The Lace Makers of Glenmara

by Heather Barbieri

  He told her about London. She listened, watching his face. He kept his eyes on the hills as he talked.

  She touched his arm when he was done. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s still a part of me that’s struggling with what happened,” he continued. “I thought I was getting past it, but then when I started to feel closer to you, it all came up again, the nightmares too. And yet, after everything that’s gone on over the past few days, the one thing that is clear to me now is how much I want to be with you. Does that make any sense?”

  “Yes,” she said after they’d walked a certain distance. “I lost some people who were important to me too. It’s been hard for me to trust again. I guess I have a fear of being left.” She told him about her father, her mother, and Ethan. She nearly lost her footing on the scree, adding, “It seems like we’re both trying to regain our balance.”

  “Maybe we can help each other find it. Can we be patient with each other? Can we try making it up as we go along?” He stopped and turned her toward him.

  She looked into his eyes and nodded. She didn’t feel the chill of the wind any longer or hear the calls of the hawks hunting in the fields below, low green hills that seemed to go on forever, one after another, into the very heart of the country.

  Chapter 30

  On the Mend

  The women turned Bernie’s detached garage into a workshop. It would do until they could afford to open a place in town. They scrubbed the floor and gave everything a new coat of cream-colored wash, swabbed the windows, swept away the dirt and cobwebs, thinking of Colleen with each dab of paint, each dusted shelf, each clear pane. They hauled in battered tables, destined for the junkyard, made a sign for the door: “Sheer Delights, International Headquarters.” Colleen would have done the lettering if she was alive—she had the best hand. Oona did it instead, feeling as if her friend were guiding her. They hadn’t had any orders except Mrs. Flynn’s yet, but they kept sewing. They’d start small, making samples in different sizes, selling at regional craft fairs, and take it from there. Their spirits were low, but they tried to rally for Colleen, for Finn and Maeve.

  The lace makers encouraged Moira to take some time off. Signs of the beating she’d taken from Cillian last week remained: the yellowish bruises on her face, the limp, and the sling on her arm. “I won’t be a mascot,” she said. “I want to work. My fingers aren’t broken, are they? I owe it to Colleen.” And she did, resting her arm on the table, a determined set to her mouth. The doctor had given her pills for the nightmares and anxiety. Cillian had left marks that went deeper than her skin.

  Her children played outside, jumping off the stones, flapping their arms, pretending they could fly, the younger ones sure they’d done it, Sorcha not telling them otherwise for once, letting them think they could do the impossible. She didn’t want to be alone in the house, and Moira didn’t want to leave her, leave any of them. Sometimes Sorcha sat with the women, learning the stitches, working on a lace shoulder bag patterned with daisies—because, she said, daisies were happy flowers.

  “Will we have enough done by the end of the week?” Oona wondered. That was the date of the next craft fair, held in conjunction with the celebration at the end of the Saint Brendan’s festivities.

  “Enough to pique people’s interest,” Bernie said. The shelves began to fill with knickers, camisoles, and bras. “To show them what we can do.”

  There was the sound of footsteps outside on the gravel. Moira jumped, her body tensing.

  But it was only Aileen, arriving late. She met her sister’s gaze, shook her head slightly. Moira looked away to collect herself before turning back, as if nothing had occurred.

  Aileen’s face was pale.

  “What happened?” Moira asked. “Is it Rosheen again?”

  “I thought we’d patched things up at the funeral, but she’s too used to being on her own. At some point, I have to let her go. I wasn’t thinking it would be so soon. She’s only sixteen.”

  “Of course you’re worried,” Oona said. “It’s the mother’s lot.”

  “I made some lace for her a few nights ago. I meant to tell you about it, but then—” She fell silent.

  “It’s all right,” Bernie said. “Tell us now.”

  She did.

  “Skulls? With the lace?” Oona said. “I hadn’t thought of that. You’re not turning into a Goth, are you?”

