21
Maureen waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the dim light. Madame Rosita was seated behind a baize-topped card table where a glass sphere and a pack of well-thumbed cards lay. Her features were hard to make out, but Maureen thought the woman seemed to be dark-complexioned and probably middle-aged. Her hair was hidden under a head scarf. She smiled. One of her upper front teeth was missing.
Heavy rings hung from her earlobes, and bracelets encircling both wrists jangled as she moved one hand to indicate that Maureen should take the folding chair opposite. It was easier to see now. The woman wore a scarlet shawl and rings on every finger.
“You want your future told, pretty one?” The voice was soft, melodious.
“Yes, please.”
“Hold out your hand.”
Maureen extended her hand, palm up. She still clutched the silver thruppence in the other. So, she thought, the crystal ball and cards were simply props. She was going to have her palms read. The Pavee took Maureen’s hand in her own. They were warm, dry, and rough. She leant forward and narrowed her hazel eyes. Wrinkles on her forehead deepened. When the woman moved closer, Maureen could smell foetid breath.
Maureen moved back, but the Pavee held tight, her gaze leaving Maureen’s hands and moving to her eyes. It was as deeply penetrating as the fox-woman’s had been.
The Pavee had a cast in her right eye. “So,” she said, “it’s your future you want?”
“I . . . I’m not sure.” Maureen half rose but found she was held fast. “I think I’ll . . .”
“Don’t go, child. I have seen things I do not understand in your fate line, your heart line, but I see a cross on your Mount of Venus that says you will find true love.”
“Love?” Maureen stopped trying to pull away. “Love?” Hadn’t that been what she’d been wondering about at the oddest times for the last year or so, like after she’d seen the caterpillar earlier today, and moments ago as she lifted the flap of this tent? She lowered herself into the chair. In for a penny, or more likely sixpence, in for a pound, she thought. “Anybody can predict love.” She half turned her head and looked sideways at the woman. “What don’t you understand?” Maureen asked.
“I cannot tell without the tarot.” She nodded at the cards.
Maureen allowed herself a small smile. This woman was as much a chancer as the man with the walnut shells, and yet—and yet why not? “How much?”
“I will set out ten cards in a Celtic cross. Card one will tell your present, card two your immediate challenge, card three your distant past. Each card has its own story to weave, right up to nine, which reveals your hopes and fears, and ten, which will speak of the final outcome. You must tell me whether you want a life reading, which is the telling of your whole span, or your future for a shorter time.”
I’m the fly and she’s the spider, Maureen thought. She looked down, first at her hand still held by the woman, then at the pack of cards, then back into the fortune-teller’s eyes. “How much for a whole life? How much for . . . a year or maybe two years?”
“A shilling for a whole life and thruppence for a short time.” She released Maureen’s hands.
“And you’re not sure from my palm?”
The Pavee shook her head. “I see something powerful about you. I feel something powerful about you, but only the tarot will tell.”
She’d nearly been right about “in for sixpence.” A shilling was far too expensive, but she could afford to pay for a two-year reading. Maureen hesitated, still clutching the small silver coin in her hand. Sure wasn’t it only a bit of fun she was buying? She handed the thruppence to Madame Rosita. “Here. Tell me two years.”
That would cover the all-important next summer, when her examination results, pass or fail, would be definite predictors of her future career. It would be a comfort to hear the gypsy woman’s view today. Maybe Miss Toner’s confidently expressed opinion would be more accurate than this woman’s, but the teacher couldn’t say if Maureen would fall in love. That was important too, and hadn’t the Pavee already said Maureen would find true love? She’d just not said when.
“Two years it is.” The gypsy took the money, let go of Maureen’s other hand, then lifted the pack. “Can you shuffle cards, child?”
“You mean mix them before the deal? I’ve seen Malachy and Tiernan and their friends playing Spoil Five for halfpennies.” The bowls wasn’t the only thing Malachy liked to gamble on.
The teller smiled and handed Maureen the pack.
She shuffled, cut, and returned them.
