Hannie Rising

by Jeanette Baker

  Swallowing the last of his coffee, Liam stood and held out his hand. "This should be interesting."

  Together they left the shop and headed toward his car.

  * * *

  Johannah looked bewildered. "You want to take Nan to Puck Fair?"

  "Yes." Liam held his mother's gaze. "It was Ciara's idea."

  "I see." She turned her smile on Ciara. "That's lovely of you, dear, but are you sure you want to spend your time looking after my mother?"

  Ciara nodded. "I do."

  Johannah was uncharacteristically blunt. "Why?"

  "My mom says it's a good judge of character to see how a man treats his family."

  "Really?" Johannah looked at her son, an unreadable expression on her face. He stared back without blinking.

  "Nan's out in the yard," said his mother. "I can't imagine she wouldn't want to go. I'll find her jumper, some wellies in case it rains, and an umbrella."

  Dolly sat in a lawn chair, her slight frame supported by the straight back, her eyes closed against the sunlight. She sat completely still, almost at peace and for a moment, Liam imagined her laid out to rest in her coffin. His chest tightened. He wasn't ready for that. He knelt down and took her hand.

  Her eyes opened. "Liam. What are you doing here?"

  "I live here."

  "Have you moved in?"

  "Yes." He nodded at Ciara. "Do you remember Ciara McCarthy?"

  Dolly shaded her eyes with her hand and studied Ciara. "Are you Des McCarthy's daughter?"

  The girl flushed. "I am."

  "Your father sharpens my knives." Dolly frowned. "I haven't seen him for some time. Why is that?"

  Liam remembered that Des McCarthy hadn't sharpened knives in years. "He's in a new line of work, Nan. We've come to take you to Puck Fair with us, if you're willing."

  Dolly clapped her hands. "Will we bring Seamus? He loves the animals."

  Visions of his grandmother's dog attacking sheep and nipping at the heels of horses flitted through his mind. "I think not. There isn't room enough."

  "I haven't been to the fair since I was a girl."

  Shamed that it was Ciara who'd thought of his grandmother rather than himself, Liam squeezed her hand. "In that case, let's not lose any more time."

  Dolly insisted on sitting in the back of the car. "I like being chauffeured," she said. "It makes me feel important. Wave goodbye to your mother, lad. She looks worried." Frowning, Dolly asked, "Should there be reason for worry? You do have your driving license, Liam?"

  "I do, Nan. I've had it for years."

  "That's all right then." She stuck her head between the front seats, squinting at Ciara. "Who are you, my dear? I don't think I've met you before."

  "I'm Ciara McCarthy, Mrs. Little. My dad sharpened your knives, remember?"

  "Des McCarthy, the tinker?"

  Ciara reddened. "Yes, that's the one."

  "You don't look like a tinker."

  "Some of us don't. Times have changed."

  "I fell in love with a tinker, once," she reminisced, settling back in her seat. "I wasn't much more than a child. Lord, he was a handsome devil. He came to mend the fences and mended me right along with them. His name was—"

  "Nan!" Liam said sharply. "We don't need his name. Besides, that's no way to talk. Don't mind her," he said to Ciara who was having a hard time keeping a straight face. "She doesn't remember all that well anymore."

  "Shame on you, Liam Enright. There's nothing wrong with my memory."

  "We have a guest in the car. What will she think of you?"

  "If she's a tinker, she's heard worse." Again she insinuated her head between the two front bucket seats. "You've heard worse, haven't you, dear?"

  "Much worse," Ciara agreed.

  "There. You see, Liam. I'm not shocking anyone. Besides, I'm old. If I can't shock people at my age, I'll never do it."

  Mentally, Liam counted to ten before he spoke. "Do you have your belt buckled, Nan?"

  "I don't like seatbelts."

  "It's the law. Buckle your belt or the garda will ticket me."

  "The garda," she said scornfully. "Where are they when we need them?"

  "Please, Nan."

  "All right," she grumbled. "I'll do it, but only for you."

  "I warned you," Liam said, his voice low. "We could have actually been enjoying this trip."

  "Oh, I am enjoying it," Ciara said, "more than you can possibly imagine."

