to visit Mike, and he would invite them to join joyous musical sessions for the public. For many years, Mike had held forth at the Three Horses on Wednesday and Sunday evenings, and was loved by all. The townsfolk would mutter to Molly while watching Mike’s set, “Just putting up with Maeve all these years, the man is a saint.” He brought their children, his students, into the public performance on Wednesdays, filling each with a love for music that their parents knew would never die. Molly would look back on those evenings as the most peacefully joyous times in the town’s history.

To Molly, Mike summed up his wife, Maeve, as “a brilliant shot”. Mike’s words were subtly intended to indicate that she was as powerful with her words as with actual weapons. Molly had heard the whispers that Maeve was deeply involved with the Provos of the Irish Republican Army and its more dangerous activities.

One rumor had her as the training officer of the IRA, teaching new members in the use of weapons and the construction of bombs. Not many had the nerve to take on Maeve when she held forth on the divide. So the townsfolk were grateful that Maeve seemed of late to be quieter and less visible in the Troubles.

In the heat and shadows of the Three Horses pub, the lunchtime argument took on new force. That afternoon, Robby was playing for the local side against its nearby rivals. It was rumored that Liverpool would have scouts in attendance who were intent on offering Robby a place in the club with an eye toward the first team in the near future.

The darkness inside the Three Horses was pierced by a glow emanating through the bay window facing Main Street, Belturbet’s principal street of commerce. The stone fireplace with its small fire burning filled the room with a peaty flavor that did well to smother the lasting odor of last night’s beer spills. Amid the dark wood of the benches, booths, and walls decorated primarily with beer and stout ads, the window provided regulars with a glowing light and a bright view into the light mist in the heart of Belturbet that day.

The pub was occupied mostly by men having lunch and stout. Molly tolerated no talk of religion or the Troubles. Given the nature of her clientele, she realized that arguments were in the ordinary course of life in Ireland, but she did remarkably well at keeping those arguments focused on sport, art, and literature. It didn’t hurt that most of the men were afraid of her wicked tongue. Many had felt the lash, deciding it wasn’t really worth it to break Molly’s rules.

“I’m just saying dey wouldn’t be coming here just for nothing—dey obviously have real intent,” said John McGuire, a tall, ascetically thin, self-acknowledged expert at everything. “Dey’ll know real quality when dey see it. This boy has everything. He can boss a midfield like no one around. And with that pace—brilliant.” McGuire looked at the group of men at the bar as if to challenge anyone to disagree.

“All right, I’ll grant you that’s true around here, but English professionals are another thing altogether,” said his companion, Phil Beatty. “Sure and all, he’s a real talent, tremendous pace and an eye for goal, but that’s competing with local lads, not da big fellas. Today’s derby will be a good test. The Dundalk side have got that brilliant lad in midfield, so, fair play to Robby, he’ll have to give it a real go.”

Not ordinarily a man of emotion, John McGuire appeared to Molly to have tears welling in his eyes when he added, “Can ye just imagine him molded by the hands of Shankly and playing alongside Keegan and Clemence and Hughes? We’ll be singing his praises forever and a day. All of County Cavan will be covered in glory for having brought forth such a rare talent.”

“And doesn’t she just think he hung the moon,” said Molly, looking into the fog and drawing their attention to the object of their discussion. At that moment, Robby Coogan was seen on the street carrying his younger sister, Caroline, whirling around his shoulders. The little redheaded was pulling his cap, squirming and laughing with a look of joy on her face that was brighter than the glow coming through the window into the dark gloom of the pub.

Phil Beatty’s attention was drawn to the small boy tailing behind the pair, football boots much too large for him slung around his neck. The boy was staring at his brother, Robby, with undisguised worship, a look of awe on his face. “That Padraig has so much to live up to, it isn’t fair,” he muttered, before adding, a bit louder, “I wish that radical bastard would leave Robby the hell alone.” Drawing a glare from Molly, Phil dipped his head and paid special attention to his Guinness, but he couldn’t help himself from saying, “There’s nothing holy about dat bastard.”

Just a moment before, Robby had stopped to speak with Father Mulkey, who had emerged from the post office across from the Three Horses. The short, portly priest was dressed in a black cassock with wooden rosary beads hanging from his waist. The fringe of white hair surrounded a bald head that appeared too large to fit his body. He was gesticulating to Robby and his red face seemed especially spirited.

Most would have bet that Mulkey was working hard on Robby, to remind him of some duty as an altar boy. The Coogans were known throughout County Cavan as a deeply religious family, father and mother attending church nearly every day. Father Mulkey had made it clear to all that he saw in Robby the kind of leadership the Church needed in constant supply.

Molly and Father Mulkey had grown up together, and Mulkey’s family was as deeply ingrained in the ongoing conflict for Irish independence as it was with the Catholic Church. Molly remember Mulkey’s pa once once that “belief in Catholicism and the war for Independence were soldiering in the same cause”. Shortly thereafter, Mulkey’s father had been found beaten to death in a back alley of the town. Most of the locals believed he had been killed by British soldiers to send a message.

Molly was hoping that the conversation wasn’t concerning some serious and dangerous idea. For reasons she...