The Lace Makers of Glenmara

by Heather Barbieri

He stopped at a pullout at the top of the rise. They alighted from the car, and she rested her head against his chest, looking out at the dark seascape.

  “I used to ride my bike up here when I was a boy,” he said. “It made me feel as if I were standing on top of the world, the sea and the cliffs stretching on forever. It’s as if you can see everything from here.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s magical. You know, it’s funny, on the way up, I even thought I saw shapes in the waves.”

  “Such as?”

  “Women and horses. Isn’t that odd?”

  He laughed. “My grandfather used to tell stories about how Cuculain drove his horses into the sea during battle; he said that sometimes you can see them cantering in the waves, the mermaids riding toward the cliffs, singing to lure men into the water.”

  “Has anyone claimed to have been enchanted?” She smiled.

  “My friends and I went surfing there once and got pulled out in a riptide. We didn’t think anything could harm us. We might have drowned if Colleen and Finn hadn’t been out on their boat and come after us.”

  “And the horses? Did you see them?”

  “No. One of my friends insisted he did, though we put it down to too much ale,” he said. “But there’s no getting around the fact that the waves made eerie sounds that day.”

  “Have you been surfing there since?”

  “No.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she said, “though I wonder, does that mean you believe the stories?”

  “I enjoy the telling—and it’s true that women can cast a spell on men.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “One woman in particular.” He guided her to the foot of a crumbled tower, little left but lichened stones, and yet it was enough to shelter them, wrapped in a felted wool blanket for warmth, as they moved in that palm of history, then lay still, breathing together, dreaming apart.

  The dream again: Ekaterina waving good-bye from the tube entrance before vanishing into the underground, off to her job at the graphic arts firm. Sullivan had told her she didn’t have to work anymore, that he could support them both, leaving her more time to paint. She wouldn’t listen. She liked making her own way, as she’d done ever since she left home at the age of fifteen. She hadn’t been back to Czechoslovakia since, wouldn’t say why. It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s all in the past.

  She wore a pale blue chiffon top, a pair of jeans, flats, because they were comfortable and she didn’t need the height. She was thin and pale, otherworldly. That’s what he thought the first time he saw her on the streets of Prague, two years ago. They’d been a couple ever since. They usually rode the train together, but he’d forgotten his mobile—she shook her head and laughed; he was always forgetting something. What would he do without her? He dashed back to the house to get it. He could make the trip in five minutes flat, but would probably have to catch the next train. Five minutes flat. To the second. He knew by the hands of his watch. Such a small fraction of time, but enough for everything to change, for the streets to be in chaos, sirens wailing, people shouting, panicked. Some bleeding, others sooty, wandering, stunned.

  He didn’t understand at first, overheard cries, whispers, terrorists, bombs, tried to push through, but the police were already there and blocked the entrance, black smoke coming up behind them as if from the depths of hell.

  “She’s in there! I have to find her!”

  They didn’t move. They had their orders.

  His emotions detached, like cars from a train. He played the scene back in his head, a slow rewinding of the day’s events that had led them to that point, that place. First, breakfast in the nook overlooking the garden. The crunch of toast, the rustling of the newspaper. Neither of them talking much; they weren’t morning people. She touched her foot to his, bare, warm. The glance at the clock, the realization that it was time to go, that they’d be late. The rush down the hall and out the door, running together, laughing. And then the forgotten phone.

  He didn’t know that in retrieving it, he’d lose her.

  One bomb in one train: theirs. It wasn’t supposed to happen again—not after the tube bombings a few years before. And yet it did.

  He should have been with her. If not for his carelessness, he would have been. A fragment of charred gossamer floated past him. He chased after it, thinking it was a piece of her shirt, but it was only ash, carried away on a blast of wind.

