‘Right, let’s crack open the drinks, Paddy. Malone’s is open for business.’
‘Let me help with the barrel, Paddy,’ said Mr O’Dowd, who could roll a barrel with one hand and require no additional breath to do so.
Sarah, now with Mary Kate in her arms, beamed as neighbours, family and friends began to cheer. She thought her heart would burst with pride.
‘That’ll be yours one day,’ said Ellen Carey, peering into the shawl in which Mary Kate lay sleeping.
‘No, it won’t,’ said Michael. ‘She’ll do better than this, won’t she, Sarah?’
Ellen looked put out. ‘Oh, get you and your big ideas, Michael Malone. Is not owning the newest and biggest shop in the place enough for ye? I’ll tell you what, I have spent my entire married life in ours and a better life I could not have had.’
‘Yes, but your fingers are raw and you can hardly see from sewing all hours into the night, Ellen. God willing, I want more for her. I have big ideas for meself but even bigger for this one.’ Michael laughed as he pulled back the shawl and smiled down at his daughter with her mop of bright copper-red hair. Sarah’s milk was dribbling from the corners of her mouth. Her large blue eyes stared back up at him as though she understood every word that was being said. One arm pushed free of the shawl as she stretched and pursed her lips, her face contorting as if she was trying to speak and reply to Michael with her own opinion.
‘She’s been here before, that one,’ said Ellen. ‘I knew Michael’s gran, Annie,’ she said as she turned to Sarah. ‘She was best friends with my big sister Julia, along with Mrs Doyle. Inseparable the three of them were, until Julia emigrated to America, and then they wrote to each other every week, until Annie died. That’s her all right – Annie, all wrapped up in that shawl. Mary Kate, she’s the image of her. She’s back again, but then that’s life here, isn’t it? No one ever leaves, really.’ She laughed. ‘But I must! To help Nola and Josie with the food.’
Sarah smiled down at her baby and stroked the crown of her head, leaving one hand there protectively.
‘Can I have a look?’ a voice at her elbow asked. It was Keeva.
‘Yes, here you go.’ Sarah dipped the shawl down. ‘She hasn’t changed much since you held her yesterday.’
‘Oh my giddy aunt, isn’t she just gorgeous. You know who she looks like – Granny Annie. I remember her when I was little and we used to walk up the boreen to the Malone farm to buy butter.’
‘You’re the second person to say that today,’ said Sarah.
‘You are lucky,’ said Keeva. ‘I would love to have a babby one day, but I can’t see it ever happening for me.’
‘You don’t know that! You might meet someone who takes your fancy soon. Lots of new fishermen coming to the village, they say.’
‘Oh, I’ve met the boy who’s taken my fancy. But there’s no future there.’ Keeva had averted her eyes and was stroking Mary Kate’s cheek with her finger. It was the first time she had ever spoken her secret out loud. There was something about Sarah that made her feel she could. Her serenity, her warmth, her smile.
‘Do I know him?’ asked Sarah
Her words pulled Keeva’s gaze back to her and secured her confidence. ‘Oh, aye, you know him all right. It’s Tig. He’s the one my heart is for. But please don’t be saying anything – he’s not interested in me.’
‘How do you know that? He might be mad about you.’
Keeva laughed and removed her hand from within the shawl, where Mary Kate had been clinging on to one of her fingers. ‘Oh, God, no, he really isn’t. I see him every day. He doesn’t even notice me or know I’m here, I’m sure. Besides, he could find himself someone better than me, if he had a mind to.’
‘Sarah!’ Michael shouted over. ‘Quick, here, would ye.’
‘I have to go,’ Sarah said apologetically.
Keeva was used to having short conversations. Even though people smiled at her and were quite pleasant, no one ever seemed to want to talk to her for long, always preferring to turn to Mrs Doyle or another customer. So Keeva smiled herself now, said, ‘Oh that’s fine, see you later,’ and, turning on her heel, went in search of Mrs Doyle. She could at least stand next to her employer without feeling as though she was intruding.
The fiddler arrived and struck up a tune. Paddy, on his way to the back of the butcher’s to fetch a barrel, grabbed Bridget by the arm and swung her around to the music.
‘Oh, would ye get off me, Paddy. Grab your wife if you want to dance.’
