The Lace Makers of Glenmara

by Heather Barbieri

  This was what had awaited her until she met the girl at the market, offered her a room: his pipe on the desk, the tobacco pouch nearby. She’d tried smoking it, because his lips had touched the mouthpiece, but she couldn’t get it right and choked. He would have laughed if he’d been there. Maybe he was. John? Sometimes she felt him, looking over her shoulder, and she turned to face the bare room, the absence of him that forever altered the space they’d once shared. The dust showed more now that he was gone. The worn spots on the carpet. Knife marks on the dishes. The smoothness of the pillow and sheets on his side of the bed. She stretched diagonally across the mattress, searching for him in sleep.

  His poems were stuffed in the drawer with the broken lock. He’d never written about her. He didn’t write about people, even those he loved. He wrote about the land, the sea, what it meant to be Irish. He carried the history of his family on his shoulders, the deaths from the Famine and the purges, when those who wouldn’t say their names in English were struck down, his grandfather and great uncle among them. She went through the pages, thinking she might make them into a book one day, if only she could decipher the handwriting. (Even he couldn’t always make it out.)

  He’d written in the evenings by the window overlooking the garden, where the snowdrops and grape hyacinths emerged each spring, murmuring the words to himself, finding the rhythm, the meaning for his purpose, while she sat by the fire, making the lace. They didn’t speak, but it was a companionable silence, the only sounds the click and pop of her needle twisting threads, piercing cloth, and the scratch of his pen against paper.

  She missed that sound. She missed the smell of him—all grass and wool and tobacco. She missed his voice, the mellow timbre, the music of it, when he spoke. She missed his touch, sought it in everything he had come in contact with, wouldn’t give anything away, not yet, maybe never.

  She could keep these things. His things. There was room. There was too much room.

  Stacks of dishes rested on the shelves he had built for her. They didn’t need so many plates, no way of knowing that in the beginning, when they were receiving wedding presents—when they thought they’d have a family. That there would be more than just the two of them.

  Now she didn’t have to worry about a broken cup or dish. There were plenty of replacements. The dishes were the sort of opalescent porcelain that caught the light, sprigs of lilac and gold along the rim. The manufacturer had discontinued the pattern; she’d checked the shops when she went to Galway on the annual trip with Aileen. They’d go again that fall. She looked forward to it, a change in the routine, the going and the coming back, even if it meant a return to loneliness too.

  This past year, she’d become aware of the bones of everything, the structure underneath. The hard edges, the flagstones, the frame of her home. Her own skeleton. She hadn’t noticed before, when his presence filled the home, but things were different now. She was different, part of a shrinking world: the Gaelic, John, so much fading away.

  She went on long walks in the mornings to help her sleep, to help her feel better. She kept her boots and jumper by the door, a reminder that she could open it any time, let herself out, let someone in, if the occasion arose. It worked, up to a point.

  She couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. She was happy enough with things as they were. Content. The years could go on this way, and she’d be fine, fine. She picked up a photograph, ran a finger down the glass, closed her eyes, as if she could climb inside the frame, into his arms, a likeness on paper all she had, one that would fade with time, that could be lost or torn, memory another fragile thing.

  If Fergus hadn’t been with her in those first few days, when there didn’t seem to be anything tying her to the earth, she didn’t know how it might have ended. But he was by her side through it all. He slept at the foot of the bed, followed her around the house, licked her hand. He didn’t want her to go, communicating with her in a soft whine when she seemed on the verge of slipping away: Stay.

  The rooms would not be so empty now. The girl had come. Kate. Kate Robinson. She would break the silence, even if all she did was breathe.

  “Now, there’s a sight for sore eyes,” Denny said as Kate and Bernie passed the bench by the pub. He and Niall could be found there most evenings after playing darts and drinking ale. They’d ruled the bench for the past ten years. No one, not even Rosheen’s gang, disputed their right of ownership. Denny’s face had grown more gaunt of late, his lungs wheezing like an accordion. Niall’s doughy paunch continued to swell against his belt buckle, evidence of a lifelong sweet tooth. He knew he should cut down on the rhubarb pie and orange cake but figured he’d lived long enough that he ought to be able to eat what he wanted, calories and cholesterol levels be damned.

