A Bittersweet Garden

by Caren J. Werlinger

  Briana immediately draped her rag over the saddle and washed her hands. She went to the big bay gelding’s stall where he stood, looking disconsolate. His head was down, and he had a slight wheeze. She laid her hands on his ribs, feeling the rattle.

  “What’s the matter, big guy?” she crooned, smoothing her hands over his neck and combing her fingers through his black mane.

  He nickered pitifully and gave an asthmatic cough. Jimmie handed her the medicine ball of antibiotic crushed with some molasses and rolled with some oats.

  “Come on,” she said, picking Butler’s head up. She pried open the corner of his mouth enough to scrape a bit of the oats and molasses on his teeth. Immediately, his tongue started working to lick the sweet mixture off. “Here you go.” She got him to eat the rest of the sticky mass.

  She gave his face a kiss. “You’ll feel better soon.”

  “They always take their medicine for you, Bri,” Jimmie said, closing the stall door behind her as she exited.

  “Do you want me to take him to the private stables later? Quinn said he was going to need Stubbs for a lesson this afternoon, so I’m already going that way.”

  “I think it’d be best.” Jimmie paused to pat another head nosing him over the next stall door. He consulted his ever-present clipboard to check the roster of reservations. “We’ve plenty of horses here for the rides we’ve got scheduled for the next couple of days.”

  “I’ll do it when I’m done with the tack.”

  “Leave it,” Jimmie said. “I’ll get Sonya to take over here.”

  “Get Sonya to take over what?” Sonya asked, coming in with an empty wheelbarrow from the day’s mucking.

  The tall Swede wheeled the barrow into the equipment room and stood it on end.

  “Quinn needs Stubbs, and Butler has a stable cough,” Briana said. “I’ve just a couple more saddles to finish.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Thanks, Sonya.” Jimmie’s head was already bent over his clipboard as he walked away. “Call it a day when you get him settled, Bri. You were here at dawn. We’ll finish what needs doing here.”

  “Okay.” Briana reached for a lead rope and halter.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow, squint.”

  She went on down the aisle to another stall and led out a fat Connemara pony. He stood placidly while she brushed and saddled him. When he was tacked up, she slipped the halter onto Butler and led both horses outside to mount Stubbs. Shannon appeared from wherever she’d been napping.

  Briana kept the pace slow so as not to get the bay gelding winded. Stubbs didn’t complain, as he preferred to plod along, taking every opportunity he could to snatch a flower here or a mouthful of grass there. Shannon loped alongside, jumping at a rabbit every now and again.

  Briana enjoyed the quiet, only the birds and squirrels and the occasional fox keeping her and the horses company. She often wondered if there was something lacking in her, something that drove others away to bigger places like Galway or Dublin or even America.

  It was true that she was now thirty-three and didn’t own a bloody thing beyond her car and dog. Her house belonged to Quinn, as did her horses. But everything she wanted and needed was right here—work she loved with people she considered a second family, enough pay to get by, a village and countryside that were her very heartbeat.

  She said hello to the people out and about in the gardens she passed. One woman was putting a bicycle out for sale, an old-fashioned one with panniers behind the saddle and a rattan basket attached to the handlebars.

  “Fancy switching from hooves to wheels, Briana?” the woman asked as Briana and the horses ambled by.

  “Not on your life, Tessa. I like my saddles wider than my bum.”

  “Well, that doesn’t take much as your bum’s the size of my ten-year-old’s.” Tessa’s laugh followed her for quite a while.

  A thought occurred. Briana reined Stubbs to a halt and twisted in the saddle.

  “Hey, Tessa! How much for that bike?”

  Stubbs took advantage of the pause to snatch another mouthful of lush grass from the roadside.

  “A bargain at fifteen euro!” Tessa hollered back.

  When Briana arrived at the other stables, Shannon plopped down in some shade to tussle with Dilly, the two of them play-growling as the smaller dog crawled all over her.

  She found Quinn in the office. “I unsaddled Stubbs and turned him out in the little paddock. I’m going to settle Butler in the box stall if you don’t need it. He’s feeling poorly.”

