The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  She insisted she’d be safe enough riding to Tubbercurry from here. He stopped at the roadside and opened the wagon’s rear doors. Before he reached in for the bike, she came at him, hugging him, kissing him, deliciously rubbing against him.

  He held her close and ground against her, sin be damned. “Dolly. Oh, darlin’, what are we to do? I can’t marry you. Your father wouldn’t have me.”

  “I’d have you, Tom O’Byrne. We can marry in America.”

  They could. Others had done so. Tom’s heart thumped in his throat. “When are you leaving?”

  “I don’t know. Soon. Come with me, Tom. Leave the farm for Boston.”

  Leave the farm . . . The words struck him like an Atlantic gale, knocking down fences, ripping up hedges, tearing down the walls that threatened to imprison him to the end of his days.

  Did he really have the neck to leave?

  One look at the promise glinting in Dolly’s eyes gave him his answer. “I will, mo chroí. I’ll go anywhere with you.”

  He caught her in his arms, silencing her delighted squeal with a kiss that reached for her soul. When she finally wobbled from his arms, her crimson cheeks and ragged breath told him he’d succeeded.

  “I’ll send you a letter,” she said when she could speak. She twisted the ring from her finger and pressed it into his hand, apparently unconcerned that he’d nothing to offer in exchange.

  Swearing she’d have a ring for every finger one day, he slipped the pearl in his jacket pocket and watched her ride away.

  An hour before midnight, the Irish twilight lingered over Ballymote. Hungry, tired and longing for Dolly, Tom trudged home from Davy Bookman’s house with his share of the gold snug in his pocket. His satchel contained his few toiletries and washing for Kate. She’d begrudgingly launder his socks and shirts, though he’d look after his trousers himself. She never put the crease in them right.

  The homey odours of pipe tobacco and roasting turf greeted him at the door. Subtler aromas of bacon and bread sharpened his hunger. He set his bag on the rough plank table, eyeing the furnishings and holy pictures as if seeing them for the last time.

  His father sat by the hearth holding a briar pipe to the mouth concealed in his long white beard. As Tom approached, the old man lowered his pipe and turned his book on his lap. “Thanks be to God, it’s himself at last.”

  Tom always pictured his father’s beard red, saw his freckled bald pate with a full head of ginger-red hair. The family and neighbours still called him Red Brendan. “I’ve only been gone two weeks, Da. How are you keeping?”

  “I’ve often been better and often been worse. And yourself, Tomás Og?”

  I’ve been to the fairies. I’m in love and thinking of going to Boston. “I’d be well enough if I wasn’t hungry. Is there bread?” He handed the bag of gold to his father.

  “There is, and cabbage and bacon. Kate’s just after finishing the mending. She’s gone to her room to brush out her hair.” Brendan rattled the coins and smiled. He placed the bag on the table beside him, near the tobacco can, and turned his head towards the back room. “Kate! Tom is home. Come out and get him tea, girl.”

  Tom would have found the food himself, but he’d only earn his sister’s wrath for messing things. He glanced at the blue and white delft in the cupboard. Not a piece missing, every plate clean and in its place. She kept house well, he’d give her that.

  On the top shelf sat the framed photograph of their mother, Ann. Dark-haired and lovely, she watched over the room with a neutral expression that over the years had turned cross or approving depending on Tom’s own behaviour. He barely remembered her. She’d died giving birth to Dan, when Tom had been three years of age.

  “You favour her, Tom,” old Gram had said.

  Kate and Dan had their father’s red hair, and Kate had the temper to match. Her entrance from the back room reminded Tom of the fire-breathing stallions at the silver oak tree. He caught himself before he laughed. “Hello, Kate. You’re looking lovely tonight.”

  She tossed her well-combed mane and tied her shawl over her nightdress. “Never mind your trick-acting, Tom O’Byrne. Coming home near midnight and expecting me to drop everything to fix you a meal. I suppose that bag is full of filthy laundry. As if I don’t have enough to do.”

  “It’s grand to see you too, Kate.”

