The Lace Makers of Glenmara

by Heather Barbieri

Kate waved her arm. “I don’t know. She was crying. Now she isn’t anymore, and I—” She couldn’t stop shaking. “Oh, God, why is this happening?”

  Bernie put an arm around Kate and led her to the car. “It’s going to be all right. Let’s get you home.”

  “The bicycle…” Kate remembered it distantly, as if in a dream. “It’s somewhere, that way—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Bernie said. “We’ll find it later.”

  As they drove eastward, Kate stared out the window, her face reflected in the glass, but she felt as if she wasn’t there.

  “I was so worried,” Bernie said. “Sullivan’s been looking for you. I told him you’d headed to his cottage—”

  “Yes,” she said. Sullivan. It seemed so long ago. “I got lost.”

  “Where were you?”

  Kate tried to explain.

  Bernie was quiet for a moment. “I know the place,” she said. “No one goes there anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s just a story.” She kept her eyes on the road.

  “Please, tell me. I need to know.”

  Bernie sighed. “It’s the famine village I told you about when you first arrived. No one survived, cut down by illness or starvation. A girl had a baby toward the end, ailing herself. There was no one to take care of the child. When help finally arrived, it was too late, the babe was gone, the mother too. They couldn’t bury them—the ground was too hard, and everyone too weak and fearful. People say their bones are still there. That they wail at night, searching for each other in the dark.” She hesitated.

  “What else?”

  “I shouldn’t mention it.”

  “I’ll hear it from someone else, if not you.”

  “They say that only those who have suffered such a loss themselves can hear the ghosts cry.”

  Years ago, Bernie and John had prepared the room, a cradle, a crib, a mobile of bluebirds, a border of forget-me-nots along the walls, a changing table. When the pains started, she knew it was too early. She was baking a wild berry pie that morning. She was mad for the baking in those days, “nesting,” John said, hugging her from behind. The sky was impossibly clear that morning. She was admiring it through the window when the contractions began. “It’s starting.”

  “It’s too early.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s probably false labor.”

  “Yes.”

  They let themselves believe that as they drove to the hospital, miles away, the pains worsening. The midwife in the next village told them they had to go, that it was beyond her skill. John had never driven so fast.

  Bare rooms. Drapes. Lino. Metal instruments. Serious faces. They put her in a gown, legs in stirrups. She had a corn on her toe. She didn’t know why she noticed that. It was the last thing she remembered before she went under. All it took was a shot in her arm and she felt woozy, as if she were drowning. Voices came and went. John was there. They wanted him to go, but he wouldn’t leave her.

  “She mustn’t see,” a nurse said.

  John tried to shield her. She never told him she’d glimpsed their child through the haze of drugs, perfectly formed. A girl, her skin the palest shade of blue. She let him think he’d protected her.

  A girl, Saoirse, who would have been the same age as Kate, if she’d lived.

  Bernie nearly called her Saoirse when she found Kate in the lane, as if she were losing her child all over again, Kate too distracted to notice. Bernie’s lips formed the word. She thought she heard her baby girl cry at last, would have cried herself, the tears coming again, if Kate hadn’t needed her.

  “Sometimes I think there’s too much history here,” Bernie said as they sat in front of the fire later, holding mugs of tea with a shot of brandy. “That the land won’t let us forget what pains us. It’s not a bad thing, the remembering, it’s an important part of who we are, the suffering that shapes us, that reminds us how strong we can be.”

  “I don’t feel strong.” Kate’s teeth chattered as she talked and talked, the words spilling in a torrent.

  “You are.” Bernie watched her carefully, half wondering if she should have taken her to the hospital. “More than you know. I sensed that the moment I met you.”

  “I was a mess.” Kate pulled the wool throw more tightly around her. Bernie had swaddled her in blankets as if she were a newborn child.

  “No, you weren’t. Though we wouldn’t be very interesting without our messes, would we?” Bernie nudged a log that had tumbled toward the hearth into place with a poker.

  Kate stared at the flames. “The voice sounded so real.”

  “The living are close to the dead there,” Bernie replied. “It’s one of the thin places, where the past and present touch.”

  “What was I supposed to learn? I was meant to learn something from it, wasn’t I?”

  Bernie didn’t reply right away. “Perhaps to let yourself feel the pain, forgive yourself, as best you can, then try to let it go,” she said finally. “That even though we lose the ones we’ve loved, they aren’t gone from us forever, that they are with us, still, but in a different way.” Saoirse, too. Bernie had thought the lanes were meant to run with children, with pitched battles and cycle races. And they did: other people’s children. She embraced them, as if they belonged to her, part of the village, each and every one of them. It was only sometimes in the evenings that she felt an echo of what might have been, looking out on the quiet lane, the bare fields, the windows catching what light remained at the end of the day. “But I’ve wondered, if I went out there, if I would hear the crying.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes,” Bernie said, adding, “The losses don’t go away, not completely, but it doesn’t hurt so much after a while.”

  The fire crackled, the clocked ticked. Fergus twitched in his sleep, exhausted after the search.

  “Do you ever get lonely?” Kate asked.