  The bench had been occupied by the elderly men of Glenmara for as long as anyone could remember. Denny and Niall achieved seniority after the deaths of the previous benchwarmers, Eamon and Greeley, a decade before. The bench was the local equivalent of box seats at a football match, offering the best view of the goings-on, such as they were. Niall lived on his own, his cottage too quiet now, his wife having passed on some years ago; Denny liked to have some independence from his overly attentive daughter, Oona, with whom he’d lived since his own wife’s death. And so the two men spent a great deal of time on the bench, hailing whomever walked by, offering a running commentary on everything from the weather to the latest rugby standings.

  Bernie carried the basket of lace on her arm, having only managed to sell a couple of pieces. (It would have to do. At least she had the income from John’s pension.) She traveled relatively light that evening. Aileen had loaded the larger items—the canopy, table, and chairs—into the back of her car and driven home, still shaking her head over Bernie’s openness with a complete stranger. “I hope you don’t get murdered in your bed,” she’d whispered.

  “Two pretty ladies taking the evening air,” Niall greeted them.

  “And two old flirts making the most of it,” Bernie replied.

  “What else is there to do on a night like this but tip back a Guinness and admire the view?” said Denny.

  “These two were right terrors in their day,” Bernie told Kate. “Drove like maniacs and broke a lot of hearts, they did.”

  “Sounds exciting,” Kate said with a winsome smile.

  “Would still, if my daughter didn’t take the car from me.” Denny brought his watch close to his face (he refused to wear glasses, saying they ruined his looks), the timepiece small in his arthritic paw. “She’ll be here any minute to take me home. She’s always ruining my fun.”

  “If we were only a little younger.” Niall dabbed his nose with a plaid handkerchief. He was missing his little finger, lost in a fishing accident when he was a boy. Nine-fingered Niall, they’d called him ever since. “Oh, the times we had. The dancing. The singing.” He broke into a tune, a deafening baritone version of “Irish Rose.”

  Denny winced. “Jaysus, man, what do you want to do, take what little hearing I have left?”

  “You’re jealous, because I should have been on the stage. The girls have always gone mad for my voice.”

  “Mad, yes, but not in the way you suppose. Your serenade won’t win the ladies; it will frighten them away.”

  “You have no appreciation for the arts.” Niall sniffed.

  “The arts? You sound like a foghorn. You could plant yourself on the pier and bring the boats in on misty nights.”

  “If I weren’t so old and drunk, I’d pop you one for that.” Niall waved a shaky fist.

  “We agreed it would never come to that.”

  Their last fistfight had occurred eleven years earlier, during which the Garda had to be summoned. Niall broke his dentures, Denny his nose. It had started over Denny accusing Niall of cheating at darts. After that, they swore to never hit each other again. Increasing age and infirmity helped them keep the promise.

  “He has a voice only God would love,” Denny told Kate. “He’s been
tormenting me with it since we were boys. You’d think he would have figured out he can’t sing by now.”

  “Anyone can sing,” Niall said.

  “Well, yes, if you mean forcing air in and out of one’s lungs,” said Denny. “The question is, should they?”

  “Can I help it if I know how to impress the ladies?” Niall winked at the women.

  “And here I thought Irishmen were supposed to be shy.” Kate laughed.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear about the Irish,” Denny said. “We’re full of contradictions.”

  “And ale.” Niall belched. “Excuse me.”

  A Mini bumped over the cobblestones, the driver beeping to get their attention.

  “Here she comes, my daughter, the infamous Oona,” Denny said. “She drives like a crazy woman.”

  “Like her da,” Niall said.

