“It’ll do. Drink up now, and go home.”
Maura emptied her glass, wondering just where “home” was.
Chapter 14
Maura was surprised to find herself awake early, after her late night. She had to stop and count how long she’d been in Ireland: this was only her fifth day here, if she counted the day she’d arrived. It seemed like longer. She had to admit, she felt like she’d been thrown into the deep end of the pool, with no warning. As she’d told Mick, everybody around here seemed to know who she was; most of them knew more about her family history than she did. How many years would it take to fill in that kind of information for all these new people she was meeting?
She jumped out of bed and showered quickly, then went upstairs to find that Ellen’s children were still in the kitchen. Oh, right—it was Saturday, which meant no school. She hovered in the doorway, feeling like an intruder. When the children noticed her, they suddenly turned shy.
“You lot, in the parlor,” Ellen barked, and the older children took themselves off, leaving Gráinne, who was seated on the kitchen floor playing with several wooden spoons and looking quite content. Maura wondered briefly what it would be like to be one of many kids, much less the last of many. Or maybe not even the last? Ellen couldn’t be forty yet, so she could have more if she chose.
My own mother hadn’t even wanted to raise one.
“You’re up early today. You’ve heard?” Ellen said. “Oh, would you rather have cereal, or bread and butter? There’s jam.”
“If it’s the brown bread, I’ll have that. I’m developing a taste for it. You mean about the murder in Skibbereen? I did; everybody was talking about it at Sullivan’s last night. Sad thing. Do you know, I talked to him, the afternoon before he died? He stopped in at Sullivan’s on the way home. You don’t get a lot of murders around here, do you?”
“It’s a rare thing, God be praised. And finding two bodies within the week—even if the man in the bog died long ago—I can’t recall it ever happening before. Did you talk to the gardaí?”
“I went over there, but they were kind of busy with this new death, even though I didn’t know it at the time. I hate to bother them now, with such a long shot. They’ll be busy with this new one, won’t they?”
“No doubt they will. I’m sure the man from the bog will keep, until they get this sorted out,” Ellen said, before turning to her child. “Ah, Gráinne, you’ve made a mess of yourself—I’d better be cleaning you up. Could you hold her a moment, Maura?” Without waiting for an answer, Ellen deposited Gráinne, still clutching a spoon, on Maura’s lap. Maura and Gráinne stared at each other seriously, then Gráinne offered the spoon to Maura.
“Oh, so you want me to play? All right.” Maura took the spoon and looked around for something to bang it on, that wouldn’t break—and wouldn’t give little Gráinne some evil ideas. She couldn’t find anything within reach, and in the end she simply handed it back to the toddler. Gráinne grasped it as if she’d never seen anything so delightful and waved it at Maura. They repeated the process several times, before Ellen approached with a wet cloth to wipe down her daughter—a process that Gráinne didn’t enjoy at all. Apparently she had already learned the word “no.”
“She’s a handful,” Maura said once Gráinne had slid back down to the floor.
“They all are, but I love them to pieces,” Ellen said, giving Gráinne’s face a final swipe with the cloth. “It’s easier now that the older ones can help out. So, what’re your plans for the day?”
“More of the same, I guess. I’ll go see Bridget Nolan, then spend the rest of the day working at the pub. Did you hear about Jimmy’s fall?”
When Ellen shook her head, Maura recounted the adventures she’d had taking him and Rose to the hospital in Cork the day before. When she was done, Ellen said, “Jimmy’s been known to take a drop, even in the mornings. Could be he was a bit unsteady on his feet.”
“Possibly, but those stairs looked ready to fall apart. There’s lots that needs to be done to the building, and I’m starting to think Old Mick was beyond seeing or caring.”
“True enough. But he kept his spirit to the end, bless him.”
After a pause, Maura said, “Ellen, how is it everyone seems to know about anything that happens around here? Like that death in Skibbereen? I mean, back home everyone would be on their smart phone texting the minute they knew anything, but I don’t see so much of that around here. It wouldn’t have made the television news that fast. How does the word spread?”