  “Ailey went through a punk phase in the late seventies. Remember the short skirts and torn fishnet tights?” Bernie said.

  “That was a long time ago.” Aileen stood next to the shelves. The only open seats were Colleen’s chair, painted as a memorial to their departed friend, and one next to Kate.

  “The fashions come around. Leggings are in style again, ankle boots too,” said Kate.

  “Please tell me that horrible polyester double knit material isn’t returning,” Bernie said. “That’s something I could do without.”

  “I still have a picture of you in those mod flowered pants,” Aileen said with a half smile.

  “Those awful rust-colored things?” Bernie hid her face in her hands and groaned. “I can’t believe Mam let me buy them. And to think they came from that fancy shop in Galway.”

  “You thought you were hot in those pants, if I remember correctly.”

  “I was hot. I was sweating. The fabric didn’t breathe,” Bernie said, adding, “What colors did you use for the skull?”

  “White with silver threads, pearls for the eyes. I thought about rhinestones, but that seemed too tarty.”

  “Sounds punk-Victorian,” Kate said.

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yes, exactly.” Aileen stared at the younger woman as if seeing her for the first time.

  “That’s brilliant. I bet she loves it,” Moira said. “Both because of the style and because it’s from you.”

  “I just hope we can find a way to talk to each other again,” Aileen said. “I keep thinking one of these days, she’ll be gone for good.”

  “No, she won’t,” Oona said.

  But sometimes the teenagers did take flight, like Susan Kelly’s son, up and gone after a big row two years ago. She hadn’t heard from him since. Her marriage broke up after that, and she moved away, no one knew where, her family scattered like dust.

  Aileen took the empty seat next to Kate. Usually, she did everything she could to avoid sitting there, going so far as to pointedly pull a chair to another spot around the table. But this time she didn’t. Bernie gave her a little nod, which Aileen didn’t acknowledge. Her expression seemed to say, It’s only an empty chair, isn’t it? And I need to sit down.

  Kate remained wary, focusing on her work, Aileen careful too, and yet as the morning went on, they seemed to grow easier with each other, the atmosphere in those few inches that separated them tension-free for once. They might never be the closest of friends, but perhaps they didn’t have to be at odds, looking for slights and insults at every opportunity.

  “Ailey,” Bernie said in a coaxing voice, “we haven’t forgotten about you: it’s your turn.”

  “Oh, no—”

  “Too late. It’s already done.” Oona pulled out a bundle wrapped in tissue. “Go on, open it.”

  Aileen snipped the string and pulled back the paper, revealing the deco-patterned lingerie. “But how—?”

  Bernie smiled. “Rourke gave me the knickers and bra he thought needed embellishing. We figured the flapper look would suit you.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. “No, yes, I do: Thank you. Thank you, for everything.”

  All that day and into the evening, their fingers flew. The patterns of the lace were everywhere, if the women opened their minds and looked past the sorrow: in a horse’s mane, butterfly’s wings, blades of grass, sprigs of ivy, spiderwebs, drops of rain, the waves of the sea, the feathers of a lark, the lines on a face, in their very own hands. The lace could be anything they wanted it to be. It was the lace of dreams, the
lace of their imagination. At the end of the day, they looked at their callused fingers, amazed they’d made such extraordinary things, the threads connecting each woman to the one beside her, and out into the wider world. “It’s about all of us, isn’t it?” Oona said, touching the back of Colleen’s chair. “All of us, together, still.”

  Chapter 31

  Market Day

  From the front window of his cottage, the priest saw the visitors gathering in the village below, the lines of buses and cars, backed up to the junction, the excitement building. They hadn’t just come for the Saint Brendan’s Day festival. They’d come for the lace, the story of the women, the town. It was nothing short of an invasion. He nearly ran down to the road to ward them off. He would have done so even two weeks ago, before everything changed. Before Colleen died. Before he’d lost his place, his position, his way.

  The telephone had rung that very morning, another representative from the bishop’s office on the line: “Father Byrne, have you received the letters?”

