Maureen did, smelling the beefy steam along with the rawness of the jacket’s waterproofing.
She lifted one mug and handed Paudeen his as soon as he was standing beside her. She sipped, feeling the warmth of the beef bouillon spread through her. “That’s very good,” she said. “Nearly as good as my Ma’s beef tea.”
“I’ll tell you, Maureen, on a cold day a mug of hot Oxo can be a lifesaver, bye.” He swallowed a large mouthful. “I’m sorry about today. The weather forecast was good. If I’d known that a squall was going to blow in like that, I’d never have taken you out.”
Maureen sipped. When he said, “squall,” he meant the weather, which had bothered her less than the disturbance between them. The wind may have dropped, but she hadn’t finished yet.
“I was proud of you,” he said. “I’d never have got the poles lowered without you, and if I hadn’t, it would have been a close call. I know you were scared at first, but you hid it well. A lot of girls would have been much too scared to take the wheel the way you did.”
She swallowed more Oxo before saying, “I’m not ‘a lot of girls.’ ” She saw him frown. “But you’re right. When you were at the mast and I thought we were going over, I was scared. I thought I was going to lose you.”
“I was fine. I’ve been out in worse.”
She frowned. “Is it like that often out there?”
He shook his head. “Not usually in October. Most gales come in the winter . . . and if it looks bad we don’t go out.” He chuckled. “I remember my poor ould Da once when it was howling out there and some city fellah asked him if he was going fishing. Da just looked at him for a shmall little minute; then his lip curled and he said very slowly, ‘I may be a Corkman, so, sir, but I’m not that bloody stupid, bye.’ ”
Maureen laughed, then said seriously, “Paudeen, if you are going to go on fishing, heed your Da’s advice if it’s a long life you want.”
“I will,” he said, “for it is. I’ve a lot to live for.” He looked hard at her from under a furrowed brow.
“As have I, Paudeen.” She set her mug down on the chart table and took a deep breath. “I want to marry the man I love. I want praties in the pot, herring in the creel, babbies on the rug—”
“That’s what I want too, but—”
“But, you didn’t answer my question because the storm broke, but I still understood. You simply do not want me to teach if we get married.”
“Maureen, you can’t have your cake and eat it.”
She hesitated, then said, “But I can, don’t you see? I still love you, Paudeen Kincaid.”
“And I you, Maureen.”
“Paudeen, if you’d only . . .” She couldn’t go on.
Silence hung, heavy as the storm clouds that earlier had come racing across the bay.
Paudeen spoke. “You are a strong woman.” There was sadness in his voice.
“And you a stubborn man, so. I suppose you do have to be when you fight the sea.” Her own voice was low.
“Maureen, I have my beliefs. I will have no man say of Paudeen Kincaid that he could not support his wife. That she had to go out to work. I could not bear the shame.”
In her mind she heard him say of Beau Geste, “Beau was a man who took his honour seriously . . . as a man should.” Was it honour, or was Paudeen another of the men Miss Toner talked about, men who simply wanted women to stay at home and tend to their needs the way Ma and Sinead did, the way Fidelma would?
“I don’t understand, Paudeen. Why would it be shameful?”
Paudeen sighed. “I’ll say this now, Maureen. It may be a while before I say it again. I love you. I’ll always love you. I’ll never love anyone else, but sometimes, sometimes when you get that bee in your bonnet, I find it hard to like you. I have no reason to think I’d be marrying up, but I cannot have you going out to work.”
The silence hung, poisonous as a cloud of mustard gas.
She fought back the tears. He’d not see her cry. He’d not. Finally she said, opening the door, “I think I’d best be getting on.”
Paudeen didn’t speak.
“Maybe,” she said, “maybe we should take a break. The nights are growing in. It’s no time to be cycling all the way from here to Beal na mBláth.” As she waited for his response, she put her mug on the table and handed him the jacket.
“Maybe,” he said and blew out his breath, “maybe we both should cool off a bit, just for a while . . . but I’d still like to see Tiernan . . . if that would be all right?”
That hurt. That really hurt, but she’d not let him see. “It would be, so, but you have him come here or you come to the farm on Sundays when I’ll be away.”
“I’ll see to that.” He made no effort to move closer.
