IRISH FIRE (14 page)

With his hand at her back, Annie allowed herself to be guided into the sitting room where the furniture had been pushed against the walls and the carpet rolled up to accommodate the dancers. Couples formed without regard for age or sex.

Annie took one swift, surreptitious look around at the other dancers and the tension left her body. Brian stood on the outside of the circle with Annie across from him. When he reached for her hands a pink flush spread across her cheeks.

I dont know how to dance, she confessed.

He smiled warmly. Just follow me. It isnt difficult.

The shrill notes of the fiddle signaled the beginning of the set. Annies hands were wet with perspiration. She stared at Brians feet. He let go of her hand to slip an arm around her waist, deliberately moving her in the right direction.

She had an ear for music and a natural coordination. Sooner than he expected the steps came to her. Instinctively, she turned, dipped, and twisted in time to the jarring, traditional rhythms of the ancient gypsy tune. Faster and faster the fiddles played. The music took on a fierce, desperate quality evoking images of tinkers caravans, gusts of rain, whistling gales, and lonely hillsides dotted with meager shepherds fires. When the notes were too lonely to bear, the whistle came into play again. Now the music was quick, light and gay, sun showing gold through morning mist, ponies frolicking in green paddocks, step-dancing in the center of a smoky pub filled to capacity with admiring tourists.

The room tilted and swayed. Through it all, Annie danced round and round as if shed been born with the steps in her head. It was as if all the disappointments, the slights, the pain of her banishment were washed clean. When the last note died away her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes bright with pleasure. She was breathless with excitement. I never knew it could be such fun, she gasped. Thank you for asking me.

Brian grinned at her. It was a pleasure, lass. Youve a talent for dancin. Shall we find your mother?

Caitlin came up behind them. She squeezed Annies hand. You were wonderful, love. I had no idea you could dance like that.

The childs face glowed. I didnt either.

You must be thirsty, said Brian. Why dont we find somethin to drink?

Caitlin looked over his shoulder. First we should see what my mother wants.

Brian turned to see Brigid waving at them. Reaching for Annies hand and motioning for Caitlin to follow, he carved a path through the merrymakers until they reached the spot where the older woman waited. Hello, Mrs. Keneally, Brian greeted her. I hope you saw your granddaughter on the floor. She was a sight to behold.

Brigid smiled. I wouldnt be surprised. You should have seen her mother at the same age. If shed cared enough t compete there would have been no one t measure up t her.

Brian lifted a quizzical eyebrow and looked at Caitlin. Is that so?

I dont remember it that way at all, said Caitlin, brushing the compliment aside and addressing her mother. Did you want us, Mum?

Aye. Theres a young lady from Saint Patricks who wants t meet Annie, Brigid explained. I thought it would be a good idea if the child went in knowin someone. She rested her hand on her granddaughters head. What do you think, love?

Id like to meet her, Gran. Where is she?

Come with me. Brigid took her granddaughters hand. Shes waitin by the tables.

Brian noticed Caitlins anxious look. Is somethin wrong? he asked.

She hesitated. When she spoke, the words came haltingly, as if they were difficult to admit. Annies having some trouble making friends. My mother means well. I just hope it works out.

Your mothers an unusual woman, Caitlin. Id give her some credit.

What does
unusual
mean?

He thought of the rumors hed heard about Brigid Keneally when he first came to Kilcullen Town and how impressed hed been with the way shed weathered the gossip. He wondered if Caitlin had heard them as well and decided it wasnt his place to ask. Shes raised a family and run a business on her own. Thats unusual enough.

Caitlin watched her mother disappear around the corner. I suppose it is.

Will you dance with me, Caitlin Keneally?

She looked at him, her eyes dark and shadowed. You know that isnt my name.

Its more your name than Claiborne. The name youre born with is who you are.

A faint smile appeared on her lips. You wouldnt expect your wife to change her name?

Of course not.

What about your children?

Thats different. They carry my blood.

And hers. She considered the matter. In fact, they carry more of hers than yours. After all, she carries the child for nine months, nourishes and protects it, and then gives birth. It really is absurd for a child to carry his fathers name when a mother does all that.

Youve convinced me. My children will have their mothers name. Now, will you dance with me?

She took his outstretched hand and smiled with her red, red lips. After youve conceded so gallantly, how could I refuse?

This time the music was soft, lilting, alluring, no whistle this time, only two violins and the flute. The dancers had thinned out, leaving space on the floor for six couples who came together in the soft, smokey, candlelit room.