  After Ann passed away, Brendan had sent Kate to live with an aunt. His mother moved in to look after him and the boys, but Kate grew up on a moneyed farm, and she fancied herself a step above the buttermilk. She’d just turned twelve when Gram passed on, and Brendan had called her home to tend the house and chickens. She’d been doing so for nearly ten years, and she clearly resented every minute of it.

  Pots and lids clacked and clanged while she rewarmed the supper and steeped a pot of tea. Wincing with each slam, Tom took the dish she offered at last and thanked her. She retired to her room, and he sat near the fire, setting the plate on his lap, relaying the highlights of his trip between bites, neglecting to mention the well and the fairies and Dolly Keenan from Tubbercurry.

  Ever hungry for news, his father puffed his pipe and took it all in before reporting on the farm. Two of the neighbours had stopped by to see if Tom could rethatch their roofs before winter. Dan had started cutting the turf, but he needed Tom’s muscle to finish the job.

  Brendan pinched some tobacco from the can beside him and replenished the bowl of his pipe. “I don’t know what will become of that boy. He won’t get muscle by drawing pictures and playing the fiddle. Kate will marry, and you’ll have the farm, but I’m thinking Dan may have to emigrate.”

  Tom held his breath. A chance to escape had presented itself. Looking to keep a steady voice, he exhaled slowly. “Where is Dan? I doubt he’s sleeping in the loft with all the racket Kate made.”

  “He’s in town tonight. A Tuesday night, can you believe it? Playing the fiddle at a dance with his friends. Said he’d spend the night at Mick Jordan’s. I’ll have to speak to him soon. He can go to Boston. Stay with my sister Mary.”

  Gulping for air, Tom braced himself. He shot out the words before his courage failed. “No, Da. I’ll go. Dan can have the farm. He does most of the work now. He’ll really buckle down if he knows it will come to him.”

  Brendan jerked as if nettles had stung him. He set the pipe on its tilted stand and pinned Tom with a piercing glare. “While you were gone, the matchmaker came about Kate. Séamus Hunt in Roscommon will take her, thanks to the gold you’ve brought in. The Hunts have a strong farm, twenty-five Irish acres, and she’ll have a daily girl in the kitchen. But I can’t let her go until you have a wife to do for us.”

  “Da, please listen.”

  Brendan disregarded him. “I asked the matchmaker to find a suitable girl for you. It cost me a bottle of good whiskey, but he’s turned up three good prospects. We’ll choose by the end of the month. You’ll have the farm when I’m gone, and your son after you.” Pinpricks of ice gleamed in the old man’s eyes. “And Dan will go to America.”

  Fists bunched tight, Tom leaped from his seat. “I’ve met the girl I want to marry. A girl from Tubbercurry. Can the matchmaker try for her?”

  The bald head wagged from side to side. “You wanted to leave Ireland a minute ago. Now you want a girl from Tubber. I’m thinking it’s good I’m here to guide you, Tomás Og.” Brendan sighed without making a sound. “Who is she?”

  Grateful for the kindness that had seeped into his father’s tone, Tom reclaimed his seat and explained about Dolly, omitting her thoughts on emigrating. If the old man knew she was thinking of leaving, he’d never approve the marriage.

  He rejected Dolly anyway. “No father would give a girl like that to a no-account farm.”

  “I can always bring in more gold, Da.”

  “Perhaps, but after I’m gone, you won’t be off selling tea. You’ll be here all the time, and so would she.” Brendan stood easily. “Even if her father agreed, a girl who’s been to London would never be happy t
ending chickens and vegetables. She’s seen too much of the world. Like you, Tomás Og. Get her and your lofty ideas out of your head.”

  It sounded so logical, put like that. The old fella was right. Yet as Tom watched his father lift the ladder from the corner, the memory of Dolly’s kisses sparked an indelible yearning in him. He slipped his hand in his jacket pocket and fingered the pearl ring. The light of his heart flickered and dimmed.

