The Lace Makers of Glenmara

by Heather Barbieri

  The years had passed quickly: Rosheen sitting on her lap, reading The Tales of the Brothers Grimm; Rosheen singing carols in the school choir—her face, her voice, those of an angel—wings on her back, a glittered halo over her head; Rosheen shrieking with glee, riding her bike down the lane, finding her balance for the first time.

  Rosheen hadn’t really left, not for good. She couldn’t have meant it. How could she live on her own?

  Aileen pulled the bedroom door closed behind her, as if sealing off the scene of a crime. The walls of the house seemed at once flimsy, paper-thin—not strong enough to support the life she and Rourke had tried to build within—and confining. She put on a jumper, picked up her basket of lace, the tea cakes she’d made for the potluck in a tin, and went outside. She gazed up the road, in the direction she thought Rosheen might have gone. There was no sign of her. She must have run, hard and fast. She’d always been good at running, even now, a camogie champion like her mother, though she didn’t compete anymore. There was so much she’d given up on. The shadows gathered, evening coming on; her daughter was lost to them, blending into the landscape, into wherever it was she was going. Away from home. Away from her.

  Chapter 10

  The Lace Society

  When Kate came in the door that evening, the gathering was already in progress. Five women huddled around the table, drinking ale and working lace, each with a cushion on her lap, a web of delicate threads anchored to bobbins and pins to keep the pieces in place.

  “There you are,” Bernie greeted her. “Come and sit down.” She pulled a plate from the oven and set it at the place next to Colleen. “We’ve already had the potluck, but I kept some food warm for you. Colleen brought her husband’s smoked salmon. It’s such a treat.”

  “You haven’t had smoked salmon until you’ve had Finn’s,” Oona chimed in.

  Colleen patted the chair next to her. Her silvery hair and calm expression gave her an aura of wisdom. “Yes, have a seat,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “You might learn something.”

  “I’m sure you’re right—though I suspect lace making is even more difficult than it looks,” Kate said.

  “Like life, one might say.” Oona tucked a strand of dyed red hair behind her ear and studied a stitch sequence that had been giving her trouble.

  Colleen said she could always spot Oona in a crowd. Their husbands were both fishermen. The two women had bonded as young wives on the rain-lashed docks, waiting for the boats to come in. The men were getting too old to test the waves often now, though Colleen’s husband, Finn, had gone out again late last week, because they needed the money. He was due back any day.

  Kate sampled the fish. “This is incredible!” she exclaimed, polishing it off in a few bites. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

  “It’s all that fresh air. There’s more. Here, let me take your plate,” Bernie offered.

  “Oh, no, thank you. I’ve already had too much.” Kate wiped her hands with a napkin.

  “And too much contact with our Irish earth, by the look of it.” Aileen gestured at Kate’s mud-and grass-stained skirt, her voice sharp as a pinch. She knew how to find the tender spots.

  “I hit a rut when I was delivering the papers.” Kate brushed at the grime, but her efforts were fruitless—it was ground in deep.

  “You seem to have a tendency toward falling. Didn’t you lose your footing on the cliffs the other day?” Aileen asked.

  “Yes. The terrain here can be challenging,” Kate said, her tone light, but her eyes narrowing.

  “A little dirt never hurt anyone. Don’t pay it any mind,” Bernie said, taking her place at the table again after setting the dish in the sink. “I’m sure the stains will wash out fine.”

  Aileen shot Bernie a look.

  Bernie didn’t meet her gaze. She picked up her lace and continued to work on her pattern.

  “Greegan’s Face, was it?” Moira, Aileen’s younger sister, said. The relationship between the sisters was apparent in the slim-fingered hands, the high cheekbones, the phrasing of speech, though they would have said they looked nothing alike, citing Moira’s wild dark curls, peppered gray at the temples, Aileen’s pin-straight hair, which framed more severe features. “It had to have been. Lucky you made it down all right. You could break your neck out there.”

  “That’s what I thought when I was in the middle of it, but then when I reached the bottom, it didn’t look so intimidating after all,” Kate said.