  Liam maneuvered the car onto the N70, through Milltown and Castlemaine. He found a coveted parking spot near the town center and, with Dolly on one side and Ciara on the other, hiked across the bridge, past the revelers and the famous goat sculpture, into the picturesque river town of Killorglin.

  The Gathering was in full swing. Teeming with caravans pulling horses, travelers from every corner of Ireland had set up shop to barter jewelry, trinkets, t-shirts, posters, watches, cds, food and, of course, the animals they were most associated with, horses.

  "I wonder if you know," Ciara began conversationally, "that Irish travelers can be traced back thousands of years to central Romania and the Steppes of Russia and that horses are everything to them, including a rite of passage."

  Liam noticed the tell-tale them, a clear-cut disassociation with her race.

  She directed her conversation at Dolly, but Liam felt as if he was the one she intended to educate. "When a boy reaches the age of twelve or thirteen he is given his first horse."

  "I didn't know that," answered Dolly. "How interesting."

  "Long before that," Ciara continued, "he is taught to ride barefoot and bareback using only his voice and the reins." She pointed to a group of children on a nearby hill. "Look."

  Intrigued, Liam watched the pavee children, sharp-cheeked, dirty, spewing bold language, their eyes like blue glass, moving as one with their yearlings in a kind of loose-hipped, fluid grace that made professional jockeys look awkward.

  He glanced at his grandmother and was surprised to find her cheeks wet with tears.

  "They're lovely," Dolly whispered. "Why do we dislike them so?"

  Ciara sighed. "Because they're taught at their mothers' knees to lie, cheat and steal the knickers from your clothesline, and they won't hesitate to do so." She pointed to a man with a filthy, horizontal-striped sweater stretched over a healthy stomach and the traditional tweed cap pulled low over his brow. "Do you remember him, Mrs. Little?"

  Dolly frowned. "I don't think so." She stared. "There's something about his voice. Good God, is that Des McCarthy?"

  "In the flesh. Would you like to meet him?"

  "I would."

  "Step carefully. The ground is disgusting and those wellies look new."

  Liam followed, minding the animal dung, the stinging flies and the wriggling animals, trying to catch snippets of the barely intelligible, sing-song dialect of the Irish Pavee, wondering if and when his grandmother, exhausted from their excursion, would expose her disease.

  "Ciara, me love." Des McCarthy bussed his daughter's cheek. "I'm after walkin' away with nothin'. Last year me profit was five times as much." His flinty eyes took in Dolly and Liam. "Who have ye brought me today?"

  "This is Dolly Little and her grandson, Liam Enright. We're doing the fair today."

  The man stared. "Dolly Little, you say? I know Mrs. Little. Dolly, you haven't changed a bit."

  "I can't say the same for you, Des McCarthy," Dolly said flatly. "You're fat as a pig and you still owe me sixty pounds for the tools you stole from my husband's barn." She held out her hand. "Give over."

  Liam groaned and looked around, praying that if he was forced into a brawl he'd come away with all his teeth. "I'm sorry, Mr. McCarthy. Sometimes she's not herself."

  Des McCarthy stroked his grizzled chin. "T'is herself for sure. She always did have a memory like an elephant. I do owe her." Reaching his hand into his pocket, he pulled out three twenty euro notes. "This should do it, Dolly. Never say Des McCarthy doesn't pay his debts."

  She
folded the money. "It certainly took you long enough."

  Liam linked his arm firmly through his grandmother's and threw a look at Ciara. "It was a pleasure meeting you, sir. We'll be on our way now."

  Her face wreathed in smiles, Dolly took his arm. "That went well, I think. What's next?"

  Chapter 30

  Kate

  "I thought you had a computer at home." Ritchie O'Shea peeked over the dividing wall of the library cubicle.

  Kate shrugged and continued to stare at the monitor. "The server is too slow at home."

  "Find anything interesting?"

  "A few look promising."

  "Where?" Ritchie walked around to her side of the row of computers and pulled up a chair.

  "Mostly Dublin."

  "Ah, Katie, you've got it all wrong. You should be looking across the water. America is the future."

