The Cork Contingency (4 page)

Even with all the wrong turns, this country lane looked to be the right one.

She fought to refold the map, each time rumpling the paper a bit more. “Just fold!” She crumpled the paper into a rectangle shaped mass and shoved it back into the glove compartment. A sinking feeling gnawed at her nerves as she shifted back into drive and drove the car further down the barren lane.

Black and white cows waved their tails and munched the tall green grass in the fields.
Bushes, trees, and grass
.
Bushes, trees, and grass. Miles and miles of bushes, trees, and grass.

The car popped out onto a larger road and she breathed a sigh of relief. The rain turned to a light mist and she spotted the sign announcing the Blarney B and B ahead.

The dashboard clock showed that forty minutes had passed.

Margaret pulled into the parking lot feeling as bedraggled as she looked.

A stout, smiling woman waved from the entrance. Flour clung to her apron and she held the door open for Margaret to walk through. “Welcome to Blarney B and B! I was hoping you wouldn’t try to check in until a bit later. You room isn’t available yet. I hope you found your way. Most people get fooled by all the country roads and end up quite late.” A dimple creased her cheek as she took in Margaret’s appearance. “You can take a different room if you’d like. It’s up the stairs and the first left. I’ll go fix a tea tray and bring it right up. You look in need of refreshing.”

Exhaustion pressed against Margaret’s shoulders. Today’s events could have filled an entire week! As much as she wanted to unpack and explore, taking a nap sounded better. “Thank you so much Mrs…” Margaret paused and waited for a reply.
I don’t want to slaughter another Irish name.

“It’s Mrs. McCleary,” the woman said with another smile. She touched a chain hanging around her neck. “Mr. McCleary passed a few years back and now it’s just me running this place.” She blinked. “You’ll know breakfast is ready in the morning when you smell it cooking. Would you like some help with your things?”

“No, thanks.” She couldn’t imagine Mrs. McCleary tugging her suitcase up the stairs.

“The open room is the second one on the left from the top of the stairs.”

“Thanks.” Margaret hauled her bags up to the room and set them in the corner.

Shortly after, Mrs. McCleary delivered a tray of tea and scones.

The chamomile mint tea tasted sweet. Margaret placed the bone china cup back into its saucer and removed her soiled stockings. She sank into the edge of the down comforter and admired the room’s décor.

Blush walls accented the rose-colored chair in the corner, and coral towels peeked from the adjoining bathroom.

Her muscles ached from all the travel.
I’ll lay down for a minute before heading out.
She leaned back and pulled the edge of the comforter around her shoulders.

The smell of bacon and sausage tugged Margaret from her dreams. She cracked her eyes, confused by the morning light breaking through her curtains. “No,” she moaned. She’d slept through her first day. She threw the covers off, hoisted the suitcase onto the bed, and chose a pair of jeans, a button-up shirt and a light cardigan. “I’m surprised Janet didn’t toss these things out in favor of more business attire.” She yanked a brush through her tangled, brown mass of hair. A few small rocks fell to the floor. Margaret picked up the pebbles and shuddered, remembering the airport tripping accident.

She stepped into the steaming shower and leaned into the cascade of water. Despite jetlag, getting lost, and being forced into taking this trip, last night’s sleep left her refreshed. She poured the lavender scented shampoo into her hand, massaged it into her scalp, and relaxed under the rushing water.

What do You have for me today, Lord?
She stepped out, wrapped the downy towel around her damp body, and then dressed and twisted her hair into a tight bun.

Downstairs in the breakfast room, a feast of steaming foods, sausage, bacon, and eggs along with platters of beans and fried potatoes sat on the main table.

Margaret laid her cardigan across the back of a folding chair and filled her plate.

Café-style chairs crowded around little tables adorned with fresh flowers.

Several of the other guests compared the weather in Cork to London.

“Good morning Margaret.” Mrs. McCleary’s bright tone matched her broad smile. “Where are you off to today?”

“I thought I would visit the castle first.” She looked down at her plate of food. “After that, I don’t know, there’s so much to see. I did get a bit lost yesterday, and I’m worried about spending all my time trying to find things instead of enjoying them.” She popped a forkful of eggs into her mouth and savored the warm, buttery flavor.