Ellen laughed. “And how do you think people learned such things in the old days? They talked to each other. Take Mrs. Nolan, for instance. You’ve been visiting her. Michael calls in on her every other day or so. There are near neighbors who stop by to see if she needs anything, or just to chat. Sure, there’s more that go off to work now, but they’re the ones who’ll have the phones, see. And big events—who’s had a baby, whose uncle has died, who’s had a piece of good luck—they’re most often personal around here, and you’d rather tell them to their face than on a phone. You’re either related to the person, or you know someone who is. It’s a small place. Let me ask you this: if you live in a town that has ten or a hundred or a thousand times more people than Leap, why is it you Americans talk less to each other than we do?”
“I…don’t know. I never thought about it, really. It might be because most of those people are strangers, not relatives, and we aren’t sure we can trust them. It’s too bad.” Back in Boston, Gran had been on nodding terms with most of the neighbors—at least the ones who stayed around more than a couple of months—but she’d never had much time to “just stop by,” much less time to share gossip over a cup of tea. In fact, most of the women Maura had known, growing up, had been working, so none of them had that kind of time either. Most of the people she’d spent any time with had been the newly arrived Irishmen, with no family and no local ties in Boston. They would come by after their own workday, looking for a cup of tea and a friendly face, and Gran had never turned them away. Maura couldn’t criticize, because she had ended up with few friends herself. She’d worked as much as she could, including evenings, and what friends she’d had in high school had drifted away, either into marriage or to search for something better, or at least something different, outside of Boston.
“Look, you take in guests, like me,” Maura began slowly. “Do you advertise online?”
Ellen laughed. “You mean, do I have a website? Hardly that. I’ve only the two rooms, and they bring in a bit extra, but it’s not a business, exactly. Most of my guests, it’s the guys at the hotel that send them over. There’s a computer for the kids in the parlor, but I watch how much they use it. I know, they’re young yet, and it’ll only get worse. I pay for the satellite service, since guests seem to want it more often than not. But I have to say that it seems wrong to me that visitors should come from thousands of miles away and then sit in front of their laptop as if they were at home. Why bother to make the trip? I see you don’t have a computer.”
“I don’t own one. I know, that makes me really out of things. But back home, I could never afford one, and if I needed one for homework or something, I’d go to the library or the computer lab at school. I notice that Rose is on her phone a lot, even with her father and Mick, not just friends.”
“It’s the thing, at her age. Oh, wait—I have something for you.” Ellen left the room briefly, returning with a cell phone in her hand. “You should have this mobile. And here’s the charger to go with it.” She held them out to Maura.
“A phone? Doesn’t it belong to someone?”
“A visitor a while back left it, saying it would do her no good back home. It’s one of those prepaid things, so you can use whatever minutes are on it, maybe even add more if you want.”
“Uh, thank you. Not that I know anyone to call.”
“Don’t be daft. There’s me and the pub, for starters. Plus, a woman traveling alone, as you are, with a rackety old car—you mi
ght need to call someone to haul you out of a ditch. Which reminds me, if you do have any trouble, call 999—that’ll get you the gardaí. But only if it’s an emergency. I hope you won’t be needing it, but I’d rather you had it, just in case.”
“Thanks, Ellen.” Maura felt touched by Ellen’s unexpected thoughtfulness. She’d never had more than a cheap prepaid phone back home, which she kept only for emergencies and if she needed to reach wherever she was working at the time, or Gran. “Oh, and I got a few maps in Skibbereen, but it turns out they’re too big to show all the lanes around here. Do you have a local map? So far I keep taking the same roads, and I’m sure there are better ways of getting around.”
“Goodness, I should have thought of that. Where’s my head been?” Ellen rummaged in a drawer and came up with a folded map. “It’s turned to the parts you’ll be needing. But I should warn you, just because there’s a road on the map, doesn’t mean it’s a road fit to drive. And there’s been little money put toward fixing the roads these past few years, so watch for potholes and the like.”
