The Belfast Girl on Galway Bay Read online

  ‘That’ll be Sean, back from the bog. He was carting turf.’

  She glanced at the clock. ‘He’s early, but he’ll want a bite to eat.’

  Before I had time to stand up myself, she had whisked away the cups and the plate of biscuits and disappeared the lace cloth into the drawer of the table.

  ‘I must go, Bridget. I hope I haven’t kept you back.’

  ‘No, no, not a bit. It was great crack.’

  Already preoccupied with her own concerns, she handed me my jacket. A tall figure appeared in the doorway and walked across to stand in front of the stove. Bridget’s brother was sixteen or seventeen, very like her in looks, except that he had bad acne. Patches of black beard which he had not been able to shave showed around the angry spots. He was painfully shy, his eyes firmly fixed upon the floor as if he were terrified of meeting my glance.

  ‘Sean, this is my friend Elizabeth.’

  Bridget may have been flustered by Sean’s unexpected appearance, but she managed nevertheless to make her statement sound like a command. He extended his hand like an obedient child without lifting his eyes one degree from the floor.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Sean,’ I said quickly, as I stepped out of my exotic footwear. ‘I hope we’ll meet again, but I must go now. Mary’ll be expecting me.’

  He made a sound, but it was no word I could distinguish. He was standing so close to the stove that the fire was drawing clouds of steam from his damp clothes. It swirled round Granny like a fog, as she slumbered on, oblivious to his presence.

  ‘Come up and see us soon, Bridget,’ I said over my shoulder as I pulled on my boots on the doorstep. ‘And thank you for the coffee, it was lovely.’

  ‘It was great gas. I’ll be up soon. Mind yerself how you go,’ she called from the door, as I tramped down the path.

  Before I had opened the little wooden gate, she had disappeared to see to Sean’s ‘bite to eat’. I picked my way between the puddles until I came to the pool where the spring had flooded. The level had dropped a little, but I still needed to wade carefully. I watched the ripples from my progress break up the reflection of the sky above me and looked down at the wet mark on my boots to see if I could measure how much the water level had fallen.

  It was then I saw the joke about the three brothers ‘all with big feet’. Bridget had laughed and I had joined in without really seeing what was so funny. Now I saw why she’d laughed, but it wasn’t funny at all. Sean had been wearing a large pair of rubber boots, tall ones, right up to his thighs with thick, ribbed soles. I knew they had thick, ribbed soles, because I had stepped over their prints as I left the house. Sean had walked straight in and tramped dark mud from the bog all over Bridget’s clean floor.

  Chapter 7

  When I arrived back from my morning with Bridget, Paddy helped me fill in my sketch of the Doherty farm and told me about the family and their history. I must have eaten my lunch in a dream, for when I tried to make some notes afterwards I couldn’t remember half of what Paddy had told me. This will not do, Elizabeth. I stared crossly at the blank page of the blue exercise book. You must keep your mind on the job. Just think what important information you may have missed.

  ‘Oh, the Lord save us!’

  I started up in alarm to find Mary staring at the ancient green enamel clock that stood in the middle of the mantelpiece below the framed portrait of John F. Kennedy.

  ‘Ah shure it’s old age, astore,’ she declared, turning to look at me, her face crumpled with anxiety. ‘Didn’t Paddy the Post come after ye were gone to Bridget.’

  She reached behind the clock and handed me a white envelope, so thick it had needed more than the standard postage. The handwriting looked very familiar, but for the life of me I couldn’t think who it might be.

  ‘Shure I put it where I’d remember,’ she went on, shaking her head sadly. ‘An’ I forgot all about it till this minit.’

  ‘Never worry, Mary,’ I said soothingly, ‘I’ve just forgotten what you said you wanted in town. It’s not old age at all. D’you think it’s infectious?’

  She laughed her quiet, inward laugh that lit up her gentle face, erasing the lines of anxiety which always saddened me so when they appeared.

  ‘Ah shure maybe yer right,’ she replied wryly. ‘Didn’t Paddy go up the garden this mornin’ with the spade to dig potatoes and divil a sack to put them in?’