  Quinn didn’t glance up from his computer, where he was pecking at the keyboard with his two forefingers. “That’s fine.”

  She knew he hadn’t heard a word she’d said, so she just shook her head and took Butler to the empty box stall. She spread some fresh straw and filled his water bucket, leaving a measure of oats in the feed bin for him.

  “There you go,” she said, giving him a pat.

  He snorted and closed his eyes.

  She left him and went back to the food bin to grab a few carrots before walking down the aisle, stopping to visit with the horses who poked their heads over their doors to say hello. She gave each of them a chunk of carrot.

  At Princess’s stall, she went in to check her foreleg. “I think you’re all set to go.” Princess nuzzled the back of Briana’s T-shirt, plucking at it with her lips, careful not to nip. Briana stood and cradled the gentle face in her hands, her heart melting at the look in the soft, brown eyes. “Maybe another day or two’s rest for you.”

  Princess snorted her agreement with that plan, nudging Briana in the chest. Bri obliged by pulling one more carrot from her back pocket. She snapped it in two, giving Princess half.

  “I think some sunshine’ll do you good.”

  She led Princess out of her stall and down the aisle, turning her loose in the same paddock as Stubbs.

  Back inside the barn, she went to the last stall. The outside door at the far side of the stall was open and a gray head was visible, cautious eyes watching her from that enclosure.

  “Do you like carrots?” Briana held the carrot in her hand.

  The mare stamped her foot and tossed her head with her ears back, but refused to come any nearer.

  Briana dropped the carrot into the feed bin and went back to Quinn’s office. He was done with whatever he’d been doing on the computer.

  “Butler is in the box stall,” she said. “Needs a few days of medicine. Princess is sound but is asking for another couple of days off. She’s grazing with Stubbs.”

  Quinn grinned. “She deserves a rest.”

  He was as soft on the horses as she was. She couldn’t have worked for him otherwise.

  “I’m heading out then, if you don’t need me for anything else today.”

  “I don’t, no.”

  She turned to go and then paused. “Sheila’s cousin, Nora. Is she planning on getting herself a car this summer?”

  Quinn laughed. “She says no. Afraid to drive on our side of the road. Why?”

  “Tessa O’Rourke has a bike for sale. Might be something for her instead of walking everywhere.”

  “I’ll mention it, thanks.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  She got in her SUV, whistling for Shannon. With the couple hours of daylight left, she had her own errands to run.

  “Why are you doing this, Móirín? We should be taking care of our own.”

  Móirín swings her cloak about her, fastening it under her chin. “Niamh, Ashford gave us permission to take what we needed to feed our families. We’ve been blessed with more than enough. The food in the larder won’t keep forever. How can we not help those we can?”

  She hands baskets to Callum and Rowan. Four-year-old Una cries to go along.

  “No, my love.” Móirín bends awkwardly to kiss her. “You stay with your Auntie Niamh. We’ll be back soon.”

  The babies, Séan and Teafa, play with the dolls Móirín made of leftover bits of material from the bal
l gowns that will most likely be left behind in wardrobes at the castle when the family goes back to England after Yule. Worn once. She tries not to think of the waste. It makes her heart hurt.

  Just as her heart hurts knowing there is no shortage of food in Ireland, only for the Irish.

  Niamh, her own baby on her hip, takes Una’s hand to prevent her following. Despite Móirín’s words, she stares resentfully at the baskets.

  The air is bitterly cold when they set out. Rowan takes her mother’s hand, her basket swinging from the other. Callum, too old now at seven to hold his ma’s hand, strides alongside, a proper little man.

  “Who are we going to, Mam?” Rowan asks, the cold air making her cheeks rosy.

  “The Gallaghers and the Foyles,” Móirín says, huffing a little. “I hear they’ve had a hard time of it.”

  The children chatter as they walk, anticipating Yule in a few weeks.

  The Gallagher cottage stands alongside fallow fields, fields that should have produced enough potatoes to keep the family fed. Matthew Gallagher is walking across the field, a basket strapped to his shoulders, filled with wood from the scant trees remaining. He waves his axe.

