The Moon Over Kilmore Quay

by Carmel Harrington

  Our new home was small. It took a bit of getting used to, compared to the much more spacious flat we’d shared in Dublin. But it’s funny how quickly you can adapt to your new normal. And it had everything we needed. Two small bedrooms, with one bathroom and a decent-sized kitchen-cum-dining room and living room. It was sparsely furnished, with the bare minimum. But that didn’t worry us as we’d already, after one week, managed to make it homely. Maeve bought a large framed poster of a baby harp seal, lying in a blanket of icy white snow, with huge black eyes, looking sorrowfully at you, so no matter where you moved in the room, its eyes did too.

  ‘It reminded me of the seals from the Saltee Islands. I thought it was a little bit of home for us, right here.’ She loved those seals, we both did, reminding us of the times we went boating with our dad as kids.

  Martin advised us not to go down the compare route over here. ‘Nothing is the same in New York, so the quicker you accept that, the quicker you’ll settle in. Dive all-in and commit to the New York state of mind, otherwise you’ll be in no man’s land between here and there.’

  It was good advice, but I wasn’t as good as Maeve at implementing the rule. Because I kept missing the silliest things from home. Take, for instance, our fireplace. I mean, how ridiculous was that? I’d spent years begging Mam and Dad to get central heating because our house was always freezing. We’d wake up most mornings with an ice-block for a nose. The only sanctuary from the cold was the sitting room, where the open fire always made the room toasty. You’d open the door to that room and a wave of heat would flash over your face. And within minutes you’d feel like you were in a sauna and have to run outside to cool off. Plus there was the pain-in-the-neck chore of going outside to get coal and logs. Once or twice, when Mam and Dad ran out of money and in turn fuel, the fire went out and we had no choice but to layer up with jumpers and mittens. Maeve and I would sit in our bedroom, teeth chattering with the cold and bemoan our horrendous life. So why on earth did I miss that blasted fire now?

  I envied how fast Maeve adjusted to life here. She strode across the sidewalk with a confidence that I wasn’t sure I’d ever possess. The noise, the smells, they were all alien to me. I kept reminding myself that it had only been a week, so it would be unfair to make any judgements yet.

  ‘You ready?’ Maeve shouted into my bedroom.

  ‘Coming,’ I said, as I ran down to the hall.

  Maeve looked so beautiful she made me gasp. We always shared our clothes and the dress she had on now was actually mine. Maeve had a knack for accessorizing clothes; she’d add a belt, scarf or jewellery and suddenly the outfit would look as if it had been styled for a fashion shoot. ‘That looks so much better on you than it does on me.’

  ‘You’re not looking too shabby either, Sis. Look at the legs on you! I’ve huge calves, I can’t get away with jeans like that,’ Maeve said kindly. I was delighted with the compliment. I was wearing a pair of skin-tight faded blue jeans that I’d always felt too self-conscious to wear at home. But over here, I felt a little more daring. We were heading to Gobeen’s Bar for the night, to meet Martin and some of his friends. Maeve had been right about the men. For her at least. We’d only been here two days when she announced she had a date with some guy called Toby. He was meeting us there too. I liked him. He was funny and very handsome. And she was besotted. But Maeve always was at first. The only problem was that the flame usually burned out quickly for her. I’d seen it hundreds of times.

  I, on the other hand, hadn’t been exactly mobbed, as Maeve had promised would happen when we got to New York. I had been on a few dates, but dating American style was a whole new ball game for me. The rules were different here than in Ireland. I’d worked out that American men liked to date a lot, but that didn’t necessarily mean that you ended up as boyfriend and girlfriend. At home, a guy asks you out, by the end of the date, you are an item, official, exclusive. There wasn’t any big conversation around this. Here it was more common that people dated multiple partners at the same time. I wasn’t sure I liked that.

