Buried in a Bog (4 page)

“Oh my. What’s this?” She poked a round slice of something the color of tar.

“Blood sausage—Clonakilty’s famous for it. You don’t need to eat it if you don’t want to.”

“It really is made from blood?”

“That it is, among other things. Give it a try.”

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as Gran had often said. As Ellen watched, Maura quartered the piece, speared a quarter with her fork, and stuck it in her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully. Not bad, as long as you avoided thinking about what it was made from. There were a lot of chopped oats in the mix somewhere, and a touch of seasoning. Definitely not American sausage. “Interesting. Where’s Clonakilty?”

“It’s along the main road, to the east. You must have come near it on the bus. So tell me, other than calling on Bridget Nolan, what are you planning for your visit?”

Maura chewed slowly on some of Ellen’s bacon, which was closer to ham than what she was used to. “I…really don’t know. It was Gran who wanted me to come, and she made me promise. She even left enough money to pay for it, although I don’t know how she managed to put that much away. I haven’t really had time to think about any touristy stuff. Heck, I’ve never been out of the country before.” Maura had never even given traveling much thought. She and Gran had never taken anything like a vacation, unless a quick excursion out to Cape Cod with a friend counted. “I found the letters Mrs. Nolan had written to Gran, for years. I wrote to tell her that Gran had passed and that I wanted to meet her, and she answered right away. So here I am. Would anyone else remember Gran?”

“Surely they do.” Ellen sat down across the table from Maura with a cup of coffee. “Your gran was born in Knockskagh—that’s a townland only a few miles from here. Bridget Nolan was a neighbor.”

“What’s a townland?”

“Ah, do you not know the term? It’s a land division. Leap here is a village, but the townlands are smaller. Now, Skibbereen is a town—there’s maybe two thousand souls there. That’s five miles down the road. You came from the Cork side?”

“Yes, I flew into Dublin, and then I took buses from there.”

“Well, then, you’ve not seen Skibbereen. Why don’t you talk to Mrs. Nolan and see how much time you’ll want with her, and then you can plan?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Maura. “Where am I supposed to meet this Mick?”

“He’ll be stopping by here in a bit. No doubt Rose has told him you’ve arrived.”

“Who owns the pub? Is there a Sullivan there?” Maura asked.

“That’s a bit up in the air. Mick’d like to take over the place, but old Mick Sullivan died a week ago, and nobody’s figured out who inherits.”

Maura swabbed her plate with the last of the coarse brown bread. “I don’t mean to be rude, but from what I saw of it yesterday, it’s kind of a dump.”

Ellen laughed. “You’re right. Old Mick was ninety-odd, and he didn’t much like change. He ran the place to suit himself.”

“Does the place still do any business? It looked pretty quiet yesterday.”

“It does. You’ll have to go back in the evening. The locals, they don’t mind a bit of dirt in the corners, and there are regulars who stop by, and the tourists think it’s charming—they come mostly in the summer—although they usually leave after one drink, thinking they’ve seen the real Ireland.” Ellen made a face before going on. “It’s the people around here who keep it alive. Old habits die hard.”

Someone rapped firmly on the front door, and Ellen stood up. “That’d be Mick. You finish up, and I’ll bring him back. No need to hurry.”

Ellen disappeared down the hall and returned a moment later followed by a tall man in his early thirties, Maura guessed. He was casually dressed in corduroys and a knit sweater, with heavy and slightly muddy shoes, and he needed a haircut. “Mick, this is Maura Donovan.”

“Mick Nolan. Good to meet you.” Maura had stood when
he entered the room, and took the hand he offered. She noticed that he didn’t smile.

“Thank you. Ellen tells me you’re my ride out to…the townlands, is it?”

“Yes. My grannie, Mrs. Nolan, still likes living out there. Are you ready to go? She’s sharpest in the mornings. I know she’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“Let me get my things,” Maura said.

