All previous gazettes would pale.
Forty-one
He'd just been down to speak with Anna, couldn't find her, left a note on the kitchen worktable, and came back up, blowing like a mule.
A knock.
Lord knows he was afraid to open the door around here.
Anna with a hesitant look. 'The nurse called, Reverend. She's asking for you . . .'
'Ah.'
'. . . and for Da, as well.'
He heard Cynthia say something she hardly ever said. 'Wow.'
'I'll be right along. Does William know?'
'He does, he's dressing. He's--how shall we say?--a basket case.' She smiled. 'I saw your note asking about flowers--you mustn't go to a florist, absolutely not. You may cut from the garden in the morning--best to wait 'til the dew is off--and take anything you like. I'll have a trug on the bench, and clippers.'
'Many thanks.'
'They'll stay quite fresh; Ballyrush is no distance a'tall.'
'That will be good.'
'Thank you for going up with Da,' she said. 'I wanted to tell you she apologized to me.'
'Wonderful.' Beyond wonderful. He thought Anna a beautiful woman, ever at a loss to conceal her feelings.
'I believe she will do the same with Liam; it's just that she feels great shame about her treatment of him, and 't is harder.'
'Can he forgive her, do you think?'
'I pray so.'
He closed the door and turned to his deacon.
'We need to get out of here,' he said. 'It's time.'
'Yes. Whatever comes, they'll work it out. We can't stay 'til everything is worked out, we'd be here 'til the trumpet sounds.'
'Precisely.'
'Why are we cutting flowers in the morning?'
'Can't say. It's a surprise.'
'I love--'
'I know.'
'So.' She took a deep breath, exhaled.
'So how about this? Dear Emma, We're done. Get us out of here ASAP. Your humble and grateful servant forevermore.'
'I would not say humble to Emma Newland, and definitely not forevermore.'
'But it'll be a pain, don't you think, to get business class this time of year?'
'For us it would be a pain. For Emma, 't is her soul's delight. She loves going up against large corporations of all kinds, not to mention the occasional government agency.'
In the kitchen, he checked his watch for the date.
Your grateful servant>
'I forgot,' said his wife when he came back to the room for his collar and prayer book. 'Don't say servant, either. Definitely not. She will take it literally for the rest of your life.'
'Too late,' he said.
He met Maureen in the hall with her laundry basket, gave her a kiss on both cheeks. 'A miracle, her askin' our William up. Miracles still happen, don't they, Rev'rend?'
'All the time,' he said.
William gabbing, retying his tie, puffing up his pocket handkerchief as they rattled up the hill.
'Looks like you're preaching somewhere,' he said.
William's hands trembled. 'She'll be th' one preachin'.'
Ireland definitely won the trophy for trembling, he reckoned, and yet another for lachrymose. A shelf full of trophies he'd give the old Eire.
William looked done-in. 'I'll be fair game for ye tonight, Rev'rend.'
'We can do it another time.'
'I'll take a rain check, then, if ye don't mind.'
Seamus answered their knock.
'How is she?'
'I'm afraid to say it.'
'Say it anyway.'
'She's better. Aye. Some better.'
He crossed himself. William did the same.
'Still a lot of pain,' said Fletcher. 'Some tremoring, some nausea--and the depression, poor love, is terrible. But she's got th' quick wit comin' back, Dr. Feeney says, and a bit of appetite. She might really make it, Rev'rend, I believe she will, 't will be a Guinness record! On the other hand, I remember hearin' of an' oul' gent who got sober at ninety but it killed him for all that--he only lived a year or two.'
'That'll work,' he said.
William hanging on to his cane for dear life.
'How shall we go in, Fletcher? One at a time?'
'She wants you both together.'
'Joseph, Mary, an' all th' saints,' said William.
He thought he could hardly bear again the sight of the splint, the cast; the entrapment of both arms at once.
'Dhia dhuit, Evelyn.'
'Dhia is Muire dhuit, Reverend.'
'Where would you like us to sit?'
