“You have interesting lines,” she said as she carefully traced them with her finger. I noticed her hands for the first time. They were small, strong, slightly calloused with clean but uneven nails. No manicure for this hard-working woman.
“Oh?”
“You have a long life line.” Her finger traced the crease in my palm, then around the thin white gold band on my fourth finger.
“Does that bother you?” I asked. “No-o-o,” she replied, “not particularly. At least, you’re honest; some men aren’t.”
“I haven’t anything to hide, Maggie. I am married and have two wonderful children, a boy and a girl, back in Pennsylvania.”
A lengthy silence ensued as she continued to stroke my hand. Her touch was tender. The brash, belligerent attitude I had seen at the hotel was gone.
She looked up at me, her eyes again unreadable. “You know, Yank, you are not at all like most Americans I’ve met.”
I wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. So I waited for her to continue.
“You really listen to what people say. I find that rare.”
More silence. She toyed with her empty glass, and then sighed as if making up her mind.
“I’m not sure I can get away tomorrow. There are certain chores for Saturday; it will depend on my boarders.”
“May I call you? Where do you live?” She wrote her phone number and address on a napkin and handed it to me. It turned out her boarding house was on Western Road, near Cork College and just a few blocks from Jury’s Hotel.
“Don’t call before nine,” she warned.
At that point, Eddie and Mary returned. It seemed that even Good Time Charlie had had enough and was closing.
As we walked to Eddie’s car, a slight drizzle began. Eddie, now going strong, insisted on stopping at the hotel and having coffee or tea before calling it a night, or more accurately a morning. But the front door of the hotel was locked and we had to roust out the night porter to let me in. Only residents, no visitors, he said firmly. No tea; no coffee. Good night!
While Eddie argued with the porter without success, I managed a brief whisper to Maggie, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” She nodded, but didn’t look at me.
Chapter 6
ON THE ROAD
Tired as I was, I kept waking in the night wondering what I was doing. This was totally unlike me. I was a married man, happily for most of our 13 years, and had two beautiful kids, a 10-year-old boy named Jonathan and a 7-year-old girl Elizabeth who was the blond image of her mother.
Of course, nothing had happened with Maggie. I hadn’t kissed her; I hadn’t even put my arm around her. Yet, I had made arrangements to spend the day with her. How strange was that? I was lonely and missing my family, that was all.
Maybe I should just forget it and not call. She was just a passing stranger in the night. That thought conjured up the Sinatra ballad, “Strangers in the Night,” and all that song implied. Finally, I drifted off to troubled sleep.
I awoke with sun streaming in my face from a partly open drape. At breakfast, I definitely decided not to call, but to go for a drive by myself.
At 9:05 I phoned Maggie. “Pick me up at half ten,” she said.
Damn! I couldn’t believe how weak I was. I hadn’t had a “date” with anyone but my wife since seventh grade. That was when I met Kerri. She was new in school, and one of the girls in my class invited me to a party to “meet the new girl.” I went, fell in love, and that was it. We married right after high school and went to Penn State together. Since Kerri, I had never looked at another girl. Well, that was not quite true. I have to admit that I’d “looked.” Hey, I’m a man, not a saint. But in our 13 years of marriage, I had never even made a pass at anyone but Kerri.
Now, I had committed to taking a girl/woman I never knew before last night on a tour of the Irish countryside.
The iron gate squeaked as I lifted the latch and pushed it open. An ancient stone wall surrounded the tiny front garden as I approached the kelly green door. Before my hand touched the knocker, the door opened and Maggie Green Hat appeared. She obviously was in good spirits. “Morning!” She carried a picnic basket.
“What’s that for?”
“We might get hungry, Yank.”
Stowing the basket in the “boot” or trunk of the car, she slid into the front seat on my left. Learning to drive a stick shift on the left side of the road had been one of my early learning experiences in Ireland.
Glancing at Maggie, she was a picture, all green and pink. Green hat jammed on her head, she wore a bright green turtle neck, light blue jeans and a puffy pink vest with a fluffy pink scarf about her neck. Green mittens matched the hat.