“Now.” The woman started to lay out the cards facedown.
Maureen watched until there were four parallel vertical rows. The first row of a single card, the second of three with a fourth card laid crosswise over the middle one, the third of a single card, and the fourth of four.
“Number one, the present.” The gypsy pulled out the covered card from the second row and turned it face up.
Maureen saw a sword, hilt down, blade up, its point thrusting into a circle of rays of light.
The teller smiled. “That is one of the minor arcana, the Ace of Swords. Alone it foretells a long life.”
Maureen leant forward, ignoring the smell of the Pavee’s breath as she turned over card after card until nine were face up.
“Now, I can tell you that you will go on a journey within the next year. The Wheel of Fortune says so.” She pointed to a wheel surmounted by a sphinx. “The Prince of Cups”—a man holding a cup aloft while a small naked figure knelt at his feet—“is a moody card, but whether those moods are of a man or woman, a man and a woman, or indeed even the sea, I cannot tell.”
“It’ll not be the sea. I live ten miles inland. My sister Sinead more like. She’s the moody one.”
“And are you not?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But there is something . . . something special about you, girl. I felt it when I held your hands, yet the cards haven’t told me what it is.”
Nor will I, thought Maureen. My sight is my secret. Only Ma knows. “Go on with the cards, please.”
“There at number six, which tells your immediate future, is the Two of Cups.” Maureen saw two entwined fish spilling water into two goblets.
“It says love is coming. Romantic love. Romance. Perhaps a marriage.”
Maureen frowned. “Within the next two years?”
“The card says so.”
Maureen frowned. Well, she thought, she’d be nineteen next September, not too young for marriage—as long as the right fellah came along. And if he did he’d not have to mind her teaching. Lots of men thought it shameful if their wives worked, making it seem to others that they as husbands couldn’t provide.
The woman peered more closely at the six position and the preceding five cards.
While the Pavee mumbled, Maureen told herself not to be taken in. If she didn’t want to get married in the next two years, then it wasn’t going to happen, no matter what the cards might say. It would have to be the right lad or bust.
“You will find love, or love will find you. The cards say so.”
“Aye, maybe at the céili tonight.” Maureen laughed. “My sister Fidelma reckons Rudolph Valentino may show up, sweep me off my feet, and have me up the aisle in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, so.”
“Do not mock the tarot.” Her voice was flat. Chilling.
Maureen swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
The Pavee did not smile as she turned over the tenth card. She jerked back, eyes wide, mouth agape. She crossed herself with her left hand and muttered something under her breath.
Maureen leant forward to see better. The picture was of a dancing skeleton carrying a scythe. “What is it?” she asked. “What is it?” She heard her own voice rise.
“It is the most feared of cards, and it is in position ten, the final outcome.” The woman leant back from the table.
“What is it? Please.” Maureen felt the hairs on her neck tingle. “Please tell me.�
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“The name of it is . . . Death.”
“Death?” Maureen heard her voice rise higher in pitch. “Whose death? Mine? In two years?” She started to stand.
The Pavee shook her head. “I know not. This card, though called Death, is the most complicated of the tarot. It can foretell the death of the subject or of a loved one, but it is rarely so simple.”
Maureen lowered herself back onto her chair. “Go on.”
“It can mean the death of an old life and the beginning of a new one—”
“Like leaving school and getting the job you want?”
“It can.”
Maureen managed a weak smile. “Then it’s not quite so scary.”
The Pavee woman shrugged. “It could mean being single and in love, then losing a lover.”
“And you said I was going to find love.” Maureen pointed at the Two of Cups.
The teller nodded. “You are. Maybe all this Death card says is that the change will be from a single girl to a girl in love.”
“That’s not so bad either. After all, there’s not much point in predicting death. We all die one day.”
“We do, but remember today we are asking the cards about only the next two years.”
