The Moon Over Kilmore Quay

by Carmel Harrington

  ‘Course I did. He’s your dad. It would be rude not to.’ He touched the side of my cheek, a gentle caress. A promise. ‘His dedication to you at the beginning gave me a lump in my throat.’ He opened the book and read it out, in a whisper. To Beatrice, the one who makes me strive to do better, every day.

  ‘Every single one of his books has a dedication to me, always with the same words. He says I’m his lucky charm. His four-leaf clover.’

  ‘Seriously cool. I can’t imagine anyone ever dedicating a book to me. The closest I’ve ever been to an author is when I bumped into Eoin Colfer coming out of the jacks in the Crown Bar at home in Wexford. Or at least I think it was him. I had a few scoops on me at the time, so I wouldn’t like to swear to it,’ Dan said with a grin.

  ‘Dad used to read his books to me when I was a kid. I’m officially jealous!’

  ‘Remind me again who else is marching with us and who do I need to impress?’

  ‘My Uncle Mike is a tough nut to crack. Suspicious of everyone. But when he’s on your side, he’s all in. There’s a strong contingent of Wexfordians living in New York and most take the time to march. You might even meet someone you know. It always amazes me how small our world is. Nearly every year there’s a reunion of some sort. Oh, and they’ll all want to talk to you about home. Uncle Mike follows Irish politics closely, be warned. We try not to let him talk about politics at family dinners, ’cos he can get so irate.’

  ‘Noted. Did you say you have some cousins coming too?’

  ‘I do. Second and third cousins that we see for weddings and funerals. To be honest, now that my grandparents are gone, there’s less reason to keep in touch. You’ll get to know them in time, but I won’t confuse you now with their names. Watch out for Nancy though. She’ll be all smiles, but she’ll also be watching you like a hawk. She was my gran’s first cousin and they were close.’

  ‘Noted. I’ll watch my p’s and q’s with them all, but especially Mike and Nancy! Don’t worry. It’ll be grand.’

  And Dan smiled again, the relaxed smile of someone who has always had it easy. He grabbed my gloved hand and pulled me along, towards the gathering crowds at the end of the street. The parade route began every year at East 44th Street and ended at the American Irish Historical Society at East 80th Street. New York police officers, firefighters, schools, marching bands, majorettes, and associations representing every county in Ireland, took part every year. People travelled from all over the world to be here, with 150,000 people marching.

  I scanned the large group ahead of me, all wearing purple and gold sashes, the Wexford colours. I saw the Kehoes, Gallahues, Howlins, Longs and Murphys. Some of the group I only saw on this one day each year, others were family friends. Dad spotted us first and shouted out my name, alerting the group I was there. Word that I was bringing a boyfriend must have filtered down to everyone, because they all had their eyes on stalks as they took in my date. And I suppose it was newsworthy because in my twenty-odd years of marching with this gang, I’d never brought anyone before.

  Dad reached us first and hugged me quickly, before shaking Dan’s hand.

  ‘Mr O’Connor. Delighted to meet you,’ Dan said, sounding more formal than I’d ever heard him before. Then all of a sudden, we were surrounded. I watched cousins pump his hand up and down. Then the circle around him widened as the rest of our association came over to clap him on the back and ask what part of Wexford he was from. When Dan told them he was from The Ballagh, they started shouting out people’s names to him, asking him if he knew such and such. Delight resonated when he confirmed that, yes, he did know their cousin, aunt, neighbour, old school friend. This ritual was something I’d grown up with. It was a deep-driven need to find a connection to home that only an immigrant understood. I listened as friends began to tell Dan where their roots lay in County Wexford.

  ‘Rosslare.’

  ‘Screen. The Ballybeg Road. Do you know the Martins?’

  ‘The Ballagh. On the Curclough Lane. D’you know it?’

  ‘I’m a Bree woman.’

  Dan answered each one and laughed with everyone as they discovered they had mutual friends. Six degrees of separation as the saying went, unless you are Irish and then it was reduced to two. I looked around for my Uncle Mike. He was standing back, taking it all in.

  I called out to him and pulled Dan by the hand towards him.

  ‘So you’re the guy that’s been keeping our girl away from home?’ Uncle Mike said, looking up at him. ‘She said you were big.’