“I will. Thanks again.”
“You’re more than welcome. Oh, look at the time! Gráinne mo ghrá, we’ve got to get ready to go. Have a good day, Maura.” And Ellen bustled out, her daughter balanced on one hip. Maura could hear her calling to her sons. Where would they go on a Saturday? Was it like back home, when mothers seemed to be dragging their kids, willing or unwilling, to games and classes and training for something or other? Gran had made her take violin lessons for about six minutes, because the school had offered them for free, but she had quickly demonstrated that she had no musical talent at all, and they’d never mentioned it again.
Maura drank the rest of her coffee and laid the map out on the tabletop, finding the smaller road to the north that took her from where she sat toward Knockskagh. If she stayed on that, past the turn up the hill that she already knew, she’d come to a T-intersection with a bigger road leading left to the highway or right toward Drinagh. That was one option. And the road she’d been using to get to Bridget Nolan’s appeared to continue over the top of the hill and down again, to intersect with another larger road. Wasn’t that the way Mrs. Nolan had said the children of Knockskagh went to school? The bog where the dead man had lain—or been placed—was almost due east of Knockskagh. So many lanes! Apart from the so-called roads, there were little lines darting off of them, sometimes going to only one or two houses, and in addition there were dotted lines that often led to nowhere. Dirt roads? Footpaths? She had no idea.
All right. Today she would go the usual way, but maybe on the way back she’d return to Leap by a different path. And she should get back to Sullivan’s by midafternoon, because it would be Saturday night, and besides, she wanted to see what news had surfaced overnight. She had to remind herself that it wasn’t exactly gossip; it was a fair exchange of information, with everyone adding something and taking something away. And now there were two deaths to chew upon.
The sky was overcast, but it didn’t look like rain. Maura set off for Mrs. Nolan’s house with renewed confidence. After all, she’d braved the city—well, at least the fringes of the city—and emerged intact. She’d made it back to Leap without getting lost. She was getting the hang of driving on the left, and she even recognized some of the local landmarks.
However, when she arrived at the Nolan house, her confidence wavered, and she parked in the lane across the road rather than risking the narrow entrance to the house. When she crossed the lane, she could see that the door was open, letting in some light and the spring breeze. Maura heard cows lowing in distant fields, although the field in front of Mrs. Nolan’s house remained empty. Would there be cattle grazing there later in the spring? Maura realized that apart from a long-ago field trip to a farm her elementary school had arranged, she had no idea what went into raising cattle. Grass in one end, milk out the middle, and the rest out the back end. Simple, right? Well, probably not, but cow management was not something she had ever thought she needed to know. She rapped on the open door.
“Come in, come in,” came Mrs. Nolan’s voice from the kitchen.
“How do you know it’s me?” Maura asked as she walked into the main room.
“I heard the car coming up the hill, didn’t I? And I was expecting you. Awful news about that young man in Skibbereen, isn’t it?” Mrs. Nolan emerged from the kitchen with the tea tray; a plate of sliced bread studded with raisins was already set out on the small table next to the chairs.
“It is. How did you hear?”
“Ah, Mrs. Driscoll, up top the hill, stopped in to bring me some milk. She’d heard it on the telly this morning. What is the world coming to, that people should be attacked on the street?”
“I wish I knew.” They chatted amiably as Maura enjoyed the bread, along with fresh butter, even though it had been only an hour since her breakfast. After yet another hour had passed, Maura thought she should be going, but she couldn’t resist adding, “You’ve heard about Jimmy Sweeney’s fall?”
“Poor man, he has no luck at all. He’s been a changed man since he lost his wife. Rose is a sweet girl, but it shouldn’t fall to her to look after him,” Mrs. Nolan said. “Mick brings Rose up here now and then, to help me clean the place, and I sent her over to Old Mick’s now and then, since he had no woman to look after him. Jimmy has no car, you see, so she needs the ride. Just as well, Jimmy not having the car. He doesn’t handle his drink well.” That was the harshest criticism Maura had heard Mrs. Nolan make of anyone.