  "It doesn't look so promising," she snapped. "Their stock market is jumping up and down and most of their college graduates are working at Starbucks."

  "That'll change."

  "Not soon enough for me."

  He reached across her to type something on the keyboard. A picture of the Hollywood Bowl appeared on the screen.

  Kate felt her chest tighten.

  "Do you remember what it's like, Katie, to sit in a bowl under the stars with eighteen thousand people, to listen to entertainers so famous that tickets sell out the day the show is announced?"

  "I do," she whispered.

  "There's nothing like that in Ireland."

  "Except The Point."

  He laughed softly. "Not even close."

  "There's more to life than entertainment."

  "Are you trying to convince me or yourself? I know you miss it, Kate. I know you regret coming home."

  She looked at him, at the Celtic tilt of his blue, blue eyes and the stubborn square of his chin. Once, she thought the sun rose with the lifting of a copper-brown eyebrow, but no longer. He was still Ritchie O'Shea, but something inside her had changed. What was it her mother's friend, Patrick, had said? It's probably a good thing he isn't your husband.

  Kate turned off the computer. "I must collect Evan. We're planning his birthday."

  "Am I invited?"

  "Probably not. See you later, Ritchie." Conscious of the question in his eyes, she gathered her belongings and walked out the door.

  * * *

  Maneuvering the aisles of Kelliher's Hardware was a gauntlet in itself. Gritting her teeth, Kate pushed open the door and instantly breathed in the scent of varnish and wood-shavings. Cautiously, she made her way through crowded aisles, past metal teapots, ceramic tableware, pots and pans, vases and lampshades, all, in her opinion, tasteless, turning where the small appliances, sinks and toilets, priced twice what Guiney's in the square offered, sat beside nails, fittings, screws, tools, batteries and machinery that someone, somewhere, might need.

  She'd deliberately chosen a time when her mother-in-law, whose laser-sharp gaze had the power to wound, worked on the books behind closed doors. Had Maired Kelliher always hated her, or had it come later, after Kate so clearly expressed her desire to separate from the tiny flat and family store?

  "Mommy!" Evan's voice pierced the mote-filled air. So much for anonymity. She turned and caught him in her arms.

  "My goodness, what a welcome." Kate buried her face in the sweet muskiness of his shoulder. "Did you miss me?"

  He thought a minute. "Not too much. Dad took me to the caves."

  "The Crag Caves in Castle Island?"

  "Yes."

  Kate considered her son. Brutally honest, children had a way of humbling a parent. If ever there was the inkling or hope that one was special, a child's candor erased all of that. "Where is your dad?"

  "Cutting wood for Mr. O'Dowd."

  Keeping a firm hold on Evan's hand, Kate stood. "Let's find him, shall we?"

  Dermot stood in front of a power saw examining two freshly cut planks. "They're right as rain, T'os. Someone will take care of you at the counter."

  "If they're not right, I'll bring them back."

  Dermot shook his head. "You gave me the measurements. I'm afraid they're not returnable this time."

  "I'm not so good with a measuring tape."

  "Call me if the fit isn't right. We'll make it work."

  T'os O'Dowd grinned, showing a mouth with missing teeth. "That's the stuff."

  Kate waited until Dermot replaced the saw and dusted off his hands. Then she exploded. "Aren't you the least bit worried that your son might have stepped on a nail or had his finger cut off? For God's sake, Dermot, this is a hardware store. You're supposed to watch him."

  He looked at her steadily, waiting until she finished. "You're underestimating Evan. He's grown up here." Dermot smiled. "Nice to see you, Katie. We've been waiting for you. Do you want to come up?"

  She flushed and nodded. Once again she sounded like a shrew around him. Why was he so bloody reasonable all the time?

  The flat looked different, roomier somehow. She looked around. "Have you rearranged the furniture?"

  Dermot busied himself in the kitchen making tea. "It looks that way because I'm the only one who lives here now."

  Kate closed her eyes.

  "Are you sick, Mommy?"

  She opened them quickly. "Not a bit. Sit here and tell me about the caves."

  Evan climbed into her lap. "It was very dark and the stagtites were very big."

  "I think the word is stalactites."

  He frowned. "That's what I said, stagtites."

