Notes from a Spinning Planet—Ireland (19 page)

“Excuse me,” I say as I burst into her office.

She looks up at me and blinks. “Is anything wrong, dear?”

“No. But I’m wondering about the history of the camp,” I tell her. “Is there a way to find out the names of people who have volunteered here over the years?”

She considers this.

“Or perhaps you know,” I suggest. “Have you worked here long?”

“Just since I retired from teaching,” she says. “That’s been about five years.”

“Oh.”

“There are some old photo albums in the back room. I’ve been trying to get someone to organize them.” She shakes her head as she stands. “They’re quite dusty and messy, but they do have some names and such written in them. I think someone should rescue them before it’s too late.”

“Would you mind if we looked at them?”

She looks unsure now, as if she may not completely trust us.

“We’ll be very careful,” I promise.

“I’m sure you would be, dear, but I’m a bit worried. If something should happen or if something was lost…” She scratches her
head as if trying to come up with a solution. “I know!” She smiles now. “Perhaps Murphy can help you.”

“Murphy?”

“Our primary groundskeeper. He’s been here for ages, he has. And a memory like an elephant. Murphy might know who you’re looking for.”

“Do you know where we could find him?” I ask.

She glances at the clock on the wall, then pulls out a map of the estate. Taking a highlighter, she marks a bright yellow trail to a cottage that appears to be on the edge of the property. “He’ll probably be taking his tea ’bout now.”

“We don’t want to disturb—”

“No, no,” she waves her hand. “Murphy loves company, he does. And he loves the chance to talk.” She laughs. “Just don’t let him talk the legs off of you.”

So I thank her, and we go back outside.

“Do you want to come with me?” I ask Ryan. He’s been pretty quiet since I got stuck on this Ian-at-peace-camp thing, and I’m a little worried that he thinks I’ve gone off the deep end.

“I don’t know, Maddie.”

I nod. “I’m sure it sounds pretty crazy. And I could be totally wrong. But for some reason I need to check this out.”

He glances over his shoulder toward the lake.

“And if you’d rather hang out by the water or take a boat out or whatever”—I force a smile—“I won’t blame you at all.”

“Maybe I’ll do that.”

“Sure, that’s fine.” Okay, the truth is, I’m feeling a little abandoned just now. I’m remembering how he appreciated me going to meet his Aunt Mary I would think he’d want to do as much for me.

“Sitting and listening to some old dude going on about people I don’t even know…” He kind of shrugs. “Well, I guess I’m just not that into it.”

“I understand.” But I think he just doesn’t want to know the truth about what Ian might have been doing here. Maybe it would hurt too much. I start to walk away now.

“But I could go,” he calls out, “if you really want me to….”

“It’s okay, Ryan,” I call back. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Good luck,” he says.

Yeah
, I’m thinking as I walk away,
I’ll probably need it
. I mean, seriously, what am I thinking? I’ve barely even met Ian, and the photo I saw just now was taken more than twenty years ago and isn’t even that clear. What on earth makes me so sure it’s Ian? And yet, it’s like I can’t leave without finding out. And I’m surprised Ryan isn’t more curious.

I follow the bright yellow highlighted trail on my map until I finally see a little stone cottage that, unlike the campers’ cottages, actually looks like it was built a long time ago. Like maybe hundreds of years ago. The enormous oak trees hovering around it look like they’ve been here that long too. Suddenly I’m wondering whether I can just walk up and knock on a stranger’s door and interrupt his teatime to ask him a totally stupid question. What was I thinking? And what if Glenda is really a prankster in disguise
and has it out for this Murphy fellow? Or what if this Murphy fellow is some kind of nutcase or sex offender? Of course, they wouldn’t let someone like that work at a kids’ camp, would they?

I’m about twenty feet from the cottage now, standing in the shadows of the enormous trees, just about ready to turn and run.

“Are you lost?” calls a voice from the cottage.

I peer into the shadows to see the face of an old man peeking out from the half-opened door.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He opens the door wider. “Have you lost your way, dear?”

“No.” I hold up the map as if that explains everything. “Glenda told me that a man named Murphy lives here.”

He smiles now and steps out so I can see him better. “That’d be me.” He’s wearing brown trousers topped with a dark green vest. And his face looks friendly.