  Another thing that was different here was work. We’d both managed to get waitressing and bar work within a week of arriving in Queens. It didn’t pay much; we worked for tips. But I lost my first job after two weeks. Not because I did anything wrong, but because the owner’s son’s friend needed a job. Last in, first out. I moped for a day, then dusted myself off and went in search of new employment. I got lucky in the fourth place I tried – the Woodside Steakhouse. I liked it there. It had red brocade-covered walls and regular entertainment. Customers were encouraged to sing too and it wasn’t unusual for someone to jump up and give a verse of ‘Carrickfergus’ or ‘The Mountain Dew’. And I’d learned pretty quickly that if I sang ‘Danny Boy’ the tips were proportionately higher for every verse I belted out. The manager liked me too. On my first day, I’d proved to him that I could change a keg, sing and carry five platters of food at once. Plus the customers liked my Irish accent. Most were Irish immigrants and loved having a chat about home. That part was the saving grace for me really. The community of Irish in Queens was a force to be reckoned with. They stuck together and there was a strength in that.

  Long term, my plan was to look for a teaching job. But for now, I agreed with Maeve that we should just enjoy the summer. The rest of our lives could begin later.

  ‘I wonder how Mam and Dad are?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine. Same as they were yesterday when you called them!’

  I looked at my watch and worked out the time at home. Mam would be in the kitchen preparing dinner. There’d be a ham sitting in a saucepan of water, steeping, to extract all the salt. Dad would be chopping logs to make sure we had enough in for the next day. Maybe polishing his Sunday shoes, ready for Mass the next day. Homesickness punched me in the gut. I longed to hear their voices. But it was so expensive to phone them, a dollar per minute soon made a dint into our rent money.

  ‘You OK, Sis?’ Maeve asked, concern wrinkling her nose.

  A tear escaped and I shook my head. ‘I miss Mam and Dad. I miss home.’

  She led me back into the sitting room and we sat down, side by side on the couch.

  ‘Me too. Over five thousand miles away from them and I’ve never got on so well with them. I’ve had more conversations with them on the phone than I’ve had in years at home,’ she said. ‘It will get easier. The first month is the hardest, everyone says so. Trying to get used to a new country …’

  ‘I miss Mam’s fry-ups,’ I said.

  Maeve licked her lips. ‘Galtee sausages and rashers.’

  ‘The bacon so crispy it falls to pieces when you cut it.’

  ‘And Batchelors beans,’ Maeve said.

  ‘With a knob of Kerrygold butter in them.’

  ‘Two eggs, cooked in the fat of the rashers.’

  We sat in silence thinking about Mam’s full Irish fry that we’d had every Sunday morning as long as we could remember. We’d taken it for granted. Sometimes giving out that it never changed. ‘Remember the time we asked Mam to make French toast for a change?’ I said.

  ‘She went ballistic. “It’s far from French Toast that you were both reared!” she said.’

  ‘So instead she threw some Pat the Baker bread into the frying pan and gave us fried bread, with a fried egg on top. “That’s Irish toast,” she said!’

  We both laughed at the memory.

  ‘Tell you what, let’s go to the Stop Inn tomorrow morning for the full Irish. They have Galtee sausages.’

  ‘I don’t like their grits. Grits have no place on an Irish fry,’ I grumbled.

  ‘We’ll insist they hold all grits,’ Maeve said. She leaned in and with her thumb rubbed my running eyeliner away.

  ‘Do I look a state?’

  ‘You look beautiful.’ She pulled me into her arms and hugged me close. ‘If by the end of the summer you still hate it, we’ll go home.’

  ‘You’d do that for me?’

  ‘Of course. I couldn’t stay here without you,
Sis. It’s always been you and me together. And that’s the way it has to stay. I won’t force you to be here, I promise.’

  And suddenly I felt OK, the weight of fear that had been pinning me down disappeared. Just knowing that we could go home again took the pressure off. ‘I’m going to try harder to settle in.’

  ‘You’re doing great,’ she insisted. ‘It’s only been a few weeks. Now come on, let’s head to Gobeen’s before Toby thinks I’m a non-runner and starts chatting up someone else.’

  ‘He wouldn’t!’

  ‘Ah but he would. He’s a flighty one. Half the reason I like him. Can’t beat a bad boy.’

  I felt a rush of love for my sister. There were times she drove me around the bend, but those moments were eclipsed by the fun we had together. I also knew that, as much as I missed home and my parents, I could never leave Maeve. She wasn’t just my sister, she was my best friend.

