by Therese Down
Caitlin stared into a mirror and brushed her long black hair, killing time while Maureen finished her evening chores, and then both were to ride together in a neighbour’s cart to the Dundrum ceilidh. She was wearing her best dress, made by her mother years ago for her oldest sister’s wedding. It was of cotton with a rather faded blue floral print and it had long sleeves, a loose round neck, and hung straight to her calves with a tie-back hanging at each side, to be made into a bow at the back. Maureen had one exactly the same. Caitlin pulled the bow tight to accentuate her flat belly, her small waist, then tied back her thick hair with a blue ribbon, so that it would not fall over her accordion and impede the dance of her fingers across the keys. As she stooped to lace her boots, then flung her shawl over her head and around her shoulders, she told herself that it would not be long before she swapped these poor clothes for finery. Descending the crude wooden stairs, she met Maureen.
“Hurry up, would you?” she instructed as they passed. “I’ll be late.”
“Well, you could always lend a hand, Caitlin. Did that occur to you?”
Caitlin did not answer. She did not really care if she was late. The music could start without her. She carried on into the kitchen where she leaned against the range. When Maureen came running down the stairs again, she too was wearing her blue floral dress, except that on Maureen the dress looked comfortable. She had removed her tie-backs and wore it straight, hiding her feminine curves lest they should inflame men to sinful thoughts. Maureen’s plainness was made austere by her scraped-back hair. The contrast with Caitlin was striking.
“Ah, Maureen, take off the dress, will you? You know I’m playing tonight, sure, I don’t want you in the same dress.”
“Aren’t you awful sure of yourself, that anyone will notice what you’ve on? You’re not the Queen of Sheba, you know.”
Caitlin pushed away from the range and thrust her face towards Maureen. “And you’re not the Blessed Virgin, you know!” She mimicked her sister’s prim tone. “Sure if you had any sort of chance with the men, you’d never be entering the convent.” Even as she observed her sister crumple, Caitlin tried to analyse why it was they so hated each other.
“How dare you say such things to me, Caitlin Spillane! You are as cruel!” Maureen spat the words through tears. “You wait, Caitlin. The day is coming when you get your come-uppance, lady. ’Tis worse you’re getting!”
“Yeh, yeh, Maureen.” Caitlin leaned back against the range, feigned nonchalance. “Are you ready or what? Maher will be waiting.”
“I’m not coming – isn’t that what you wanted to hear?” announced Maureen, wiping tears from her eyes. “Go on your own. I’m not coming with you anywhere.”
“Ah, now, Maureen, cop on!” But Maureen was running back upstairs and Caitlin heard their bedroom door slam shut. She would get in terrible trouble for this when Maureen spilled all to her parents – as she always did. Well, she had to go. Caitlin shrugged her shoulders, lifted her accordion, and went to the back door. Before she left, she turned and shouted in the direction of the stairs, “Are you coming? Pat Maher’s below at the cross.” She hesitated for a few seconds, but when there was no response, she left. Lying face down on her bed, Maureen sobbed aloud as the door slammed.
“You’re late – what kept you? Where’s Maureen?” Mick Spillane approached his daughter as she rushed into the dance hall, flushed after her freezing donkey cart ride from Dunane to Dundrum.
“She decided not to come.” Caitlin took off her shawl, moved away from her father. Mick followed her, suspecting another row between his daughters.
“Why didn’t Maureen come?” he insisted. “Where’s Maher?”
Caitlin lifted her accordion onto her shoulders, adjusted the weight, avoiding eye contact with Mick.
“She’s tired. Maher’s tying up his horse.”
A fiddler, a flautist, and an ancient man with a bodhran were about to strike up a reel. They stopped as she approached and assisted her in mounting the platform. The gathering dancers clapped her arrival. Mick eyed her from halfway across the dance hall and thought to himself that this was the last time the little scut would rub poor Maureen’s nose in it. He slurped his beer and turned away from the stage as his youngest daughter pressed the first chord of the opening reel.
