An Irish Country Girl

  “Yes, she is, and Miss Toner says that does give those folks an advantage, but they have to use it. The countess did. She was an officer in Dublin in the 1916 Easter Rising, the first woman elected to the Westminster parliament when Ireland was still part of Britain, and she became a cabinet minister—minister of labour—in the new Irish parliament.”

  Fidelma’s eyes had widened. “She must be a powerful woman, so.”

  “Miss Toner says—”

  “You think a lot of her, don’t you?” Her voice was softer now.

  Maureen nodded. “I do.”

  “I never paid much heed to the woman. Maybe I should have.” Fidelma’s eyes shone, and a tear ran down her cheek. “I couldn’t be bothered with classwork. I thought exams didn’t matter. I didn’t think anything mattered except falling in love.” Her shoulders shook.

  Maureen put her arms around her older sister and hugged her close. She made soothing noises, then hunted in her pocket for a clean hanky.

  Fidelma threw away the tattered flower, accepted the hanky, dried her eyes, and blew her nose. “I’ll be all right,” she said, “in just a shmall little minute, so.”

  Maureen waited.

  Fidelma returned the hanky.

  “Fiddles,” Maureen said, “maybe you could get a new start?”

  “How? I’ve no real education. I can read and write and number; that’s about it.” She gulped in a breath. “And do you think Connor’s going to come back? It’s him I want.”

  “I know,” Maureen said, as gently as she could, “but maybe you’ll meet someone else. Get married.” She knew her sister was right about not being educated. Marriage was about the only choice left to her now. “And like you said, when you do, you’ll not have to work at the mill anymore.”

  “Married? I don’t want to get married just to get out of the mill. I want to get married because I’m in love. I’ll never find another Connor. It was pure luck that he lived just up the road a ways. It’s not easy meeting boys. There does not be that many dances. I see some lads on the bus going to work, farm labourers going to a hiring fair, fellahs that work at the mill, road menders, peat cutters.” She gave a snorty little laugh. “I don’t think a Ukrainian count is going to sweep me off my feet.”

  “That’s another thing Miss Toner’s hot about. She says Ireland’s no better than England for maintaining the class system.” She mimicked her teacher’s northern accent. “ ‘Youse peasants had better know your place, so youse had,’ Miss Toner says. Why can’t a farm girl like me better herself . . . and not just by getting wed to Doctor O’Lunney’s son? I’m in no rush to get married for a while anyways. Not until the right fellah comes along.”

  “Nor me,” Fidelma said. “But I don’t want to work at the mill either.”

  “Could you not just quit?”

  “I suppose . . . I suppose I could, but with Tiernan and you and me still at home, my wages help.”

  Maureen swallowed. “If it would do any good, Fiddles, I could give up the weekend camogie games. Get some part-time work then. I’m a good seamstress. I can clean a house. I can cook. You could have a wee break from the mill. Look for something better. I hear Mrs. Thompson, the major’s wife in the big house, needs a cleaner.”

  Fidelma shook her head. “Thank you for suggesting you’d do that. You’re a generous girl, Maureen O’Hanlon, but me a cleaner is it? A skivvy?” There was a bite in her voice. “I’ll do no such thing and nor will you. You go on and get good enough to play camogie for County Cork. Da will be so proud.”

  “Are you sure you won’t let me help?”

  “I am, and I’m sure of something else. I’ve had a bit of time to think since Connor died. I would have had more choices if I’d stayed at my studies. Sometimes I wish I had, but I never made a great fist of it. Your Miss Toner’s right about the learning, so don’t you leave school early. You get your Leaver’s.”

  “I’m going to.”

  “Good girl.” Fidelma held Maureen’s chin in her hand and looked into her sister’s eyes. “I’ve made my bed. I’ll lie in it, but the mill’s not for you, Maureen, nor the cleaning. You’ve got to have more to look forward to in your life. Promise me you’ll keep at your studies, now. You were top of your class last year. Do better than the farm, the mill, boys. Promise me.”

  “I promise, Fidelma. Cross my heart.”

