“That explains a lot,” I say.
“It’s a beautiful setting,” she continues as she slowly drives through the town of Antrim. “Located right on the lake so there’s swimming and boating and fishing.”
“Is that Lough Neagh?” I ask as I locate the lake on my map.
“That’s right. It’s the largest lake in Ireland.”
“It’s handy that the camp is so close to Belfast,” Ryan comments. “A short commute for the campers.”
“Yes,” she agrees as she turns down a narrow road. “And yet it’s like a totally different world up here. A real escape for the children.”
It’s not quite three when Sid parks in front of what appears to be a small castle. The sign above the oversized, carved wooden front door reads Peace House.
“This is it,” she says happily. “You guys feel free to look around while I go in to talk to the camp director.”
So we wander around the gardens surrounding the large stone structure. It seems fairly quiet and not exactly what you’d expect to find in a youth camp. But as we get closer to the lake, we begin to hear voices. And eventually we come across a playing field and some small stone cottages that I’m guessing are used to house the campers. When we reach the lakeside, with its docks and boats, we find kids all over the place.
“Now this looks more like summer camp,” I say to Ryan.
“Can I help you?” a tall, red-headed guy with a clipboard asks us. Judging by his accent, he’s not Irish. I’m guessing he’s an American.
So we explain why we’re here, and he suggests we go back to check in with the main office inside Peace House.
“It’s for security reasons,” he explains. “Glenda will take your information and give you nametags, which work as security passes.”
“No problem,” Ryan tells him, and we head back.
“Can’t really blame them for that,” I say as we walk across the big green lawn again.
“I guess. But who would want to hurt these little kids?” he asks. “I mean, they’re Catholic and Protestant, from both sides of the wall.”
“Remember what the taxi driver told us,” I remind him, “about how the RIRA will turn on their own.”
He nods. “Maybe. But it just doesn’t make sense.”
I want to say duh but restrain myself.
So we meet Glenda, the office lady, and tell her who we are and then fill out some forms. She gives us our nametags as well as a map of the estate.
“Enjoy your visit at Peace House.” She nods to the large lobby outside the office. “And you can look around inside as well. Just don’t go into any of the rooms marked Private.”
So we decide to explore the interior of Peace House, and although it’s obvious this place was once quite swanky, it’s fairly plain now. Other than some elegant chandeliers and a few carpets and paintings, it’s mostly furnished with institutional types of furniture.
“I wonder if the kids can slide down this banister,” I say as I rub my hand along its polished marble finish.
“I don’t think you should try it,” Ryan warns me.
We reach the top of the stairs and find that most of the rooms are private.
“Want to go up to the next floor?” I ask when I spot a smaller staircase at the end of the hallway.
“Sure, why not?” he says. “Might be a good view of the lake up there.”
Here we discover a large room that perhaps was once a ballroom. But now it appears to be an activity room with lots of tables and arts-and-crafts supplies. Then we go down another hallway that opens up to a round room with windows around nearly three-fourths of it.
“Check out the view,” I say as I go over to the windows and look out to see the bright blue lake surrounded by green grass and trees. “Wow.”
All along the bottoms of these tall windows are benches with cushions. “This has to be the biggest window seat I’ve ever seen,” I tell Ryan as I sit down and look around. “Awesome!”
Now I notice that the one section of wall without windows is full of bookshelves, and there are comfortable-looking chairs as well as oversized pillows and rugs all around the room. “This must be a reading room,” I say.
“I guess they need something for the rainy days here,” says Ryan as we both sit on the window seat and gaze out at the lake below us.
“It’s so cool that someone donated this place for a peace camp,” I say. “No wonder Sid and Danielle loved being here.”
“Yeah.” He nods, but he has a faraway look in his eyes. Like I’m not even here with him.
I’m guessing he’s thinking about his mom. Maybe even trying to imagine how it was when his parents were here so many years ago. For that reason I just sit quietly, not wanting to intrude on his space. We sit there for several minutes. Then Ryan seems to snap out of it.
“Sorry,” he says as he quickly stands. “I guess I was kind of zoned out.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s really nice here.”
We walk around the perimeter of the room and stop to look at a section of wall beside the bookshelves that has old photos hanging on it. Most are black-and-white group shots of young people. I’m guessing volunteer counselors.
“Look at this,” Ryan says with excitement as he points to one with “1975” on it. “This is when Mom and Sid were here.”
We both peer at the slightly fuzzy photo, and finally I think I spot my aunt. “Look,” I tell him. “That’s Sid.”
He looks more closely. “And that’s my mom on her right.”
I stare at these two girls, just a year or two older than I am, and I think how cool it was for them to give up a summer to volunteer here.
“Your mom was cute,” I tell Ryan.
He nods.
“You look a lot like her.”
He turns and smiles at me. “You think so?”
Now I’m kind of embarrassed. But I say yes and pretend to refocus on the photos.
We stand there for a while longer, and I’m a little uncomfortable, staring at a bunch of photos of people I don’t even know. Then something catches my eye.
