by Stuart Woods
“And we know a bit more than we did, too,” I said, thinking of Connie. I would have to go and apologize for yelling at her. She had come through for us. “Still, even though they think Derek’s out of the picture, they’ve still got their version of Belfast to hold against you. They’re going to remember that before long.”
“Maybe, but now they’re thinking their jobs depend on the boat’s being finished. We’ll have a breathing spell until then.”
But what, I wondered, would happen when the yacht was finished?
26
CHRISTMAS CAME, and it was one of the best I can remember. My parents arrived, and my grandfather clearly enjoyed having his daughter home. He threw a huge cocktail party and buffet dinner; half the county seemed to be there. I found a fashionably cut dinner jacket at a Cork men’s shop just in time to keep from disgracing the family.
My parents were much taken with Mark and Annie, and with Connie. If anything, my mother approved too much of Connie. “There,” she said pointedly, when she had my ear at the punch bowl, “is a young woman of substance.”
“Come on, now, Patricia, you just want grandchildren with a bit of Irish in them.”
“I should be so lucky,” she sighed. “Anyway, she’s more your style than Lady Jane, I think.”
“Ah, now you’re worried I’ll bring a Brit home.” I wasn’t so sure just what my style was, anyway.
The party was the first time I had seen Connie since our conversation about the good Sister Mary Margaret. She had been cool on the phone when I invited her, but I think she was curious to meet my parents. She was cool when she arrived, too, and I had to ask her to dance to get a private word with her. “I’m sorry I yelled at you the other day; I was pretty upset.”
“I thought you were way out of line, Will Lee, but I did as you asked.”
“I know you did.”
“I was ashamed …” she began, then stopped. “What?”
I pulled her into my grandfather’s study and told her what had transpired. She seemed stunned.
“I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t understand why Maeve would do that to me.”
“It’s not too hard to figure out. She’s made it pretty clear where her sympathies lie.”
“But she’s not supposed to have any sympathies.”
“Well, she’s human. That’s not so hard to understand.”
“Not for you, maybe. You’re a bloody Protestant. You don’t have any real grasp of the discipline of her order.”
“I guess not.”
“I’ve got to talk to her.”
“Now listen, you can’t let her know that we know. That would put us right back where we were before, just waiting for something to happen to the boat … or to one of us.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
I told her about the wrecking of the cottage. Her reaction was a shocked silence.
“This can’t be happening,” she said, finally.
“But it is happening, and it might keep happening. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not.”
“Things seem to be stabilized, now; we’ve got some sort of breathing spell for a while, and you can’t do anything to upset that. You must be very careful with Maeve. Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” she said resignedly, “I suppose I do.”
We opened our presents in front of a roaring fire in my grandfather’s library on Christmas Eve. I gave my mother some Waterford crystal, and my father some yards of a Tipperary tweed, enough for a suit. I had found a bottle of a fine Champagne Cognac, vintage 1928, in London for my grandfather. My parents surprised me with a really good suit of foul weather sailing gear from Captain O. M. Watts’ London chandlery and completed the outfit with a pair of top quality Swedish sea boots and some leather sailing gloves. I was delighted.
But my grandfather rattled me. When all the gifts had been opened, he handed me a buff envelope, sealed with wax. Inside I found a folded sheaf of papers. I spread them out and found a surveyor’s map of an area down by Kinsale Harbour. There was a heavy line drawn around a rectangular patch of land. I looked at the other papers and discovered a deed. It was in my name. I looked at my grandfather.
He grinned at me, still clenching his pipe in his teeth. “There’s a bit more than four acres there; and a cottage. It’s something of a ruin, but it can be fixed up. You seem to like it there, down by the water. You’ve ridden my hunters there often enough.”
“You’re an Irish landowner, now,” my mother said, “so you be careful what you say about your people from now on, you hear?”
I was too surprised to speak. I knew my grandfather must have meant well, but I thought I felt my family reaching out subtly to take away my newly won freedom. I thanked my grandfather profusely and tried to seem pleased, but somehow the deed in my hand troubled me.
On Christmas morning I saddled two of my grandfather’s hunters, and my mother and I rode out toward the harbor to visit my land. We made a full gallop of it, and she beat me by a length, pulling up on a hill overlooking the water. I got out my surveyor’s map and looked around for the property lines. It was easy enough to define my new holding. It was bordered on one side by a roadway and a hedgerow, on another by an old stone wall, and on the other two by Kinsale Harbour, near the mouth. I could look down on a sheltered inlet that was part of my property.
“If there’s enough water there, it would be perfect for a little dock,” I said to my mother, pointing. “I could keep a boat.” I consulted the map again. Curved lines representing one, two, and three fathoms followed the outline of the inlet. It seemed ideal. Hangman Cove, it was called. The headland on the eastern side of the harbor entrance was Hangman Point. A large grove of trees ran up from the water, concealing and sheltering the cottage. They had been shaped into a smooth, flowing line by decades of winds.
“It’s beautiful,” my mother said. “I’m so glad he chose this spot to give you.”
