An Irish Country Girl

by Patrick Taylor

  “Good lass. We’ll have to get started back down,” Da said. He whistled loudly and roared, “Come in, Dirk.”

  She heard Malachy say, “Get that into you, Tiernan, now. It’s Ma’s beef tea, so.”

  Maureen could see that the warmth of the blankets had helped Tiernan. The blue tinge had left his lips. Now he held the cup in both hands, blew across the surface, and sipped from it. “Lord Jasus,” he said, “that would put life back into a frozen corpse.”

  She tried to ignore the thoughtless remark.

  Dirk appeared. His breath came in white puffs as he ran to Da and sat by his leg. He’d not have done that if he’d wanted to be followed out into the snow. No one followed him out of the blizzard.

  “Good boy,” said Da and patted the dog’s head. Then he made both collies sniff Paudeen’s coat. “Seek, Dirk. Seek, Kris,” he said. The dogs raced off.

  “Here.” Tiernan gave the thermos cup back to Malachy. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll pour you a cup, Maureen,” he said, “and you’re next, Fidelma.”

  Maureen took the beef tea gratefully and drank, feeling the heat of it warming her insides. The tea and the glow of the hurricane lamp standing on the ground where Malachy had set it were the only warm things in an icy world. And somewhere out there, beyond the lamp’s pool of light, somewhere in the snow that was falling more heavily, was Paudeen.

  Her heart ached for him.

  “I’m sorry, Maureen,” Da said, “but when Fidelma’s had her beef tea we’ll have to head home.”

  She nodded. She understood, and not just why Da was making them go back now. It had been clear to her why, four years ago to this very day, he’d said searching for Connor would have to wait until the weather improved. Da’d been too wise then, as he was now, to risk more lives on a hopeless quest.

  “I know, Da,” she said, thinking that at least back then Fidelma and the rest of the O’Hanlons had been able to cling to the hope that Connor either had got home or had taken the warmth from his sheep. He hadn’t, poor man, but he might have. There was nothing on this hillside today to shelter Paudeen but some angle between two walls, where at this moment he could be crouching like the cattle she’d seen earlier. He’d be growing numb.

  Another tear slipped from the edge of Maureen’s eye. It was a particle of ice on her cheek before it reached her scarf. She finished the beef tea, refilled the cup, and tried to hand it to Fidelma. “Here.”

  Her sister was stooped, her back to the gale, as she lifted and folded two blankets. She turned to Maureen, straightened, accepted the cup, and drank. “Thanks.”

  In her own aching, Maureen felt for her sister, who must be reliving that other Saint Stephen’s. “I’ll have my blanket,” Maureen said, taking it from Fidelma and putting it over her shoulder, “and the knapsack and the lantern.” She shrugged into the straps and picked up the hissing lantern.

  Da and Malachy got Tiernan up on his good leg.

  “You and Fidelma lead, Maureen,” Da said.

  They started off down the road, the wind now at their backs. She willed the dogs to find Paudeen. Guide him back to safety. Guide him back to her.

  Maureen turned and looked up the hill. She held her arm above her eyes to protect them. Da and Malachy had the blanket-draped Tiernan between them. In the snow she thought they looked like figures from a picture in one of her history books. A picture called The Retreat from Moscow. The two men supported the third as he hopped, slowly, one hop at a time. Even the collies, who had returned, looked dejected.

  It was going to be a long journey home.

  It was. The men had to stop frequently to let Tiernan catch his breath and rest. Every so often, Fidelma would take Da’s place helping Tiernan. Malachy curtly refused all offers of respite.

  Maureen’s heart stumbled when she saw something black moving over the snow, keeping pace with them. It wasn’t a fox, and when she heard its toc-toc-toc drifting on the wind, she knew. She trembled, and not only from the bitter cold. Were the Shee tormenting Paudeen out there as they had Connor? Why were they taunting her? She’d not harmed them. The fox-woman had smiled when she’d seen Paudeen with Maureen.

  “Go away,” she yelled.

  “What?” Fidelma called.

  Maureen turned to her sister. “That raven over there,” she said, but when she looked back the bird had vanished. She sighed and said aloud, as she had in the farmhouse when he’d tumbled the chair, “Connor MacTaggart, if you are out there, watch over Paudeen, for my sake.”

