Fatal Roots

by Sheila Connolly

  “And that’s all I know. Her land was Mick’s, and he died only recently, so I couldn’t talk to him, and Maura knew nothing. I didn’t know what to do, but I thought about it a bit and decided I needed to talk to Maura and ask her who around here would be old enough to remember when my grandfather died and what happened. And now here I am. I’d be grateful if you tell me what you know.”

  “Will yeh be tellin’ your people?” Billy asked.

  “My father and his brothers, you mean? Depends on what I learn. I think they’re still angry.”

  “And do yeh know why they’re angry?” Billy went on.

  “If I had to guess, I’d say it was political,” Darragh told him.

  “And odds are you’d be right,” Billy replied. “This woulda been in the sixties, and I’ll wager not all of you—includin’ Maura—know much about what was goin’ on in Cork back then. Yeh’ll have heard of the IRA, I’m thinkin’?”

  “Yes,” Maura said. “But where do they fit in this mess?”

  “I won’t tell yeh the whole history of the war for independence from England,” Billy said, “save that Cork was always a very active place. But times changed, groups changed, and so did their leaders and even their goals. In the sixties, the IRA, which held on to its name, moved to the left and found new battles to fight. I won’t tell yeh that Old Mick or the Hegartys were leaders or any such thing, but there were strong feelings among many hereabouts. Mick Sullivan had taken over this place a few years earlier, and yeh might guess that seein’ as it was a pub then, there were plenty of rowdy evenin’s, and more than a few people were thrown out. And that’s where this story began.”

  “Wait,” Maura interrupted. “You’re saying they were IRA members back then?”

  “Let’s say they were sympathetic,” Billy corrected her. “And add to that, hot tempered. The Hegartys still lived out in the townlands, and Mick had settled in that cottage. Yeh never woulda known yer grandfather James, Maura, but the man had a temper. He and yer gran Nora lived near Mick—on parts of the Sullivan land that had been split up—and yer father was a small child. One Saturday night things got a bit out of hand and Mick threw the both of them—Corny Hegarty and James Donovan—out of the pub and told them to walk it off. They left, but they didn’t cool down, and by the time they’d made it to Knockskagh, even the neighbors could hear the argument. Without dressin’ it up, the two men commenced fightin’, and James Donovan ended up dead.”

  “Wait—what? Wasn’t he my grandfather?”

  “He was that. A good man, but he had a temper. The men were drunk and it was late and they were angry. Coulda gone either way, but it was James who died. Past midnight, it was, and Old Mick was just arrivin’ home after closin’ and found them. Hegarty was still angry and blamed Tom fer the ruckus. Mebbe he didn’t know he’d killed him, but Mick knew, and when he tried to settle Hegarty, said he’d report him to the gardaí, Hegarty turned on him, and it was Hegarty who got the worst of it from Mick. But the fact of it is, they’d killed each other, there in the dark. Have I got it right so far, Bridget?”

  “You do, Billy. I was still awake, and came out to see what all the fuss was about, and found Mick standing over the two men on the ground. He explained to me what had happened, but he wasn’t sure what to do next. Mick wasn’t a violent man, or no more than any publican needed to be, and he hadn’t started the fight. If anythin’, he’d tried to end it, but the men were dead, and Mick had had some troubles with the gardaí before. There was even a garda station in Leap back then, though it’s been closed fer years.”

  “What did you do, Bridget?” Maura asked softly.

  “Mick and I, we stood there in the dark tryin’ to figure out what was right. Hegarty had been in trouble long before, but Mick didn’t want to have to explain to the gardaí, and they weren’t all his friends. So I told Mick that I’d tell Nora that her husband James had met with an accident—hit his head—and was beyond help. And I said it so she’d know there was a bit more of the story, but it wasn’t Tom’s fault. We wanted him to have a proper burial, and Mick and I believed most of the people around Leap would accept our story and would support Mick’s side.”

  “And my grandfather?” Darragh spoke up for the first time in a while.