We crossed the road and entered a gap in the stone wall where a gate had once been. At the edge of the trees we dismounted and walked the last few yards along the rough, dirt road, leading the horses. The cottage appeared through the trees. The slate roof seemed largely intact, but the insides were a shambles. Generations of sheep and cattle had sheltered in the place, but the walls still stood straight. It could be recovered.
“I used to play down here when I was a girl,” my mother said. “An old woman named Nellie lived here; she was the widow of a man who had worked for years for my grandfather, and he gave her the place for her lifetime. She died not long after Billy and I were married. I think she kept going just to see me wed.”
I looked at her closely. In spite of all my suspicions, I could see nothing in her that wanted to confine me, and I felt ashamed for my reaction the day before. I looked at all the beauty around me and thought if this was entrapment, I wanted to be trapped.
27
ON THE MORNING after Christmas I drove my parents to the airport, detouring along the way to show my father my cottage and land. The road led along the eastern shore of Kinsale Harbour, through Summercove, past Connie’s cottage.
“Let’s stop and say goodbye to Connie,” my mother suggested.
I didn’t want to see Connie at that moment, but we had time, and I couldn’t think of an excuse not to stop, so I pulled over. Connie was on her school Christmas holiday and was home. She chatted brightly with both my parents for a few minutes, and I told her about my new holding, further along the harbor. “We’ll be neighbors, it appears.”
She walked us toward the car. “What a nice thing for your grandfather to do,” she said. She didn’t seem very enthusiastic about the prospect of having me for a neighbor.
“Did you have a good Christmas with your folks?” I asked.
“Sure, fine,” she said. She seemed tired, tense. I had never seen Connie tired.
I pulled her aside. “Are you feeling all right?” I asked. “You look a bit off your feed.�
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“Oh, just a bit nackered from all the Christmas cheer,” she said. “Not to worry.”
“Dinner tonight?”
“Can’t. I’m going to Dublin with my parents to visit some relatives. We’re staying until after New Year’s.”
“Oh.”
“Anyhow, you’re on your way to Paris, aren’t you?”
“Uh, no, I’ve got to work a few more days on the boat before I join them.” She looked at me sharply; then she turned and walked back to her cottage without another word.
I got into the car and headed for Hangman Cove. “Something wrong between you and Connie?” my mother asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“She seemed a bit odd to me.”
I laughed. “Well, she’s a woman,” I said, “and Irish.”
I showed my father my new bit of Ireland. He approved, and we started for the airport. As we passed Connie’s cottage in Summercove I saw the convent van parked outside.
We made our farewells at Cork Airport. It had been a perfect Christmas for me, for all of us, it seemed, but it would be some time before we saw each other again. “You take care of yourself, now,” my father said.
“I’ll do that.”
“I hope we’ll see you in the autumn,” my mother said. This was a reference to law school, I knew.
“We’ll see,” I replied. I hugged her and they were gone.
I drove back through Kinsale, musing on what the new year might bring. If I decided against law school, I thought, I might spend the autumn working on my cottage. Mark’s program for the year included a race to the Azores in the new yacht, in July, with Annie and me for crew, then a singlehanded return to Ireland as a qualifying passage for the race the following summer. Perhaps with all that out of the way I could get him to lend a hand with the work.
I stopped at the supermarket in Kinsale to pick up a few things I knew we were short of at the cottage. I did my shopping, and, as I was packing my purchases into the boot of the Mini-Cooper, I heard a woman’s voice speak my name. Turning, I was confronted with an unaccustomed sight: an angry nun.
“Just what are you doing, anyway?” she demanded to know.
“What?” I was baffled by this outburst.
“I’ve never seen Connie so unhappy; she’s been that way for two weeks, now. What are you doing to her?”
“I’m not doing anything to her,” I said. “If she’s unhappy, I don’t think it’s anything to do with me.”
“Lying bastard!” she said, actually stamping her foot.
“Now, wait a minute,” I said, astonished and annoyed, “I don’t think my relationship with Connie is any of your business.”
“Well, I’m making it my business,” she came back hotly.
“Look,” I said glancing at the shoppers around us, who were beginning to notice our discussion. “I don’t think this is the best place to talk about this.”
“Oh, there’s nothing at all to talk about with you; you suck up to those Brits, then come to Summercove and push Connie around.”
“Listen, Sister, I don’t much care what your views are about my friends; I don’t want to hear them. I’d suggest that you concentrate on your work at the convent, and I’ll concentrate on mine at the boatyard. As far as Connie is concerned, if we have any problems, I’m sure we can work them out without your help.”
“You’re not much of a man, are you?” she taunted.
“And you’re not much of a nun,” I said, getting into my car and slamming the door. I backed out of the parking place and drove away, leaving her standing in the car park, fists clenched, staring after me. In the rear view mirror I could see her mouthing what I was sure were un-nunlike words.
Upset by this scene and annoyed that what she had said to me might be all too true, I drove immediately to Connie’s to find out what was going on, but the cottage was locked and her car gone. I drove home angry with Sister Mary Margaret’s meddling and annoyed that, with Connie gone, I could do nothing to resolve the situation in which I found myself. It would have to wait until after New Year’s.
The next morning, the twenty-seventh, we worked our first day at the boatyard after the Christmas break. The day started routinely enough, then quickly went to hell.