Maureen swallowed, then stepped onto the deck. “I’ll be running along then. Thank you for taking me boating, Mr. Kincaid.” She didn’t wait for his answer but clambered up onto the quay.
So now she knew what more of the tarot meant. The Pavee had said that the Prince of Cups signified moods, perhaps of the sea. Maureen had certainly seen the temper of the ocean today. And the Death card? The card that could mean being in love, then losing a lover? And seeing herself in widow’s weeds? She felt the tears trickling down her cheeks. She was in mourning all right. Paudeen. Paudeen.
She turned back to look at him, but he didn’t see her. He spat overboard once and chucked the dregs of his Oxo into the oily water.
29
There was a distinct smell of oil when Maureen clambered up into Eamon’s lorry for the drive home. A bubbling Fidelma told her they’d got the ring and Maureen would see it that night as soon as Eamon had spoken to Da.
Fidelma and Eamon were so wrapped up in each other that Maureen had no need to make conversation and she was grateful for that. She didn’t want to talk. Just nurse the pain inside her. She watched the scenery pass by, but the colours seemed muted, the birds’ songs tuneless, the air chill and dank.
As soon as they got to the O’Hanlons’, Fidelma, Ma, Tiernan, and Maureen waited for Eamon to “have his wee word.” Maureen would rather have gone to her room, but she managed to show happiness when Da, with his arm round Eamon’s shoulder, came back into the kitchen and poured good whiskeys for himself, Tiernan, and his soon-to-be son-in-law.
Poor Da had no idea how much it hurt when he’d said, clearly in jest with a wink at Maureen and a smile at Ma, “One more to marry off and I’ll be able to afford to take you to Dublin for a week, Roisín, so.”
Maureen saw Ma smiling. She didn’t yet know that there was little chance now of Paudeen Kincaid being the next O’Hanlon son-in-law. Maureen shrugged at Ma and turned away. Tears were close and she had to blink them back.
Ma’d find out soon enough about Paudeen. All Maureen wanted was to bottle her pain inside herself and get away on her own. But it would have been rude not to have stayed for tea, although despite having had no lunch, she’d no real interest in Ma’s sausages and champ.
She toyed with her food as Ma and Fidelma chatted about wedding plans. Da wanted to know how Eamon’s Da’s experiment had gone. He’d recently switched from a herd of Dexter cattle, the tough little beef and milk producers, to Aberdeen Angus for beef only. Tiernan, naturally, wanted to know how his friend Paudeen was. How had the boat ride gone? But Maureen’s listless answers soon had him turn to teasing Fidelma and Eamon.
She was about to excuse herself and leave, when Tiernan asked, “When are you seeing Paudeen again, Maureen? It’s a brave while since him and me’s had a few lofts, and I’d not want to get rusty, so.”
She managed to answer, “I’m not sure.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Tiernan said. “I’ll be over in Clonakilty next week. I’ll nip over to Ring when it’s low tide. I’ll likely catch him there. I need to have a word with him and see if he’ll come out with me on Saint Stephen’s as a wren boy, raise a bit of money for the dance that night.”
Maureen had no interest in the custom of killing wren
s on Saint Stephen’s Day. And dances were far from her mind, but she managed to smile weakly at her brother and say, “I’m sure you’ll find him.” Inside her a voice whimpered, But you won’t, Maureen. You’ll never see him again.
Next morning, after a sleepless, teary night and a breakfast she’d barely touched, Maureen went up to her room to get ready for Sunday service. She could hardly bear to wear her white-with-red-roses dress, her Sunday best, the one she’d been wearing when she’d met Paudeen. Everything she did, heard, saw, reminded her of him. She adjusted the bow, then turned and stood before the wall mirror, combing her hair.
Maureen turned when Fidelma came in. Her big sister wore the small diamond solitaire that Eamon had slipped on her finger last night with such ceremony in front of everybody.
Fidelma sat on the bed. “I thought you didn’t look as if you were yourself at breakfast. Is it well you are, Maureen O’Hanlon?” She heard a softness in Fidelma’s question.
Maureen sighed. “It is not, so.”
“I suppose you talked to Paudeen yesterday?”