  15

  LUCY

  August 1992

  New York Public Library, Fifth Avenue, Manhattan

  ‘You’d get lost in your own bedroom,’ Mam used to say to me. She’d have a right laugh at me now, because I’d just managed to walk around in circles for the past twenty minutes. A couple of months in New York and I still couldn’t get my head around streets and avenues and the way they ran. Which way was East and West, Uptown or Downtown? I seemed to always have my head stuck in a map, but truth be told, I usually just guessed which way to go. And there was a fifty-fifty chance I’d get it right. I was meeting Maeve for lunch in Junior’s, a diner on Broadway. And in another five minutes, I’d be officially late. Rumour had it that they served cake in a milkshake and we both wanted some of that. We had promised to take a photograph to send back to Michelle.

  Somehow or other, I’d managed to end up in front of a large building on Fifth Avenue. As I took in the steps that ran up to tall pillars and a grand entrance, I realized that I knew this building. Or at least it looked familiar to me. I took a step backwards to get a better look. I’d seen it in a movie. And just as the name of the movie came to me, a voice said, ‘I’m trying to work out if you’re a Ghostbusters or Breakfast at Tiffany’s fan?’

  I turned to my left and a guy about my own age was watching me watching the building. And he was freaking me out, because he was reading my mind.

  ‘You’re a tricky one. No doubt you are about the right age to be a Ghostbusters fan. But there again, you look like a Hepburn fan. You’ve got a look of her. Bet you’ve been told that before. So it’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s, am I right?’

  I shook my head and tried to work out which way to walk next. Was Broadway up or down? I was pretty sure it was up. But east or west? My head hurt, trying to work it out.

  ‘Ghostbusters! You’ve surprised me!’ he smiled. He didn’t look like an obvious threat. In fact, he reminded me of home, which was strange, because he had a strong New York accent.

  ‘I never said I was a fan. I just recognized the building from the movie. Which was, as it goes, only average.’

  ‘You’re Irish,’ the man said, a smile breaking out across his face. ‘Me too.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve heard that accent anywhere in Ireland.’

  He laughed and I found myself smiling too. He had a nice laugh. It was strong and full, unapologetic. I liked that.

  ‘My parents are from Ireland. I was born here. But that’s just geography. I feel Irish in here.’ He tapped his heart.

  ‘I’ve never seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I didn’t know it was filmed here,’ I said.

  ‘Here and lots of cool locations around New York. You should watch the movie. It’s not half bad.’

  I looked at my map and searched the page until I found Fifth Avenue. I was standing in front of The Public Library of New York.

  ‘You going in?’ he said, ‘There’s lots of really cool things to see inside. It’s open to the public.’

  ‘Not today. I’m on my way to meet my sister. If I can work out how to get there.’

  He moved in closer. ‘Where?’

  ‘A restaurant on Broadway. Junior’s.’

  He made a face, then said, ‘I’ll show you. It’s not far.’

  My first instinct was to say no. This guy could be the Son of Sam’s grandson for all I knew. But he had an honest face. And I found myself thanking him and following him as he made his way to the right.

  ‘What you have to remember is that Manhattan is actually a grid. Fifth Avenue, where we are now, separates the east and west sides. The street numbers increase as you head away from Fifth; if you remember that, you’ll be OK. Streets are east–west. Avenues are north–south.’

  ‘I don’t think my brain handles directions well. When you explain it like that, it sounds easy. But I’m the kind of person who gets lost at home. Honestly, I’m not joking.’

  ‘Well, it’s a good job I walked out of the library when I did.’

  I looked at his brown leather satchel, slung diagonally over his shoulder.

  ‘Do you work in the library?’ I noticed a flush cross his face.

  ‘I’m a writer. Nothing published yet,’ he said the words in a rush.

  ‘That’s really cool. I was rubbish in English, could never get my head around creative writing.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’ve not long graduated from university back home in Ireland. A teacher’s degree. But for now, I’m waitressing.’

  ‘Around here?’

  ‘No. The Woodside Steakhouse.’

