An Irish Country Girl

  Fidelma sighed. “Eamon MacVeigh’s no William Powell,” she said, “but I will let him dance with me tonight.” She pulled up a stem of grass and nibbled the end of it. “Working at the mill’s still a terrible drudge. I’d love to get away from the scruffy old place.” She sighed again. “Eamon’s the oldest MacVeigh boy. He’ll get the farm when his Da passes. I suppose I could do worse than a garsún like him.”

  “Gossoon? Eamon’s more like a bassoon if you ask me . . . the size of him. If he’s what you want . . . but you could do better, Fidelma. Far better.”

  “Maybe, but we’re farmers, Eamon’s a farmer. He’d be more of a catch than a labourer, a bricklayer, a road sweeper” —she laughed—“or a tinker, and as you said, neither one of us is going to land Doctor O’Lunney’s son.” She hesitated, then said, “Maybe you will, once you’re a teacher, a professional lady. More of his station.”

  “Huh. I’m in no rush for Dennis O’Lunney,” Maureen said. “Have you seen the lad? He’s like a long drink of water with buckteeth.”

  Fidelma laughed. “And Eamon’s a bit on the chubby side, but he has a heart of corn. I could do worse.”

  “You are a bit strapped for choice, I grant you, but there’s bound to be other lads at the dance.” Maureen widened her eyes, held the back of her wrist against her forehead, and said huskily, “Maybe himself, Rudolph Valentino, will be there and whisk you off to his tent.”

  “You can laugh. I think he’s the berries.”

  “And so are these.” Maureen pointed. “There’s frockon everywhere. We’d better start picking.”

  They were on the edge of what had been Connor’s turf bog, for bilberries favoured damp acidy soils, and judging by the squelching underfoot it was damp enough to please any shrub that liked growing in a sheugh.

  Maureen stooped to pluck the dusty, blue berries as they grew two by two from their low shrubs. A caterpillar, brown with black markings, was feeding on a leaf. She’d found the story of insect metamorphosis fascinating when she’d read about it in nature-study class. Soon the wriggling thing would become a pupa growing inside its shell, waiting to hatch. Then a moth, a delicate little feathery creature, would flutter in the August dusk in search of love with one of its own kind or, she reflected with a sigh, a fiery death against a light. It was, she thought, a beautiful sad story.

  She worked away, filling her basket. Am I a pupa still? She certainly wasn’t the awkward schoolgirl who hadn’t wanted Donovan Flynn to fondle her. She hoped she wasn’t being vain, but Fidelma hadn’t been flattering. Maureen knew she was a pretty girl.

  When will I become a woman? When will I fall in love? When I do, will it have to be with a local? Maybe once I’ve got to be a real teacher with a decent wage, I’ll get a job at a school in Cork City, even if it is a good twenty miles as the crow flies, or, the thought staggered her imagination, in Dublin. And if I did, who would I meet there? Who knows? They’d not be farm labourers, that’s for sure. And anyway it wouldn’t be for a while yet, if she went at all. Still, Miss Toner had said at the end of term that if Maureen could keep her marks up next year she’d certainly get her Leaver’s, and with distinction too. It was only the first step. Then a couple of years as a monitor and maybe, maybe—Maureen smiled at the thought of her future—a clean page for her to write on as she saw fit.

  She ate a handful of berries, the juice red on her hands and tart on her lips. She was reaching for another when a sound made her freeze, her hand halfway to the bush. The notes of “Planxty Gordon” were faint in her ears. The sound of the pipes came from the high pasture.

  Maureen looked at her sister, but Fidelma must have been unaware. She was plucking away, filling her basket.

  As hard as Maureen strained to make out who was playing, she could see nothing further up the hill except the haze of summer heat above the sere grass and purple heather. Yet she knew who was playing. Poor Connor. Poor man. Will you never find peace?

  She wanted to leave, to go down home to where she’d not be hearing ghostly music. To be where she could run to Ma for comfort.

  “We’ve enough, Fiddles,” she said.

  “Just a few more.” Fidelma picked more quickly.

  “Then let’s head home. We’ll need time to get ready.”

  “Soon,” Fidelma said, “and sure who knows what might happen at the hooley? Maybe a really good fellah will take a shine to me.” She laughed. “Maybe even your man Valentino.”

