Safe Home (The Tipperary Trilogy)

by William Patterson

  ‘It’s all in the perception, Roisin,’ he had told her repeatedly. ‘Reality has nothing to do with it. We see what we want to see.’

  ‘Alright, Liam, it’s my turn to be brave,’ she said, sitting herself back in the rocking chair which he’d built for her when she was expecting Robert, their first child. She caressed the chair’s well-worn arms and her mind drifted back to Hogan’s bar, one night many years before. Paddy Shevlin had been leaning a bar-stool back on its hind legs.

  ‘You’ll break the legs off that thing, ya old toad!’ she’d scolded him. Paddy had ignored her until, as predicted, one leg snapped, sending him sprawling onto the floor. Paddy had glared indignantly at the stool as if it had done something wrong. Even though Roisin was heavy with child, she had helped Paddy up by grabbing his ear.

  ‘Easy woman! Yu’ll pull me ear off o’ me head!’

  ‘I’ll pull the head off yer shoulders, ya old sausage,’ she snapped back. Liam had been watching the goings-on through squinted eyes.

  ‘I think I have an idea,’ he said, quietly. Those words always made Roisin’s blood run cold and she raised her eyes to the heavens. Paddy held his hand against his still smarting ear and saw an opportunity to change the subject quickly.

  ‘Whaddya got in mind, boyo?’ he asked, keeping one eye on Roisin.

  ‘I just built a cradle for the baby…’ Before Liam could finish voicing his thought, Roisin interrupted.

  ‘If you’re gonna build a cradle big enough for Paddy, you’ll have to rock it yourself.’

  ‘No, no,’ Liam explained, smiling at his wife. ‘I’m going to put a chair on top of it.’

  Liam had Paddy’s attention now but Roisin was still in a sour mood. She looked at the destroyed chair and then at her husband.

  ‘Get away outta that,’ she said. ‘Just fix the chair, Flynn, and no more of your daft ideas. You stole the stays outta me corset when you built that ridiculous portable roof!’

  Paddy laughed out loud, but clapped his hand over his mouth when Roisin gave him a withering glare.

  ‘Ah, she’s right, man,’ he agreed, in an attempt to soft-soap her. ‘Ya did look like a harse’s arse wit’ dat t’ing over yer head.’

  Liam’s face flushed. ‘Maybe so,’ he said, ‘but at least I was a dry horse’s arse.’

  Liam built his ‘rocker’ chair. The first one was a disaster. He brought it into the cottage to demonstrate it and, as soon as he had seated himself, it dumped him over backwards. Roisin had tried to stifle a snigger and said that it wasn’t much of an improvement on the barstool Paddy had ‘modified’ for them. Liam got up and stood with his hands in his pockets, regarding the offending piece of furniture.

  ‘It needs a little more work, alright, but the idea’s sound.’

  Roisin had shaken her head. ‘Like the sound when your head just hit the floor, you mean?’

  Liam built another rocker chair and it was better. The third one was perfect, so perfect in fact that, when Squire Johnson saw it, he asked for six just like it for his porch. When the Otways and the Tolers saw Johnson’s rocker chairs, they wanted some too and Liam had ended up building dozens of them for the English gentry.

  A wan smile played around Roisin’s lips as she rocked in her chair, conjouring up visions of them all rocking back and forth in theirs. She was roused from her thoughts by the sound of a horse’s hooves outside. She was expecting a visit from Liam’s brother, the High Sherriff of the Tipperary barony of Ormond Lower. She stood and straightened her clothing as she went to the front door. It wasn’t the sheriff, it was Mick Sheridan, the master of hunt and horse. Mick worked for Squire Johnson and had been a close friend of Liam’s, especially since the death of Paddy Shevlin. Mick was in his fifties now but he was still a striking figure of a man. He stood well over six feet tall and the uniform he wore bulged with his muscular frame.

  Mick had already dismounted when Roisin opened the door of her cottage and she saw that he was holding a note of some sort in his hand. He cleared his throat and said, in a formal tone,

  ‘Dis is from Squire Johnson. Himself sends ‘is condolences, an’ if it were permissible, he’d like t’ call by dis afternoon in person.’ Mick lowered his voice now, ‘but if ya please, he’d radder dat no ‘bog Irish’ be present when ‘e calls.’ Roisin bristled at the phraseology, even though she knew that certain proprieties had to be met.