“You don’t need to do that. My nephew just came back yesterday. He likes to run tours for me when he’s in town. Would you like me to see if he’s available?”

“OK.” Margaret hedged. “I don’t have much extra cash.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. Donnell does it as a personal favor to me.”

The bite Margaret swallowed caught in her throat and she fought back a cough. Water rushed to her eyes as she gulped down orange juice to stop the impending fit of coughing.

“Dear, you don’t have to tear up about it.” Mrs. McCleary patted Margaret on the back. “It’s Irish hospitality, that’s all.”

Margaret nodded and cleared her throat. “Donnell must be a popular name in Blarney,” she said and took another swig of juice.

Mrs. McCleary raised a single eyebrow. “Oh? I only know…”

“Mrs. McCleary!” A yell came from outside the house.

“Oh, no, it’s that neighbor man again. I’m going to slip into the kitchen for a bit. Don’t mention you saw me. The castle’s just a fifteen minute walk down the road from here. You can take one the maps on the desk by the door.”

“Mrs. McCleary!” Another shout came from outside.

“Oh, for shame,” she said, bustling back to the kitchen.

Margaret finished the rest of her breakfast, pulled her cardigan on, and headed for the door. The desk held fresh flowers, a doily, a full to the brim candy dish and an empty brochure stand. Margaret spied an elderly man wobbling down the driveway poking the gravel with his twisted cane. She paused inside the entryway, waited for the man to round the corner, and then slipped out the door.
It can’t be that hard to find Blarney Castle from here. If I get lost, I’ll just backtrack.

Heaps of gray clouds piled on top of each other and promised rain. Bumble bees hummed around the early blooms eager for nectar. Etched into the first two stepping stones, with water pooling in the weathered handprints, were two names, Daragh and Donnell.
Barren rose bushes flanked the house and another path led toward a garden. The brick wall and archway that bordered the front yard held back the generous landscaping from spilling into the road.

Margaret followed the paved sidewalk along the road through the town, past more houses butted against each other. Birdsong echoed through the crisp, spring air. A few droplets sprinkled from the clouds above.

A large building spanned the entire block, built with red bricks and gray mortar. The bold letters painted above the paned windows spelled out “Blarney Woolen Mill, 1823.” Margaret followed the sidewalk around the other side of the building. Windows that once looked in upon workers were filled with dresses and clothing items. Inside one of the tall, rectangular windows hung a sweater covered in a winding cable design. Shadows pooled in the emerald colored yarn.

She pulled the door handle and stepped into the entryway, letting the rush of warmth embrace her.

Copper masks hung on the creamy sage walls. The door on the right led to a bar/eatery, and the upstairs led to a museum and to the left was an authentic Irish sweater shop.

Margaret unfolded her itinerary list. “Blarney Castle, Charles Fort, English Market, buy an Aran knit sweater.” She stopped reading and peeked into the shop.

Everything looked beautiful and expensive.

I’m not going to spend half my money on the first day.
She turned back toward the door and pushed it open.

Large drops of rain splashed against the pavement. More warm air rushed past her out the door.

Then again, it doesn’t hurt to look.

5

Racks of garments in bright colors filled the shop.

She lingered in front of a wall lined with heels and handbags, then wandered further toward the back, in search of cable knit sweaters like the one in the window. She passed through a brick lined archway into a room loaded with socks, sweaters, and anything else a person could knit. A woman smiled from behind the cashier’s table and said something that Margaret didn’t comprehend.

The weather seemed to be a safe topic. “It’s a rainy day out there.”

A patronizing look washed over the woman’s features. She replied in a louder tone, emphasizing each word, “If you need any help, please let me know.”

Margaret turned to the piles of neatly folded sweaters.
Who knew an Irish accent could be so hard to understand?
She ran her hands against the lumpy cables.
There are so many, how am I going to choose one?
A splash of raspberry yarn peeked from under a stack of heather-gray sweaters. She tugged at it, toppling the pile. Most of the sweaters landed in her arms. She laid them back onto the overfull table, taking care to refold and tuck each back into place.