  “Mick buried him that very night, where yeh found him. He told me that if the gardaí came askin’ after him, we’d say he’d gone his own way, we didn’t know where. And not many, save his sons, came lookin’ fer him. I’m thinkin’ that’s when the family left the townlands.”

  Darragh nodded once. “So you’re saying it wasn’t political, or even personal—it was simply a stupid accident between two drunken men in the dark?”

  “Which was the truth, lad,” Billy reminded him. “It was only what came after that we changed the story a bit, and nobody was really to blame. Mind yeh, nobody ever questioned the story, neither the gardaí nor the neighbors. Forgive me fer sayin’ it, but yer grandfather didn’t have many friends around here, not like James Donovan did.”

  Maura felt stunned. Why had her grandmother never shared any of this? Maura had always wondered about her abrupt departure to Boston with her young son, where she had no friends or relatives or even contacts. And now it was too late to ask. “Bridget,” she said carefully, “where is my grandfather buried? Gran never said.”

  “In the old Kilmacabea cemetery—you may not have seen it, but it’s between here and your home. She couldn’t afford a stone, but we gave him a proper funeral, and we raised enough money to let her buy a ticket to the States fer herself and her son.”

  “Can you show me sometime? I guess I’d like to pay my respects.”

  “Of course, love. Nora would be pleased. Is she buried with yer father?”

  “She is, just outside the city. They share a very simple stone—it was all I could afford when … she passed on.”

  “Don’t worry yerself about it, Maura,” Bridget said kindly. The she turned to Darragh, who looked like he was trying to digest what he’d just heard. “Will yeh be telling yer people?”

  “I … don’t know. I think the anger, or at least the high feelings, run in the family. I do know there are pubs who won’t serve my uncles. And there’s no vengeance to be taken, no restitution to be made. Are there Hegartys buried around here? Since the gardaí know where he was found, we can’t exactly put him back there. And other people might object.”

  “You can tell yer family yeh never found the man, and we can lay him to rest locally, if yeh want,” Billy said.

  “Might be a more peaceful solution. Do we need to tell the gardaí?”

  Maura looked around at the small group, and nobody seemed enthusiastic about the idea. “If everybody is okay with it, I can tell Sean Murphy, off the record, like. The man’s gone unknown and unnoticed for a long time, so him telling the other gardaí that no one can identify him probably won’t raise any questions.”

  Billy nodded. “That might do. Sean’s a good young man, and trustworthy. If he isn’t satisfied with what you say, send him to me.”

  “Thank you, Billy,” Maura said quietly. “Is there anything else that needs to be said? Or are you all ready for something to drink? Or would you rather all go home to bed?”

  “It’s been a long day, though we’ve done what we came to do.”

  “I’ll take yeh home then, if yeh’re ready to go,” Mick told her. “But I have one suggestion, before we all go our ways. There’s plenty of people who know what we found, even if they’ll never know the ‘who.’ Might we consider giving the man a wake? It seems better than just forgettin’ him. Darragh? Is that a problem fer yeh?”

  “Let me think about it, but I’d say it sounds good. I hold no grudge against anyone for what happened, and I’m not about to tell people the story. Old Mick’s gone, but this was his place, and now it’s Maura’s. Keeps it all in the family, sort of. But we don’t have to decide right now, do we?”

  “No,” Maura said firmly. “We’re tired, and this was tough, si
nce it’s personal for most of us. Let’s all think about it before we decide.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “See yeh in a bit?” Mick asked quietly, when the others had left and they were alone.

  “Yes. I guess,” Maura said. “Sorry—that’s not fair. I can’t make up my mind whether I want to be alone or I need company. Come over anyway, once you’ve got Bridget settled.”

  “I will,” he replied, then helped Bridget gather up her things.

  When they were gone, Rose came up beside her. “You were quiet tonight,” Maura told her.

  “I’m not related to anybody who was in the room, though I’ve known some of ’em all my life. I felt a bit like an outsider, but I thought I needed to know what was goin’ on.”

