by Forbes, Sara
“Oh God, yes.” Garrett rolls his eyes. “Always grumbling about it.”
“What?” My chest feels too tight and I fight for breath. And this is what I almost let Lorcan witness?
When Danny comes back with Lorcan, I pull him aside at the first chance.
“Is it true about the Callaghan bonfire? They burn a figure of you?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s deplorable! Can’t you stop them?”
“No.”
“Why don’t I know about this?”
“Because everyone kept it secret from you,” he says. “I mean, who in their right mind would say it to your face?”
“You could’ve! How do you know about it then?”
“Sean Lannigan told Nuala, who told my mother.”
“Of course.”
“While we’re on the subject, there’s something else you should know,” he says, his blue eyes troubled.
“What?”
“Niall Callaghan—he’s the brainchild of all this—he makes a figure of you, too, and they burn that too.”
My hand flies to my mouth. “What? Oh my God.”
A lump forms in my throat. Whereas before I was livid, now I’m deeply saddened. “Just…don’t tell me they have one of Lorcan?”
“No, of course not. He’s an innocent child. Plus, he’s a Callaghan.” Danny puts his arm around my shoulder. “Forget about them. Come on back and watch the game.”
I do go back to the game. But I don’t forget.
*
When we’re back in Ballytirrel, I ask Deirdre if she can put Lorcan to bed for me because I’m going out.
“But I won’t be long,” I tell her.
“OK,” she says. “We’ll watch a Disney movie.”
I drive to Callaghan Castle. The original plan was for Seamus to come to my house tonight but that’s not going to happen.
When I draw up, it feels weird. I’m not expected here. They’re not looking out the window in hatred.
I march into reception. Seamus is there, manning the desk, dealing with a group of four middle-aged Germans who are checking out. They’ve a ton of luggage and a ton of questions about their next destination. I get to hear his impressive command of the language.
Seamus has told me he sees it as is duty to see guests safely on the next leg of their journey, door-to-door, as if he’s handing a child from one minder to another. He often calls the next hotel to make sure his departing guests are expected. It’s the five-star treatment he’s always talking about.
I’m impatient having to wait behind them. I tap my foot until they clear off, hauling their colorful suitcases past me.
I approach the desk. He looks up and sees me for the first time. His professional smile turns warm which makes my stomach clench even tighter.
“Checking in?” he asks.
“Mm. No,” I say.
He sees the expression on my face and his smile falters and dies. “What’s wrong?”
“I just heard today about what you all do at this bonfire ceremony. You never mentioned you built figures of Danny and me and burned them. Kind of an important detail, don’t you think?”
He exhales impatiently. “Right. I won’t lie to you. That does happen, yes.”
“And it’ll happen again, next week? Despite everything…” My voice cracks even though I’d promised myself I’d be strong. “Despite us?”
“I can’t stop him. Niall, that is. He’s totally into it. Maybe I can stop it next year—”
“And you’re still going?”
“Yes, I have to.”
“You don’t, you have a choice,” I splutter. “You always have a choice. You haven’t gone the six years while you were away. So why do you have to go now?”
“That’s why I have to go, Cliona, it’s family, and I’ve been absent to long. Yes, it’s maudlin, and rambunctious, and totally ludicrous, but it has meaning to them.”
“No—it’s hateful, malicious and moronic. It’s something I’d expect of a sub-intelligent vandal gang, not of an illustrious family who pride themselves in their noble, Celtic traditions. Well, I curse your ancient family. Look what it’s bred.”
His face goes hard like I’ve never seen it go hard. “I’ll thank you not to speak like that of my family. Not here, not anywhere.”
“You know what?” I splutter. “I’ve had just about enough about your family. I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but you all end up spitting in my face. Oh, don’t give me that look, you will too, just given time. The longer you stay here in the nest, the more infected you’ll become.”
He shakes his head. “So, this is this your excuse for cutting me off. I see.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Now that your darling duke is back, you don’t need me, you didn’t need the extra help, do you? Because you’ve got Uncle Danny at your beck and call again. I find the timing auspicious, or should I say, suspicious.”
“How dare you? This has nothing to do with Danny.”
“This has everything to do with Danny.” He glares down at me.
“I repeat,” I say firmly, “It has nothing to do with Danny and all to do with the fact that you concealed the truth of what you say and do with your family behind my back.”
“Cliona, until you come to terms, really come to terms, with what Danny put us through, you can’t understand the fine line I’m trying to tread here, seeking reconciliation on all sides.”
“What I can’t come to terms with,” I say, my voice shaking with white-hot rage, “is that it’s still all about you and your precious family. Surgically attached, all of you. If it’s really so hard for you, then just stop trying to reconcile things that clearly can’t be reconciled.”
He slaps the counter. “OK, what do you suggest?”
“We go back to the old arrangement. At least it worked. Lorcan was happy, not confused, not used as a weapon in a tug of war.”
“You mean we don’t see each other?”
I nod.
He sucks in a breath. “Maybe it’s for the best, if this is the way you feel.”
