Notes from a Spinning Planet—Ireland (15 page)

“But something was wrong between you and him?”

Ryan reminds me of a prosecuting attorney just now, like he’s trying to make some specific point, but I’m not sure what it is. I wonder if he knows himself.

“Like I said, I’d been trying to distance myself,” Ian patiently explains. “From my political ties, so to speak.”

“From the IRA?” Ryan says.

“Yes. I’d come to realize that our methods weren’t working—that violence only begets violence, and killing just leads to more killing. And innocent people get hurt. It becomes a never-ending vicious cycle. Can you understand that, Ryan?”

It’s hard to read Ryan’s expression, but he gives a small nod.

“So you were giving it all up then?” It feels like my chance to finally jump in here. “You had really decided to quit”—I lower my voice out of respect for Ian—“the IRA?”

“That’s right.”

“And then Ryan’s dad came back here,” I continue, eager to tie this thing up, “but things had changed between you two. He was still involved, but you had moved on.”

“That sums it up.”

I look at Ryan, hoping this will help him to let go of this…whatever it is he keeps hanging on to. But he still looks slightly troubled.

“So, Ryan.” Ian’s voice gets lighter. “Have you had a chance to meet any of your relatives yet?”

Ryan’s face brightens a bit. “Relatives? I didn’t know if any of them were still around.” Then he tells Ian about the old man in the music store. “The only ones he knew all seemed to be dead.”

“I didn’t know many of Mick’s relatives,” Ian admits. “But there was a spinster aunt in these parts that Mick would visit from time to time, and he took me to meet her once. She was the oldest sibling of the McIntires, his da’s only sister. I’m not sure if she’s still around or not, but she’d probably be in her eighties by now. She had a little cottage up Malin Head way. As I recall, the home had been in the McIntire family for some time. A bit of history, you know. We could take a ride up there if you like. I could at least show you the spot.”

“That’d be great.” Ryan smiles now, and I’m hoping we’re finished with the subject of Ryan’s dad and anything to do with the IRA. It makes me very uncomfortable, and I suspect Ian doesn’t care for it much either. I think he’s actually been quite patient with Ryan’s little inquisition.

“Here ya go,” says Rhiannon as she begins to unload a large tray of food. “Eat up.”

Thankfully, our conversation does move on now. Ian talks about Quin and how he started the bike shop with practically nothing but in recent years had built it into a thriving operation. “That Quin has quite a good business head on him. He even designed a very clever Web site that he uses to advertise and book his bike tours. It’s accessible from all around the world.”

“Quin mentioned how you helped him get the shop started,” I say as I reach for another piece of soda bread to go with my soup.

“Aw, it wasn’t much that I did. And I was happy to help him. Quin’s been the closest thing to a son for me.”

For some reason this reminds me of Sid. And, of course, there are so many questions I’d love to ask Ian. But for my aunt’s sake, I will keep my mouth shut. Still, I keep wishing he’d ask about her. Just once. Like, “How’s old Sid doing these days?” Some casual little reminder that he actually remembers her name. It kills me to think she’s been pining away for a guy who won’t even give her the time of day. It’s so wrong.

“Quin said to stop by the shop if you have time today,” Ryan says as we’re leaving the pub.

“Of course. I wouldn’t think of leaving town without doing that.” Ian looks at his watch. “Do you still want to go see the cottage?”

“Definitely.” Ryan glances at me. “Do you want to come too?”

“Sure.”

“How about if I pick you up at half past two?” Ian suggests.

So we tell him which hotel we’re in, and it’s settled.

“He seems nice,” I say to Ryan as we walk back to the hotel.

I guess.

“You don’t like him?”

“I don’t really know him.”

“But he answered all your questions,” I remind him.

“Sort of.”

“Is it hard letting go of this thing with your dad?”

“Letting go?” He tosses me a curious glance.

“I mean, it seems you’re kind of hanging on to something. Like there’s something in your dad’s past you can’t get over.”

“Well, it’s been pretty weird hearing that the guy who was supposed to be my dad’s best friend in Ireland, the guy who was supposed to have been killed with my dad, is still alive. Not only that, but he gave up on the cause my dad died for. And did you hear his excuse, Maddie?”

“Driving the van?”

“Yeah. What’s up with that?”