  “That’s the deception of it,” Moira replied. “Even the rocks can play tricks on you around here.”

  “So now you’re saying we have enchanted stones, do we?” said Aileen, a bite to her teasing.

  “I’m just saying that things aren’t always as they seem.”

  “You’ve got that right.” She cast a look in Kate’s direction again.

  Kate frowned at her. She’d had enough suspicion cast on her for one day. First the priest. Now Aileen.

  “I keep thinking someone should organize climbing excursions in the area,” Oona interjected. “What with so many people mad for adventure travel these days.”

  “It’s not grand enough for that, is it? And who would lead them—you?” Aileen said.

  “Lord, Ailey, there’s no need to be so disagreeable. No, of course I wouldn’t lead them,” Oona said. “I’m just saying it might be a business opportunity, if anyone had the inclination.”

  “Look around you,” Aileen gestured toward the window. “Last time I checked, we’re weren’t much for business in Glenmara.”

  “Some people’s perspectives are narrower than others’,” Oona pointed out. “Some of us are barely getting by. We could use some fresh ideas. We had another call from the bank this afternoon.”

  “We did too,” Colleen echoed. “I don’t know how much longer we can put them off. That’s why Finn’s at sea again. He wouldn’t go out in the boat anymore but for the money. My son says we should give up and live with him. But I don’t want to start over in another place, and neither does Finn. Glenmara is our home.”

  “Is the village really struggling so much?” Kate asked. “It seemed prosperous enough when I came into town the other day.”

  “That’s because it was market day. Haven’t you noticed how quiet it’s been since then?” Aileen said.

  “At least Rourke has a job,” Oona said, speaking of Aileen’s husband.

  “It’s not as if his being employed makes much difference. The company still hasn’t given him a raise.”

  “One door closes, another opens,” Bernie ventured, ever the optimist. “We’ll find a way. We always do—”

  “Yes, but when, and to where?” Aileen reached for the lace she’d dropped in her lap. “Platitudes don’t put bread on the table, do they?”

  “Not with that type of attitude. We’ve weathered many storms, surely we can make it through this. It’s only a squall,” Oona said, taking up another strand. “That’s what my grand-da used to say.”

  “Exactly. Shall we get started, then?” Colleen handed Kate a hook and thread. “Crochet lace is easier to learn, so we’ll begin with that. See,” she said, “it goes like this.” The hook whipped up and down, slowly at first, then faster. “We won’t bother with frames or pillows just yet. We use those mostly for bobbin lace or appliqué, and we don’t want to complicate matters too much for you in the beginning.”

  Kate mimicked Colleen’s movements, but the thread tangled almost immediately. “Do you have a book I can study?”

  “A book? Heavens, no. We learned from our grandmothers, and they from theirs. It’s a skill handed down, you see, from the days the wealthy Irish ladies brought the methods home from Europe and opened the lace schools, to help the people during the Famine, our ancestors too, making the lace to keep themselves alive,” Colleen said. “You learn from watching and doing. Don’t worry about making mistakes. You can always start over again.”

  “Lace made by hand comes from the soul, my gran always said,” Oona
added. “Machine laces can’t touch them in terms of quality.”

  “What type do you do?” Kate asked.

  “What type don’t we do? There’s flat needlepoint lace, raised needlepoint lace, embroidery on net, either with darning or chain-stitch; cut cambric or linen work used for guipure and appliqué laces; drawn thread work, such as Italian cut point; pillow lace, which is something like the Devonshire style; Mountmellick embroidery and Carrickmacross, and of course the more basic crochet,” Colleen explained. “I like needle lace the best—it’s our specialty, you know, the most delicate—though the appliqué sort is lovely too, especially for pillows. You can make trims or insets or complete garments of lace, though we usually go in for the embellishments. People like things they can use.”

  “Meaning linens—you know, tablecloths and towels and such,” Bernie said. “We used to make baptism gowns and communion dresses, but the demand has gone down. Not enough young people staying in the villages to buy them.”

