IRISH FIRE

by Jeanette Baker

  When John OShea retired as manager of the Curragh Stud, he recommended that Brian take his place, a move that established the younger mans standing in the tightly knit community of Kilcullen Town.

  Over a pint or two at Keneallys pub, Martin had shared many of his childhood escapades. Hed mentioned Caitlin often but Brian knew enough to disregard most of what he said. Memory played tricks on a man, and events seen with the eyes of youth changed enormously with age. No one person could have the qualities Martin attributed to the Caitlin Keneally of his youth.

  Tomorrow Brian would call on Martin at the rectory, bring him a bottle of Irish whiskey, and ask the questions that needed answering. Maybe then he could sleep peacefully. Whatever the reason, Caitlin Claiborne, with her dark eyes and her pouting, bruised-lipped mouth, disturbed him in ways he hadnt been disturbed in a very long time.

  Martin OShea, junior rector of Saint Patricks Church in Kilcullen Town, answered the door dressed in faded denims and a cableknit sweater. Father Duran wont return until tomorrow, and Mrs. Kelly has an emergency in Kinsale, he said, explaining away his housekeepers absence. Shall we make the most of it?

  Brian grinned and lifted the bottle of whiskey out of its paper bag. My sentiments exactly, Father OShea.

  What brings you here in the middle of the week? Martin asked when they were settled on chairs in the sitting room with two glasses half full of amber liquid and the bottle between them.

  Caitlin Claiborne.

  Ah. Martin smiled and returned his friends gaze steadily. It didnt take you two long to meet.

  Her mare foaled this mornin in my stable. She was there. Brians knuckles were white around his glass. Sweet bleedin Jesus, Martin. She would have delivered the colt herself if I hadnt come in.

  Martin laughed. That sounds like Caitlin, always one to throw her heart over.

  Just how well do you know her?

  There was a time when I knew her better than anyone alive, the priest said slowly. Caitlin and I were born on the same day.

  Brians eyebrow lifted. You never mentioned that.

  Martin looked surprised. Surely I must have. My mother was her godmother. We grew up together. Perhaps you forgot.

  Brian doubted it but he let it stand. Tell me about her.

  Martin leaned back in his chair, a fond smile on his lips. There was never a time when I didnt know Caitlin Keneally. Like it or not, everyone who lived here knew each other. It was the kind of town where the local publican ran the convenience store and the post office as well, where off-season a stranger could no more find a friendly pint on Sunday or after ten in the evening, than he could find a ride out of town.

  It hasnt changed much, Brian murmured.

  Martin swallowed the rest of his drink and pushed the glass aside. Is something bothering you, Brian?

  Just a bit of curiosity. If you dont want to satisfy it, never mind.

  Martin shook his head. Im sure Caitlin wouldnt mind. Everything I have to tell you is complimentary.

  Go on then.

  Caitie was Brigids last daughter, the youngest of six and by far the cleverest. She was brilliant and spirited and completely without fear. I was no match for her. I can still feel the switch against my legs for the scrapes she led us into. He closed his eyes remembering. Her disapproval was the worst. Id look at her and her face would be closed against me in that way she had of removing herself, and Id want to fling myself into the Liffy. But she never stayed angry for long. Caitlin never held grudges. She shouted at you and sulked for a while and then it was over.

  Just how brilliant was she?

  Martin leaned forward. Christ, Brian. Shed read more Irish history and literature than the whole Dominican order. Her O level results are still a record for the entire county.

  Brian frowned. But you said she had difficulty in school.

  Martin nodded. The Dominicans were the teaching order assigned to Saint Patricks Academy. They werent cruel or particularly unkind, no more than any of the orders instructing children in the Irish Republics parochial schools. The most anyone could say about them was they took their duties seriously and that discipline was carried out regularly and indiscriminately. But their lessons were uninspired, mostly rote memorization and rules of grammar. And they were teaching Caitlin Keneally.

  Still, Brian broke in, they were educators. Why didnt they appreciate her mind?

  Ego probably. Caitlin skipped school more than she attended.

  Brian laughed. What did her mother say?