  Not the familiar form of address. Not Dominic, no. “Father Byrne,” indicating serious matters.

  “Yes.”

  “And did you read them?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you haven’t responded.”

  “There have been important matters requiring my attention.”

  “You do understand that the parish is closing? That Glenmara will now be served by a circuit priest. He will be there next week—”

  “I do. I could offer my services—”

  “We thought we’d made ourselves clear: the parish, as such, is now subject to consolidation. It’s the only way we can keep it open. One man will serve it on a part-time basis, Father Byrne,” the voice said. “You are needed elsewhere.”

  Elsewhere. What did that mean? “I see.”

  “There is, however, an assistantship in—”

  A demotion. He couldn’t bear the thought of it. He stopped listening to the voice on the other end of the line. He looked out the window at the framed view of the church and its steeple, to which he’d opened his eyes every morning for more years than he could count.

  No more.

  It was done. He was done.

  A circuit priest would take over within days. He’d be young, energetic, hopping from parish to parish. He’d be from Kenya or Cameroon. Or perhaps he’d be older, having found his vocation after working in advertising or law or some other profession, a worldly man, the Church calling him to a new mission. He would be anyone but Dominic Byrne.

  Dominic Byrne wasn’t wanted. That much was clear.

  He must go.

  The world was changing, and he hadn’t changed with it. He was an artifact, destined for a museum, the basement of the Vatican; he could already feel the dust settling on his clothes. He packed his things in the car. Clothes in a suitcase. Books in a box. He would visit his cousin first, to get his bearings; or maybe he’d drive until the road ended, find a ferry to take him across the water. He didn’t know where. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, a strange sensation for a man who had lived such an ordered life. His world, so solid, so set, a few days before, had gone soft at the edges, no more than a delicate membrane easily torn away, leaving him floating in ether, a specimen unworthy of study.

  Only the narrow road behind the chapel was free, the one he would take, shedding his robe like a chrysalis. The gestation had taken years, but the time had come. Time to leave this place. Leave his vocation. Though he hadn’t seen it coming, not at first, it felt inevitable now, ordained by God, by nature itself.

  He watched the birds go, heading north to their summer feeding grounds, the beaches, the islands, released from the ice, warmer days coming. He too, away, away. Mrs. Flynn at the festival with the rest of them, selling the lace, dancing, singing, celebrating. He left a note for her to find later. No one would notice at first. No one would see the Mini buzzing up the hill road, diminishing to nothing, Father Byrne gone at last.

  Aileen scanned the crowd for Rosheen. (She’d left Rosheen’s dancing shoes on the bed where she could find them, in hopes she’d show up for the ceili after all.) Rourke waved to her from his post on the road, directing traffic. He looked official in his cap and orange vest. “A man in uniform,” she teased as they left the house that morning. He liked the new lingerie, especially the tassel. One night didn’t fix everything—far from it. Aileen still felt as if she were playing a role, though there was an interlude that night when her troubles receded and she allowed herself to be consumed by the moment. That might be enough, for now, a reminder that they could still find their way toward each other in the dark, that it was possible to rediscover the passion they’d once had, if they tried. That she wouldn’t be starved for conversation, for attention, after the children were gone.

  Moira watched the road too. For Cillian. Keyed up, she was, saying it was the excitement of the visitors. Aileen knew better. They all did. The women kept an eye out, just in case.

  Sile sat by Aileen, wearing her dance costume. Her troupe would be performing soon on the small stage at the end of the lane. The round and long dances: “Rince Mor na Tine,” “Staicin Eorna,” “An Rince Mor,” and “Ionai na hInse,” the Siege of Ennis. “Come on, Mam. It’s time for the dancing. She’ll be here. She will.” Sile took her mother’s hand.

