by Ed Kavanagh
And so we spent that time together, the birch junks popping in the stove, the sweet smell of hay throughout the house. After the first few weeks the fiddle began to feel like a companion. The other children on the road became used to seeing me with it and they quickly tired of teasing me. I would even sometimes see a wistful look of envy in their eyes—especially later when I played at school concerts. But I was a child, and there were times when I became bored or lazy and ignored the fiddle. Annie, I think, always knew. But she would never say anything. And eventually the spirit in the black case at the foot of my dresser always called me back.
By the spring of 1933 I could play some simple pieces —“The Dawning of the Day,” “The Irish Washerwoman,”
“Molly Bawn”—reasonably in tune, and when I found the nerve to play them in the kitchen for the others, my father would gaze at me, smiling with his eyes. “I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be that bold,” he’d always say.
One evening when I’d finished playing for them, George laughed.
“Here we were thinking Annie was going to freeze to death down there in that old house—”
“And half the time when you goes in you feels like you’re going to lose your breath with the heat,” Winnie said, shaking her head.
“And now she’s got it turned into a music school,” George said. “Teaching young Ivy to play the fiddle. And not doin’ too poor a job of it either.”
“Well, I hope Annie can keep it up,” Winnie said. “Every time I goes down these days she looks more frail. And skinny? There’s not a pick on her. We don’t want Ivy wearin’ her out.”
I had also noticed that new fragility. Annie’s laughter had grown a little lower, her movements even more measured and cautious as she navigated amongst her clutter or fried bologna on her old stove. Walking home from Hickey’s I hardly ever heard her play at night, and when I did it was always a thinner, fainter variety of melody. She continued to read, holding the letter or book or newspaper only inches from her face, but now she often slept more than she read. When I would go in and see her dozing in her chair I wouldn’t disturb her. I usually turned around and walked back out again.
Father Walsh also visited her more frequently. I would often see his car parked at the top of her lane, although when the road was bad he didn’t mind walking. One day I asked Annie what they did during those visits. She said they mostly just talked or Father Walsh said a few prayers. But sometimes he donned his surplice and said a complete mass.
“He’s a nice enough man,” Annie said. “And his visits are a bit of a change—breaks up the day. Every now and then we’ll even have a good old argument.” She winked at me. “Anyway, at my age it can’t hurt to spend a bit of time with a priest.” Annie looked at me coyly. “Of course if there were any Hindu or Moslem or Buddhist priests around, sure they’d be welcome, too. It’s just as well to have all your bases covered.”
At breakfast or supper I heard about the turmoil and changes in the outside world: the new Commission of Government, the unrest and marches. The riots in some of the outports. The controversies about the dole. There was a hole in the heart of the country that would take a long time to heal.
But during that second summer the hole in my heart gradually did begin to heal. The woods and meadows of Kilbride now seemed as much a home as had once the streets of St. John’s. I became close friends with some girls at school. In the fall I sang in the elementary choir and tried to pick out the songs on the fiddle. I felt closer to Ruth and Sean. I still strayed behind, but the gap was closing. I began to feel less like Poison Ivy.
Sometimes, bouncing around in the back of George’s old truck, a bunch of us would accompany my father or uncle into St. John’s when they were selling vegetables or milk. Now, for me, the city held something of a foreign quality. After the quiet meadows of Kilbride, the hustle and bustle could be a little unnerving.
Once I saw my friend Barbara, and Father arranged for her to come to the farm for a visit. She liked the barns and the animals but didn’t quite know what to make of my fiddle.
“Do you mean you’re playing it and they’re not even making you?” she said.
One Saturday afternoon when I went down to Annie’s for a lesson, I was surprised to discover that she wasn’t there. Her absence was unsettling. I was so used to seeing her at the stove or in her chair that it was almost as if I’d walked into the wrong house. Her room echoed like an empty church. Her chair looked as if no one had ever sat in it. Her clutter was like the flotsam and jetsam of strangers. The stove was lit, but burning at only half its normal flame. A few days before, I had brought her a Christmas tree, and it leaned, forlorn and half decorated, against the mantelpiece.
I sat on the daybed and wondered where she could be.
My gaze fell on her bedroom door. I had never been in her bedroom. My eyes locked on to the doorknob. I got up and went to the door. I knocked quietly.
“Annie.”
No answer.
I called again and put my hand on the knob. I pushed the door open.
The room was much smaller than I expected: the clearance from the door to the bed was only about two feet. Faded, flowered wallpaper was peeling in places. There was a chest of drawers, a washstand, and a small closet. The bed, a crucifix hanging above the headboard, was covered by a taut, colourful quilt.
The bed was empty.
I looked around. Sitting on the chest of drawers was an open jewellery box and some framed sepia photographs. I picked up one of the photos: a younger Annie in a long dress with lace at the throat, her thick hair piled high. Despite the photo’s posed formality, the hint of a girlish grin curled her lips. I had been right: it was easy to recognize her from old photos. In another photograph, a balding, stern-looking man wearing a suit and tie sat rigidly next to her on a settee.