  “I hope it’s a real man, Fidelma. I really do.”

  “Thank you,” Fidelma said. “Who knows? Perhaps you’ll find a sweetheart yourself.”

  Minutes ago, Maureen’d been wondering about the lads in Cork City, but going there was years away. She’d got over her shyness with boys, and she did enjoyed being kissed. And she reckoned local lads were probably just as good at that as city fellahs. A sweetheart, but not a serious one, would be nice.

  She found she had embarrassed herself by the thought. Maureen felt the heat in her cheeks, but didn’t care if she was blushing. There was no one to see her except Fidelma. She looked over to her sister, bent over a bush, intent on her picking.

  A sudden movement off to one side made Maureen turn her head. A red vixen was sitting on a hillock, her brush twitching. As Maureen watched, the pointy muzzle and dark brown eyes were transformed into the face of a beautiful woman. Her gaze bored into Maureen’s eyes.

  The summer hillside’s constant music of birdsong and breeze fell silent, and the haze blurred everything—except the fox-woman. Maureen felt her basket slipping from her grasp. Her arms were powerless. The woman winked slowly once, as the basket tumbled to the ground.

  She heard Fidelma call, “Maureen O’Hanlon, have you lost your senses? Sometimes you’re as loose and careless as the leg of a pot, so.”

  Maureen blinked and saw Fidelma scooping up the berries and putting them in the basket. But on the hillside there was nothing else in sight. Only the peat bog, brown and grassy, and the heather, blue and purple under the August sun.

  19

  “So you heard the pipes up on the hillside and then saw the fox with a woman’s face?” Ma asked, as she brushed Maureen’s chestnut hair.

  “I did, Ma, and the fox winked at me.”

  “Were you scared?”

  “I was not. Not of the pipes. I . . . I sort of got used to the notion of Connor after the first time I saw him and you explained to me about my gift, but I was so startled by the vixen I dropped my basket. I think Fidelma thought I’d taken leave of my senses.”

  “You didn’t see Connor at all?” Ma kept brushing.

  “Not this time. You’ve told me I’d only see Connor if he wanted me to see him. But I did hear his pipes very clearly and I’m sure it was him playing.” She forced a weak smile. “Foxes don’t have enough fingers for the uillinn pipes.”

  Ma smiled.

  “Ma, what does seeing the fox-woman mean? Did she want me to see her?” Maureen half turned.

  “I reckon there’s not much doubt, but—”

  “Ouch.” Maureen’s hand flew to her head. The brush had caught in her hair.

  “If you’d stay still that wouldn’t happen,” Ma said levelly. “But not you. Even when you were a little girl you always had ants in your pants.” She brushed firmly. “Now sit you still ’til I’m done.”

  “Yes, Ma.”

  “I’m sure that vixen’s the queen of the Doov Shee,” Ma said. “It is her that holds Connor’s soul. You heard him piping before you saw her. The Shee love music. I think she was making him play for her.”

  “But why would she show herself to me?”

  “I’m not sure altogether. To almost anybody else she’d have seemed to be a fox. Maybe she understood you had the gift, knew you could see past her disguise if she let you, and she acknowledged that by letting you see her face and winking at you. I think in a way she was saying that because you have the gift, the Doov Shee will be your friends.”

  “My friends?”

&
nbsp; “I think so.”

  “So she won’t hurt me, will she, Ma?”

  “Not unless you hurt her first.”

  “I won’t. Sure why would I?”

  “Good girl. You treat the Shee right and they’ll do you no harm. They’ll keep an eye to you and yours.” Ma put the brush on the dressing table. “It’s a comfort,” she said, “not granted to many.”

  Maureen swallowed. “And you think I’m lucky about that?”

  “I do, so,” Ma said. She smiled at her youngest daughter.

  Maureen smiled back. “Thanks, Ma.”

  “Now, stand up,” she said, “and let’s be looking at you.”

  Maureen saw herself in the mirror. In the rays of the afternoon sun her hair shone like polished copper.

  She admired the dress Ma had bought two weeks ago in Clonakilty. It was patterned with red tea roses scattered at random over its white linen fabric. The sleeves ended just above her elbows, and the neck was demurely closed with a Peter Pan collar. The wide satin belt, tied in a bow in front, sat on the top of Maureen’s hips; the hem was knee-length and covered white lisle stockings that disappeared into patent-leather half-heeled shoes.

