by Ed Kavanagh
The house smelled wonderful, a combination of the burning birch in the stove and . . . what? Then it struck me: hay. Of course. The whole top storey was filled with hay. It was a sweet, intoxicating recipe. And the hay was obviously a good insulator.
“It smells nice in here,” I said.
“Yes, girl,” Annie said. “Jesus was born in a stable. But sometimes I feels like I’m living in one.”
I looked around the room. It was cosy but so cluttered it was impossible to focus on any one thing. A huge sideboard, crowned with ornamental dishes, took up most of the west wall; a gleaming highboy sat snugly against the east. Next to the fireplace was a writing desk and bookcase. Scattered throughout were trunks, wardrobes, and a vanity.
And I didn’t know it then, but Annie had the Victorian approach to interior decoration. There was scarcely a piece of wall or mantelpiece or table that wasn’t covered with something: pictures, clocks, vases, figurines—all kinds of bric-a-brac. Books—lots of books. Some in the bookcase, some just lying about. Even the mantelpiece was draped with a silky, green fabric. I almost got dizzy looking around. Mrs. Hickey had taken the same approach with her house, although it was nowhere near as chaotic. But Annie, of course, had a lot less room to work with.
She guided me to the kitchen area at the back. Next to the stove was the one relatively clear spot: the daybed— relatively clear because Ginny had claimed it and was stretched out asleep. I squeezed in next to her, noticing how gracefully Annie navigated amongst the clutter.
She sat down in a high back chair by the stove and peered at me.
“You walks past that shop at the bottom of the road when you’re comin’ home from school, don’t you? You got to.”
She meant Kenny’s where I often spent some of Mrs. Hickey’s coppers.
“Yes.”
“Well, the next time you’re goin’ by I wants you to do a message for me. Run in and get me some bologna. I don’t want to be pestering Pat for everything—you knows Pat, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Well, he’s been very good already and he’s busy with his own work. So can you get me a bit of bologna?”
“I can.”
“Good girl.” She took a bulky black handbag from the back of her chair and began rummaging through it.
Annie’s face was not what I expected—especially based on the gossip around our supper table. In some ways she looked her age. She was thin and white and seemed as brittle as chalk. But her face was barely wrinkled, and her skin looked baby-skin soft. Soft too was her fine white hair which she kept coiled in a tight bun. Her cheekbones were high and sharply defined, like those of the ballerinas I’d seen in a picture book. And her blue eyes, both watery and clear at the same time, flashed with childlike curiosity. Even then I could imagine her as a girl. She was one of those people who, at any age, would be easy to pick out of old photo albums. Like the lamps placed strategically around the room, she seemed somehow lit from within.
Annie jingled the coins in her hand and sat back in her chair.
“You don’t say much, do you?”
I shook my head.
“What’s your name again? Molly?”
“Ivy.”
“That’s right—Ivy. Were you a Christmas baby?”
“December twenty-first.”
“‘The Holly and the Ivy.’ I always liked that tune.”
“Some of the boys in school makes fun of me—calls me Poison Ivy. Holly would’ve been better. At least that’s pretty.”
“Don’t you mind them youngsters. Ivy’s a gorgeous name.” Annie suddenly leaned forward. “You said your birthday was December twenty-first?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s the winter solstice.”
“The what?”
“The longest night. Were you born at night?”
“I think so.”
“Then you were born on the longest night of the year.
You didn’t know that?”
“No.”
“Well, Ivy, now you can say you learned something today.” Annie sat back in her chair. “What’s your last name?”
“Brennan.”
“Brennan . . . Brennan. Who owns you?”
“Nobody. I owns myself.”
Annie smiled. “Yes, I knows that. But who’s your mother?”
“Haven’t got one anymore.”
“No . . . ?”
“She died.”
Annie took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s hard. But where do you belong to?”
“Nowhere.”
Annie narrowed her eyes and looked at me quizzically. “Everyone belongs somewhere,” she said softly. “Even me. I belongs here—although you might have trouble convincing Pat.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Who’s your father?”
“Tom.”
“Tom . . . Tom Brennan. Now I knows who you are. You’re from Town. Staying up with Frank and Winnie. She was down to see me the other day.”
Funny. Winnie hadn’t mentioned it. “George and Winnie,” I said. “That’s my aunt and uncle.”
Annie leaned forward and passed me the coins. “George. That’s right. I knew his father. Well, you get me that bologna tomorrow. About half a pound. And mind he cuts it thick. I don’t want those skinny cuts that just curls up on the pan. And get a few candy for yourself out of what’s left.”
I was halfway home when I realized that, amongst all the clutter, there was no sign of a fiddle.
That’s how it started: I would hear her distinctive rapping on the window and look to see those long fingers motioning me into her house. Soon, in addition to Kenny’s, I was running messages for her up to Pat’s and bringing her mail. And keeping an eye out for Ginny became a regular part of my day.