'Please sit in the corner. Ask Mr. Donavan to sit by me.'
William fairly collapsed into the armchair. He took his place in the corner; Cuch got up, stretched, came and lay at his feet.
Evelyn's hair dark against the pillow. She turned her head and studied William.
'Ye oul' bandit,' she said.
'Did ye see my portrait th' Missus Kav'na done?'
No, no, William, back off that, for Pete's sake.
'I thought you might use it, sir, to keep the crows from your broad beans.'
William retrenching, clearing his throat, diving in. 'I'd like to say I forgive ye for tryin' to kill me, Evie.'
'You, th' bloody savage runnin' off to disgrace an innocent girl you promised to marry--and you forgive me?'
'Now, Evie . . .'
'And no more callin' me Evie, as if you deserved to put tongue to my private name.'
''t was meself give you that private name, remember?'
'I remember nothing of the sort.'
William rethinking, giving his handkerchief a honk. 'Well, then, to go on, if ye'd be so kind--I forgive ye for marryin' th' oul' man an' bearin' his children an' not mine.'
'A fine husband you would have made, Willie Donavan, with naught to warm y'r bones but a ravin' lunatic pride in th' number of lives you maimed and squandered.'
'I never killed a man, Evie, an' maimed but a few.'
As far as they were concerned, he had vanished into the paper on the walls.
'I forgive ye for th' thankless manner ye showed when you were hard up an' I bought Broughadoon,' said William. 'An' that's all th' forgivin' I can give ye.'
'Has it occurred to you even once in that thick skull of yours to ask forgiveness of me? Had you no wrongdoing toward me?'
'Well, then, if it's come to that . . .' William gathered his forces. 'Forgive me for bein' a brute an' lettin' ye down!'
Evelyn speaking Irish. Heated.
'I don't understand a word ye say in the oul' tongue. I'm a modern man, Evie, a modern man. Ye'd be better off to say a kind word in dacent English, if ye don't mind. 't would be an improvement to your health.'
Way to go, William.
A long release of breath from Evelyn. 'Reverend. '
'Yes?'
'Bring me the Purdey.'
'Oh, very sly ye are, with your blinkin' wit. Still th' sleeveen, I see, an' you a woman up in years.' William stood, huffed.
'Sit down, ye oul' gossoon.'
'Why should I sit an' be treated like an eejit when I've come with forgiveness of every kind, th' same man who bought your hundred acres an' a pile of rubble an' made it lovely so as to give ye a dacent neighbor?' William's breath short. 'An' why did ye ask us up in th' first place, as if we had nothin' more to do than take th' lashin' of your desperate tongue?'
'Sit down,' she said.
William sat.
'Thank you for forgiving me, William.' The tremoring. 'As you might imagine, I asked you up for a purpose.'
'I'd be keen to hear th' purpose.'
'I forgive you, William.'
William waited. 'That's all ye have to say?'
'That should be enough.'
'I'd thank ye to put a bit of shine on 't, if ye wouldn't mind. Is it th' matter of bein' a brute an' lettin' ye down which you're forgivin'? Ye
could try bein' more . . .'--William chose his word--'specific.'
'Well, then. I forgive your brutish ways and selfish pride, William Donavan. I forgive your indifference to human suffering, your cunning deceptions, your careless betrayal, and until now, your refusal to admit any wrongdoing whatever.'
He was quiet for a moment. 'An' I forgive you, Evelyn McGuiness, of each an' every one of th' same, thank ye.'
They rattled down the lane after a cup of tea with Seamus.
'That's a mean oul' woman,' said William with some pride.
'Aye,' he said.
He was having a quick look at The Independent when Liam came into the library.
'I'd like to know how it went, but it's O'Malley on th' phone--another bit for th' lovelorn columns. Wanted your contact in th' States; he's thrilled to find you're still about.' Liam handed over his mobile. 'Step out, you'll get better reception.'
Out into birdsong and a mild breeze whipping up. 'Pete!'
