Secrets and Shamrocks

by Phyllis Gobbell

  Grace gave a brittle laugh. “Now I know I’m not one to judge a girl for that. But when I found out I was pregnant, I knew Colin and I were going to be together. I had no doubt, and we married right away. With Bridget—no one ever came forward and took responsibility. To this day, she refuses to say who the father is.”

  I couldn’t help wondering what I would have done if one of my daughters had been pregnant at seventeen. A child having a child. It happened—but I knew there was more to this story than a pregnant teenager.

  “Was there a boyfriend?” Alex asked, and then amended the question, “One that you knew about?”

  “She’d been going around with Davin Callahan, but she denied they were anything but friends. And we know Davin.” Grace shook her head. “If Jimmie was his child—if he thought it was possible—he’s not the kind to turn his back on something like that.”

  Davin Callahan, the waiter at Mitchel House. It was not the time to deliver his greeting.

  “Colin and I told Bridget we’d help her out as long as she needed us, and she seemed to take to becoming a mother. But after the baby was born, a terrible change came over her. She’s never been able to take care of her child. He’d cry, and she’d start crying, too. She just wanted to stay in bed.” Voices sounded in the front room. We were going to be interrupted. Grace lowered her voice. “We thought it was post-partum depression, but now we don’t know. Her doctor—a good family doctor who delivered Little Jimmie, but he’s not a psychiatrist—he can’t say much to Colin and me. Confidentiality, you know. He just says she must take her medications.”

  “Can you see the difference when she takes her meds regularly?” I asked.

  “We don’t know if she’s taking them or not. She’s twenty and headstrong.” A note of frustration had crept into Grace’s voice. “Colin’s cousin is a surgeon in Dublin. He could set her up with a good psychiatrist, but she won’t hear of it. She—she runs away if we bring it up.”

  I couldn’t help the “Oh, Grace” that escaped from me.

  “We’ll talk again later,” she said, rising from her chair as Helen appeared in the doorway.

  “Sorry to bother,” Helen said. “Do you happen to have a map that will get us to Cork?”

  “I’m sure we do,” Grace said, following Helen. At the doorway, she turned to Alex and me. “I’ll need to check on Enya and Little Jimmie, and do some housekeeping.”

  “Don’t worry about us,” I said.

  “Charles and I decided we’d take a drive to Cork since he can’t play golf this morning,” Helen was saying as they went through the breakfast room. “My great-grandfather was a British soldier. They sent him to Cork sometime around 1920, to help keep the peace.”

  Under his breath, Alex said, “A black and tan? She might not want to publicize that fact here in Ireland.”

  I took our cups and put them in the sink.

  “What are your plans this morning?” Alex asked as I stared out at the rain.

  “I haven’t really unpacked. I guess that’s a good thing to do on a day like this. You?”

  “I think I’ll do some serious organizing,” he said. “I need to go through all my materials and make my list of must-see and must-do items.”

  I had to smile. For his first book, Alex had his list long before we boarded the plane for France. He seemed much less stressed on this trip, which was nice, but he seemed less energetic, as well.

  “Maybe the weather will improve, and we can get out this afternoon,” I said. “Or—we could go in the rain. I doubt we’d melt.”

  He chuckled as he left the kitchen. “Yes, that is an option, isn’t it?”

  I remained at the window for another minute. I was picturing a young woman huddled in a small, shabby dwelling far off the beaten path, wondering if she was staying dry. Not likely. How did Colin and Grace bear it?

  By the time I’d finished unpacking, the rain had passed over. By noon, the sun was out.

  Alex knocked on my door. “Amazing weather! Would you like to go to Kilkenny?”

  “Kilkenny Castle?”

  “The castle and the town, and I understand there’s a walking trail in a nearby village that takes you by a megalithic tomb—if we have time.” Alex’s puppy-like eagerness made me laugh.

  “Sure. How far is it from here?”

  “Doreen said it’s about an hour.”

  I gave him a mock scowl. He looked a little sheepish. “Doreen and Molly were planning to walk into town and catch a bus to Kilkenny, but it seemed like a good idea to let them ride with us. Doreen will be a good guide, I think.”