  And so they danced. The visitors, the women. Sile, her hair in ringlets, lace on her collar and cuffs and hair band, her white bawneen with green ribbon, embroidery around the openings. In the center of the bodice, Aileen had embroidered the cross with the four cardinal points of the world, the fifth rising in a vertical from the center. The cosmic quadrangle, the sign of life—the life they shared, the family, the village, bound together, in spite of everything that had come between them, the tragedies they’d suffered. Her shoes struck the stage, the beats pure, throbbing to her mother’s pulse, her heart; Aileen joining in, and Oona and Bernie, Sullivan, a hand on Kate’s waist, Rosheen there too, perhaps, on the fringes, just beyond Aileen’s sight, the music of the willean and William’s fiddle skirling over the village. “Put your hands together,” the cruit player called. “Hands together now.”

  More people arrived, jamming the streets. The chip man had to send for additional filets. The pub did a booming business. The jewelry and trinket stalls had brisk sales; so did Oona’s husband Padraig with his honey, and Denny, who played his accordion for an enthusiastic audience other than the chickens, coins and bills filling his case.

  The women worked the lace table, taking a break from the dancing, Colleen’s daughter Maeve with them, the line stretching down the lane. Bernie tugged Aileen’s sleeve. “Look, just look! I don’t think we’ve ever had so many people in town, not since—”

  “Not since ever.” Aileen laughed in disbelief.

  “Father Byrne must be having fits. It’s the modern world, laying siege to the village.”

  “Haven’t seen him all morning,” Oona said.

  “He’s probably barricaded himself in the vicarage.”

  “How do you think people heard about the lace anyway?”

  “It was the mention on Wear in the World, wasn’t it? You know, that fashion program? Everyone watches it. Word’s been spreading fast. It’s all over Dublin, all over London,” said a woman who was ordering the Celtic cross pattern. “Did you see the reporters coming down the hill? They want to speak to you. It’s big news.”

  “Wear in the World? But I didn’t send anything to them,” Bernie said. “I mean, I never thought they’d—”

  “Wait a minute,” Oona said. “Isn’t that your show, Maeve?”

  “Yes.” Colleen’s daughter could no longer suppress a smile. “It was me—or rather, it was Mam. She sent me the lingerie for a birthday present a couple of weeks ago. She said you’ve been making lovely things with the lace. She knew I’d see how special they are—and my producers would too. ‘Leave the door open,’ she used to tell me, ‘and see what comes in.’ I told her I’d like to do a piece on
the lace—on all of you. There’s a camera crew up the road, waiting for my signal. What do you think of that?”

  “It’s mad—and wonderful!” Bernie said.

  “Mam told me the details, but swore me to secrecy. She wanted it to be a surprise. She was going to tell you today. And that’s why I waited until now to let you know. Because it’s what she wanted. It’s her gift to you.”

  “And what a gift it is,” Bernie said.

  Oona shook her head, laughing and crying at once. “Oh, Colleen. Colleen McGreevy. You really are something.”

  Chapter 32

  Fame & Fortune

  The website, which they managed to launch with Sullivan’s help (he asked a friend at the bar in Kinnabegs to monitor it until they worked out a better system), received so many hits, the server jammed. The electronic mailing list swelled into the thousands. The women called an emergency meeting at the workshop the next day.

  Bernie rubbed her forehead, reviewing the paperwork. “I wish Colleen was here to help us with the figures. She was always good with numbers.”

  They nodded, exchanged somber glances.

  “How can we possibly meet the demand?” Aileen spoke next. “We never expected anything like this.”

  Bernie thought for a moment. “People need to realize this is a cottage industry, that our pieces are manufactured on a small scale, that handmade items are special. They take time, but they’re worth it.”

  “Still, we can’t handle it all ourselves,” Moira said.

  “No, and perhaps that’s the beauty of it,” said Bernie. “We’ll form sewing circles along the coast. Think of the women we know in the area whose families can’t make a living from the fishing anymore. Oona, you and I will make the calls tomorrow. We should be able to get this off the ground within the next couple of weeks. We don’t want to lose our momentum.”