“Ready to go then?”
“I’m starving,” I tell him.
“Me too,” he says, and together we head for the door, which he politely opens for me. And, okay, I know this is nuts, but this feels almost like a date. “That was a good workout today, and you did a great job of keeping up, Maddie.”
“Seriously?” I glance at him skeptically. “You really think so?”
“Yeah. You’re in good shape.”
“Thanks.” I smile to myself as he points us toward the waterfront. He thinks I’m in good shape. Cool. “So how’d you hear about this restaurant anyway?” I ask as we stop at a corner and wait for a fish truck to pass. “Are you sure it’s good?”
“The owner of the inn told me about it this morning. And when I turned the bikes in, the girl at the bike shop even mentioned it. She said the chef is a friend of hers and that he trained in Paris. Plus she told me they’re having live music tonight.”
“Cool,” I say. But even though I say this, I immediately flash back to the live music we heard last night, remembering how stressed I got over the whole drinking thing. “Is this in a pub too?” I try to keep the suspicious tone out of my voice, but I think it’s futile.
“Yep. It’s a pub, Maddie.” He gives me a sideways glance I can’t quite read. “And you’re going to have to get over your ‘pubphobia.’ I mean, this is Ireland. Pubs are just part of the culture here.”
I force a stiff smile and try to act like I’m okay with this. “Yeah, I know.” But as we turn the corner and go down a side street, I ask myself why I’m so irritated by this. Why is it so unsettling for me to be with someone who’s consuming alcohol? It’s not like I’m drinking. Even so, I want to ask Ryan if he plans to drink tonight. At the same time, I know I have no right to tell him what he can or cannot do. I mean, even my aunt thinks it’s okay. He’s probably right. I do need to get over this.
But as we enter the pub, it occurs to me that maybe I can say something to make Ryan understand where I’m coming from and why this is making me so uncomfortable. And then, out of the blue, I remember a quote from our youth pastor. He likes to say that “adversity can be opportunity in disguise.” And it occurs to me that I might be able to use this “opportunity” for something good. I’m thinking maybe this is my big chance to actually share my faith tonight.
Okay, on second thought, I suppose that’s kind of weird since my faith doesn’t seem terribly strong right now. I mean, the truth is, I barely even pray anymore, and if I do, it’s usually more of a desperate cry-for-help kind of prayer. So, really, who am I to witness to anyone?
Even so, I decide to jump right in. And it’s not a coincidence that I broach the subject of religion right after Ryan orders himself a Guinness. Why not just get to the point?
“I know I already told you I’m a Christian,” I begin kind of tentatively. “And although I’m not perfect, I do take my religion seriously.” Okay, maybe that’s a stretch. I used to take it seriously, but lately, well, I’m not even sure what I think. But he doesn’t have to know everything about me.
“And?” He looks as if he expects me to continue, like I was really going somewhere with this. Like where?
“And…” I try to form a sensible thought in my head. “Well, I’m just not sure it’s right for me to be hanging out in a beer-drinking establishment and with someone who would be underage back home but who thinks it’s perfectly fine to drink over here in Ireland.” Okay, I said it. It’s out there. And now I sort of feel like my foot’s in my mouth.
He slowly nods as if he’s absorbing this. It actually gives me hope, and I start to think that maybe my witnessing idea is going to work after all.
“You see,” I continue. “I think God has a lot more to offer us than the world does.” I feel some enthusiasm in my voice now, as if maybe I’ve actually stumbled into something good. “And I think that he calls me, as a Christian, to be different from the world; he calls me to stand up for what I believe. Do you get that?”
He nods again.
“And so that’s what I’m trying to do, Ryan. I realize I can’t really judge you, but I need to remain firm and steadfast in my own faith and convictions.”
“So what are you actually saying? I mean, in practical terms?”