At first she held herself away from him. But, slowly, as he led her around the floor, she relaxed and settled against his chest, the top of her head coming to just beneath his chin. He was careful to hold her innocently, casually, when what he wanted wasnt the least bit innocent or casual at all.

You should have danced with Lana, she mumbled against his shirt.

When you know me better, Caitlin Keneally, youll know that the word
should
has a strange affect on me.

What kind of affect?

An opposite one.

Does Lana know that?

Of course not. She doesnt know me at all.

She wouldnt say that.

Its true. What Lana wants is a man.

You should be flattered that shes set on you.

Not at all, Brian countered. Any one will do. I just happen to be employed and available. Those are her only requirements.

The piercing summons of a whistle interrupted them. The music stopped, couples separated, someone flicked on the overhead light. Reluctantly, Brian let Caitlins hand slip out of his own.

I think were missing something, she said softly.

Without a single regret, he could have shipped the whole bloody lot of them across the Irish Sea. I imagine that Lanas openin her gifts.

Shall we join her?

Brian considered the matter. It would be the polite thing to do, he decided.

Caitlin started for the other room. Brian followed her and took a seat in time for Lana to hold up the gift hed paid to have wrapped.

This one doesnt have a card, she said. Will someone claim it?

Brian lifted his hand.

Lana beamed and threw him a grateful look before pulling the ribbon and tearing open the wrapping. Nestled inside the small, flat box was a fountain pen. It seemed to Brian that a lifetime passed between the falling of her face, her trembling lower lip, the rallied smile, and the holding up of the pen for everyone to see.

Later, after the remaining gifts had been opened and the party began to fade, Lana walked with him to the door. Did you choose my gift yourself? she asked casually.

He pulled up the collar of his jacket and stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. I did. You can never seem to find a pen when its time to take an order for a meal, he explained.

Her laugh was forced. What a lovely idea. Thank you, Brian. Youll have to come in tomorrow to see me use it.

Relief swept through him. It was all right after all, a practical gift but one that wouldnt raise a girls hopes. Not tomorrow, lass. Ill be out of town for a few days. Caitlins colt needs some attention. Well be leavin first thing in the mornin.

Lanas voice was harsh and cracked as if broken glass had wedged itself into the softness of her throat. Caitlin is going with you?

Brian was shocked at the look on her face. Aye, he said uneasily. Its her colt, you see.

I do see, Brian, she said softly. I see very well.

L
iam Malones tailor shop was up the narrowest set of stairs in Kilcullen Town. The building was a relic left over from the seventeenth century with the slanting floorboards, thick walls, and high narrow windows typical of the period. Every available space was occupied with tweeds, worsted wool, knit blends, and, in anticipation of the coldest part of the year, satin and velvet for the holidays to come. A long counter with an ancient cash register ran the entire length of the shop and on two racks facing the windows was an array of buttons and ribbons fanciful enough for the most creative seamstress.

Brigid knew every nook and cranny. After six daughters, the oldest who had to be outfitted with a school uniform every year and the others needing various stages of alterations for their hand-me-downs, it would be a miracle if she couldnt walk the floor blindfolded and still find exactly what she needed.

Preceding Annie and Caitlin into the shop, Brigid sniffed and reached for her handkerchief. What the horse dust of Kilcullen had never done to her sinuses, this place with its layers of dust, years in collecting since Maggie Malones death, would do in good measure. Mr. Malone, she called out, peering into the dimly lit room with its rolls of fabric. Its Brigid Keneally. My granddaughter will be needin a school uniform.

A man with a high domed forehead, slightly hunched shoulders, but still so tall that his head touched the exposed beams of the ceiling, stuck his head out from behind a bolt of wool and stood up.

He was thin enough for a stranger to worry over but Brigid had known him for years. Malones were born looking like scarecrows and they all lived long enough for none of them to complain of their time allotment on earth.

The tailor squinted in the half darkness and then his face broke into a smile. My, my, isnt it a grand thing to be seein little Caitie Keneally all grown up. How are you, lass?

Caitlin ignored his outstretched hand and reached up the entire length of her arms to hug him. Im well, Mr. Malone, she mumbled against the white shirt and tie he wore day in and day out whether or not there were customers. Then she stepped back and drew Annie forward. This is my daughter, Annie. Shell be attending Saint Patricks as soon as you can have a uniform ready for her.

