by Helen Cullen
Her guardian.
Later that week Maeve hung the photograph taken at the beach in the hallway right beside the front door. She could remember that day now as a happy one, with the benefit of a hindsight that confirmed she was right to be optimistic—the memory alone could conjure how it felt to be imbued with a silver light as the tingle from the cold seawater sent electric shocks of life through her body. A life force that spirited her along for days, then weeks, then months. It brought with it a sense of relief that she had stepped away from the cliff edge on that morning.
It was often so difficult to be happy in the present; who knew how long the peace would last?
Happiness of the past you could luxuriate in, relaxing in the knowledge that nothing bad had come along to spoil that memory.
Looking back and seeing happiness gave her hope.
For Maeve had learned they were often synonymous with each other in her life.
Hope was the light she could follow home.
Inis Óg: May 1990
MURTAGH SAT ON the edge of the pier, his gray corduroy trousers rolled up to the knee, his feet dangling in the salty stew of the Atlantic. He transferred strands of seaweed from one foot to the other with his toes, willing its magic to alleviate some of the discomfort of the scabbed wounds on his heels. For his last birthday, Maeve had bought him new runners in an effort to get him jogging to halt the advancing spread of softness across his middle. His spirit was willing but his body was weak, and the acrylic material the shoes were made from grated away the skin on his heels. He had worn the wrong socks but would try again, keen as he was to feel strong and fit again. The boys loved his new regime, too, running along beside him, one on each side, pink faces and fists pumping. He could still beat them in a race. Just about.
He watched them now, sprinting up and down the pier, Dillon the easy winner, Mossy uninterested in running but very interested in the acceptance his brother discriminately offered. Murtagh often felt the urge to tell him to stand on his own two feet, but resisted, remembering how much his own father’s demands on his wilting personality caused him to shrivel even more. He craved a Fat Frog ice pop, the sickly lime-green sweetness on a stick that he’d grown so partial to. Maybe they could stop at Siopa Síle on the way home. Pick up one of those apple slices for Maeve that she loves. He smiled, remembering the chaos that morning as she taught the kids how to twist in the kitchen, Chubby Checker blaring from the record player on repeat. He had spun Nollaig and Sive under each arm while Maeve danced with the twins, and then they had jived together while their children cheered with surprise at their moves. Maeve had declared the “Kitchen Disco” was to become a regular thing, and set Nollaig with the task of making a poster advertising the next event, for which she promised to acquire a real disco ball.
These May evenings were his favorite time of year; the final dusting off and polishing up of the island before the students arrived from all across the country for Irish college. For three weeks at a time, during June, July and August, they were invaded by a hundred or so secondary-school students who came to be immersed in the language and the culture and, more often than not, engage in ill-advised adolescent romances. For some, it was a banishment, a forced intensive learning before the state examinations; for others, freedom. Inevitably, though, by the end of the three weeks, few wanted to go home. He wrote to tell his mother that the scenes on departure day were akin to what the country last witnessed when their ancestors emigrated, with tears and tantrums and false promises to stay in touch. He couldn’t blame them. The intensity of their time there accelerated the intimacy and connections they felt. A summer on that island was all it took to fall in the sort of heady love that would be remembered for a lifetime.
The boys stayed on the west of the island, the girls on the east, with the ruins of the castle dividing them. Every night after the céile dance, they formed forlorn little armies marching away from each other, looking over their shoulders to watch and wave as the new inhabitant of their heart disappeared into the darkness in the opposite direction. Before they’d arrived, they could never have anticipated the hormonal explosions the minimal touching in a traditional set dance could evoke. Every May the bean-an-tí, the women who predominantly looked after the teenagers in their homes, rolled their eyes at each other, offering up lamentations of “God help us and save us, here we go again” and “Let’s hope we’ll have none of the messing of last year,” but in truth the college invigorated the island with income and energy, and they missed the teenagers when they were gone.