Surprising me with a quick kiss on the cheek, she declared, “We’re off!”
“To where?”
“To the beach. That way.” She pointed down Western Road.
The day was one of those glorious Irish days with loads of sun but a brisk wind to chill the air and rosy the cheeks. As we left Cork City, she was busy pointing out the sights that people in Cork love to show tourists.
The gold angel atop St. Finbarr Cathedral rising above the assortment of row homes seemed to be giving its daily blessing. “That’s a Protestant cathedral, you know.” I did now. “St. Finbarr is the patron saint of Cork. He was buried on the site of the present church.”
“Your patron saint was Protestant?” I asked in surprise.
“No-o-o. He was Catholic, of course,” she replied in a tone that suggested I could be a bit brighter. “He founded the city of Cork. It wasn’t a city then, just a monastery, but a village grew around it and then the city. That’s why he is considered the patron saint.”
“Then why is the church Protestant?”
“The original buildings were destroyed by Vikings and later by the Normans. After the Reformation, the Church of Ireland rebuilt the cathedral. Although the Counter Reformation turned most of Ireland Catholic again, St. Finbarr Cathedral remained Anglican. St. Finbarr is revered by both the Catholic
Church and the Church of Ireland.”
I shook my head. It was too complicated for me.
A few blocks beyond was Cork College behind the black fence with its gold tops and large golden gates. Being Saturday, the campus was all but deserted. “A beautiful walk through the campus, it is,” she sighed and then brightened. “But we’re off to the beach!”
A few blocks down, I pointed to my right. “What’s that long grey building at the top of the hill?” I asked. It looked like an institution right out of a gothic horror movie.
“That? Oh, that’s the Cork hospital.” Silently I hoped I wouldn’t get sick while I was in Cork.
As we rolled past a development of newer, semi-detached houses called Bishopstown, she pointed to a grey cottage, “That’s where Mary Kathleen lives with her mother and sisters.” I assumed that Mary Kathleen was the same from last night’s Jury’s and Good Time Charlie’s.
Maggie cocked her head sideways and looked up at me. “She warned me not to go with you today, did you know?”
“I do now. Why?”
“You’re a Yank!”
“What’s that got to do with taking a ride with me?”
“You also are married…” she paused.
“And….?”
Silence. Hum-m. Quite a talk Maggie and her friend must have had between last night and now.
Approaching a divide in the highway, I asked which way. She pointed and I eased the car to the right on a typically narrow country road, barely large enough for one-and-a-half cars. The overhanging trees gave the road a dappled look as we cruised along in silence.
Black and white birds she called “crows” flew in front of us. A country crossroads appeared and this time Maggie pointed to the left. Pointing and directing our path, her silence continued for miles. To me, it seemed that we were slowly climbing.
“Are we going to the beach?”
She nodded.
“It seems that we are going up,
not down.”
She shrugged her shoulders, and on we went. Finally, at one crossroads, I stopped. There were no signs. She did not point nor did she speak.
“Which way?”
“I don’t know.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure where we are.”
I did a double take, and then took a deep breath. “You don’t know where we are? Great! We’re lost.”
“No-o-o, I know approximately where we are but I think we took a wrong turn a few miles back.” She glanced at me to see if I was angry. The lost-little-girl-look she gave me caused me to burst out laughing.
“What a great tourist guide you are!”
“Sorry,” she said smiling. “I was enjoying the ride in this warm car, and it’s such a beautiful day. I just didn’t pay as much attention as I should have.” There it was again; the way she pronounced “beautiful.” She drew out the first syllable of the word in a way that I found intriguing.
“So, instead of walking the beaches, we’ll drive and walk the mountains of West Cork!” she declared. The matter was settled in her mind so on we went.