Downstairs she looked in the mirror. Her clothes looked as bad as she had feared, and her hair had dried every which way. But Mrs. Nolan would have to take her as she was. She sighed and picked up her bag and went up to meet Mick.

M
ick was waiting outside the front door when Maura came up the stairs. Ellen saw them off. “I’ll be in and out today, Maura,” she said. “But you’ve a key to the door at the back, so you can come and go as you like. Mick, say hello to your grannie for me.”

“I will,” he said, then fell silent again. He guided Maura to a car parked halfway up the drive, waited until she was settled in the passenger seat, then followed the drive to the road at the top. On the main road they turned right, then left almost immediately onto a small country road. Maura watched the countryside roll by. In today’s nice weather, she could see that spring was further along here than back home: there were cheery clumps of daffodils blooming along the road and in the fields, as well as yellow flowering bushes she couldn’t identify.

After a couple of miles of silence, Maura realized Mick hadn’t said anything. She was the visitor, the guest. Where was the Irish charm she’d heard about? Wasn’t he supposed to be entertaining her? Had she done something to offend him? “So, where exactly are we going?” she asked, in an attempt to make conversation.

“Knockskagh.”

Maura waited for him to add something, anything, more, but he didn’t. “Ellen tells me that’s a townland? What does that mean?”

He glanced briefly at her. “It’s the smallest geographic subdivision. Townlands have been around for nearly a millennium. They’re usually small, no more than twenty or thirty families. Knockskagh’s where your grandmother was born, and where she lived when she first married.”

“Well, she never told me word one about it. And your grandmother?”

“She lives in a house her husband’s family built, maybe a hundred and fifty years ago.” He glanced briefly at Maura before going on, “Look, just remember that my grannie is old and she tires quickly. But she’s kept in touch with your grandmother all these years and she wants to see you. Just go easy, will you? Don’t wear her out.”

What did he think she was planning to do, grill the old woman? Maura wondered. What made him assume she’d be rude and thoughtless? Didn’t he like Americans? “I’ll do my best,” she said a bit stiffly. “I don’t know how long I’ll be around. Will I be able to see her again? Or do I have to fit everything into this one visit?”

“Let’s see how it goes, will we?” He turned left and his car labored up the hill, along a fairly steep one-lane road.
He stopped for a moment just short of the crest. “This is Knockskagh, what there is of it.”

Maura had a quick impression of a cluster of houses, some of which seemed to be abandoned. Behind them lay green fields dotted with grazing sheep and an occasional cow. “How far does it go?”

“All in, it’s about a hundred and fifty acres.”

Maura didn’t bother to tell him that she had no clue how large an acre was; she really only knew how to measure space in city blocks.

Mick released the brake and drove on to a little yellow cottage, set perpendicular to the lane and surrounded by a handsome stone wall culminating in a pair of stone posts. The posts were closely set, meant for a cart rather than a modern car, but he turned with practiced skill into the minuscule yard in front of the house and parked. He hadn’t even turned off the engine when the brightly painted green door opened and an old woman stepped out. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, even allowing for the curve of her back, and her face was a network of fine wrinkles, like an old kid glove. But her blue eyes were bright and curious.

“Ah, Michael, you’ve brought her, then. Come in, please, and welcome.”

Ignoring her taciturn driver, Maura clambered out of the passenger side and approached. “Mrs. Nolan? Yes, I’m Maura Donovan, and I’m delighted to meet you.” She followed her diminutive hostess from the bright sunlight into the home’s shadowed interior, and waited for her eyes to adjust. It was a tiny place, two rooms downstairs, with a large fireplace dominating one end of the room they were
in, a stove planted in the middle of it. It was like nothing she’d ever seen in Boston—a true Irish cottage.

When Mick started to follow, Mrs. Nolan stopped him with a raised hand. “We’d just bore you with our talk of old times, darlin’. Why don’t you come back in a couple of hours?”

“You sure you’ll be all right, Grannie?”

“I think I can handle one nice young American girl on my own. Go on, then.”

