Angie asked if she could invite Bobby to the dinner. I thought of including Maggie but she had a date—not with Declan, who was now relegated to the category of definite ex, but with Sean, the doorman at the Achill Arms. It was just as well they couldn’t come. Explaining to Sister Bridget how they met would have been awkward. Maggie’s plan was to return to her boyfriend in France, but until then, well, Maggie was Maggie.
Our group arrived at Masterson’s Pub and stood outside for a while, gazing over the strand into a wispy sunset. Once through the door, we were ushered to a raised dining area up a few steps across from the bar. We took over the small space, which had just two booths. Toby and I shared one with Angie and Bobby, while Mom, Dad, Aunt Laura, and Sister Bridget took the other.
Over fish and chips, I prodded Angie about her announcement that she was not going back home, neither to the convent at Grace Quarry nor to the beauty salon in Gloucester. She had found a new home on Achill Island. Though they were silly with love, Bobby and Angie had sensible plans. She would live at the farm with Bobby, his mother, and Blackie. Mrs. Colman, considerably older than our mom, suffered from arthritis and would be glad to have the help of a strong young woman whom she welcomed as a daughter. Already Angie referred to her as Mam, as Bobby did. I could have seen it all as alarmingly swift, but I liked Bobby and for the first time I trusted Angie’s instincts about her man.
It reassured me to hear that Angie and Bobby had confided in Sister Bridget and sought her guidance. Bridget believed in female self-sufficiency, and she was cautious about Angie becoming the third hand on the farm, at least right away. It might be better to find a job on the island—cutting hair, maybe—and take time to test whether she loved sheep-tending as much as she loved Bobby. Angie is resourceful and flexible. I had faith that she would find her way on Achill, especially with the help of Sister Bridget, Bobby, his family, and the friends she had made while acting in The Playboy of the Western World.
“I’ve been thinking about that play,” I said. “What happens at the end? I never got to see it. I bet Christy gets the girl and somehow or other it all works out.”
“That’s what I expected too,” said Angie, “but it doesn’t happen. When the crowd sees Christy clobber his father right in front of their eyes, they turn against him, even Pegeen. She says it’s one thing to hear about a terrible deed, another thing to see it take place in your own backyard.”
“What happens to the father?” I asked. “Has Christy really killed him?”
“Everyone thinks so,” said Bobby, “but no, he crawls back in, in a daze. In the end, Christy and his father go off together, but things have changed between them. From now on, Christy will be the boss.”
“What about Pegeen?” I asked. I didn’t want her left alone.
“That dope Shawn Keogh says, well, now we can get married, after all, but she slaps him in the face.” Bobby smacked the air in front of Toby’s nose.
“She wants Christy back,” said Angie. “But it’s too late. He can’t forgive her for turning against him. The play ends with her wailing, ‘Oh my grief, I’ve lost him surely. I’ve lost the only Playboy of the Western World.’”
“It’s a sad ending for a comedy,” observed Toby.
“It is,” Bobby agreed. “I think Synge was ribbing us about our blasted blarney. He got a laugh out of our love of wild talk, but in the end he stuck it to us. If we let ourselves get snookered by the grand talkers among us, we’ll never get on in the world.”
“That’s as may be,” said Angie, slipping her arm through Bobby’s. “I’m not going to make the same mistake Pegeen did. I’m not letting my playboy get away.”
“Me neither,” I said.
Angie and I clinked beer mugs, and the guys raised theirs to each other.
After dinner Toby and I excused ourselves and slipped out for what would be our last walk along the beach. By then the sun had sunk behind Mount Slievemore. The breeze carried a chill, and I shivered. “You all right?” Toby asked.
“A little cold,” I said.
“Here, take my jacket. It’s warmer than yours.” He insisted. He was wearing a bulky Irish knit sweater underneath. I put on his jacket gratefully and carried my thinner rain jacket over my arm.
“How’s the ankle?”
“Better,” I said. “As long as we don’t walk too fast.”
He slowed the pace. “I’m ready to go home. How about you?”
“I guess so.”
He stopped, put both hands on my shoulders, and studied my face. “Something’s still bothering you. What is it?”
I shrugged.
“I know you’re worried about Emily, but Angie’s got a boyfriend and your mom’s in the clear. Things are looking up, no?”
“It’s just that I feel bad about not being straight with Mom, not telling her about the button I found, and thinking she was guilty of murdering Uncle Bert.”
“Now that it’s over, you could tell her, I suppose.” He took my hand and we continued walking, slowly.
“She’d think I wasn’t loyal. I couldn’t handle that.”