I think about this, and I’m not really sure. I guess it feels like I’m taking some kind of a stand, but what kind of stand is it? What do I really mean? Should I stand up and leave this pub? Shake the dust off my feet and see if I can find someplace else (someplace that’s not a pub) to eat in this town? Although that seems rather unlikely at this hour. I know the bakery serves sandwiches, but I don’t think they’re open at night.
“I totally accept that you’re a Christian, Maddie,” he says in a somewhat serious voice. “Really, I respect that completely. I also respect your conviction not to drink. But does that mean I shouldn’t drink either?” Now he gets a thoughtful expression, as if something new has just occurred to him. “I mean, I don’t want to be a stumbling block to you.”
“A stumbling block?” Now, this is a familiar term—something I’ve heard in church, and I think it’s even in the Bible, although I’m not totally sure where. But I’m surprised that Ryan would use this kind of terminology. Where would he have heard it?
“Yeah,” he continues. “I really wouldn’t want my having a Guinness to tempt you to do something that God has clearly told you not to do. It just wouldn’t be worth it for me. But at the same time, I don’t think it’s wrong for me to have a beer. Not to get drunk, you know, but just to enjoy it.”
“Yeah, sure, but you’re not a Christian.”
“I’m not?” His left brow lifts just slightly.
“Are you?”
With no expression, he just nods as the waitress sets my lemon soda before me and a pint of Guinness in front of him. “Yep,” he says as she walks away, “I am a Christian.” Then he holds up the pint as if to make a toast. “Any problem with that?”
Okay, I feel like someone just pulled a fast one on me. “No,” I say quickly. “I mean, if it’s true.” I frown at him. “You really are a Christian?”
He takes a swig, then sets his pint down. “Yep. I really am.”
“And you think God’s okay with you drinking?”
“I think God’s fine with an occasional beer. I bet he’d have one himself if he were here with us.”
I scowl at him.
“Seriously,” he says. “I don’t feel any guilt about it. Sure, I wouldn’t want to get wasted. That would be stupid. And wrong. But a beer or two?” He shrugs. “No problem.”
I shake my head. “I don’t agree.”
He holds up his pint again. “Then here’s to disagreeing but still being friends.”
I meekly hold up my soda as if I’m making this toast as well. But what I’m actually thinking is that this guy is all wet. He is totally wrong about this. And I’m not even sure he’s a real Christian either. And by the time our food arrives, I’ve started to argue with him, trying to convince him that it’s sinful to drink—especially sinful when you’re a Christian. Although the more I think about it, the less I believe his claim about that.
“Hi, kids,” says my aunt as the waiter shows her to our table.
“You made it,” says Ryan, actually getting up to pull out the chair for her. Okay, he may be a failure as a Christian, but at least the boy has some manners.
“Yes,” she says with excitement. “You wouldn’t believe how this day has gone.” She takes the menu from the waiter and quickly scans it. “I’ll have the salmon,” she tells him. Then glancing over to Ryan’s nearly finished beer, she adds, “And a Guinness.”
“And so you don’t have to drink alone,” says Ryan, “I’ll have another.”
She smiles at him. “Thank you. Hopefully that’s only your first.”
He nods, then glances over at me. “Maddie thinks Christians shouldn’t drink.”
“Oh.” Sid considers this. “Well, I guess that’s somethin
g between you and God…right, Maddie?”
I kind of nod, and then she launches into her story. “You guys aren’t going to believe this,” she says. “It was so weird. I drove out into the country just as I’d planned. It turned out to be this sweet little farm with sheep and chickens and even a milk cow. I was thinking this guy, Sean Potter, must be doing okay.”
“He was one of the peace-camp kids?” Ryan asks.
“He was about six then. He’s in his midthirties now. But I couldn’t believe what happened.” She lowers her voice, although I don’t know how anyone would hear her in this noisy place. “Sean’s wife told me to wait in the kitchen until he got off the phone. Then she took off to drive her daughter to school. So there I was, just sitting by myself in this sweet little Irish kitchen, and I couldn’t help but hear Sean talking.”
