7 Sweets, Begorra

by Connie Shelton

  “Euros or dollars?”

  “Dollars. I told ’em there would be a fifty-dollar fee for exchanging them. Humph, basically for my trouble to walk down to the bank. Hey, why not? They didn’t question it.”

  “Did you see a third man?”

  “Might have.” She tilted her head toward a window.

  Sam noticed for the first time that the Glory Be was in view just down the pier from the office.

  “I usually kept an eye open, to see when the boat actually left harbor. Sometimes Darragh would forget to radio his time out, and I was supposed to track it and make sure they were back before their petrol would have run out.”

  “And when they didn’t come back by that night you were the one who reported it and sent the coast guard out looking?” Sam asked.

  Deirdre nodded.

  “So, this third man. Tell me about him,” Beau said.

  “Not much to tell. He came walking up to the boat, pulling a bag like those kind you take on the airplane. That looked kind of funny. There was a little conversation amongst them. Darragh must have said it was all right. He had enough gear for everyone to fish. The new guy went aboard and they sailed.”

  Beau pulled out the photo of Quinton Farrell; Sam hadn’t realized that he’d kept it. Deirdre nodded—that was the man.

  “Have you seen him again since the Glory Be sailed out that day?”

  “Nope.” Deirdre stubbed out the burned-down cigarette and got busy with her desk supplies again.

  Sam and Beau walked back to the hotel’s parking garage and retrieved their rental.

  “You didn’t ask her about these Travellers,” Sam said as Beau backed out.

  “I had planned to, but did you see her reaction when I asked whether she’d seen Quinton Farrell since the day the boat went out? She was lying through her teeth.”

  He was certainly observant.

  “In case she is in touch with him, I didn’t want her knowing where we’re going next.”

  “And where is that, dear husband?”

  “I asked a few questions at the hotel desk before you came down this morning. There’s a town not far away, T-u-a-m—the clerk pronounced it something like toom—where supposedly there’s a big encampment of these Travellers. She showed me on the map,” he said, raising the folded sheet. “I also learned that not all of the Travellers move around all the time anymore. The government has even provided them with ‘halting places’ where they can live semi-permanently. The lady said the effort is to get them to put their kids in school, but they’ve tried laws like that for decades and it hasn’t completely changed their ways.”

  He handed Sam the map and she studied it to become oriented to their destination. Once they were on the open road she remembered what she wanted to ask him.

  “So, do you get the feeling that Deirdre might have actually helped the men? Aided and abetted, or something like that?”

  “I don’t know, darlin’. I wouldn’t think so—but I wouldn’t rule it out either. She definitely knew more about Farrell than she was saying.”

  “Then again, maybe it’s only that she found him attractive or something and didn’t want to admit that. Sometimes women are funny about those things.”

  He sent a grin her way before focusing his attention again on the two-way traffic on the N17 highway.

  “Hey, at least we’re getting to see a bit more of Ireland, all in the name of helping Bridget’s family.”

  The approach to Tuam started out much like any other town in any other place—a scattering of light industrial businesses, some automotive shops and gas stations, as the concentration of traffic grew heavier. The car ahead of them passed a slow-moving tractor and Beau tensed as it became clear he would have to make the same move. Passing on the right, with oncoming traffic, still wasn’t coming naturally to him. He finished the maneuver and they began to see residences along the sides of the road, sturdy square two-stories with steeply pitched roofs and chimneys at both ends.

  A traffic light, a roundabout, the sight of a tall church spire in the distance—and traffic that was quickly becoming congested. Sam kept checking the map, but since they weren’t entirely sure of their destination Beau stayed with the majority of other drivers and headed toward the town center on Ballygaddy Road. It soon narrowed to a squeeze with parked cars along the sides and small shops lining the sidewalks.

  “This doesn’t exactly look like the area where a bunch of mobile people in caravans would be living, does it?” Beau said.

  “We could stop and take in some of the shops and then ask someone where we might find them.”

  Tuam, it turned out, also had a Shop Street and they lucked into a parking space in front of an antiques store.

  “Cute, huh?” Sam said. The stone buildings weren’t so different from those in Galway, but maybe the shops were appealing because of the fact that she didn’t have to own and operate any of them.

  It felt good to stretch their legs and they found themselves keeping up a good pace as they walked by shops and pubs and came to another intersection.

  “That direction looks like it becomes residential again,” Beau said, pointing toward a block of row houses in subdued grays and tans that sat against the sidewalk.

  “I saw a spot down one side street that might have possibilities for lunch.”

  “And directions.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t make me be the wife who has to suggest stopping to ask.”

  His hand on the back of her neck gave a soft, loving squeeze and she led him toward the open door of a cozy little pub. Inside, the barman took their orders for sandwiches. They were early, they realized, when they discovered they were alone in the place. By the time they’d finished their sandwiches, the few tables had filled and most of the stools at the bar were occupied.

  “The guy behind the bar is hopping,” Beau said. “I feel guilty asking him to look at the map right now.”

  Sam scanned the room. “There’s a woman at the bar who doesn’t have her food yet. Maybe I can ask her.”