  I tore a piece from the back page of my exercise book and made out her list, pushed the letter into my jacket pocket, ran a comb through my hair and set off down the empty road, consumed with curiosity and quite determined not to open the white envelope till I’d worked out who it was from.

  ‘You idiot,’ I burst out, as I began the long haul up the far side of the valley. Who else could it be? Apart from my mother and father, only three people had my address and Adrienne Henderson wasn’t likely to bother writing to me.

  I felt strangely agitated. Unless it was enclosing a brochure or some newspaper cuttings, Ben’s letter was at least four times the length of George’s. I started looking out for a mossy bank or a stretch of stone wall with a flat top. I was going round and round inside my head as I always do when I’m worried about something. But what could be worrying about a letter from Ben? Besides, I’d solve my puzzles if only I’d sit down and read what he’d written.

  I laughed at myself and chose a comfortable piece of sun-warmed wall, opened the envelope carefully, peered at the neatly folded sheets covered with well-formed script and saw that a further carefully folded piece of paper had been placed in the middle of them. To my amazement, it was a five pound note, one of the old, papery kind with a silver strip down one side. There was only the slightest breeze, but even so, I didn’t dare glance at the letter until I’d pushed the large note safely into the back compartment of Mary’s well-worn purse.

  I read furiously for a few minutes and then began to relax. Ben has always been good at telling stories, but apart from the Rosetta Primary School Newsletter, I had never seen him on paper before. I sat back and laughed in pure delight as the story unfolded.

  Dear Lizzie,

  Before you start worrying about the enclosed £5 I can assure you that it is not a first attempt at printing my own, which would certainly solve some problems but possibly cause others. ‘There’s a story to that there fiver,’ as my grandfather would say.

  It was Monday lunchtime in the Rosetta, he continued. He was taking orders and serving up what Keith had already pushed through the hatch for him. Busy for a Monday with lots of regulars, including the elderly English gentleman with the military air we had nicknamed the Brigadier.

  ‘Ham sandwich, sir? What can I get you to drink?’

  ‘Bush, please, a double. Where’s the young woman today?’

  ‘Elizabeth?’

  ‘Yes, that’s her name, isn’t it? Dark-haired girl, nice smile, very efficient. Got the day off?’

  Ben had explained exactly where I was and then ticketed the order for the sandwiches. We’d often wondered why the Brigadier always had ham. The Rosetta is good on cold meat, the beef especially, something I’d mentioned to him once or twice. But he’d just smiled slightly and stuck to ham.

  ‘Is she your girlfriend then, young man?’ he asked, as Ben put the sandwiches and the whiskey down in front of him.

  ‘We’re old friends, sir. Went to school together.’

  ‘Long way to go on her own. Are you in touch?’

  ‘Shall be, sir, as soon as I hear from her.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  The Brigadier was still sitting over his coffee in the almost empty lounge when Ben finished loading the dishwashers and came back to collect abandoned glasses for the handwash.

  ‘Young man, what’s your name?’ he barked.

  ‘Ben, sir.’

  ‘Student? Both of you students then?’ he went on more graciously.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’d like you to do something for me, Ben, if you’d be so kind,’ he said decisively, as h
e took out his wallet. ‘I don’t approve of tipping. It’s demeaning. Damned condescending when chaps are just doing their job. You and that Elizabeth girl have worked jolly hard all these weeks and I daresay you don’t get paid very well. Here, put that in your pocket and share it with her. Maybe have a night out when she gets back. Seems to me you get on pretty well together. See what she’d like. Let me know when you hear from her.’

  So you see, Lizzie, you have another admirer, as well as me, that is. I’d love us to have a posh night out but this fiver might come in handy on your travels. If you need it, we could still have egg and chips at Smokeys and honour the one and nines when you come back! We owe the Brigadier a night out. At least that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it!

  A sudden creaking noise, accompanied by snorts and snuffles, broke my concentration. I looked up to see a turf cart stopping on the road beside me.