The tailor bent over, resting his hands on his knees. Pleased to meet you, Annie. Youve the look of your mother when she was a girl. I suppose wed better measure and have the uniform done quickly. Until then, theres a spare jumper and skirt you can wear for the first few days. How does that sound?

Thank you, sir, Annie answered politely.

The old man straightened. Theres a bit of tea left on the stove if youd care to pour, Brigid. I made it up for Father Duran but hes late today. You can have his and Ill make more when he turns up.

Youre expecting Father Duran?

Aye.

Brigid glanced toward the door. We can take the spare clothes and come back later if youre busy, Liam.

Rubbish. The tailor had already reached into his pocket for the measuring tape. Hes only comin to pick up the cassock I mended for him. Its already paid for.

Brigid watched as he helped Annie up onto the stool in front of the full length mirror. Caitlin had already gone to set up the cups for tea.

Walking over to the window, she crossed her arms against her chest and looked out onto the street. The world was a veil of gray with swirls of smoke from the turf fires of a dozen chimneys, and windows ablaze with lamplight and false cheer. Were they happy, these women who pattered about from table to stove and back again, buttering toast, frying chips, preparing tea for men too dizzy and swaying with drink to want anything more than a bed and a hot water bottle?

The more naive of her friends pitied her when Sean died. A woman without a man to provide for her lived a life of drudgery in their eyes. And yet were their lives any better than hers? When she came in from long days in the store or the pub to lock the door behind her, she had no one to answer to, no loud snoring to keep her awake, no toilet seat up in the bathroom, no mess on the floor, no arguing over money or the children or whether to take a holiday. She was an independent woman with her own business, her own money, answerable to no one. Loneliness was a problem but it wasnt a new one. Shed been lonely long before she was widowed and didnt know many women who werent. The truth shed come to know was that men didnt marry for companionship. They married for sex and children and to make their lives easier. When they wanted companionship they took themselves off to the nearest pub to share the
craic
with other men like themselves.

Brigid Keneally knew what it was to be in love. Shed found it on a day that had ended much as this one would, after the exchange of forbidden words, the touch of a hand on hers, the blinding brilliance of a smile that changed a mans face from handsome to approachable.

But love, she could have told anyone who listened, wasnt a constant. It changed daily, ascending and descending, between need and desire and doubt and heartbreak, finally settling into a level of comfort where doubt and heartbreak went by the wayside along with what remained of passion and need.

A draft of cold air pierced the wool of her jumper. Knowing who had entered the shop, she turned to greet him. To Brigids surprise, Caitlin called out his name first.

Good afternoon, Father, her daughter said pleasantly. Ive made tea. Would you care to join us while Mr. Malone measures Annie?

I would like that very much, he said, seating himself on a low stool. He drew up his legs to accommodate the small chair. His cassock pooled in folds on the floor.

He looked like a vulture dressed all in black with that beak of a nose, thought Brigid uncharitably, turning back to the window.

Mum. Caitlin held out a cup of tea. Come over here and join us.

Reluctantly, Brigid crossed the room and sat down opposite the priest.

How are you, Brigid? he asked.

Very well, thank you, Father.

Caitlin stirred milk into her tea and glanced at her mother. Brigid felt her daughters curiosity.

At last, for lack of anything better to say, Caitlin stated the obvious. Annie will be attending Saint Patricks on Monday. Mr. Malone is measuring her for a school uniform.

Father Duran smiled approvingly. Im glad to hear it. Does that mean well be seeing your entire family for Mass on Sunday?

Caitlin laughed. You know perfectly well it does, although this week Mum will be taking the children alone. Ive an appointment in Galway with a veterinarian.

Ill be sure and save my most entertaining homily for your return.

Caitlin lifted her cup. Do that.

Brigid stared at the two of them. Could she be hearing them correctly? The tone of their conversation was light-hearted, jovial, as if theyd been friends for years. When had Caitlin become so cozy with Father Duran?

She cleared her throat. Which will be Father OSheas Mass? she asked.

Nine oclock as usual.

Ive been meanin t attend that one. She felt her own rudeness and hurried to soften the words, to make it seem to Caitlin as if the time was the issue. It will be better for the children t go a bit later.

The priest nodded. Either way Ill look for you. I always assist at Martins Masses.

Brigid nodded and drained her cup.