‘I can’t, Bridget. She told me if I ever made her dance again, I’d never be able to father another child.’
‘Oh God in heaven, you aren’t still at it, are you, Paddy, not at your age?’
Paddy winked as he danced off. ‘Now, I can’t be embarrassing my poor wife, with all she has to put up with, but there is a very good reason, Bridget, why Josie starts every day with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye.’
Sarah, laughing at the exchange, placed her hand over her brow and squinted up the road to see if she could catch sight of Bee and Captain Bob, bringing Ciaran over from the coast. The sky was an azure blue, flecked with the white tails of scudding clouds, and the sun hovered over the mountains in the near distance. The river was high, and where they stood the roar of the water was almost as loud as the noise from the village street behind. Sarah had wondered, dared to hope, that some of her former neighbours from the shore might also come along. Bee had not sounded confident but had promised to let them know they would all be welcome.
Michael slipped his arm around Sarah’s shoulders, his mug of porter in his other hand and a twinkle of happiness in his eye. His heart felt light and his head dizzy. ‘Don’t be worrying – they’re coming. I told you, Captain Bob called into Josie’s and left a message to tell us they’d be here.’
Sarah nodded and smiled. She missed Bee, and she missed her mother. It was the one sadness in her life, that her mother couldn’t share in her good fortune, be a part of her new life.
Michael blinked and shook his head as he looked down at Sarah. She was his wife, the mother of his child. He had done it, achieved everything he had set out to do on the day he’d left for the war. As he sometimes found himself having to remind Sarah, the tragic consequence of their love for one another was not theirs to shoulder – it was not they who had murdered Angela. The birth of Mary Kate had seen their luck turn a corner, of that Michael was sure. ‘I hope it lasts…’ he said as he pushed Sarah’s hair back over her shoulder.
Sarah tore her eyes from the road to the coast and looked up at him. ‘The party? Paddy tells me it will be the morning before everyone leaves. We won’t get to bed tonight.’
Michael laughed. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean the party! I meant this, today… our good fortune. Us! You, me and the babby. It feels too good to be true. Almost as though it couldn’t possibly last because I don’t know a single man in the whole world who has my happiness, and so how can it? How can it last?’
As sadness darkened her eyes, he could have bitten back his words. It had been all good for him and yet she had suffered, she still needed time. He’d been a fool. But before he could apologise, Mary Kate wriggled in her arms and the cloud that had crossed lifted.
Hugging the baby onto her chest, Sarah took a deep breath. ‘I hope so. I want more of these little bundles.’ She bent her head and nuzzled the ear of her baby.
A shout came from the road. ‘Michael, help us get this on its end to give it time to settle.’ It was Paddy, following Mr O’Dowd out of the back of the butcher’s bar as he rolled the stout down onto the road. Josie was behind them, carrying a wooden tray of mugs for the ladies and for those men who’d forgotten to bring their own.
‘No need,’ said Mr O’Dowd, and he flipped the barrel on its end almost before Paddy had finished speaking.
‘Tig, bring out the whiskey barrel that was delivered yesterday.’
Paddy was secretly grateful that Michael had chosen not to buy a slicer and sell
bacon. It was the only argument they’d had since he’d returned from the war and he was thankful that Michael had backed down gracefully. The competition would have been difficult between friends.
John O’Donnell arrived with Philomena and Theady. Philomena walked straight over to Michael and Sarah and wished them well, whereas John O’Donnell avoided Michael’s gaze, bent his head low and walked straight over to Paddy at the barrel. ‘Ah, John, now, you are the last man I thought would be here today, drinking Michael’s stout, eating his food and wishing him well, given how much you have to say about how he earnt the money that’s paying for it.’ O’Donnell scowled. ‘Do I get a drink, or what?’ he asked. Paddy tilted the tap on the barrel and fixed him with his gaze, ‘Oh, aye, ye do. For no other reason than Michael is a man who would never bear a grudge against anyone who had cursed him with maggot-mouthed words. You see John, there are those that follow and there are those,’ he tilted his head towards Michael, who was stood with his arm around Sarah who was showing off Mary Kate to Philomena, ‘who get on and make a life for themselves with the toil of their own hands and ideas; those people don’t have time to be bearing grudges.’ He handed the pint over to John. The stout had overflowed as he spoke and was dribbling down the side. ‘Oi, O’Donnell,’ shouted Michael. ‘’Tis grand to see you, you are very welcome in exchange for a fair word and a good luck wish.’ Michael laughed and O’Donnell swallowed hard. He had been taken in by McGuffey and his talk of revenge for those who had fought with the British, but now that McGuffey was gone, the war long over and Michael providing the drink, his sentiments were softer. ‘May God be with you,’ said O’Donnell and held up the pot Paddy had placed in his hand. Michael smiled. The last of the cynics had been won over.
