by Eliza Watson
I knelt down and secured the wreath on the stake, emotion weighing heavy on my chest. How sad that Grandma had never visited her sister’s grave or attended her funeral. I couldn’t imagine not being able to say good-bye to Rachel. “Thank you so much for writing my grandma. She kept your letters.” I swallowed the hard lump in my throat, my eyes glassing over with tears. “If it wasn’t for those letters, I wouldn’t be here right now. She loved you dearly.”
Sadie gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze. “She knows, luv.”
Three ivy-covered tombstones, surrounded by a leaning wrought iron fence, stood on raised ground, back from our family graves. “Are those Coffeys?”
“Aye,” Seamus said. “Don’t recall how they were related, going back a ways.”
“Watch your footing,” Sadie said as I traipsed through the tall grass toward the graves. “Be careful not to trip on a toppled-over tombstone or step in a sinkhole.”
What a hole sunk to, I didn’t care to know.
I touched my foot cautiously on the ground before placing my weight on it. Seamus followed me, but Sadie remained behind in her black heels. Two of the graves were too weathered to read, but a lead-engraved one had survived the harsh Irish weather. I entered the fenced-in area and stripped the ivy from the front of the stone for better viewing. It noted that Christopher Coffey, who died in 1834, played an integral role in the Rebellion of 1798.
A sense of pride welled up inside me. “What role did he play?”
Seamus enthusiastically recounted a story about how Christopher Coffey had dodged a major ambush, saving the lives of his troops. They went on to play a vital role in winning several future battles.
“Now, we aren’t sure about the authenticity of that story,” Sadie called out. “You know how family lore is—that might be a wee bit of an embellishment.”
No, I didn’t know how family lore was. I had no ancestor stories to pass down to my children. A sad feeling crept over me. What happened when the lead-engraved tombstone became too weathered to read, like the others? Would they all crumble into the earth and these ancestors be forgotten? I felt a sense of duty to document Sadie’s and Seamus’s stories for past generations’ sakes, and future ones. Grandma certainly never realized that her past would have such a strong impact on my life. She’d made me more courageous, adventurous, and in tune with the importance of family.
What impact would my life have on future generations?
Chapter Eleven
On the way back to Sadie’s, we made a detour to visit Grandma’s childhood home. I hadn’t even considered that her home might still be standing. However, Ireland respected old buildings. Abandoned stone structures dotted the countryside, blending in with the landscape until they naturally returned to the earth once again.
“That’s it.” Sadie pointed to the side of a stone cottage next to the road as we zipped along.
A grass strip growing up the middle of the road could have served as the center line if there’d been room for two cars. Declan parked the car in the entrance to a farmer’s field. I slipped my navy-blue knit beret from my coat pocket and put it on. I stepped from the car, and the wind almost whisked away the cap. I placed a hand on top of my Paris souvenir, keeping it in place. A strong gust slapped hair against my face, and I tucked it behind my ear.
A rusted metal roof covered the deserted stone house. Ivy trailed across the front and entered the dwelling through the glassless windows. A weathered green wooden door hung crooked on rusted hinges. An outbuilding’s stone roof lay in a pile of rubble in the middle of the structure. Declan untied a fraying rope securing the gate on an iron fence surrounding the homestead. He heaved up the gate while pushing it open, a creaking sound filling the air.
My chest fluttering, I stepped onto the same land Grandma hadn’t stepped foot on since leaving Ireland in 1936. My parents lived in the house I’d grown up in. I couldn’t imagine not having that home to go back to even though I wasn’t thrilled to still be living there.
“It looks like one of my granny’s gingerbread houses,” Declan said. “Actually, better than most of them.”
I laughed, brushing a finger over the thick, gnarly ivy vines climbing up the side of the house. Inches in diameter, they resembled tree branches. “I never knew vines could get so thick.”
“Nobody has lived here since your grandma’s sister Agnes died in 1985,” Sadie said.
“Did it have indoor plumbing or electricity?”