“I tried to.” She shook her head. “I tried, Fidelma, I really tried, but I did get no further than him telling me that he’d have ‘no man say of Paudeen Kincaid that he could not support his wife.’ ” She sighed, then let the words pour out. “I’d not concede either. I still want to teach. He can’t understand how important that is to me. I never even got time to explain why. Neither of us would give an inch. He said that when I got that bee in my bonnet, he found it hard to like me.”
Fidelma flinched.
Maureen sniffed. “I said I’d better be getting along. So we agreed to be taking a break from each other, letting the hare sit for a while, but I know it’s not just a break.” She looked straight at Fidelma. “I know I’ve lost him.”
Fidelma rose quickly and hugged Maureen, who gave in to her tears and sobbed on her sister’s shoulder. Fidelma stroked Maureen’s hair and made throaty, soothing noises.
Maureen moved back, sniffed, dashed her hand across her eyes. “I’ve lost him, Fiddles.”
Fidelma frowned and said, “I hope it’s not my fault for encouraging you to find out where you stood.”
“It is not your fault at all. It had to be said sooner or later. It’s his fault for being so thran, but it’s mine too. Maybe I should give up the teaching notion?”
“Do you want him back that bad?”
“I think . . .” Maureen made a noise halfway between a hiccup and a sob. “I think I do.”
Fidelma pursed her lips. “It’s a lot of years you’ve been wanting the teaching.”
“I know.”
“I told you, I’m not as smart as you, but I wish I’d stayed at school longer.”
“I know.” Maureen brightened a little. “He did say he wanted me to get my Leaver’s.”
“Is that not a step forward?”
“Nooo.” Maureen shook her head forcibly. “It’s not worth the having if I’m only going to be a housewife.” She glanced at Fidelma, hoping the criticism hadn’t hurt her.
“Farmer’s wife’s plenty good enough for me, Maureen, but I do understand.” Fidelma steepled her fingers. “Maybe, maybe if you wait, and I know the waiting will be hard, maybe he’ll think on it. Come around. Come back like he did the last time. He’s probably right now asking himself the same kind of question. Should he give a little? Let you teach for a while.”
“He’ll not be thinking that, for he does be a very proud man, so.” She felt her face crumpling again. “And I love him for that too. I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving him.”
Fidelma glanced at her engagement ring, lowered her voice, and said, “No. You won’t. I know that for a fact.”
Maureen’s breath caught in her throat. “Connor? Connor still?”
“Aye.” Fidelma nodded. “Maureen, he was my first love. I don’t think anyone ever stops loving their first.”
“But . . . but, I thought you were over him, Fiddles. And Eamon. What about Eamon?”
Fidelma smiled. “Eamon MacVeigh’s a kind, sweet man. He hasn’t a bad bone in his body, and I love him dearly. I’ll make him the best wife I can, and I’ll never even hint to him that there is still a tiny corner left in my heart that once in a while whispers to me, ‘Connor MacTaggart.’ ”
Maureen didn’t know what to say.
“It’s all right, a chara. I don’t hurt anymore, but I’ll never forget how much I did, and I’ll never, ever forget Connor.”
Nor would Maureen, although she’d not seen or heard hide nor hair of him since the day she and Paudeen walked to Beal na mBláth crossroads.
“I’ll not forget Paudeen either, Fiddles,” Maureen said, “but I hope . . . Lord, I do so hope”—she felt the tears start again—“that the pain will go away, or . . .” She looked more deeply into Fidelma’s face, seeking to find confirmation there. “Or that you’re right and Paudeen will come back and have changed his mind.”
“I pray so, Maureen. I truly do.” She handed Maureen a hanky and said to her, as she had when Maureen was a little girl, “Now blow your runny nose.”
Maureen took the hanky and blew. “Thanks, Fidelma, and thanks for listening.”
“And did you not try to comfort me? Why would I not listen to you now? I only wish I could do more.”
“I’ll be all right. Honestly. I just need a minute or two.”
Fidelma touched Maureen’s shoulder. “You’re upset, girl. Do you want me to tell Ma you’ve a headache and you’ll not be coming to church this morning?”
Maureen shook her head. “You’re kind, Fiddles, but no thank you. I’ll go. I’m sure I’m sadder than I’ve ever been in my whole life, but I’ll not run away from it. I’ll not pretend to be sick when I’m not.”