“I wish Rose could find something that she wants to do,” Maura said. “Tending bar in a village isn’t much of a life for her, is it? I haven’t seen many kids her age around. Doesn’t she get lonely?”
Mrs. Nolan shook her head. “Most of her friends have gone away now, looking for work, and the ones still here—well, they’re not the kind a nice young girl should associate with. But things are hard these days.”
“They are,” Maura said, “and not just here, but back in the States too.” After a moment of shared silence, Maura said, “Well, I should be getting back. It may be another busy day at Sullivan’s. At least, I hope so, since it’s Saturday.”
“You go on your way, darlin’. You don’t have to keep coming to entertain an old lady like me.”
“It’s no trouble. And I still want to hear more about Gran, and you promised to tell me how to find the cemetery where my grandfather is buried.”
“That I did. Thank you for reminding me. Tomorrow I can give you the directions—it’s a little hard to find, once you pass through Drinagh.”
“I’ll look forward to it. Bye now.” Maura pulled the door closed behind her as she left—the wind had shifted, and had a sharp edge to it now. Back at the car, she started the engine and checked the road: empty in all directions. She consulted the map, looking for a new way back to town; it said she should go right out of the lane she was parked in and over the top of the hill, and on the way down she’d pass something called “Lough Gorm” on the right, and if she turned left at the bottom of the hill and then right, the road would take her back to Leap. It should be easy.
Chapter 15
Maura came to the crest of the hill, driving at a cautious twenty miles per hour, and stopped to admire the view of the two small ponds—identified as “loughs” on the map—below. The lane she was on looped around to the left, following the contour of the hill. There was room for only one car at a time, but luckily there was no one else in sight at the moment. She began inching forward, her foot hovering near the clutch, and it didn’t take her long to realize that this had to be one of the roads that had suffered from a lack of maintenance, as Ellen had warned her. It might be easier to walk it, but Maura had a borrowed car to worry about, and she didn’t want to destroy an axle by slamming into one of the many potholes that punctuated what was left of the road surface. Not to mention the ditches a foot or more deep that heavy rains had cut along one side or the other. Getting to the bottom was not going to be easy, but
at least she was in no hurry and could take it an inch at a time if necessary.
Which would have been fine if it hadn’t been for the car that appeared behind her. Where had that come from? She hadn’t seen anyone else on the road when she started. She vaguely recalled that there were rules for who should pull over to allow someone to pass, but they were pointless now because there was nowhere to pull over. Generally she had found that Irish drivers were polite, if impatient, but then, they knew where they were going. The driver behind would just have to wait—she wasn’t going far anyway, and she refused to be rushed.
Then the car hit her. At first it was a nudge, and Maura’s anger flared—no driver had the right to be that impatient. She slowed even further, now alternately straining to see who was behind the wheel of the other car and watching out for the pits ahead of her. All she could make out was a man wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses. Then he sped up and hit her again, harder this time. Maura grabbed the wheel tightly, her knuckles white, and wondered what the hell was going on. Not that there was much she could do. There was only one way out: forward, downhill.
The man had fallen back slightly, but as Maura watched in her rearview mirror, he accelerated and came at her again, aiming for her left rear bumper. This time the hit caused her steering wheel to be jerked from her grip, and she felt a front tire spinning in air as the front end skewed toward the right—the downhill side. Another thud, and the car slowly tilted downward like a seesaw. One more solid thunk, and the back wheels slipped over the edge, and the car began sliding downhill, despite her foot jammed firmly on the brake. As a last resort, she hauled hard on the parking brake—anything to stop her forward motion. And somehow the car skidded to a stop twenty feet down the hill, with the front bumper against a small tree.
She sat for several seconds, waiting to make sure she had really stopped, not just paused in her tumble toward the lake below. She could hear the ticking of the car’s engine, now stalled, and the crackling of the brush she had smashed in her passage. Finally she dared to turn her head back toward the road, to see if the other driver had stopped to check on her.
Buried In a Bog Page 12