“No, even at that time some houses still didn’t have either.”
“Did she live here by herself?”
“No man in his right mind would have married that woman,” Seamus said, his jolly demeanor vanishing. “Neighborhood kids were afraid of her. When they were naughty, their parents would say, ‘Ya better behave, or we’ll drop you off at Agnes Coffey’s.’”
So no need to bother interviewing neighbors for fond memories of Agnes.
Declan snapped a pic of Sadie, Seamus, and me in front of the house. Then, Seamus took a photo of Declan and me. I wouldn’t be standing there right now if it hadn’t been for Declan’s help.
The door refused to open, blocked from the inside.
“Let’s crawl through the window,” Declan said.
The plaster framing the window had crumbled away, revealing brick and jagged-edged stones. “What if it collapses? I don’t want to be responsible for destroying my family home.” I peered into the dark dwelling, curious what was inside.
“It’ll be fine,” Declan said. “Deserted dwellings have survived hundreds of years in Ireland. They’re made of sturdy stock, like our ancestors.”
“I’ll hold your coat, luv,” Sadie said.
I slipped off my long green coat and handed it to her. Goose bumps skittered across my skin despite my heavy blue sweater. I cautiously raised a knee onto the window frame. When it didn’t crumble beneath me, I lifted the other one and crawled inside. Declan followed. Leaves, soiled newspapers, and old bottles littered the dirt floor. A three-legged wooden chair leaned in a corner against the faded whitewashed walls covered in green moss. Ivy dangled from the ceiling, and clumps of straw from the original thatched roof were tucked between the wooden-pegged beams. I could envision my great-grandma Mary spinning wool by the large stone fireplace, a black kettle containing potato soup hanging over it, while the kids sat at the table doing homework, if they’d gone to school. A smaller room was attached to each end of the main one.
“How many kids were in the family?” I asked my rellies, peeking their heads in the window.
“Five,” Sadie said.
“Seven people in two bedrooms?”
“There would have been a loft to climb up in and take advantage of the heat from the fireplace.”
I approached the fireplace filled with leaves, twigs, and branches, as if it were waiting for someone to come home and heat up the damp interior.
“Man, how I wish these walls could talk…”
“What fun would that be?” Declan said. “Giving you all the answers and solving the mystery for ya?”
A huge black bird flew from the fireplace and swooped at us. It snatched up my knit beret. I let out a startled scream and Declan pulled me back against him. The bird escaped out the window.
“Jaysus. Are you okay?” Declan asked, his breath warm against my ear.
I stood paralyzed, unable to believe a stupid bird had just flown off with my Paris souvenir.
He curled his fingers into my trembling arms. “Take a deep breath.”
I nodded, inhaling a ragged breath.
A rustling noise came from the fireplace, sounding more like a critter than a bird. I pressed my back firmly against Declan’s chest. We stepped back in sync until we reached the window. I crab crawled out the window and dropped onto the ground. Declan appeared behind me.
Sadie and Seamus stood at the edge of the yard, deep in grass. A determined look on her face, Sadie glared across the back field. “Maybe the bloody thing lives in one of tho
se trees.” Massive oaks lined the drive leading up to a large stone house perched on top of a gently rolling hill.
Seamus shook his head. “He’s in Mullingar by now.”
Sadie’s shoulders sagged in defeat, her stern look relaxing. “I’m so sorry about your hat.”
I frowned. “I got it in Paris.”
“I’m there next month,” Declan said. “I’ll go to the Eiffel Tower and get you the same one.”
I smiled faintly. “Thanks.” That was so sweet. Yet it wouldn’t be the one I’d worn in all of our goofy Paris pictures.
Declan gazed across the field. “Does anybody live in that house?”
“It’s the Daly estate,” Sadie said.
Michael Daly was the groom’s name on Grandma’s possible marriage certificate I’d found online from a Protestant church in England.
“Did a Michael Daly live there?” I asked.