He sounds like he’s reciting words someone else handed him to read out loud. My heart is breaking, but my head is telling me it’s the right thing to do. Not just for Lorcan, but for Seamus too—for his family unity, for his standing in the community. And maybe someday in the distant future, I’ll see that it was the right thing for me as well, even if I don’t feel it at the moment.
“So, I’ll just go. I see you’re busy,” I say. More guests are coming into the reception area.
I watch him struggle to rearrange his stricken look into a professional mask for the approaching guests. He just about manages it. I turn and head for the door with my usual walking speed when I’m leaving the Callaghan Hotel. That is to say, pretty fast.
*
When I get home, I’m zonked. I can’t feel or think. I certainly can’t talk, so I’m relieved that the house is totally quiet.
My first impulse is to call Danny. But I can’t do that as he’s probably cozied up with his new bride. My second choice would be Ellen, but it’s past her bed-time.
I wish I could go down to my horses and take my mare out for a moonlit ride, as I sometimes did when my worries got too much. But even that’s impossible as the horses are in someone else’s possession.
God, I don’t even have a dog. Why don’t I have a freaking dog?
With a heavy sigh, I go upstairs and peer in the door of Lorcan’s bedroom. As I suspected, Deirdre fell asleep while reading to Lorcan. Their two heads have fallen together, the book is open and flat down on the duvet in front of them. I smile.
At least I’ve still got this.
20
SEAMUS
My father’s making an ill-advised attempt to cheer me up every time he sees me, not realizing he’s having the opposite effect. A week on, everyone knows Cliona and I have split up. I keep getting curious looks from people—at mass, down in MacAuley’s, in Lannigan’s, at the vets,
the hardware shop, the florist’s. It’s ridiculous.
Cliona talked about this all the time…the undercurrent of curiosity, the network of facts and fiction that underpins the social strata of small-town life. I never really felt its potency…until now. I’m getting a hint of what it must feel like to be on the “wrong” side of everyone. Not that I’m there yet, but I do feel the tide of opinion toward me is a subtle shade of negative. And I don’t like it one bit.
Lorcan had a play date during this time, and it was business as usual. I made sure to avoid the front desk when Cliona dropped him off, and Niall and Da entertained Lorcan in the garden.
I’m coming out of the dining-room with a stack of twenty linen tablecloths piled up in my arms when Da says, “Son, you’re working too hard.”
“Father, you’re going soft in the head,” I say. It’s true that I’ve been going straight for seventeen hours straight, and doing it for five days in a row but the old man has never once in his life said anything like this to me.
“I know what’s on your mind. Forget her.”
I sniff angrily. “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Aye, I would. Time to move on.”
“Just so you know, I’m banning the fire next year. If Niall wants to do it, it’ll be over my dead body. Then you’ll have two for the price of one.”
His face sags in shock. “Don’t say such wicked things.”
“I’ll say what I want. Everyone else does.”
Better still, I’ll sell off Ginnitty’s field behind their backs. If that doesn’t work, I’ll plant an orchard on the site. A pear orchard. He loved pears. A much more positive way to remember Owen, if that’s what they truly want to do.
But part of me knows they just want to let out their rogue spirits and go wild. Because I feel that anger still inside of me too. But it’s not directed at Cliona. Or even at the duke. It’s anger at Death. That’s what we’re all rebelling against in the end.
And I want her back.
But if I’m honest with myself, I made my choice. I made it when I let her walk out of here and chose to serve my customers instead. I made it when I didn’t tell her the full truth about the bonfire. I made it when I taunted her about the duke when I knew how hard she’d been trying to keep things continuous for Lorcan. It was my big old ego getting jealous that made me let her go. It’s really that simple.
Who am I to say that blood ties should be stronger than those of a true friendship? It’s Danny that deserves to be uncle, not me.
*
I collect Enda from the station. His train from Kildare via Portlaoise is on time.
I sit in the car, watching the people disembark. How will he be? When I left my youngest brother to the train six months ago, little did I know it would take him all this time before he wanted to return.
He resisted all our entreaties, saying he had a lot on his mind. As he’s secured himself a scholarship that covers tuition and accommodation in Maynooth University on account of his excellent grades in the first year, he doesn’t owe anyone anything.
There he is. His cherubic face is thinner. There are dark circles under the eyes, but nothing that any other young person his age doesn’t get from too many nights in the pub. Although in his case, I suspect it’s due to too many nights reading and agonizing over his “calling”.
“How is it?” I ask him.
“It’s amazing to be back,” he says in his melodious voice as he gazes around at the trees. “How is Da? Niall?”
“Everyone’s good,” I say. “They’re worried about you.”
He holds my gaze levelly. “They shouldn’t be. My struggle is my own, but they each have their own.”
“Very deep, little bro, but you know what I mean. We’re worried about your decision. You have to admit, it’s a big one.”
He shakes his head with a subtle smile. “It’s no bigger than the decisions you’re making about your own lives every moment of every day. It’s only huge in your minds because it’s the clergy, and society have this utter horror about celibacy and Catholic priests committing unspeakable acts.”
“Well, there is that,” I admit.
“Let me put your mind to rest on that score.”
“You’re not going to take your vows?” I ask joyfully.
“I didn’t say that.” He flashes me a reproachful smile.