  "What else?"

  "It was cold and I had to wee. Dad said I should wait but I couldn't, so all the people came to the toilet with me. Some went in, too, 'cause they had to wee. Then the man said I should go home."

  Dermot carried in the tea tray. "I hope you still like vanillas. There was a special at the bakery."

  "Evan was just telling me about Crag Craves."

  Her husband laughed. "It was quite an experience. I think we'll stick to the park playground for awhile."

  Disarmed, comfortable for the first time in a very long time and imagining the ridiculous scene, Kate laughed, too. She struggled to maintain, couldn't and gave herself up to laughter, cheeks red, breathing labored, tears streaking her face. "I'm sorry," she gasped after a minute. "It's just that it's too funny."

  Dermot's eyes twinkled. "Now I see the humor in it, but it wasn't at all funny when it happened. You should have been there."

  Suddenly the laughter was gone. Kate looked stricken.

  "I didn't mean it that way," Dermot said quickly.

  "I know you didn't. You're not capable of trying to wound me."

  He sat down beside her. "Poor Kate. You don't know what you want, do you?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  He shook his head. "Never mind. Have your tea and we'll talk about Evan's party."

  Kate opened the door keeping a firm hold on Evan's hand and nearly fell over the dog. She nudged him with her foot. "Move, Seamus."

  He opened one eye, rolled it forward and back and then closed it again.

  Using the heel of her shoe, Kate slid him out of the way. "You lazy old thing. Some watchdog you turned out to be." She walked down the hall into the kitchen. "Hello, anybody home?"

  Her grandmother sat at the table reading the paper oblivious to the black smoke rising in pungent swirls from the toaster.

  "What on earth—?" Reacting quickly, Kate pulled the plug and opened the window.

  Dolly looked up from her paper. "You're home. I was beginning to wonder." She folded the paper and held out her arms. "Come to Gran, Evan. I've missed you."

  Evan walked into her embrace, allowing himself to be hugged and kissed. "Will you read me a story?" he asked.

  "I certainly will." She took his hand. "Lead the way to your room, young man." At the door, she turned back to whisper, "I don't know what's come over your mother, leaving the toast to burn that way. It isn't at all like her. I must watch her more carefully."
>
  Fearing another bout of helpless laughter, Kate nodded, waved them away and looked out the window. Johannah was gathering laundry from the line and attempting to fold it, huge sheets that caught the wind from the west and billowed around her slight frame. Kate frowned. She'd never thought of her mother as thin but that's what she was, definitely thin, and quite pretty, even in those trousers that were too large for her and one of Kate's castoff, hooded shirts.

  Buttoning her pullover against the morning chill, Kate opened the door and crossed the lawn to help her mother battle the sheets. "Give me an end. This wind is impossible."

  "Thanks, love." Johannah surrendered one side of the sheet and, together, they managed a credible fold.

  "I was thinking about Evan's birthday," Kate began.

  "It's getting close, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "Will we plan a party?"

  Kate nodded and drew in a gulping breath. "He'd like that."

  Johannah looked at her daughter. "Is something wrong?"

  Kate finished folding a pillow case. "It's complicated."

  "How so?"

  "Oh, you know. Shall we invite Dermot and the Kellihers? What about people other than family? Under the circumstances, will we be asking our friends to take sides if they come and Dermot and the Kellihers aren't invited?"

  Johannah took the laundry from her daughter's arms. "This calls for a pot of tea. You put away the laundry. By the time you're done, I'll have it ready."

  While the tea was drawing, Johannah sliced raisin bread, Kate's favorite, and unwrapped a stick of fresh butter.

  "You didn't have to go to all this trouble, Mom."

  "It's no trouble. What's Nan doing?"

  "You mean besides burning toast?"

  Johannah frowned.

  "Never mind," said Kate. "She's reading a story to Evan upstairs."

  "That's a relief. We can have a reasonable conversation. God forgive me for saying such a terrible thing about my own mother, but it's true." Johannah sat down. "Have a snack with me and we'll talk about Evan's party. Dermot and the Kellihers will, of course, be invited. Evan has a father and grandparents. You'll have to come to terms with that, Kate."