  I didn’t mind, but I was amused, and I had to bet that the suggestion came from Doreen. She just made Alex think it was his idea. “I can be ready in—shall we say half an hour?” I said.

  “Half an hour? Will it take you that long?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No. Take your time, Jordan,” he said in a placating voice. “I’ll tell Doreen and Molly that it’s going to be a few minutes.”

  “They’re waiting, aren’t they?” I said.

  He nodded.

  “I think you’ll find the castle fascinating, Jordan, from an architect’s perspective,” Alex said. He began to read from a brochure: “Over the past eight hundred years, the additions to the original Norman fortress have represented a diversity of architectural styles, making Kilkenny Castle a very complex structure.” He held the brochure between us, showing a photo. I had to remind him I was driving.

  “The gardens are grand,” Doreen said from the back seat. “I’ve been there, y’know.”

  “Three times, I believe,” Alex said.

  “This is my third. Molly’s been once before. Sure, the castle’s fine, but it’s just so peaceful-like strolling about the grounds.”

  Alex read on. “Originally, the castle was a square structure built with towers at each corner. Three of the original towers remain today. The North-Eastern tower was destroyed during Oliver Cromwell’s siege in 1650. Cromwell’s name does come up, doesn’t it?”

  “You know the River Nore meanders through the town,” Doreen said. “You can walk along the river and see swans and herons and the like. And y’know what would be grand? If we could make a wee side trip, out to Tullahought.”

  “Tullahought?” I said.

  “The little village. Kilmacoliver Walk. The tomb they say is five thousand years old.”

  “I remember something about that,” Alex mumbled. He wasn’t fooling me. He’d already talked with Doreen about it. “I suppose we can see how much time we have,” he said, and continued reading, “Many of the beautiful stones are quarried locally, limestone, old red sandstone, and black marble.”

  The trip went on like that, until at last Kilkenny Castle loomed before us, dominating the town that had grown up around it. Alex began to scribble in his little notebook, recording his first impressions, no doubt.

  “There’s a parking area along Castle Road. The Parade, they call it,” Doreen said. She directed me to the very heart of the small city, overshadowed by the castle. The buildings were tall and narrow, painted a variety of lively colors. A space opened up for us, as if on cue, and Alex cut his eyes at me. I returned a smile, acknowledging that Doreen was, indeed, helpful.

  She pointed out an upscale complex across the street from the castle. “They call that the Design Centre. It used to be the castle stables. If you fancy a bite to eat, there’s a nice place up on the second floor. Salads and sandwiches, light fare. Tourists seem to like it. Myself, I’m not a bit hungry. How about you, love?” Molly’s answer was inaudible. Alex said the Irish breakfast at Shepherds would keep him going for a while longer, and I was ashamed to admit I had room for a salad, but I could wait. We headed to the castle, across spacious grounds, past a few picnics.

  “You’ll be wanting the guided tour,” Doreen said at the entrance. “It takes about an hour, as I recall. We’ve done the tour, Molly and me, so we’ll go off on our own. We won’t get lost.”


  “I think the tour will be an hour well spent, don’t you?” Alex said, when mother and daughter were out of earshot.

  I was more the self-guided tour type, as Alex knew, but I said, “Maybe we can learn something that Doreen doesn’t know.”

  “Do I detect a note of sarcasm, Jordan?”

  We paid for the tour and waited for our group to assemble.

  “Doreen is all right—in small doses—but I do feel sorry for Molly. Has she said one word since we left Thurles?”

  “I’m not sure I’ve heard the child speak at all,” Alex said.

  “You should’ve heard her at breakfast, before Doreen arrived.” I remembered to tell Alex about the concert Saturday night. He was delighted that Molly was getting tickets for us.