  “We’ve brought a few things,” Móirín says, noting the way his coat hangs more loosely when he shrugs off the basket to set it down.

  “Come in,” he says. “Mary had the baby just last week. She’ll be happy to see you.”

  He carries an armful of sticks inside to feed the small fire burning in the hearth. Mary Gallagher is sitting on the bed, trying to nurse the baby, who is crying weakly. Two other children are huddled near her, their faces gaunt, their eyes big.

  “Callum, Rowan, why don’t you butter a bit of bread for the children?” Móirín herself uncorks a crock of stew, dishing out a small bowlful. “Just a small portion to start.”

  She sits on the bed next to Mary. “This probably isn’t warm any longer, but here. You eat.”

  “I can’t,” Mary says, her gaze shifting to the children who have moved to the table where Rowan and Callum are reaching into their baskets to produce two loaves of bread and a crock of butter. Matthew’s expression has darkened as he watches.

  “You must,” Móirín says in a low voice. “If you have nothing inside, you can’t feed this one.”

  She takes the baby, too light, too thin. Mary spoons up the stew, a little at a time, and Móirín recognizes the signs of a stomach already too shrunk to take much in. She herself undoes the buttons of her dress and tucks the baby to a breast swollen with milk for the one she carries. The baby nuzzles and feeds, his eyes locked on hers, and she knows this one meal will not keep him alive. Her heart breaks as she strokes his soft cheek and downy hair. His eyes gradually close and his suckle slows. When he is asleep, she sets him on the bed and buttons her dress again.

  Mary has finished, too, leaving more than half the stew in the bowl.

  “You’ll have more later,” Móirín says. “Lie down now. Sleep with your baby.”

  Matthew walks them out. “Thank you.” He can’t meet Móirín’s eyes as he says it.

  “Matthew,” she says, laying a hand on his arm. “Mary and the baby… She needs to eat to be able to feed him. Is there nowhere you can go? Family in Galway or Belfast?”

  “Do you think they’re better able to provide for my family than I can?”

  She glances back inside. “I could take the baby, feed him—”

  “We’ll be fine,” he says. “It was two bad crops, but it can’t last. We’ll be in fine shape when the spring comes and the fields are planted anew. God bless.”

  He steps back into the cottage and closes the door.

  “Come, Ma.”

  Callum takes Móirín by the hand. He and Rowan lead her away. After what feels like a long walk, they reach a stretch of one-room tenant cottages, little more than hovels. It’s too cold for the children to be outside playing, but even for that, it’s too still, too quiet.

  “No smoke, Ma,” Callum says, eyeing the crumbling stone chimney of the last cottage in the row.

  Móirín has seen it, as well. Her heart beats faster in fear as they approach. No one answers a knock. Callum hands his basket to Rowan and pushes hard to open the door. Móirín grips Rowan’s shoulder.

  “Stay outside a moment.”

  She steps into the dark cottage, clapping a hand to her mouth to cover a scream. Five children, one not yet old enough to walk, lie lifeless on a bed next to their mother’s corpse. The cold, thankfully, has kept the bodies.

  She crosses herself and turns to find Rowan and Callum standing behind her, their eyes wide. As much as she hates for them to see death, it’s important they know.

  “We’re too late. They’re beyond the cares of this world now.”

  The children join her as they pray the Pater Noster.

  “Where’s their Da?” Rowan asks as they tug the door shut, tying a rag to the door handle as a warning, and turn for home.

  “I don’t know. He might have left to find work.” Móirín hopes that was the case, and not that he’d simply left the poor souls behind to fend for themselves.

  “When we get back, we’ll tell your Da. He’ll come with some men and give them a proper burial.”

  There is no chatter now. They walk in silence. Móirín wishes she could spare them, keep them innocent. She shivers with a premonition that none of them will be spared.

  Nora sat at her little table in the kitchen, the front and back doors both thrown open, letting a nice morning breeze blow through. She’d fried a couple of eggs to eat with the last of Mrs. McCarthy’s soda bread. Propped on the sugar bowl was one of Sheila’s books on gardening basics.

  “You’ll learn more by doing than reading,” Sheila had said when Nora borrowed it, but Nora had just laughed and said, “Librarian. Gotta do my research.”