  His father had obviously dismissed him. The old man set the ladder against the wall by the hearth and snatched the bag of gold from the table. Moving as his age allowed, he climbed the rungs to the rafters, to the secret cache he’d cut from the biggest beam. Tired and heartsick, Tom sought his bed in the loft.

  Over the next week, he cut enough turf for the winter and went to work thatching. He’d just finished Charlie McGowan’s roof when the letter from Dolly came. A lad on a bicycle rode past McGowan’s vegetable garden late in the afternoon. He stopped by the piles of old thatch and said Miss Keenan had instructed him to give the note to Tom O’Byrne or no one. Watching the boy ride off, Tom strolled to the well as calmly as he could with his knees quaking and his heart skipping beats. He’d nearly despaired of hearing from her again.

  Drinking a cup of water gave him a moment to muster his courage. He opened the envelope and stared at the elegant script until the words made sense to his befuddled mind.

  Dearest Tom,

  My father has sold me off to a man his own age. I want nothing to do with him. I have enough gold to book us both passage to Boston. The train leaves Ballymote for Queenstown tomorrow morning at nine. I’ll wait for you under the clock.

  Ever yours,

  Dolly

  Short, sweet and dangerous as hell. Could he do it?

  What of their parents? Was leaving them selfish? Tom didn’t think so. Dan could look after their father, and Dolly’s brother could take care of her old ones. The matchmaker would find a girl for Dan. Dan would have the farm, and his son after him, God help him. Kate would marry Séamus Hunt and have a new family to terrorize. They’d all be fine.

  Tom had little to pack, no more than an extra pair of trousers and a few spare shirts and socks. He wished he didn’t have to sneak off, but he’d never have his father’s blessing, not now. Maybe never.

  So be it. The hospitals in Boston would welcome Dolly’s nursing skills, and Tom would find plenty of work, more than enough to send money home.

  Yet he needed money now. He wasn’t about to let Dolly support him.

  He’d earned every coin of gold in the rafters. He had as much right to it as Kate. He wouldn’t take it all, just enough for his train ticket and passage, and some respectable clothes and lodging when he reached America. Once he found work, he’d pay it back. He’d say so in the note he’d leave his father.

  Giddy with joy and pricked by guilt, he hurried home. His father and Dan were out somewhere, mending a fence, he recalled. They’d had to walk, as Kate had taken the wagon to town for groceries. Feeling like a boy stealing apples from an orchard, he set the ladder against the wall and climbed to the rafters. He counted out twenty pounds, no more. Kate would have plenty for her dowry.

  Moving carefully about the loft to keep from waking his brother, Tom gathered his belongings. Just before dawn, he bid Dan a silent farewell and stole downstairs.

  In the light of the banked turf fire, Tom kissed his mother’s picture and whispered goodbye. Sure she was smiling, he ventured into the starless gloom, finding his way by the light of his heart.

  They’d miss him at breakfast. They’d read his note and know what he’d done, but they’d be too late to stop him. By nine o’clock he and Dolly would be on the train to Queenstown.

  At ten to nine he jogged into Ballymote station, wrinkling his nose at the fug of tobacco, stale whiskey and acrid coal smoke. He saw the big round clock right away. Dolly waited beneath the black Roman numerals, dressed in the same clothes she’d worn when they’d met at Tobernalt. A satchel similar to his rested by her feet.

  “Dolly!”

  Her head jerked towards him. Her brilliant smile offered hope of a blessed new life. Oblivious to the people around them, he dropped his bag beside hers and kissed her.

  Her lips trembled before she spoke. “Tom. You came.”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  The welling tears in her eyes suggested she’d had doubts, yet she clasped his hands and smiled. “I knew you’d come, Tom. I bought you a train ticket.” She drew two tickets from her pocket to prove it.

  He took them from her, and the train whistle blew. “Thank you, darlin’. We’ll settle it later. Let’s get aboard now.”

  Halfway up the steps, he turned to see Ballymote one last time – just as his father stormed into the station. Kate hurtled along beside him, her hair a frightful tangle, her face contorted in venomous fury. They must have come in the wagon and raced the poor horse half to death.