“Don’t know if there was a Michael in the family or not. Didn’t visit here often since me mum had a bit of a falling out with her parents over your grandmum leaving.”
“Why did she leave?”
“Not sure. It was difficult for Mum to discuss. She just said there was too much sadness for her in Ireland to ever be happy. Funny the things that families discuss or don’t discuss.”
“I heard an older woman from Dublin comes and stays a few times a year,” Seamus said.
“Is she related to the Dalys?”
Seamus shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Never hear much about her. It’s just always been known as the Daly estate.”
“I could stop at the post after Christmas and see if they’ll give me her Dublin address,” Declan said. “She likely has her mail held or forwarded. Or we can come back and knock on neighbors’ doors until we find someone who knows her.”
I gave Declan an appreciative smile.
I told Sadie and Seamus about the marriage certificate.
“Was the Daly family English?” I asked.
“Aye, the family would have been of English ancestry,” Seamus said. “The Dalys were once wealthy landowners, back when the English owned all the land and the Irish merely tenants. The Coffeys would have rented from the Dalys for generations. Could see how that might have caused a feud between the two families. And why they’d have had to sneak off to England to marry, then to America.”
This was sounding like a historical romance novel, one of forbidden love. If Grandma had married a member of this Daly family, they’d endured a lot to be together, yet their love had persevered.
“Keep in mind, Daly is one of Ireland’s most common surnames,” Seamus said. “There’s a Dalystown just south of here. And there were relations to this Daly family up the road at the McDonald’s place and where the Doyles now live.”
That put a slight damper on my enthusiasm.
“I have what I’m sure is your grandmother’s wedding snap in me mother’s old albums,” Sadie said. “Could, of course, be of your grandfather and her, sent from the States.”
My grandparents’ wedding photo was displayed on Mom’s bedroom dresser. When I saw Sadie’s photo I’d know immediately if it was my grandpa.
I pictured the Daly homestead as having once been a grand estate that held croquet matches and fancy garden parties on the yard now buried in tall grass and neglected landscaping. The disparity between the Daly’s impressive stone home and Grandma’s tiny cottage clearly reflected their social standings. If she had married into this family, she must have really loved Michael to disobey her family’s wishes, especially being a woman at that time. Grandma had been even more courageous than I’d thought.
Had they fought all odds to be together?
The bigger question was, what had caused them to part?
* * *
I was still chilled to the bone from the wind despite a fire roaring in the black cast-iron stove in Sadie’s cozy living room. Lace doilies draped the arms of a blue-and-yellow patterned couch with a yellow crocheted blanket folded across the back. While Sadie and Seamus prepared tea in the kitchen, Declan and I snooped around.
I admired a black-and-white antique wedding photo on a shelf. “I can’t wait to see my grandma’s photo. It’s sad how few old family pictures we have. They probably got thrown away because people didn’t know who they were or they just didn’t care.”
“Or they got sold. My granny Byrnes collected old snaps she found in antique or charity shops or at estate sales. Didn’t know who the people were, but she wanted to give them a proper home. Made her sad when people discarded a piece of their past. At least they sold them rather than putting them out with the weekly rubbish. When she died, my mum kept the snaps. Bloody boxes of them. She packed them away except for Granny’s favorite. She hung it on the stairway wall.”
I smiled. “I wondered why she hadn’t known how that couple was related. A hundred years from now that might be a family historian’s nightmare when he wonders who the hell was Uncle Thomas Flood and Catherine Darcy. And then he spends months traipsing through cemeteries and sifting through old church records trying to find a Flood family connection.”
Declan laughed, nodding. “Won’t help if the stories we made up about the snaps are passed down and thought true. We used to say Thomas Flood went to America and made a bloody fortune panning for gold in the West. That he sent money back to his Irish rellies so they could breed racehorses, two of which won England’s Grand National. We made up some brilliant stories.”
A smile curled the corners of his mouth, and his reminiscent expression reflected a deep love for his grandma. He’d once admitted his guilt over having been traveling for work when she died last year. If he’d been avoiding home after Shauna’s death, he hadn’t seen his grandma much the past three years.
