An Irish Love Story
By
RUSS DURBIN
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 Russell L. Durbin
Cover Design: Charlene Lavinia
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Part 1
ONE IRISH SPRING
By Russ Durbin
Chapter 1
LEAVING
The horsehair seats smelled musty. The steady click, click, click of the wheels on the rails was not comforting. The train was taking me away.
The day was grey and it was, of course, raining. Small streams of water made rivulets through the caked dirt on the windows. Tears. That thought flitted through my mind. Tears of good-bye. Even the clouds were crying.
So was I. Inside, of course. No hint of my roiled thoughts reached my composed face.
Chapter 2
FIRST VISIT
It wasn’t like this when I arrived three months earlier.
That day was cold and damp. A sharp wind whistled round corners and blew deep into the bones. I had never felt so cold, but I was excited. I arrived in Dublin on, of all days, St. Patrick’s Day. The city was full of Americans taking over the city and celebrating being “Irish” for the day, at least in spirit, if not in reality.
Officially, I was here on business; it also was my first trip to the home of my ancestors. It was with eager anticipation that I boarded the Aer Lingus flight in New York. To hear my grandfather talk Eire was only a wee bit short of heaven on earth. Now I was going to see it for myself, starting with the St. Patrick’s Day parade down O’Connell Street.
The purpose of my trip was to meet other members of the corporate team who were assembling at Jury’s Hotel from the U.S. and various countries of Europe. Our goal was to find suitable sites and develop plans for building a critical and much needed manufacturing plant in the European Economic Community. We had our corporate eye on one property in particular near Cork City. But first, we needed a meeting with the Industrial Development Authority (IDA). Its offices were located across the street from the hotel. IDA representatives advise foreign companies that want to locate in Ireland on complex governmental, environmental, and tourist board regulations, among other things.
My job was communications. Design a plan that would communicate to government and business leaders and local residents what we hoped to accomplish, with their help. The main goal was to avoid or minimize potential opposition to our plans and get the plant built as soon as possible.
It was March of 1975. Times were tough in Ireland. There was a 23 percent unemployment rate. Young people were fleeing to the continent and to America to find precious jobs. Time was right to talk to the Irish about new jobs. Unfortunately, a couple of environmental disasters with foreign companies had made the Irish wary and distrustful of “blow ins” as people in the local pubs called the outsiders.
Our team had spent an intense and exhausting three weeks delving into the myriad regulations, exploring potential building sites in County Cork, negotiating rights to the piece of land ideal for our plant and devising technical plans. I listened to the experts’ talk while perusing the Irish Times, the Irish Independent and the Cork Examiner as well as listening and watching radio and television programming on RTE, the national network. To develop an effective communications plan, one needed to know what was going on in the country. The national news media were a starting point.
Time flashed by and all too quickly team members were saying our good-byes to each other. As quickly as they arrived, my colleagues scattered to their respective countries, leaving me alone to scout the countryside for the next month or so to find out what was on the minds of the average Irish worker, farmer, fisherman and housewife. To do that I needed to immerse myself in Irish culture.
Chapter 3
THE TOURIST
The best way to learn about the Irish was to be a tourist. The Irish love to talk, especially to tourists. The streets of Dublin were a trove of information as I strolled about. Then, renting a Ford Cortina, I saw Dublin dwindle in my rear view mirror as I meandered about the green fields and villages working my way south toward County Cork, shopping occasionally, asking questions, and giving rides to rain-soaked mothers and their equally wet children walking in the rain to the nearest village to do their shopping. In doing so, I received a plethora of ideas, opinions and suggestions. Finally, I arrived in Cork City and checked into the Jury’s Hotel.
One does not go to Cork as a tourist unless one visits the hallowed ground of Blarney Castle and, of course, kisses the Blarney stone. Doing so proved to be not as easy as it sounds since one must lie on one’s back, lean down over the parapet and upside down kiss the ancient stone, set in the battlements facing toward the holy land from which, according to legend, it came. There was a man of indeterminate age, (Johnny O’Dell was his name), who holds one’s legs so one doesn’t fall. Falling would not be good for tourism.
As it happened, the day I visited Blarney Castle was dark, cloudy and wet. I was the lone visitor. After doing the expected, I inquired of Johnny whether the hotel was a good place to lunch in Blarney town.
“Ah, boy, you don’t want to eat at the hotel; too expensive,” he declared, grabbing me by the arm. “Come with me; I’m going to take me lunch, now,” he continued, pulling me along. “I’ve got a widow lady who fixes me food. 'Tis good and more than I can eat. Come along and share it with me.” He shivered and pulled the collar of his ancient tweed jacket close as sprinkles gradually changed to rain.
Since my job was to learn about the Irish people and how they think, I couldn’t pass up this gracious offer. Across the wet grounds of Blarney Castle we went, cold rain blowing against us like a grey sheet. We hurried down a cobblestone walk and across a bit of green to a back alley. By this time, I began to wonder where old Johnny was taking me.
We wound up at the back door of a cottage where my companion opened the door, and shouted, “Halloo, there Molly. You ready for me?”
A pleasant looking woman, her cheeks flushed from cooking, appeared in the kitchen doorway and beckoned to us, pointing to two chairs at the table. “You’re late, Johnny. I was wondering if you were coming.”
“I had me a late visitor,” he replied, nodding in my direction. “I brought him along to share some of your fine cooking,” Johnny finished with a grin.
“Off with your blarney Johnny.” One quick glance and Molly had sized me up as expertly as a seasoned cop on his beat. “Well then, I better put on some more eggs; the lad has a lean look about him.”
“No, no Molly. I’ll just share my meal; you always fix too much for me,” said Johnny.
So I sat in the warm, friendly kitchen sharing old Johnny’s eggs and a rasher of ham and listened to the talk. Molly poured some of Barry’s black tea, put in a little hot milk for the three of us and sat down, wiping her hands on her apron.