  Martin shrugged. The poor woman was besieged with the responsibilities of a pub, a convenience store, a post office, and six children. When she learned that Caitlin wasnt falling behind in academics, she left it alone. He thought for a minute. I recall that everyone did a great deal of leaving Caitlin alone. The end result was that nothing changed. She was Brigids last child and she managed her mother with very little effort. Even with her poor attendance habits, she was the most gifted student in her class and, I think, completely without remorse. The situation was similar to one of those underground volcanoes with pressure building, waiting for a fissure in the surface, to spill out scalding everything and everyone in its path.

  Brian frowned and turned his empty glass around on the table.

  Youre very serious for a man whos downed two glasses of Irelands finest, Martin remarked.

  Brians smile flickered briefly. He didnt want to appear too interested and yet he couldnt help himself. Why do you think she left Ireland?

  Martin shrugged. I cant say for sure. We didnt keep in touch. She was crazy for horses. In Ireland women werent accepted into the yards the way they are today.

  It was a logical explanation, one that Brian had figured out himself. Pushing back his chair, he stood. Ive used up enough of your time. Thanks for the company.

  Have you had enough?

  For today. My thanks, Martin. Ill see you at Mass on Sunday.

  Brian was deep in thought and arrived at the gates of the Stud sooner than he expected. Everything Martin told him made sense. Caitlin was intelligent and she obviously knew a great deal about horses, but there was something missing, something about the woman herself that didnt add up. Perhaps hed read too much into a first meeting. It had been late and she was exhausted.

  There was no doubt in Brians mind that he was overly preoccupied with her, more so than he could ever remember being about a woman. That in itself wasnt unusual. She was Caitlin Claiborne come back to Kilcullen with her million-dollar broodmare, her messy divorce, and a custody battle over a Narraganset-sired colt that was sure to bring Irish thoroughbred racing and the Curragh Stud some very unpleasant publicity.

  There was more to it, of course. Brian was honest enough to admit that Caitlin had the power to disturb any mans hard-won peace of mind without her horse, her angry husband, or her legal suit. She was different from the girl Martin told him aboutsharper, almost bitter, with a tension in her expression that he was sure hadnt been there before. But there had been a moment, a few seconds after the foal was born, when hed seen her eyes go soft and bright, her voice tremble with wonder, and his heart twisted inside his chest.

  The truth was that Caitlin was the kind of woman who could tie him up in knots with nothing more than a single glance. If he didnt pull himself together, he would have his own demons to conquer.

  5

  Brigid sprinkled a pinch of salt over the steaming oats, ladled healthy portions into two bowls and set them on the table.

  She watched ten-year-old Annie Claiborne frown, pick up her spoon and stare at the unappetizing mass. Annie wasnt accustomed to oats but the child had to eat something. Yesterday shed left untouched the bacon and eggs Brigid served for breakfast. Most likely Lucy Claiborne would have understood immediately. But this was Ireland and Annies Grandma Lucy was thousands of miles away.

  May I have some milk, please? the child asked politely.

  Ben, four years younger, wasnt nearly as inhibited. I dont like oats, Gran, he said clearly. I want panc
akes with syrup.

  Youll like these, said Brigid cheerfully, setting a pitcher of milk on the table. Ive no time for pancakes this mornin. Your mums been out all night. I think we should let her sleep.

  What will we do while Mama sleeps? asked Annie.

  Brigid looked surprised. Why, youll come t the store with me, lass. Its old enough you are to be givin me a hand.

  I can give a hand too, Ben piped up. Im old enough.

  Brigid laughed. So you are. The wood needs stackin. She brushed the top of Annies head with her hand, and for an instant her breath caught. The dark flyaway curls settling like a cloud around her granddaughters face were very like Caitlins at the same age. Brigid willed her hands to stop trembling. Black hair could be explained, but those eyes? Seans eyes had been the sea-warmed blue of the Aran islanders, a color so distinctive that few could mistake his heritage.