  But no shape appeared in the swirling snow; no pipes hummed over the gale.

  And as if in mocking answer, she heard from overhead toc-toc-toc.

  By the time they got to the main road, the hurricane lantern had sputtered and died for lack of fuel, but still Maureen refused to let her hopes die with it. But of Paudeen they had seen neither hide nor hair.

  Halfway between the hill road and the farm lane, Da and Malachy sat Tiernan on the top of an ancient milestone. “Clonakil” was all that remained of the original directions chiseled into the granite.

  “Would you look in the knapsack, Fidelma?” Da said and coughed. “There’s a bottle of whiskey.” His chest wheezed as he inhaled.

  Maureen felt her sister working behind her to get the whiskey out.

  “Here, Da,” Fidelma said.

  Each of the three men took a swig and wiped the neck before passing it on.

  “Here, girls.” Da handed Maureen the flask. “You’ve earned it.”

  The neat spirits were raw in her mouth, but she swallowed them down, feeling a tiny explosion in the pit of her stomach and a tingle spreading through her. “Thanks, Da.” She gave the bottle to Fidelma and waited for her to drink and return it to the knapsack.

  They set off again. Progress was slow, but at least the blizzard was abating. The power of the wind was weakening, the fall of snow less heavy. Maureen and Fidelma trudged ahead, occasionally looking over their shoulders to make sure the three men were following.

  Maureen was too weary to talk to her sister. She felt her lips growing number, her teeth chattering, her legs heavier to lift with each stride, and her heart chilled within her.

  It was only the sight of the lights in the farmhouse windows—beacons, Fidelma had called them—that kept her going until at last she stood outside the back door.

  Ma must have been watching from the uncurtained window, for she threw the door wide. “Fidelma. Maureen. Are you all right? Come in out of that, the both of you.”

  “We’re grand,” Fidelma said.

  Maureen didn’t bother to answer.

  The heat inside the house was overpowering. As she started to get rid of the lamp, the knapsack, her blackthorn, and her outer garments, Maureen heard Ma welcoming the others, and Da saying in a hoarse voice, “I’ll put the dogs in the barn; then I’ll be back.”

  By the time he returned, Maureen was down to her shirt and trousers, Malachy was sitting beside Sinead, holding her hand, Ma had set a tray full of steaming mugs of tea on the table, and Fidelma, also rid of her heavy outer gear, was passing them out.

  Ma knelt before Tiernan. She had taken off his woolen sock, examined his swollen, bruised ankle, and pronounced there were no bones broken. Now she was winding black wool round and round the sore place and chanting in a low voice:

  The Lord rade and the foal slade.

  He lighted and He righted;

  Set joint to joint and bone to bone,

  And sinew unto sinew.

  In the name of God and the Saints,

  Of Mary and her Son,

  Let this man be healed. Amen.

  “You’ll have to lie up for a few days, son, but you’ll be lofting bullets in no time, so.”

  “Thanks, Ma.” He looked hard at Maureen. “And maybe, God willing, Paudeen will be with me.”

  She took a very deep breath.

  “I’m sorry I let him go off on his own. If we’d stayed—”

  “It’s not your fault, Tiernan.
” Maureen shook her head. “You didn’t know we were coming. Paudeen was right to try. He’s not a man who’d give up without trying everything. He’s out there somewhere still struggling. I just know it, and even if he’s got himself a bit lost, it’s not your fault.”

  He managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Maureen.”

  “Maureen’s right,” Ma said. She smiled at Tiernan, then looked at Da. “Finbar, I am glad to see you all home, for I did worry, so. I’ll be happier still if Paudeen sticks his head round our door.”

  Maureen knew Da was not a demonstrative man, but she could feel for him as he bent and kissed the top of Ma’s head. “I am glad to be home, Roisín. I am glad that our Tiernan’s home with us all.” He moved to Maureen and squeezed her shoulder. “And I am sad too that there’s been no sign of Paudeen yet.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “He may very well show up yet,” Da said, and she knew he was trying to comfort her. “It could happen.”

  She covered his hand with her own. She couldn’t speak for the lump in her throat.

