“Ye found them on the doorstep?” Bríd chewed her lip. “Well, pay ye no mind, lass. Pay ye no mind. Just . . . stay away from those flowers, aye?”
Moira nodded.
“Now, what were ya wantin’ to ask me?” Bríd plastered a smile on her face.
Moira swallowed, dizzied by the rapid change in subject. “I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t late for lunch.”
“Oh!” Bríd chuckled. “A’course ye’re not late!” She headed for the kitchen. “Lunchtime ’round here is one o’ the clock.”
Moira filed that piece of information for safekeeping. At least you’ve not been rude to yet another person your first days in town, Moira Girl. She pushed thoughts of manners and flowers out of her mind and hurried upstairs to tend to her ablutions, then returned just as quickly to take her place at the table. No sooner was she seated than an overflowing plate bearing a pile of chunky bacon sandwiched between two slices of thick, crusty bread was set before her. Seared tomato halves and a dollop of mashed potatoes accompanied the sandwich. The bacon looked more like ham steak than the streaky bacon she was accustomed to at home.
The hearty meal filled her with warmth as she savored the saltiness of the bacon against the cool of the bread and creaminess of the potatoes. If I’m not careful, I’ll be visiting the local seamstress to have my dresses let out after just a week of Bríd’s hospitality!
The muted thuds and clanks coming from the kitchen told Moira her hostess was busy cleaning from the afternoon meal and likely making preparations for dinner. She stared at the closed door to the kitchen. Her shoulders slumped. Although she understood the work in a guesthouse was never done, she had hoped Bríd would join her for lunch and provide insights into her new community.
As if overhearing her thoughts, the woman appeared in the doorway. She began to clear Moira’s dishes and paused to ask, “Did ya find yer morning productive, peata?”
“Oh yes, quite. Thank you. I took a stroll through the town center and up the hill near the church. Then I spent the rest of the morning in the schoolroom cleaning and organizing. There is a good bit more work to do, but I feel much better having seen the school and getting some preparation done.”
“That’s lovely, dear, just lovely. Did ya meet any of the local folk while you were out?”
“Oh, well, yes.” She shifted in her seat. “While I was in the schoolroom, a young fellow came in. Nearly scared me to death, I was so lost in my own thoughts. A young man by the name of Sean, I believe. Sean McFadden?”
“Well, I am sure ye’ll be meetin’ a good number of folk over the next few days.”
Bríd’s voice was steady and matter of fact, but Moira detected a twinkle in the woman’s eyes when Moira mentioned Sean. Then again, maybe she was imagining things.
Chapter 8
The tranquil, soothing power of a simple cup of tea always took Moira by surprise. The company of a friend didn’t hurt, either, of course.
In Ballymann less than a week, Moira felt a true bond forming between her and Bríd. A friendly cuppa and chat filled her with renewed peace as she sat with the woman on Sunday evening.
“Yer chalet is nearly ready for ya, peata,” the woman said before taking a bite of toast.
Moira’s jaw fell open. “Already?” She wiped a napkin across her mouth.
“Aye, it’s a wee bit earlier than we expected, but a woman needs her own place, doesn’t she?” Bríd prattled on about curtain styles, cooking over a turf-fired stove, and ways to make a new house a home.
Moira, however, struggled to turn her thoughts from snapping twigs, Buach, and his cackled threats—the memory of his clawing fingers haunted her more and more of late. She longed to ask Bríd more about what the old man might have meant about her mother, but she couldn’t manage to eke out the question. She didn’t want to press Bríd too much too soon and push her away. Feigning interest in the woman’s stories, Moira dutifully sipped her tea. When the teapot had been sufficiently emptied and the conversation fell to a natural lull, Moira excused herself and headed to her room.
She scanned the humble chamber, attempting to sort through the melting pot of emotions churning within. The prospect of finally starting her own life and making her own home sent flurries of excitement to her heart. Yet a pang of sadness rang deep as well. The seed of doubt that had planted itself firmly in her gut days earlier sprouted at the idea of living alone.