I learned a lot about the Irish that day. Proud of their island and their heritage, they were fiercely protective of their green fields, clear brooks and grey stone cliffs. In sum, they were independent, opinionated, caring, friendly, argumentative, and ready to welcome a stranger and take him at face value. To the Irish I had met so far, you were accepted as okay unless you proved yourself otherwise.
When asked if I had come to celebrate St. Paddy’s Day, I explained I had come for business meetings but was taking some time to get acquainted with the country and its people.
“My name is Pat O’Connor and my grandfather originally came from Kinsale or somewhere near there, so I’m told,” I offered.
“Aye, lad, there’s many an O’Connor down there,” said Johnny, “and down Bandon way, as well.”
“So, Yank, I guess that makes you one of our boys,” Molly declared, immediately settling the matter. I took that to mean I was “in.”
My little visit to Blarney turned up a wealth of information about the “blow ins” that people in the area were concerned about. “Blow ins,” I learned, was the name local people had for the foreign companies wanting to move into Ireland. For that matter, anyone who wasn’t Irish was one. The rough outlines of a communications plan began to form in my mind. Immediately I began making mental notes as ideas tumbled over ideas in my mind.
By the time I returned to Jury’s on Western Road in Cork, my body and mind were on the verge of exhaustion. Wearily, I asked at the desk if room service was available. No, I was told, it was too late and the restaurant was closed, but I could get a sandwich in the bar.
Chapter 4
NEW FRIENDS
As I settled on a bar stool and gave my order, I noticed a face that seemed familiar across the room. Frankly, I was too tired to try to remember and turned back to my drink.
“Say, Yank,” a voice behind me said. Yank seemed to be a popular Irish term for Americans. “You probably don’t remember me, but I saw you and your business associates at Jury’s in Dublin a few weeks ago. I was the front desk manager.”
As I turned, he held out his hand, “I’m Eddie…Eddie Murphy.”
I dutifully took his hand and offered, “I’m Pat. Patrick O’Connor.”
“Nice to meet you, Patrick.” He pronounced it Padraig in true Gaelic fashion. “I want to invite you to join my friends and me at the table over there, seeing as you’re all alone.” He gestured to a semi-circular booth in the corner where two women were sitting.
“Thanks very much, but I am pretty tired. I think I’ll just finish my Guinness and sandwich and head back to my room.”
“Oh, come on, Padraig. It’s too early to turn in,” he said with a grin, taking my arm and pulling me off the stool.
Well, since my business was getting to know the people, maybe I should accept his invite. My first invitation of the day in Blarney proved to be golden so maybe this would be too. Grabbing my sandwich and glass, I followed Eddie to the table.
Seated together on the far side of the table were a tall, slender blond with boy-cut hair and a short red head with a green knit hat jammed on her head. The upturned brim and the tassel on top gave the girl a comical look. Eddie made the introductions and gestured toward the seat next to Green Hat while he took the one opposite next to the blond.
Clear enough to me that Eddie wanted to make time with the blond and dump on me the other one, which I mentally characterized as a “tag-along” buddy of the blond.
That was okay; I didn’t plan to stay long. Eddie played the congenial host and ordered a round for everyone.
“So what do you do?” asked the blond, whose name was Mary Kate. The last thing I wanted to do was talk business, but I found myself explaining. Green Hat remained silent, frowning slightly.
As I paused to sip my pint, Green Hat spoke for the first time—a low voice barely audible. “You’re a Yank!” Her tone made it seem like a fungus or a socially unacceptable disease. Tempted as I was to make a sharp reply, I simply smiled and said, “Yep!”
“I suppose you’re going to dirty up our beautiful rivers and poison our fields,” she said somewhat belligerently. Her attitude left no doubt that she thought I was the worst kind of “blow in.”
“Quite the contrary. It is to our advantage to keep the rivers clean and the countryside beautiful,” I replied, giving it my best public relations spin. “Our people will live here and almost all of our employees will be Irish.” There, take that Green Hat!
She slumped lower and glared. Eddie quickly jumped in, changing the subject, and explaining that Mary was a buyer for Cork City’s leading women’s store, Le Femme. I ignored Green Hat and tried to focus on Mary and Eddie as they talked.
“Sorry, kids,” the barman interrupted. “Bar’s closing.”
“Let’s head over to Good Time Charlie’s,” said Eddie, jumping to his feet. Mary hesitated for a moment, and then nodded in agreement. I tried to bow out, but Mary and Eddie each grabbed an arm and hauled me upright. Green Hat rolled her eyes but remained silent.
“What the hell,” I thought. It had been a very long month full of meetings and hectic schedules. I just wanted to relax tonight.
“Count me in.”
Chapter 5
GOOD TIME CHARLIE’S
Good Time Charlie’s, it turned out, was an underground dive in a tiny alley off St. Patrick’s Street, the looping main street in Cork City. Filled with psychedelic lights, Charlie’s was a discotheque for mostly teeny-boppers hopping, twisting and jerking to raucous music. The air was heavy with smoke, body odors and cheap perfume. Definitely not my scene. Being probably the only 40-year-old in the room (besides Charlie), I distinctly felt out of place and wished I had never allowed myself to get sucked into this little adventure.
Eddie and Mary immediately disappeared into that seething mass of humanity in motion. That left Green Hat and me on opposite sides of the table, trying to ignore each other.
I snagged what looked to be a waiter hardly old enough to shave and ordered drinks. Green Hat, whose name turned out to be Maggie, ordered a baby cham, non-alcoholic champagne. “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” I said.
“Sorry, sir, we don’t serve alcohol in here,” said the pimpled face. That figured. “Make it two baby chams,” I said, glumly.
The noise made conversation difficult, but despite my weariness, I tried. I could see Maggie seemed tired as well and had no particular liking for the place.
“Why did we come here?” I asked.