  ‘Can I give ye a lift, Miss Stewart?’

  A tall man in a sailor’s cap and a Fair Isle sweater hailed me cheerfully, as if I were half a mile away.

  ‘I’m going as far as Nagle’s bog.’

  There was nothing for it. I said thank you, pushed Ben’s letter back into my pocket, handed up Mary’s shopping bag and climbed the spokes of the wheel into the rickety cart. The miles that followed left me no opportunity to reflect on what Ben had said and done, or how he’d seized the opportunity of the Brigadier’s fiver to invite me out for the first time.

  ‘Hallo, miss, how are ye? Shure I thought you weren’t coming. Mr Delargy has been in twice to see if there was any sign of you.’

  Kathleen came from behind the counter before I was properly through the door and stood waiting impatiently as I searched my pockets for Mary’s shopping list. The moment I produced it, she whisked it out of my hand and marched me to the archway at the back of the shop.

  ‘Down there, that door at the end.’

  I had been looking forward to meeting Patrick Delargy again, but I’d not expected him to be waiting for me. And I certainly hadn’t expected to be launched into his presence without even doing the shopping. I walked slowly down the corridor and found myself standing awkwardly outside the appointed door.

  ‘Shure he’ll not take a bite out of you.’

  It was my mother’s voice. The comment was her habitual way of offering encouragement when I was uneasy. For once, it made me laugh. I knocked on the door and opened it gently. Patrick Delargy was halfway across the room to meet me before it closed behind me.

  ‘Elizabeth, come in if you can. I’m sorry about all this.’

  The room was very large and almost as full of assorted objects as the shop. But unlike the shop, it was completely unordered. Crates and boxes were piled up all over the place. A stack of pink lampshades wobbled precariously as I stepped past the two filing cabinets where they’d been parked. But the room was bright. One whole wall was pierced by tall windows that looked out onto the stable yard and let the dappled sunshine beam across the room to a long wall, where equally tall bookcases held leather-bound ledgers and bundles of yellowing papers tied with string.

  I manoeuvred round a stack of boxes of whiskey and saw the only sign of order in the whole place, a huge mahogany desk where Patrick Delargy had been sitting. On its well-worn surface sat piles of neatly sorted papers, all anchored under makeshift paperweights, a brass inkpot, a round stone, an old pincushion, a mug covered with shamrocks and a bunch of keys.

  Nearby, a space had been cleared by the fireplace where a small turf fire glowed orange and blue. A carved wooden stool bearing a book, an empty glass and a plate with a few crumbs on it stood beside a battered leather armchair. He waved me into it and smiled.

  ‘Not exactly the most efficient administrative system, I fear. I don’t know how Charles ever finds anything. I shall be glad to get back to my study.’

  I sat down and looked around as he brought the swivel chair he’d been sitting on over to the fire, a difficult operation, for a rolled up carpet lay between the desk and the fireplace. He swung the chair over and I had to rescue the empty plate and glass before he could knock them flying with its heavy base. He put it down and turned to see me still holding them.

  ‘Oh, well then, let’s put them up here.’ He placed the glass carefully on the very narrow mantelpiece, looked quizzically at the plate and balanced it on its edge beside the glass.

  Despite the general chaos of the room, there was something about it I liked. The ceiling was high and still had its moulded decoration of entwined flowers, the bookcases and desk were of polished wood, mellowed with age to a chestnut colour, a colour which blended so well with the warm golden tones of the faded ledgers lining the walls.

  ‘It’s certainly got character,’ I said, stroking the worn leather of my chair and looking round. ‘I rather like it.’

  ‘That’s what Charles says,’ he laughed ruefully. ‘I’d rather it had a filing system that worked and a bit less character. We really need a part-time typist and filing clerk, but where would we put one?’

  ‘I suppose if you found someone small enough you could put them up there.’ I nodded to the only unoccupied space in the room, the top of a very high cupboard.

  ‘That would have the added advantage of providing a look-out post. From up there one might be able to see where things were.’