“Sounds like she was a wonderful woman. I wish my grandma had lived longer so I had more memories of her.”
He nodded. “My mum inherited her sentimental nature, taking in strays, like her nutcracker collection.”
Seamus entered the room carrying a silver tray with a china teapot and cups rattling against their saucers. With shaky hands, he set the tray on the wooden cocktail table in front of the couch.
“These teacups were part of your great-grandmum Mary’s collection.” Sadie placed a three-tiered china cake stand with baked goods next to the tray, then gestured to the dozens of cups on tables and shelves. “The entire lot of them.”
I brushed a finger gently over a delicate white cup with green shamrocks and ivy next to the framed photo.
“My mum and her sister Ellen inherited it. Mary’s dad started the Flannery china factory. It closed in the 1970s.”
“Mary’s last name was Flannery,” I mused, studying the gold family surname logo on the bottom of the cup, the same logo that was on my teacup at home. Grandma’s teacup collection had lined her windowsills. Rachel and I used to drink hot cocoa from our favorite ones.
“The factory was down near Arklow, in southern Wicklow, wasn’t it?” Declan asked.
“It was,” Sadie said.
“We didn’t go that far south on our tour,” he told me.
On Rachel’s last meeting, we’d taken the group on a County Wicklow tour. Prior to it, Declan and I had discovered in the 1911 census that Mary Coffey was from there.
“We can probably find info about the factory online,” Declan said. “And maybe there are still Flannerys in that area.”
Declan’s enthusiasm about my family research reassured me that I wasn’t dragging him unwillingly to visit my rellies. A refreshing quality in a boyfriend.
“You should have that cup,” Sadie said. “Take one for Rachel and your mum also.”
“Oh, I couldn’t take from your collection.”
“Nonsense. I have no daughters, and me lads won’t fancy a teacup collection. Be nice knowing they’re going to a good home.”
Grandma couldn’t have hated her family if she’d traveled thousands of miles to America with the cups. Had her parents allowed her to take the
m, or had she snuck off with them in the middle of the night? What had happened to her collection after she’d died? I doubted that Mom or her sisters knew they had a tie to our family history. They’d probably been so upset after finding Grandma’s letters to her supposed dead sister that they’d donated the cups to a thrift shop where they’d parted ways for a quarter each. Why hadn’t Grandma told someone their sentimental value? My heart ached over the possible loss of the collection.
I selected the shamrock-and-ivy cup for myself and a sunflower one for Rachel, who’d always worn Grandma’s sunflower apron, and a red-patterned one for Mom, her favorite color.
Sadie unwrapped the copies of Grandma’s letters and our family photo. She brushed a finger over the red ribbon tied around the stack of letters. “’Twas a lucky thing me mum kept the envelopes your grandmum’s letters came in, or my sister Catherine would never have been able to notify her when our mum passed.” She set the letters on the cocktail table. “I’ll read them later.”
“The photo was taken at my grandma’s when I was seven. It was her last Christmas. That’s three generations.” We were standing in front of my grandparents’ tree, filled with homemade ornaments from their grandchildren.
Sadie pointed at my grandma. “My, she looks like me mother when she was older, doesn’t she now?”
Seamus nodded. “Same chin.”
Sadie slapped a hand against the sofa’s arm. “We were going to find her wedding snap.” She went over and slipped a large photo album from a bookshelf. A maroon cord bound the tattered-edged black pages within a sturdy cardboard cover. Declan and I sat on either side of her on the couch, and she paged through it, finding a black-and-white pic of Grandma in a simple yet elegant lace gown. The groom, an insanely handsome man in a dark suit, resembled a young Cary Grant with a killer smile, rather than Grandpa. In the lower right corner of its cardboard frame, a gold-embossed logo read Fagan’s, Dublin.
“So I’m guessing that’s not your grandpa if the photo was taken at a studio in Dublin,” Declan said.