Fidelma hugged Maureen and kissed her cheek. “Good girl. Try not to brood the way I did . . .”
“I will, so.”
“For if you’ll not go to him—”
“I will not.”
“He’ll have to come to you.” Fidelma hugged her again. “And you know he may not?”
“I do.”
“Brooding won’t change it one way or the other.”
Maureen nodded and from below she heard Ma calling, “Come on, girls, or we’ll be late.”
Maureen smiled at Fidelma and mouthed, “Thanks.” Then she called back, “I’ll just be a minute, Ma. I need to wash my face.”
30
Never mind washing faces, Kinky thought, putting dirty bowls and dishes into the big kitchen sink at Doctor O’Reilly’s house. And those were just the start. There’d be a lot more washing-up to do by the time she had everything ready for the doctors’ Christmas dinner. She wiped her forehead with the back of her forearm. Lord, it was warm in her kitchen, but the smells were mouthwatering.
Doctor O’Reilly and his friends would be home soon and she had better get on with it. Enough of this reminiscing. Although thinking of those days did bring back good memories, it still saddened her too, and she shouldn’t be sad, not on Christmas Day. And wasn’t the work a sure cure for feeling sorry for herself? It always had been and it would be now. She’d see to her cooking.
She moved to the counter and lifted the roasting pan containing the presoaked and boiled ham, its fat etched in diamond shapes, each diamond pierced by a single clove. The room was hot, steamy, and redolent of roasting turkey, and became hotter still when she opened the oven door and slid the tray out so she could put the ham in the oven.
It was time now to half boil the potatoes she’d soon be roasting in the turkey fat. She set the pan on a ring on the oven top and heard the pop when she lit the gas.
Kinky sliced the peeled onion and began sticking cloves in each cut surface. When that was done, she placed both halves into the waiting bread sauce and put the pan on a gas ring. She’d heat it again five minutes before serving.
She carried dirty plates to the sink and turned on the tap. The old pipes made a clanging-clattery-thumpety noise. Doctor O’
Reilly was always threatening to get a plumber in, but sure, did not the road to hell be paved with good intentions, so? The rackety plumbing in the kitchen was as familiar to her as . . . as the chimes of the grandfather clock in the O’Hanlon farmhouse and, she cocked her head, the ringing of the front doorbell of Number 1 Main Street. Who was it this time? she wondered, turning off the tap and wiping her hands on a convenient towel.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Kincaid.” Archie Auchinleck, the milkman, was wearing a gabardine raincoat, heavy muffler, and woolly hat with a pom-pom. He handed her a brown paper bag. “Just a wee thingy for the doctors. A wee thank-you for fixing my back last summer, like.”
“Merry Christmas, Archie, and thank you. Now run you away on home, so. It’s snowing to beat Banagher.”
“I will, Mrs. Kincaid.” Archie turned his shoulder to the snow and strode off.
She closed the front door and took the gift into the dining room. The sideboard was getting cluttered. When her doctors came home, she’d ask them to take some of the bottles to the upstairs lounge to make room in here for the Christmas-dinner side dishes.
Outside the window the daylight was fading, and still soft, fluffy flakes fell, covering the earlier prints of pedestrians on the footpath and hiding the tyre tracks on the road. She drew the curtains and hoped her family, for that was how she’d come to think of Doctor O’Reilly and those close to him, would have no trouble getting home from the marquis’.
Back in the kitchen, Kinky glanced through the windows before she pulled the blind. Snow had always worried her, ever since Connor MacTaggart had been lost in a blizzard. She tugged the blind string, sat, and thought back to another snowfall, on Saint Stephen’s Day in 1926. So long ago.
The day before, the O’Hanlons had celebrated a family Christmas. Maureen had wondered if she might hear from Paudeen, thought maybe he’d send a card. But there’d not been a word. Nor had there been since the day she’d left him on his boat.
She knew he had been coming to see Tiernan, but always while she was away. Her sports and her studies, now that she was more determined than ever to be a teacher starting next year, kept her busy. The farm chores filled more hours and stopped her from brooding about Paudeen Kincaid—most of the time. But it was hard not to at night, after she’d blown out her candle and could, in the silence of her room, think on him, ache for him.
An Irish Country Girl Page 23