The Silver Boat (14 page)

T
hey landed in Dublin, and Rory wished they had time to visit Trinity College, St. Stephen's Green, Four Courts, and the River Liffey. A lifetime of reading Yeats, Synge, and Joyce had taught her about Ireland, and had been her own way of staying connected to her father.

Rory knew Dar made sense of his disappearance through her drawing, and like many of Dar's readers, Rory loved Dulse and her sisters, had followed their labyrinthine paths of curiosity and sorrow through book after book. In different ways, each of the McCarthy sisters had traced their roots through poems and literature, used imagination to pierce the conundrum of Ireland and their father.

A connector flight took them to Cork. The big question was whether to rent a car and wing it, learning to drive on the left side of the road, or hire a driver. They went to the rental counter and signed out an Opel Corsa, small and, according to the agent, perfect for negotiating narrow country lanes lined with hedgerows.

“We don't encourage first-time drivers here to rent the big cars. Once you get the hang of it, come back, and you can rent anything on the lot,” she said.

The sisters thanked her, took the keys, and went to find the car. It was beige and, as advertised, small.

“It looks as if we could pick it up and carry it like a suitcase,” Rory said. “You know what's weird? I wanted to ask that agent lady if she knew our father. Being in Cork, I feel like asking everyone.”

“I know,” Dar said. “I felt the same way. Well, who drives first? It's a stick shift.”

“You taught me how to drive standard. I think the honor is yours.”

They stowed their luggage in the tiny trunk, then climbed into the car. Rory was glad Dar had come equipped with tour books and a complete road atlas of Ireland. Jet lag was sapping Rory's energy, but she didn't say anything. Dar seemed focused and intense, the exact way she got when she was drawing. She practiced driving through the parking lot, shifting with her left hand.

“It's like being Alice in Wonderland,” Dar said. “I feel as if I drank a little potion, and right is left, and up is down, and we're driving on the wrong side of the street, only it's the correct side.”

“Should we stop for tea? While in Ireland and all . . . Check into a hotel and kick jet lag with a nap?”

Dar just shot her a smile. “Put your seat back if there's room. I'm ready to drive.” They stopped at a store and used their first euro to buy two cups of breakfast tea to go.

Rory sat back, amazed at Dar's skill in navigating the winding roads. As the agent had said, many were lined on both sides by tall hedges, making it impossible to see around corners. But when the road opened up, Rory was struck by the most beautiful scenery she'd ever seen, the Vineyard with castles and a deeper color palette.

There were fields of green bisected by moss-black stone walls, dark hedges, and deep woods. Although signs pointed toward Cork City and Cobh, Dar drove southwest onto the N71. Rory knew they were headed for Skibbereen.

Rory read from a guidebook. “ ‘Skibbereen means “little boat harbor.” It was one of the towns hardest hit by the famine of 1848. Ten thousand famine victims are buried in the Famine Burial Pits of Abbeystrowry Cemetery. The River Ilen courses through the town.' ”

“I wonder how many of our ancestors died of starvation.”

“I can't explain why,” Rory said. “But it helps me understand Dad more. Trying so hard to get what he felt was coming to him. Insurance against another famine.”

“Always smoking his cigarettes, staring out to sea, as if he could see Ireland. Doesn't it make sense about him and Grandmother, too? She came from such privilege. Even in England, they had a house in London and a country estate in Kent. He must have looked at her as if she was from another world.”

“The Kent place had a name,” Rory said. “What was it? I wonder why she never took us there.”

“It was called Chichester,” Dar said. “I think it went to her brother, and they didn't get along. But she grew up riding horses and fly-fishing for salmon and dressing for dinner.”

“That never changed,” Rory said. She thought of her father, whose people had suffered and died because their potato crop had failed, watching his wife and mother-in-law, and sometimes even his daughters, dressing up for regular Vineyard meals.

Nearing Skibbereen they drove toward the River Ilen, rushing toward the Celtic Sea. Even the salt air smelled like the Vineyard, Rory thought. When they reached the town, they parked the car in a public lot. Rory needed lunch, so they found a cozy pub in the center of town.

“Let's just have a nice lunch,” Rory said, trying to soothe Dar's tension; she could see it in her eyes and the cords of her neck. “And then we'll search.”

“Okay,” Dar said.

They sat in a sunny booth by the large window. The menu was filled with good homey dishes, and when Rory saw Dar looking at the salads, she ordered for both of them: fish and chips, and shepherd's pie.

“We can share—they both sound good,” Rory said. She ordered a Guinness for herself, and Dar ordered a Diet Coke.

“This fish is amazing!” Rory said. “As good as New England cod. I wonder what it is. And the batter—wow. Try it!”

“I did, it's good,” Dar said. “So's the shepherd's pie.”

Feeling thrilled to not have to worry about staying perfectly svelte in case Jonathan stopped by to say he'd made the mistake of his life, Rory dug into both dishes and felt wonderful.

They paid up and asked the white-haired proprietor for directions to the local bookshop. Turned out there were two—the more famous one on Main Street and a smaller, used bookstore just out of town, near Abbeystrowry.

“Do you know which one is the McCarthy Bookshop?” Dar asked.

“The one out of town,” he said. “But I'm not sure it's run by a McCarthy anymore. Times do change, and that name is worth its weight in gold, believe me. Let me write out the directions.”

“Why is it worth its weight in gold?”

“Well, it's a fine name,” he said.

