Ryan thanks her, then follows her back while I amuse myself by checking out their rack of Ireland tourism pamphlets.
“Quin’s delivering some bicycles over to the resort at Malin Head,” Darby tells me when she returns. “But he should be back soon.”
“Are you guys doing another tour today?” I ask.
“Not on Sundays.”
“That’s right. I’ve sort of lost track of the days since we got here.”
“How long have you been in Ireland?”
I do the mental math. “This is our sixth day,” I tell her. “Wow, that means we only have a week left.”
“Make the most of it.”
I hold up a pamphlet that’s promoting castle tours in Donegal. “Is this any good?”
She crinkles up her nose. “Rather pricey for what they offer. You can just as easily do that yourself and take as much time as you like. Plus you can skip some of the less interesting castles.” She points to a name. “Like that one. I don’t know why anyone would pay to see it.”
I make a mental note.
“So where will you be heading from here?” she asks.
“Northern Ireland. Belfast, I think.”
She frowns. “Why do you want to go there?”
“For my aunt’s research.”
“Oh. I’m not trying to say it’s not an interesting place. But my family comes from there, and we were all quite relieved to get away. Now you couldn’t pay me to go back and visit.”
“Hello,” calls Quin as he comes into the shop, wheeling a bike with a flat tire. “Nice to see you again, Maddie.”
“Ryan’s using the telephone in the back room,” Darby warns him. “Ringing your uncle.”
Quin’s eyes light up. “Good to hear.”
“Yes, my aunt’s got some business to take care of,” I say quickly, “but Ryan and I thought maybe Ian would want to drive over here—to meet Ryan, you know, since his father was a good friend of Ian’s.”
“I’m sure he’ll be glad to.”
“It’s set,” says Ryan as he emerges from the back room. “Ian will be here around noon. We’ll meet him at Callaghan’s.”
“Good choice,” says Darby. Then she looks at her watch. “We’d better be off if we’re going to make it to Mass.” She glances at us. “Care to join us?”
I look at Ryan, and he shrugs. “Why not?”
“Okay,” I say. Then I look down at my khaki Capri pants. “But do I need to change?”
Darby steps out from behind the counter to show that she’s wearing jeans. “Our church is rather modern about clothes. And you don’t need to have your head covered either.”
“Oh.” So we wait for Quin to close up shop and adjust the clock on the We’ll Be Back door sign. Then we follow them across the village green and down a few blocks until we get to an old stone building. The sign out front says Saint Patrick’s Reformed Charismatic Catholic Church.
“Long name,” I observe.
Quin laughs. “Yeah, it’s been changed a few times over the years, but I think they’ve finally settled on this. We just call it Saint Paddy’s.”
I’ve never been to a Catholic church before, but I have been to my grandma’s Episcopal church, and I’m guessing they may be similar—although you’re not allowed to wear pants to my grandma’s church. But I’m preparing myself for group readings and the whole sit-down, stand-up routine that usually catches me off guard. My theory is that it’s to keep people from falling asleep in the pews.
But I’m surprised that the music in here is fairly lively. The people sing like they mean it. And the priest gives what I think is a good sermon. Other than communion, which Ryan tells me we probably shouldn’t do since we’re not actual members of their church, I’m thinking it’s not so very different from my church back home.
“That was pretty cool,” I tell Quin and Darby as we leave the building.
“Thanks,” says Quin. “We like it.”
“I thought Catholic churches were supposed to be a lot different from Protestant ones,” I say as we meander across the village green.
“Some of them are,” says Darby. “I grew up going to a traditional Roman Catholic church in Belfast, and it wasn’t anything like Saint Paddy’s.”
“I went to a Catholic church with my paternal grandparents a few times when I was growing up,” Ryan tells us. “But I never understood half of what was going on.”
“It makes me wonder what the big deal is,” I say as we stop on the edge of the green. “I mean, why do Christians have so many denominations? And why can’t Catholics and Protestants get along?”
“Wouldn’t we like to know,” says Darby.