“I don’t want to disturb you,” I say, “but Glenda said you wouldn’t mind if I asked you some questions.”

“Come in, come in,” he says, opening the door fully and waving me inside. “I’m just having me tea. Come in and join me.”

Okay, I’m not so sure I want to step into this strange man’s cottage. I mean, he seems nice enough, but this is so weird. And the setting reminds me of a scene from “Hansel and Gretel.” What if he has a big wooden stove in there for cooking children? Or perhaps a cage? Okay, I tell myself, don’t be ridiculous. This little old man is several inches shorter than me, and he looks to be about eighty. Surely I could take him if I had to.

I walk up to the door and glance inside. Everything looks perfectly
normal. He has a small wooden table that does appear to be set for tea, and he’s already rounding up another cup and saucer, I assume for me.

“Sorry I didn’t tidy up,” he says as he picks a newspaper off a chair and scoots it up to the table for me. “I didn’t know I was having company.”

A small brown dog comes bouncing toward me. He puts both paws on my legs and looks up with his pink tongue hanging off to one side.

“Oh, now, Lucy, let’s leave our visitor be.” He nods to me. “Sit down, sit down.”

So I sit down and pet the dog, which makes me feel a little better. An old man with a dog—how dangerous could he be? And now he’s pouring my tea and asking what I take in it.

“Just sugar,” I tell him.

He hands it to me. “So, what brings you my way?” He pauses, and I realize he doesn’t even know my name.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m Maddie. Madison Chase. I’m from America.”

He smiles. “I knew you weren’t from these parts, lassie. But then we get lots of young people from all over the world here.”

“Yes,” I say as I pick up my cup. “And that’s why I’m here. I mean, I’m not here as a volunteer. I came with my aunt. She worked here back in the seventies.”

He nods. “In the seventies. That’s when we started this camp.”

“So you were here then?”

“I was here even before then.” He winks at me. “I came with
the place. I’ve been keeping the grounds since 1942. And even then we were taking in the wee ones.”

“What?” I look curiously at him.

“During the war, lassie. Children from London were sent here to escape the bombings and such.” He sighs now. “And then they came here again during the troubles. Also to escape the bombings and such.”

“This place has quite a history.”

“Aye, it does.”

“And Glenda said you have quite a memory.”

“Tha’s true as well.”

But even as I prepare to ask my next question, I wonder how its possible for him to remember everyone who ever volunteered here. So I decide to start with my aunt. I tell him her name and wait to see if it rings a bell.

He just shakes his head. “Sorry, lassie. I canna recall her.”

So I tell him about Danielle, and his eyes light up. “Aye, I remember that one. And now that I think of it, I remember her friend too. Pretty lasses, they were. And as I recall, Danielle had a suitor.” Now his face grows sad. “Aye, I remember now. The Irish lad from America. Joined up with the IRA. Sad story, that one.”

I nod. “Yes. Their son, Ryan, is here with my aunt and me. That’s one of the reasons I’m trying to find out about another man.” I pause. “Do you recall a man named Ian McMahan ever being here?”

He smiles now. “Ian?”

“Yes.”

Then he rubs his hand across his mouth as if he doesn’t want to answer me. “I don’t know, lassie.”

“But it seemed like you knew him,” I persist. “And I’m sure I saw his photo in the reading room. Has Ian worked here?”

He sighs. “I’m not sure.”

“Do you know someone named Ian McMahan?”

He considers this. “May I ask why it is you’re asking about this Ian McMahan person?”

So I tell him about my aunt and her broken heart and how Ian had a connection with Ryan’s dad. And I can tell by his expression he knows all about that. What I don’t get is why he’s not telling me anything.

“You do know who I’m talking about,” I say finally. “Don’t you?”

But he still doesn’t say anything. And I have a feeling I’m wearing out my welcome. But I’m also getting irritated. So I decide to get my biggest question out on the table.

“Okay,” I begin. “For some reason you aren’t going to tell me about Ian. But I’m going to ask you one more thing: It’s really bothering Ryan and me, thinking that Ian might still be in the IRA. I mean, he claims he’s not. But some things just don’t make sense. Do you know if he’s in the IRA?”

