by Jess Smith
‘Here’s our Paddy now,’ Michael said, as a noisy car drew alongside them, horn honking loudly. ‘This is Megan,’ he told the plump character with small twinkling eyes and rounded rosy cheeks nesting in a greyish beard. A bonnet sat on the side of his head, with thick grey curls sticking out beneath like a spiky broom. She held out her hand, which he accepted with a flourish, then planted a kiss on it.
‘‘And this, dear, is my friend and right-hand man, Patrick O’Neil.’
‘Tis a fine evening, and may I say it’s a pleasure to meet you at long last. Sure his nibs here spoke of little else last time he was home.’ A blush spread across her face and she lowered her eyelids.
‘Well, bless my soul if this colleen isn’t a mite slip of a thing, hardly a picking on you. I dare say you’ll be putting a bit of beef on yourself when Mrs Sullivan feeds you up.’
‘Leave her be, Paddy. Tell me now, how are me girls doing?’
‘Sure, the mares couldn’t be better with all the love me two hands have been giving them. They’re better treated than frilly females, I’d say.’
With each passing mile Dublin was fading into yet another memory. She smiled, thinking of the Gaelic tongue, and remembering how Bruar would only utter it if annoyed at big Rory and O’Connor.
For the whole length of the journey, apart from the odd times that a jolt brought the car’s engine to halt and each man took turns to yank it into life with a starting handle, all they spoke of was horses. This was fine because it gave her time to think; not about Bruar, but about the presence of Buckley somewhere over the stretch of sea, which seemed to her not that far away.
Darkness had settled around, and only silhouettes of the countryside were visible. Michael tried, with clumsy words, to paint a picture of how lovely the place was, but with the disappearance of the light, all she saw were lengthening shadows.
It must have been two in the morning when they jolted to a sudden halt. Mrs Sullivan, the housekeeper, had stayed up to greet the master of the house with a giant yawn. ‘Hello dear,’ she said, after hearing the brief explanation given for Megan accompanying him. ‘I’ll put you in the room on the first landing where the guests usually sleep unless...’ Michael answered her questioning look by saying, ‘Yes, I’m sure she’ll be comfortable.’
They were exhausted, so after sharing milky cocoa with the others, Michael showed her to her room. Smiling, she asked him whether or not she should mention her marital status. ‘Do I mention Bruar, or would you rather I didn’t? It’s just that I don’t know how to present myself. Can I talk freely or is it best to say nothing?’
‘I have simply told them you are a girl I met at Appleby Fair and that’s that. No husband, no search. Don’t mention him, because in these parts it would look wrong if I had another man’s wife under my roof. It’s a religious taboo here, and one that’s seen less fortunate women tarred and feathered.’
Saying goodnight, she slipped quietly into her comfortable bedroom, slightly opened the window and listened to a solitary owl calling from some treetop into the night. She was troubled; it felt like a betrayal not to mention her man. She stayed up well into the night, pacing the bedroom floor, before deciding what to do. It wasn’t the fear of being tarred and feathered, but she knew she had to keep the peace, be accepted.
When sleep overpowered her, nothing and no one entered her subconscious mind, and because of this she felt as refreshed by her sleep as she’d done in a long while. Morning brought bright sunshine, flooding rays of its welcome light into the bedroom.
Through the open curtains she saw what Michael had tried to describe; miles and stretching miles of beautiful fields. Although it was still winter, in her mind’s eye she pictured a summer scene of luscious green, with wild clover and tiny daisies.
Over a satin-backed chair hung a red silk robe which Mrs Sullivan had hurriedly prepared for her the previous night; she slipped it on hastily, tying the soft belt around her waist. Running fingers through her tousled hair, she almost floated downstairs, feeling every inch a lady of the manor. Michael was already up and about seeing to his precious horses. As she set her feet on the paisley-patterned carpet of red and green in the hallway, he came in and filled his gaze with the vision of loveliness standing before him. At once she was in his arms being kissed and embraced. Pushing him gently away she reminded him of their agreement.
‘If you had my eyes and saw this beautiful filly standing in front of you—well, need I say more?’