  And it wasn’t a hard promise for Maureen to make. She loved her books, particularly Irish history, and boys didn’t interest her. There was a Donovan Flynn who she sometimes bumped into at weekends after his hurling practice on a pitch next door to the camogie field. He was a year older, and when she saw him she felt—well, she wasn’t sure how she felt. She’d let him hold her hand, but she’d drawn the line when he’d tried to kiss her behind the GAA sports pavilion last Saturday. “You know I’m going to sit the Junior Certificate examination next year.”

  “Pass it and go on for your School Leaver’s Certificate two years after with good marks so you can get a job as a bank teller or with a bit more training, a secretary. Good jobs. Clean jobs.”

  She hesitated. Maureen had not even mentioned to Ma what she was going to tell Fidelma. Maureen felt deep inside that she could trust her big sister. “Fidelma,” she said very quietly, “I don’t want to be a secretary.”

  “All right. Bank teller? Nurse maybe?”

  Maureen shook her head. “Miss Toner said with the certificate I could be a teacher.”

  Fidelama whistled. “A teacher, is it?”

  “Aye, so.”

  “In a country where most girls leave school by fourteen or, like me, by sixteen at the latest, you’d be a marvel in the townland, Maureen O’Hanlon, so.” Fidelma folded her arms and stroked her chin with her left hand, frowned, and then grinned and said, “Good for you, Maureen. You’re right, and if you have a dream, you follow it, and I’ll . . . and I’ll help you, so.”

  Maureen kissed her sister’s cheek. “You’re sweet, Fiddles, mavourneen. Now keep it to yourself. I don’t want people laughing at me. Calling me a farm girl with ideas above her station.”

  “I’ll say not a word, but I think it’s grand, so. There’ll be nobody laughing if you pull it off, and why shouldn’t you succeed? You’re a smart girl, Maureen. If you keep at it and go on to something better, the world’ll be your oyster.”

  Maureen chuckled. “I don’t like oysters, but I would like to see a bit of the world one day.”

  Fidelma said. “So keep as many choices open as possible.”

  “I will.” Maureen looked at her big sister. She hesitated. Fidelma was as proud as Connor had been. “And maybe I could help you?”

  “How?”

  “Would you think of taking a correspondence course?”

  “Are you taking the mickey?” Fidelma’s eyes narrowed.

  Maureen realised her sister was starting to bridle again. She rushed to say, “I am not, so. Not one bit. You could take one. I will help you with it.”

  Fidelma shrugged. “Divil the bit. I’m no hand at the studying. I’ll stay on at the mill for a while.” She managed a weak smile. “I’ll be grand. Don’t you worry. Do you know?” she said, “nobody can tell what their future might hold, so you be sure you’re well prepared for anything that comes along.”

  “I will.” Maureen hesitated, then said, “Wouldn’t it be lovely if Ma could tell our fortunes? Then we’d know.”

  “Like a gypsy?” Fidelma shook her head. “It doesn’t work like that for her. She never seems to know when it’s going to come on her, or sometimes what she’s seen confuses her.”

  “Och, sure I know.” The talk about foretelling things gave Maureen an idea that might bring a smile to Fidelma’s lips. “But,” she said, “I’m . . . I’m seeing the future right now.” She held her head in both hands. Her voice was quavery.

  Fidelma, eyes wide, asked. “What . . . what are you seeing, Maureen?”

  “I see that Ma has a ham on for tea . . . and if we’re late she’ll have our
hides.” She laughed.

  Fidelma frowned. “Ma’s got . . . ?” Then she smiled. “Maureen, you had me going there.” A chuckle started, then Fidelma laughed. “You were having me on. I thought you meant you were getting the sight, like Ma, so.”

  Maureen thought that too, after what had happened at the cottage, but while she’d been happy to tell Fidelma about her secret plans, this other thing was one concern she’d keep to herself until she’d spoken to Ma. “Not at all,” she said. “I said it for to make you laugh, Fiddles.”

  “You’re an eejit, Maureen O’Hanlon. An poc ar buile.”

  “A mad goat, is it?” Maureen grinned. It was the first time for months she’d seen her sister laugh at anything. She kissed Fidelma, then said, “Come on.” She started to run. “Last one home washes the dishes after tea.”

  And as she tore along, easily outpacing her sister, Maureen thought about gypsies seeing the future. She very much doubted if they could.