“Eddie likes this place; he can pick up young girls,” she explained.
“So what are you and your friend Mary doing with Eddie?” Although I didn’t say what I thought, it was obvious to me that both Green Hat and her friend were somewhat older than most of the kids in the place.
“Oh, we’ve all been friends since we were kids. He’s from Cork, you know.” I didn’t. I barely knew Eddie.
Since talking was difficult, we sat in relative silence. Maggie removed the green hat and haphazardly combed her red hair with her fingers. I saw the slight wrinkles on her forehead and around the corners of her eyes, causing me to revise upward my earlier estimate of her age. Somewhere in her mid-30s, I guessed. Her face was freckled and somewhat plain, but not unattractive. She wore no makeup. Good Time Charlie’s definitely was not her place.
As the night drifted into the wee morning hours, the noise subsided somewhat. Eddie and Mary were visible from time to time as the crowd thinned. Since Maggie showed no inclination to dance and I certainly was not in the mood, I tried some polite conversation. Leaning closer so we didn’t have to shout, I talked about my experiences that day, including kissing the Blarney Stone.
Maggie’s green eyes flamed at the mention of Blarney. “A right shame it is,” she shook her red hair. “It’s so over-commercialized.” Actually, I thought it quite the opposite, especially compared to tourist attractions in the United States, and I said so.
“You would, Yank,” she declared. “You Americans over promote and cheapen everything you touch.” With this she gave me the full impact of her angry green eyes, daring me to argue and relishing the forthcoming debate. Up close, she smelled faintly of fresh soap.
“You’re right; we do over promote our treasures,” I agreed, not about to be drawn into an argument. As her anger faded, I told her about my experience meeting Johnny O’Dell and his “widow lady,” and sharing lunch and conversation with them at her kitchen table.
She looked at me for a long moment, her eyes unreadable. Then she said softly in her low voice, “Sure then, he must have taken to you Yank.” For another long moment she stared at me, then abruptly turned away.
She sighed and leaned back against the booth. “Ah, I’m waahed out.”
“What does that mean? I never heard that expression before.”
She turned her head to look at me. “You know, flat down. Worn out.”
During the girls’ trip to the loo, Eddie shared the information that Maggie and her mum had run a boarding house. Since her mother died six months ago, Maggie was left with the full responsibility to do most of the washing, cooking, and housecleaning. My respect for her rose. No wonder she was waahed out.
When the girls returned, a young man asked Mary to dance. Eddie quickly grabbed the hand of a girl passing the table and spun her onto the dance floor.
I was left with Maggie Green Hat and her silence. Might as well give it one more try, I thought.
“I heard you telling Mary about some new beach you found this week. Do you mind telling me about it?” I prompted.
That brought her to life.
“Ah, the beaches! I love walking the miles of lonely beaches, especially near Youghal,” she quickly replied, her green eyes sparkling for the first time that night. “I found one near the bog, a vast stretch of sand where you can walk for miles and see no one. I could spend hours there, picking up shells or just sitting, watching the waves roll in.”
She was silent as she contemplated the scene in her mind. “And the mountains in West Cork. Oh, my beautiful mountains!” She had a way of drawing out the first syllable of the word “beautiful” that I couldn’t begin to duplicate but found pleasing. And the passion with which she spoke struck a spark in me.
As I listened, suddenly I wanted to see those mountains and walk those beaches. With an idle weekend ahead and no meetings scheduled, I just wanted to see the scenes that had so captured her soul.
Impulsively, I covered her hand with mine and said, “Show me these mountains you love and the beaches you like to walk. Go with me tomorrow and be my own private tourist guide.”
Again, she gave me the full impact of those green eyes, this time softer than before. Without answering, she took my hand in hers and turned it over, examining the lines as would any professional psychic reader.
“You have interesting lines,” she said as she carefully traced them with her finger. I noticed her hands for the first time. They were small, strong, slightly calloused with clean but uneven nails. No manicure for this hard-working woman.
“Oh?”
“You have a long life line.” Her finger traced the crease in my palm, then around the thin white gold band on my fourth finger.
“Does that bother you?” I asked. “No-o-o,” she replied, “not particularly. At least, you’re honest; some men aren’t.”
“I haven’t anything to hide, Maggie. I am married and have two wonderful children, a boy and a girl, back in Pennsylvania.”
A lengthy silence ensued as she continued to stroke my hand. Her touch was tender. The brash, belligerent attitude I had seen at the hotel was gone.
She looked up at me, her eyes again unreadable. “You know, Yank, you are not at all like most Americans I’ve met.”
I wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. So I waited for her to continue.
“You really listen to what people say. I find that rare.”
More silence. She toyed with her empty glass, and then sighed as if making up her mind.
“I’m not sure I can get away tomorrow. There are certain chores for Saturday; it will depend on my boarders.”
“May I call you? Where do you live?” She wrote her phone number and address on a napkin and handed it to me. It turned out her boarding house was on Western Road, near Cork College and just a few blocks from Jury’s Hotel.
“Don’t call before nine,” she warned.
At that point, Eddie and Mary returned. It seemed that even Good Time Charlie had had enough and was closing.
As we walked to Eddie’s car, a slight drizzle began. Eddie, now going strong, insisted on stopping at the hotel and having coffee or tea before calling it a night, or more accurately a morning. But the front door of the hotel was locked and we had to roust out the night porter to let me in. Only residents, no visitors, he said firmly. No tea; no coffee. Good night!
While Eddie argued with the porter without success, I managed a brief whisper to Maggie, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” She nodded, but didn’t look at me.
Chapter 6
ON THE ROAD
Tired as I was, I kept waking in the night wondering what I was doing. This was totally unlike me. I was a married man, happily for most of our 13 years, and had two beautiful kids, a 10-year-old boy named Jonathan and a 7-year-old girl Elizabeth who was the blond image of her mother.