  ‘Bog Irish, is it? Does that mean I have to leave me own house?’ she asked rhetorically. Mick thought she was asking a question and, even though he was a man of few words and even fewer sentiments, he said,

  ‘I don’t t’ink so. I t’nk maybe d’ auld fella carries a wee torch fer ya.’ Roisin looked at him aghast. Harold Johnson was now well into his eighties and, admittedly, she had noticed that whenever she and Liam were in the old fellow’s presence and he was addressing Liam, more often than not, he would be looking at her. She had just assumed that he held her in polite regard. She gathered herself.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you can say to him, “You’re welcome to visit, ya auld buzzard, but Mrs. Flynn can’t guarantee your beer won’t be tainted by the lingering smell of the bog!” ’

  ‘Now, I’m not sure I should be callin’ ‘is Lordship an auld buzzard,’ replied Mick innocently, ‘ev’n dough it is what we call ‘im behind ‘is back.’ Roisin rolled her eyes and ushered the big man into the house. Mick stood in the tiny room, making it look even smaller, and gazed at Liam. After a few minutes, he addressed him directly, as if he could hear. Roisin stood back and listened.

  ‘Ah sure, we had some mighty adventures, didn’t we, boyo. Hey, d’ya r’member when we borried Harry Johnson’s prize ram to service your ewes?’

  ‘The pair of you didn’t borrow that sheep,’ interrupted Roisin, ‘you stole it!’

  ‘Agh, woman, we only borried d’ ram. Stealin’s a sin. We jus’ borried d’ Protestant, English purebred, an’ den we brought ‘im back again. Anyways, sheep stealin’ is fer folks from Roscommon. Here in Tipp, we jus’ borry ‘em.’

  ‘As I recall, that ram was the worse for wear when you brought him back.’

  ‘He wuz, but he wuz a happy sheep.’

  ‘How did you two pull that one off, anyway? Liam wouldn’t talk about it.’

  ‘I tol’ auld Harry dat I saw a wolf up around Coolbawn. He gathered some farm hands, an’ ‘is men-at-arms, an’ den I led ‘em all away. Liam had built a pair o’ short stilts wit’ wolf feet carved on ‘em, an’ ‘e made tracks in d’ dirt by Ballycolliton. When dey wuz all busy chasin’ wolves, Liam snuck in an’ stuck a rope aroun’ d’ sheep’s neck, an’ led ‘im back t’ my place.’

  Roisin shook her head in amazement, but not even she could deny the results of their shenanigans. In a single generation, the weight of the sheep they produced had doubled. Mick interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘It jus’ goes t’ show,’ he said, nodding earnestly at her, ‘mixed marriages can work. Protestant rams, Catholic ewes, an’ d’ lambs is all brought up Catholic!’

  Mick appeared satisfied with the results of his and Liam’s grand idea and he thought he had finished the story, but Roisin hadn’t quite heard enough. She couldn’t help but smile as she looked down at Liam’s dead body, and she turned to Mick.

  ‘So, how did you manage to return the ram that you ‘borried’?’

  ‘Wellll’, he drew out the word as he tried to think of how he could say it to a lady, ‘we put ‘is arse in a pasture wit’ a few dozen ewes dat wuz … let’s say ripe, an’ ‘e bred an’ bred. Da bugger went from one to anudder an’ never ate a bite o’ grass fer two days, an’ when ‘e wuz finished ‘e tried t’ start all over again! Liam asked me if I knew anyt’ing about sheep an’ I tol’ ‘im dat all I knew was dat dey tasted grand. He wasn’t sure whedder a ram could breed ‘imself t’ death, so we finally got ‘im away from d’ ewes. D’ poor bastard, beggin yer pardon missus, couldn’t hardly stand up on ‘is own, he w’s so exhausted. So I carried ‘im back t’ my place t’ g
et ‘imself rested, cuz ‘e w’s too big fer Liam t’ carry. Dat night I returned ‘im t’ d’ place where ‘e got lost an’ Liam put down more wolf tracks wit’ ‘is stilts.’

  ‘And did you two geniuses ever consider that a wolf was unlikely to return a sheep that he’d stolen?’

  Mick rolled his eyes up into his head as if the answer was written there, even though he wouldn’t have been able to read it if it was. ‘No missus, we never t’ought o’ dat. I have t’ git goin’ now, ‘r Johnson’ll be wonderin’ where I’ve gone to.’

  With that, Mick gave Roisin a slight bow and a deeper one to his dead friend, and left the woman alone again. She wouldn’t be alone for long.