  Oona had flaming red hair and a long neck and startled eyes somewhat reminiscent of an ostrich, yet pretty in her way. “The taxi service has arrived, gentlemen,” she called through the open window, snapping her fingers. “Hurry up.” A silver-haired woman sat in the passenger seat.

  “Hurry, hurry, fuss and flurry,” Denny muttered. “Always the same story.”

  “Unless you want to spend the night on that bench, I suggest you move your legs as fast as your tongue, mister.”

  “Aren’t you a smart thing? What a way to talk to your da.”

  “Hiya, Bernie. And you must be Kate.” She waved, ignoring the jibe. “I’m Oona, and this is Colleen. I see you’ve already met the Glenmara welcoming committee.” She gestured to the men. “The COOFs.”

  “What does that stand for?” Kate asked Bernie.

  “A couple of old farts,” she replied in a stage whisper, as Kate stifled a laugh.

  “How about you meet us here on Monday?” Niall said to Kate. “It’s bingo night. You know I’ve got your number.”

  “We’ll see,” Kate said.

  The men piled into the back of the Mini, folding themselves with the slow deliberation of a pair of rusty-jointed lawn chairs. Oona urged them on. “Really, I’m already late enough as it is. Can’t you move any faster?”

  “No need to be such a nag. You give me the gas, you do.”

  “You’re full of hot air without me having anything to do with it.”

  “These girls of Glenmara, they’re right feisty, they are,” said Denny.

  “I’m a grown woman now, Da.”

  “You’ll always be a girl to me,” he said. “You and Colleen and the rest of your friends.”

  “I swear you two are worse than teenagers.” Oona tapped on the steering wheel as the men got settled.

  Denny leaned out the window as the car roared away in a cloud of exhaust, calling, “Oh, I almost forgot, I dropped the column in your letterbox this afternoon.”

  “He writes a piece for the Gaelic Voice, called ‘This Old Geezer,’” Bernie explained as she waved in reply. “Been doing it for years. Sports and gossip, mostly. Maybe he’ll do something on you next.”

  “Really, I’m not worth the ink. I’m hardly a celebrity.”

  “Oh, yes, I suspect you are.”

  As Kate and Bernie headed west, leaving the village behind, the hedges rose high on either side of the lane, the air smelling of primroses and moss. Cigarette butts and shards of glass from broken side mirrors and bottles glittered in the grass, the grime of the cities present, to a certain degree, even there.

  “So are paparazzi lurking in the bushes?” Kate smiled.

  “Not yet. You’re the first foreigner to stay the night here in ever so long. The villagers will be dying to know everything about you.” Bernie was too.

  Kate smiled but didn’t take the bait. “Here,” she said, holding out her hand. “Why don’t I take the basket for a while?”

  Bernie had been switching the basket from arm to arm to distribute the weight; it wasn’t that heavy, just awkward, and her muscles had begun to ache. If they’d sold more lace, it would have been easier to manage. “Oh, heavens,” she said. “I’ll be all right. You’ve got enough to carry with that backpack, and besides, we don’t have far to go now. But thank you just the same.”

  The girl had a kind soul. She was thoughtful, observant. Bernie could see that in the way she contemplated the landscape and listened attentively to everything she said.

  Fergus stopped and snuffled in the bushes. Bernie snapped her fingers, urging him along. “Come on, boy!” He was too old to chase rabbits now, but still possessed the memory of pursuit. She knew how hard it could be to let the past go.

  “Have you been traveling long?” she asked Kate.

  “Just under a month.” Kate stopped to shake a rock from her shoe, steadying herself against a stone wall. Her boots were worn at the heels. She probably tended to come down hard on them, marching when she walked, a woman with a purpose.

  “What a joy to go wandering like that. There’s so much to see in the world. I’ve never been beyond Galway. Lived here my whole life. There’ve been Cullens in Glenmara since the beginning. People don’t move around much. The only time was during the Famine. Nearly everyone left then.”

  “But your people stayed.”