  But Ma did. Ma understood things not of this world, and much as Maureen might be laughing with her sister now, it didn’t change what had happened at Connor’s. After the meal, she would get Ma on her own, tell her about everything at the cottage, and ask Ma to explain.

  17

  After tea, as Fidelma washed the dishes, Maureen dried, and Ma set the table ready for tomorrow’s breakfast. Maureen hung up her tea towel and whispered to Ma, “I need a wee word, Ma.”

  Ma nodded. “Go on up. I’ll be along in a shmall little minute.”

  Maureen left the kitchen and climbed the uneven wooden stairs. The treads were worn concave, and as usual the third and seventh treads creaked underfoot. The banister of the second flight was wobbly.

  It was warm in her room. When Maureen opened a window she heard a thrush making sweet, double-noted music, and a flock of starlings squabbling on the barn roof. The evening sunlight fell as softly as ducks’ down on the new leaves of the sycamores outside.

  “Can I come in?” Ma stood in the doorway.

  “Of course.” Maureen sat on the bed.

  The springs creaked when Ma sat beside her. “Now . . . tell me all about it, Maureen O’Hanlon. What is it that does be troubling you?”

  Maureen took a shallow breath. “I went with Fidelma to Connor’s cottage today. She goes there a lot. She keeps the place clean, says she feels closer to Connor there.” From the corner of her eye Maureen noticed her old teddy bear, patched and missing both ears. He was lying askew on her pillow. The sight distracted her for a second; then she looked at Ma and took a deeper breath. “I saw . . . I saw Connor sitting at his table. Later on I heard his pipes.”

  Ma pursed her lips and rubbed one reddened, knobbed hand with the other. “Did you, so?”

  Maureen nodded. “I did.” She hesitated, expecting some exclamation, but Ma simply looked deeply into Maureen’s eyes.

  She told her mother exactly what had happened: the misty figure, the falling plate, the cold, and how she had seen what Fidelma clearly had not.

  Ma didn’t interrupt, but when Maureen finished, she asked, “And were you scared, a chara?” Ma always called her “dear” if she thought Maureen needed comfort.

  “I was, but I remembered how Connor was always so nice. I didn’t think he’d harm us.”

  “You’re sure it was Connor? You said you couldn’t make out its face.”

  “Who else could it be, and when we were leaving who but him would have been playing the pipes?”

  “And you could sense him and Fidelma could not?”

  Maureen nodded. “I could, so, and it wasn’t sense, Ma. I saw the outline of a man, I felt the icy cold, and I heard the pipes.”

  Ma’s question came rapidly. “You didn’t say anything at all to Fidelma?”

  “I asked her if she’d ever seen him or heard him, and she said no, but she would like to . . . just one more time.”

  “But you didn’t tell her what you’d seen?” There was an urgency as she spoke.

  Maureen shook her head.

  Ma blew out her breath. “I’m glad for that, so, for it is impetuous you can sometimes be, Maureen O’Hanlon.”

  Maureen shook her head. “I did not. I didn’t think it was a very good idea.”

  “You were right, so.” Ma held her own chin in the web of her left hand, index finger across the corner of her mouth, and stroked Maureen’s hair with the other. “I’m sure, daughter,” she said very seriously, “it was himself you saw.”

  “What does it mean, Ma? I’d have thought he’d have come to Fidelma, not me.”

  Ma went on stroking. “I think he probably was hoping she’d see him, but not everyone can, except in very special circumstances. Sometimes if there does be great danger and a Thevshee’s trying to help, it can be noticed by folks who ordinarily would not be able to appreciate it. There was no danger today to Fidelma was there?”

  “No, Ma.”

  “Aye, so.” Ma sighed. “In this life, muirnín, there are those who can see and those who cannot, and don’t ask me why. I think it’s like the music.”

  “Connor’s music that me and Eamon MacVeigh heard?”

  “Not Connor’s. The music live people make. There’s a few folks have voices like angels, but most can’t carry a tune in a bucket nor play for toffee apples. Some have the talent for melody. Most don’t.” She hugged Maureen. “I think you have a gift like the tuneful ones, only your gift is to see.”

  She felt her mother’s strong arms and soft breast. She snuggled and looked into Ma’s face.