  “Now and then. I lead a full life—though I wouldn’t mind having someone to show off my lacy drawers to some day.”

  “Perhaps you should try a personal ad.” Kate managed a smile.

  “‘Woman with fancy knickers seeks a bit of fun.’ That would give Father Byrne new material, wouldn’t it?”

  “He nearly ran me off the road today,” Kate told her. “It’s clear he doesn’t want me to stay. He might use what happened tonight against me. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “Of course not.”

  The flames snapped in a volcanic burst of sparks before disappearing into the ashes below.

  “Do you want me to call Sullivan?” Bernie asked. “He was glad to hear I’d found you.”

  “Was he?”

  “I phoned him while you were in the shower. I said I was sure you’d like to see him, but he thought you might need to get some rest. He’s a considerate sort of fellow—”

  Kate didn’t reply.

  Bernie sensed she was holding something back. “What is it?”

  She shook her head. “It’s been an eventful day, that’s all.”

  “I hope you’re not thinking of leaving us,” Bernie said. It couldn’t have reached that point, could it? “You’re just getting your bearings.”

  Fergus rested his head in Kate’s lap. He had found her. He would not let her lose her way again.

  “You have a home here, for as long as you like,” Bernie said. “Besides, don’t you want to know how it turns out? To finish what you started?”

  Beginnings and ends. The knots that let the threads catch, the needles that made the stitches, each a step on the path she took, leading her to this place. “Yes,” Kate said. “Yes, I do.”

  Chapter 26

  The Things That Shape Us

  To the casual observer, everything seemed the same: the sun rose over the far hills to the east, set beyond the sea, the roads traversed the hills in their set pattern, even the inhabitants went about their daily lives in the usual manner, and yet there was a hint of urgency in the air that morning
as word began to spread: someone had dared to take a stand.

  Have you seen it? They called each other on the phone, spoke in animated whispers in the lanes. Yes, it’s about time.

  Because the priest’s sermon was having quite the opposite effect to what he intended: most thought him mad, didn’t want to be associated with his narrow-minded ideas. They wanted to meet the new age in their own way, thank you very much, keeping the Gaelic and their traditions while still looking forward. He didn’t speak for them. They’d been hoping someone would.

  And then someone did.

  Denny sat on the bench, his knee jigging as he waited for Niall to show up. He hadn’t taken a chance like this in years, but what could he do after the priest had insulted his daughter and her friends, insulted them all with his misguided screed? He had to say something, didn’t he? To defend the honor of his child—yes, still his child, after all these years—to defend the honor of Glenmara most of all.

  Oona hadn’t seen the paper yet when he’d left the cottage; Bernie came by with the copy after she’d gone out for her morning walk. But his daughter probably had by now. Would she be pleased, or would she be furious with him for kicking up a fuss, stoking the fires of the priest’s wrath? Denny had known her for years, of course, his own child, yet he couldn’t predict how she’d react. She’d always had a mind of her own.

  “There you go, wearing your egg on your sleeve again,” she’d say, over his tendency to drag his cuff through the yolk while reading the newspaper at breakfast—over his outspokenness, his passion. He knew there were times when she was growing up that she wished he could be as reserved as the other fathers, rather than embarrassing her with his antics, his schemes.

  This too, perhaps. One of the biggest gambles to date.

  And yet he was glad he’d done it. Yes, glad.

  The Gaelic Voice lay on his lap, the headline running across the top, his column, “This Old Geezer,” in the prime position. Bernie had given him top billing. “God bless you,” she said, her voice trembling as she handed him the paper that morning. She must have stayed up all night judging by the shadows under her eyes.

  Others might damn him. Father Byrne had his supporters.

  It was early yet, the town barely stirring, too early for anyone to stop by the bench for a visit. No one expected him there at that time of the day. He usually didn’t show up until mid-afternoon. People were in their cottages, having their coffee, reading the paper. Or they would be, soon. He’d called Niall right away, waking him from a sound slumber, asked for an emergency meeting.

  “What have you done now?” Niall said over the phone, eager to be part of the mischief.

  “No, it’s not like that, you’ll see,” Denny replied.

  Obviously, Niall hadn’t gotten his copy yet. But he would. And then he’d understand.

  Denny wanted to see his best friend now more than ever. He was sure of his convictions, there was no doubt about that, but he needed some moral support. A pinch, a dash, a soupçon, confirmation that he’d done the right thing. He plucked a spent dandelion from the base of the bench, blew, watched the seeds scatter, remembering how he’d played the game with Oona when she was a little girl. Close your eyes and make a wish. Sending hundreds of seeds into the air. She never tired of it. His grandchildren, great-grandchildren, either.

  He’d lived all these years in this village, raising a family, outliving his wife and most of his friends. Here he was, on this bench. These things were real, they mattered. The heart of Glenmara mattered. His heart. Their heart.

  He glanced at his watch again. What was taking Niall so long?