  Thank God no one in Kilcullen who remembered Sean Keneally had anything beyond a basic grasp of genetics, except for Father Duran, and there was nothing to fear from that corner. Eat up now, she said crisply, there are glasses t be wiped and the floor t be swept.

  Annie forced the unwelcome food past her lips and fought back tears. Brigid bit her lip. Annie didnt want to wipe glasses or sweep floors any more than Caitlin had. She was crazy for horses, another trait she shared with her mother. But this time Brigid knew it wasnt horses the child needed. She wanted to go home to her own room, to her friends, and her father. Estelle, the Claibornes cook, would have made French toast with syrup and bacon, Kentucky baconthe thin crispy kind that curled at the edges, not the thick rubbery, undercooked slab that passed for bacon in Ireland.

  Brigid glanced over at Ben and the knot around her heart eased a bit. Praise be for little boys. Ben was shoveling in oats as if it was his favorite meal.

  Annie was through with pretending. She left the spoon stuck in a mound of congealed mush. Im finished, Gran, she said softly.

  Ill have yours, Ben announced, licking his spoon and reaching across the table for his sisters portion.

  Brigid stared down at the barely touched lump of gray in her granddaughters bowl. Would nothing she did ever please the child? Even her buttery scones were pushed away after no more than a bite. Caitlin believed the children would acclimate. Brigid wasnt so sure. Dragging two children halfway around the world, away from everything familiar, without so much as a bit of explanation was foolish, if not disastrous. But then Caitlin had always been one to take risks.

  This time, Brigid reflected, her daughter might have bitten off more than she could chew. In her own way, Annie Claiborne was as stubborn as Caitlin had been, perhaps even more so because it was plain to see that Annie had been indulged from the moment she was born. Not that Brigid wouldnt have liked to indulge her own children, but there were too many of them. There was always an endless round of work to be done, and Caitlin was such a prickly little independent thing. When she was no more than an infant, Brigid recalled finding Caitlin uncovered, her blankets kicked aside, her arms spread out in flight position even in sleep.

  It was all her late husbands fault, of course, the lack of time and the unending round of work that never ceased. His death could have been prevented if he hadnt been so fond of the drink. Not that Sean was good for much more than a bit of laughter and a warm body to share the craic with. Still, he helped out in the pub on occasion and cooked for the girls, all the while weaving his stories of light-touched Connemara and the queer folk of the Gaeltacht until the wee ones trembled with delight, their dreams filled with visions of Emain Macha, Queen Maeve, King Conor, silkies, mermaids, druids of the summerlands, and Celtic warriors of the Red Branch.

  If only Sean hadnt drunk himself into a near-amnesiac condition, he wouldnt have fallen into a trench and hit his head against the scaffolding of the old schoolhouse. Neither, would he have toppled head first into a gutter and drowned in six inches of rainwater. He died young, poor man. Brigid surreptitiously crossed herself and then remembered that her grandchildren werent Catholic, a serious breach she would discuss with Caitlin as soon as her daughter had a minute to spare.

  Calling up the discipline that was never far from her consciousness, she pushed away her thoughts and concentrated on her charges. Pick up the dishes and put them in the sink, Annie. Your mother will wash them later. Hurry up. She shooed Ben and Annie through the door and down the small flight of stairs that was once a rectory drawing room and now served as the pubs main floor.

  Brigid had tidied up the night before. Everything was in its place, unopened bottles on the polished oak shelves, breakage set out on the bar, wine glasses hanging from the rack, tumblers sitting in the residue of what was once a tub of hot soapy water, two booths to seat eight, and in the back against the wall, six small tables with two chairs, each arranged so that the girl who helped during the busy times could fetch and carry without mishap.

  Hanging in every available space were pictures, pictures of thoroughbreds: thoroughbreds training, thoroughbreds racing, thoroughbreds at play, thoroughbreds in the pastures, on the track, in the stalls, yearlings, two- and three-year-old colts, veteran stallions, breeding mares. All of them done up in oil, watercolor, pastel, charcoal sketchings, photographs, silhouettesevery imaginable artistic medium known to both the accomplished and the amateur.