Rings and rosary beads and a number of funeral mass cards spilled from the jewellery box. I picked up one of the cards: the front featured a colourful flight of seraphim and cherubim playing harps. I flipped the card over.
In Loving Memory of
Theresa Mary Dooley
Died December 19, 1872
Age Three Years
Suffer the little children to come unto me.
There were some loose photos in the box and I drew one out. Another studio portrait: Annie, younger still, with a toddler on her knee. A flood of guilt and disgust surged through me at my intrusion and I put the photo back.
I tiptoed from the bedroom and returned to the daybed, wondering what to do. There was a scratching at the back door and I opened it and let in Ginny. She jumped up on the daybed.
“Where’s Annie?” I said to her.
Then I heard the sound of a motor and I looked out the window to see Pat’s truck pulling up. He opened the passenger door and helped Annie out. She took his arm and they picked their way slowly down the steep lane, Annie occasionally stopping and clutching at Pat’s sleeve. I went out on the step and watched them. Annie was wearing a bandanna and a blue wool coat that smothered her slight frame. She was making good progress but watching the ice took all of her concentration.
When Annie got to the door she smiled at me. I held the door open.
“Good girl,” she said. She turned to Pat. “God love you. I know I can be a bit of a nuisance.” She laughed. “Just offer it up for all your sins.”
Pat grinned. “My dear, I won’t live long enough to commit that many sins. I suppose you’ll be all right now? You got your little one there to look after you.”
“Oh yes. She’s a grand girl. You go on.”
We went inside and Annie fed the fire and made tea. I took my regular spot on the daybed and opened my fiddle case.
Annie glanced at me.
“I’m sorry I’m late.”
“That’s all right.”
“Well, aren’t you going to ask where I was?”
Only one possibility came to mind.
“The hospital?”
“No ind
eed,” Annie said, scowling. “There’s no doctor alive who can do any more for me at this point. Doctors and hospitals can’t turn back time.” She took down two mugs from the cupboard. “I was down to Littledale—talking to Sister Angela, the one who arranged for your fiddle. Pat said I could have just sent her a note, but I wanted to see her face to face. Do you know her?”
“A bit. When I got the fiddle Winnie said I should go up to the convent and thank her. So I did that. But she’s mainly with the higher classes at Littledale.”
“She’s Irish,” Annie said. “A nice woman. Anyway, I wanted to talk to her about you.”
“Me? Does she want the fiddle back?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
Annie didn’t say anything for a while. She took her time pouring the tea. Then she shook some crackers onto a plate and passed it to me. I could see behind her blue eyes that she was struggling to find words. Finally, she handed me my tea and pulled her chair close to the daybed.
“Ivy, listen to me. I know you don’t always believe it, but you’re a smart enough girl. You must know that I’m not going to be around forever.” I was about to speak but she silenced me with a look. “Now, that’s nothing to be sad about. I’ve been here a long, long time—longer than most people would ever want.” She peered at my fiddle case for a moment and then looked at me. “I asked Sister Angela to keep your lessons going when I’m gone. Would you like that?”
I couldn’t meet her gaze so I stared at the floor.
“I would.”
“All right. You’ll be able to go up to the convent a couple of times a week.” Annie laughed softly. “Look at me.”
I looked up.
“There’s no fees or anything. So don’t be worried about that.”
“Providence?”
“What?”
“That’s what Father Walsh called it.”
Annie smiled. “You can think of it like that. And I asked Sister Angela to go easy on the classical stuff. Told her not to go overboard with the Bach and Mozart.”
“And the études. You said they always used to give you études.”
“So I did. But don’t worry: I told the sister to sprinkle in some nice Irish and Newfoundland stuff every now and then.” Annie reached over and tapped my fiddle case. “I don’t want you to stop because of me.”
“Sure the only reason I’m playing at all is because of you. I’m not going to stop.”
“Good.” Annie sat back and studied me. “You’re growing up, aren’t you? Even gettin’ bigger. Finally gettin’ a bit of meat on your bones. Soon you’ll be big enough for a regular-size fiddle.” Annie glanced around her cluttered room. “Everything in here has got a story to it. I guess that’s why I wanted to bring it all home with me.” She turned to me. “I’ve had a lot of stories in my life. So my passing on won’t be the same as your mom’s or Margaret’s.” Annie paused and her smooth face darkened. “No matter what anyone says, it wasn’t their time. But it will be my time. Do you understand?”
I don’t know if I did. There was so much to understand in those days. But I looked at Annie and nodded.
“All right,” she said. “Now, forget about all that. What are you going to play for me?”
One December night, a little more than two years since I’d met Annie, Winnie sent me down to Annie’s house with a fruitcake she’d made for her. I’d brought along my fiddle to play “What Child Is This?” that our choir had just begun and that I was attempting to learn on my own.
Annie, wrapped in a blanket, was asleep in her chair. The first thing I noticed was the cold and the dark. The stove and lamps were burning low. It wasn’t like Annie to let the fire get low. She nodded awake when she heard me.
“Winnie sent you down a cake,” I said.
“God love her. Just put it on the table.”
“It’s cold here.”