  *

  CHAPTER 3

  The weather changed as fast as an eye could blink and the wind began to blow. Roisin’s mood changed too. A few moments earlier, she had been smiling as Mick told the story of how he and Liam had ‘borried’ the sheep, but now she settled back in her chair, letting clouds fill her mind as they filled the sky. There was a quiet knock on the door and her eldest son, Robbie, came in with his wife, May. Robbie walked over to his mother and kissed her cheek and the scene was repeated by his sixteen year old wife. The young couple looked down at the lifeless body lying on the floor and Robbie was the first to speak.

  ‘I have some work t’ do, Mammy.’

  Roisin dabbed her eyes. ‘You do what has to be done, lad. May can stay here with me. Dig the grave next to Sinead, near the faerie ring. That’s what your da would have wanted.’

  Robbie nodded. Any words he spoke now would have caught in his throat. He hesitated for a moment and it gave young May a chance to speak.

  ‘Tell me about your courtship, Mam.’

  ‘Ah, go way,’ Roisin smiled, ‘sure haven’t you heard it a hundred times, m’cuishla.’

  ‘But I love t’ hear it. And dis time tell it all at once, not a little at a time like ya usually do. Ah please, Mam.’

  Roisin slumped wearily into her rocker and grasped the arms of the chair. May sat herself on the floor at her feet, like a child waiting to hear a story. Robbie decided that the work could wait, he wanted to hear this too. Jamie Clancy came in with his wife and tried to whisper something in the other man’s ear, but Robbie held up his hand to silence him. Kathleen, Jamie’s young bride, sat herself next to May, the baby cradled in her arms. The room was starting to fill up. Roisin sighed and closed her eyes, letting the memories find tongue.

  ‘It was April of 1705,’ she began. ‘A cold, clear night it was when Sean Reilly and his henchmen set fire to this cottage, but not before they’d beaten Liam to within an inch of his life.’

  Robert interrupted, ‘That divil, Reilly, got his comeuppance from Sherriff D’Arcy, though, didn’t he Mammy.’

  Roisin cast a look at Robert that would wither a barrel of apples. ‘Do you want to tell this story or will you let me tell it, ya magpie?’

  Robert snapped his mouth shut like a mousetrap. ‘Sorry Mam,’ he said, ‘you tell it better.’

  Roisin rolled her eyes. ‘I should think so, ya natterjack, I was there. You weren’t even a gleam in your da’s eyes … well, maybe just a fleck.’ Roisin gave a weak smile and looked at Jamie, now a tall, lean man of thirty-six years. ‘That was some night, wasn’t it, boyo?’ Jamie nodded. He was a man of few words, like his own poor dead father.

  ‘I r’member it well,’ he said. ‘I r’member aul’ man McCormack kicked me down d’ road like a ball.’ Roisin waited to see if Jamie had anything more to add, he hadn’t, she continued.

  ‘Where was I?’

  ‘We was talkin’ about foot-ball,’ said Robbie.

  ‘You are thick as shite, Robert Flynn,’ said his mother, and took up the story again.

  ‘After a few days, Liam was able to get out of bed, but he was so badly busted up inside that he wasn’t much use, so Jamie and Paddy busied themselves rebuilding this cottage. Mick Sheridan and Matt O’Brien helped when they could, and in a month, it was all done except for the furnishings. I’d had a…,’ Roisin cleared her throat, ‘let’s say a heart-to-heart talk with me da about Liam during that time and I’d told Liam there was something important he needed to talk to me da about. Liam was scared shiteless, of course. He hobbled over to Hogan’s on that auld walking stick over there in the corner,’ Roisin motioned with her head to the polished holly cane that still stood by the door, ‘and I went with him. Da was sitting at a table in the bar in his best church clothes, with a sheaf of papers in front of him. “Did you want to see me about something, sir?” says Liam. Me da had a bewildered look on his face. “I thought it was you who wanted to see me, sure,” says he.

  ‘Both of them looked at me so I kicked Liam in the shin to egg him on and he stammered, “I … I would like to ask your permission to see your daughter sir.” Well o’course this wasn’t going at all how I wanted, so I had to take matters into my own hands. “Shut up, Liam,” says I, “I’ll do the talking from now on. Now, Da, this gentleman, Liam Flynn, is requesting the honour of courting me, in pursuit of eventual marriage. Alright, Da, it’s your turn to speak now.”