Jack’s cart bumped and rattled over the loose stones of the Dundrum road and his horse’s ears moved like antennae in the dusk, picking up the strains of music which emanated from the dance hall ahead. Jack was reminded of the night at Cappawhite. That was the last time he had attended a ceilidh. Several of the men from the South Tipperary column had gathered at the Dundrum ceilidh and, on a few nods from the leaders, had taken their leave. Outside, they had climbed wordlessly into a hay wagon and felt under a large tarpaulin for their rifles. Under cover of darkness and a load of hay, they had passed an uncomfortable half an hour before the horse stopped and the driver banged on the side of the wagon – the signal for the all clear to dismount. Tonight Jack was as nervous as he had been then. In spite of the cold, his hands slipped on the leather reins. “Ho, there!” He urged his horse faster towards the music, anxious to get this over with.
He had decided to meet Spillane at the ceilidh in order to discuss terms and, at Spillane’s suggestion, get a closer look at Caitlin without her suspecting she was the focus of his attention. He entered the dance hall to a lively jig, running a finger inside his starched collar as if he could lessen its grip. The dancers were becoming intoxicated by music and drink. Caitlin was enjoying herself, in spite of the enthusiastic stamping and the extravagant winks of her fellow musicians each time she looked towards them for a cue. When the jig was at its height, the dance floor a-spin with villagers, heads thrown back or inclined to the floor in the interests of dynamics, Mick Spillane downed the last mouthful of his pint, wiped his mouth, and walked over to greet his intended son-in-law.
“Are you right?”
Jack nodded, took the extended hand, squeezed it, let it drop.
“Well?”
“Will you have a drink, Jack?”
“Er, no t’anks. No.” He nodded to Mrs Spillane, who could not prevent a raised eyebrow and a quick look askance at her husband. Jack Flynn never went to ceilidhs, and she was more than a little bemused at this late alliance of her husband with this antisocial loner. There was, historically, no love lost between them.
“We can’t talk here, Jack. Will we step around to the bar?” But Jack was staring at the stage. The jig ended and Caitlin looked up from her accordion to acknowledge the clapping crowd. She smiled warmly. She was lovely to behold. Good luck of her, boy, Mick thought to himself, but he reached for a flask of poteen in his inside pocket and gulped ’til his throat was aflame.
Jack moved forward slowly. Caitlin spoke a few words with the band and they fell back, leaving her at the front of the stage. She fanned her accordion, pressed a major chord, and to everyone’s delight began to sing a lively ballad. The dancers drew closer and began to clap; a few linked arms and span to the lilting rhythm. Her voice was clear and strong, the glissandos sure. Her confidence and beauty wove a web around her the men could not resist. The married ones watched her, savoured her youth and sweetness with each draught of beer they took, while the wide- eyed admiration of the boys made women nudge each other and nod at their mesmerized sons. Young girls stole glances at their partners and lost confidence momentarily in their own allure.
“Sure, wouldn’t anyone get the attention if they sat on a stage and played the accordion?” they whispered to each other.
“Who is she, anyhow? Is she from Dundrum?”
“Dunane. That’s Caitlin Spillane.” Her name was associated with jealousy and longing, though she was oblivious to the stir she caused.
Jack took in every detail of her. The shining hair, the slope of her nose, the full lips. There was a healthy pink flush to her cheeks and her skin looked almost downy, it was so soft. And her eyes. Every now and then, she would look up from the accord
ion keys as she sang. Her eyes were a china blue and her lashes thick and black.
A sudden nausea assailed Jack. His collar was too tight; he was too warm. He had to get outside and get some air. Fifty yards or so from the hall was a fence and Jack leaned on it, resting his head on his forearms. On the clear cold air, strains of Caitlin singing “The Rose of Tralee” reached his ears and he breathed more softly to hear her. Raising his head, he tried to focus on the icy stars. Inside the dance hall, Caitlin finished singing to tumultuous applause. She bowed graciously and tapped out an introduction to “The Siege of Ennis”, a rousing reel for which she was re-joined by the other musicians.
Mick Spillane was annoyed. Where the hell was Flynn? He was eager to agree terms, finish this transaction. He dared not think how it would be in the house between the promise and the wedding. He would think of that later. He caught sight of Malachai Brett, who was sitting at a table and drinking with his wife. Malachai returned his nod then looked away quickly. He had seen Flynn watching Caitlin, knew well what was transpiring. He wanted nothing to do with it. Mick found Jack outside.
