Free Daughter of Australia by Harmony Verna Page B

son.”
    â€œYou could write a letter.” The boy’s expression changed and there was hope. “He was from Limerick. It says so in the diary. You could write the town or the church.”
    Father McIntyre ground his heel into the dirt and he was suddenly angry and he was too tired in mind to know that it was wrong to be angry. “Aren’t you happy here?” It was more accusation than question. “Haven’t I cared for you as a real father would? Haven’t I taught you and loved you as a real father would?”
    James’s face fell and his chin pointed to his chest.
    A pit filled the Father’s stomach. “I’m sorry, James.” He covered his eyes with his hands and rubbed away the anger. “I’m so sorry. I had no right to say such a thing.” He squeezed his temples. “I’m not well today. The Bishop’s visit . . . the stress of . . . I took it out on you. I’m sorry.” He pulled at the boy’s arm. “Do you forgive me?”
    â€œYes, Father.” But the great hurt still clung to his voice and face.
    â€œI’ll write the letter, James. Just as you asked. I’ll do it today. I promise.”
    James looked up and hope entered again, cautiously this time. Father McIntyre took the boy’s face in his hands and cradled it. “I’ll write the letter, James. But please don’t get your hopes up. Ireland’s a big place and O’Connell is a common name. I’ll write the letter. But please, my son, don’t dream too much.”
    James nodded, but the dream had already taken root.

C HAPTER 13
    T hey met at the cliffs every day—Leonora with bread and James with beetles and worms. They padded the nest with new, green leaves and refilled water in hollowed sticks. At times the bird beat her dead wing for flight and at others sat upon tucked legs while the meal was fed to her.
    James plopped next to a scraggly yellow-blossomed wattle and leaned on his elbows, his knees bent at the cliff edge and his bare toes pointing down toward the sea. Leonora’s legs crossed at the ankles as she swung them gently against the sandstone wall.
    The two small bodies sat in quiet company under a sky rich and thick with periwinkle, mimicked by the ocean in both expanse and depth. Hundreds of feet below their toes, unfiltered rays played across the sea as light dances over diamonds, the ocean moving lazily, peacefully along its natural current, meeting the cliffs with laps that hardly splashed. Pelicans and seagulls bobbed effortlessly along the ebbs and flows, their bellies fat and tired from feeding in the clear water. And the children settled into the environment just like the birds and lizards and insects, as if they had always been there.
    From the corner of his eye, James caught a glimpse of Leonora’s long hair, the way each strand held the sun. She turned to him and smiled and the warmth spread across his skin until he had to turn away.
    â€œIreland’s got cliffs like these,” James announced too loudly. “Only white. White as powder. They’re made of chalk. Did you know that? No different than the stuff they use on the blackboard. Father McIntyre’s got a whole book about the place.”
    Leonora leaned on one hand planted in the grass, listened with full eyes to every word.
    â€œThey call Ireland the Emerald Isle ’cause of all the green,” he continued. “The grass grows greener and brighter than anywhere else on earth. The houses there are white like the cliffs.” He looked far off over the sea. “Must be so beautiful with all that green and white. Must look like a field of mushrooms.” They settled their thoughts on the image.
    â€œIreland’s got loads of sheep, too. Not brown ones like here but soft white ones. They got piles of potatoes . . . got so many in the ground you can’t hardly put a spade down without digging one up. You’ve never seen