At number six Galway Way, staring out to the sea, stood a sturdy wood house with a red front door in which the O’Donoghues had lived for thirty years. Having once built the establishment himself as a wedding gift for his young bride, Patrick O’Donoghue never once dreamed of selling it; not even when the family had barely two shillings to rub together.
The couple had lived there somewhat happily for their thirty years of marriage, raising four beautiful and healthy children who had long since moved away. Still, Mr. O’Donoghue had to work two jobs to keep food on the table and was commonly absent. When he wasn’t at work, Patrick O’Donoghue could frequently be spotted in a local pub, drinking away most of his days earnings. Kathleen O’Donoghue, his wife, often found herself quite lonely during her husband’s absences and was habitually sighted at the farmer’s market buying fresh eggs.
“How many this week, ma’am?” Sean Halloran, the young farmer, asked as he routinely prepared to count out a seemingly random amount of eggs for Mrs. O’Donoghue.
“Three would do thank you,” Mrs. O’Donoghue responded, bowing her head slightly.
“There you are, ma’am,” Sean Halloran said, as he counted out three eggs and placed them in Mrs. O’Donoghue’s wicker basket, “That’ll be three shillings please. This batch is awful nice,” he added hurriedly, as a justification of the inflated price.
“That’s fine dear,” Mrs. O’Donoghue said, digging the coins out of her purse, “I’ll see you next week, son.” At that, she placed the coins in the young man’s callused hand and turned to walk away.
“How’s Mr. O’Donoghue doing these days, ma’am?” Sean asked politely, “I haven’t seen much of him lately. He still keeping the local pubs in business?” he added with a playful wink.
“He sure is,” Mrs. O’Donoghue admitted sadly, absently fidgeting with her woolen scarf, “Until next week, Mr. Halloran.”
Sean Halloran tipped his cap and Kathleen O’Donoghue started home, basket in hand.
That night, the night of Mr. and Mrs. O’Donoghue’s thirtieth wedding anniversary, the aging couple had donned their fanciest clothes in preparation for a night out. Kathleen O’Donoghue descended the winding wooden staircase clad in an emerald coloured velvet dress that brought out the green in her sparkling eyes and flattered her slim figure nicely. She had even tied a matching emerald ribbon in her waist length auburn hair, which was now flecked with strands of gray. Standing at the foot of the stairs, Patrick O’Donoghue smiled as he took in the beauty of his wife-the woman he fallen in love with as a boy and was still just as infatuated with thirty years later.
“I must be the luckiest man in all of Ireland,” he said quietly, reaching to cradle his wife’s soft face in his own rough hand.
Mrs. O’Donoghue blushed the way she used to when they were first married, but was careful not to meet her husband’s gaze. “Well don’t you look handsome,” she said, fingering the smooth fabric of his suit jacket, “Like a real movie star.”
Mr. O’Donoghue smiled as he smoothed the front of his fine blue striped suit. He also thought he looked sharp in it, and was glad his wife had mentioned it. Whenever he wore that suit he truly fancied himself a man of wealth and distinction- despite the fact that he had once won it in a game of billiards against a well-to-do visiting Englishman.
This was the first date the O’Donoghues had been on since the couple was first married all those years ago. Mr. O’Donoghue had always been either too busy, or too drunk, to take his wife anywhere. Tonight, he had decided to take the night off work, and pry himself off of his pub stool long enough to take his Kathleen out for a proper dinner.
“Tonight will be special,” he told his wife as he helped her into her long coat, “I’ll see to it that you are treated like the angel you are, love.” He kissed her forehead and Kathleen felt her cheeks flush pink again.
“You always did know how to charm a woman,” Mrs. O’Donoghue murmured softly, tucking a ringlet of copper hair behind her ear. “Oh, I almost forgot!” she exclaimed, clutching her bare earlobes, “I left my earrings in the drawer of my nightstand. Would you be a saint and go fetch your angel her earrings?”
Patrick O’Donoghue chuckled. “Of course, my angel,” he said and walked up the rickety wood staircase to the modest bedroom.
Once inside, Patrick O’Donoghue walked to his wife’s side of the bed and opened the middle drawer of her oak nightstand. Inside, he saw three large eggs and close to a hundred pounds in coins. Startled at the odd scene before him, Mr. O’Donoghue grabbed the three eggs and inspected them carefully. They were fresh. Kathleen must have bought them at the market earlier that day.
But why has she got these eggs hidden away in her bedside table? Mr. O’Donoghue asked himself. My poor Kathleen must be losing her mind.
Utterly confused, Mr. O’Donoghue walked back down the stairs, eggs in hand, to confront his wife.
Seeing the befuddled look on her husband’s face, Mrs. O’Donoghue walked quickly over to him and asked him what was wrong. That’s when she noticed the eggs Patrick was cradling in his hands. A wave of guilt enveloped Kathleen O’Donoghue as she tried to decide what she was to do next. She stood there, frozen, as a lump settled in the pit of her stomach and she felt as if she might be sick.
“What’s the meaning of these eggs?” Mr. O’Donoghue asked his wife, “I must have opened the wrong drawer and I saw these three eggs sitting there. You aren’t sick are you Kathleen? You're not losing your mind, my love?”
Mrs. O’Donoghue sighed, took the eggs carefully from her husband’s hands and led him quietly to the kitchen. “Why don’t you sit down, dear, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
Unsure of what was about to happen, Mr. O’Donoghue pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat himself down, studying his wife’s contrite expression with unease.
Fighting to control her emotions, Mrs. O’Donoghue told her husband as calmly as she could that each egg represented an affair that she had had. She explained that with him gone all the time, either working, or drunk, she got so unbearably lonely and depressed and felt she had no other choice.
Mr. O’Donoghue stared at his wife with a blank look on his face. True, he may not have been the best husband, but he would never dream of being with another woman. He dared not imagine his wife in the arms of another man, not his sweet Kathleen, his angel. His mind was racing a mile a minute, trying to process this shocking information.
“For the sake of Saint Peter, won’t you say something, Patrick?” Kathleen demanded of her husband, her voice cracking half way through as hot tears began to spill down her face.
Patrick O’Donoghue looked at his wife, saw her obvious pain and remorse, and reminded himself of how much he loved her.
“I’m hurt,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady, “But I still love you and I still want to be your husband. You need only ask for God’s forgiveness now because you have mine.”
Kathleen O’Donoghue tried to smile, but instead her face cracked and loud sobs began to wrack themselves through her chest.
Mr. O’Donoghue stood up and held his wife, “There, there,” he whispered in her ear as he gently pet her graying hair, “Why don’t you get yourself cleaned up and we’ll still go out to dinner. We can talk about this tomorrow. I promised you tonight would be special, love, and I’m a man of my word.” For the second time that night, Mr. O’Donoghue kissed his wife’s forehead. He squeezed her hand and let her go.
Kathleen smiled shyly up at him with tear filled eyes and nodded. As she turned to go freshen up, her husband stopped her.
“I just have one question,” he called softly, staring solemnly down at his shoes.
Mrs. O’Donoghue turned back to face her husband, “Anything,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek.
Slowly lifting his head to meet his wife’s stare, Mr. O’Donoghue began his question steadily, “Where did you get all that money from? There must be near a hundred pounds sitting in the drawer where I found those eggs.” He paused, hesitating. “Where did you get that money, Kathleen?”
Mrs. O’Donoghue closed her eyes and took a deep breath as a pained expression contorted her delicate features. “Well you see, Patrick,” she said, walking over to her husband and taking both of his rough hands in her own, “Every time I collected a dozen eggs, I sold them."