Murtagh leaned back on the hot tarmac and tilted his head toward the last of the sun, enjoying the heat on his eyelids, though his legs grew chilly. A shadow fell across him and he stirred, expecting one of the boys, but as he squinted up it was the outline of a man that towered over him. He could not make out his face against the glare of the sun, but a crown of dreadlocks circled his head, held in place by a purple bandanna. Murtagh dragged his legs from the water and splashed him as he tried to stand up with some grace. His eyes traveled up from the stranger’s dark brown feet, the little black hairs sitting in tufts on his toes, comfortably settled into well-worn Birkenstocks. A thin plait of red leather was wound around his left ankle. He wore green denim shorts, slim to the knee, and a short-sleeved white cotton shirt with most of the buttons opened.
“Sorry to disturb you,” he said as he shook the speckles of water from his legs, “but could you point me in the direction of PÓl Quilty’s house?”
Murtagh couldn’t place his English accent but was overwhelmed by a sense of familiarity, although he could not fathom where they may have met before. Something about the dark pools of his eyes—where had he seen them before?
Dillon and Mossy crashed into their father’s legs and diverted his attention for a second as he gathered his thoughts. Dillon spoke first. “Who are you, then?” he asked, staring up from under his red baseball hat while Bosco licked the stranger’s toes.
Murtagh shushed him, pulling the dog away. “Have some manners, Son Night. You, too, Bosco.”
“That’s okay.” The newcomer crouched down to shake Dillon’s hand and stroked Bosco’s fur. “I’m Fionn, and I’m here to teach for the summer.”
“You don’t sound Irish,” Dillon answered, and Murtagh clasped his hand over the boy’s mouth as Fionn laughed.
“I’m sorry,” Murtagh offered. “I think Dillon is suffering from heatstroke and has forgotten himself. I’m Murtagh, Murtagh Moone, and I’ll happily show you where PÓl lives if you can bear these two coming along.”
“That would be lovely,” Fionn said, pointing at each of them in turn. “So Murtagh and Dillon—that leaves...?” he asked, wriggling his finger at Mossy, who stared at the ground, rummaging in his pockets for something unknown.
Murtagh gave him a little nudge. “And this is Tomás—we call him Mossy.”
“Good to meet you, Mossy. And you’re right, Dillon, I don’t sound Irish, do I? But I’m fifty percent of the way anyway. My mother is from Kells, but my father was from the Caribbean. I grew up in Birmingham. Do you know where that is?”
Mossy shook his head. “So, can you speak Irish, then?”
Fionn nodded his head. “I try. Birmingham’s in England, but my mum sent me to Irish lessons all through school. I can even do a jig if you ask me nicely.”
Murtagh laughed as he rolled down his trouser legs. “Is that what you’re here for? The dancing?”
“Well, not exclusively. I’m doing my PhD in Irish Studies at UCD, so I’m on teaching placement here for the summer.”
Fionn was weighed down by a bulging orange rucksack with a ukulele strapped to the front in a woolen tartan case; his back called to Murtagh’s mind the crescent moon of the currach boats on the strand.
“Are you okay to carry that? We’re a good ten minutes from PÓl’s,” said Murtagh, unsure if he could take the weight himself, but Fionn waved him awa
y.
“We’ve walked farther, this bag and me, and in much less friendly company.”
They set off together, Mossy falling into step beside Fionn as they headed toward the village.
“Is that a kid’s guitar?” Dillon asked, miming air guitar as he ran along the top of the front wall of Síle’s shop. Fionn turned and bent over so Dillon could take a closer look.
“That, my friend,” he said, “is no kid’s guitar. That is a ukulele, the king of all instruments, although I have known a few kids to play it in my time.”
“A ulikayle? Can you teach me?”
Murtagh held out his hand so Dillon could jump from the wall.
“Son, it’s UK-U-LE-LE, but please don’t terrorize the poor man. He’s only arrived and will be doing enough teaching this summer.”
Fionn laughed. “It would be no bother. Maybe you can show me some of the good surfing spots in return.”