  Because the pub had once been a residence, there were other, smaller rooms set up with tables for intimate groups. But this was where the crowd assembled, where cigarette smoke swirled like thick haze settling over the dark Mournes, and traditional Irish music brought tears to the eyes and the converted to their feet.

  Brigid watched Annies eyes shift from the uneven planking on the floor to the long polished bar and up the mirrored wall, until they settled on a large painting strategically placed high on the paneling.

  Whos that? she asked.

  Brigid rested a light hand on Annies shoulder. Who do you think it is?

  She looks like me, the girl said.

  Ben slipped his hand into Brigids. Its Mama, he said quietly. She looks like Annie but its Mama.

  Annie stared at her grandmother incredulously.

  Brigid nodded. Its true enough. You look as if youve spied a green-eyed faerie, lass. Havent you seen a picture of your mother before?

  Weve lots of pictures of Mama, replied Annie defensively.

  Whats a green-eyed faerie? interrupted Ben.

  Brigid pulled out a chair and settled him on her lap. Green-eyed faeries come from the western isles, she began in the rich lilting voice Sean Keneally had used when he mesmerized his daughters before the warm light of a winter turf fire. They spend their lives searchin for a human child they can take back with them t the Donegal mountains. When they find one who wishes t go, they step into his body and take it over. Brigid paused for effect just as Sean once had. When you see a child with one green eye and the other blue or brown, you must say a blessin quickly, because the deed is nearly done and soon there will be one more faerie on his way t the Donegal mountains.

  Bens eyes were so wide they swallowed his dear little face.

  Youre scaring him, accused Annie. Mama doesnt like it when anyone scares Ben.

  We dont have any pictures of Mama when she was a little girl, said Ben thoughtfully, ignoring his sisters outburst.

  A memory, pure and searing, rose in Brigids mind. Reaching into her pocket for a handkerchief she blew her nose. Thats my fault, I suppose, she confessed. By the time your mother was born, Id forgotten all about pictures. The few that were taken are in frames back in the sittin room.

  What about that one? asked Annie, her eyes fixed on the oil. Who painted it?

  Pain, not clean and sharp and breath-stealing as it once was, but recognizable in its own way, closed around Brigids heart.

  Gran? Annie pressed her.

  I dont remember, Brigid lied.

  Annies dark eyes widened in disbelief. Brigid sighed. The child was very like Caitlin.

  My memory isnt good anymore, love. Im sorry.<
br />
  Keeping her eyes on Brigids face, Annie nodded.

  A knock sounded on the wooden door. Brigid frowned. It was too early to open the pub. Sliding Ben from her lap, she crossed the room and turned the bolt. The door swung open and a man dressed in a Roman collar and black cassock with a thick head of snow-white hair stepped into the room.

  He nodded politely and when he spoke his voice was cultured with the lovely lilt of County Kildare lifting the ends of his words. Good morning to you all. Fixing his gaze first on the children and then on Brigid he asked gently, Were you going to bring these children to see me, Mrs. Keneally?

  Not today, Father, she replied.

  Were helping Gran, Ben piped up.

  The priest extended his hand. As a good lad should. Im Father Duran. You must be Ben.

  Ben took the proffered hand and shook it thoroughly. Why are you wearing a skirt?

  Ben! Annie hissed.

  Michael Duran laughed. Im a priest, lad. Dont they wear cassocks in America?

  There arent any priests in America, replied the boy solemnly.

  Father Duran looked startled.

  Brigid stepped in. These are my grandchildren, Annie and Ben Claiborne. Theyre not Catholic. She squeezed Bens shoulder reassuringly. Children, this is Father Duran. Hes the pastor at Saint Patricks Church.

  Where is that? asked Annie.

  Father Duran turned toward her. Im pleased to meet you, Annie. Saint Patricks is on the other end of High Street. Maybe your Gran can bring you to Mass this Sunday.

  Shell need to ask my mother.

  Of course, said the priest smoothly. Invite her as well.

  Annie did not look convinced. Weve never been to a church.

  Father Duran sighed. No, I suppose not. Apparently, Caitlin hasnt changed.