  He didn’t like having so much time to reflect. It wasn’t his nature, and yet something had compelled him to write that column, to speak for everyone—

  Yes, there he was: Niall at last, small at first, in the distance, a dot of a man growing larger, until Denny could hear the sound of his brogues on the lane, of his huffing breath. He had the paper tucked under his arm, and he was frowning, either from the seriousness of the situation or the physical exertion, Denny couldn’t tell just yet.

  “No bicycle this morning?” Denny asked.

  “Had a flat. No patches left,” Niall said, still breathless. “My daughter’s buying replacements today, but I couldn’t wait—not with this on the doorstep.” He waved the paper at him.

  “They delivered it early today,” Denny said. “A special edition.”

  “Special indeed.” His face, uncharacteristically, gave nothing away.

  Denny couldn’t take it any longer. “Well, for pity’s sake, man, aren’t you going to tell me what you think?”

  Niall fixed him with a cold stare. “What I think—about your mouthing off to the priest in front of everyone, taking on the local representative of one of our major institutions? A few years ago, I might have said you were either very foolish or very brave.”

  “And now?”

  “Fecking brilliant,” he crowed, sitting down beside him.

  Denny punched him in the arm. “You fecking play-actor.”

  “Good, wasn’t I?” Niall gave him a gap-toothed grin. “Maybe I should try out for one of the theatrical productions in Kinnabegs, eh?”

  “Then you’d really be insufferable.”

  “Maybe I’ll get some dramatic practice in now.” He began to read Denny’s column aloud:

  This might surprise you, but you won’t find any debates about the Manchester United, Chelsea, or Arsenal in today’s column. I never thought I’d say this, die-hard fan that I am, but there are more important matters that deserve your attention than the football standings.

  A question has been raised about the limits of our tolerance, the state of our very souls.

  Strong stuff, eh?

  Are we talking about global warming, world hunger, the gas crisis (no, Niall, we’re not referring about the state of your intestinal tract), or the wars raging beyond our borders?

  Heavens, no. We’re talking about The Great Knicker War.

  It seems our esteemed local ecclesiastical authority has taken it upon himself to launch the assault (uniforms and ammo available at the sacristy door after this weekend’s mass, no doubt).

  Yes, it sounds like a comedy routine straight out of Monty Python, but it’s not. It’s dead serious.

  But for entirely different reasons than Father Byrne supposes.

  The question is: Will you follow the lead of an out-of-touch firebrand and take up the cudgel? Or will you take up the right cause: support our community, the lace makers, women we’ve known all our lives, our daughters and friends, who are only trying to better their craft and themselves—and us too?

  I think you know the answer. I know I do.

  “Such eloquence,” Niall chuckled. “Perhaps you should run for office.”

  “Might have to run for my life, more like it,” Denny joked, though there was a bit of truth to the concern.

  Just then, they heard the sound of Oona’s car laboring up the lane.

  “I’d know the sound of that engine anywhere,” Denny said. “The sound of judgment.”

  “Has she seen it yet?”

  The car screeched to a halt. Oona got out and slammed the door. (It wouldn’t shut otherwise, and yet she might have done it with more force than necessary that morning.) She marched toward them, a stern expression on her face.

  “She must have by now,” Denny said. “I’ll probably be getting an earful.” He sat up straighter, ready to face her down. He’d only said what needed to be said.

  She stood before him, not speaking. It was only then that he saw she was fighting back tears. It had been years, years and years, since she’d hurled herself into his arms and buried her face in his neck and cried with sorrow or joy, that tiny red-haired girl, all arms and legs and temper. Even when things were bad with the cancer, she hadn’t broken down, not in front of him, being strong for everyone.

  Niall patted Denny’s shoulder, letting Oona take his place. He would wait for his frie
nd at the pub.

  Up at the vicarage, a curl of smoke rose from the chimney as the priest tried, unsuccessfully, to burn every copy of the Gaelic Voice he could get his hands on.

  Chapter 27

  A Turn in the Road

  The house felt right now that Finn had returned, her Finn, home at last—his mac hanging on the peg by the door, his boots below, his fisherman’s cap on the shelf above. The salmon pegged on the line to dry. (Colleen had given him his own pegs so that he wouldn’t take the laundry pins—how many times did she have to tell him she didn’t like her clothes smelling of fish?) The nets laid out to be dried and mended in the days to come. The boat in its slip on the dock.

  Everything where it should be. Him too.

  He insisted on cooking dinner that night, picked a bouquet of primula and columbine for the table.

  “What are you making?” she asked, leaning over the pot.

  “Cioppino,” he said, slipping a hand around her waist.

  “Cioppino? What do you know about cooking? Oh, I see. You traveled all the way to the Meditteranean on your last trip, did you? No wonder you were gone so long.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He smiled, holding up a spoonful of broth for her to taste, cupping a hand underneath.

  She closed her eyes and savored it. “Delicious.”

  “Surprised?”

  “A little.”

  “I’ll have to see what else I can do to keep you guessing and spice things up.” He shook some pepper into the pot with a flourish.

  “Look at you. Such culinary prowess.”

  “Culinary and otherwise.” He winked at her.

  “I’d better watch out,” she said. “Soon you’ll be hosting your own cooking show.”