“Anyone who comes up with the answer to those questions can probably rule the world,” says Quin.
“Well, it must make God sad to see his children fighting over religion,” I say. “Too bad we can’t all just love one another.”
“I’m with you on that, Maddie.” Darby pats me on the back and then starts singing the old Beatles song. “All we are saying…is give peace a chance.”
We join her, but other than that one line, none of us can remember the lyrics. I guess that’s apropos in an ironic sort of way.
“Well, I better get back to the old grindstone,” says Quin.
“It was lovely having you at church with us,” adds Darby. “You will let us know how you get on with Quin’s uncle, won’t you, Ryan?”
“Sure,” he promises. “Thanks for helping us to connect with him.”
“Tell him hello for me,” calls Quin. “And if he has time, perhaps he can drop into the shop later.”
“Will do,” says Ryan.
“They are so nice,” I say as we watch them walk away.
Ryan nods. “They feel almost like family.”
“I know what you mean.”
He glances at his watch. “We still have about an hour before Ian gets here. Anything you’d like to do?”
I consider this. “Well, there was a music store I wanted to check out. But they were closed yesterday. You think there’s any chance they’d be open on a Sunday?”
“This is a tourist town,” he says. “Let’s go see.”
So I guide us to the shop, but it looks dark inside. I decide to give the door a try anyway, and to my pleasant surprise it’s unlocked. “It is open,” I say as we walk in and look around the dimly lit store.
“Aye, we are,” says a man’s voice from a dark corner in the back.
“Oh!” I jump and grab Ryan’s arm.
“I just unlocked the place,” the man says as he switches on the lights. “Is that better?”
“Thanks.” Ryan smiles at the old man, who’s coming toward us now.
“I came by yesterday, and you were closed,” I tell him. “I thought maybe you’d—”
“’Twas closed for my mum’s funeral,” he says in a sad voice.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. But I’m thinking this old guy, with his white hair and scraggly beard, could be pushing eighty himself. His mother must’ve been ancient.
“Me mum was nearly one hundred,” he tells us. “Blind as a bat and deaf as a doorknob. But she was a dear saint all the same, God rest her soul. Now what can I show you two fine young things?”
“I’m interested in an Irish drum,” Ryan tells him. And just like that the old guy sweeps Ryan off to a wall where all sorts of flat, tambourine-shaped drums are hanging. The smallest are not much bigger than a tambourine, and the largest must be nearly three feet wide. Before long they are playing the drums, and it sounds like a Native American powwow.
I go to the other side of the store, where I noticed a display of flutes when we came in. I used to play the flute but gave it up in exchange for my guitar. Still, I’ve enjoyed the sounds of the Irish bands and what they call their “penny whistles,” and I’m curious as to whether I still remember how to play.
“Is it okay if I try some of these flutes?” I call out when there’s a brief reprieve from the drumming.
“Aye, lassie. Make yourself a home.” And then the drumming starts again.
I pick up a penny whistle, which doesn’t look too much different from a flute, except that it’s smaller and runs vertically instead of horizontally. I place my fingers over the holes and blow. Not bad. I play a few notes and actually impress myself. Then I try a few more for tonal quality. And finally I pick up one of the larger ones. Made of plastic, this one plays a low D, which is lower than smaller metal whistles. I really like the rich, mellow sound and am pleased to see it’s only twenty-five euros, and that includes accessories and a songbook. I play on it a bit more, almost forgetting where I am and that I haven’t actually purchased it yet. Then I hear a soft drumming sound, almost in accompaniment to what I’m playing. I turn around to see Ryan with a midsize drum, and he’s grinning as he plays along with my melody. When we finish, the old man claps with vigor.
“You two are a pair,” he says. “You must have Irish in your blood.”
Ryan nods and sticks out his hand. “Name’s McIntire, and my clan comes from these parts.”