“You don't happen to know Michael McCarthy?” she asked. “He would be around seventy-five.”

“Oh dear,” the proprietor laughed, looking up from his desk. “Are you aware that the most common name in Skibbereen and most of Cork is McCarthy? I probably know ten Mikes by that name. Do you have something else to go on?”

“He lived in the States about thirty years ago,” Dar said. “He was tall with dark hair and sailed to Ireland on a boat he built.”

“Well, a quarter of Ireland has lived in the States at one time or other. But sailing over and the dark hair would make him stand out. Most McCarthys are redheads like myself. Gone gray, of course, just like your Michael McCarthy would've. Who is he, may I ask?”

“Our father,” Dar said.

“Ah. Well, I wish you luck finding him. He's an ijit if he's hiding from you.”

“Thank you,” Dar said, shaking his hand. She smiled. “If you see him, tell him we're looking for him.”

“That I will. What're your names?”

“Dar McCarthy and Rory Chase.”

“Lovely to meet you. I'm Frank Donovan.” He grinned. “Let me know if I can be of further service.”

“We'll do that,” Rory said.

Dar drove back to the N71 and followed it a couple of kilometers to Abbeystrowry. The countryside was lush and verdant. Using Frank's directions, she found the bookstore in a weathered-silver barn at the edge of a spreading, deep green field surrounded by massive stone walls. She used her iPhone to take pictures of them to send to Andy. Then one of the bookshop, for Delia.

In the distance she saw a ruined abbey overgrown with vines, with the peak of one wall left standing. She felt pulled to walk there; wasn't that where so many famine victims lay buried? How many McCarthy's would she find?

“Are you ready to go inside?” Rory asked. “Or are you too nervous? My stomach is flipping like crazy.”

“Now that we know how common the name is, do you realize how unlikely it is that this will prove anything? What an idiot I was to assume McCarthy's Bookshop was such a great lead. We're the Smiths of Ireland.”

“You're an ijit all right,” Rory said, laughing.

The two sisters composed themselves and walked into the vast barn. It was filled with stacks of books everywhere—along every outside wall, and toppling over on the tall bookcases that lined every aisle. Rory and Dar strolled slowly through one section, noticing that many books dealt with the famine. Another section dealt with genealogy, and another seemed filled with countless copies of the Cork Census going back a hundred years.

When they reached the back, they found a young man sitting at a high desk, smoking and engrossed in a book. He was skinny, with red hair and black-rimmed glasses.

“Excuse me,” Dar said.

“Oh, I didn't hear you come in,” he said. “Is it something special you're after?”

“Information, actually,” Dar said. “Are you by any chance a McCarthy?”

“My mother is,” he said. “I'm a Collins. Jimmy Collins.”

Dar introduced herself and Rory. She gave the basics on their reason for being in Ireland. “I know it's crazy now, considering it's such a common name, but do you know a Michael McCarthy, about seventy-five?”

“He had dark hair, came here from the States,” Rory said.

“Oh, I don't know,” Jimmy said. “You could ask my mother when she comes in, which isn't often. She and her boyfriend have a caravan, and they're always camping up in Kerry and Connemara.”

“How old is she, if you don't mind my asking?” Rory asked.

“Rory!” Dar said.

“Oh, that's all right. She's too old to be running around with that young jerk. Can you believe he was a year ahead of me in school? Her being forty-five and all.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“You might come back with more information, such as his birthdate and parish, his parents' names, his trade, the likes of that,” Jimmy said.

“His birthday was, is, March 21st,” Dar said. “And he's a boat-builder. So were his father and grandfather.”

“Lots of them in Cobh and Kinsale,” Jimmy said. “But if you find out his parish, you're sure to get everything you need from the priest. As long as the records weren't burned, as they were in Dublin.”

The sisters thanked him, bought a few books. They walked outside, breathing fresh air, glad to escape the mustiness. Dar reflected how little she actually knew about their father's background. He'd left when she was so young; surely if they'd had more time together, she'd have asked him a million more pertinent questions.

“We should tell people he sailed solo across the Atlantic,” Rory said. “That might jog some memories.”

“You're right,” Dar said.

Without even consulting each other, they crossed the wide field toward the ruined abbey and entered the Abbeystrowry Cemetery. The sisters walked into the churchyard. They spotted a sign leaning against a stone wall:

“What does that mean?” Rory asked Dar.

Dar shrugged, reading the next sign, directing the way to the Skibbereen Heritage Center.

“Love, what it means,” said an old woman dressed in black with a black lace shawl covering her head, “is that the dead are buried here in mass graves. There were so many who died, the cemetery couldn't keep up. They just poured limestone over the poor bodies and just kept shoveling them in.”

“So how would you find a family member's grave?”

“You can't,” she said. “If you have reason to believe you lost someone in the famine, you can call the committee, and they'll give you permission to set your own stone or marker.”

“Thank you,” Dar said, shocked. The sisters wandered around, noticing how many of the stones marked people named McCarthy. They found a Michael, who had died in 1847, the granite slab left by his “loving great-grandchildren.” The carving was old, its edges softened by time and weather; there was no way of knowing when the stone had been left.

Clouds scudded in from the sea. The first raindrops started to fall, and Dar and Rory hurried to their car, back at the bookshop. They found a note on the windshield.

“Wonder when she'll return,” Rory said, climbing into the car just as the rain became a downpour. “Jimmy seems to think she and her sweet young lover are tearing up the countryside with their trailer.”