“Now, where’s that…? Oh, no!” Margaret lifted her foot from the poncho sprawled on the cracked stone flooring. The shadows had masked its true color, a bright, pink lemonade. Her heart sank when she spotted the price tag. She moved to place it with the others when she noticed a faint footprint in the middle of the cabling. She brushed at it but the mark wouldn’t come off. She pulled out her list and added the words, “expensive” and “unattractive” next to “cabled,” crossed out “sweater,” and replaced it with “poncho.” She checked the box and carried the injured poncho to the cashier.

“I see you found something, after all.” The woman said in the same loud tone.

“Yes, thank you.” She ignored the sick feeling in her stomach when the woman ran her card and stuffed the receipt into her purse before she could catch sight of the price again. “Do you happen to know the way to Blarney Castle?”

“Down the road.”

“Er, thanks.” Margaret lifted her bag from the counter and moseyed back to the entrance.

A gust of wind blew against outside doors.

Margaret lingered in the hallway watching the rain fall in intermittent sheets across the parking lot. The smell of freshly fried seafood wafted from the adjacent pub. She could almost taste the salty, battered shrimp on her tongue.
I can’t eat out, I just spent a fortune buying a poncho. There has to be a snack stand at the castle.
She checked the time, a bit past noon.

“Just down the road, huh?” Margaret layered the poncho monstrosity underneath her coat, tucked her purse into the empty plastic bag and stepped out.
Right or left? Which way did I come in?
She turned to face the stone building.

Ropes of vine clung to the masonry on both sides. A green trash can sat to the right.

Did I pass a garbage can when I came in?
She followed the building through a parking lot.
I don’t remember walking through a parking lot.
She trotted back to the entrance again and wiped the rain from her face.
I’ll go left this time.
She swallowed hard, pressed her lips together, and tried to jostle her memory.
Mrs. McCleary said down the road. I need to get back to the road.

Margaret reached the entrance to the castle after several wrong turns through backstreets. She hadn’t minded the impromptu tour until the wind picked up and blew the rain into her hood.

The clock on the wall above the admittance desk read 2:00.

“Is that clock right?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am it is.” He ran her credit card through the machine. “Just follow the trail to the castle. The grounds close at dusk.”

The poncho was bunched underneath her jacket, her hair hung in a sopping mess of tangles underneath her hood, and her attempts at make-up were washed off with the earlier downpour. She tromped down the path, listening to her shoes squelch with each step. The sun sliced its way through the clouds and warmed the side of her face.

The castle keep rose from the trees. The tower’s inky shadow stretched across the adjoining field and stream.

Margaret stopped short of the keep and tried to imagine the effort it took to build such a structure without modern day equipment. At thirty-two and unmarried, in those days, she’d probably be put to work doing everyone’s laundry or feeding the pigs.
Ugh, pigs
. She scrubbed the thought from her mind. “Oh, kinsmen, I have finished the ladies washing and my hands be so rough,” Margaret said, clutching her fingers together. She laughed. Despite being soaked and getting lost, the stress of the last two years began to lift from her shoulders. She wandered towards the gardens, saving the castle for last.

The flowers hung heavily with the earlier rain. Sun glinted against the clinging droplets.

She pulled out her camera and snapped a few pictures.

A tunnel woven from willow rods provided shade. The long slender leaves shuddered against the slight breeze. The sun dipped lower.

Margaret turned back toward the Poison Gardens and hurried along the trail. She wanted to get a few shots of the plants there in the remaining sunlight.

A black sign boasting a skull and crossbones warned visitors to not eat or touch the plants inside. Margaret ambled up to a plant encased in a wrought iron cage. She took a picture of the plaque first and then the cage encompassing the poison ivy. One year at summer camp, she’d stumbled into those leaves and then spent the rest of the week slathered in calamine lotion.

Delphinium buds hung from their stalks like grapes. She moved her camera closer and pushed the macro button.
Just a little closer…

“Excuse me, miss.”

Margaret jumped, choking off a scream. “I wasn’t going to touch the plant,” she said, holding up her hands and turning.