  Kate watched as Colleen’s hands flew, looping, twisting, and braiding the threads together. The women seemed to appreciate her keen interest and focus. No one had cared so much about their craft before.

  “What are you making?” Aileen asked, breaking the spell. “That won’t work for any trim. It’s a waste of good thread.”

  “I know,” Colleen said. “I’m demonstrating the technique. I can undo it if I want to, can’t I, when I’m done?”

  Kate took the hook again, tried to follow the steps Colleen showed her. The thread snarled right away. “And here I thought my fingers were nimble from sewing,” she said in frustration.

  “It’s a different craft,” Aileen said. “One doesn’t necessarily translate to the other.”

  “But it can’t hurt,” Bernie said, adding, “I didn’t know you sewed, Kate. What do you make?”

  “I used to make clothes,” Kate said. She held up a knot of thread that resembled a tattered spiderweb. “This can’t be right.”

  “That’s the idea.” Colleen guided her hands. “Drop those threads to make an opening, then braid these together to bind the ends. There. See? The pattern is emerging. Now you have the petals of a flower.”

  Kate ran her fingers over the design, feeling each twist and knot.

  “It’s just a matter of knowing which thread to pull,” Moira said.

  Kate laughed at herself. “I feel so clumsy.”

  “Everyone does at first. You need to find your rhythm, that’s all,” Bernie said.

  “My gran used to say the hook moves like a chicken, pecking grain,” Oona said.

  “Mine said it was an agreeable husband,” Colleen said.

  “Your pious mother? She did not!” Oona exclaimed.

  Kate and the others burst into giggles.

  “An agreeable husband? Is there such a thing?” Aileen said.

  “Ask Bernie,” Moira said. “Hers was the marriage everyone envied.”

  “Maybe not having children is the key,” Aileen said.

  The group fell silent. Even Kate sensed that Aileen had said the wrong thing.

  “That wasn’t what John and I wanted.” Bernie picked up another thread, her voice soft. “It’s just what happened.”

  The other women gave Aileen admonishing looks.

  “I didn’t mean—” Aileen said, realizing she’d gone too far.

  “It’s all right.” Bernie took a spool of thread from her basket.

  Kate wondered if Bernie ever got angry with anyone. She seemed so even-tempered, so willing to forgive.

  “Drop, drop. Hook, hook, throw,” Oona said, getting back to work.

  “You sound like a boxing coach,” Colleen said. “You’re not still watching the WWF on satellite, are you?”

  “I never!”

  “It’s just theater, though some of the men aren’t in bad shape.” Aileen was clearly making an effort to be more agreeable.

  Moira raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

  “That’s what I heard. From the boys.”

  “The boys, eh?”

  “You having an affair?” Colleen teased.

  “I wish,” Aileen said, her voice bantering now, but hinting at dissatisfaction. “I was referring to my sons, actually. They’re the ones who watch it on satellite at their flat in Galway.”

  “Of course you were,” Colleen said.

  “Lord, look at the time,” Moira said, glancing at the clock. “I’ve got to get home. Cillian will be wondering where I am.”

  “But we’ve only just begun Kate’s lessons,” Bernie protested.

  “Let’s meet again tomorrow. We can start in the afternoon. We’ll have our own lace-making marathon, won’t we?” Colleen said, and the others agreed, though Aileen seemed less enthusiastic. “Bernie, why don’t you keep tutoring Kate tonight after we leave? She’ll have the hang of it in no time.”

  Once the women were gone, Bernie took a sewing kit from the closet at the top of the stairs. She set the woven basket decorated with straw flowers in front of Kate.

  “I had one like this when I was a little girl.” Kate fingered a red daisy. Her mother had given it to her when she was first learning needlework.

  “Did you?”

  “My mother taught me to sew.”

  “I meant to teach my daughter,” Bernie said. “There were many things I bought in the beginning, before I realized John and I wouldn’t have children. I gave most of them away, but I saved this for some reason. I don’t know why. It’s good to finally put it to use.”