“Look at this,” I say as I point to the photo that interests me. “This one was taken a few years after the one with Sid and Danielle. But wait. Don’t you think that could be Ian?”
I point to the tall guy standing in the middle of the back row.
“Maybe,” he says as he studies the shot.
“I mean, he’s obviously a lot younger, but look at those eyes, that chin. Don’t you think it could be him?”
Ryan points out a tall, dark-haired guy in another group shot, taken a few years later, that looks even more like Ian.
Ryan points at the date now. “Hey, that’s the year I was born,” he says slowly. “The same year my dad died.”
“Oh.”
“That’s so weird.”
“Do you think Ian was involved in the peace camp?” I ask.
He just shrugs. “I have no idea, Maddie.”
“But look at that guy,” I persist. “Seriously, doesn’t he look just like Ian?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’m going to find out about this,” I say with a determination that surprises even me.
“How?”
“Maybe I’ll ask Glenda in the office,” I say “She looks old enough to have been here awhile.”
I practically run down the stairs now, avoiding the temptation to slide down the marble banister. Ryan is just a few steps behind me.
“Excuse me,” I say as I burst into her office.
She looks up at me and blinks. “Is anything wrong, dear?”
“No. But I’m wondering about the history of the camp,” I tell her. “Is there a way to find out the names of people who have volunteered here over the years?”
She considers this.
“Or perhaps you know,” I suggest. “Have you worked here long?”
“Just since I retired from teaching,” she says. “That’s been about five years.”
“Oh.”
“There are some old photo albums in the back room. I’ve been trying to get someone to organize them.” She shakes her head as she stands. “They’re quite dusty and messy, but they do have some names and such written in them. I think someone should rescue them before it’s too late.”
“Would you mind if we looked at them?”
She looks unsure now, as if she may not completely trust us.
“We’ll be very careful,” I promise.
“I’m sure you would be, dear, but I’m a bit worried. If something should happen or if something was lost…” She scratches her head as if trying to come up with a solution. “I know!” She smiles now. “Perhaps Murphy can help you.”
“Murphy?”
“Our primary groundskeeper. He’s been here for ages, he has. And a memory like an elephant. Murphy might know who you’re looking for.”
“Do you know where we could find him?” I ask.
She glances at the clock on the wall, then pulls out a map of the estate. Taking a highlighter, she marks a bright yellow trail to a cottage that appears to be on the edge of the property. “He’ll probably be taking his tea ’bout now.”
“We don’t want to disturb—”
“No, no,” she waves her hand. “Murphy loves company, he does. And he loves the chance to talk.” She laughs. “Just don’t let him talk the legs off of you.”
So I thank her, and we go back outside.
“Do you want to come with me?” I ask Ryan. He’s been pretty quiet since I got stuck on this Ian-at-peace-camp thing, and I’m a little worried that he thinks I’ve gone off the deep end.
“I don’t know, Maddie.”
I nod. “I’m sure it sounds pretty crazy. And I could be totally wrong. But for some reason I need to check this out.”
He glances over his shoulder toward the lake.
“And if you’d rather hang out by the water or take a boat out or whatever”—I force a smile—“I won’t blame you at all.”
“Maybe I’ll do that.”
“Sure, that’s fine.” Okay, the truth is, I’m feeling a little abandoned just now. I’m remembering how he appreciated me going to meet his Aunt Mary I would think he’d want to do as much for me.
“Sitting and listening to some old dude going on about people I don’t even know…” He kind of shrugs. “Well, I guess I’m just not that into it.”
“I understand.” But I think he just doesn’t want to know the truth about what Ian might have been doing here. Maybe it would hurt too much. I start to walk away now.
“But I could go,” he calls out, “if you really want me to….”
“It’s okay, Ryan,” I call back. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Good luck,” he says.
Yeah, I’m thinking as I walk away, I’ll probably need it. I mean, seriously, what am I thinking? I’ve barely even met Ian, and the photo I saw just now was taken more than twenty years ago and isn’t even that clear. What on earth makes me so sure it’s Ian? And yet, it’s like I can’t leave without finding out. And I’m surprised Ryan isn’t more curious.
I follow the bright yellow highlighted trail on my map until I finally see a little stone cottage that, unlike the campers’ cottages, actually looks like it was built a long time ago. Like maybe hundreds of years ago. The enormous oak trees hovering around it look like they’ve been here that long too. Suddenly I’m wondering whether I can just walk up and knock on a stranger’s door and interrupt his teatime to ask him a totally stupid question. What was I thinking? And what if Glenda is really a prankster in disguise and has it out for this Murphy fellow? Or what if this Murphy fellow is some kind of nutcase or sex offender? Of course, they wouldn’t let someone like that work at a kids’ camp, would they?
I’m about twenty feet from the cottage now, standing in the shadows of the enormous trees, just about ready to turn and run.
“Are you lost?” calls a voice from the cottage.
I peer into the shadows to see the face of an old man peeking out from the half-opened door.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He opens the door wider. “Have you lost your way, dear?”
“No.” I hold up the map as if that explains everything. “Glenda told me that a man named Murphy lives here.”