  A young woman about Molly’s age took charge, and our tour began. A short video presented an overview of the castle’s history. So much to see—I couldn’t imagine we’d accomplish the tour in an hour. Our young guide was a fountain of facts and stories about the furnishings and paintings, as she led us through, room by room. As Alex had predicted, I found the architecture fascinating, the styles that represented numerous time periods, from the Classical arched gateway to the modern conference center housed within one of the towers. I would have stayed longer in the long, narrow Picture Gallery, a nineteenth-century addition with its high-pitched roof and its gilded animal and bird motifs on the crossbeams, but our guide wasted no time. Another reason I liked self-guided tours. The formidable corner towers were reminders of the structure’s medieval beginnings. Much was made of the tower that had been destroyed during the Cromwellian siege. I thought of Ian Haverty’s words: “It was a brutal period in our history.”

  Doreen and Molly were waiting for us at the end of the tour. One hour on the dot.

  “Molly and I could do with a cup of tea,” Doreen said. “Did you see the Castle Kitchen?”

  Our guide had pointed out the small eatery, and I’d been tempted to run in and grab one of the “lovely scones” she’d promoted. This time I thought Doreen’s suggestion was just fine.

  The daily special was soup and a veggie wrap, and we ordered four specials and two pots of tea. “You’ll not be wanting to miss the gardens,” Doreen said, with a glance at her watch that seemed a little regretful. It was getting on toward three o’clock.

  “How far is the little village—what was the name?” Alex said.

  “Tullahought,” Doreen replied. “About twenty kilometers, I’d say. And the trail—it could take two to three hours, I’ve heard, depending on how fast you can walk.”

  “I’d like to spend some time just browsing in the little town,” I said, trying for extra kindness in my voice and expression. “And of course the gardens—as you’ve said—it would be a shame to hurry on and not stroll through the gardens. There’s so much to see, and we got a late start. Maybe we can come back to Tullahought another day.”

  “I was thinking the same,” said Doreen. “Only this may be the last day Molly has to see the sights. She’ll be rehearsing and performing into next week. Isn’t that right, love? We’d planned to leave after her final performance, but I suppose we could extend our stay, if the O’Tooles can keep us on.”

  “I don’t have to go to Tullahought.” Molly’s voice—a surprise—was cross at first, but then she seemed to reconsider. A certain sparkle came into her eyes. “I wouldn’t mind staying on, though—if you want to, Mam.”

  I went back to the counter and ordered a plate of the lovely scones. Alex was relating the high points of our tour when I returned to the table with four scones to share.

  “I suppose they told you all about the Butler family,” Doreen said.

  “Kilkenny was their principal Irish residence for most of six hundred years,” Alex said, “until the family presented the castle to the town for a token payment. I think it was 1967.”

  “Y’know the Butlers were Protestant,” Doreen said, taking a dainty bite of her scone. “But it was all a long time ago.”

  It was dark when we pulled up at Shepherds. Sightseeing in Kilkenny, the town, with its winding streets, its air of history, turned out to take the rest of the afternoon. Molly seemed to cheer up after lunch. In one of the stores in the Kilkenny Design Centre, she bought a silver bracelet. She had her own money—I wouldn’t have guessed—and when Doreen told her she could buy a bracelet elsewhere for much less, Molly just smiled and said, “I like this one.”

  “You know these Irish-designed gifts are mostly for tourists,” Doreen said. I took her advice and bought bracelets for my daughters at a tiny store on Abbey Street, where I also snapped a picture of the only remaining gate to what was once a walled city.

  Coming into Thurles, we’d discussed dinner. No one was really hungry, but we thought we should get a bite to eat. Doreen suggested the café at The Source Arts Centre. Light entrees, inexpensive, a view of the River Suir—it was just right. The prospect of Molly’s performances over the next few days dominated the conversation. Doreen’s suggestion that they stay on in Thurles for a while longer than they’d planned had done wonders for Molly’s demeanor.

  Back at Shepherds, we talked with Patrick O’Toole for the first time. He was behind the Reception desk, speaking with Mr. Sweeney, who brushed past us with a gruff sound—neither a greeting nor an apology—when he was finished. Patrick shrugged, as if to say he couldn’t figure out the man either, and then his eyes widened. “You’re Alex and Jordan!”

  I resisted the temptation to say that when I’d last seen him, he was about so long—and make a measurement of about twenty-two inches with my hands.