“Well?”
“I will give you five hundred pounds, no more.”
It was more than Mick had hoped for. He tightened his stomach muscles against the excitement. Five hundred pounds would see him comfortable for a long time.
“A good price,” he stated, careful not to betray his surprise.
“It is what she is worth, is all.”
“Grand. And when will the wedding be, Jack?”
“I don’t know. I’ll leave that to you.”
“Right. Well. Shake?”
“Haven’t we done that, Spillane? I said I would give you the money.”
“Well…” Mick put his hands in his pockets, scuffed the dirt surface of the road with his boot. “Are you coming back inside? Have a drink at least to seal a bargain?”
“No. I’ll away.”
“Good luck, so, Jack – I’ll be in touch.”
Jack turned and walked towards his waiting horse and cart. It was done.
Miserable devil! thought Spillane, spitting on the road. He reached again for his poteen flask, shuddered from the heat of the liquor and the icy breeze which chilled him as he stood in his rolled-up shirt sleeves. How was he going to break this one to herself and Caitlin? Another swig. Ah, to hell with it! Wasn’t a man the master in his own house? Spillane walked back up the road and towards the warmth and lights of the dance hall.
CHAPTER THREE
The ceilidh over, Caitlin and her mother rocked unevenly in the cart, which Mick drove home.
“You played grand tonight, pet. Didn’t she, Mick?” Mrs Spillane could not see Caitlin raise her eyes to heaven at the appeal for her father’s approval.
“Aye,” was all Mick replied.
“What a pity Maureen never wanted to take up the music,” Mrs Spillane mused.
“Sure, Maureen have her eyes on higher things.” Mick accompanied his observation with a flick of his whip across his horse’s rump.
“Maureen is a different young one altogether to Caitlin, Mick. There’s no comparison.”
Caitlin took satisfaction in the platitude because it irked her father, while wincing inwardly at her mother’s failure to detect the illogicality therefore of her first statement. Mick just “hmphed” loudly, urging the horse on. They continued in silence for a while, the light and warmth of the ceilidh fading from their faces in the dank November night.
“Caitlin, I want you to start doing a few of Maureen’s chores. You can start with the evening milking tomorrow,” said Spillane with calculated evenness. She rallied at the assault, in spite of herself.
“That’s Maureen’s job! You know I have to study in the evenings! Why can’t Maureen do it?” She shrugged off her mother’s restraining touch in the darkness.
“Don’t you, lady – don’t you adopt that tone of voice with me! Maureen is to enter the convent soon and needs time to prepare – ’tis a big step for her, and the least you can do is stop being selfish for once and help your sister.”
“Selfish?” Caitlin’s voice was tremulous with passion. “Who’s selfish? Who’s the one costing the earth with her dowry to the nuns while I have to work all hours for a scholarship and play at lousy ceilidhs for a few shillings here and there? Why don’t you help me, like you help her? Why don’t you help me be what I want to be?”
There was no reply. Mick stared ahead stiffly. The horse started at the sudden assault on the night’s quietness and, unbidden, began to trot faster. Caitlin could not prevent the words which followed. “Now you’re making me work instead of studying so that Saint Maureen can meditate in peace! It’s not fair! You want to… punish me… for trying to get away – or something.”
Mick was incensed at the bitterness in his daughter’s voice and the astuteness of her accusations. He half stood in the driver’s seat, twisting to aim his words at her. “Ah, cut the dramatics, will you, Caitlin? See how you snap like a bitch at a reasonable request. What the hell goes on in that head of yours? Cop on to yerself!” There was a pause. Mrs Spillane again reached for her daughter in the darkness, but this time she gripped Caitlin’s forearm and squeezed it hard in warning.
Caitlin shook off her mother’s hand as Mick began talking once more, the pitch of his voice rising as he gave vent to his scorn. “And while you live in my house, my girl, you’ll obey me. Is that clear? You think of no one but yourself! All this blather about gadding off to Dublin and going to university. Your head is in the clouds, Caitlin, and you’d better realize that. You are not more important than the rest of us, and you will do what I say, when I say it, or by…” He checked himself; the horse was now very alarmed. “Whoa, there, whoa now.” Spillane changed tone to soothe the animal. “… Or you can clear out of my house and keep yourself. Feel free – any time.” If he kicked her out, she would never finish school. In spite of her fury, Caitlin remained quiet.