  It was a far cry from the demure ankle-length, blue serge dress covered with a white pinafore that she wore at home and to school, but then it wasn’t school she was going to today. It was her first grown-up dance. Maureen tingled. She turned to leave, but Ma said, “Take your hurry in your hand. Pin this on.” She handed Maureen a cameo.

  “I couldn’t, Ma. It’s far too precious.”

  “Of course you can. Just bring it back to me. Your Da gave it to me when we’d been married ten years.”

  “I’ll take very good care of it.” Maureen fastened the brooch high over her left breast. “Thank you.”

  “Now put on your hat.”

  She pulled on her new green-felt cloche hat and tilted it to the right. She’d always wanted one that colour.

  Ma cocked her head, looked at Maureen from head to toe, and smiled. “You’ll do, so. Now run along and enjoy the dance tonight.”

  “I will.” Maureen didn’t wait to pull on her white cotton gloves. She grabbed them and her handbag and clattered downstairs, but then she decided she hadn’t thanked Ma properly for the loan of the cameo. She climbed back up.

  Ma stood, hands clasped, crying quietly.

  Maureen crossed the room. “What’s wrong?”

  Ma smiled through her tears. “My littlest girl’s all grown up now.”

  Maureen kissed her mother. “No, I’m not. I’ll always be your girl. I love you, Ma.”

  Ma patted the back of Maureen’s hand. “Thank you, muirnín.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Now off with you. You can’t keep the rest waiting, so.”

  As Maureen went downstairs, the walnut-cased grandfather clock whirred, then struck three. Its familiar brassy sound comforted her. She’d been listening to it all her life, and it moved something deep inside her. The clock always said, “This is your home, girl. You’re safe here,” even if there were strange things like vixens with women’s faces out in the big world.

  “Very smart,” Tiernan said. “You’re done up like the Queen of the May.”

  “Your majesty.” Fidelma, who was also in her best dress and hat, dropped a curtsey. “Your most humble servant.”

  “Stop acting the óinseach, Fidelma,” Ma said, from the first landing, but she was smiling broadly.

  “I’m no eejit, Ma. If there’s any ownshuk here, it’s Tiernan.”

  “I’ll let that pass,” Tiernan said, grinning, “and anyway that’s a girl eejit. I’d be an amadán . . . which I definitely am not, so.”

  “Here, Maureen. You were in such a rush, you forgot this.” Her mother threw down a woollen cardigan. “It does get chilly, so, when the dew starts to fall.”

  “Thank you, Ma.” She draped it round her shoulders.

  “Don’t forget your supper. It’s in the hamper on the table. There’s ham sandwiches, chicken sandwiches, tomatoes, hard-boiled eggs, apples, plum cake, and big bottles of my lemonade. Now, you’ve kept Malachy and Sinead waiting long enough. Go on with the lot of you, then,” Ma said.

  Tiernan grabbed the hamper.

  Maureen’s “Slán agat”—the good-bye of the one leaving—was echoed by Ma’s “Slán leat,” the good-bye of the one staying behind.

  Out in the farmyard, Sinead, her husband Malachy, and their eighteenth-month-old son Finbar, named for Da, waited in their sidecar. The roan horse between the shafts turned its blinkered head and stared at Maureen with limpid brown eyes, dark and soft as molasses. She could smell the tang of a pile of horse apples.

  Malachy sat in the driver’s seat holding the reins in one hand, a whip in the other. His red braces crossed in the middle of the back of his white shirt; his black jacket lay on the seat beside him. It would be warm work driving today, but that hadn’t stopped him wearing a tan bowler hat with a narrow curved-up brim. His lips were pursed and he was frowning at whatever Sinead was saying. He mustn’t have heard the three O’Hanlons approaching.

  Sinead, with her back to the cart bed, sat stiffly on one side bench, which ran the length of the vehicle. Her high-button boots rested on a footboard over the wheel. Behind her was the well of the cart where baby Finbar sat in his pram. Past the well, a second bench ran along the other side.