‘If I were a filly, I’m certain Mrs Sullivan would have something to say about my hooves on her carpets.’
‘Carpets can easily be replaced, but the look of you all fresh and blooming cannot. And that red robe goes with your black hair like a crimson sky on a shimmering ocean at the setting of the sun.’
‘My, oh my, what a charmer you are this fine day, Michael of the Irish.’ She wondered what title this fine gentleman held and asked, ‘What is your other name? Though to me, forever the tinker, names matter little.’
‘Why is that?’ he asked.
‘Because we seldom stayed long enough in any place to care what people were called.’
‘Riley is my name. Now, will we annoy Mrs Sullivan by demanding a cup of her special tea?’
Morning tea, he insisted, was part of Mrs Sullivan’s breakfast chores (and hell mend anyone who got in the way of her duties) so while they waited for the housekeeper to prepare breakfast, Megan dressed and went for a walk around his stables. These were several more in number than his sister had, and because of this more men were needed. Already Paddy was up and about and eager to introduce her to Johnno and Terry, both stable hands who’d worked many years with Michael and his father before him.
‘Ah, she’s the picture of a princess she is,’ said Terry, smiling with approval. ‘Tell me now, colleen, why have you come here wit this piece of useless flesh when I’m free?’ He laughed, pointing at Michael.
Johnno joined in the laughter, displaying a toothless grin. Shoving his mate aside he said, ‘Niver mind him, Megan, and I’m the one wit the looks.’
Paddy, haltering a fine stallion, laughed at his two mates’ fanciful shenanigans and said, ‘Would you listen to the two of you? One would think you’d never set eyes on a woman before, and the both of you with fine wives.’
‘Less of the fine there now, Paddy me lad, me old bird is as broad as that barn door there and as bald as the church roof.’
‘Terry, the nixt time I sees your good lady, for sure I’m telling her what you said.’
‘I’ll flog the life from ye, Johnno, if ye do. And who are you to speak, wit that skeleton wit flesh wrapped around its bones that you have for a wife.’
Both men playfully tapped each other with horsewhips.
‘I’ll have to be speaking with these men of mine,’ joked Michael, ‘for they are as mad as hatters.’
She enjoyed the light-heartedness. She didn’t usually stir grown men to such frolics, so she flicked back her head and smiled broadly, almost flirting. Then, realising what she was doing, she blushed red.
Michael held her hand, already signalling to all that his visitor was spoken for. It made her feel important. Strangely, she felt a sense of belonging there in such a lovely place; but was she fooling herself yet again?
Later that day, after a breakfast served to perfection, Michael took her on a tour of his kingdom. ‘This is Ballyshan, my home,’ he told her proudly, indicating the land for as far as she could see. ‘To the front of the house and stables is where we graze and exercise the horses. To the rear of my property there is a vast area of moorland.’ He went on, ‘It would be best if you kept yourself within the miles of flat land to the front of the house and don’t go near the moor, because it has bogs so deep I’ve lost horses in them. Sank, they did, into the ooze of hell, never to be seen again.’
She reminded him that next to her birthplace of Glen Coe in Scotland lay Rannoch Moor, the location of the country’s deepest bogs. They made slimy graves for whoever
didn’t know the area for certain. Pools of wet, black peat covered the earth further than the eye could see. Once, many hundreds of years past, it is believed a whole battalion of Roman soldiers, out scouting suitable routes to the Highlands, were swallowed up by the wet lands of Rannoch. ‘Fear not for my safety, Michael, I know boggy moors like the back of my hand. The secret is never to walk in straight lines, and always test black peat with a stick,’ she assured him.
‘I don’t doubt your knowledge of bog terrain, my lovely, but nevertheless I’d feel a lot better if you took walks on solid ground. There’s lots of lovely quiet ways here, though I’m afraid there’s no village for miles. In fact all we have in the way of neighbours is a few solitary tinker families who come and go on the edge of the moor.’ His words sang out to her.
‘Where are the tinkers exactly, Michael?’
‘I might have known you’d want a visiting with your own kind.’
‘Can you blame me?’