Maureen felt a chill. It was true, and as she thought about the implications, everything about her altered. The walls of the tent vanished. The woman opposite became a blur. She changed her shape. Her face was Maureen’s own, her clothes mourning black. Then as suddenly as the gypsy had been transformed, she was once again Madame Rosita in her scarlet shawl sitting quietly in her fortune-telling tent.
Maureen’s breath came in short gasps as she clasped her chest and felt the sharp edges of Ma’s ivory cameo cold on her fingers. She had a sudden longing for her mother that brought a pricking behind her eyelids.
Madame Rosita pushed her chair back. “What have you seen, child?”
“Myself in mourning.” The whispered words slipped out.
The Pavee woman stood. She thrust the thruppence back at Maureen. “Take it. I’ll not ask money from one of us. I felt your power earlier, but I did not understand. I do now. The sight is on you, girl.”
Maureen’s breathing slowed. She shook her head. “Keep the money . . . and please . . . keep your mouth closed about this.”
The walking woman crossed her heart. She stared at Maureen with her left eye, while the right one looked over Maureen’s shoulder. “May I die if I utter a word, as God is my witness.”
Maureen felt the comfort of those words, for those with the evil eye could not utter the word “God.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.” She rose. “Goodbye, Madame Rosita.”
“Good-bye, girl, and may the Lord always walk at your side.”
Outside the tent the sun was blinding. Colours seemed sharper, the noises of the fair crisper. Ma had been right. The sight had come, but as for the meaning of what she had seen? It was she who had been wearing black, so it could not be her own death. Ma said it was hard to understand. Was she going to be in mourning? Who for, and when? Within two years?
Ma and Da were young yet. Healthy. Granny Fogarty was the only grandparent left.
She tried to understand what Madame Rosita had said about the Death card symbolizing the passing of an old life and the beginning of a new one. Did the sight work that way too? Were her widow’s weeds an expression of how she felt about leaving childhood behind, becoming a woman, leaving school, moving on?
While the thought of getting on with her life was exciting, the prospects were a bit unnerving. Working for a living, falling in love, getting married—it would all be so new. She’d have to leave her home, her Ma and Da, her family, even the comforting grandfather clock.
On the day she’d first told Ma about seeing Connor, noticing her old, tattered teddy bear had helped her to acknowledge she was leaving childhood behind. Perhaps the vision, brought on by the shock of seeing the Death card, only meant that she would experience a transformation within the next two years.
The more she thought on it, the more she liked that explanation. She decided she’d not ask Ma to try to explain. Maureen was certain her mother would have no clearer answers than she herself had, and Ma would probably give her a tongue-lashing for listening to such foolishness.
She skirted the now empty Punch-and-Judy tent.
Ma had told her never to be frightened of the power, but Maureen had been afraid in the gypsy woman’s tent. Terrified. Now her pulse had slowed; her breathing was steady. It was true, she told herself, she could do nothing about what she had seen. What could not be cured must be endured. She should try to stop worrying.
What concerns she had she’d keep to herself. She’d not spoil the day for everyone else with her brooding. She stood more stiffly and forced a smile. She’d not brood. She’d not.
She quickened her step round the fort and waved to Sinead and Fidelma where they sat on the grass beside Finbar’s pram.
From the single bell in Darrara church came the slow notes announcing the six-o’clock Angelus. Maureen smiled. Malachy and Tiernan were late for tea.
22
Maureen reached her family in the shade of an elm tree as the last solemn chime echoed over the fields. Fidelma held a gurgling Finbar and chucked him under the chin. She rolled her eyes to heaven and nodded her head sideways to where Sinead hauled the picnic hamper out from under his pram.
“At least you’re nearly on time,” Sinead snapped.
No wonder Fidelma was rolling her eyes. “Och, come on, Sinead,” Maureen said, “sure it’s only a cold tea we’re having. It’ll not spoil. The boys are having fun. Let them. It’s a holiday.” She wished Sinead could be more easy about things. She wasn’t usually this bad-tempered. It must be because she’s pregnant, Maureen thought.