  Maureen saw her eldest sister in profile. She was half turned to Malachy, pointing at him with one finger. She wore her black hair scraped back in a bun as befitted her matronly, married state. The style accentuated her high cheekbones, above which a pair of bog oak–brown, narrowed eyes flashed. “And you’ll not wager any more money at the bowling, and you’ll keep away from the hard stuff or I’ll—”

  “Good-day to you, Sinead,” Maureen said loudly.

  Sinead stared at her husband, then turned to Maureen and said coolly, “Hello, yourself. Grand to see you all and a grand day, so. Now let’s get going. Get you up beside me now, Fidelma, and Maureen, you and Tiernan get on the other side and we’ll be off.”

  Marriage hadn’t changed Sinead, Maureen thought. Her eldest sister would have made a good sergeant major the way she was forever organizing things.

  Maureen followed Tiernan round the car. She felt it sway as Fidelma clambered up beside Sinead. Maureen waited until Tiernan was aboard, put her own foot on the metal step, and accepted his hand to haul her up.

  As soon as she was seated, Malachy asked, “Are we right now?”

  “Right as rain, and hello, Malachy,” said Maureen.

  He was a heavy-set, dark-haired man with a hint of a squint and the scars of acne on his cheeks. He tended to be taciturn, but Malachy Aherne was reckoned to be the best farmer and finest judge of horse flesh in West Cork. Perhaps he had that skill because his name in Irish, Ó’Echtigerna, meant “grandson of the lord of the horses.” It was widely believed that Sinead had made a great match, and fair play to her. But Maureen had meant what she’d told Ma a couple of years ago. She was still in no great rush to be wed, even if her sister had done what girls were supposed to do—found herself a good husband and produced a wee son to carry on his family’s name. Maureen looked over at Finbar, who was kicking his little feet in the air.

  Would she have expected anything less orderly from her well-organized, oldest sister? Not at all. Maureen smiled to herself. Following the beaten track was all very well for Sinead, but she, Maureen, didn’t think she wanted such a conventional life. And beside, was life all that predictable when foxes turned into women and the sound of uillinn pipes seemed to come out of the very rocks and hedgerows?

  Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard Sinead ask, “Is it today we’re going, Malachy, or were you waiting for the horse to make up your mind for you?”

  Maureen saw her brother-in-law’s eyes turn up to heaven, but he clicked his tongue, cracked his whip, and away they bowled with a creaking and jangling of harness, the steady clopping of hooves, and squeaks from
the springs. Maureen clung on as the jaunting car pitched and rolled. They were in for a bouncy ride. She let her body sway to the rhythm of the vehicle.

  She’d noticed that Sinead’s cheeks, normally rosy like Ma’s, were discoloured by a dusky area in the shape of a butterfly. The mask of pregnancy. Her second. Perhaps being pregnant made her bad-tempered with Malachy. It must be very uncomfortable to have a belly on you like the sidewall of a house, and on a hot day like this too.

  If the pair of them were going to bicker, Maureen would not let it spoil her day. She looked away from her family and over the hedgerows to the little fields bordered haphazardly by mortarless stone walls built when the rocks had been cleared from the fields. The labour must have been backbreaking.

  The pastures were busy with flocks of sheep, herds of cattle, horses. She took the cardigan off her shoulders, for the day was hotter than warm and the breeze had no cooling in it. She felt sorry for the sheep in their woolly overcoats, which were well grown back after the spring shearing. They must be boiling, particularly the black ones.

  Some of the barley crop had already been reaped. In the fields that awaited harvest, waves of dark and waves of light yellow played tag as the wind blew gently across the bearded grain. And in her head she sang “The Wind That Shakes the Barley.”

  I sat within the valley green,

  I sat me with my true love . . .

  She thought back two years to hearing the music of it in Connor’s cottage, thought again about the piping near the frockon patch earlier today.

  Fidelma may have laid Connor’s ghost to rest; she certainly never mentioned him now. But Maureen never would forget him as long as she kept sensing reminders of his presence.

  My sad heart strove to choose between

  The old love and the new love . . .

  She glanced across at Fidelma, whose old love was gone and who had no new love to replace him. Then she looked at Sinead, who was staring at the back of Malachy’s head. That exchange in the farmyard wasn’t the first time she’d heard Sinead carping at her husband. God love him, he was such a placid man he never yelled back. He must love her very much, and maybe Sinead still loved him. The sharp tongue was only a part of her nature.