“McIntire?” The old man scratches the thin pale whiskers on his chin as if to jog his memory. “Aye, that’s a name I know. Large family—mostly boys as I recall—and I knew only a few of them. Frankie McIntire was a schoolmate of mine, but he died a few years back. And then there was his older brother, Glen, who’s also passed on…and then, o’ course, there was the younger brother, the one who went off to America.”
“John?”
“Aye, I believe it was a Johnny McIntire. Him and his wife went off just before the second war.”
“My grandfather’s name was John.”
Now the old man frowns, as if he’s remembering something else, something not so pleasant. “No, no,” he says, “surely not the same John.” He shakes his head sadly. “Not that John McIntire.”
But Ryan continues. “That John McIntire had a son named Michael.”
The old man makes a tsk-tsk sound with his teeth as he looks at Ryan. “Would that be your da, son?”
Ryan nods. “I never knew him.”
The old man puts a hand on his shoulder. “’Tis a shame, son.”
There’s a long uncomfortable silence, which I try to think of a way to break into. “Why do they call these flutes penny whistles?” I finally ask.
The old man looks relieved as he picks up a small metal whistle and examines it. “No one knows for sure, lassie, but some say it’s because of Robert Clarke, the man credited with introducing them to Ireland. They say he sold them for a penny apiece. Others say it’s because the poor musicians would play them on the street in the hopes that pennies would be tossed in their direction.” Now he grins at me. “You could probably earn a bit o’ change yourself playing a fipple flute.”
“Fipple flute?” I repeat.
“Another name for a penny whistle.”
“Well, I don’t know if anyone would throw spare change at me,” I say, “unless they were trying to get me to stop playing, but I’d like to buy this anyway.”
“And I’m getting this drum,” Ryan announces.
“Glad I opened up me shop today,” the old man says as he makes his way back behind the counter.
Without the aid of a computer or even a cash register, it takes him several minutes to write each of our purchases on a small receipt pad. We pay him, and he carefully counts out our change. “I’m still not used to this strange-looking currency,” he says with a trace of sadness. “I miss the old harps.”
“But some of the euros have them,” I say.
“Aye, but it’s not the same. The world is changing. Ireland is changing.”
“But at least your music stays pretty much the same,” I say with optimism.
A smile slowly lights his face. “Aye. That’s something ya can count on. We’ll always have our music.”
Then we thank him and head for the door.
“Make beautiful music together,” he calls out as we leave.
Ryan just laughs. But I try to hide my embarrassment at what seems an obvious insinuation that we are a couple.
“We better get over to Callaghan’s,” he says. “It’s almost twelve.”
“Are you sure you want me with you?” I ask as we head for the green. “I mean, I don’t really have any connection with Ian and—”
“I want you with me, Maddie. Like it or not, you are a part of this.” Then he turns and looks at me with a sincere expression. “Are you okay with that?”
I nod vigorously. “No problem. I can’t wait to meet Sid’s one true love.”
Twelve
I can’t believe my palms are sweating as Ryan and I sit at a table in Callaghan’s, waiting for Ian to arrive.
“What do you think he looks like?” Ryan says suddenly.
“I have no idea. Maybe you should’ve asked him to wear a red carnation in his lapel.”
Ryan kind of laughs.
“He must be old,” I say. “At least older than Sid, I’m guessing. Maybe like my dad’s age.” I imagine my partially bald dad with his slight potbelly, and while he’s not exactly hunk material, he’s a sweet guy, and I actually miss him.
“There’s a man coming in,” Ryan says.
I turn to see a dark-haired man standing in the doorway. It’s hard to tell what he looks like with the sun pouring in from behind him, but he looks tall and nicely built.
“Hello, Ian,” calls Tim from the bar.
“Tim.” Ian waves and goes over toward him. “I’m supposed to meet—”
“I’m Ryan McIntire,” Ryan is saying to Ian. I have no idea how he got up and over there so quickly, but I’m right on his heels. “And this is Maddie Chase.”
“Ryan and Maddie.” Ian looks at us carefully as he shakes our hands. “Pleasure to meet you both.”