“And?” Ryan looks totally mesmerized by a story that actually sounds kind of boring to me. But then I’m still a little stuck on this whole Christians-drinking dilemma.
“And it sounded like Sean was making some kind of diabolic plan.” Her eyes grow wide as she leans forward like she’s going to say something very confidential. “I think he’s actually part of the underground IRA.”
“Seriously?” I blink at her. Is my aunt imagining things?
She nods with a somber expression. “Very seriously. And to make matters worse, it sounds like he’s planning some kind of an attack in Belfast. I think it has to do with the Orange Rose on Beach Road.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“A well-known Protestant pub.”
I kind of shrug. Like I would really care if someone bombed a pub. Okay, I take that back; I guess I probably would.
“You overheard than?” Ryan looks stunned.
“Well, I couldn’t catch everything.” She glances over her shoulder as if she’s really worried that someone could be listening. “But I heard enough to make me suspicious.”
“Did this guy, this Sean person, have any idea you could hear him?” asks Ryan.
“I slipped outside just as he hung up the phone. I pretended to be interested in the herb garden, which was really quite nice.”
“And then you went ahead and did the interview anyway?” I ask, thinking I probably would’ve concocted some excuse to get away from this crazy guy.
“Yes.” She nods with sad eyes. “There’s a story here. How could I let it get away?”
“Did he mention anything about the underground IRA in your interview?” asks Ryan.
“No. And I even asked about it. But he said those recent stories had been blown out of proportion, and he acted as if he were still very interested in peace. He said that’s why he left Belfast, to get away from the violence. In fact, he did such a great job of talking it up that I was almost convinced.”
“But not quite?”
She sighs. “I know what I heard. Sean is just one of those Irishmen with the gift of the blarney.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you warn someone?”
“I already did.”
“Who did you tell?” asks Ryan with a worried expression.
“My editor back at the magazine. I figured that would be the safest route. He’ll contact the authorities from over there. We don’t want anyone over here tracking this back to us.”
He nods with very serious eyes.
“Are we in danger?” I ask.
Sid pats my hand. “No, sweetie. We’re not in any real danger. But it was pretty exciting getting the inside story…and sad….”
“Do you think you really stopped something?” I ask.
She shrugs and takes a sip of her Guinness. “I sure hope so.”
“Time will tell,” says Ryan.
“But you can see how this puts a whole new twist on my story.” She stares off into space. I almost think I can see the wheels spinning in her head. “It’s not what I hoped for, but just the same I can’t wait to start writing. People need to know what’s going on here. Disappointing as it is, it will do no good to hide these facts.”
“You won’t put yourself in danger, will you?” says Ryan with real concern. “I mean, you know what kinds of things can happen over here.”
“Don’t worry, Ryan. I’ll be very careful. Especially since I have you two with me. In fact, I may have to act more like a tourist than a reporter now.”
“For a cover?” I say.
“Yes. I’ll continue with my peace-camp interviews, but I’ll make it all seem fairly low-key, like we’re mostly here just to see the sights.”
“Why?” I ask. “Do you think someone is actually watching you?”
“Not yet.”
“This is too weird,” I say.
“Don’t be worried, Maddie,” she says in a comforting tone. “I’m sure I’m making this into far more than what it really is. And I suppose I could be totally wrong about Sean too.” She glances over her shoulder again. “Just the same, you guys are sworn to secrecy about this. Understand?”
“Of course.” Ryan gives her a firm nod.
“Sure,” I say in a light tone. “Like who would I tell anyway?”
She gives me a fairly stern look, as if this really isn’t funny. “No one.”
Okay, that sort of worries me. What have I gotten myself into?