  For days, he heard the rumble of the trains. The doctor gave him pills to drive them away, but they found him in dreams, even now, in Ireland. Some people said that when you pressed your ear to the ground, you could hear the pounding of hooves, of the horses of the invaders, from years ago, soldiers on the march, that the earth held the memory of their passing, of spilled blood. And he heard them, he did, the trains, the Danes, the Vikings, Cromwell’s men, the IRA, the Proddies, al-Qaeda, and Ekaterina’s voice too, louder than the rest, calling him: Sullivan, Sullivan.

  He opened his eyes to the tarred sky.

  It wasn’t her, and he had to face, once more, that she was gone. It was the other foreign girl, her name encompassed by the first: Ekaterina.

  Kate.

  “What’s the matter?” Kate asked, her voice filled with worry. He’d been lying facedown, he realized then, tearing at the grass. When she touched his shoulder, he jerked away. She dabbed at his cheek, blood on her sleeve. He hadn’t realized he’d cut himself on a stone. “Sullivan?”

  He shook his head. The dream was a figment of another life, one he’d tried to leave behind. “It was just a bad dream,” he told her, because to speak of it would have made it real all over again.

  Chapter 21

  Of Bobbins and Pins

  The next morning, Kate helped Bernie pin clothes on the line. The weather was fickle, the sky edged with clouds. The women seemed to stand in the only circle of light in the county, a place where the sun had managed to break through, if only for a short while. Kate’s head felt heavy, not so much from the late night as from her bewilderment over how distant Sullivan had seemed when he dropped her off at Bernie’s house. This was a side of him she hadn’t seen before, and she didn’t know what to make of it. “Do you think it’s going to rain?” she asked.

  “Hard to say.” Bernie squinted at the sky. “The clouds seem to be having a hard time making up their minds.”

  Kate fingered the faint stain on the cuff of her shirt, a reminder of the unsettling scene on the cliffs; it wouldn’t come out, despite numerous rinsings in the sink, the mark a shadow along the seam.

  “At least that stain won’t set,” Bernie said, “not as it would have if we used a dryer.” Bernie had told her she couldn’t abide the machines. They ruined clothes, and since it was only her and John—and now, her alone—she had little use for them. “He cut his head, did he? Is he all right? How did it happen?”

  Kate told her, adding, “He said he didn’t need stitches.”

  “Even the smallest head wounds tend to bleed excessively.” Bernie nodded. “Will he be by today?”

  “I don’t think so. He said he’s busy. He was acting kind of strange when he dropped me off.” She paused, then added, as if to convince herself, “But sleeping on the ground all night would make anyone irritable.” She rubbed her back. “I know I’m feeling where some pebbles pressed on my spine this morning.”

  “You slept outside? In this weather?”

  “He knew a place near the cliffs; there was some shelter, and he had a blanket in the van—”

  “Kept you warm, did he?” Bernie teased.

  “In a manner of speaking.” Kate’s smile faded as she touched the spot on her shirt again, the memory of trying to help him, help he didn’t seem to want, returning. She pinned the garment on the line. The fabric stirred listlessly in the breeze. “He seemed to be having a bad dream. He wouldn’t tell me what it was about.”

  Bernie didn’t say anything, directing an inordinate amount of attention to the clothespins she was attaching to the line
.

  Kate touched her arm. “Do you know something?”

  “I guess since everyone’s aware of it, there’s no harm in my saying…” She hesitated.

  “Everyone except me.”

  “I’m sure he’d tell you, in time,” she said.

  “I hope so. I want him to feel that he can trust me—”

  “You see, his girlfriend died in the London tube blast last year,” Bernie said finally, “and I think he felt he should have been with her. That’s why he moved back here. There’s been the occasional woman since, but nobody he seemed to care for seriously—until you came along.”

  “How awful for him.” Kate put her hand to her mouth. “He’s never said anything—”

  “He doesn’t speak of it to anyone. He keeps it all inside.”