“I think it was just his way of distancing himself from your dad,” I say as we reach the hotel. “Keeping himself separate from anything to do with the IRA.”

“Yeah, but then my dad gets blown up, Maddie. Does that seem a little fishy to you?”

“But Ian’s brother was blown up with him, Ryan. And Ian’s car too.”

“That certainly made it
look
innocent.”

“Ryan?” I study him for a moment, wondering what happened to the Ryan I thought I knew. The grounded guy with an answer for everything.

“I know, I know,” he says as he reaches for the door. “I probably sound paranoid. But I guess I just need to get to the bottom of this.”

“What if there is no bottom?”

He shrugs as we go inside. “I suppose that’s a real possibility.” “So, tell me,” I say after we’re upstairs and about to part ways.
“Are you going to keep grilling Ian when he drives us to Malin Head?”

“I don’t know.”

“You are, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. Why?”

I consider this as I try to find my room key in my bag. “Because if that’s the case, I’m not sure I want to go with you. I mean, it was pretty uncomfortable during lunch.”

“Sorry.”

“No, that’s okay. I actually sort of understand, Ryan. And if this is something you just need to get out of your system, well then, be my guest. I guess I’m saying I don’t want to be a willing participant.” I don’t add that it also makes me feel pretty sorry for Ian.

“Okay, what if I promise to quit grilling him?”

“I don’t want you to do that for my sake.” I finally find my key at the bottom of my bag.

“But I
want you
to come, Maddie.”

“Really?” I study his expression, but it’s hard to read.

“Yeah. But what if it turns out the old aunt is still living there?” he teases as I unlock the door to my room. “Am I permitted to ask
her
any questions about my dad?”

“Of course,” I say as I open the door. “That might actually be interesting.”

“Meet you in the lobby,” he calls as he goes into his room.

Then I shut the door and stand there for a moment. I think he likes me.

I
an is standing by a very cool sports car that’s parked across the street. It’s long and low and dark blue.

“That’s a Jaguar,” observes Ryan as we wave and cross over.

“Expensive?” I ask. I’m sort of oblivious to cars.

“Yeah.”

“Ya ready?” Ian asks as he opens the passenger door, nodding to me like I get to sit in front. I glance at Ryan, but he’s already getting into the back.

“Cool car,” I say to Ian as I slide onto the smooth leather seat.

“Thanks.” He grins. “One of the perks of having a somewhat popular eating establishment.”

He acts as a tour guide as he drives north, pointing out sites, some I already saw on the bike trip. Ryan is asking good questions and, it seems, keeping his promise not to grill Ian.

It’s not long until Ian turns his car onto a gravel road that passes by a few houses clustered together. He says the name of the place, a word I can’t even begin to pronounce.

“Mary’s cottage is just at the end of this road.”

“The aunt?” I ask.

“Yes. Aunt Mary.”

I spot a white building up ahead. Shining in the afternoon sun, it has bright blue shutters, a red door, and a thatched roof.

“Is that it?” I ask.

“That’s it.” Ian parks the car along the road, just a short way from the cottage. “The question is, does she still live here?” He turns around to look at Ryan. “Want me to check first?”

“That’s probably a good idea.” Ryan’s leaning forward to look at the cottage. “Just in case.”

After Ian’s out of the car, I turn around to see Ryan. His eyes are wide as he stares at the cottage.

“Isn’t it pretty?” I say. “Look at those flowering vines growing over the right side of the house. Whoever lives here must have a green thumb.”

“It’s amazing to think that my ancestors might have lived here,” he says. “Or that my father actually came here and stayed here.”

“Pretty cool, huh?”

“Yeah, it is.”

Ian is talking to a man who looks to be in his thirties. Not a good sign, I’m thinking. And now he’s coming back. But he’s smiling.

“Mary still lives here,” he tells us. “That’s her handyman there. He came over to fix a stone fence that’s falling down.”

“Does she mind if we come in?” Ryan asks as he gets out.

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to meet a long-lost relative.”

As we walk toward the house, an elderly woman emerges by way of the red door. Her hair is white, but there’s a bounce in her
step, and a smile breaks across her face as she gets closer. Going straight for Ryan, she walks up and takes him by both hands.

“Mary, I’d like to introduce you to your great-nephew, Ryan McIntire.”