Later, after the children were in bed and Brigid was busy with the supper dishes, Caitlin joined her mother in the kitchen. Picking up a towel she began to dry the plates. The silence stretched out between them. Brigid could stand it no longer. Whats on your mind, Caitlin?

I thought Deirdre would visit more often, she replied.

Brigid gave a deprecating laugh. Your sister has six children and another on the way. Besides, livin in the Six Counties is like livin on the moon. She would have to cross the checkpoints and I dont want her riskin it. She writes occasionally.

Will she come for Christmas?

Anne and Deirdre usually make it home.

Brigid scrubbed a greasy pan vigorously. Why the sudden interest in seein your sisters? Youve missed fifteen Christmas dinners.

Caitlin ignored the question and continued to wipe the same plate shed started with. You never told me how you met my father. Why is that?

Brigid sighed, pulled the plug and watched the water swirl and drain in the sink. First Deirdre and now your father. Whats this all about?

The plate forgotten, Caitlin stared at her mother with eyes that were wide and dark and accusing. Id like to talk with you, Mum, the way a mother and daughter should talk. Why wont you meet me halfway?

Brigid dried her hands, pulled out a chair and slid wearily, bonelessly, into it. She was tired, too tired to be defensive, much too tired to hold out against the onslaught of her daughters probe. This is about you, isnt it, Caitlin? What is it that you want t know? This is as good a time as any.

It doesnt really matter what we talk about. Why dont you tell me about my father.

Staring into the earnest, dark-eyed face of the woman who should have been Sean Keneallys daughter, Brigid knew she had met her Rubicon. This moment had been written in destiny, waiting like a simmering cauldron for that extra bit of heat to boil over its sides. What child, especially one as different from her mother as Caitlin, would not want to know of the man who had sired her. Brigid folded her hands and closed her eyes briefly. Ordinarily she would have prayed, but this was not the time for prayer. Not all the penances doled out within the darkened confines of the confessional would absolve the lie she had lived.

Sean Keneally was born on Inishmore before there was plumbin and electric lightin, well before the tourists started comin over in droves. With only eight hundred people on the island, he was related in some way or other t nearly everyone there. His father was fond of the drink, as was his father before him, but that wasnt so unusual for a place where winter darkness sets in at three in the afternoon and the rain and the sky and the sea all run together in an endless blanket of gray.

Caitlin was listening intently.

A woman who married a Keneally man knew what her life would be: up before dawn to walk her man down to the fishin boats, wave him off prayin he didnt drown, gatherin the seaweed and haulin it back to a field so rocky even the crows refused t bother pickin out the seeds. Brigid shook her head. The worst of it was the waitin. Sometimes the men wouldnt come home at all until the next day. I was sure Sean was dead, washed over into a ragin sea after a bout with the drink.

I tried t stay, Caitlin. But I couldnt bear it, what with the wind lashin the cottage and the rain comin sideways, poundin against the back wall, water seepin in under the door until the flagstone looked like a toilet had overflowed. Not that we had plumbin, mind you, just an outhouse in the back. It was so dark. I was always cold, always damp. The wind howled across those stones. Nothin ever dried. I got sick. My cough wouldnt stop, and thats when he said we could leave.

This part of the story was new to Caitlin. You never told me you lived on the island.

Brigid shuddered. I wanted t forget. It wasnt the place for me just as this wasnt the place for Sean. Sometimes you cant take a person from where he belongshe wont survive the leavin.

Is that what happened?

Brigid thought for a minute. I think so. He was never happy here. Theres somethin about island people. They can never quite manage anywhere else.

I heard that he died of alcohol poisoning.

Brigid nodded. That, too.

Did you love him?

This was the question for which she could not lie. In the beginning, I loved him. Later, I didnt.

Why not?

Sometimes it happens. You should know that.

Caitlin looked beyond her to somewhere across the room. Brigid doubted that it was Sam Claiborne who brought that look to her face.

How did the two of you meet?

Brigid looked at the clock. It was already half past nine. Caitlin had pulled out a chair and sat down at the table across from her. Resurrecting ancient history was something Brigid did not enjoy. She was not one who believed that dredging up and examining painful secrets was necessary for healing. The least said the better, was her motto. Still, there had been a few good years between Sean Keneally and herself, years when the annual rainfall had been unusually light, when there had only been two daughters to feed, when the thought of her waiting at home for him in a well-scrubbed cottage with a red door and a thatched roof had been enough to keep him out of the pubs.