  ‘Hello, Mr O’Connor. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘You’ve manners. That’s a start, I suppose,’ Uncle Mike said. ‘Do you play rugby? You have the look of a rugby player.’

  ‘I don’t, Mr O’Connor. Sorry about that.’

  ‘Hurling?’

  ‘I have done. But I’m not that good,’ Dan admitted.

  ‘Don’t worry about that. We need some new players for the league. I’ll add your name down. I don’t think we’ll have a jersey your size though.’

  Nancy who’d been hovering, nodded her head in agreement. ‘He’ll be a double XL I would say. Wasn’t that Flynn boyo a double XL?’

  ‘He was. But he never gave us back the jersey when he left.’

  ‘The bollix,’ Nancy said.

  That made Dan laugh. Nancy always took people by surprise. She was petite and looked like butter wouldn’t melt. But she had a mouth like a fishwife and was the fiercest woman I knew.

  Nancy held up a sash and said, ‘This one is for you, big fella. But I want it back. Don’t stick it in your pocket for a souvenir to show your mammy back home.’

  ‘His mam is dead,’ I whispered, mortified, mouthing sorry to Dan. But he didn’t look in the least put out. In fact he looked quite smitten with Nancy.

  ‘Is she? Ah, God love you,’ Nancy said, pulling him in for a hug. Then Uncle Mike reached over to pat him on the back. So much for worrying about how they’d get on. Seeing my family and Dan connect made my insides melt. I was continually surprised at how much Dan meant to me, in such a short space of time.

  ‘I’ll be needing a ladder!’ Nancy said to Uncle Mike over her shoulder. Then she reached up to place the sash over Dan’s head. He bent his knees to help her out, as if he was being knighted by the Queen of England. She smoothed the silk over Dan’s chest, and then when she was satisfied that it looked OK, she turned to me and said, ‘I like him. He’ll do.’

  Uncle Mike called for attention and the group silenced, moving closer to him. ‘For the newbies here, welcome. We are delighted to have you with us. The parade begins at 44th Street, then we’ll march up Fifth Avenue – make sure and bless yourself as you go by St Patrick’s Cathedral on 50th Street – then we’ll go all the way to 79th Street. We finish at the American Irish Historical Society on East 80th Street.’

  Nods of approval rippled through the group. Parents called out for their kids and the O’Connor clan claimed our spot, side by side. To my surprise, Dan was promoted to carry the flag up the front. I could tell he was chuffed and I was delighted with how well it was all going.

  ‘The Taoiseach, Leo, he’s here,’ Dad said.

  Nancy silenced us all and said, ‘Remember everyone, if you get the chance to talk to him, ask him about the new children’s hospital. Poor Ann is beside herself waiting for a date for little Conor’s operation. It’s a disgrace.’

  ‘I love how invested you all are in what’s going on over in Ireland,’ Dan said. ‘And I can see why you love spending time with your family. They’re fun.’ I felt happiness swell inside me. He liked them and they liked him. And even though the wind was so sharp it whipped my face, it could not take away the smile. Dan was not only coping with the banter being thrown his way, he was thriving on it. It was as if he’d known everyone for much longer than the fifteen minutes he’d actually been in the O’Connor clan’s company. It boded well for the future.

  We marched up Fifth Avenue and I watched his eyes greedily take in
every detail of the buildings on either side of us. From the outdoor plaza of the Rockefeller Center where you could hear the delight of skaters whizzing by, to the iconic blue of Tiffany’s flagship store, the opulent Plaza and Trump Tower hotels. Tourists and New Yorkers alike stood behind fences and waved at us, cheering if they recognized kinship in the colours of the sashes and flags. The sounds of bagpipes and the purup-a-pom-pom beat of the drums bounced around us. As we passed St Patrick’s Cathedral, Nancy gave us all the nod, so we blessed ourselves as instructed.

  When I was a kid, my grandparents would take me here to light candles for special intentions: a sick relative at home or to remember the dead on anniversaries. And I always thought the cathedral looked like a fairy-tale castle. The two stone towers stood at 330 feet high and when I should have been praying I’d be imagining Rapunzel throwing her hair down from them. Gran told me she dreamed that one day I might get married there too. She had it all planned in her head, telling me that it should be at Christmas so that way we’d have the spectacular Saks light show that illuminates the avenue every night and the backdrop of the Rockefeller Christmas tree for photographs. Then she’d laugh and say, ‘All we have to do is find you a decent man and we’re all set. I’ll keep lighting candles for you, Bea. The right one will come along, I promise.’