  She picked up the map and opened it. The young dark-haired woman looked up as she approached.

  “Excuse me? Could I ask a favor?” She spread the map and explained what they needed.

  “Why’d you want to visit them?” the local woman asked. “Just curious. Not many Americans even know the Travellers exist.”

  “Some friends in Galway suggested we look them up.”

  “Yeah, well they do make some pretty things. If you go to this area here,” she said, indicating with her finger, “you’ll see their caravans. They keep pretty much to themselves, but sometimes the old men have stands set up and the women sell crafts and such.”

  “What’s the shortest route?”

  The woman took Sam’s pen and drew in the turns they should make. Beau watched over Sam’s shoulder and nodded as if he knew exactly where to go.

  A man’s voice intruded. “Goddam knacks. They’ll steal you blind, and then they want government services while they pay no taxes toward their keep. Oughtta boot ’em off the dole and send ’em right back wherever they come from, you ask me.”

  “Watch your mouth,” said the barkeep. “We don’t need no cursin’ and no commentary, Maguire. Everybody knows your opinion already.”

  “Sorry,” the young woman said quietly. “Not everyone around here likes the Travellers much.”

  “Much?” said old Maguire. “Worthless gypsies, they are.”

  Chapter 18

  “Sounds like a sore spot,” Beau said as they walked back to their car.

  As he negotiated the series of turns that took them away from the city center, Sam wondered what they might be getting themselves into. But when they located the place, it looked like an ordinary trailer park—perhaps more crowded than some in America, a mixture of mobile homes, travel trailers and small motorhomes packed into close quarters. Interspersed in the sea of metal were a half-dozen or so of the colorfully painted wagons like they’d seen near Ballyva
ghan. An old man worked under shelter of a three-sided metal shed, pounding on something with a wooden mallet.

  “Hi, can I help you?” he said, his dark eyes twinkling under the brim of a flat cap. He continued to knock away at the narrow band of metal while he spoke, shaping it into a smooth curve.

  “We’re looking for a family called Farrell,” Beau said, doing his best to look unofficial. “Do you know of them?”

  The man took the curved metal strip and fitted it against the side of a cylindrical container. Sam could see that it would soon be a teapot.

  When he spoke again, all he said was, “Maybe.” He gave Beau the eye and tapped the metal strip a few more times to adjust the fit.

  “I like your work,” Sam said. “Do you sell them?”

  “Some. Some’s for home. The missus uses an entire set of my pans.” He waved his mallet toward one side wall of the shack where two shelves were full of finished pieces.

  “Would you sell me one of the teapots?” she asked, belatedly wondering how she would fit it into her suitcase. Well, she would think of a way.

  The price he quoted was no bargain, but she was paying more for information than for a teapot. She fished out some money and chose the pot she wanted. He gave her a wide smile, and Sam noticed that he had no upper front teeth. His lively eyes and ready smile caused Sam to smile back, and it was almost as if they’d both heard the same joke. He laughed as he put the finishing touches on the handle for the newest teapot.

  “Now about them Farrells you’re wantin’ to find . . .” Tap-tap-tap. “Half the community is over’t the church this afternoon, there bein’ a big weddin’. You might find ’em there.”

  She started to ask directions but Beau gave a little stab at the air with his index finger and she spotted a cathedral spire rising a block or two away, behind a thick stand of trees. She thanked the old man and hugged the new teapot close to her chest. He lit up once more when he saw how much she appreciated his work. She chuckled as they walked back to the car.

  “Are we up for a wedding?” Beau asked. “We’re not exactly dressed for it.”

  “Beau! We can’t just go crashing it. Plus, I have a sneakier idea.”

  She pulled her camera out of her pack, along with a small travel journal where she’d been jotting notes about their travels. Sadly, she discovered, she hadn’t made a new entry in four days.

  “I’m an American travel writer,” she told Beau. “You are my camera-dude.”

  “Sam . . . what kind of trouble—”

  “Just find that church.”

  Doing so wasn’t exactly rocket science. He kept the spire in view until it got blocked by a row of buildings, but as soon as they came to an intersection they spotted a hugely long white limo pulling to the curb in front of the gray stone edifice. Sam raised an eyebrow toward Beau but his concentration was on finding a parking spot. She glanced back toward the limo, where a coterie of young women in brilliant turquoise dresses began to emerge onto the sidewalk. This, surely, wasn’t a welfare family.

  “Let me out here if you need to,” Sam said. “I think I’ve got my story angle.”

  She slung her pack over one shoulder and clutched her notebook and a pen as she got out of the car and nearly got run down by a vehicle coming unexpectedly from the right.

  A pause, it passed, and she dashed across to the front of the church. By the time she got there four bridesmaids were gathered around and the star of the show was stepping from the long car. A patient mother stood to one side, her own dress a palette of vivid blues and greens.

  “I love the dresses,” Sam said to the older woman. “Do you suppose we might get a few pictures, maybe ask a couple of questions for our magazine in the U.S.?”

  The woman regarded her for a long moment, apparently decided she wasn’t spoofing them, and nodded.