  Her washing flapped gently on the clothesline strung outside the back door. The cottage had a washer, but no dryer.

  When she was done eating, she marked her page and quickly washed her dishes. The only thing she was really missing so far was a coffee maker. The cottage only had a kettle. Tea was all right, but she was craving coffee.

  She went to the living room where she had left a half-written letter she’d started the evening before. With no internet since she left Ashford, she was writing her grandparents to let them know she’d moved into the cottage and gotten settled. She’d need to find internet access soon to take care of some banking and bills back home, but it was kind of nice, communicating this way. She sat back down at the table serving as her desk to finish the letter, filling them in on the last few days, including the visit and greetings from Mr. and Mrs. McCarthy.

  She was telling them about her semi-employment with Sheila when she heard a thump from upstairs. She sat for a moment, her heart pounding. The upstairs windows were all open, and she wondered if an animal had gotten in. A cat maybe. Or a raccoon. Did they have raccoons in Ireland?

  I need to borrow a book on Ireland’s fauna.

  She got up and found a broom in the kitchen. As quietly as she could, she crept up the stairs, clutching her weapon. Nothing looked out of place in the wide hall—the table and lamp there were undisturbed. She moved on to her bedroom and, at first, everything there looked normal as well. But then, she saw that her pillow was lying on the floor. She’d made the bed when she got up, fluffing the pillows and placing them neatly. There was no sign of any animal. She crossed to the bed to lift the pillow back into its place, and she smelled it—a hint of something like lilac.

  Immediately, the scent triggered a memory, a dream she’d had—a woman, searching and searching for… she wasn’t sure what. Only the sadness and despair that she couldn’t find whatever it was… Nora closed her eyes.

  As quickly as the memory had come, it vanished, like smoke. So had the scent of lilac. Nora dropped to the bed, shaken.

  “That was weird.”

  Outside, a horn sounded with a couple of quick beeps.

  “Anyon
e up?” called a voice.

  She ran downstairs to find Quinn and Sheila getting out of a pickup truck.

  “Good morning,” said Sheila. “We didn’t wake you, did we?”

  “I’ve been up for ages,” Nora said. “What brings you here? Want some tea?”

  “No, we can’t stay.” Quinn reached into the bed of the truck. “We just wanted to bring this by.”

  He set a bicycle on the ground.

  “What’s this for?” Nora asked.

  “For you.” Sheila said, holding out a helmet. “Briana found it.”

  “Briana did?”

  “We figured you can’t walk everywhere all summer. We’ll still take you by the market and such when you need to, but this’ll make you more mobile on other days.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Nora ran her hands over the leather saddle and the woven basket. “Just like the bike I had when I was a kid.”

  Quinn held up a finger. “You still have to remember to ride on our side of the road, mind you. Cars and lorries will give you the right of way here, but only if you obey the traffic rules.”

  “I can’t let you do this,” Nora said.

  “Consider it part of your pay,” Sheila said. “Like I said, we can’t pay you what we should without a work visa, so we’ll find other ways. No excuses for being late tomorrow.”

  Nora laughed. “No excuse. I’ll be there, eight o’clock sharp.”

  “Come early if you want some breakfast.”

  “I would kill for some coffee.”

  Sheila nodded. “Coffee ’tis then. See you at half-seven.”

  “Thank you,” Nora said, impulsively embracing Sheila.

  “You’re welcome,” Sheila said with a pat on the back.

  Nora grabbed Quinn before he could wiggle away and gave him a hug, too.

  They got back into the truck. She waved them off and propped the bike against the cottage.

  She hurriedly finished her letter and sealed it in an envelope. She folded her rain jacket into her backpack along with her wallet, then closed up the cottage and went out to try her new wheels.

  She decided to stray off the paved roads and try some of the wooded trails that, according to her calculations, should take her in the direction of the village. A deep hush lay over the woods. She rode through the cool, damp air, sunlight filtering through the leaves overhead. It wasn’t just that the trees in this forest were enormous; their branches stuck out at odd angles, as if they were the arms of giants, frozen and turned into trees by some ancient magic.