  I looked at Dan, who was now shaking hands with the Grand Marshal Brian O’Dwyer, who had wandered over to thank us for marching. And I wondered if perhaps Gran’s wish had come true.

  As we passed the TV cameras, Dan turned to look at me. ‘Funny, I wasn’t feeling in the least bit homesick until I saw the RTE crew.’ I watched his face soften and his eyes glisten. And I wondered what it must feel like to be him. I’d never left America. I’d visited many states in our country with Dad over the years, on road trips and vacations, but that was as far as we’d gone.

  ‘The longest I’ve ever been away from home is three weeks. I can only imagine how much you must miss Wexford. Is this very different to the parades you had at home?’

  ‘There’s a parade every year, but it’s mainly GAA clubs, boy scouts and girl guides, that type of thing. Not on a scale like this. The parade in Dublin is bigger, similar to this, I suppose.’

  ‘Did you go every year?’ I asked.

  Dan shook his head. ‘Only until I was about eleven or twelve. Then we all got a bit too cool for school. Not even the bribe of ice-cream and chocolate could make us go for Mam and Dad. So they gave up asking.’

  ‘Why haven’t you ever been to Ireland?’ he asked suddenly.

  I shrugged. It was a hard question to answer. I looked at Dad, who was marching a few feet away from me, chatting to the Kehoe family. Gran and Grandad went back and forth every couple of years, when I was young. Once or twice, discussions were held about me going along with them, but it never panned out. Dad would always find an excuse as to why I couldn’t go – school commitments or work commitments for him. Then he would book somewhere exciting to take my mind off it. I’ve been financially independent for several years, so I could have gone on my own buck. But something held me back. What was it? Fear, I think. Yes, that was it. Fear of finally finding my mom’s family, where she began her life, and not finding traces of her there. I felt Dan’s eyes on me, questioning. ‘I would like to visit one day. It would be cool to see where my mom was born. See if I can find any family left.’

  ‘You haven’t spoken about your mom since the night we met,’ Dan said.

  That’s because it hurts too much, I thought. But I didn’t say that. He must find it strange, because he on the other hand spoke about his mam all the time. I felt like I had known her. And I mourned her loss, as strange as that sounded. I flashed a smile at my boyfriend and decided to do what I always did when faced with a subject I didn’t like to discuss. I changed it. ‘We’re almost at the end! And I don’t know about you, but I’m starving!’

  Once we reached the end of the parade, people dispersed pretty quickly. Most had plans in various pubs around the city, or in their own local suburb. The O’Connor clan always headed to the Fitzpatrick Hotel for the full Irish breakfast. Sausages, bacon, eggs, white and black pudding, toast, butter and tea.

  We filed into the hotel lobby, walking over to the open fire that blazed in the library off reception. Shane Cookman, the hotel manager, knew our family well and greeted us all like we were his own family.

  ‘Brennan’s bread and Kerrygold butter. My mouth is watering already, Shane,’ Dad said, as we followed him into the restaurant and took our seats on either side of a long table that had been reserved for us.

  ‘One of the few places in town where you can get the real deal. You’ll learn that a lot promise you the full Irish, but not everyone delivers. A taste from home, I guarantee it,’ Uncle Mike told Dan.

  ‘You know what I miss the most. A decent cup of tea,’ Dan said. ‘No offence, but it’s impossible to get one over here.’

  ‘You just need to know where to go,’ Nancy said, tapping her nose conspiratorially.

  ‘They only serve Barry’s here. Isn’t that right, Shane?’ Dad called out.

  Shane nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’ve trained the staff myself. They know how to make a decent pot of tea. I’ll stake my reputation on it.’

  ‘But is it a pot? None of this bag in a mug business,’ Dan challenged.

  ‘A pot. With boiled water. That’s half the problem, I’ve found. Most don’t boil the water at all.’

  ‘We’ll all have the full Irish, Shane,’ Dad said, looking around the table quickly to make sure that there were no renegades looking for pancakes or some equally non-Irish option. There wasn’t. Nobody dared.