'Tim, you lucky dog--still soakin' up th' best of th' west at ol' Broughadoon!'
'Leaving soon.'
'How's Cynthia?'
'Ankle improved. We're seeing a few sights.'
'Great. Just wanted you to know she's still here.'
'Aha. How's it going?'
'I'm afraid to say.'
'Say anyway.'
'Looks like she's in for th' long haul.'
'You must be doing something right, O'Malley.'
'I'm tryin', Tim. Keep your fingers crossed.'
'That does no good a'tall, I hate to tell you.'
'Do th' other, then, and thanks--thanks a lot. You an' Cynthia try to get back next year, okay? I'll bring Linda.'
'Linda and Roscoe, and we might have a deal. What do you think did the trick? I might launch a scientific study.'
'All th' stuff you said, plus . . .'
'Plus?'
'Leavin' tomorrow for two weeks in Ibiza.'
'Keep up the good work,' he said. 'And Pete?'
'Yo!'
'Remember to listen when she talks.'
'That's the bloody hard part,' said Pete.
He gave Pete his home number, returned the phone to Liam.
'Looks like we're in th' marriage counseling business,' said Liam. 'How did it go up th' hill?'
'I suppose you could call it a miracle and be done with it. Or maybe an uneasy truce. They forgave each other, after a fashion.'
'I never know what to say for all you do.'
'I didn't do it.'
'We'll call it a miracle, then, an' be done,' said Liam.
'Any developments?'
'God above, my head's thick as plaster. Corrigan called. He wants us at the station tomorrow to make things official. Bella's clear.'
'Thank heaven.'
'No previous record; she fell in with a bad sort, made some bad decisions, then had the guts to come clean about it, Corrigan says. He wants her to stay close for six months, and write a letter of apology to her mother an' me. One to th' Gards, too, who blew out time an' money.'
'A very fair man, to say the least. Does Cynthia know?'
'She does. Bella's with her now. They had Slade's fingerprints from the Tubbercurry arrest, matched 'em with prints on th' louvers, th' light switch, all over th' cellar. And here's another gobsmacker. Lorna Doolin, the book writer, wants th' Broughadoon job while we're away. She managed a four-star inn in New Hampshire an' can make a fry into th' bargain. Bella's after takin' over dinner, an' we think she'd be grand. What do you say, Rev'rend?'
What could he say? 'Wow.'
'But we have to shake a leg an' go before th' niece's school opens. Lorna's in training as we speak, 't will be fodder for her next mystery, she says.'
'She just missed the mystery!'
'We didn't want to be away if things, you know, don't go well with . . . up th' hill. I asked Feeney--he said such a chance won't come round again, he thinks we should go.'
'Anna knows the plan, then?'
'She's blown away.' Liam rocked on the balls of his feet, eyes blue. 'Me, too. Any advice for the oul' second honeymoon crowd?'
'Oh, just the usual. Be sure to listen when she talks.'
'That's tough,' said Liam.
'I know,' he said.
He met Bella coming from their room. He realized that until now he had never seen her smile.
'Good work,' he said.
'Thank you.'
He wanted to give her a hug, but he'd done that last night.
'Dhia Dhuit, Bella.'
'Dhia is Muire dhuit, Rev'rend.'
He didn't show Cynthia the email.
'We have this evening and tomorrow. Then up and away at six-thirty Wednesday morning. I'll call Aengus.'
'Busy, busy.'
He headed downstairs. By rough calculation, this was his thirteenth time on the stairs today. Like the rest of the common horde, they'd need a holiday to rest up from their vacation.
Forty-two
Their last hurrah.
'The full Irish!' Cynthia told Emily.
'Make it two,' he said.
Lorna Doolin was at the Aga this morning; she and Emily served them with a certain bravado.
'Perhaps a mite long under the broiler, your tomatoes,' said Lorna, using the short a.
'That's how we like them,' said his agreeable wife.
Emily poured their coffee. 'I read your books when I was a child,' she said.