Dillon’s face fell. “I don’t know how to surf either, but my mam does. I’ve been asking her can I go for aaaaaaaaages, but I’m not a good enough swimmer yet.”
Murtagh raised his eyebrows at him. “Gosh, it’s hard to be Dillon sometimes, isn’t it? It’s not a ukulele you want, son, but the world’s tiniest violin.”
When they reached PÓl Quilty’s house, Murtagh paused outside and shook Fionn’s hand.
“Welcome to the island, Fionn.”
“Thanks for walking with me. I’ll see you around, no doubt.”
“Nowhere to hide, I’m afraid.”
Fionn frowned, and Murtagh held up a hand in protest. “Not that I’d want to hide, I just meant—”
“Don’t worry, I get it,” he said, smiling as he adjusted the weight of the bag on his back.
He turned to walk up the footpath to PÓl’s door while Murtagh balanced himself against their stone wall to slip his sandals on his now-dry feet.
He stared at them for a moment, noticing, for the first time, the fuzzy blond hairs that grew in tufts across his own toes. How strange to have never noticed that before.
When he looked up again, Fionn had been swallowed into the hallway of Quilty’s.
* * *
Less than a week later, Fionn was eating breakfast in the Moone home. He turned his nose toward the sky like a werewolf and filled his lungs with deep breaths.
“That aroma,” he said. “It smells like coming home, only to no home I’ve ever known.”
Maeve cut a slab of spelt loaf, slathered runny butter on top and held it out to him. He stole a bite straight from her hand, before taking it from her, and she started in surprise.
Fionn licked his fingers and brushed a scattering of crumbs from his new Aran jumper into the sink. He looked like an advertisement for BÓrd Fáilte, the Irish tourist board: handsome, healthy and fully embracing the island’s culture.
“That’s Murtagh’s bread. It’s his morning ritual. First he bakes, then he pots.”
Murtagh paused midway through pulling on the blue mechanic’s overalls that he wore to work over his civilian clothes, what he called his civvies.
“The principles are similar,” he said, miming kneading the dough with his hands on the table.
Fionn held the arms of the overalls out straight so Murtagh could stretch into it while Maeve rinsed crumbs down the sink, wiping it half-heartedly with a green sponge squelchy with washing-up liquid.
“I’ve always liked the thought of pottery,” he said, “but I’ve never tried it. Never tried baking bread either, come to think of it.”
“You’ll master the bread quicker, but you’re welcome to visit the studio sometime if you’d like to give it a go.”
Murtagh zipped up the front of his overalls and yanked down the sleeves of his jumper from where they were caught at the elbows.
“I don’t suppose you have time now, do you?”
Murtagh hesitated and Fionn backed toward the hall door. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I know you have your work to do.”
“No, no. It’s fine. I was just gathering my thoughts about what the day held. Come on over for an hour anyway and see how it goes.”
This time, Fionn was the one to hesitate. “Are you sure? I feel like maybe I’ve pushed you into it now, and I don’t want to be a nuisance.”
Maeve rolled her eyes at him. “He wouldn’t say it if he didn’t mean it, but what about your new jumper?”
Fionn’s eyes darted from one to the other as he tugged on his right ear. “I’m not wearing anything underneath it, I could go home and—”
Maeve laughed at him, shaking her head. “That scratchy wool must be eating you alive.”
“I’m ashamed to say I’ve run out of clean clothes,” he admitted, grinning.
Maeve rustled in the airing cupboard in the kitchen and threw a gray-and-white pinstripe shirt toward him, the sleeves splattered in what looked like yellow paint.
“Murtagh already wrecked this one, so you might as well give it a spin.” She laughed again. “Give it a spin, get it?” The two men looked at her and she threw her hands in the air. “I’m wasted on you.”