Of course, nothing had happened with Maggie. I hadn’t kissed her; I hadn’t even put my arm around her. Yet, I had made arrangements to spend the day with her. How strange was that? I was lonely and missing my family, that was all.
Maybe I should just forget it and not call. She was just a passing stranger in the night. That thought conjured up the Sinatra ballad, “Strangers in the Night,” and all that song implied. Finally, I drifted off to troubled sleep.
I awoke with sun streaming in my face from a partly open drape. At breakfast, I definitely decided not to call, but to go for a drive by myself.
At 9:05 I phoned Maggie. “Pick me up at half ten,” she said.
Damn! I couldn’t believe how weak I was. I hadn’t had a “date” with anyone but my wife since seventh grade. That was when I met Kerri. She was new in school, and one of the girls in my class invited me to a party to “meet the new girl.” I went, fell in love, and that was it. We married right after high school and went to Penn State together. Since Kerri, I had never looked at another girl. Well, that was not quite true. I have to admit that I’d “looked.” Hey, I’m a man, not a saint. But in our 13 years of marriage, I had never even made a pass at anyone but Kerri.
Now, I had committed to taking a girl/woman I never knew before last night on a tour of the Irish countryside.
The iron gate squeaked as I lifted the latch and pushed it open. An ancient stone wall surrounded the tiny front garden as I approached the kelly green door. Before my hand touched the knocker, the door opened and Maggie Green Hat appeared. She obviously was in good spirits. “Morning!” She carried a picnic basket.
“What’s that for?”
“We might get hungry, Yank.”
Stowing the basket in the “boot” or trunk of the car, she slid into the front seat on my left. Learning to drive a stick shift on the left side of the road had been one of my early learning experiences in Ireland.
Glancing at Maggie, she was a picture, all green and pink. Green hat jammed on her head, she wore a bright green turtle neck, light blue jeans and a puffy pink vest with a fluffy pink scarf about her neck. Green mittens matched the hat.
Surprising me with a quick kiss on the cheek, she declared, “We’re off!”
“To where?”
“To the beach. That way.” She pointed down Western Road.
The day was one of those glorious Irish days with loads of sun but a brisk wind to chill the air and rosy the cheeks. As we left Cork City, she was busy pointing out the sights that people in Cork love to show tourists.
The gold angel atop St. Finbarr Cathedral rising above the assortment of row homes seemed to be giving its daily blessing. “That’s a Protestant cathedral, you know.” I did now. “St. Finbarr is the patron saint of Cork. He was buried on the site of the present church.”
“Your patron saint was Protestant?” I asked in surprise.
“No-o-o. He was Catholic, of course,” she replied in a tone that suggested I could be a bit brighter. “He founded the city of Cork. It wasn’t a city then, just a monastery, but a village grew around it and then the city. That’s why he is considered the patron saint.”
“Then why is the church Protestant?”
“The original buildings were destroyed by Vikings and later by the Normans. After the Reformation, the Church of Ireland rebuilt the cathedral. Although the Counter Reformation turned most of Ireland Catholic again, St. Finbarr Cathedral remained Anglican. St. Finbarr is revered by both the Catholic
Church and the Church of Ireland.”
I shook my head. It was too complicated for me.
A few blocks beyond was Cork College behind the black fence with its gold tops and large golden gates. Being Saturday, the campus was all but deserted. “A beautiful walk through the campus, it is,” she sighed and then brightened. “But we’re off to the beach!”
A few blocks down, I pointed to my right. “What’s that long grey building at the top of the hill?” I asked. It looked like an institution right out of a gothic horror movie.
“That? Oh, that’s the Cork hospital.” Silently I hoped I wouldn’t get sick while I was in Cork.
As we rolled past a development of newer, semi-detached houses called Bishopstown, she pointed to a grey cottage, “That’s where Mary Kathleen lives with her mother and sisters.” I assumed that Mary Kathleen was the same from last night’s Jury’s and Good Time Charlie’s.
Maggie cocked her head sideways and looked up at me. “She warned me not to go with you today, did you know?”
“I do now. Why?”
“You’re a Yank!”
“What’s that got to do with taking a ride with me?”
“You also are married…” she paused.
“And….?”
Silence. Hum-m. Quite a talk Maggie and her friend must have had between last night and now.
Approaching a divide in the highway, I asked which way. She pointed and I eased the car to the right on a typically narrow country road, barely large enough for one-and-a-half cars. The overhanging trees gave the road a dappled look as we cruised along in silence.
Black and white birds she called “crows” flew in front of us. A country crossroads appeared and this time Maggie pointed to the left. Pointing and directing our path, her silence continued for miles. To me, it seemed that we were slowly climbing.
“Are we going to the beach?”
She nodded.
“It seems that we are going up, not down.”
She shrugged her shoulders, and on we went. Finally, at one crossroads, I stopped. There were no signs. She did not point nor did she speak.
“Which way?”
“I don’t know.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure where we are.”
I did a double take, and then took a deep breath. “You don’t know where we are? Great! We’re lost.”
“No-o-o, I know approximately where we are but I think we took a wrong turn a few miles back.” She glanced at me to see if I was angry. The lost-little-girl-look she gave me caused me to burst out laughing.
“What a great tourist guide you are!”
“Sorry,” she said smiling. “I was enjoying the ride in this warm car, and it’s such a beautiful day. I just didn’t pay as much attention as I should have.” There it was again; the way she pronounced “beautiful.” She drew out the first syllable of the word in a way that I found intriguing.
“So, instead of walking the beaches, we’ll drive and walk the mountains of West Cork!” she declared. The matter was settled in her mind so on we went.
As the road curved high up a hillside, I pulled the car into a lay-by and stopped. Getting out, we surveyed the spectacular countryside, with its various patches of green, gray and brown haphazardly spread before us. The yellow blossoms on the gorse were vivid splashes of color on the landscape. It was the fairy tale picture I had heard my grandfather talk about.