  That afternoon, Kate went cycling. She told herself she didn’t have a fixed plan, no deliveries for Bernie that day, just sightseeing, to clear her head, but somehow she ended up near Sullivan’s house, curiosity and desire drawing her there. To her disappointment, the van wasn’t in the drive. Where had he gone? He hadn’t told her what he was doing that day. She considered leaving a note, but what would she say? She stood there for a long time, unsure of what to do, waiting for some sign of him, the wind swirling around her, a few scattered drops of rain falling. She shivered. She hadn’t dressed for the weather. She’d been too preoccupied. She sighed and glanced at her watch. It was time to go back. The lace makers were expecting her.

  Fifteen minutes later, when she walked in the front door of Bernie’s cottage, the lace makers were already gathered around the table, a pot of tea in a cozy in the center, a cup by each hand, a lace pillow on each lap. They were working on bobbined lace that afternoon, the threads woven with the complexity of snowflakes. The women were whispering among themselves.

  “Why so much secrecy?” Kate asked as she joined them, trying to shrug off her mood.

  “We have a surprise for you,” Bernie said.

  Aileen’s chair was empty. Ever since the church incident, she’d kept her distance. Whenever Moira or Bernie called, she made excuses to hang up the phone. “She’ll come ’round,” was all Bernie had said. “She always does in the end.”

  Kate had to admit she didn’t mind Aileen’s absence. “A surprise?”

  “You’ve graduated from the crochet to the bobbin method.” Colleen handed her a lace pillow and a collection of pins and bobbins. “Now the real work begins.”

  “And here I thought you were giving me something soft to sit on.”

  “Not unless you want a bunch of pins in your arse.” Moira laughed.

  “Padraig sat on mine once. Never saw him get up in such a hurry,” Oona said.

  “Must have been why he was standing up so straight at mass that Sunday,” Colleen said with a wink.

  “I told him he could think of it as acupuncture,” Oona replied, “but he didn’t think it was funny.”

  “Ouch,” Kate said, giggling with the rest.

  “Cillian had a fit when he found a pin in the chair the other day,” Moira said, eyes widening with the realization that they might take it the wrong way.

  The women stopped to look at her. Cillian having a fit could be a dangerous thing.

  “I didn’t mean it literally,” she said quickly.

  “He’ll be happy when he gets a look at your lace.” Colleen pulled a bra and knickers from her bag. “I did the finishing work on these last night. They’re ready for you to take home.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Moira said, though she looked more pensive than pleased.

  “You will wear them, won’t you?” Oona asked.

  Moira shoved the pieces into her bag and zipped it closed. “Of course I will.”

  Kate studied the bobbins the lace makers had given her. “These look old.”

  “They are,” Bernie said. “We gave you one of each of ours. They were handed down through our families. Some are carved from bone, others wood.”

  “This one has a face on it, like a doll.” Kate cradled the bobbins in her hands, aware of how precious they were. The women had given her part of their histories. She hoped she’d prove worthy of the gift.

  “My da made me a set of those when I was young,” Colleen said. “He thought they might cheer me up when I was getting frustrated learning the steps. He whittled in the evenings after the boats came in.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Lord, no. He died a long time ago,” Colleen said, her voice soft, before continuing, “Here, you set the pins this way.” Her hands moved with swift assurance over the cushion as she set up the form. “Now, follow me.”

  Kate imitated Colleen’s motions. “It’s almost like meditation,” she said of the focus required to execute the design. Even though she still felt shaky, there was a rhythmic quality to the endeavor that was deeply satisfying.

  “That’s it. You’re getting the hang of it,” Moira encouraged her.

  “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here, showing me the way.”

  “That’s the beauty of it: there have always been others with us, helping us learn,” Colleen said.

  “So I’m the lace makers’ apprentice, am I?”

  “And we are to you, learning about garment design,” Bernie said. “You’re ready to take the next step, to enter the most challenging part of the lace and lace maker relationship.”

  “So we have relationship with our lace now? That sounds a bit kinky,” Oona said, making them laugh again.

  “But really, Bernie has a point: there’s a give and take involved, the need to trust, open yourself up to the work,” Colleen said.

  “You’re sounding rather philosophical this afternoon,” Oona said.

  “I have my moments.”