“I’d know you anywhere, son. The spitting image of your da, you are. Oh, my Michael would be proud to know you, he would.”

Then she hugs him, holding him close for what seems like several minutes but is probably just a few seconds. When she lets go of him and stands there looking at him, I think I see tears in Ryan’s eyes. But I’m sure they’re happy ones.

Ian continues the introductions, and when I try to call her Miss McIntire, she quickly corrects me. “Just call me Mary, darling,” she says as we walk up to the house. The stone walkway is bordered by small flowering plants that look somewhat like primroses. “Some folks even call me Mary Mack, although I’m not terribly fond of that name since I’ve been hearing that old song since I was a wee one.”

She gets a straw sun hat that’s hanging on a peg by the front door and proceeds to give us the grand tour of her place, which is like something right out of a picture book or an Irish travel brochure. Not only are her gardens spectacular, but beyond a wall of tall hedges, which she says are to protect the house from the wind, she also has a view of the ocean.

“This is so beautiful,” I say as we stand and admire the panorama.

“Our people were fishermen,” she says. “Always lived by the sea.”

Then she takes us inside. The cottage is bigger than it looks, with lots of small rooms connected to each other. It’s filled with antiques and pictures and knickknacks. Really interesting. Finally she invites us to sit in her front room.

“I’ll make us tea,” she announces.

“Do you need help?” I offer. Wouldn’t my mom be proud of me!

“That’d be lovely, dear.”

This gives me a chance to check out her adorable little kitchen again. I’m trying to take mental notes, for my mom’s sake, since she’s really into kitchens, and this one seems like the real Irish deal. I have a camera in my bag, but I don’t know if it would be rude to ask to take pictures. I mean, I hardly know this woman.

The kitchen is pretty small, and the floor is covered with tiles that are slightly uneven but thoroughly worn. The walls are painted a bright yellow, about the same color as a dandelion. But you don’t see much wall since there are so many things hanging all over the place—pictures, decorative plates, kitchen utensils and pans, as well as a collection of crucifixes that look quite old. I suspect some of these things have been hanging here for generations. There’s a large piece of furniture that looks like a dresser against one wall. It’s painted a bright blue, the same color as the shutters outside, and topped with colorful ceramic tiles. But this dresser is used for storing dishes, not clothes, because that’s where she gets her china teapot and teacups.

“Would you rinse this for me?” she asks as she hands me a delicate teapot. “I only use it for special occasions, and I fear it’s covered in dust.”

I run hot water over the pretty blue and white piece, careful not to chip it on the old-fashioned faucet. “What is this sink made out of?” I ask when I’m done.

“What’s that?” she says, turning to see what I’m talking about.

I point to the sink.

“Oh, that. Why its soapstone, of course.”

“It’s made of real stone?”

She smiles. “Aye. Very sturdy, it is.”

She’s been busy slicing a loaf of bread, along with some other things I’m guessing came from her garden. She now transforms these ingredients into thin sandwiches, which she cuts into dainty triangles. I watch as she arranges these, along with some shortbread cookies from a tin, on a china plate decorated with pink roses.

“Very pretty,” I say just as her teakettle begins to whistle.

“You go ahead and take that in,” she tells me, “and I’ll be along shortly.”

I feel like I’m playing a role in an Irish movie classic as I set the plate on the table in the front room.

“Wow,” says Ryan. “I thought we were just having tea. This looks more like lunch.”

Ian laughs. “This is tea, son.”

Now Mary emerges with a tray loaded with her teapot and cups and sugar and cream. I notice that she’s removed her apron. She sets the tray down with a flourish and then proceeds to fill our cups, asking us what we’d like in our tea. Finally we’re all settled.

“This is really nice,” Ryan says to her. “Thanks for going to so much trouble.”

“’Tis not trouble, son. ’Tis pure pleasure,” she tells him. “I canna tell you how pleased I am to see Michael’s boy right here before my eyes. Now, I should be asking you, how are your grandparents? Your grandmother used to write to me occasionally, but after the…” She pauses as if remembering something, which I’m thinking has to do with Ryan’s dad. “Well, we simply lost touch, we did.”

Ryan fills her in, telling her about his grandfather’s death and his grandmother’s recent health problems.