‘No, of course, I wouldn’t dream of it. If you ask Mrs Sullivan, although she doesn’t say, I know that sometimes she takes food to a small family living way out by Runny Brook. It’s an area of woodland on no man’s land between moor and forest.’
‘Do you think she’d take me next time she goes?’
‘Ask her and see. It wouldn’t do any harm, and I’m sure she’d be glad of the company.’
‘I’d be happy to take you,’ said the housekeeper, folding her arms over a snow-white apron, ‘but bless me soul, if the family isn’t away to Glendalough. Kathleen, the young wife who comes with her man and children, winters there beside her parents. I dare say though, like the curlew, the folks will be bundling into their summer haven soon. Her man is called Robin, a fine name for a lad who wears a red waistcoat given him by a lord whose life he saved at a shoot near Wicklow. Nearly shot the head off himself with his own gun, had Robin not grabbed the blessed thing off him; folks say the lord was on the edge of committing the mortal sin of suicide. By the Holy Virgin, I can hardly bring meself to utter the awful words.’
Megan was just getting interested, when the old body refused to continue, sat down on a high-backed chair and began running rosary beads through her podgy fingers and muttering prayer after prayer. Yet her eyes seemed to say, ‘If you press further I’ll tell you.’
So sitting close she said, ‘Go on, Mrs Sullivan, tell me why the gentry was killing himself?’
‘Oh, something to do with a lot of debts he owed, and don’t ask me another thing about that, cause me lips are closed. The tinker couple have been blessed wit three lovely little boys, and it’s them I takes the food for, beautiful sweet childer they are.’ Then she raised herself from the chair and said, ‘The lord was so grateful to Robin for saving his life, as his worries turned out not to be as bad as he thought. He gave him the red waistcoat, and that’s why I said the name Robin suits him fine, because since receiving the gentleman’s clothing it’s never been off his back. They’ll be passing any day and you’ll see for yourself. He always takes the lead, pushing his red breast to the front. As the purple crocus raises its bright head from the brown soil, that’s when they’ll head up to Runny Brook, and that’s not a flicking of a lamb’s tail away.’
Although Paddy stayed in the farm at Ballyshan, Terry and Johnno lived several miles away in the nearest village, going home at weekends and holidays to their families. And going by their stories, each had about a dozen kids.
Megan settled down to live a normal life in and around the homestead, but unknown to Michael had become quite an expert in the causeways through the boggy moors.
Michael had been taking trips and not coming home for days at a time. In the beginning he was always there, to-ing and fro-ing between the house and stables, yet after a month he began to be absent more often. When she asked, all he would say was, ‘I have deals to do, horses to sell and people to meet.’ Although she didn’t say anything, loneliness had taken its place in her heart.
It wasn’t her place to be interfering, but perhaps it was that loneliness that had her press Mrs Sullivan to accept her offer of an extra pair of hands around the house. Much to her disappointment she politely refused, saying, ‘If you’re to be a lady one day, and its no use saying the master hasn’t got plans for you, my dear, then those hands should stay soft.’
One morning, while Michael was away, the old housekeeper hurried into her bedroom. ‘I have a sighting of the Fureys coming to the house. They’ll be passing any minute, and you’ll miss them if you don’t rise from that bed.’
‘Who are the Fureys, Mrs Sullivan?’ she enquired sleepily.
‘Why girl, do you niver listen to a word I tells you. Kathleen, Robin and the three little ’uns, that’s who.’
She dressed, and standing at the door minutes later saw a sight that lifted her heart boundlessly in her chest. Robin came first just as the housekeeper said: red-breasted Robin with a mountainous pack on his back. Kathleen, heavily pregnant, followed behind with three lively wee boys marching at her heel like little soldiers.
‘Hello, Mrs Sullivan,’ called Robin, sporting a red face to match his waistcoat. ‘I sees our Holy Mother’s been sending the angels to make you look ten years younger than last time I had the pleasure of your fine company.’
Megan smiled at his banter. How many times had she herself used those soft words, buttering folks up so they would show acts of kindness; she waited eagerly on the housekeeper’s response.
‘Ah, that’ll do with the smooth tongue. Tell me now, how have the children been? Take them round the back door, I’ve a parcel.’