  Kate stretched a thread between one pin to the next, thinking of Sullivan, the distance between them another bridge to cross.

  Chapter 22

  A Hundred Little Bruises

  At first, Moira thought Cillian wasn’t home, that he’d gone off to the pub with his friends. She didn’t mind it so much, his being away. The house was quieter then, no complaints, no roar of the telly—he tended to turn the volume up so loud the house shook, the voices in the box shouting at each other, giving her a headache, though she rarely complained.

  Little fear of what he’d do for a while.

  No, fear was the wrong word. She wasn’t afraid of him, not always, rather she found it necessary to be attuned to his needs and moods. Life was easier that way, and it wasn’t as if it was such a sacrifice, not really.

  Moira had finally brought the lace home, the knickers and bra stitched with the green of the land, the green of her eyes. She’d left the lingerie behind each time before, uncertain about bringing it home, what he’d say.

  “Why are you hesitating?” Oona asked. “Men like this sort of thing. You wouldn’t believe what it’s done for Padraig and me.”

  Moira hadn’t even tried the pieces on until that afternoon. She didn’t want to model them for the lace society. She was too shy.

  “What about the fit?” Colleen had asked her.

  “I’ll bring them back if they need altering. I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Moira replied.

  They all knew it wasn’t the garments that needed fixing.

  Now, in the bedroom, she slipped out of her clothes—the jeans and jumper Aileen had passed on to her. (Aileen gave her hand-me-downs, even though they were no longer children. Moira accepted them, grateful but resentful too that she should have to take charity, yet again, just to keep going.) She couldn’t look at her naked self in the mirror yet. She’d never been comfortable in her body, not even when she was younger, didn’t believe Cillian when he told her she was beautiful, suspecting that he was the only one who would think so.

  What happened to your confidence? Aileen’s words came back to her again.

  Moira brought the hooks to the front to fasten them, as Aileen taught her to do years ago, when she kept trying to put
on her training bra the hard way. A strap over one shoulder, then the other. Now she must turn and face her image. She closed her eyes at first, opened them to a squint. It was a small thing, but she felt different when she looked at her reflection, not a complete transformation, no, but a new perspective—one she could maintain as long as she kept the lights low so the bruises on her upper arms and legs were nearly invisible. The body she’d thought too thin, the face too haggard, looked softer, perhaps even hopeful. She touched the edge of the lace with shaking hands, considered the possibility that she could be stunning, strong, the type of woman who wouldn’t settle for less, who Cillian could love without force, who could be attractive in her own right.

  The children shouted outside where they were playing, reminding her of who she was, where she was. She took the pieces off quickly and got dressed, slipped the lingerie into her bag, the euphoria fading. She didn’t know when she’d wear them, if she’d wear them. They were works of art, not meant for that body, that house, that life. She peered into the bag—the lace gleaming, gorgeous, a secret treasure—then closed it again. She might put them on for their anniversary. Cillian might like that.

  She returned to the kitchen to start dinner. The children ran through the field behind the house, the grass uncut, a jungle. She’d need a scythe before going at it with the push mower. She’d gotten good at mowing in the dark. There weren’t enough hours in the day.

  She listened to the children’s voices, musical as the notes of a pipe band: Rory, Riordan, Ronan, Sinead, and Sorcha. The babies she and Cillian had made together, Sorcha first, the reason they had gotten married. Moira had been home from college that summer—she’d been studying for her teaching certificate—dropped out soon after, but she didn’t mind, she’d missed the coast, home, him.

  Cillian had a boat then, a future. All that gone now. He complained of an old injury from his days as a rugger—another career that didn’t pan out—worse now that he was older. He tried to hire on with other crews, but there weren’t many venturing out anymore. He’d had a lead on a job to the north earlier in the month, but then a swarm of jellyfish decimated the salmon run. Not that he would have gotten the position anyway. He had a temper. He drank. He wasn’t reliable. He had his good qualities, sure, but word had gotten around, as it always did in the end.