Along with the rest of the village, Paddy appreciated Michael’s generosity in paying for the stout for everyone in the village. Mrs Doyle had commented on this more than once already. ‘Jesus, heaven save us. Your Joe would be turning in his grave if he could see the money that’s been spent, his hard earnings being poured down the throats of the likes of this lot,’ she said to Daedio, who had been placed in an armchair in the middle of the road, where he had been sitting all morning, grumbling to some, laughing with others.
Daedio swallowed hard, the only moment of the day when he felt uncomfortable. Joe’s ill-gotten gains could not be called earnings by any stretch of the imagination. He made a note to tell Michael to be careful – people were noticing that the dollars were being cashed and spent. Dollars they thought Joe had sent home as a result of his success in the building of New York. Daedio had sent Michael to Galway to cash the bundle he’d given to Sarah. He had heard some of the women, too, passing comment on the necklace Sarah had not taken from her neck since he’d given it to her, and the dress she was wearing today had made some stand and stare. He would speak to Michael when the party was over.
Some of the old men from the village had pulled their chairs close to him and they sat around in a half circle, smoking pipes and drinking stout, talking about wakes and parties from the past. But mainly, as was their way, they recalled relatives who had long since died, people they’d all known, whose legacy was the wealth of stories about grudges and antics that kept their descendants entertained on days such as this. Each one a storyteller.
‘I reckon we have just enough barrels to keep us going until the morning,’ said Josie to Nola.
‘They have to get through this one first.’ Nola turned to watch as Paddy, bent double and with one hand on each end of the whiskey barrel, began rolling it across to the front of Malone’s. Tig was on the other side, struggling to navigate it over the cinder path. As Nola handed out the mugs, Father Jerry came into sight with Teresa Gallagher and Rosie tagging along behind.
‘Oh, here comes trouble,’ said Josie. ‘Teresa Gallagher is hot on Father Jerry’s heels.’
‘Trouble? She’s no trouble. ’Tis me she’s after.’ Daedio removed his pipe and, leaning forward in his chair, followed Nola’s gaze to the end of the street. ‘Can’t keep away from me, she can’t. Why do you think I stay up on the hill? ’Tis to give me my distance.’
Nola grinned as, sure enough, Teresa made her way straight over to Daedio. She stood in front of him, the sun on her back, and her shadow loomed over him. The men groaned and hugged their pots closer, as if expecting Teresa to reach out and snatch them away.
Before Teresa could speak, Daedio got in there first. ‘If ye be coming here to join our company, Teresa Gallagher, then you be leaving yer preaching up at the presbytery. Ye have nothing to say that will prevent me and my friends from enjoying this party on a day of celebration and good fortune. And what’s more, we are wetting the babby’s head and you and your tea-drinking ways won’t be stopping us.’
‘Is that porter in that mug?’ Unsmiling, Teresa leant over to peer into the pot.
‘It is not, ’tis stout, and what is more, Teresa, ’tis my stout, not yours. And before you start, you tell me, where in the Good Book does it say that no man should be drinking stout, or porter for that matter, on the day his youngest grandson opens his new shop and house by the fortune the good Lord bestowed upon me, to provide me with the ways and the means to gift the land upon him as a result of my own family’s hard work and sacrifice on foreign soil. Tell me that – go on. Where in the Bible does it say that? Eh?’ Daedio pulled on his pipe and threw a look of deep self-satisfaction towards his attentive and admiring neighbours.