“Oh.”
“I just mean that if I do follow my vocation with conviction and take my vows, that celibacy won’t be an issue for me, and neither will the sins of the church.”
I sigh. “Let’s get you home. We have steaks cooking on the grill and beers cooling. Don’t tell me you turned vegan or something?”
He grins. “Not many vegans in the bible. Or teetotalers, either.”
“Yeah? I wouldn’t know. Speaking of ancient rituals, Niall can’t wait to have you home and to get started on the ceremonials.”
“Same as every year?” Enda asks, and there’s a slight edge to his tone that suggests I may not be alone in having second thoughts about our hallowed traditions.
“Yep. Mass, dinner, bonfire.”
He exhales softly. “For Owen.”
I glance at him. “You think he’d still want it?”
“It’s not about him. Owen didn’t even like fire—ever since he burnt his hair on the stage lighting that time in his first year.”
This makes me pause. “I totally forgot about that.”
“It’s for us,” Enda says. “It’s a ritual that binds us.”
“Yeah,” I say. Tears us apart, more like.
I don’t press him further, but my heart is lighter knowing that I have a potential ally on my side when I argue the case for banning the tradition next year.
21
CLIONA
When I was a child, my mother always said that curiosity would get the better of me one day. Well, it looks like that day has arrived.
It’s July 21st. Owen’s Day.
That clanging of church bells in the distance? That’s where they are right now. Then they’ll be in the hotel, and then once evening comes, it’ll be up that hill to Ginnitty’s field.
“I want to go there. Yes, it’s crazy but I want to see the fire,” I admit to Danny and Shannon.
We’re loitering in their kitchen after having mucked out in the stables, attacking the pile of cucumber, watercress, and ham sandwiches that Mrs. Muldoon laid out for us. I’m teaching Shannon to ride, or at least to be less fearful of the horses, and am making some progress. Being outside in Danny’s superbly equipped stables, and communicating with the horses does my mood wonders.
I’ve made a pact with myself to concentrate on positive experiences like this. It’ll help me get over Seamus.
But now, curiosity has gotten the better of me. I want to see with my own eyes what the Callaghans do at this ceremony. Because this is the reason we broke up. I want it to be real, and devastating, not some trivial point we quibbled over. Because the longer we’re apart, the more overblown the whole bonfire thing seems.
And I know how I’m going to do it. There is a circle of Rowan bushes near the bonfire spot that covers anyone hiding in it. I just have to go up there while they’re at dinner. And wait it out until it’s dark enough to come out and observe the party. It’s such a warm evening, it won’t be a hardship.
Danny throws up his hands. “You know what? I don’t care. I have absolutely no compulsion to see the horrid thing, but if you must, you must.”
“I’d love to go with you, Cliona,” Shannon says. “But…yeah.”
“I know,” I say patting her arm. “Not fitting for a duchess.”
“Hey.” She swats me away playfully, and I laugh. The Texan is still struggling to get used to her new title and her role as lady of the house.
“Take a photo, won’t you?” she pleads. “My friend Marcie wants to see it.”
We both stare at her in surprise.
She shrugs. “What can I say? She has a thing for pyr
omaniacs.”
*
Shannon was right about Niall Callaghan being a pyromaniac. From my vantage point inside the Rowan bushes, I watch him tinker with the bonfire even while the others are at dinner. He stares into the sky, gauges the wind direction, rearranges the smaller, kindling twigs. He goes into the hotel twice to get fire fluid. And finally, he pulls out the straw man and woman.
I crane my neck to see. They’re as bad as you’d expect. The man has a huge, bulging head with sloppily painted eyes, nose, and mouth, dumpy arms and legs pushed into an old navy-blue suit and grey-white shirt. I have to stuff my sleeve into my mouth not to laugh. It looks nothing like Danny. Then he throws my one on the pile—a lady straw figure in a floral dress—which I would never wear. She does have old riding boots on, so they got that right.
I have my phone with me on full battery so I settle down on the grassy ground on the blanket I brought and I start to read an e-book. It’s actually quite pleasant. I almost forget where I am.
But soon, voices come drifting up the hill. I peek through the gap in the leaves. They’re come out of the back of the hotel in pairs. It’s Niall and the father first. Then Seamus and Enda. A brother of the father takes up the rear with someone who looks to be his son.
So, it’s an all-male thing. They’ve got a cooler with beer and maybe some stronger spirits too. Their chatter is loud. It’s got all the finesse of a frat party. They form a circle around the fire which Niall has lit up. There seems to be a lot of discussion about the construction of the pile and the artistic merit of the straw people.
Then, as the blaze really ignites, they grow silent.
“For Owen,” Niall yells, one arm raised high in the air. “We’ll never forget you!”
They all copy him, cheering in a stirring unison.
The music gets turned on—a mix of traditional Irish, rebel Irish and contemporary rock. They huddle together, talking. Now and again, there’s a chorus of laughter. As darkness crowds in, I give up reading and decide it’s safe to venture out of the circle of bushes. I sneak out and find a sawn-off tree log that makes for a comfortable chair. I’m nearer the fire now but still obscured by a tree.