As the road curved high up a hillside, I pulled the car into a lay-by and stopped. Getting out, we surveyed the spectacular countryside, with its various patches of green, gray and brown haphazardly spread before us. The yellow blossoms on the gorse were vivid splashes of color on the landscape. It was the fairy tale picture I had heard my grandfather talk about.
I noticed some men working in the valley. It appeared they were cutting turf (Americans would call it peat) and putting it in a truck bed. “That’s for fuel,” she explained. “It’s a big business here. They dry it and burn it in the fireplaces. It’s a lot cheaper than wood or coal.” Then she added, “And it’s cleaner.” She shivered a little as the wind whipped round our ribs. “Oh, there’s nothing like it; a cozy turf fire in the fireplace on a windy night.” She shivered as she leaned against me, and I put my arm around her.
Clouds had briefly obscured the brilliant April sun and it seemed much colder. We got back into the car and fired up the heater. As we sat there enjoying the moment, the sun again burst through the cloud cover. Coming through the window, it caught her red hair, turning it golden. As we sat close, she smelled again of soap and a subtle fragrance I couldn’t identify.
As she turned her face up toward mine her lips parted slightly and her green eyes reflected deep emotions within. I kissed her. She pulled back slightly, her green eyes questioning and then reached for me and kissed me again and again.
Somewhere in the dimness of my mind, I thought this was wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this. But, I couldn’t make myself stop. Honestly, I didn’t want to.
As we came up for air, she snuggled her head against my chest with a deep contented sigh. I stroked her hair, noticing for the first time a strand or two of silver among the red-gold.
Two hikers rounded the curve ahead, saw us and waved, grinning as they strode past. The magic of the moment was broken.
“Well, Maggie, do you know how to get us out of here?”
She returned my grin with a slightly crooked one of her own. “I do, Yank.” Pointing, she said, “Forward!”
We drove on for a few miles, winding down and around the mountains until we came to a crossroads with a convenient pub. “You get the drinks, and I’ll get the basket from the boot,” she said, adding, “I’ll have a Harps.” I returned with the two beers and we sat companionably in the warm car, munching the ham sandwiches she had prepared, and finishing with juicy apples.
It was dark when we finally stopped before her house on Western Road. The silence in the car was comforting. I held her mittenless hands in mine to keep them warm. She withdrew one and traced down the side of my face. “Thank you,” she said softly. “This has been the nicest and happiest day I have had in a very long time.”
Taking her basket, she slid out of the car. I opened the squeaky gate and walked to the front door. In the darkness, I couldn’t really see her eyes, but she reached up and kissed me lightly, breathing in my ear, “For a Yank, you’re awfully nice.”
As she opened the door, I caught her arm. “May I see you tomorrow? After all, we never got to the beach.”
A low laugh escaped her lips. “I go to mass at St. Mary’s with Mary Kathleen and her family tomorrow. Do you want to come?”
I declined, but pressed her. “May I come by later?”
“We’ll see,” was her reply. The door closed with a click.
Chapter 7
THE BEACH
My mood was as gloomy as the weather. I rang several times but there was no answer. Surely mass was long over. Where was she?
I glanced out the window. Blowing rain and dark clouds. Definitely not a good day to go for a walk on the beach.
Once more I rang. No answer.
I sat at the desk in the hotel room, attempting to review the notes I had made for a corporate communications plan to present to the Board of Directors when I returned to the States. My deadline was one month from tomorrow. Gobs of time left to finish and polish the plan. I was restless. My mind was not on the notes but on the girl with red-gold hair and freckles. Where could she be? It was after 2 p.m.
Time moves so slowly when you wait. 3:00. Dialing once more, I heard the phone buzz, buzz, buzz. Just as I was about to hang up, there was a click and a breathless low voice spoke, “Halloo.”
“Maggie?”
“Ah, Yank. How are you at all at all?”
“Fine,” I grumbled. “I’ve been trying to call all afternoon.”
“Mary Kate’s mum invited me to dinner with them after mass. Mary dropped me off just now. When I opened the door, I heard the phone and ran up the stairs.” She paused, then added, “I was hoping it was you.”