‘Bless me soul, if they aren’t just after saying they hoped Mrs Sullivan, God’s very own angel, wid have a bite to fill their little bellies.’
‘Yes,’ thought Megan, ‘he certainly knows how to charm the old woman, a handy skill when feeding hungry bairns.’
At the rear of the house, wooden boxes were set out for the tinkers with food and drink. She’d also been preparing provisions for them, putting the odd titbit in a basket. This she would give to Kathleen, who’d take it with her to their campsite on the forest edge. When a week had passed, the old woman would go back and refill the basket. This was the usual way of things until the small band set off to winter elsewhere once again. Kathleen, because of her shy quiet nature, left all talk to her husband, giving only a gentle nod to her dear old friend who was eager to introduce Megan.
‘This is a Scottish girl who spent her early days on the road like you.’
‘And what’s up wit the roads o’ Scotia that you’ve left them?’ asked Robin, showing a slight annoyance.
‘Nothing but circumstance,’ was the only answer that came to mind.
For a while he ate and said nothing. Then, when he had finished, he removed a green cotton muffler from his neck, wiped his mouth, folded the neckerchief and put it back on.
‘Begging your pardon, Mrs Sullivan, but time is agin us this day. It will be dark if tracks aren’t made now. Will we see you and what’s-her-name here, later?’
‘Sorry, Robin, I failed to say, this is Megan. Yes, she wants very much to visit you and maybe help Kathleen. I see another baby is in there.’
These words seemed to trouble them, so they gathered their boys who were happy playing in the stables and were soon gone to camp up on their usual site.
‘What did you say to upset them so much, Mrs Sullivan?’
‘Me an’ me big mouth. I forgot that Kathleen has already lost four babies. All girls, and all born dead they were, bless their tiny little souls.’ She reached into her apron and kissed several beads, whispered a prayer and popped them back into the pocket. She continued, ‘Two years past I helped bury the last one. Oh, what a mite it was, no bigger than my fist, didn’t have a chance. Strange thing when a womb rejects girls. All I can say is, God needs angels when he takes the newborn, them being void of all sins.’
Megan told herself that Mrs Sullivan was far too holy, and perhaps if she thought more along the lines that Kat
hleen might not carry girls for reasons going on inside her body rather than Heaven’s declining population of angels, she’d not need to pull that rosary from her pocket every two minutes. She thought this, but never would she dare insult such a lovely old woman by stating the obvious.
That night, when Michael came home, she couldn’t wait to share the day’s visitors with him. His mood, however, was dark and as if he was angry. He reminded her that the Fureys had been coming to the area for so long now he hardly noticed. ‘It’s women who fuss over tinkers,’ he said, to her utter amazement, ‘Mrs Sullivan has a thing about Kathleen and her boys.’
‘Why should she be so concerned? And by the way, just in case it’s slipped your notice, I’m a tinker.’
He ran his fingers through his hair and apologised for his lack of compassion, ‘Mrs Sullivan had two sons, oh fine young lads they were, but in 1916 she lost them. You see, her man died when the boys were little, and she brought them up here with my mother’s help. They were like brothers to me, but...’ his words trailed off as he dropped his head on the arm of his chair.
‘Tell me, Michael, I need to know—was it in France or Germany they died?’
‘Hell no! It was in bloody Dublin during the Uprising. Those blasted British ambushed a dozen young men, and killed every one. Look, here I am, rambling on about something you know nothing of. Anyhow, it’s finished now and in the past. But it split the country in two, it did, and as far as we’re concerned the politics have hardly begun.’
She removed two coats from the rack behind the kitchen door and said, ‘It’s a nice moonlight night, Michael, why don’t we walk awhile and you can tell me all about this fight in Ireland. In Scotland, on our small campsite, there was an Irishman who told us of unrest in his homeland. He came from the south and said he might go back and take up arms, and now that I hear you, I feel this struggle was what he meant.’
He was lost in thought and hardly heard a word she said, as arm entwined in arm, they walked and talked. Then she asked him if he had any involvement in matters concerning his country’s politics?