'And how long ago was that?'
'Ages ago,' said Emily. 'I found them really well done.'
'Well, thanks very much. And you, Lorna, I hear you're doing this two-week stint as research for a book.'
'Hoping to refresh my lapsing memory of the innkeeping business. I've always wanted to set a murder mystery in a guest lodge.'
'Nothing too bloody, I hope,' said his wife.
'Aunt Lorna loves blood and gore,' said Emily.
'Nonsense; I don't like it in the least. It's my readers who love blood and gore. Back to the States, then?'
'First thing tomorrow.'
'Will you want your fry?'
'We must be out by six-thirty. Just coffee and fruit, thanks.'
'I'll have it on the sideboard at a quarter 'til six.'
'We wish you well in your new occupation,' said Cynthia.
'I'll relish it for precisely two weeks and not a moment longer.'
'Running a guest lodge can be very taxing,' said Emily.
They were off in the Vauxhall, the contents of the trug nearly overcoming the smell of motor oil and aging leather.
'I thought Lorna looked confident in her hair cloud and borrowed clogs.'
'Um,' he said.
'Whatever happened to child labor laws?'
'Um,' he said.
She gave him a look, itching for a clue.
'You'll get nothing from me, Kav'na.'
It was a morning the poets might easily call glimmering; their last morning of a full day in Ireland. In their time here, they'd seen very little, though somehow he felt they'd seen everything. It had been Blake's ocean in a drop of water, a broad beach in a grain of sand.
'St. Patrick's Church, circa 1886,' he said as they pulled into the car park at Ballyrush. 'Aughanagh Parish, Diocese of Elphin.'
'Tad's church?'
'Yes.'
An arched eyebrow, a knowing look.
'You think you've guessed?'
'I think so.'
'We'll see about that,' he said.
He took the trug; helped her navigate the grassy maze among Rooneys and Rileys, Mitchells and Moores, McKinneys and McConnells.
They took their tim
e gazing at inscriptions, she ever on the hunt for one to top his all-time favorite from St. John's in the Grove: Demure at last.
'Should be along here, I think." He had a bit of chill up his spine. 'Yes. Right here.'
She adjusted her glasses, leaned close to the old stone. 'Cormac Padraigin Fintan O'Donnell, MD.' She looked at him, beaming, then read on. 'Born County Sligo October 28, 1810, departed this life December 12, 1887. Passed into the Care of the Great Physician.'
He held the trug. She took cosmos and rosemary and verbena and wrapped the stems with a vine and laid the offering on the green mound.
He made the sign of the cross. 'For the many good works of Dr. Fintan O'Donnell, for his people and for Ireland--Lord, we give you thanks and praise.'
'Amen,' she said.
She moved to the mound beside Fintan's. 'Caitlin Alanna McKenna O'Donnell, Departed this life May 15, 1888. Healer, Protector, Devoted Wife and Mother, Generous Friend.'
She looked at him. 'Mother?'
He extended the trug. 'Save a few back.'
She took rosemary and verbena and wrapped the stems and laid the offering on the green mound and made the sign of the cross and prayed. 'For the tireless and loving generosity of Caitlin O'Donnell in a time of trial for her people--Lord, we give you thanks and praise.'
'Amen,' he said.
He walked a few steps. She joined him, silent.
'This one,' he said.
She leaned to the stone and its crust of lichen. 'Eunan . . . Eunan! The lad!' And there came what really watered Ireland.
'Keep reading.'
'Eunan Michael O'Donnell! MD.'
'There are Dooleys everywhere,' he said. 'Even in Ireland, in the old fled days.'
'Did you bring a handkerchief?'
He dug it out and there it went, not to be recovered.
She was taking the remaining stems . . .
'Save some back,' he said.
She placed the flowers on the grave; he made the sign of the cross and prayed. 'For the joy that Eunan O'Donnell brought Fintan and Caitlin, and for the opportunity you afforded Eunan to be of service to others--Lord, we give you thanks and praise.'