“We have a table over here,” Ryan says, and I can tell he’s nervous as he nods to where we’d been sitting with our drinks still barely touched. “Can I buy you a pint?”
“Not for me,” says Ian.
“Having your regular, are ya?” Tim says from behind the bar.
“Thank you,” Ian calls back as we sit down. Within seconds Tim is bringing over a bottle of lemon soda and a glass, just like I have. “Ol’ Ian gave up the stronger stuff a long time ago,” he says as he plunks these down in front of him.
“That’s right,” Ian says almost apologetically. “But I’ve no problem with others enjoying a pint. I had to learn the hard way it wasn’t a good thing for me.”
I study this guy as he makes small talk with Ryan, inquiring about what we’ve seen so far, how long we’ve been in Ireland, how long we plan to stay, just light stuff. He has neatly cut, almost black hair with a bit of gray at the temples; deep blue eyes with an intensity that’s hard to ignore; a firm, straight nose; and a nice, even mouth. For an old dude, Ian is pretty cute.
“And how about you?” he’s asking me now.
“What?” I say, feeling stupid for not keeping up.
“How do you like our fair Emerald Isle?”
“Oh, I love it. I totally love it. I think I could live here.”
He smiles, which makes the tiny lines at the edges of his eyes fan out in a very attractive way. No wonder Sid had it so bad for this guy!
We talk some more, and its hard not to notice that he doesn’t mention Sid once. I mean, he doesn’t even ask where she is or why she’s not here. And to be perfectly honest, this bothers me. A lot. Like has he forgotten her completely? Or maybe he never cared for her the way she did for him and is just as glad she’s not here. But at least he could ask about her, just for politeness’ sake. I’m tempted to bring her up, just to see how he reacts, but I remember my promise to her—to leave her out of this. And so I do.
Our conversation pauses when Rhiannon comes over to take our lunch order. My stomach is feeling pretty tight and twisted just now, so I simply order soup. But Ian and Ryan, who really seem to be hitting it off, decide to have the halibut special.
“Good choice,” Rhiannon tells them.
And then she leaves, and the conversation turns serious.
“Your father was a good friend to me,” Ian tells Ryan in a sober tone. “I felt like I lost two brothers that day—both Blair and Mickey.”
“Mickey?” I say, slightly confused.
“Michael,” Ian says. “We were friends for several years, ever since he saved my neck, but right from the beginning I called him Mickey or Mick.”
“Saved your neck?” Ryan’s brows lift with interest.
“We were both working in construction back then. A large medical building in downtown Belfast. I stepped onto a beam that hadn’t been properly secured, and it started to go, but your da reached out and grabbed me by the arm, pulled me back onto the platform, just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “Your da saved me from plunging six stories straight down. I’m sure it would’ve killed me. I owed him after that. And we became best friends.”
“Wow.” Ryan looks impressed.
“Yeah, that’s how I felt too.”
“But I’m curious why you weren’t with my dad that last day,” Ryan says. “Why was your brother driving your car instead of your?”
“I thought I was going to drive Mickey to the airport,” Ian says. “I’d actually planned on it. But then a friend rang up at the last moment, asking me to drive a van to…” He pauses now, as if trying to decide how much to say. “To Antrim.”
Ryan frowns. “So you drove a van to a place in Antrim instead of driving my dad to the airport.”
“I took Mickey out for breakfast quite early that morning,” he continues. “Him and Blair both. I’d already asked Blair to use my car to drive Mickey, and they were both fine with that. I said my good-byes.” His voice chokes a little. “I just didn’t know they were going to be my last good-byes.”
“And then you drove a van to Antrim?” For some reason, Ryan seems to be stuck on this small fact. I’m not sure why, but he’s so persistent that he almost appears rude.
“That’s right,” Ian calmly responds.
“Why?” Ryan asks. “It seems to me that if Mickey really was your best friend, and he’d saved your life, and now he was going back to America, you would have at least wanted to see him off at the airport.”
Notes from a Spinning Planet—Ireland Page 11