John Flaherty was born in 1945 in Castleblayney, County Monaghan, where rain-soaked streets met the dark waters of Lake Muckno. Raised in a town surrounded by stone-walled fields, he grew up with calloused hands and a heart tied to the land. At twenty-five, in 1970, ambition pulled him across the Irish Sea to London, leaving behind the familiar damp earth for a city pulsing with noise and possibility.
Portobello Road and Norland Road Markets overwhelmed him—market stalls overflowed with trinkets, voices clashed in a dozen languages, and the air carried diesel and spice. Broad-shouldered and strong, John took construction jobs in Notting Hill, where the ground trembled under heavy machinery. Evenings found him in a pub called The Stewart Arms, sipping bitter ale to ease the ache of long days. In 1971, at a smoky dance hall off Shepherd’s Bush, he met Anna, a woman from Castleblayney with bright green eyes and a laugh that pierced his soul. Their shared roots ignited a bond, fierce and immediate.
They married in 1972 at St. Mary’s Church in Castleblayney, returning briefly to Ireland for a ceremony bathed in soft light filtering through stained glass. They settled in London in a small flat off Norland Road, raising four children—Tina, Liam, Sean, and Jack. The house buzzed with life: Sunday dinners filled with chatter, kids racing through a tiny garden, Anna humming as she cooked. John’s rough hands held his family close, crafting a tough and tender life.
In 1999, tragedy struck. Anna fell ill with cancer, her vibrancy fading rapidly in a London hospital by the grey Thames. John sat helplessly, gripping her hand as she slipped away. They buried her in Castleblayney’s old graveyard by St. Mary’s, her name etched into granite. John knelt in the cold dirt, grief tearing through him like a storm.
London felt hollow after that. The flat became unbearable with Anna’s shawl still draped over a chair. John roamed Norland's chaotic market, the scents of fruit and cheap goods turning his stomach. Nights, he drank whiskey at The Stewart Arms, muttering about Anna to anyone who’d listen, calling her his guiding light. His children tried to console him, but he wasn't interested, tied only to her grave in Monaghan.
In 2003, John sat with his son Jack in their cluttered kitchen, the kettle hissing. His face, etched with loss, was resolute. “When I’m gone, Jack,” he said, voice low, “bury me with your mother in Castleblayney. Promise me.” Jack, throat tight, agreed, unaware of the weight of those words.
Days later, John took his own life, a gunshot echoing through the flat. Jack found him, the world collapsing around him.
Jack, now thirty, carried his father’s wish like a heavy stone. He called St. Mary’s, pleading to have John buried with Anna. The cemetery keeper’s reply was blunt: the plot was full, no exceptions. Jack’s desperation met a wall, and he hung up, tears stinging.
That night, at The Stewart Arms, Jack nursed a beer, grief thick in his chest. An older man, Tommy, with a moon face and dark brown eyes, sat beside him. A Dublin man with a rough past, Tommy leaned in. “Cremate him,” he said. “Get an urn, nothing fancy. Fly to Monaghan, go to the grave at midnight. Dig a small hole—eight inches wide, twelve deep. Place the urn, cover it, and leave. No one will know.”
Jack gripped his glass and asked, “You think it’ll work?”
Tommy’s smile was grim. “Did it for my father. It’s what he wanted.”
The plan felt reckless but right. Jack collected John’s ashes from a Kensal Green crematorium, the urn heavy in his hands. He flew to Dublin, then drove to Castleblayney under a hazy moon. At midnight, he slipped into St. Mary’s graveyard, the air thick with silence. Kneeling by Anna’s grave, he dug a small hole with a trowel, hands trembling as dirt clung to his skin. He placed the urn inside, covered it carefully, and stood, heart pounding. “You’re with her now, Dad,” he whispered. The wind stirred, as if in reply.
Ten years later, Jack walks Notting Hill's busy streets, passing the market’s clamour and sometimes visiting St. Mary’s, where his parents married. In Castleblayney, the grave holds its secret. John and Anna rest together, their bond sealed beneath the earth.