“It’s not a very nice day, but would you like to go for a ride?”
“I’d love it! Wear your slicker, boots, and rain hat. We’ll go for a walk on the beach.”
“In this weather? No way. I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”
We went for a walk on the beach. Fortunately, in the car I had a rain jacket with a hood, an anorak the Irish call it. It came in very handy that afternoon.
She directed me to the beach just beyond a wee place called Garrettstown. To refer to the place as a “town” was rank hyperbole. There was a combination pub and inn and two or three small cottages.
The rain lessened as we walked, the crunching of our boots on the wet sand and the crashing waves were the only sounds. But the day grew darker, the rain stopped, and fog began to form and roll in. You could watch as it dropped low over the waves and began to envelope the beach.
“How about we go back to the pub and have some hot tea and a bite to eat?” I asked.
She nodded, water dripping from her shiny red rain hat. She wrapped her arms around my arm and we turned back.
The pub at the inn was cozy, with a turf fire in the tiny fireplace close to the bar. We took a small table nearby. Two old men sat at the bar taking their time with their pints.
She looked at me, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Well, Yank, how’d you like my beach?”
“Lonely and wet!” I grumbled, not wanting to admit I liked it despite the weather. We had seen no one else as we walked the stretch of sand between the tumbled rocks.
“And, Maggie, for the love of God stop calling me Yank! It’s getting on my nerves. My name is Patrick.”
She smiled her crooked smile, shrugged her shoulders and replied in her low voice, “Padraig, it is.”
“Liam,” she said, addressing the balding man behind the bar. “Could we have a pot of tea? And do you have a bit of beef for sandwiches?”
“Aye, Maggie. Coming right up.”
“Tell me,” I asked her, “do you know everyone around here?”
“Oh, I come to Garrettstown all the time. I’m a regular.”
I nodded in the direction of the of old men at the bar. “Know them, too?”
“One’s a farmer.
He raises beets. The other is a fisherman, or, at least he was once.”
I just shook my head. Time slipped by as we talked. Well, she talked and I listened, fascinated not only by what she said but how she said it. She talked about growing up in County Cork and about her brothers and sisters. Finally, she spoke of her mother.
“The doctor said it was a failing heart she had.” Maggie stared into her tea as she remembered. “Oh, the last two years were dreadful. She could do less and less. So I quit my job at the insurance company and took care of her and the boarders.”
The green eyes were dark as she reflected on those times. “Near the last, she couldn’t even climb the steps to the bedroom. So we, my brothers and I, moved her bed into the sitting room until she passed.” She shook her head, and wiped a tear away.
“Isn’t it difficult to live there now, knowing it is where your mother died?”
“Oh, no-o. I love that house. I grew up there. Our family had many happy times there, and that’s what I remember. Now, the house is mine, since my brothers and sisters all have their own homes and families.”
“How is it that you never married?” I asked, and then regretted my bluntness when I saw the hurt in her eyes. “Sorry, that’s too personal a question. I withdraw it.”
She gave me a small smile. “Sure, it’s all right. The answer is simple. Not enough men for the number of single women,” she declared, adding, “And I have had too little time and too many responsibilities the last few years.”
As we talked, I learned about her likes and her pet peeves. She hated men who beat their wives or girl friends. She liked honesty in people, and hated those who lied or misrepresented themselves. She was intensely loyal to those loyal to her.
Maggie was passionate about keeping her beautiful Ireland beautiful. As she talked, her words wove a kind of music that massaged my mind and soothed my soul.
Night had shrouded the inn as the barman turned on lights and lighted candles in the windows.
Downing the last of our tea and dabbing the crumbs of the brown Irish bread with our fingers, we picked up our coats and stepped outside. The fog had intensified.
I stopped, shocked. No sign of the car. Nothing could be seen through the fog. No outline of anything. It was almost like a scene from the “Twilight Zone.” Although she was right beside me, I could barely see her face. It was as if we were alone, lost in an unknown place.