She watched as Mick headed out the door and pulled away in the car, before turning back to Maura. “Will we sit in the parlor?” Mrs. Nolan gestured toward the smaller room, where Maura could see upholstered chairs. “And can I get you something? Tea? A biscuit?”

Maura hated to put her to any trouble, but she didn’t want to insult her hospitality. “That would be lovely. Can I help you with anything?”

“No, dear, I’ve got the kettle on the boil. I just need to set the tea to brewing. Go on, sit.”

Maura went through the doorway and into the parlor, which boasted a smaller and more elegant fireplace with a coal grate. The shallow mantel above it held a collection of photographs, of children, grandchildren, and quite possibly great-grandchildren, interspersed with china knickknacks that Maura guessed were at least a century old. There were other, earlier pictures on the walls, as well as a religious print of the Virgin Mary in a prominent central spot. The sole window in the front of the room let in a flood of spring sunshine. Maura listened to the clink of cups and cutlery as Mrs. Nolan pottered around in the other room, and while
she waited she studied the faces in the pictures, trying to find resemblances among them.

Finally Mrs. Nolan made her careful way into the room, carrying a tray laden with quaking tea things. Maura made a move to help her, but Mrs. Nolan nodded her off. “Ah, don’t worry yourself—I’m slow but steady. I do all right, most days. Better now that spring’s coming.” Maura watched with trepidation until the tray was safely settled on a table. “But you could pour for me, there’s a dear? I can’t manage the big pot so well these days, and it’s hot.”

Maura busied herself with filling the lovely bone china cups. She wondered if they were brought out only for special events. Did her visit qualify? She handed one to her hostess, then took the other and settled herself in an overstuffed chair. It gave off a faint musty sigh as she sank into it, and the pattern, to Maura’s unskilled eye, could have dated from the 1950s. She looked up to see Mrs. Nolan beaming at her.

“I’m so glad you’ve come. It gets lonely a bit here—so many of you young girls are off to work these days. Not like the old days, when there were lots of people around, kids calling after each other. Like when your grandmother Nora was young. What did she tell you of us here?”

“Very little, I’m sorry to say. I know she came to Boston after my grandfather died, with her son—my father. But I didn’t even know my father very well. He died when I was young.”

“I know, I’m so sorry—I knew him when he was only a lad, and he was a lovely boy, smart as a whip, and with a bit of sass to him.”

“And you know about…my mother?”

“That she ran off and left you in your gran’s care? I do—Nora wrote me regularly over the years. I know life was hard for all of you. Did your mother never come back?”

“No, and I haven’t looked for her either,” Maura said, uncomfortable talking about her mother.

Mrs. Nolan seemed to sense her discomfort and smoothly changed the subject. “Look here, I found some of the letters your gran sent me. I thought you might like to see them.” She rummaged among the bric-a-brac on the small table next to her chair and handed Maura a packet of papers and photos tied up with a faded ribbon. Maura recognized her grandmother’s hand on the envelopes and felt a stab of sadness. Why couldn’t they have made this trip together? But she knew the answer: they could never have afforded it, or taken the time off from work. “May I?” she asked Mrs. Nolan.

“Go on, dear.”

Maura untied the fragile ribbon and leafed through the stack. She pulled out the photos first. Some she recognized from her grandmother’s slim photo album; others she had never seen.

The photos were neatly labeled on the back in her grandmother’s handwriting. Most were of her, and she watched herself progress from a chubby baby to a sulky teenager, ending with her high school picture. Interspersed were a few pictures of her father, and one of her father and mother together, apparently taken shortly after their wedding. Some Maura remembered, and she carried a few in her bag now, but others she had never seen. It was startling to see her mother, especially looking so young and happy. Her parents
made a handsome couple. What would their marriage have been like if her father hadn’t died?

A clipping with her father’s brief obituary. Gran had never been much for picture taking, and after those early days they were few and far between. She looked up to see Mrs. Nolan watching her sympathetically.