Mick relaxed a little when his daughter did not retort, and enjoyed some satisfaction in this reassertion of his role as head of the household. He thought of his wife, mute behind him, too simple to connive against him though she might like to. The idea came into his head to make use of her in his plans to marry Caitlin to Jack Flynn – and the sooner the better.
When they arrived home, Caitlin leapt off the cart and ran indoors, straight up the stairs, leaving her accordion in the cart for her mother to retrieve. She flung herself on her bed and sobbed into her pillow. Maureen smiled briefly in the darkness before turning over and falling into a deep sleep.
For the first time in many years, Jack whistled as he moved about his house getting ready for bed. He whistled “The Rose of Tralee” and flushed like a nervous boy. His head was full of the beautiful face of Caitlin Spillane, and he could barely stifle exclamations of glee at the thought she would soon be moving about this house, preparing the porridge kettle for the next morning, setting the fire with peat, sweeping the floor of the mud from his boots. Oh, dear God, it would be good to have a woman in the house.
Mick Spillane sighed as he rolled into bed beside his wife, his longjohns still on against the cold. He lay on his back and stared through the window on the opposite wall, watching a slither of moon struggle for life behind heavy clouds. There were no curtains on the windows, facing as they did acres of fields, and no one lay in bed after sunrise. Mick knew his wife was awake, though her back was to him. He knew she would be deeply troubled by the row with Caitlin and that she would have sensed something was on his mind, to do with his recent association with Flynn. He wished she had an opinion for once; wished that, when he broke the news of his bargain, she would discuss it with him, or lose her temper or beg him not to proceed – anything but the mute and passive protest he knew would be her reaction.
“I struck a bargain with Jack Flynn tonight,” he said gruffly. The moon still had not reappeared.
“Did you?” Mrs Spillane pulled the blankets over her uppermost ear.
&nb
sp; “He will give me five hundred pounds for Caitlin. You sort out the wedding – and tell Caitlin.” The words out loud were surprisingly shocking. He turned onto his side so that husband and wife lay back to back. Mrs Spillane’s eyes widened in the darkness. In spite of the confirmation of her worst fears, she could not help but calculate the differences such a sum would make to their lives.
“Have he that much put away?” she said at last, quietly, because something needed to be said. Mick scowled in the darkness.
“Make the arrangements, will you? And don’t tell herself until everything’s ready, OK?” He rose on his elbow to look over his shoulder, requiring acknowledgment.
“OK.”
He wasn’t surprised later to hear her stifling sobs, when she thought he was asleep.
The latest argument with her father made Caitlin more determined than ever to get out of Dunane. She set her jaw as she took on Maureen’s chores but she did not argue and she did not shirk them. She began to have shapeless dreams of being abandoned and woke feeling panicked and alone. Could it be that they did not love her? Such thoughts were ridiculous, she consoled herself. A family’s love must be taken for granted. Didn’t she love them?
Mick watched his daughter and admired her strength of character. He told himself she was a lot like him and that was why they were always at odds. Well, she would need all the character she could muster where she was going. As she scoured the churns and washed down the milking shed, hair falling in strands across her face from her ponytail, wearing gum boots and her mother’s old coat against the wet and the chill, he told himself she was made for this life and there was nothing wrong with it. She would have food in her belly and a roof over her head, and sure, didn’t all women come to children in the end? What matter whose, or where, as long as they were fed? He told himself that hard work was a sure deterrent to pride and the devil, and he was saving his errant daughter from the temptations of easy living and the damnation her great vanity was sure to bring her. He did fear that her sharp tongue would land her in trouble with Jack Flynn, though. He knew how Flynn’s father had beaten his wife and that Jack was no stranger to violence as a means of getting things done. But if he could refrain from belting the puss off of her at the worst of times, so should Flynn. Anyway, a slap now and then would do her no harm, if it came to it. She needed taking down a peg or two.