  Tom swallowed hard. “Hurry, Dolly. Get inside.”

  Dolly’s eyebrows arched in question, but she obeyed. They hurried through several coaches until they reached an empty carriage near the end of the train. Tom stowed their bags on an overhead rack. He and Dolly plopped on to seats facing each other. He pulled out his pocket watch. Five minutes to nine. Not enough time for his father and sister to search the train.

  But it was. Kate’s shrill shouts spewed from the adjacent car. She was coming quickly towards them, screeching Tom’s name, imploring her father to call the guards and have her thieving brother arrested.

  Dolly plainly understood the significance of the shrieks. “Oh, Tom! What will we do?”

  Throttling Kate came to mind. She’d cause a scene and demand the dowry she thought he’d stolen. He could plead with his father, but the old man would surely side with Kate. He just might call the guards if Tom refused to come home, and they’d take him away in handcuffs.

  All hope drained from his heart. Dolly must go without him. Sure he’d never see her again, he reached into his pocket to return her ring to her.

  The ring was gone. His fingers encircled the golden bean.

  Hurry, Tomás O’Byrne . . .

  Stunned, he slipped the bean into his mouth. Dolly’s jaw dropped in disbelief, and he knew he’d disappeared. He seized her hand just as Kate blew through the door.

  “He’s not here either. I’m telling you, Da. Call the guards! The miserable scut has stolen my dowry!”

  Brendan marched in behind her. “Silence, girl! I’ll not call the guards on my own son.” The train whistle blew a second time. The old man brushed a tear from his cheek. “We have to leave the train, Kate. If this is what your brother wants, good luck to him.”

  Thank you, Da. I’ll write often, and send money. And I’ll come back to visit you.

  With his sputtering daughter stomping behind him, Tom’s father left the train. They’d just reached the big round clock when the train whistle blew again. The engine chugged, and Tom took the golden bean from his mouth.

  “It wasn’t a dream,” Dolly whispered. “I remember it all now. You were there, Tom. You saved me from the Fairy King.”

  “The old woman who guards the well at Tobernalt saved us both, mo chroí.”

  “What’s that thing in your hand?” Dolly gently uncurled his fingers. Her ring lay in his palm. Nothing remained of the golden bean.

  The train picked up speed. Tom slid the pearl ring on to Dolly’s finger and smiled. One day soon, he’d place a gold ring on her other hand.

  Glossary

  Ard Rí

  High (or Supreme) King.

  A chuisle

  My pulse.

  A nighean ruadh

  Red-haired girl.

  Aos si(dhe)

  The faerie race (see also “Sidhe”); singular “Aes si(dhe)”.

  Banshee/Bean sí

  Female spirit whose screams herald death. Also called a “washer woman”, she’s often seen washing bloody linens at a stream; woman of the fairy mounds.
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  Berserker

  In Viking lore, a warrior who gained the blood-lust of fighting, and charged into battle so fiercely that nothing or no one could stop him. Some say his form even changed into that of a raving beast.

  Bog-oak

  Ancient wood found buried in peat bogs.

  Chainse

  A white long-sleeved undertunic of fine linen worn in the early Middle Age.

  Chausses

  Armour for the legs, usually made from mail.

  Colcannon

  Irish traditional dish consisting of mashed potatoes and cabbage.

  Cohuleen druith

  A red cap made of swan feathers that enables merrows (see entry) to swim through the ocean.

  Compeer

  Partner.

  Craic

  Gossip/chatter.

  Dun

  Fort; usually covered a whole hilltop with walls protecting many buildings.

  Drùth

  Harlot.

  Éire/Ériu

  Ireland.

  Fine

  Clan.

  Gael

  Celtic, Gaelic-speaking ethnic group of Ireland, Scotland and the Isle of Man.

  Gardai

  The police force of the Republic of Ireland.

  Gasún

  Child.

  Geis

  A curse, spell, or incantation.

  Guraiceach

  A blockhead, oaf.