  “Are you the mother of the bride? You actually look much too young to have a grown daughter.”

  Okay, it was hokey flattery at best, but when Sam saw how young the bride was she pretty much understood. The young woman in white couldn’t have been more than seventeen. She glanced toward her mother as the other girls worked at arranging the billows of white satin. A much younger girl, probably a sister, of about ten was dressed in a downsized version of the bride’s dress.

  “Who is the little one?” Sam asked.

  “Oh, she’s the mini-bride,” said the mother with pride. “All the girls want them nowadays. She gets to dress the same as the bride and carry her flowers and help her until she’s ready to walk the aisle.”

  Sam watched as the ten-year-old mimicked her older sister’s moves.

  “My photographer should be along any second,” Sam said, searching above the heads for sight of Beau. “Would it be all right if I asked a question or two first?”

  The young bride noticed Sam’s notebook. She drew her shoulders back a little, clearly enjoying her moment in the limelight. Sam gave a one-sentence rundown about how Americans knew so little about the Irish Travellers and how fascinated they would be to know more about the lifestyle, especially the weddings.

  The bride preened a little as she explained that the crown holding her veil was made of real diamonds—Swarovski—and that she’d dreamed of this gown and this day since she was a very young girl. Sam supposed it was one of those things that transcended all cultures—girls and their wedding dreams.

  Beau showed up just then and Sam had him snap pictures of the bride alone and then the entire procession as all the young women lined up to enter the church. As they walked away, Sam noticed another female standing at the edge of the gathering.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I meant to ask the bride’s name. For my article on Travellers.”

  The woman gave a friendly smile. She wore a red skirt and low-cut black top that showed off her ample endowments, went heavy on the eye makeup and the professional sun-streaks in her hair. “Gilmore,” she said.

  It would have been way too lucky to find the Farrells this easily. “Are you—?” Sam tilted her head toward the wide church doors, where the bride’s skirt was being squeezed by her attendants to fit through.

  “Oh, no. I’m not a guest. Not all Travellers are automatically invited to every event for the others. I’m Saoirse, by the way.”

  It sounded like sare-sha and Sam had to ask her how to spell it.

  “Sorry,” Sam said. “I’m really new to Ireland and the Travellers.”

  “And you’ll not be hearing an accurate story if you ask about us among the settled people. There’s so many wild stories—we’re stupid and lazy and thieves. The men have nothin’ better to do but fight and the women stay preggers all the time. It’s total rubbish. So what— our women don’t generally have careers. La-di-da. We think it’s more important to be good wives and good mothers. And, yeah, a lot of our kids don’t do much schoolin’. What do they need it for? The teachers treat ’em rude because we don’t stay in one place forever like the settled people do.”

  Sam realized that the woman thought she was being interviewed for a magazine article so she hastily scribbled a few notes. For good measure, she asked Beau to take Saoirse’s picture.

  “And so what if we take advantage of the dole if we need it? That’s what it’s there for.” A chime sounded and the woman pulled a cell phone out of her bag. “A message from me daughter,” she said as she put it away. “She’s havin’ her second baby in a month or so.”

  Sam consulted her notes. “Someone in Galway suggested that we contact a family here named Farrell—do you know them?”

  “We’ve just recently arrived in Tuam, ourselves,” Saoirse said. “Come along with me, if you’d like. I can introduce you to someone.”

  A picture of being abducted by gypsies flashed through Sam’s mind.

  “It’s all right,” Saoirse said with a pleasant laugh. “We none of us bite.”

  She hitched her large red bag up to her shoulder and, with an eye on the traffic, started back toward the trailer encampment
. Sam and Beau exchanged a look then headed after her. She passed through the opening in the walled area and wound her way among the haphazardly parked vehicles. Finally, she halted beside a relatively modern small motor home, a little battered and rusty at the edges.

  “This is mine,” she said. “My husband is off for the day, checkin’ out a car that a man wants to sell. My son’s all eager to learn to drive and we’re not startin’ him with the caravan, for certain.”

  Sam remembered her notes for the supposed magazine piece she was to be writing. “I’m curious about something,” she said. “The huge wedding—the fancy dresses, the limousine and all that. How do people who seem to come from modest means . . . well, how do they manage it?”

  “A girl’s weddin’ is the biggest day of her life,” Saoirse said. “Every woman remembers how special it is, bein’ treated like a princess. Bein’ a princess, for that one day. Those of us with daughters, we save every penny we can put by to give our girls the kind of day they’ll remember.”

  If the rest of a young woman’s life would be spent in one of these small conveyances, moving from town to town, it did seem pretty important to start married life with the one little speck of glamour she would likely ever enjoy. Sam made a few more notes. Maybe she really would write some kind of story about all this.

  “Oh, here’s Cian now,” said Saoirse, nudging Sam.

  He walked with the duck-like gait of a barrel-chested man who was no stranger to his Guinness. Forty-ish, black hair trimmed very short, ruddy cheeks and vivid blue eyes—he greeted Saoirse heartily.

  “Meet some new American friends,” she said. “The lady is writing for a magazine, about Irish Travellers.”