  Da looked hard at Ma. “Have you seen anything?” he asked.

  Ma rose. “I have,” she said softly, looking directly at Maureen. “I saw more snow, and I saw a fox in the snow and a raven soaring above. I know they were the Shee, but what they were after, I know not.”

  “Maureen saw a raven when we were on the way home,” Fidelma said.

  “And a fox on the hill,” Maureen said. She thought back to what had happened in this kitchen before they had left—the chill, the chair toppling over, the wisp of smoke she was sure had been Connor MacTaggart. “Watch over Paudeen,” she had said then, and she had repeated the invocation on the hillside. She stole a quick look at Fidelma before asking, “Did you hear any music at all, Ma?” If Ma’d heard the pipes it might be a sign that Connor was watching over Paudeen.

  “I did not, a chara. Not a note.”

  Maureen let her head droop. She sighed but she had to accept what Ma said. Maureen prayed that Ma was wrong about more snow. Although blizzards could be fierce here, they rarely lasted long, and the thaw was usually quick. There was still a chance Paudeen was sheltering somewhere on the hill. He’d be cold, thirsty, hungry. He might even get frostbitten, but he was tough and used to foul weather—what fisherman wasn’t?

  The little daylight filtering through the falling flakes was fading outside, and Maureen knew the bitter night would soon be on him. How much longer he could hold out didn’t bear thinking about. And his chances of finding his way here in a fresh blizzard would be slim.

  The others were talking in low voices, leaving her to her own thoughts, she assumed. She heard a low moaning, and then she saw the windowpane shiver as a gust hit the house.

  Outside the window, in the glow from the kitchen lights, the snow was now flying more thickly and whirling past more ferociously than it had earlier in the day.

  Despite the warmth of the room Maureen felt her heart turn to ice within her. She felt arms round her and looked up. It was Fidelma. With tears in her eyes, she looked into Maureen’s and whispered, “I know, muirnín, I know. But maybe the storm won’t last for long.”

  34

  The storm did not let up. Maureen had gone to bed before she’d half finished her mug of tea, too tired to eat, too exhausted to do anything but crawl under the bedclothes and worry about Paudeen. But despite the turmoil in her and the raging of the blizzard outside the window, she soon tumbled into a dreamless sleep.

  When she awoke she blinked at the pale grey light filtering into her room. Down below, the grandfather clock chimed the hour, then struck eight. From outside she heard the rat-a-tat of the branches on the pane.

  She pulled the curtains back. Snow. Thick swirling flakes.

  She washed, brushed her teeth, and was surprised to see something strange in the mirror. There were a few silver strands among the chestnut of her hair. She examined them more closely. No mistaking it. Silver. She sighed. Everyone knew worry could start a body’s hair greying, and she’d been worried enough for two since the blizzard started.

  She dressed and went down to the kitchen. “Morning, Ma. Fidelma.” Her voice was flat.

  “Morning.” Fidelma’s smile was forced.

  “Morning, Maureen. I hope you slept well,” Ma said, throwing more rashers in the pan.

  “I did.”

  “So did everybody else. Only Sinead, Fidelma, and myself are up. We’ve eaten. Sinead’s seeing to the chisellers upstairs, so.”

  Maureen felt a gust hit the house. “With that out there, the men might as well all stay in bed and keep warm.” She sighed and said, “I don’t suppose . . . ?” but didn’t bother to finish. They’d have told her at once if somehow Paudeen had found his way here.

  She smelled the aroma of the bacon frying, heard it sizzling. You were a grand man for the pan, Paudeen. You’d have enjoyed what Ma’s cooking. “I’m not very hungry, Ma,” Maureen said.

  “You’ll eat what I put before you,” Ma said. “After yesterday, you’ll need to build back your strength, so.”

  There was no point arguing. “Yes, Ma.” Ma was right, she should eat, but she had no appetite. Only a pain inside her, a bottomless ache with no borders.

  She sat at the table across from Fidelma. Maureen shivered, although as always the kitchen was toasty. Her eyes widened. She felt the hairs on the nape of her neck tingle. The same icy air as yesterday had come back. The chair beside where Fidelma sat rattled gently on the tiles.