  ‘I know that place. By the number 7 subway on 61st.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘There’s a lot of Irish in that area. You should try Shane’s Deli for breakfast. Decent!’

  ‘I’ll remember that. We’ve been hanging out in the Stop Inn a lot.’

  ‘Because they sell Barry’s Tea.’

  ‘Yes!’ I laughed. I stole a glance at him as we walked, or rather he walked and I trotted to keep up. I felt a trickle of excitement make its way around my tummy. It wasn’t that this guy was that good-looking, but there was something about his face that was charismatic.

  ‘What do you write?’ I asked as we weaved our way through the tourists in Times Square. My eyes were still on stalks whenever I wandered up here, taking in the digital billboard signs for Coca Cola, Sony and Maxwell. A man approached opening his jacket to reveal rows of watches and chains. I shook my head, because I was still too scared to stop and ask how much the bling was. But I could already see some of those going into a parcel for Mam and Dad.

  ‘Fiction. I’m working on my first novel. A detective series set in the Wild West. I’ve had some interest from an agent, when I sent in a couple of sample chapters. Now I need to finish it. I can’t believe I told you that! I haven’t even told my family about the agent’s interest.’

  ‘Your secret is safe with me. Congratulations.’

  ‘See that TKTS booth? That’s where you go to get discounted tickets for Broadway,’ my new friend and tour guide told me. We continued walking for a few moments more, then he stopped and gently touched my arm to guide me out of the main thoroughfare. ‘We’re here.’

  I looked up and saw a huge red neon sign, saying Junior’s. There was a queue with the concierge for a table and I spotted Maeve near the front of the line, her eyes agog as she watched me arrive with a strange man.

  ‘Thank you. Honestly, I’d probably have ended up in Central Park if I was left to my own devices.’

  ‘My pleasure. Happy to help you find your way around New York, anytime.’

  Now it was my turn to flush. We stood in silence for a moment. It felt awkward and I searched for something to say, anything to fill the quiet. ‘Do you like cheesecake?’ Of all the things I could have said, I chose that. Mortified.

  ‘Yes!’ he answered. ‘All of them. But my favourite in Junior’s is the Brownie Explosion cheesecake. If you like chocolate, it’s pretty good.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’ Maeve was now waving at me and pointin
g to a waitress. ‘Looks like we’ve got a seat. I’d better go. Thanks again.’ I walked towards the entrance, the unusual aroma combination of onions and sugar wafting its way towards me.

  ‘Wait! I’m Ryan O’Connor. What’s your name?’

  I turned back and smiled. ‘I’m Lucy. Lucy Mernagh.’ Then I walked into the restaurant.

  ‘What is going on! Who were you with?’ Maeve demanded when I joined her in our booth.

  ‘His name is Ryan. He’s a writer.’ I liked how his name sounded when I said it.

  ‘Details! I need all the details, Sis!’

  ‘I met him about fifteen minutes ago. I was lost. He offered to bring me here. That’s it.’

  ‘Are you seeing him again?’

  I shook my head and realized that I wished more than anything that he was one of those American boys we’d heard about back home, who asked you for dates at the drop of a hat. ‘He never asked.’

  ‘His loss,’ Maeve said. ‘He was OK-looking, I suppose; you wouldn’t throw him out of the bed for eating Tayto crisps, but he’s no Tom Cruise.’

  I looked out through the plate-glass windows, hoping that he might be still standing there. Stupid, I knew. The waitress came over and smiled brightly at us. ‘Which of you gals is Lucy?’

  I looked at Maeve and she quickly pointed to me, saying, ‘Her!’

  My heart started to race.

  ‘Then this is for you, honey. A dishy-looking guy handed it to me. Nice manners too. He’s a keeper.’ She placed a slice of cheesecake onto the Formica table in front of me. ‘This is the brownie explosion cheesecake. He’s paid for it.’

  My hands shook as I unfolded a piece of notepaper with frayed edges, ripped from a notebook.

  I’d love to take you out on a date. My number is 718 555 4314. Give me a call, please! I’m free tonight, or any other night this week. But please say tonight. I really enjoyed meeting you, Lucy. Yours, Ryan