But, once I was comfortable enough, I often didn’t wait to be summoned. As children did in those days, I would sometimes just wander in and sit on the daybed. Annie would read or mend clothes or write letters or prepare something on the stove. I would watch, often not saying a word. But it was never an uncomfortable silence. Back then silent children on daybeds were like wallpaper, a decoration as common as a vase of wildflowers. Annie would occasionally give me books to read. She had an assortment of children’s books in one of her trunks, probably left over from her time as a teacher. Sometimes she would offer me a snack of bread or tea biscuits. But mostly I would just sit, usually with Ginny curled on my lap, and watch whatever she was doing. Often, the only thing I said on those early visits was a simple, “I’ll be going now,” as I was leaving.
At first, I didn’t know what to call her, so, one night, I asked Winnie.
“I suppose you should call her Mrs. Dooley,” she said.
“I can’t just call her Annie?”
“That might be a bit familiar for a youngster. But you could always ask her.”
So I did. “Annie’s fine,” she said. “Sure that’s my name, isn’t it?”
Walking home from Hickey’s, I would still sometimes hear her play. When I was in her house I always looked for the fiddle but I never saw it. And, I don’t know why, but I didn’t ask about it. Shyness? Perhaps I thought that talking about it might shatter the music’s spell. Or perhaps I was afraid that Annie would give me a funny look and say, “A fiddle? I don’t know anything about fiddles. Never played in my life.” And then where would I be?
One morning, when I was sitting on her daybed, she didn’t immediately tell me why she’d called me in. She had offered me tea, and as she prepared it I noticed her glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.
“Your aunt was down again the other day.”
“I know. She told me.”
“Nice woman, but she likes to talk, don’t she? Hard to believe you got anything to do with that family.”
“Oh yes. She likes to talk—Uncle George, too. Father says they got lips on ’em like Cape Breton coal buckets.”
Annie laughe
d. She passed me my tea and settled herself into her chair.
“I watches you sometimes when you’re with the other youngsters. You’re like the cow’s tail—always behind.
Why is that?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Two of ’em are your cousins?”
“Ruth and Sean.”
“They nice?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How about the other ones?”
“Most of ’em are nice. Not Kieran and Gary from down the road—they kills frogs. And sometimes they does even worse stuff to ’em. I don’t like that.”
Annie clucked her tongue. “There’s a lot of cruelty in the world.” She paused. “Your aunt told me you had a little sister?”
“Margaret. But she’s in heaven.”
Annie shook her head. She looked borne away for a moment, but then she brightened up and smiled at me over her tea mug. “Enough of that,” she said. “You any good to do a message for me?”
“Bologna?”
“No. I wants a tree. Can you get one of them fellas you’re always streelin’ behind to cut me a tree?”
“A tree?”
“A tree, girl. A Christmas tree. Don’t you know Christmas is coming? Your birthday?”
“I knows.”
“And for God’s sake, make sure he don’t chop the foot off hisself. Tell him not to use an axe. Get a saw. You know where to get a saw? Pat must have one.”
“Don’t need one. I can get you a tree.”
“You? You’re too small and skinny.”
“I can drag it down on my slide.”
“How you gonna cut it?”
“I won’t have to cut it.”
“You won’t . . . what are gonna do—blow it down like the wolf in the fairy tale?”
“No, they’re already cut down.”
“What? Who cuts ’em down?”
“Townies. Rich fellas in cars. They don’t even take ’em for firewood.”
“What are you gettin’ on with?”
“Fellas from Town comes in to get a Christmas tree. They cuts down three or four and lines ’em up and then they picks the one they wants.”
“What do they do with the other ones?”
“Just leaves ’em there. Me and Ruth, we watches ’em sometimes.”
“The wasteful sinners. And people froze to death in St. John’s.” Annie tilted her head and looked at me carefully. “You can really get me a tree?”
“I can.”
“All right, then. Good for you. Now, I don’t want it too big. God knows I haven’t got much room in here.”
“I’ll get a good size.”
The evening I delivered Annie’s tree I was scheduled to work at Mrs. Hickey’s. When I approached Annie’s house on my way home that night, I heard the music. The temperature had risen, and the thawing ice and snow had conjured the wet, damp cold I most hated. As I stood in the dark, listening, shivering, watching the yellow glow of her lamplight, the thick ribbon of smoke curling from the chimney, I suddenly turned and made my way down the lane to the house. For some reason, the music didn’t seem to get much louder the closer I approached. I stood on the step and listened until she’d finished. Then I knocked.
After a moment, I heard Annie softly padding to the door. She opened it and looked at me with surprise.
“I was wonderin’ who it could be at this time of night. I thought it might be mummers, but it’s a bit early for them.” She sized me up. “Isn’t it late for you to be out?”
“I was comin’ home from Hickey’s and . . . I heard you. The music.”
Annie pulled her cardigan close around her throat. “Did you now?” she said softly. “Well, you better come in for a few minutes. You looks half perished.”
Once inside, I immediately saw the fiddle case on the sideboard. The bow lay on top. Annie sat down and motioned me to the daybed.
She glanced at the case. “I didn’t tell you about that, did I?”
“No. But I knew. I heard you lots of times walking home. Ruth thought it must be a ghost—you know, because you only plays at night.”
Annie grinned. “A ghost . . . Soon enough, girl. Soon enough.”
“That’s what Uncle George said, too.”