Fionn turned toward the corner and pulled the sweater over his head, bending over as if to hide as much of his exposed back as possible. Maeve noticed a scar to the right of his spine and glanced at Murtagh to see if he’d noticed, too, but he was staring at his feet, steadfastly rubbing at a stain on his boot. Fionn turned around, rolling up the sleeves, which were too long, and tucking the tails of the shirt into his jeans. It smelled of lemony soap, but an earthy undertone broke through. Maybe it was the smell of clay. When Maeve caught him burying his nose in the fabric, he straightened up and returned the small smile she gave him.
Fionn followed Murtagh out of the back door and turned into the lane that would lead them along the pier road to the studio. He looked over his shoulder and saw Maeve watching them from an upstairs window, but she slipped behind the curtain before he could wave.
Fionn had never been inside a potter’s studio before, and his eyes skipped from one mysterious object to another when Murtagh flicked on the light switch. He gazed at the rolling pins, rulers, and Kilner jars filled with tools, and the ephemera Murtagh used to make impressions in his work: pine cones, shells, buttons, a cheese grater, cookie cutters, pineapple skin, dried seaweed, string. Bags of clay sat beneath a ceramic sink, with a black plastic trash can for the reusable wet clay.
Murtagh led him into a windowless anteroom. “In this annex, the magical art of glazing happens.” It looked to Fionn like an apothecary: to the right, shelves displaying pots retrieved from the kiln ready to glaze; to the left, finished pieces waiting to be packaged; and all across one long, low bench sat the glazed work ready to fire.
Fionn crouched before a row of aluminum buckets and read out their names from the yellow labels on their lids: “Chrome Red, Yellow Iron, Celadon-Green, Cobalt Blue, Earthen Moss, Black Sapphire, Lugano Blue, South Pacific, Symphony Blue, Sapphire Black and Brilliant White.”
He was shocked to see how pristine everything was, not a speck of dropped clay anywhere. “That’s part of the ritual,” Murtagh explained. “Every evening, you clean the studio of the day’s work so you have a new canvas the next day. You’re not polluted by the energy, or the clay, of the day before.”
Fionn returned to the main room and tentatively sat on the potter’s stool. He tapped the pedal with his right foot, watching it spin faster and faster. Murtagh rested a hand on his shoulder. “Hold your horses, young Padawan. You’re not going anywhere near the wheel today. First, you need to make friends with the clay.”
Murtagh lifted the lid on a white barrel and withdrew a cylinder of clay. He tore away a handful and began to press and fold it in his hands, softening away its corners. He rolled it across the table toward Fionn. “Play with it for a bit. See what you can make.”
Fionn s
tared at the lump of clay in front of him. “But I don’t know what to do.”
“That’s because you haven’t tried yet. Consider this—when you ask a child to draw you a picture, or tell you a story, they never refuse because they ‘aren’t creative.’ We just learn as we get older whether we’re allowed to call ourselves that anymore because we’re trained only to invest time in what we are ‘good at.’ And it’s a tragedy—when we can’t create purely for the joy it brings us. Don’t be afraid to play, Fionn. It’s good for the soul!”
Murtagh left him alone with the clay and retreated to the glazing room, where Fionn could hear him mooching about, lifting the lids on glazes and stirring them, running water in the sink. Reluctantly he took the ball of clay in his hands and squeezed it. Rolled it into a banana shape then squashed it back together. He picked up a rolling pin and spread the clay flat on the table before cutting out an oval. A picture began to form; he worked up two small lumps and found a pair of eyes appearing before a nose, then a mouth and two eyebrows. He rolled long strings in his hands and curled them about the forehead, drew lines on the face with the end of a pencil, made the character smile. When he sat back, he was surprised to see some life there. It unnerved him a little.
He jumped when Murtagh’s voice spoke in his ear. “Excellent work. Now you are ready to enter the wonderful world of pinch pots.” Fionn smiled at him, conscious of his creation coming alive in the room. “The thing about clay,” Murtagh said as he cleaned the surface with a muslin cloth, “is its capacity to allow the obsessions of the interior world to become manifest.” And with that, he slapped a mound of fresh clay before Fionn and left him to it.