Seven
For the next couple of days, we act like regular tourists, tooling around Galway County and touring castles, monasteries, formal gardens, seaports, the highlands, and even a small, family-owned farm. (I promised my dad I’d check out the agriculture.) One of my favorite spots was a castle that I actually discovered myself while taking an early morning walk. The castle is actually more of a ruins but really mysterious looking. It’s off of a gravel road that’s just a little ways out of Clifden, and I had to walk through a field inhabited by some rather intimidating bulls. But being a farm girl, I just kept my cool as well as a wary eye on the animals until I climbed over the fence stile. There before me, shrouded in fog, stood a big stone structure that looked like something right out of a fairy tale. I almost expected to see a captive princess waving from one of the high arched windows. But as I got closer, I saw that it was only a shell of a castle. All windows and doors were missing, and there was grass, vines, and even some small trees growing inside. Still, it was fun to explore the grounds, and I considered the people who dwelled there in previous centuries. I can’t imagine that the castle had ever been very warm or cozy in Ireland’s cool and damp climate, not to mention that it was located quite close to the sea. I guess I don’t envy whoever once lived there.
On Friday we check out of our inn and head north toward Donegal County, driving all day through miles and miles of beautiful, lush green countryside. It’s around five o’clock when my aunt finally parks the car in a small seaport town called Malin.
“Are we in Northern Ireland?” I ask as I climb out of the backseat and pause on the sidewalk to have a good stretch. From what I can see, this place doesn’t look much different from Galway. The weather has turned cold and windy, so I immediately reach for my thick wool sweater. It’s hard to believe it’s nearly July.
“Not officially,” my aunt tells me as she opens the trunk. “But we’re really close. At least as the crow flies.”
“So what made you want to come here?” I ask. “Not that it doesn’t look interesting.”
“Malin Head is where Ryan’s ancestors lived. I thought he’d enjoy seeing it. Check out his roots, if he likes.”
“Why did they leave?” I ask Ryan. “Was it due to the potato famine?”
“No. That didn’t have too much of an impact on my family. Plus they left quite a bit later.” He pauses from helping my aunt unload the bags. “My grandparents immigrated to the States a few years before World War II started. My grandpa’s folks had been fishermen for generations, but he and my grandma were looking for a better life. My dad was the first one of their kids to be born in the U.S.”
“Oh.” I sling my backpack over on
e arm and reach for my wheelie bag. I want to ask Ryan how his dad died but can’t think of the right way to put it just now. And maybe its none of my business anyway. “So, are your grandparents still around?”
He closes the trunk with a thud. “Just my grandma, but she lives in a nursing home in Tacoma, and I think she might have Alzheimer’s or something. She doesn’t really know anyone anymore.”
Another wave of compassion washes over me. Ryan seems so cut off from his family. It’s like he’s totally on his own. I can’t imagine what that would be like. And it makes me feel bad to think of some of the things I’ve said to him these past few days, not to mention the way I’ve treated him in regard to drinking his occasional Guinness. Why am I so petty?
We check into our hotel, and since the rooms are pretty small, Sid decides we’ll each have a room of our own. “That way I can work on my article without disturbing you,” she tells me as she hands me a brass key.
“Works for me,” I tell her. Trust me, I’m not complaining about having my own room. I mean, my aunt is nice and everything, but I’m just not used to sharing a room with anyone. A break will be nice.
“Shall we meet in the lobby in about an hour or so?” she asks as we part ways in the hallway. “I’ve got some phone calls to make.”
“Sounds great,” Ryan says as he unlocks the door directly across from mine. “I might take a little walk to check this place out. Maybe I’ll run into some long-lost relative.” He laughs. “Want to join me, Maddie?”
“Sure,” I tell him as I fumble for my room key. “If you want company, that is.”
“Can you be ready in a few minutes?” he asks.
“No problem.”
I quickly toss my bags onto my bed, freshen up a little, pull on my fisherman’s-knit sweater, then hurry back out to join him.
The wind is really starting to whip as we leave the hotel. “Looks like it’s going to rain,” I say, speaking loudly to be heard over the wind.
“You up for this?” he yells back.
Notes from a Spinning Planet—Ireland Page 6