  We spoke for a moment before the phone rang. Patrick raised his finger, indicating that we should wait. “Yes, it’s very bad,” he said to the caller. “I think you’re right. No one will want to meet tomorrow. Better to reschedule.” He thanked the caller and promised to let Colin know.

  “Sorry,” he said. “The business owners in town have a lunch meeting on the second Friday of the month, but it’s postponed. There’s been a tragedy.”

  Before he could elaborate, Grace appeared in the doorway between Reception and the breakfast room. She was holding the hand of a bouncy red-haired toddler. “I thought I heard your voices,” she said. Motioning for us to join her, she said, “I’ve made a pot of tea.”

  It was our first chance to see Little Jimmie up close. He was blue-eyed, with fine, wispy red lashes, chubby hands, and plump cheeks. He babbled something, and Grace put him in his high chair, where she had cut up a banana for him. “He’s already had his dinner. Nothing wrong with this child’s appetite,” she said.

  Dinner for the adults must have still been cooking—something delicious, from the aroma.

  “A fine-looking young man,” Alex said.

  The little boy gave one of those heart-wrenching smiles that you can’t help but return. He showed a mouthful of tiny white teeth. I asked his age. Grace said he was twenty-two months.

  She produced the tin that Helen had found in the cabinet and put out several shortbread cookies. Little Jimmie reached out and whined when she set the plate on the table. “You can have one,” she said. She brought cups and a teapot to the table and sat down at last, with a long sigh that revealed much about how her day had been. “I heard Patrick tell you what happened.”

  “He didn’t say what happened, just that it was a tragedy of some kind,” I said.

  She stirred her tea, waited a beat before she said, “Dr. Malone is dead. He was stabbed.”

  I caught my breath. “We met him last night at the pub. Ian introduced us.”

  “I’m not sure he ever made it home.” Grace put both of her hands around her cup and looked down. “I can’t believe it. He’s so well respected in the town. Was.” She reached over to wipe Little Jimmie’s mouth. “He was Bridget’s doctor. I don’t know what we’ll do now.”

  “Are you saying he died last night, after he left the pub?” Alex asked.

  “He didn’t show up at his office thi
s morning.” Grace crumpled the napkin. She stared into her cup again, her voice a kind of sing-song. “Colin came back from town around noon saying that Dr. Malone was missing. Word gets around in Thurles. This afternoon we heard he’d been found. His body had been found. Soaked from the rain, so it might have happened last night or maybe this morning early. What he was doing out there, I can’t imagine.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  Grace looked up, meeting my eyes, communicating her worry. A shiver ran down my spine as she said, “Red Stag Crossing. Not far from Magdala’s cottage.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Once again, our conversation with Grace was interrupted, this time by Enya. Her bobbing walk made her look like a prissy teenager. No one had actually said how old she was, but I’d assumed she was close to Patrick’s age, which was twenty-eight. The impression she gave was one of perpetual dissatisfaction, but she was a natural beauty, dark-haired and dark-eyed.

  “What’s cooking?” she asked, crossing over to the stove.

  “Stew,” Grace said. “It needs another half hour.”

  With a pot holder, Enya raised the lid off the stew and sniffed. One would expect a comment—I had never imagined Irish stew would smell so wonderful!—but she simply said, “I’ll go on and bathe Jimmie,” to which Grace agreed. I supposed that was something.

  “You’ve met Jordan and Alex, haven’t you?” Grace said.

  “We met this morning,” Enya said with a glance my way, in a manner that was neither cross nor friendly, just matter of fact.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure,” Alex said, standing, the perfect gentleman.

  He must have impressed Enya. Her expression altered. She didn’t smile exactly, but she was more pleasant as she took a step closer, studying him. “I’m Enya.” She added, “Patrick’s wife,” with a kind of bite that left no doubt there was some resentment there. Did she feel no one valued her, except in her role as Patrick’s wife? She didn’t stick around for conversation. She whisked Little Jimmie out of his high chair and they left through the back of the kitchen, where a staircase must have led to the family’s rooms. It was reassuring to hear her speak to the baby in a kind voice—“Play with your boats, sure”—when he said something I couldn’t understand.