“Sacred Heart!” Annie said, laughing. “What are they tryin’ to do—rush me?” She looked at me with those blue eyes. “You keep a lot of things close, don’t you? Why didn’t you ask about the fiddle if you were interested?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Why didn’t you show it to me before?”
I could see her stifling a grin. “Oh. Well, excuse me. I guess I never thought of it.” She got up and went to the stove. “You could hear it all the way up on the road?”
“I could. It’s pretty.”
Annie dropped a birch junk into the fire. “Well, I’m certainly glad you liked it.”
The spruce tree I’d brought was leaning up against the mantle. Its fresh, woodsy scent mixed with the odour of hay and burning birch. I stared at the fiddle case. Annie went to it and picked up the bow.
“Do you want to see it?”
“I do.”
“Well, come over.”
I went and stood next to her. Annie lay down the bow and opened the chipped wooden case. A velvet instrument blanket covered the fiddle. As she carefully lifted it out I smelled a musty, soapy scent, like my father’s shaving kit. It was as if I were smelling the fiddle’s great age. I looked into the case. The storage compartment at the top was open. Inside was a cracked cake of rosin the colour of jade, and next to it was a fresh cake in its green coat held closed by a ribbon; in the body of the case there was some sheet music, yellowed with age, as well as string envelopes and coiled rusty strings she hadn’t thrown away (it seemed no one threw anything away during those years).
Annie held up the fiddle, gazing at it as if seeing it for the first time. I was surprised at its size: it seemed much too small to make the music that floated all the way up to the road. The fiddle was a burnished gold and it gleamed in the lamplight. Like her, it seemed somehow lit from within.
“That’s some old,” she said. “The one treasure my grandparents brought away with them from Ireland. They didn’t have much more than the clothes on their backs when they left. But grandfather insisted on taking this— and he didn’t even play all that much. My father, though, was a great player—when he could find the time. When he died, my brother Jack ended up with the fiddle. He was much older than me. Dead now like all of them. That’s how I learned.”
“Did Jack teach you?”
“Yes, but he didn’t know it. Jack didn’t have the patience to show me properly, but I’d watch as he played. He’d sit right there where you’re sitting now. He had big old sausage fingers, Jack did, but he played very well. Irish tunes mostly. All the typical stuff: jigs and reels. He was a great one for the dances.”
“You learned just by watching?”
“And copying him when there was no one around. Then, when I was older, I took lessons at school with the nuns. I remember Sister Madeleine, in particular. But they wanted me to play classical stuff mostly. Violin, not fiddle. They didn’t want me to play jigs. They wanted me to play gigues. You know: fancy stuff by Bach and Mozart.”
“Who?”
“Foreign fellas. Now, I’m not runnin’ ’em down. A lot of the music was lovely. I still plays some of it.” She wrinkled her nose. “But then there were all those exercises and studies. Etudes. The nuns had me wore out with études. I don’t believe Father or Jack ever played an étude in their life. But the nuns were good teachers—strict, but good. They made sure you played the right way.”
I stared at the fiddle—the fiddle that was older than the hands that held it.
“Well, I suppose I better play you something,” Annie said. “But then you should go home out of it. You got to get up and go to school in the morning.”
I went back to the daybed. Annie played an air. I don’t know the title, she didn’t
say, but she played it slowly, freely. I remember her old, blue-veined hands, her bow arm swooping and diving, describing graceful arcs like a seabird skimming the ocean. She played with her eyes closed, and soon mine were closed, too. The music caressed everything in her cluttered room, felt its way over the walls and windows, floated up to the hay keeping us warm below.
Later, lying in my small bed, the melody continued to echo in my mind. It was still there when I woke in the morning.
After that night she often played for me. Surprisingly, considering the season, she never played Christmas music, none of the carols our ragged choir was practising at St. Joseph’s for the concert, or that Winnie hummed as she made her seasonal fruitcakes. And what Annie did play felt ancient, unlike anything I’d heard before, reaching farther back than the Christmas story, older than Jesus, older than the rocks. She would linger on the high notes, with just the faintest touch of vibrato, the ringing timbre of those old steel strings pure and true.
“The dance tunes that Jack used to play you need people for,” she said one day. “But the old airs you can play for yourself. It’s more of a private thing—or it can be. When I play an air it’s almost like someone else is playing.”
“Who?”
Annie shrugged. “God, I suppose.”
“God plays the fiddle?”
She laughed. “Oh yes, my duck. You can count on it.”
“How come you play for me?”
Annie didn’t answer right away, just carefully considered my question. “The music speaks to you,” she said finally. “Even as young as you are. Children usually need to grow up a bit first.” She looked at me curiously. “But not you apparently.”
My first impressions of Annie had been of her own relative youthfulness. But as the weeks went by I began to notice the little things that spoke to her ninety years: how, even when wearing her glasses, she often squinted when reading. How I sometimes had to raise my voice so she’d hear me. The amount of time it took her to settle into her high back chair, to get back out again, to put away the fiddle. Even to fill the kettle or pour Ginny’s milk.
One day when I was watching her putter around the stove, I said, “Annie, what’s it like to be old?”