  “You mean, so you know what the problem is when we’re all acting like depressed idiots?”

  Rose gave her a small smile. “Exactly. Did yeh know none of this?”

  “None. I loved my grandmother, and she was a good, kind, decent person. It was just that she never talked about the past. It was kind of like she just showed up as a full-blown adult in Boston, with no history at all. Which is ridiculous, but still … I don’t even remember my father. Maybe him dying in a stupid construction accident was the last straw and she just erased all her Irish memories. When he was gone, and my mother left, she didn’t talk about either of them. I wonder what she’d think of Helen now? Helen pretty much knew what she was doing was wrong, but she was desperate, and I can understand that. I’m not that different, but I didn’t want to leave Gran alone or I might have split too. We were one great family, weren’t we? What’s the right term? Dysfunctional?”

  “You survived, Maura. Yer gran made it possible. And it’s like she gave yeh Ireland, only it was after she was gone.”

  “I guess she did. I hadn’t looked at it that way. What about you, Rose? How well do you remember your mother?”

  “She was sick a lot, toward the end. Jimmy was no help—he has no patience for anyone who’s ill. As yeh well know, I had to grow up fast.”

  “You’re doing fine. I’m glad to have you here. But if you find something better, take it. I won’t hold it against you. You’ve got brains and you work hard. Tell me if you want me to recommend you.”

  “I’ll remember that. But right now we’re havin’ a grand time with the kitchen. What about your Mick?”

  “Is he mine? We’re kind of a work in progress. Did he ever tell you about his past?”

  “No, but he’s a good bit older than me. Why would he?”

  “I suppose he wouldn’t—it’s pretty personal, and it took him a while to tell me anything. He’s good to Bridget, though.” Maura shut her eyes for a moment. “I’m exhausted.”

  “So go home to Mick then,” Rose told her.

  “If I can find the energy. Do you know, I’m not even sure where he lives.”

  “I could show yeh, but it really doesn’t have an address.”

  “Neither does my place. So far it’s ‘the cottage halfway up the hill, past the yellow cottage. If you reach the piggery you’ve gone too far.’ This is all so not like Boston.”

  “Do yeh miss the big city?”

  “Not really. I mean, there’s lots to do there and it’s interesting, but all I ever had was a bunch of dead-end jobs and no money. I didn’t have many friends at school, and after we graduated, I didn’t see any of them. So I can’t say I lost anything by coming here, and I did gain a lot. Like my own pub, and a house, and friends. Things I’d never even hoped for. But I still miss Gran.”

  “Go home, Maura. I’ll come in early in the mornin’ and clean up, but there’s not much needs doing.”

  “Thank you, Rose. That would be a big help. And I’ll ask Sean to come over and tell him the details, and he can decide if he needs to do anything about it all. I can’t see that he’d try—there’s nobody to charge with the crime, if there even was one. Darragh’s found out what he came looking for. Bridget and Billy have passed on the history to us, and now it’s ours to do with what we think is best. But I still say we should have some sort of event, even if we don’t tell people why. Maybe an opening celebration for the new and improved kitchen? And we’ll be the only ones who know it’s more than that.”

  “I like that idea. We can talk more about it tomorrow. Good night, Maura.”

  “Good night. And thanks for everything, Rose.”

  Outside the night air hadn’t cooled much, but it felt good. There was no one on the street, and no cars moving. And she was going home, to Mick. How many parts of that sentence had she never expected to say? She’d never had a true home—too many shabby apartments instead. And she’d never had a real lasting relation with any guy. Would Mick stick around? He was smart and educated, and he could do better than fill pints in a country pub. Would she try to hang on to him if he did finally wake up and go back to a life he was better suited for? She had no idea. Could she see herself filling pints behind a bar twenty or thirty years from now? That idea made her smile: she’d never planned that far ahead in her life.

  Driving back along the unlit narrow road, the only sign of life she saw was a fox that darted across the road in front of her, its eyes gleaming briefly in her headlights. It took no more than a few minutes to reach her cottage. Bridget’s cottage was dark, but the evening must have been hard for her, in more ways than one. Mick’s car was parked in front of Maura’s cottage, and there was a single light shining in her front room.