I noticed some men working in the valley. It appeared they were cutting turf (Americans would call it peat) and putting it in a truck bed. “That’s for fuel,” she explained. “It’s a big business here. They dry it and burn it in the fireplaces. It’s a lot cheaper than wood or coal.” Then she added, “And it’s cleaner.” She shivered a little as the wind whipped round our ribs. “Oh, there’s nothing like it; a cozy turf fire in the fireplace on a windy night.” She shivered as she leaned against me, and I put my arm around her.
Clouds had briefly obscured the brilliant April sun and it seemed much colder. We got back into the car and fired up the heater. As we sat there enjoying the moment, the sun again burst through the cloud cover. Coming through the window, it caught her red hair, turning it golden. As we sat close, she smelled again of soap and a subtle fragrance I couldn’t identify.
As she turned her face up toward mine her lips parted slightly and her green eyes reflected deep emotions within. I kissed her. She pulled back slightly, her green eyes questioning and then reached for me and kissed me again and again.
Somewhere in the dimness of my mind, I thought this was wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this. But, I couldn’t make myself stop. Honestly, I didn’t want to.
As we came up for air, she snuggled her head against my chest with a deep contented sigh. I stroked her hair, noticing for the first time a strand or two of silver among the red-gold.
Two hikers rounded the curve ahead, saw us and waved, grinning as they strode past. The magic of the moment was broken.
“Well, Maggie, do you know how to get us out of here?”
She returned my grin with a slightly crooked one of her own. “I do, Yank.” Pointing, she said, “Forward!”
We drove on for a few miles, winding down and around the mountains until we came to a crossroads with a convenient pub. “You get the drinks, and I’ll get the basket from the boot,” she said, adding, “I’ll have a Harps.” I returned with the two beers and we sat companionably in the warm car, munching the ham sandwiches she had prepared, and finishing with juicy apples.
It was dark when we finally stopped before her house on Western Road. The silence in the car was comforting. I held her mittenless hands in mine to keep them warm. She withdrew one and traced down the side of my face. “Thank you,” she said softly. “This has been the nicest and happiest day I have had in a very long time.”
Taking her basket, she slid out of the car. I opened the squeaky gate and walked to the front door. In the darkness, I couldn’t really see her eyes, but she reached up and kissed me lightly, breathing in my ear, “For a Yank, you’re awfully nice.”
As she opened the door, I caught her arm. “May I see you tomorrow? After all, we never got to the beach.”
A low laugh escaped her lips. “I go to mass at St. Mary’s with Mary Kathleen and her family tomorrow. Do you want to come?”
I declined, but pressed her. “May I come by later?”
“We’ll see,” was her reply. The door closed with a click.
Chapter 7
THE BEACH
My mood was as gloomy as the weather. I rang several times but there was no answer. Surely mass was long over. Where was she?
I glanced out the window. Blowing rain and dark clouds. Definitely not a good day to go for a walk on the beach.
Once more I rang. No answer.
I sat at the desk in the hotel room, attempting to review the notes I had made for a corporate communications plan to present to the Board of Directors when I returned to the States. My deadline was one month from tomorrow. Gobs of time left to finish and polish the plan. I was restless. My mind was not on the notes but on the girl with red-gold hair and freckles. Where could she be? It was after 2 p.m.
Time moves so slowly when you wait. 3:00. Dialing once more, I heard the phone buzz, buzz, buzz. Just as I was about to hang up, there was a click and a breathless low voice spoke, “Halloo.”
“Maggie?”
“Ah, Yank. How are you at all at all?”
“Fine,” I grumbled. “I’ve been trying to call all afternoon.”
“Mary Kate’s mum invited me to dinner with them after mass. Mary dropped me off just now. When I opened the door, I heard the phone and ran up the stairs.” She paused, then added, “I was hoping it was you.”
“It’s not a very nice day, but would you like to go for a ride?”
“I’d love it! Wear your slicker, boots, and rain hat. We’ll go for a walk on the beach.”
“In this weather? No way. I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”
We went for a walk on the beach. Fortunately, in the car I had a rain jacket with a hood, an anorak the Irish call it. It came in very handy that afternoon.
She directed me to the beach just beyond a wee place called Garrettstown. To refer to the place as a “town” was rank hyperbole. There was a combination pub and inn and two or three small cottages.
The rain lessened as we walked, the crunching of our boots on the wet sand and the crashing waves were the only sounds. But the day grew darker, the rain stopped, and fog began to form and roll in. You could watch as it dropped low over the waves and began to envelope the beach.
“How about we go back to the pub and have some hot tea and a bite to eat?” I asked.
She nodded, water dripping from her shiny red rain hat. She wrapped her arms around my arm and we turned back.
The pub at the inn was cozy, with a turf fire in the tiny fireplace close to the bar. We took a small table nearby. Two old men sat at the bar taking their time with their pints.
She looked at me, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Well, Yank, how’d you like my beach?”
“Lonely and wet!” I grumbled, not wanting to admit I liked it despite the weather. We had seen no one else as we walked the stretch of sand between the tumbled rocks.
“And, Maggie, for the love of God stop calling me Yank! It’s getting on my nerves. My name is Patrick.”
She smiled her crooked smile, shrugged her shoulders and replied in her low voice, “Padraig, it is.”
“Liam,” she said, addressing the balding man behind the bar. “Could we have a pot of tea? And do you have a bit of beef for sandwiches?”
“Aye, Maggie. Coming right up.”
“Tell me,” I asked her, “do you know everyone around here?”
“Oh, I come to Garrettstown all the time. I’m a regular.”
I nodded in the direction of the of old men at the bar. “Know them, too?”
“One’s a farmer. He raises beets. The other is a fisherman, or, at least he was once.”