  “They did. Don’t know how they managed to survive. I guess they were too stubborn to die. Oh, the stories my great-grandmother used to tell. Scared the life out of me when I was a little girl. The walking dead, she called the ghosts. Some people say the roads are still haunted by those who fell and never got up again. Black ooze everywhere, the blight on the earth, their tongues and eyes.” She shuddered. “There’s a village nearby where the dead supposedly speak, needing to be heard. No one goes there anymore. I get a fright just thinking about it.”

  Bernie knew she was chattering, but she couldn’t stop. She was so pleased. So pleased to have Kate there. Fergus sensed her joy, ran ahead, doubled back, wriggled from head to foot.

  They passed a shrine to the Virgin Mary on the corner, a few scraggly violets and heartsease at her feet. Bernie crossed herself.

  Kate did too.

  “Are you Catholic, then?” Bernie asked.

  “Sort of. I’m afraid I’ve turned into one of those Christmas and Easter types, though I’m partial to the pomp and pageantry,” Kate confessed.

  “Aren’t we all?” Bernie didn’t ask for a detailed explanation, though it was hard to resist the temptation to pry.

  “Is this it?” Kate asked as they turned up the lane, exclaiming, “Oh, it’s delightful—”

  “Welcome to Casa Cullen.” Bernie unlatched the gate. If she had known a visitor was coming, she might have neatened the garden, but no matter. A few weeds never hurt anyone. The shriveled state of the daylilies was another matter. She’d never trimmed the old leaves in the fall and they were in terrible condition, all stringy and brown, though the green shoots were fighting their way through, the old and the new commingling, struggling for supremacy.

  Bernie opened the front door to the waiting house, passing through the sitting room with its book-lined shelves and overstuffed velvet couch and chairs, to the blue-and-white kitchen beyond. The cottage itself seemed to reflect Bernie’s growing anticipation, even the furnishings poised to receive their guest, the chairs edging closer, as if the saucers and cutlery might leap from the cupboards of their own volition, eager to serve her: someone from Seattle, Washington, in America had come to visit.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” Bernie asked. Tea, the ultimate gesture of hospitality and comfort. She wished she had a greater assortment to offer. She rummaged in the drawer: Earl Grey, Darjeeling—the English got their names on everything, didn’t they? If only she had a Gaelic tea—mint.

  “It’s been a long day,” Kate said, a note of weariness in her voice now, a hand on the table, as if her legs might give out any moment. “I think I’ll just take a bath and go to bed, if that’s all right. I’m so bedraggled I’m surprised you even let me in the door in the first place.”

  “I’ve seen worse,�
� Bernie said, teasing her a little, adding, “Of course you need to settle in, especially after being out all day—such nasty weather we’ve been having—but it will change for the better soon, you’ll see. I’ll take you up to your room, shall I?” She led the way upstairs, trying not to let her disappointment show.

  She opened the door to the chamber at the end of a short hall, lined with John’s framed watercolors of seascapes and crofter’s cottages. “Here are the guest quarters. The bath is across the hall. Are you sure I can’t make you something to eat?”

  “No, I’m fine. I had some fish and chips at the market earlier.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Bernie nodded. “Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable.”

  “Thank you. Thank you for everything,” Kate said as she closed the door.

  “Sleep well,” Bernie called.

  “You too,” replied Kate.

  Bernie smiled to herself as she went downstairs, funny how two simple words could make one feel so happy. She wasn’t ready to turn in herself, still filled with a nervous energy. She puttered in the kitchen, refolding tea towels, sponging the counter, washing the single cup she’d left in the sink before going to the market.

  No one had occupied the guest room since Aileen stayed with her for a few nights after John died. The room that had been meant for a child all those years ago, over a quarter of a century now. Bernie listened to the sounds above, Fergus too, his head cocked to the side.

  “Isn’t it grand, Fergus?” Bernie said as she wiped the counters again, making the white tiles shine.

  He barked.

  She put a finger to her lips. “Inside voice, Fergus.”

  He smiled and panted, reveling in her delight.

  A guest had come to stay. A guest had come, and they were no longer alone.