“Huh,” Sinead said, “I’m for starting anyway. I’ve to eat for two. Fidelma, put Finbar back in his pram. Maureen, give me a hand to get things ready.” Together they spread a chequered cloth on the grass, opened the picnic hamper, and began setting out the meal. Sinead, on all fours by the basket, flapped at a wasp snarling around a plate of chicken sandwiches. “And I’ll not care if the wasps have it half eaten by the time the menfolk get here—”
“We are here,” Malachy said and gave Sinead a solid pat on her upturned bottom.
Sinead jerked round. “Malachy Aherne, I’ll thank you not to—”
Maureen, who had just handed Sinead a plate of sandwiches, watched her sour look turn to a smile, at least with her lips, when she saw that Tiernan, who stood beside Malachy, had his arm round a stranger’s shoulders.
Maureen studied the man. He was as tall as Tiernan, younger, early twenties, well-built, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped. He wore hobnailed boots and moleskin trousers held up by a broad leather belt with a brass buckle. The top three buttons of his red-and-white-striped, collarless shirt were undone. There were damp stains at his armpits.
“Sinead, this here’s Paudeen Kincaid from Ring, just outside Clonakilty. He’s a powerful bowler, so,” Tiernan said. “Paudeen, my sister, Sinead Aherne.”
Maureen hardly noticed her sister stand and say, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kincaid.”
The dark hair of Paudeen Kincaid’s head, which he parted to the left, was almost as long as her own. Unusual, she thought, for an Irishman. His forehead, broad and uncreased, glistened in the early evening sun. Bowling, she thought, must work up a powerful sweat. A snub nose separated two eyes of the deepest blue she had ever seen.
His forehead might be smooth, but there were deep crows’-feet at the corners of his eyes. Either he liked to laugh or he spent a lot of time outdoors squinting against the weather. His mouth was generous. He could use a shave, and his stubble, like his hair, was dark.
“And this here’s Fidelma, and the young one’s Maureen, so,” Malachy said.
Kincaid bobbed his head at each in turn.
Maureen smiled and watched his eyes, well aware that the strange
r was inspecting her. A year ago she would have blushed at his appraisal, but her confidence in herself had been growing. If he wanted to look he could. As Ma said, a cat can look at a king—as long as it doesn’t think the king’s a mouse.
“Did you win, Tiernan?” Fidelma asked.
“I did, so,” he said and hiccupped.
Maureen sucked in her breath and looked at Sinead, who narrowed her eyes at Malachy, cocked her head, and said, “Have you been—?”
“It’s all my fault, Mrs. Aherne,” the newcomer said. “Tiernan only beat me by one loft, but a throw so sweet you’ve never seen the like, bye. I had to cheer at it myself even though I’d lost. I reckoned I should get to know a bowler like him better, and didn’t I owe your man here and his road shower and helper the victory glass, bye?”
Maureen smiled. Not all Corkmen ended sentences with “so.” Some used “boy,” pronounced “bye,” as well, regardless of whether they were addressing a man or a woman, a girl or—a boy.
“Generous of you,” Sinead said.
“And we’d only the one,” Malachy added, holding up a single finger. “One, and it a shmall little one at that.”
“Only one?” Sinead seemed to be softening. Perhaps, Maureen thought, she was regretting her earlier snappishness. “You could have done worse, I suppose.”
“I’d take no more, for haven’t I to drive us all home, so?”
“And I’ve a tide to catch tonight,” Paudeen said.
Tiernan said nothing.
“A tide?” Maureen asked. He really did have the deepest blue eyes.
“Aye. Clonakilty Harbour’s got a one-fathom gut by Ring Harbour that’s not passable at two hours before and two hours after slack ebb, and at low water all the harbour itself is just mudflats.”
“And would you be a fisherman, Mr. Kincaid?”
“I would that, Miss O’Hanlon, bye.”
She inclined her head as he spoke her name.
“I have my own long-liner boat in the harbour at Ring. I mostly fish for ling for the salting, but tonight I’m after lemon sole.” His voice was a light tenor, and made musical by his thick Cork brogue.
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