  Fergus wagged his tail.

  “No, Fergus,” Bernie said. “What would you do with hooks and needles and thread? You’d be all paws. You’d probably poke yourself in the nose, and then where would we be?”

  He whined.

  “But you can watch.”

  She turned to Kate. “Now, then. You have a flower, yes?” Bernie indicated the lace fragment she’d made under Colleen’s supervision. “You need to decide what you want to do with it. Would you like to make a field of flowers for a larger piece, or use a single bloom as an embellishment, say for a collar or a cuff?”

  “So we’d use it for an insert or overlay?” Kate asked.

  “You could. That’s what we do, attaching the lace to existing pieces. Or you could get more ambitious and make fabric of the lace itself, say for a scarf. You look like more of a scarf person to me. Collars and cuffs are too old-fashioned for you. We’re kind of stuck in a time warp here, you know. Maybe you’ll open our minds a little, show us something new.”

  “It’s me who has a lot to learn.” Kate frowned as she dropped a stitch.

  “Like Colleen said, mistakes aren’t necessarily a problem,” Bernie told her. “Sometimes they lead you in a different direction. Who says you always need to follow the rules? Breaking the pattern can be the very best thing, even though it can be scary at first.”

  “That’s kind of you to say.”

  “Not kind. True.”

  They worked until the fire burned low, their eyes grew heavy, and Kate began to understand the process. She’d always been a quick learner, especially when it came to needlework. Her meadow of lace flowers wasn’t perfect—it had pulls and ripples, didn’t lie flat—and yet it was pretty in its way, and she began to see the possibilities. “I might be getting the hang of this,” she said.

  Bernie smiled. “I’ve never seen someone take to lace making as quickly as you.”

  “I have good teachers,” Kate said.

  They left the work there on the table, for the women to see when they returned the next day: pieces so delicate, so fragile, a single breath might carry them away.

  Chapter 11

  Kate’s Idea

  The next afternoon, as the lace society worked on trimmings and inserts for the linens they planned to sell at the market, Aileen took up where she left off the previous night, seeking someone on whom to vent her frustrations—finally settling, as she often did, on her sister. Rain pelted the windows, echoing Aileen’s sharp-voiced
observations, both starting quietly, threatening to come down hard. It was warm in the cottage, the fire sparking every now and then in the hearth, fog lacing the edges of the windows. A cozy gathering to be sure, and yet there was an underlying tension, thanks to Aileen.

  Aileen took off her jumper, muttering something about hot flashes again. Oona fanned herself with a piece of paper. The teapot on the stove built up steam and whistled, Bernie hurrying to serve tea.

  “It’s like a sauna in here today,” Aileen said.

  “I’m sorry,” Bernie said. “The turf must be burning faster than usual. I’ll open a window.”

  “Better do it on the south side, so the rain doesn’t blow in,” Colleen said. “What a storm.”

  It had been coming down all morning. The women’s raincoats and boots were by the door: Aileen’s olive green, as if she were going off to war; Moira’s threadbare brown, a cast-off from her sister; Oona’s red polka dots; Bernie’s practical black; and Colleen’s patent navy, a towel on the floor below to catch the drips.

  Bernie moved around the table, pouring cups of orange pekoe.

  “You don’t have to wait on us like we’re customers, Bee,” Aileen said. “We’re perfectly capable of serving ourselves.”

  “Oh, you know me, always playing the hostess.”

  “And a fine one too,” Oona said.

  Kate blew on her tea, sipping too soon and burning the tip of her tongue. She set it down to give it time to cool, taking up her lace again. There was still so much to learn.

  Aileen unwound another length of thread with an impatient flick of her wrist. “How are things at home?” She asked Moira.

  No one had said anything about the fresh bruise on Moira’s cheek. They’d learned these problems couldn’t be confronted head-on. Only Moira could complain about her relationship. Care had to be taken about joining in, lest she become defensive, retracting the drawbridge, fortifying her marriage, she and Cillian against the world, struggles concealed behind the gates.