I just shook my head. Time slipped by as we talked. Well, she talked and I listened, fascinated not only by what she said but how she said it. She talked about growing up in County Cork and about her brothers and sisters. Finally, she spoke of her mother.
“The doctor said it was a failing heart she had.” Maggie stared into her tea as she remembered. “Oh, the last two years were dreadful. She could do less and less. So I quit my job at the insurance company and took care of her and the boarders.”
The green eyes were dark as she reflected on those times. “Near the last, she couldn’t even climb the steps to the bedroom. So we, my brothers and I, moved her bed into the sitting room until she passed.” She shook her head, and wiped a tear away.
“Isn’t it difficult to live there now, knowing it is where your mother died?”
“Oh, no-o. I love that house. I grew up there. Our family had many happy times there, and that’s what I remember. Now, the house is mine, since my brothers and sisters all have their own homes and families.”
“How is it that you never married?” I asked, and then regretted my bluntness when I saw the hurt in her eyes. “Sorry, that’s too personal a question. I withdraw it.”
She gave me a small smile. “Sure, it’s all right. The answer is simple. Not enough men for the number of single women,” she declared, adding, “And I have had too little time and too many responsibilities the last few years.”
As we talked, I learned about her likes and her pet peeves. She hated men who beat their wives or girl friends. She liked honesty in people, and hated those who lied or misrepresented themselves. She was intensely loyal to those loyal to her.
Maggie was passionate about keeping her beautiful Ireland beautiful. As she talked, her words wove a kind of music that massaged my mind and soothed my soul.
Night had shrouded the inn as the barman turned on lights and lighted candles in the windows.
Downing the last of our tea and dabbing the crumbs of the brown Irish bread with our fingers, we picked up our coats and stepped outside. The fog had intensified.
I stopped, shocked. No sign of the car. Nothing could be seen through the fog. No outline of anything. It was almost like a scene from the “Twilight Zone.” Although she was right beside me, I could barely see her face. It was as if we were alone, lost in an unknown place.
“I’ve never seen fog this thick. Is it often like this?”
“No, Padraig. I have never seen anything like this fog.”
“Hang onto me; I’ll feel around to find the car.” A few feet from the pub door, the building was no longer visible, as if it had never existed. Eerie. I shivered slightly, then turned in what I thought was the direction where I had parked the car.
“Damn!” I exploded. “Double damn.”
“What, my love?”
“I cracked my shin on something.” Feeling around, I realized that I had found the car. At least, I had contact with the bumper. I put her hands on the car so she could feel her way to the door and I felt my way around to the driver’s side and opened the door. No light inside. I felt for my keys, inserted them and the car came to life. Turning on the lights, I found they barely penetrated the dense fog.
Cautiously, I backed the car away from the rocks that I knew lined the car park and crept from the parking area onto the road. Driving that narrow, crooked road back to Cork in that dense fog was a distinct experience I would happily forego in the future.
As we approached the outskirts of the city, the fog lessened amid the glow of the lights.
As we did the night before, we sat in companionable silence in the car in front of her home.
“Maggie?”
“Yes, Padraig?” Thank goodness the “Yank” was gone.
“What you said back at the pub. Did you mean that?”
“What?”
“You called me ‘my love’.”
“Ah, it was just an expression,” she explained. I nodded, but was somehow disappointed by her answer.
She glanced up at the light in a third-floor window of her house. “My boarders are back, I see. Tomorrow will be a busy day. I do the wash on Mondays. And I must go to the market.”
“May I see you again?”
“Of course,” she answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Maggie, I have a number of meetings tomorrow and I may have to go to dinner with a consultant from Dublin. May I see you Tuesday evening? We can go out to dinner.”
“I have a better idea,” she said, turning to me. “Why don’t I cook dinner for you?”
Before I could protest, she put her finger to my lips. “Shush, no arguments now. Be here at half seven.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” I saluted like a good soldier. She laughed and gave me a quick kiss. As she started to get out of the car, I pulled her back and kissed her hard. Her arms slid up around my neck. As we kissed, I could feel her breath quickening and my passion rising.
“No,” she said, breaking away. “Too much too soon. I’ll see you Tuesday.” Off she flew to the door and was inside without a backward glance. I sighed.
Chapter 8
DINNER AT MAGGIE’S
She had said “half seven” but it was more like a quarter past eight when I pulled up at her door.
“Sorry I’m late.” As a peace offering, I held out a bottle of a good French red.
“Late? You’re right on time, Yank!” Uh oh. Back to being a Yank again. Not a good sign. No kiss, either.
She led the way to the kitchen, source of some tantalizing smells. Um-m-m. Beef, onions, and …uh…mushrooms?
She handed me the bottle opener and gestured to a kitchen chair. I opened the wine and poured two glasses, handing one to her.
“Not bad,” was her assessment, after swirling the wine about in the glass. She turned and planted a brief kiss somewhere in the vicinity of my mouth. “You’re forgiven, Padriag.”
She placed a salad bowl on the table, then carefully divided the contents of the skillet onto our plates. The menu was thinly sliced beef filets sautéed with mushrooms and onions.
“Compliments to the chef,” I murmured, polishing off the last bite. She smiled her crooked smile, refilling our glasses.
“Leave the dishes,” she said as she rose, taking my hand and leading me down the hall to the “sitting room.” It was cold. She closed the shutters across the tall dark windows overlooking Western Road. Kneeling, she began to put bricks of turf into the fireplace on top of wadded up newspapers. Striking a match, she touched it to the paper and a satisfying flame appeared.
She turned the radio on low and, as we listened to old Irish tunes, we sat on the couch with our arms entwined and watched the flames cast shadows on the walls and high ceilings.
“What is your wife like?”
I was startled by the question. Looking at her for a long moment, I asked, “What prompted that question?”
“It’s important to me to know.”