  She turned off her engine and was startled by the silence that followed. She closed her car door as quietly as possible, then walked into the cottage. Mick rose to greet her. “You all right?”

  “I wish I knew. Too much to process. Do you realize that I gained a grandfather and lost him, all in the same day? I don’t know how to deal with that. I do know I’d like to visit his grave, if Bridget will tell me where to find it. Is she all right?”

  “She is. Tired, of course, but she feels she’s done her duty. Do yeh know, she wouldn’t have told yeh if she didn’t think you were ready to hear it.”

  “I understand, and I’ll thank her for it. Listen, Rose said she’d be at the pub early tomorrow, so we don’t have to rush to get there. And I told her I’d get in touch with Sean and ask him to stop by so I can tell him more of the story. I don’t think he’ll make much of it, and what would be the point? I’d say we could close the book on all this, but that’s not really true, because it’s kind of still going on: I’m here. Darragh will go back to wherever he came from, but I live here. I work here. I’m the last part of any of those families who’s still here, apart from Bridget. I can see why Gran couldn’t deal with it, but I don’t want to run from it. Does that make sense to you?”

  “It does, in fact. Funny how many different ways the past catches up with yeh. Ready to go up?”

  “I am.”

  * * *

  The next morning Maura refused to open her eyes until she’d sorted out at least most of the events of the day before. Mick was already downstairs, and there might even be breakfast soon. Rose would get the pub ready for the day. Darragh? She wasn’t sure what his plans were. Was he really doing research, or had that been a handy excuse as he combed through fairy forts looking for an old unmarked grave? She’d told Rose she thought they ought to have a party of some sort, and she still liked the idea by the light of day. Maybe it would jump-start the flow of customers to the pub, especially when they learned how good a cook Rose was. Maybe there would have been enough whispering about the unknown dead man that people would be curious and come in looking for an answer—which she hoped no one would give. What body? Who was it? In a fairy fort? What’s a fairy fort? What, nobody knows? It was almost a game. Poor man. She should stop in and see Bridget before she left for Leap, to make sure she was really all right. And to thank her, or try.

  Phooey! The sun was shining, and Mick was downstairs, and they’d solved a murder that had waited for nearly forty years (except nobody had known the man was dead or w
here to look for him, so nobody had even been trying to solve his murder), and she’d added a new member to her family tree, even though she’d never have a chance to meet him. This was about as good as it would get. Time to get up.

  She pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and headed down the stairs. Mick was in front of the elderly stove Maura had inherited from Old Mick, cooking something, so she called out, “Good morning. Whatever that is, it smells good.”

  He turned toward her and smiled. “I won’t tell you what to call it. At least it had no mold growing on it. When are yeh goin’ to start eating like a normal person?”

  “I’m saving myself for Rose’s food. And Bridget’s bread. Do I look like I’m wasting away?”

  “I’d say not. And Rose’s cookin’ is worth the wait. Are yeh gonna go into Skib to talk to Sean?”

  “I thought it might be easier to have him stop by the pub—no chance that anyone will overhear. I’d hate to see the gardaí start up some big investigation, and what’s the point? I’m hoping Sean can end it before it starts.”

  “Odds are good. Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  Mick filled plates with bacon, eggs and bread, doled out coffee mugs, and settled across from Maura at the table.

  “You raided Bridget’s pantry?” Maura asked.

  “How did yeh guess? Yeh said yeh liked her bread.”

  “This is nice,” Maura said.

  “What, the food? The weather? The company?”

  “All of the above. It’s nice to have you here,” she said, then added, “Want to try it full-time?”

  Where had that come from? Maura wondered. Was she awake yet? But she found she meant it. Life was too short, with too many unexpected twists and turns, to wait for the one perfect moment, if there even was such a thing. That was one thing this past week had taught her.

  “Are yeh invitin’ me?” Mick said.