  Fidelma might not have noticed, Maureen thought, but from the barn came the racket of Kris and Dirk barking. She wished they’d shut up, but like all border collies they were excitable and would rant at any rat that scuttled across the barn floor.

  Still the dogs barked. They didn’t usually keep it up for so long. Maureen frowned. Then she rose, went to the door, opened it, and looked out. Snowflakes whirled into the kitchen. She saw a man coming toward her, staggering as if drunk. He was not ten yards away.

  She ran to him, made him lean on her shoulder for support, and helped him back into the kitchen and onto a chair. “Dear God, is it yourself, Paudeen?” she yelled.

  His head nodded, but Maureen could not tell if he was agreeing or simply too exhausted to hold it up.

  She hardly noticed Fidelma closing the door to shut out the storm.

  The man’s clothes were snow-caked, his eyebrows rimed. He had no coat, and flakes clung to his heavy gansey. A cap was pulled low over his eyes, and a scarf swathed the bottom of his face. His eyes were screwed up, and she could barely see their colour, but they were blue. Deep blue.

  Maureen’s hand flew to her mouth.

  He smiled with his eyes and mumbled through his scarf, “Maureen.”

  My God. My God. “Paudeen. Paudeen.” She held him at arm’s length. “Take off that scarf. Now. Now.” And the minute he did, ignoring the streaks of yesterday’s blacking on his face, she kissed him. His lips were dry, cracked, and icy. “Paudeen. You’re safe.” Her heart climbed from its abyss.

  “He’ll be safer,” Ma said, “if you’d let the poor man get out of his snowy clothes, a chair under him, and up to the oven for a bit of heat. You must be foundered, Paudeen.”

  Maureen grabbed his frigid gloved hand and tried to tug him toward the range.

  He laughed. “Just a shmall little minute, Maureen. Let me get some things off.” He removed his gloves, cap, and his sweater.

  “Let them lie where they fall, Paudeen,” Ma said, “and go over there to the warm. I’ll get you tea when you’re ready for a cup. It is welcome you are in this house, so.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. O’Hanlon. And it’s very glad I am to be here for I am cold as all of Antarctica, bye.”

  Maureen helped him over to the oven and Fidelma brought his chair.

  Paudeen sat heavily. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin of his cheeks scarlet where the blacking had worn off, his lips slatey blue, and when he held his hands over the range top they shook.

 
He looked at Maureen. “Is Tiernan home all right?”

  “He is,” she said. “Da and Malachy brought him back in one piece.”

  “With help from Maureen and Fidelma here,” Ma said. “I’d have had to lock them in their rooms to stop them going, they were so bound and determined to look for you.”

  “Thank you, Maureen. Fidelma.” He nodded to each in turn. “And thank God Tiernan’s safe home for I hated to leave him with his ankle out of kilter, but somebody had to go for help.”

  “It’s all right, Paudeen. You did the right thing,” Maureen said, “and you’re safe too.” She skipped on the spot, then said very softly, “You’re safe, my Paudeen.”

  “I am that,” he said very deliberately, and from his voice and the way he was looking at her she knew exactly what he meant. She skipped again. My Paudeen.

  “Maureen,” Ma said, with laughter in her voice, “stop flaffing about and give the man another kiss.”

  Maureen moved to him, and when he stood, she held him round the waist, felt his arms round her, his lips on hers. She didn’t care who was watching or listening, and when he took his lips away, she said, “Paudeen Kincaid, I love you, and I thought I’d lost you forever, so.”

  “And I love you, Maureen, and I’ll never be far away from you again, bye. Never ever.”

  “Good for the pair of you,” said Ma. “Now, if you’re a bit warmer, go you and sit down at the table, Paudeen. And you, Maureen, get your man the cup of tea I promised him.”

  Paudeen sat across from Fidelma while Maureen poured his tea.

  Ma said, “I’ve the pan on. How many eggs, Paudeen?”

  “Four please, and could you put in a few more rashers, maybe some black pudding, sausages, and a couple of potato cakes?”

  “You’ve a good appetite, I’ll say that.” Ma grinned and started putting slices of black pudding into the pan.

  Maureen smiled at Ma. Nothing gave her more pleasure than cooking something that was appreciated—and she’d passed that trait on to her daughters.