Teresa made to speak, but Daedio cut in. ‘See, you can’t. She can’t,’ he repeated to his friends as he once again bent forward to ensure they had all heard. ‘There is nowhere in the Bible it says that ye can’t be enjoying a celebration of good news in Tarabeg. I have searched myself, from cover to cover. Now, if ye want to join us, Teresa, ye can, but first ye must have a drink to wet the head of Mary Kate, my bonny granddaughter who is the image herself of her grandmother Annie.’
Teresa folded her arms. ‘’Tis a sin to drink, Malone, and ye know that. ’Tis evil and the comfort of the Devil himself.’
‘That’s as maybe, Teresa, but not here. Not here in Tarabeg. As God is true, ’tis a little bit of heaven that we have just here. We can do what we like because all of these people, they are good people, Teresa, and everyone is out to enjoy a day to remember. Now sit down and hush. Nola, fill my pot, would you?’
Mrs Doyle, having spotted Teresa, pushed two chairs together. ‘Come on, Teresa, sit down. Everyone here likes a little drink, and surely to God, did you ever know a happier village? Tell me, isn’t that the truth?’
Teresa Gallagher could not argue. Good humour was the nature of the people in rural Eire. Money was scarce, but as long as everyone had enough to eat, they were happy in their disposition, despite the loss of their children and the fading shadow of the famine. True, there were the curses of Shona Maughan and the madness of Kevin McGuffey; and there were the fairies, who lived in the bog holes, robbed them of their pregnancies just a few months in, afflicted their children with the invisible touch of a wing, and, on occasion, sent a poor harvest. But despite all of this, they were still the happiest people. ‘I find the degree of joviality in this village unreligious,’ she said to Mrs Doyle as she grudgingly settled in a chair.
A few yards away, Brendan, Mr O’Dowd and Father Jerry were standing together, admiring the front door of the shop.
‘Not a man alive doubts that he knows what he’s doing,’ said Brendan. ‘You can smell it, the success. Sure, ’tis a fact, he’s a lucky man and all. He’ll double the money spent on this, and more, you mark my words.’
Father Jerry nodded. ‘Aye, there’s no doubt. You know, I have no notion what half of the things are he has in there. Every time he comes back from Galway or Dublin with more, it makes my eyes pop from out of my head. Stockings he has for ladies, next to the fishing tackle.’
‘Stockings?’ snorted Mr O’Dowd, who had emptied his first pot and was swinging it by the handle. ‘What woman in this village doesn’t knit her own stock
ings? I ask you. He’ll be turning their heads. There’s things the women of Dublin have time to do, because they don’t have to be knitting stockings. It seems to me, if you want it in Tarabeg, Michael Malone has it. The provisions of Dublin are at our door and the ways of Dublin will be coming here too.’
They all turned to look as more people came down the road from the boreens and the farms to join them. Josie and Michael met them and handed the mugs around to Michael’s would-be future customers. The children danced around excitedly and took the sweet oat biscuits Ellen Carey had carried over on a tray from the kitchen at the back of the tailor’s shop.
Michael had left Sarah with Nola and was now making an exaggerated fuss of Mrs Doyle and Teresa Gallagher. He had persuaded Teresa to accept a small toast. ‘Just a drop, go on, or ye’ll be dying of the thirst. Water is only good for the fishes.’
Mrs Doyle squeezed his hand. ‘Michael, what a joy this all is. What a change. You’ve brought life back into the village. Everyone is beside themselves with the excitement. I think you will be doing a roaring trade. I gave thanks this morning at Mass for all of it. A new shop in the village. Isn’t it just wonderful, and a new wife and a babby. You are a lucky man, Michael Malone. A lucky man, you are.’
Michael had no reply. It was the truth. The expression on Mrs Doyle’s face was soft and caring. She had been the friend of his grandma and he remembered her visits up to the farm when he was a boy. Michael Malone was rooted in Tarabeg, by memories and ancient ghosts and a deep affection for the village that no temptation from abroad could break.
With every full mug that was placed in a villager’s hand, loyalty to shopping at Malone’s was declared right there and then. By the time they had started the second mug, there was a lifelong pledge to abandon the tinkers and Castlebar market and to use only Malone’s for all their future purchases. Michael was no stranger to work and observant of human nature. He knew exactly how to endear himself to the villagers, old and new.
Shadows in Heaven Page 21