  ‘Da followed my lead. “May I assume, sir, that your intentions are honorable?” says he. “Sweet Jayzus,” says I, “this is Liam! He couldn’t do anything dishonorable if he tried, except maybe lie to Protestants. You shut up too and I’ll talk for the both of ye. Alright so, Liam says his intentions are honourable. Now we have to discuss the dowry.” Me da shuffled the papers and coughed, then he looked at me for permission to speak. When I nodded, he says, “My daughter comes with a sizable fortune. By my calculations,” says he, “it comes to almost nine pounds sterling.”

  ‘ “Well,” says I, “you’d better re-sharpen yer quill! I keep the books around here and I know that there’s almost thirty pounds in the till and I want my half!” Me da looked at me like a bedbug caught in the light. “The rest will go to you when I die,” says he. Can you believe it? I told him that if he didn’t want to get patted on the face with a shovel before the sun went down, he’d better come up with a more realistic number. He did, and the fortune amounted to close on fourteen pounds.

  ‘Anyway, the courtship went smoothly. Liam and I hardly ever had any arguments. I had my own opinions about things and, by the time I’d finished with him, he thought they were his own. Ah sure he’d get his own way on occasion. He had this way about him of being infuriating and endearing all at the same time, and he knew it. There was one incident though that almost mucked up everything.

  ‘Not long before the wedding, old Father Grogan was in the bar and he was in his cups again. He let it slip that me da would need to give the bride away at the Protestant church of St. Mary’s, as well as at St. Patrick’s in the village. Well! Me da exploded like a barrel of beer on a bonfire. He swore he’d rather be dead in a pigpen then ever go into a Protestant church. Father Grogan tried to explain that it was necessary, but Da was determined and he wouldn’t budge. Even I couldn’t convince him, I couldn’t even browbeat him into it. He said that’s what he got for letting a black Protestant close to the family. That was a fierce bad week and he and I barely spoke to one another. Everyone knew Michael Hogan was my da and, if he didn’t attend the service at St. Mary’s, there was going to be a lot of questions asked.

  ‘Finally, two days before the event was to take place, old Moira came and spoke to Da alone. After that, he agreed to give away the bride and he even told us he’d look happy when he did it, if you please! Well, a week after the wedding, I asked Moira how she’d done it. “It was easy, my dear,” says she. “You know how vain yer da is about being bald? Well, I told him I could make him up a potion that would put the hair right back on his head.” I asked her if she could and she shook her head. “That noggin of yer da’s is as barren as the burren,” says she. “Only God can grow roses on a stone.” ’

  Roisin laughed as she recalled it. ‘It didn’t matter, sure, Da rubbed that bloody stuff on his head every night and morning for a month. He kept asking
if I could see all the new hair sprouting. I told him I could and that soon I’d need to cut his locks with sheep shears.’

  ‘That story gets better every time you tell it, Mam,’ declared Robbie.

  ‘Ah well, that’s the way Irish stories are,’ she said quietly. The joy of relating the tale had evaporated and the melancholy had returned. ‘Jamie,’ she said, ‘you spent as much time with Liam as anyone. Tell us a story about him.’

  ‘Well, emmm, I r’member when auld Moira disappeared,’ he said, uncomfortable at having everyone’s eyes on him. ‘Me an’ Liam spent days searchin’ d’ forest lookin’ fer ‘er. We never saw a sign nor a track … but we kep’ lookin’. After a coupla weeks, Liam jus’ said, “She’s gone”. He was sad … said d’ aul’ lady took all her wisdom wit’ ‘er.’ Jamie looked down at Liam and everyone could see how painful it was for him to relate the tale. ‘Dat auld woman saved me life … an’ me dog’s too. Ya know I used t’ go back t’ dat ol’ mud house she lived in. I alw’ys hoped dat, one day, she’d come back. Sometimes Liam’d come wit’ me … said ‘e could feel Moira’s spirit dere. I couldn’t ‘cuz I w’s young, but I bet if I wen’ back dere now, I could.’

  Roisin had been reflecting back on Moira as Jamie spoke. The old crone had been as much a part of the landscape as the forest she lived in. Part Druid and part Catholic, she’d dispensed her wisdom as casually as she dispensed her remedies. One day, she simply wasn’t there anymore. Liam and Jamie had searched every inch of the forest, but she’d vanished without a trace, and with her went the knowledge of the old ones. Moira had believed in the spirits of the natural world as fervently as she believed in the Holy Trinity.

  Roisin felt a wave of profound sadness and nostalgia wash over her. So many years had passed and so many of the people she knew and loved had gone. ‘Have you got another story for us, Jamie,’ she said, ‘maybe something to make us laugh?’