Would she ever feel truly settled? Could she care for and protect a house, even a tiny chalet, in the manner needed? Would it ever truly feel like home?
Home.
The word dallied in her mind, swirling and swaying like a leaf on the breeze before finally settling silent and heavy on her heart.
It had been days since she’d truly thought of her home across the water in Boston. Until now, anytime thoughts of home or family threatened to surface, Moira tucked them away. There was too much to do to get bogged down with nostalgia and loneliness. But now, sitting alone in her small room in the top corner of the guesthouse, the memories were too great to suppress.
Overcome by the magnitude of the task before her and the sense of loss for all she had left behind, Moira wilted onto the bed.
Surrounded by a fog not unlike the one she had seen from her perch the day she arrived in Ballymann, she could neither see nor feel her feet.
“It’s too much! I can’t do this!” she called into the abyss. Her voice bounced and echoed around her, though no walls contained her. “I don’t know what I am doing. I can’t speak the language. I’m all alone. Do you hear me? Alone!”
I will never leave you. I will never abandon you.
Moira spun about, the fog encompassing her more and more with each breath.
You look at the path before you and your eyes rest upon the obstacles. I will be with you, whispering the way, where you should turn, to the right or to the left.
Once more, Moira searched for the source of the voice. As she turned, she suddenly found herself sitting up in bed. Beads of sweat covered her forehead, her heart beat wildly within her chest, and she panted for breath like a horse just across the finish line.
The dream unsettled her. It was a dream, wasn’t it? How could such powerful words both encourage and frighten? Dusk shrouded the room in shadow and still she sat.
Exhausted from an emotional day and looking ahead to what promised to be another trying day as she began school the next morning, Moira wrapped herself in the soft comfort of the duvet and tried to rest.
Moira stood in the open doorway of the school and stared into the silent room, bathed in the silver-gray light of predawn. Had she eaten breakfast? Washed her face? Not one recollection of that morning remained in her mind.
God, give me strength. A shiver ran down her spine—from cold or nerves she couldn’t say, but it was enough to shake her into action. As she inhaled deeply, the aroma of dust, musk, and days long past filled her lungs. The fragrance filled her heart and mind with a new sense of purpose and confidence. She strode resolutely across the room to her desk and readied her things.
Confident she had allowed herself plenty of time before the students arrived, Moira busied herself arranging papers and looking over lesson plans and notes scribbled in the margins of well-worn pages.
Church bells shattered the early morning silence. Moira startled, knocking over a box of beads at the interruption of the bells’ insensitive peal. The beads she’d planned to use in a sums lesson later that morning bounced and rolled on the plank floor.
“Och!” she screeched, scrambling to rein in the wayward beads, moving more like a newborn lamb clamoring to find his legs than a qualified teacher.
Still the bells tolled. “Good gracious me, I think they can hear you all the way in Boston!”
Three more clangs split the air. Hunched in mid-stoop, Moira froze. How many times had the bells tolled? No. That cannot be the time.
Alas, it was nine o’clock. The bells had beckoned the pupils from their homes, and they would
be arriving any moment. Depositing the remaining beads from her hand into the box whence they came, she fumbled through her papers to find the roll sheet.
Caoimhe.
Deirbhle.
Cian.
Eoghan.
Her heart sank. “How can I greet them at the door if I don’t know how to pronounce their names?” She banged a fist on her thigh. Why had she waited until now to look at the list? It would have been easy enough to ask Bríd how to pronounce the names, but it was no matter now. The students were on the way.
She steadied herself against her desk, bowed her head, and whispered a desperate plea. “Help me, Lord.”
I am with you. The promise reverberated deep in her soul, bolstering her with a confidence she couldn’t explain and had no business possessing. At that moment the door opened.
Chapter 9
Moira pasted a smile on her face, willing her lips to stop quivering, as she turned to face the door. “Good morning. Please, come in.”
A timid face peeked around the edge of the open door, eyeing her inquisitively. “Marnin’,” the child murmured.