“Well, Kerri is …” I paused, not sure what to say. “I guess I’ve been in love with Kerri ever since I met her. We were twelve. She had just moved to our neighborhood, and I met her at a party to welcome the new girl. I took one look at her sparkling blue eyes and long blond curls and that was it.”
I sat quietly, remembering just how it was. I had my first dance with her; my first kiss, too. We had shared our first informal anatomy lesson. We were inseparable all through high school.
We married right after graduation, and then moved to State College where we lived in the housing for married couples at Penn State. After getting our degrees, hers in marketing and mine in English, we moved to Philadelphia after I was hired as a reporter for The Bulletin. Kerri got a job as a sales representative for a pharmaceutical company in the city.
When we discovered we were to be parents, we moved to our first home in the Philadelphia suburbs, and I sought a job in corporate public relations. Kerri stayed home to raise our son, Jonathan Patrick O’Connor. Then Elizabeth Ann came along. She was the image of her mother. When the children were old enough to be in school or day care, Kerri began working from home as a free-lance marketing consultant to her former company.
There were good times and some difficult times. There were tensions and arguments, mostly over money but sometimes over my travel schedule. But thinking back, we had overcome our differences, patched up our lives and had remained strong together. Overall, it had been a good life for both of us.
“Come back, mo chara. Come back to me.” Maggie’s voice broke into my reverie.
“Sorry, I was just thinking about my family.”
“Go on.”
“Well, Kerri is a very neat, organized person. Organization is her strong suit.” I realized how impersonal that sounded. “She is a very good mother to our children. She manages the house while I am gone, and does it efficiently. Overall, we have a good life.”
“And you love her and your children, I can see. Does she love you?”
“Of course! Why do you ask?”
Abruptly, she rose from the couch, pulling my hand. “Come, there’s something I want to show you.” She grabbed her coat from a nearby chair and handed me my anorak.
“Where are we going?
“Hush, you’ll see.”
Into the cold night we went. Spring nights in Ireland can be nippy, I had learned.
Hand-in-hand, we walked down Western Road several blocks, then veered onto a paved path leading to a branch of the Lee River. Ahead was a white arched footbridge over the river. As we stepped onto the wooden planks, we could feel them shake slightly. We stopped at the mid-point and watched as wind traced designs across the surface of the water, black beneath us. As we leaned our arms on the cold metal rail, we could feel the bridge shake and sway slightly as another couple walked onto the bridge from the other side. It was a pleasant sensation high above the gray-black water. The shaking stopped when the other couple stepped onto the path. We were alone.
I shivered slightly as the wind whistled round my ribs.
“Cold?”
“Yes, Maggie.”
“Poor Padraig.”
I smiled at that.
“Cold hands and cold feet?”
“Yes, Maggie.”
“But not your heart?
“No, Maggie, not my heart.”
As my arms circled her, I could feel her warmth and the beating of her heart.
She sighed, “I wanted to share my shaky bridge with you. It is a place where I come when I want to think. I’m all at sixes and sevens.”
I waited for her to explain. “I’m waahed out by the struggle between heart and head. ‘Tis all so wrong and yet so beautiful.”
“What?”
Her voice was low, almost a whisper. “This love I feel for you.”
I was silent. What could I say? I stood there, my arms around her and thought about her declaration.
She turned, looking up into my face. “Oh, my dearest kindred spirit, I never knew. I just never knew how love would be. How beautiful and how painful it would be.” She shook her head. “No, I had never really felt love until you came into my life. And it has all happened so quickly, too. Less than a week we have known each other, and already I feel you are, and forever will be, a part of me.”
I just stood there, tears I couldn’t control trickling down my face. Yet, I could not speak the words I knew she wanted to hear.
How long we stood on the shaky bridge, I will never know. We were both thoroughly chilled when she finally took me by the hand and led me back to her house.
It was a night I’d not soon forget.
Chapter 9
WHAT NEXT?
The rest of the week flew by. My days were spent working as my communications plan began to take shape. By Thursday, I realized that to complete one major part of the plan I would need to spend a day or two in London with another team of consultants and people from our Brussels office.
That meant no Maggie for a few days. My phone call was met with a cool, “As you must. I must go to see about my boarders.”
With an empty feeling, I booked Aer Lingus for a quick hop to London, hoping that fog would not prevent takeoff from the Cork Airport south of the city.
Two busy days of meetings in London hotels and consultants’ offices left me worn out but eager to get back to Cork and Maggie. I phoned after lunch Friday, but got no answer. After dinner, I tried another call. A man answered and informed me Maggie was away at her sister’s. Assuming this was one of her boarders, I asked if he would take a message. I gave the time of arrival of my plane on Saturday morning, and he said he would leave a note by the phone.
My flight on Saturday morning was delayed for two hours because of heavy fog that shut down the airport at Cork. Finally, we took off and arrived at noon. No fog, and all was bright sun, giving the green fields surrounding the airport a postcard-clear vividness.
As I headed toward the car park, a familiar voice hailed me.
‘Halloo, Yank.” Turning, there was Maggie with her friend, Mary Kate.
“You got my message, I see.” I gave her a hug as Mary hung back.
“I did and I have plans for us today,” she grinned. “The day promises to be a glorious one!” She threw her arms in the air and twirled around. Mary Kate looked amused.
“And what does my tour guide have planned?”
“I’m taking you to my special places in and around Kinsale, Padraig.” She looked over her shoulder at me, adding, “Didn’t you say your ancestors were from Kinsale?”
Nodding, I unlocked my rental and stowed my bag in the boot. Mary Kate’s tiny Cooper was parked nearby.
“Thanks for bringing Maggie, Mary Kate. This was a nice surprise.”
“You’re welcome.” Turning to Maggie, she gave her friend a raised eyebrow and said, “Don’t let the Yank talk you into doing anything you’ll regret.” Although said in jest, I had the feeling Mary Kate meant what she said. There was a slight edge to her voice.