He smiles now and steps out so I can see him better. “That’d be me.” He’s wearing brown trousers topped with a dark green vest. And his face looks friendly.
“I don’t want to disturb you,” I say, “but Glenda said you wouldn’t mind if I asked you some questions.”
“Come in, come in,” he says, opening the door fully and waving me inside. “I’m just having me tea. Come in and join me.”
Okay, I’m not so sure I want to step into this strange man’s cottage. I mean, he seems nice enough, but this is so weird. And the setting reminds me of a scene from “Hansel and Gretel.” What if he has a big wooden stove in there for cooking children? Or perhaps a cage? Okay, I tell myself, don’t be ridiculous. This little old man is several inches shorter than me, and he looks to be about eighty. Surely I could take him if I had to.
I walk up to the door and glance inside. Everything looks perfectly normal. He has a small wooden table that does appear to be set for tea, and he’s already rounding up another cup and saucer, I assume for me.
“Sorry I didn’t tidy up,” he says as he picks a newspaper off a chair and scoots it up to the table for me. “I didn’t know I was having company.”
A small brown dog comes bouncing toward me. He puts both paws on my legs and looks up with his pink tongue hanging off to one side.
“Oh, now, Lucy, let’s leave our visitor be.” He nods to me. “Sit down, sit down.”
So I sit down and pet the dog, which makes me feel a little better. An old man with a dog—how dangerous could he be? And now he’s pouring my tea and asking what I take in it.
“Just sugar,” I tell him.
He hands it to me. “So, what brings you my way?” He pauses, and I realize he doesn’t even know my name.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m Maddie. Madison Chase. I’m from America.”
He smiles. “I knew you weren’t from these parts, lassie. But then we get lots of young people from all over the world here.”
“Yes,” I say as I pick up my cup. “And that’s why I’m here. I mean, I’m not here as a volunteer. I came with my aunt. She worked here back in the seventies.”
He nods. “In the seventies. That’s when we started this camp.”
“So you were here then?”
“I was here even before then.” He winks at me. “I came with the place. I’ve been keeping the grounds since 1942. And even then we were taking in the wee ones.”
“What?” I look curiously at him.
“During the war, lassie. Children from London were sent here to escape the bombings and such.” He sighs now. “And then they came here again during the troubles. Also to escape the bombings and such.”
“This place has quite a history.”
“Aye, it does.”
“And Glenda said you have quite a memory.”
“Tha’s true as well.”
But even as I prepare to ask my next question, I wonder how its possible for him to remember everyone who ever volunteered here. So I decide to start with my aunt. I tell him her name and wait to see if it rings a bell.
He just shakes his head. “Sorry, lassie. I canna recall her.”
So I tell him about Danielle, and his eyes light up. “Aye, I remember that one. And now that I think of it, I remember her friend too. Pretty lasses, they were. And as I recall, Danielle had a suitor.” Now his face grows sad. “Aye, I remember now. The Irish lad from America. Joined up with the IRA. Sad story, that one.”
I nod. “Yes. Their son, Ryan, is here with my aunt and me. That’s one of the reasons I’m trying to find out about another man.” I pause. “Do you recall a man named Ian McMahan ever being her
e?”
He smiles now. “Ian?”
“Yes.”
Then he rubs his hand across his mouth as if he doesn’t want to answer me. “I don’t know, lassie.”
“But it seemed like you knew him,” I persist. “And I’m sure I saw his photo in the reading room. Has Ian worked here?”
He sighs. “I’m not sure.”
“Do you know someone named Ian McMahan?”
He considers this. “May I ask why it is you’re asking about this Ian McMahan person?”
So I tell him about my aunt and her broken heart and how Ian had a connection with Ryan’s dad. And I can tell by his expression he knows all about that. What I don’t get is why he’s not telling me anything.
“You do know who I’m talking about,” I say finally. “Don’t you?”
But he still doesn’t say anything. And I have a feeling I’m wearing out my welcome. But I’m also getting irritated. So I decide to get my biggest question out on the table.
“Okay,” I begin. “For some reason you aren’t going to tell me about Ian. But I’m going to ask you one more thing: It’s really bothering Ryan and me, thinking that Ian might still be in the IRA. I mean, he claims he’s not. But some things just don’t make sense. Do you know if he’s in the IRA?”
Talk about stepping over a line! I’m sure I’ve gone way too far. Poor old Murphy is sitting there staring at me like I popped down from another planet and threatened to take his little dog hostage.
“Im sorry for troubling you,” I say. I stand up and thank him for the tea I’ve barely touched and then walk out. But I’m so frustrated that I just stand outside his door with my fists clenched. Why is he being so tight-lipped about this?
Then I feel a hand on my shoulder, and it makes me nearly jump out of my sandals.
“Sorry, lassie.” He steps around so I can see him better, and then he peers into my eyes as if trying to see something in there. “I’m trying to know if I can trust you or not, and I’m thinking perhaps I can. Would you care to come back inside and finish your tea?”
I mutely follow him back into his little house, sit down again at the table, and wait.
Notes from a Spinning Planet—Ireland Page 15