“Please, come in, dear. There’s no need to be shy. I’m Moi—eh—Miss Doherty. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Although she hoped to present an air of confidence and authority, Moira was just as nervous and scared as the wee face peering back at her. With marked steps, the child made her way into the room.
“I’m Aoife.”
“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Aoife. How old are you, dear?”
The child stared at her feet as she traced the line of a crack in the floor with the edge of her shoe. Moira watched the way the girl’s auburn ringlets fell softly over her shoulders, refusing to stay in the plaited bun at the nape of her neck. Slowly Aoife’s hand raised, and she held up five fingers, a rosy blush filling her cheeks.
“Five, is it? Well, that’s a very important age. Tell me, Aoife, where are your classmates?”
Blue eyes, clear as Dunlewey Lake on a bright summer day, met Moira’s, and a mischievous smile played on the girl’s lips. She turned and nodded at the door, then motioned ever so slightly with her finger.
Craning her neck to look out the window without being seen, Moira could just see the feet, skirts, and pant legs of a group of children.
“They’re all outside, are they?”
Aoife nodded.
“Let me see if I can guess. They sent you in to check things out and see what kind of a monster I am. Is that about right?”
The girl’s stance immediately relaxed, and she broke out in a grin and fervent nod.
“Well, I say we let them in and satisfy their curiosity, shall we?”
Aoife skipped lightly to the door and called out to her schoolmates, “Tá sé ceart go leor, gach duine! Tá sí go álainn!”
“Lovely, eh?” A voice drifted in from behind Aoife. “We’ll see ’bout that.”
One by one the children filed into the schoolroom. With girls curtsying and the boys tipping their hats, they each shuffled past the new teacher and made their way to their seats.
“Good morning, children. My name is Miss Doherty, and I’m sure you all know I’ve only arrived in town a few days ago,” she began. “I am very excited to get to know each of you and see all the wonderful things we can learn together this year. Make no mistake, boys and girls, I don’t expect to be the only one doing the teaching.”
Pausing for effect and clasping her hands comfortably in front of her, she looked from pupil to pupil. Where fear and anxiety had sunk an anchor deep in the pit of her stomach just a few minutes earlier, inexplicable peace now reigned.
Moira clapped her hands together. “There is a whole textbook worth of things I can learn from you too.”
The children shared furtive glances. Some eyes were wide in excitement. Other eyes were like windows open in the springtime. They seemed to be airing out mischievous thoughts of just how much they could teach this Yank—and how much they could humiliate her in the process. Moira dismissed the idea that any of her students might have it out for her, moved her mind to the task at hand, and asked the children to go around the room and tell her their name and age.
A young man stood up, shuffling his feet. He twisted his hat nervously between his hands and cleared his throat. “I’m Martin Ó Ghallchobhair, Miss. I’m seventeen and this is my final year in the school.”
“I’m Eoghan Ó Baoighill, t’irteen years of age.”
“Marnin’, marm. I’m Caoimhe Ní Ghallchobhair, and I’m thirteen.”
“Gallagher? So are you Martin’s sister?” Moira probed.
The classroom erupted in laughter.
“Are ya really so daft? Do ya not know our history ’tall? There’s many in our parish that have the same surname, but that don’t mean we’s all close relations. We’re a nation made of clans. Sure you’ve heard o’ dat before?”
The disrespectful remark dripping in sarcasm hit Moira like a punch in the gut. “Excuse me, young man, but that sort of talk will not be tolerated in my classroom. Tell me your name.”
“Sure, if ye’re so fit to be teachin’ us, you should already know a bit o’ the Irish now, yeah? Sure ye can find my name on the list and read it out. I don’t hafta tell you an’ting.”
A sickening burning rose to the back of Moira’s throat. She swallowed it down, along with her hopes for a flawless first day. So torrential were her swirling thoughts, it was impossible to allow any specific one to float to the front of her mind. Her eyes roamed over the class list, neither seeing nor comprehending anything. Finally, her eyes fell on a name with a black dot next to it. Áedach MacSuibhne.