“Okay, that I understand.” We continued for a while without talking. Then Toby asked, “What would you have done if the case had dragged on or never been solved?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself that question, and I just don’t know. I wish I’d never found that damned button.”
“Your mom never missed it?”
“Sure she did. She brought the sweater in to Sweeney’s Woolen Shop to get all the buttons replaced. The sweater was there the day the detectives searched the cottage, which is why they never found any hard evidence against her.
“Where is it, by the way?” asked Toby.
“The button? In my pocket. I’ve been carrying it with me all along. I couldn’t think of a safer hiding place unless I was subject to a strip search, and that was unlikely. Now it just reminds me of my dilemma. Do you turn in your own mother if you suspect her of a crime, or do you become complicit by keeping her secret?”
“It’s a hard question, all right,” said Toby.
“What’s the answer?”
“May I see it?”
I dug into the pocket of my jeans and pulled out the button. Toby weighed it carefully in his hand. Then he broke into a trot toward the verge of the water. With the tide lapping his shoes, he drew back his arm and threw the button as far as he could, high into the air, into the sea.
Acknowledgments
We are deeply grateful to our cousin Sister Riona McHugh for welcoming us into her extended family and for introducing us to Achill Island. Thanks also to Father Kieran McHugh for suggesting a plot idea related to Irish lore. Our friend JoAnn Skloot shared information we could not have obtained elsewhere. Garda Martin O’Reilly (Achill Sound, County Mayo) and Garda John McNamara (Westport Garda Station) generously spent time with us explaining police procedures and jurisdictional issues pertaining to crime on Achill Island. We also thank John McGinty of Galway for useful historical facts and Kieran Sweeney for information on performances at Achill Sound Town Hall.
We used the following books for background: Heinrich Boll, Irish Journal (Brooklyn, NY: Melville House Printing, 2011); Theresa McDonald, Achill Island: Archeology, History, Folklore (St. O’Hara’s Hill, Tullamore: L.A.S. Publications, 2006); Jonathan Beaumont, Rails to Achill: A West of Ireland Branch Line (Usk, Wales: Oakwood Press, 2005); S. B. Kennedy, Paul Henry (New Haven, CT: National Gallery of Ireland and Yale University Press, 2003); Patricia Byrne, The Veiled Woman of Achill: Island Outrage & a Playboy Drama (Cork: Collins Press, 2012).
Thanks again to the dedicated staff at the University of Wisconsin Press. Publication of this book occurs shortly after the retirement of three key people: our editor, Raphael Kadushin, who coaxed five books out of us; Sheila Leary, who managed publicity and events; and Andrea Christofferson, responsible for marketing and sales. Behind the scenes, Scott Lenz and TG Design designed the interior pages and book covers that felt
just right for the series. Editing and production was overseen by Sheila McMahon, and copyediting was done by Michelle Wing. We are deeply grateful to all for their care and creativity.
Finally, there’s nothing so valuable as a critical reading by a friend and fellow author. Thank you, Kim Hays.
Books by Betsy Draine and Michael Hinden
A NORA BARNES AND TOBY SANDLER MYSTERY
Murder in Lascaux
The Body in Bodega Bay
Death on a Starry Night
A Castle in the Backyard: The Dream of a House in France
The Walnut Cookbook by Jean-Luc Toussaint (translators and editors)
BETSY DRAINE AND MICHAEL HINDEN are emeritus professors of English at the University of Wisconsin–Madison and the coauthors of the Nora Barnes and Toby Sandler mystery series. Their first collaboration was a memoir, A Castle in the Backyard: The Dream of a House in France (2002), inspired by their twenty summers in the Dordogne in southwest France.
Michael Hinden won a Kiekhofer Award for Excellence in Teaching in 1972 and was named Bascom Professor of Integrated Liberal Studies in 2004. At the University of Wisconsin–Madison, he taught modern drama in the Department of English and literature and the arts in the Integrated Liberal Studies Program. He chaired the ILS Program from 1981 to 1984 and served as Associate Dean of International Studies from 1991 to 2003. His publications include Long Day’s Journey into Night: Native Eloquence (1990).
Betsy Draine served as Chair of Women’s Studies (1989–92) and Vice Provost for Academic Affairs (1992–99) at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. The focus of her administrative work was on gender equity and work climate. She taught courses in modern British fiction and is the author of Substance under Pressure: Artistic Coherence and Evolving Form in the Novels of Doris Lessing (1983). She won the 1990 Chancellor’s Award for Excellence in Teaching and the 2002 Phi Beta Kappa Teaching Award. Betsy and Michael retired in 2005.
The Dead of Achill Island Page 19