  “It does run in families. I got the sight passed on from your Granny Fogarty when I was still living at home in Bantry.” Ma inhaled deeply. “I was about your age when it started. The first time something happened I was fourteen, helping with the harvest.”

  Maureen saw her mother’s eyes. They were not entirely in focus.

  “I was come over queerly,” she said. “The world about me slowed down. It looked as if the horses pulling the harvester were trying to wade through a sea of cold molasses. Men with scythes were frozen like statues—”

  Maureen could picture the scene. Her words slipped out. “It must have been awful.”

  Ma’s eyes came back into focus and she turned her gaze to Maureen. “Can you not hold your wheest, child? ’Twas not awful; it was what it was and that’s all.”

  “Sorry, Ma.”

  “Aye. Well . . . it’s rude for a child to interrupt an adult. Have I to tell you that until my face turns black?”

  Maureen hung her head. “No, Ma. Sorry.”

  Ma smiled. “All right then, girl. We’ll say no more about it. Now . . . where was I?”

  “Everything had slowed down.”

  “That’s right, and the edges of things got blurred, colours faded, sounds were muted. I couldn’t hear the harvester blades, and you know what a clattery racket they make. Then I saw a brackeny place I’d never seen before and a lamb at the bottom of a pit. I heard it bleat; then I heard the harvester again, and the lamb faded away and the horses plodded on as if nothing had happened.”

  Maureen moved back a little. She didn’t want to make Ma cross again, but when she hadn’t spoken for a while Maureen’s curiosity got the better of her. “A lamb?”

  Ma nodded, her eyes now bright as ever. “When I got home, I described everything to Granny. She said she knew the place I’d seen and that a neighbour had been looking for a lamb for two days. She sent my brother, your uncle Seamus, to run over, and sure enough, didn’t he come home with the wee craytur?” Ma blew out her breath. “I’ve had the sight since.”

  Maureen looked at the floor, then back up at her mother. “Could I get it from you?”

  “I think,” said Ma, “I think you already have, or anyway you’re starting to get it.”

  Maureen swallowed and took hold of her mother’s hand. “Starting to be getting it?”

  “It never comes all at once. Your Granny Fogarty told me it always starts slow. ‘Do you remember, Roisín,’ says she, ‘how when your mo
nthlies began they weren’t much at all and you never knew when they might happen?’

  “ ‘I do,’ says I. ‘Then after a bit they were stronger and regular.’ That’s the way the sight comes on. Weak at the start, but one day, strong.”

  “It was only a smoky thing, but I didn’t think seeing Connor was weak,” Maureen said, still feeling flattered that Ma would be so honest about personal things in her own girlhood.

  “I never said that it was. You saw his spirit all right.”

  “And will I see into the future like you, Ma?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “But you can sometimes tell what’s going to happen?”

  Ma shook her head slowly. “Sometimes,” she said. “But usually when the sight comes to me, it’s not like looking through a telescope. Things do come in blurs and fragments. It’s like looking into a kaleidoscope with a mirror missing.” She fixed her gaze on Maureen. “And it’s not every time I’m able to understand, so I prefer not to say much except in vague terms. Like the advice I gave poor Connor.” Ma wrung her hands without seeming to know she was doing it. “I knew there’d be a blizzard, for I saw the snow, and I saw dead sheep, but I didn’t know it would be the death of him. I only suspected.”

  “But you warned him anyway.”

  Ma smiled at Maureen. “Of course. That’s what the sight’s for. For the good of others. Better for me to warn someone and be wrong than hold my wheest and let something awful happen. Always remember that, if you do find you can tell the future.”

  “I will, Ma.”

  Ma wagged a finger. “You’d better, girl. I know you like to act the lig, tease Fidelma, but the sight is not to be taken lightly.”

  Maureen nodded.

  “Now, I’m not saying it will come so strong.” Ma stroked Maureen’s hair. “It is given to each one differently. I can’t make out spirits the way you can. Sure didn’t you see the banshee?”

  “I did, so.” Maureen shuddered. It had been nearly eighteen months ago, but she could still picture the eerie light in this room, the white-haired woman and the keening of her, and her own temerity at thinking for a moment she was going to chase the terrible faery away. Maureen smiled at the memory.