Talk about stepping over a line! I’m sure I’ve gone way too far. Poor old Murphy is sitting there staring at me like I popped down from another planet and threatened to take his little dog hostage.

“Im sorry for troubling you,” I say. I stand up and thank him for the tea I’ve barely touched and then walk out. But I’m so frustrated that I just stand outside his door with my fists clenched.
Why is he being so tight-lipped about this?

Then I feel a hand on my shoulder, and it makes me nearly jump out of my sandals.

“Sorry, lassie.” He steps around so I can see him better, and then he peers into my eyes as if trying to see something in there. “I’m trying to know if I can trust you or not, and I’m thinking perhaps I can. Would you care to come back inside and finish your tea?”

I mutely follow him back into his little house, sit down again at the table, and wait.

“Whatever I tell you today,” he begins, “I tell you in confidence. Can I trust you to keep this confidence?”

“Yes.”

“Ian is a friend of mine,” he says. “And it’s not so much that he has asked me to remain silent on his account. But I do worry for the boy. He has old connections, connections he has worked to sever, but connections that remain, just the same.”

“To the IRA?”

He shrugs, but I can tell that I’m right. “Ian has been involved in Peace House for many years now. He first came to us as a volunteer. And then he came again. And again. He said Peace House helped him to find his way out….”

Out of the IRA, I’m thinking. But I don’t say this.

“And for the last ten years or so, Ian has been an important benefactor to Peace House. A very generous benefactor.”

I nod.

“But there are people who would not take kindly to this information.”

I remember the quote from the taxi driver today. “For every Irishman on the fire, there will always be another ready to turn the spit,” I say.

He nods. “You understand how some of the Irish think.”

“Hopefully its only a small minority.”

“Aye, lassie. And I’m sure it is. But we must look out for one another.”

“Thank you for telling me about Ian,” I say. I can’t believe how relieved I feel right now. Thinking that something was wrong with Ian was really eating at me. And remembering this reminded me of how he mentioned coming to Antrim on the day Ryan’s dad was killed.

“Can I ask you one more thing about Ian?”

“You ask, and I will decide if I can answer.”

So I ask him about that day, the day Ian’s brother and Michael were killed by the bomb.

“’Twas Ian’s second summer here at Peace House,” he tells me slowly. “’Twas driving a load of children up from Belfast that day, Ian was. He’d tried to find another driver to replace him but without luck. Or perhaps ’twas with great luck. Or, more likely, it was the good Lord watching out for one o’ his lambs. Driving those
children out here ’twas the only reason Ian himself was not killed that day.”

“Oh.”

“Ian says Peace House saved his life.”

I nod, still taking this in. Everything actually adds up. “You told me I can’t tell anyone,” I say. “Does this include my aunt and Michael’s son, Ryan?”

He seems to think about this. “I’m not concerned about your aunt, lassie. But does Ryan have any connection with the IRA?”

I shake my head.

“You’re certain o’ it?”

I consider this. Ryan seems to know a lot about the IRA as well as the RIRA. But I seriously doubt he has any real connection with them. On the other hand, I remember how he’s shown sympathies for their cause from time to time, and knowing the history of his father, well, who can be sure?

“I guess I don’t know with absolute certainty,” I tell Murphy. “So I promise not to tell Ryan about any of this unless I am one hundred percent sure.”

“Thank you, lassie. I’m sure you wouldn’t want Ian’s blood on your hands.”

I feel my eyes open wide. “No,” I say quickly, “of course not.”

For the second time, I thank him and tell him I should go. And, once again, he reminds me of the need to be discreet. “For Ian’s sake,” he says as he shakes my hand.

I nod. “For Ian’s sake.”

As I retrace my steps back toward Peace House, I feel torn. On
one hand, I have permission to tell my aunt, but what will this information do to her? On the other hand, I’m not supposed to tell Ryan, but he’s the one who really needs to know. What am I supposed to do?

And so, as I walk, I ask God to help me figure this out.

W
hat’s up?” Ryan asks when I find him sitting on a stone bench outside of Peace House.

“Didn’t you go out on the lake?” I ask as I sit down beside him.

“The boats were all being used,” he says.

“Oh.”

“So, did you meet the old dude? Did you ask him about Ian?”