Annie pulled her blanket tighter. “It is. Put a couple of junks in the stove. And turn up the lamps. That’s a good girl.”
That’s a good girl. She had never said that to me before. It had always been a brisk “Good girl.” The new phrasing sounded odd—almost as if she were speaking to a younger child. A baby.
I saw to the fire and then took my fiddle to the daybed. But Annie said, “No, you sit here. I think I’ll lie down for a while.” She slowly got up, taking her blanket, and motioned me to her chair. She lay down on the daybed and drew the blanket around her. I had never seen her on the daybed. I had never seen her lying down. I sat in her chair: it was the first time I’d ever done so.
Annie fixed a cushion under her head and smiled at me.
“What are you going to play?”
“‘What Child Is This?’ that we’re practising in school. And then the one me and you were doin’: ‘The Morning Star.’”
Annie nodded. “‘The Morning Star.’ Beautiful.”
I began to play, occasionally glancing at her. I remember that I played very well. Annie’s eyes had closed but her smile lingered on her lips.
I thought she had fallen asleep.
When I’d finished I called to her, but in the lamplight I saw in her face the same shadow that I’d seen in Margaret’s face. But there was also peace behind the shadow. I think that’s why I didn’t panic or cry. I didn’t even call her name again or touch her. I didn’t do any of things you might think a child—anyone—would do in such a circumstance. I just closed my eyes, sat with her, and pictured her spirit sailing up the chimney with the smoke and my thin ribbon of melody.
I put my fiddle back in its case and looked at her one last time. Then I went to the door and opened it. The December stars were brilliant. Ginny curled around my legs and prepared to spring out onto the step. “You stay here with Annie,” I said.
I pulled the door shut and made my way up to Pat’s.
Father suggested that I play at Annie’s funeral, but the Catholic Church, we discovered, doesn’t allow that kind of thing. Father Walsh’s eulogy, though, was heartfelt, and at least he had known Annie. As usual, he spoke very well. He said how much he’d enjoyed visiting her. How much she’d kept him on his toes. He spoke of Annie’s kindness: how she’d taken it upon herself to teach me the violin, and that I was doing well.
There were some strangers in Corpus Christi that morning: older people who had made the long, rough journey from Aquaforte. My father asked one man about Annie’s family—her children.
“All down in the Boston States,” he said. “Been down there for years.”
After the funeral Pat approached us in the churchyard. “I’ll be coming by a little later on,” he said. “I’ve got something for young Ivy.” He looked down at me. “I don’t know how I feels about it, to tell the truth.”
“What is it?” Winnie asked.
“Annie’s violin—her fiddle,” Pat said. “She wanted Ivy to have it.”
“Sure that’s been in your family for years,” Father said.
“It has. I thought it should be a family . . . what do you call it? A keepsake?”
“An heirloom?” Winnie suggested.
“That’s right—an heirloom. But you know what Annie was like. She had everything all planned out. Even wrote down where she wanted all her belongings to go. The fiddle was at the top of the list with Ivy’s name next to it.” Pat laughed. “Anyway, let Ivy take it. God knows I couldn’t get any good of Annie when she was alive. I suppose it’s just as well to forget about it altogether now that she’s dead.” Pat smiled at me. “At least the fiddle will be going to someone who’s going to play it.”
I haven’t lived in Kilbride for more than seventy years. But during the War, when I was a young woman working in St. John’s, I would often go up to visit George and Winnie. By that time they were on their own: Sean in the army, Ruth working at Fort Pepperell. And my father, having left his solitary farmer life behind, was back on the waterfront. There’s always work for a longshoreman during a war.
For a long time not much seemed to change in Kilbride
. But in the last twenty or thirty years, most of the good farmland has been built over. Kilbride is no longer a farming community, a place where everyone knows everyone. Now there are thousands of people instead of just a few hundred.
Annie’s house is gone. On a Sunday drive a number of years ago, we were held up by workers who were scraping a road through at just the place where Annie’s lane used to be. The meadow was bulldozed for row upon row of townhouses. Foran’s hill, where we used to slide, is now pocked with acres of look-a-like bungalows crammed onto postage stamps of land. And I don’t suppose any part of Kilbride is as quiet as it used to be. If Annie played today, would anyone hear her?
Maybe they would. Maybe, in a way, she’s still playing.
There are some people who move through this difficult world with the simplicity and grace of an old air that’s been shaped and moulded and handed down through the centuries. Whose lives, whether simple or complex, resonate in a way that lingers long after they’re gone. At a time when my father was too damaged to do it himself, Annie shaped and moulded me, taught me to look inside myself, made me less silent, less sad, less of a little nobody. When I stood shivering in the road on those December nights all those years ago, Annie’s music echoed under the stars. I hear it even today.
Marcia,
I was about to put this in the mail this morning, but something was nagging at me.
I still have Annie’s fiddle. God only knows how old it is. Now I hope you don’t have dollar signs flashing in your eyes! It’s not a long-lost Stradivarius worth millions. I had it appraised once, years ago, and it’s just a nice old fiddle, well cared for, well played in.