Before she could scramble together a scolding, a voice sliced through the silence of the room. “Áedach, you shut yer gob an’ give Miss Doherty the respect she desairves.”
Although mortified that she needed a student’s help, Moira was secretly grateful for Martin coming to her rescue, and she made a mental note of how he’d pronounced the impossible name: AY-joc. Offering Martin a smile and slight nod of thanks, her cheeks warmed as Áedach’s gaze rested on hers longer than was comfortable.
“Well now, Áedach,” Moira began. “It would seem we have gotten ourselves off to a bit of a rough start. I propose we try this again from the beginning.” She firmly straightened her apron, making sure she looked every bit the part of teacher.
She smiled and extended her hand, but rather than accepting her gesture of goodwill, the boy merely laughed caustically and slunk down into his seat. Although she knew this behavior needed to be dealt with, Moira decided it best to approach the lad privately later.
The rest of the day passed fairly uneventfully with a few activities designed to help Moira become better acquainted with her pupils, as well as the typical daily tasks of arithmetic, writing, and recitation.
Chapter 10
Moira’s feet ached as she walked back to the guesthouse. She wanted nothing more than to stretch out on her bed in the room that had finally begun to feel a bit like home. With all the strength she could muster, she heaved open the Martins’ door. Had it always been this heavy? Bríd appeared in a flash with breathless news for her lodger.
“Yer chalet is ready for ye, peata! Yer man is waiting to show ye ’round. Come now, we’ll go have a wee peek and ye can take yer things over tomorrow. It’s a blessing to have it done so soon, so it is.”
Moira’s head spun. “My man? Who? What?” Surely she isn’t referring to Sean? I barely said two words about him.
Understanding dawned on Bríd’s face. “Sorry. That’s just what we say when we’re talkin’ about a lad without sayin’ his name. I meant nothing by it. I was talkin’ about the caretaker of the chalet.”
Moira nodded as if that all made sense. Her mind moved like molasses, her body ached, and the impulse to both laugh and cry vied for control. She fidgeted with her fingers and chewed her lip nervously but couldn’t help the smile that tipped the corner of her mouth as her mind stirred
awake with anticipation.
Bríd’s arm entwined with Moira’s, and she whisked her out of the guesthouse.
Moira stood on the roadside gazing up at the tiny chalet. A neatly thatched roof slanted gently down over the tops of whitewashed walls. Two small square windows, trimmed in red, perched like eyes watching the goings-on down the street below. Between the two windows stood a bright red door, with the top half fully opened. She loved it instantly.
Behind her, Bríd was chattering on about one thing or another while fussily sweeping the path to the door with her foot. Once inside, Moira studied the room, falling more and more in love with her little home.
She walked over to a large wooden dresser and ran her fingers lightly over the open shelves on the top half, reveling in the roughness of the wood. A set of crockery, cream-colored with delicate blue flowers painted on the sides, sat proudly displayed.
Kneeling down, she opened the large doors that covered the two cabinets on the bottom of the dresser. Dust and years of musk wafted up, welcoming her to her new home. Moira imagined all the cups of tea and slices of hearty brown bread that would be shared with the friends she prayed the Lord would bring her.
To her left was a floor-level fireplace with a footed stack of turf waiting to be lit. Her eyes stopped on two tiny, three-legged creepie stools sitting near the hearth. She couldn’t imagine how anything that slight and rustic could ever be a comfortable place to sit, cook, and share company with a guest.
“Och! They’ve let the fire go out!” Bríd’s disgusted gasp interrupted Moira’s thoughts.
“That’s alright, Bríd. I imagine it wouldn’t be safe to leave a fire burning when I won’t be staying here until tomorrow anyway.”
“Sure, peata, don’t ya know that the soul goes out of the people of the house if the fire goes out?” Bríd bustled to the fireplace. “When we come tomorrow, I’ll show ya how to use the embers of today’s fire to light tomorrow’s.”
A Dance in Donegal Page 5