  ‘You won’t believe it,’ I threw in. ‘I was in Duke’s diner last week and ordered tea.’

  ‘They always have Barry’s,’ Dad said.

  ‘Not last week. They gave me Lipton’s. Knew the second I saw the colour of it,’ I said. The table responded with the right amount of indignation that this news deserved.

  ‘Out of order. Did you send it back?’ Dad said.

  ‘I did. Then I told the waitress to bring me the good stuff. She looked a bit puzzled. Barry’s tea, I explained, and she still looked clueless. So I walked over to the counter myself and looked underneath where I knew it was hidden.’

  ‘Was it there?’ Uncle Mike asked.

  ‘Of course it was! The owner is Irish – he always has a stash of the good stuff hidden.’

  ‘Well, here at the Fitzpatrick we don’t hide the good stuff, we give it to everyone,’ Shane said with perfect timing, a pot of tea in each hand. ‘I made them myself. So don’t even think about complaining.’

  This was one of my favourite days of each year. A chance to connect with old friends that we rarely saw the rest of the year. And a chance to remember Gran and Grandad, because they were wrapped up in all of our memories. But I’d never been so happy as I was this year. Watching Dan laughing with my family and friends, it was as if he’d always been with us. He fitted in here, I realized. And I wondered, if I went to Ireland with him as he suggested, would I fit in over there? I’m American Irish and proud of that. I wouldn’t choose to live in any other city in the world. I am where I am meant to be. But I’d also spent my entire life feeling homesick for a place that I’d never actually visited. Maybe it was time to address that.

  14

  LUCY

  July 1992

  Woodside, Queens, New York

  I wasn’t sure I would ever get used to not waking up in Ireland. The first few moments were the most peaceful part of my day, before my brain kicked in and remembered that I wasn’t at home in Kilmore any more. The homesickness came in waves, a physical reaction to a loss that only emigrants could understand. I’d shower and get dressed, watch Maeve put pop tarts in the oversized toaster as we listened to the sounds of sirens and trains outside our window. I felt like we were actors in a play, pretending to live here in this strange city. At any moment the curtain would fall, we’d take a bow and then put
our real clothes on. Despite this, somehow, I survived our first month in New York. I hadn’t worked out if I liked it or not yet. Getting the subway to Woodside on that first day we arrived was a panic. We couldn’t work out which train to get. Uptown or downtown made no sense and everybody was rushing so fast, it was impossible to find someone to help. New Yorkers move at a different pace to any other species I know. In the end we approached a couple of Chinese tourists, who had their heads buried in a map. They were friendly and helpful, with a better knowledge of the subway than us. Thanks to them we got on the correct train and managed to get off it on 61st Street as instructed. And as we stood on the walkway, looking down onto the street below, we saw the Stop Inn right in front of us, where our contact Martin had told us to wait for him.

  ‘Our first American diner experience!’ Maeve said, opening the menu when we took a seat in one of the laminated booths.

  ‘I’m not very hungry,’ I admitted. Somehow or other, since we’d left Ireland we’d been continuously snacking and looking through the hundreds of items on the menu, I felt overwhelmed by the choice. I thought about the small blackboard that sat above the bar at home in Nellie’s:

  Soup of the day

  Roast of the day

  Mixed Sandwiches

  Apple tart

  I stifled a sob, knowing that my sister would possibly kill me if I told her I missed Mam’s apple tart, less than twenty-four hours since we’d had a slice.

  ‘I couldn’t eat a thing either. But let’s choose what we’ll have tomorrow for breakfast. Because we have to come back for pancakes.’

  We finished two coffees before Martin arrived, red-faced and panting from running several blocks to get to us. ‘Sorry! Got held up in work. You must be Maeve and Lucy?’

  He was as nice as we’d been told by Michelle. And insisted on buying our coffees, telling us all about the local nightlife, hotspots where the Irish tended to hang out. Then he took us to the flat he’d found for us. It was in the apartment block he lived in and had become vacant soon after we got our visa offers. When he emailed us to tell us about it, we gratefully paid our deposit via a bank draft. We knew we were in the lucky position of having somewhere to go straight to, rather than starting off in digs or a hotel.