The Lough was bashing up against Murphy’s Rock, frantically competing with the wind which was blowing through Martha-May Glover’s air vent in her scullery, making it bang incessantly like a tick man on a mission for his money. “Have another Almond Slice my dear.” Martha-May exclaimed as she passed the willow-patterned plate and checked our cups were filled with tea. “Now.” She started, as she poked the already roaring fire and nuzzled down into her big cosy brown recliner. “Where was I?” “You were at the bit where…” I didn’t get finishing; it was one of Martha-May’s many rhetorical questions, and one of her countless quirks. “Oh yes, my dear, we were at the bit where my Winston dropped his glove outside The Penny Pop.” “What’s the Penny Pop again Martha-May?” I enquired, even though I knew the answer, but I knew that Martha-May liked to string it out. “It was the picture house… you young ones call it the movies, or the flicks or the cinema, isn’t that right? Again, rhetorical question, Martha-May talks as if on auto-pilot, she knows her own stories word perfect, and I can assure you, if someone asks her the same story ten years from now, she will repeat it verbatim. If she asks you a question during one of her stories you know not to answer, she doesn’t expect or even wish to be answered, it would disrupt her flow of perfect reflection.

Martha-May loved to talk about wartime Belfast and she often made sweets she had learnt to craft back then. “We had rationing y’know… but we found ways round it…my Winston always liked my Peppermint Lumps. You got Peppermint Oil from the Chemist on the Newtownards Road and you could make your own toffee at home. I still eat Peppermint Lumps everyday; it is like he has kissed me afresh. His lips always tasted of my Peppermint Lumps. I always asked him for Peppermint Kisses.” She did always keep a bowl of her Peppermint Lumps beside her recliner, but she never passed them around…they seemed very precious to her. Her hands would automatically reach over for a lump, place it in her mouth and she would sit humming with a glace in her eyes and a small smile would arrive and settle on her cerise pink lips, drawn perfectly in a little bow with lip liner.

Martha-May is, how shall I put it…an unconventional, she indulges in her own stories like the rest of us enjoy a good book or a soap opera. She has told me, and in fact anyone who visits her home in Ballylavendar, the same story whether it be the plumber coming to mend a burst pipe or a child who just happens to follow the smell of home-made sweets, the story of how she and her Winston met. Every person in the neighbourhood knows the tragic tale word perfect; I’m surprised that Wuthering Heights is still used in English Literature at the local schools and not Martha-May and Winston.

In a nutshell (because the full story takes almost two hours), Martha-May met the most beautiful man she had ever known on 7th December 1939, he was devastatingly handsome, only had eyes for her, but was killed 4 months later in the war. Martha-May never looked at another man, her Winston “could never be replaced”.

Martha-May’s brother told me a couple of years back that Winston had not died in the war. I just laughed and said, “Of course he died. He died 11 April 1940.” “My dear” he had said in hushed tones “I know I can trust you, you are a good friend to my sister, but I just need you to know that Winston only died a month ago…I have needed someone to tell, and I am glad it is off my chest now.” “But, but how can this be?” I asked dumbfounded. “Winston O’Grady was…what could you call it…a…a confidence trickster. Do you know he had been married four times when he died, and some of those times were whilst he was still married to other women…and…he had a different name for each wedding…” “Never.” I replied…“Winston was a real gentleman. He only had eyes for Martha-May…he was going to marry her after the war.” “Let me tell you about Winston O’Grady, he got a Dishonourable Discharge from the war, he has spent his life conning people out of money, going with married women, cheating on his wives, committing fraud, using false identities…need I go on?” “How long have you know this?” I asked, hesitant of hearing the answer. “I have always known.” He replied slowly. “Why have you let Martha-May go on, dedicating her life to the memory of this man, when you knew all along?” I asked, my tone letting me down by illustrating my anger. “Have you ever heard an old expression – Ignorance is Bliss?” “Yes… of course I have” I replied. “Well I chose what I believed was best for my sister.” “How can you know that was best for your sister…her life has been wasted on a memory that was a lie?” I argued. “I have always been confident I did the right thing…my sister has always had a young child-like spirit…I couldn’t let that be destroyed by this man.” “You don’t know that that would have happened Tommy.” I stated firmly. “You are right.” He said. “I didn’t always know I had done the right thing, especially at the start, but do you know what confirms for me every day of the week that I have done the right thing?” “What?” I asked. “Looking at Teenie Conway. Teenie was sprightly like my sister until life destroyed her. I could never risk seeing my sister’s spirit die like that.”

Teenie Conway and Martha-May have shared a house for most of their lives. Teenie has always been a ‘glass half empty’ kind of person. She is the same age as Martha-May but actually looks like she could almost be her mother. She has a permanent sarcastic scowl, like she’d been botoxed when frowning and couldn’t change her expression back. If you said the cow was black she would argue it was pure white. She was full of anger; you could sense it in her demeanour. I often wondered what Martha-May and Teenie had in common, and it always especially captivated me how they could actually live together. Teenie had had a tough life as a young woman, she too had met a man around the time Martha-May met Winston. Chuck Windham was an American from Forth Worth Texas. Teenie had been smitten by his roguish charms the minute she laid eyes on him, the way he chewed his gum, the way he called her by her full name Christina, and drawled it out in his Southwestern accent, and the way he played it allusive, and not desperate like the other boys. Teenie had discovered she was pregnant, Chuck said he had to go back to the U.S. for a couple of weeks, but on his return they would marry. Chuck never returned to Teenie but a letter with some dollar bills arrived telling Teenie to go see Granny Hudson, who would “deal with that little issue” (Granny Hudson was known for illegal back street abortions, some girls coming close to death at her hands). The letter ended thanking Teenie for “all the fun”, and how he had met “a fine, upstanding young woman” and they were to be married within the year. Teenie had gone to Granny Hudson, and after losing a lot of blood, passed out. Her parents had discovered what happened and had disowned her. That was when Martha-May decided they should get a house together.

Teenie could be excused for her bitterness when you looked at how she had been mistreated, life had eaten her up, and spat out a woman who never enjoyed a single thing of beauty… she seen magnificence in nothing, whether it be the first bloom or kittens at play… nothing ever really captivated her… her spirit was gone… she was there but there was no ‘va va voom’ so to speak.

I began to wonder had Martha-May’s brother been right, especially a couple weeks ago, when at the ripe old age of 94 Martha-May passed away. She died and I was happy in the knowledge that she had never been mistreated or cheated on or homogenised by domesticity. If Martha-May was a fantasist, if she lived in a world with rose coloured spectacles who cares, because we had a woman who radiated happiness, purity of spirit and lets face it, real life can wear us down…who doesn’t want to escape into their own world?

I began to think that yes, ignorance is bliss, because at the end of my life I would rather be ignorant and have enjoyed each moment with a childlike fervour like Martha-May, than have been broken by reality and knowledge like Teenie.

As I looked into Martha-May’s coffin I placed two Peppermint Lumps and a picture of Winston.