I left Mark and Finbar in the office going over some drawings and walked toward the hull, buckling on my tool belt. I started up a ladder toward the deck of the yacht, but before I had reached the third rung, someone grabbed the tool belt from behind and yanked me roughly off the ladder. I landed hard on my back on the cement floor, wondering what was happening. I had managed to get to one knee and paused there, trying to get some new air into my lungs, when a fist caught me high on the cheekbone and spun me around onto my belly. I still didn’t know what was happening. I pushed up with my hands to get to my feet, and someone kicked me in the kidney, hard, rolling me over onto my back.
I looked up to find Denny O’Donnell, with a crazed look about him, standing over me. He was about to kick me again, when his brother caught him by the back of his shirt and yanked him backward. “Stop it, Denny!” Donal yelled at his twin. “Just leave it!”
Denny picked up a crowbar and started toward me. “I’ll stop when his brains are on the floor!” he shouted at his brother.
Now I was on my feet, prepared to dodge the crowbar, but Donal stepped between us. Without a word, Denny swung at him. Donal’s head snapped back reflexively, but the sharp end of the bar raked across his cheek, bringing blood and knocking him flat. Denny resumed his march toward me, holding the crowbar tightly in both hands. From what I had just seen, I had no doubt what he intended to do with it.
I stepped quickly to one side and grabbed a three-foot scrap of two-by-four lumber. When he swung the bar I managed to get that between the crowbar and my head. Splinters flew, and something got in my eye. Blinking, trying to see, I managed to parry another swing of the crowbar with the two-by-four, while moving backward. Then I tripped and sprawled on my back, losing my grip on the piece of lumber. Denny came in, now, a triumphant look on his face. I raised an arm to protect my head and did not see what happened next. I only knew that the crowbar did not strike me.
I heard a grunt, and when I opened my eyes, Denny was holding his wrist, and the crowbar was clanking to the floor. Mark was standing there, holding a thick strip of mahogany, one discarded from the building of the hull. I got to my feet and cleared my eye. Denny was watching Mark, ready to dodge another blow with the stick. I nearly fainted with relief, and then I realized that Mark was standing back, expecting me to fight Denny. Indeed, so was everybody else.
I had one of those moments when time seems to stand still. A lifetime of backing away from bullies ran through my mind, and I was angry, angry with all of them. Denny was still looking at Mark, and something finally boiled over in me, something that filled me with a sense of abandon. I no longer cared whether I would be hurt; I only wanted to punish the object of my new rage.
I charged at Denny, ramming a forearm into his chest, running right over him as he fell. I gathered myself as he got to a knee, clutching his midsection. There was plenty of time, and it was easy; I bent slightly and hit him with one full, roundhouse punch. As it landed I felt something crunch. Denny sailed backward, and I saw teeth fly; I don’t think I had ever felt anything so satisfying.
I weigh a hundred and ninety pounds, and, considering what I had put into the punch, I didn’t expect him to get up. Astonishingly, he did, spitting blood and fragments of teeth. I discovered that I wanted to hit him again. I stepped toward him, ready to tear his head off this time, but I was stopped in my tracks by the roar of Finbar O’Leary’s voice.
“That’s enough!” he shouted, and the surprising authority behind the voice froze everybody where he stood. “There’ll be no more of this in my place!”
He was right about that. Denny O’Donnell’s eyes glazed over, and he sagged to his knees, shaking his head, trying to remain conscious. Finbar went to Donal.
“Are you all right, lad?” he asked gently. Donal nodded and held a handkerchief to stem the flow of blood from the deep cut on his cheek.
“I’m not hurt, Finbar.”
“Can you drive, do you think?”
Donal nodded. “Sure.”
“Then get your brother out of here. You’ll need some stitches, and Denny’s going to need a dentist. Get over to St. Mary’s and get yourself fixed up. Don’t come back here today and see that Denny doesn’t. Call me in the morning, and we’ll talk about this.”
Donal nodded and went to help his brother to his feet. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Donal, what’s this all about? Has Denny gone crazy?”
He shook off my hand and continued to help Denny. “Just leave it, Willie. I’ll take care of him, and you take care of yourself. You’ll need to do that, now.”
Donal slung his brother’s arm around his shoulders and helped him to the shed door. We all stood looking after them. A moment later, we heard a car start and drive away.
“What happened?” I said to nobody in particular.
“I don’t know,” Mark said. “I looked up and saw him pull you off the ladder. Did you say something to him?”
“Not a word,” I replied. “I didn’t even know who it was until I was flat on my back.”
Mark turned. “You know anything about this, Finbar?”
Finbar shook his head and looked bewildered. “Nossir, I don’t. I know things have never been too good between the two lads, but I don’t know what set Denny off.” He looked around at the other workers. “Any of you know what this might have been about?” They all shook their heads and looked as bewildered as Finbar. He turned back to me. “Are you hurt in any way, Will?”
I shook my head. My side was a little sore where Denny had kicked me; I probably had a bruise on my cheek, but that was all. “I’m okay,” I said. “No damage.”
“You could have him arrested,” Finbar said.