  He leaned forward and stirred the fire. It blazed up cheerfully. One or two sparks glowed at the back of the chimney.

  ‘There’s a stranger in your grate.’

  ‘I should hope so too. I thought you weren’t coming.’

  ‘So did I for a couple of miles. Have you ever had a lift in a turf cart?’

  ‘No, I can’t say I have.’

  ‘Avoid it if you can. It was slower than walking, and it made me seasick. Thank goodness he wasn’t going far. When he turned off into the bog, I had to sit down for ten minutes. My legs were so shaky I’d forgotten all the questions I’d saved up to ask you.’

  ‘Are you feeling better now?’

  ‘Oh yes, once I was back on terra firma I was fine. The questions have all come back too.’

  He laughed and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Yes, I remember you threatened me with questions. I’ve been wondering if I can answer them. What do you want to know? Agriculture? Tourist industry? Government policy? Local flora? Now I might know something about that,’ he added thoughtfully.

  He stretched his legs out and sat looking at me. It struck me then that he was rather nice-looking. His face was tanned with wind and sun, his eyes, a deep, dark brown, were both steady in their gaze and yet lively. They moved rapidly whenever they watched or considered or assessed. Whatever his mood, not much would pass unobserved in the environment of Patrick Delargy.

  Sometimes his eyes sparkled with humour and the whole face seemed lighter and younger. But what age was he? In his thirties certainly, perhaps as much as forty even. He didn’t seem old compared with other people I knew who were up to twice my age, but there were grey streaks in his dark hair. But more puzzling than his age was the feeling of isolation that seemed to surround him like a cloud. It looked as if he didn’t often have anyone to talk to and just now was rather enjoying himself.

  There was a knock at the door. He jumped to his feet and navigated the obstacles with considerable skill. The smell of freshly baked scones was quite overwhelming as he returned with a loaded tea tray. For a moment, we were quite defeated as to where to put it. Then I removed his book from the stool and set it between us. As he balanced the tray carefully on it I parked the book beside the plate on the mantelpiece. It was a battered copy of Anna Karenina.

  ‘Do you have milk, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Yes, please. Rather a lot.’

  He began to pour tea into my cup, but had to put the teapot down abruptly.

  ‘I keep asking them to get some china pots,’ he said as he rubbed his hand on his knee.

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ I said, wrapping my hanky round the handle and holding it lightly. �
��What you need is a kettle holder. My mother must have dozens stored away somewhere. We used to make them at primary school in handwork. I’ll send you a free sample.’

  He blew on his hand and looked solemn.

  ‘Ah yes, but can you maintain production? One has to be very careful with craft goods from small enterprises these days.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind if I have to go into production,’ I laughed, as we rearranged the tray so that it wouldn’t overbalance every time we lifted the teapot or the milk jug.

  I sat eating my scone and listened as he answered my questions about the growth of Lisdoonvarna. It felt as if we had been having tea together for years. It was a strange feeling, very warm and reassuring, but puzzling and disturbing too. How could I be so easy with this man whom I hardly knew, a man from a different country, a different culture, and a different social group, when I felt just the opposite with my own family and even some of my friends?

  ‘Yes, that’s very helpful,’ I nodded, as I spooned homemade jam onto my second scone. ‘It pulls together what I’ve managed so far, but. . .’

  ‘But,’ he prompted.

  I hadn’t the remotest idea what I was going to say, but it seemed quite wrong not to try to explain what I was thinking.

  ‘Well, it’s all very well doing what I’ve been doing. Acreages and crop rotation and average output and growth of a local market centre, but what does it really tell you? I mean, take two farmers with the same kind of land and the same acreages. One has forty cattle and the other has five. That’s what I’d like to explain. It seems to me the economic is related to the social, and the social to the emotional.’

  I stopped, confused. ‘Perhaps I don’t mean emotional. But it’s something abstract, like a perspective on the world. Religion would be part of it. What people believe affects how they farm. At least I think it does. But it’s not something you can measure, and if you can’t measure it, how can you say anything about it? Or if you did, who would listen?’