I sensed that Maggie’s friend didn’t particularly like me but I wasn’t sure why. I knew that she was highly protective of Maggie. They had been best friends since childhood.
“Mary Kate, why don’t you join us for the day, if Maggie agrees?” I invited. Maggie nodded enthusiastically.
“No-o-o. You two go on. Three is one too many.”
“Nonsense.” Taking her by the arm, I coaxed, “We’d love to have you with us.”
Reluctantly, she gave in at Maggie’s urging.
The day proved to be as spectacular as the weather promised. With Maggie directing, and Mary Kate correcting, the girls guided me on a tour of the countryside that ended at Innishannon Cross. Turning down a winding road above the Bandon River, we stopped briefly to examine the ruins of an old “castle” at Shipool Wood. Mary Kate, something of an amateur historian, explained that this had been not a castle but a watch tower along the river, built to alert the Irish of invaders in the ancient past.
At one high point in a curve in the road, Maggie pointed to a small lay-by. I pulled the car over and we got out. She had brought along a disposable camera and we took pictures, using as a nature-provided backdrop sparkling sun on the winding river and white sheep dotting the green fields.
The wind blowing Maggie’s red-gold hair framed her face as her eyes reflected the joy of the moment. It was a moment forever imprinted in my memory.
Mary Kate hung back as I snapped the picture. Maggie grabbed her friend’s hand and pulled her up to stand beside her as they surveyed the valley below. I stepped behind the girls and, without thinking, put my arms protectively around them. I felt Mary Kate grow tense and then slowly relax as we stood there in silence absorbing the scenery and enjoying the richness of the moment.
As we drove into the quaint town of Kinsale, a sailing port on the southern coast of Ireland, I was struck by the bright colors of the houses and buildings, set close together with narrow cobblestone streets that seemed hardly wide enough for a single car.
“What happens,” I wondered aloud, “if another car appears at the other end of the street?”
“You back up or we all die!” Mary Kate declared. So unexpected was her answer that we all burst out laughing.
I eased the Cortina into a narrow parking space near the town center where a small beach curved around the bay. Dozens of fishing and sailing boats lined the marina. In the car, I had switched from my suit coat and tie to a heavy Irish wool sweater (the girls called it a “jumper”). As usual, Maggie wore her green knit hat snugly on her head. Mary Kate wore a blue anorak over her blue jumper that matched the color of her eyes.
It was a lazy, peaceful afternoon spent sightseeing, shopping and just enjoying each other’s company. It seemed as if we had been doing this all our lives. Mary Kate proved to be a clever, witty companion. We had tea at an outdoor table at a local pub and shared funny stories from our respective work experiences.
Mary Kate had a wealth of stories from her years working in women’s clothing. “One rather plump lady insisted on trying on a one-of-a-kind French designer gown we were showing from our haute couture collection,” she recalled. “Well, the woman managed to get into it, but she couldn’t walk in it; it was too tight. She waddled out of the dressing room looking for help, but we couldn’t get her out of it because the zipper was stuck on some of the fabric. I thought our store manager was going to faint when we had to cut open a $1,000 dress to free the woman. As she left, the customer said she really didn’t like the color anyway.”
“Well, my boarders have certainly given me my share of griefs and laughs over the years,” Maggie said. “Oh-o-o, I was so embarrassed one time when I opened the door to the bath in my apartment only to find one of my boarders stepping out of the shower in his altogether. ‘What, may I ask, were you doing in my bathroom?’ I demanded of him. He was so startled, he started stuttering, grabbing a towel to cover himself, and trying to explain all at the same time. ‘ Th-th-the upstairs b-b-bath was oc-oc-occupied, and I th-th-thought you weren’t h-h-home.’ Then he turned and ran. All I saw was his bare bottom disappearing up the stairs!” We sat there laughing as we pictured the scene.
“I’ve committed my share of faux pas in my life working for a major international company,” I shared. “I was at a corporate cocktail party when I asked one man whom I didn’t know what he did for a living. He looked me up and down so he would remember me, and then replied, ‘I am the CEO of this company.’ I was glad he didn’t know my name. Believe me, I made myself scarce after that!”
As the fading sun cast long purple shadows down the narrow cobbled streets, I asked if the girls were hungry.
“Indeed I am,” Maggie declared. “I’ve worked up an appetite with all this walking, talking and shopping, Yank!” I was not offended. The term Yank had a much softer sound than when she first called me that.
“You know the places. What do you suggest?”
“Well-l-l, there’s the Bistro just one block over,” Mary Kate offered.
“Or there is Man Friday up the hill from the town,” Maggie chimed in. “Of course, it may be hard to get in there. It’s very popular.”
“And it’s horribly expensive,” added her friend.
“Man Friday it is!” I declared.
Night was deepening as our car pulled into the airport carpark for Mary to collect her Cooper.
Holding out her hand, Mary Kate said, “Thanks so much, Pat, for including me. It was a lovely day and I truly enjoyed it.”
Ignoring her hand, I leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “You’re welcome, Mary Kate. It was fun.”
As our car topped the hill overlooking Cork City, Maggie cried out, “Oh, Padraig, stop the car for a moment.”
Dutifully, I eased the car to the side of the road. Spread out before us were the sparkling lights of the city looking, for all the world, like a fairy tale village.
“I love this view of the city at night,” Maggie breathed.
As she stepped to the edge of the hill, I moved behind her, enveloping her in my arms. In silence we absorbed the sights and sounds before us. We could hear the deep rumble of a ship’s horn somewhere on the River Lee that flowed through the far side of the city. The night was clear and becoming chill. Stars were sharply etched in the black sky, and a sliver of moon cast a slight glow as dew settled on the field before us. I felt her shiver and wrapped my arms more tightly about her. Turning her head, she kissed me. It was a slow, tantalizing kiss that left both of us feeling shaky.
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