The Parting Glass (16 page)

“Are you going to the
Fleadh Ceoil
this weekend?” Bridie asked.

The
Fleadh Ceoil
was a traditional music festival held every year on this weekend on Shanmullin’s green. Peggy had been looking forward to it since her arrival. The village had begun the event a decade ago as an attempt to attract tourists, but the music and dance were authentic, and supposedly the fun was infectious.

“Nora’s coming to get us.” Peggy knew Irene was looking forward to it, and Finn had given his permission. “Will you be there?”

“The school is singing.” She hummed a few bars of something Peggy couldn’t place. “My da sings, too.”

That surprised Peggy, but everything she learned about Finn O’Malley surprised her. Nothing surprised her more than the deep respect and admiration that people in Shanmullin still seemed to feel for him, despite his decision not to practice medicine. He had left them with only one doctor, a haughty young man whose practice encompassed several small villages and nearby Westport. But despite long waits and care they didn’t relish, people still seemed to wish Finn well.

When Peggy watched Finn with Irene, she thought she understood why. He was a different person with the old woman than he was with Peggy or even his own daughter. She thought, perhaps, that at those times she was witnessing the man he’d once been. Warm, thoughtful, a good listener and caring healer. At those moments he was everything a physician should be, everything she had hoped to be herself someday.

Kieran wandered back, and Peggy told him to sit. He did, and she gave him another fish cracker.

“Point to red,” Bridie said.

His little face crumbled, but he didn’t cry. He stuck out his lower lip and glared in her direction. For a moment it looked as if he would meet her eyes, but instead he looked down at the table. “No!”

Peggy sat up straighter. “What did you say?” she asked. “Kieran, what did you say?”

“No!” He got to his feet and toddled off again.

Peggy laughed.

“Why is that funny?” Bridie sounded genuinely puzzled.

Peggy reached out and gave her a brief, enthusiastic hug. “Because I’m the only mother in the whole wide world who’s glad her son has reached the terrible twos!”

Bridie looked puzzled.

“He said ‘no,’” Peggy said. “He’s never said it before, Bridie. Not like that. He knows what he’s saying.”

“Well, I should think you’d be sorry he’s learned it,” Bridie said wisely. “You will be before long.”

Peggy was elated. In her opinion, the weeks of work with her son were beginning to pay off. After his outburst, Kieran had settled himself in the corner, where a large pile of blocks awaited him. When Bridie finally joined him and piled them high, he knocked them over, again and again, waiting almost patiently each time for her to finish.

“Not everyone would see that as progress,” Peggy told Irene at supper. “I realize that. But every time, he waited until Bridie was finished. They were playing together.”

“Well now, it sounds as if they were,” Irene agreed. “And who knows but that he’ll be the one building the towers and she’ll be the one knocking them over before long.”

“I got him to turn a page,” Bridie said.

Peggy was doubtful about that, not certain Kieran actually had meant to. She was afraid turning the page had been more annoyance than anything else. The real miracle was that he was letting Bridie get close enough that these accidents could happen. He sat beside her when she read to him, and even though he never looked as if he was paying attention, Peggy couldn’t be sure. They were interacting, though. And it wasn’t just Bridie who was having good luck.

“He let me pick him up when he fell today,” Peggy said.

“Don’t you pick him up all the time?” Irene set her fork on the plate. She had eaten only a dollop of mashed potatoes and half a small lamb chop. Peggy hoped she was only resting.

“Well, usually when I pick him up, he’s as stiff as a poker. Today he curved into my arms.” She’d almost been ashamed at how much pleasure that had given her. She knew better than to harbor expectations of intimacy, because Kieran might never be capable of that. But oh, it had felt so good, so right, to be needed, even wanted, in that brief moment.

“Then I’d say a celebration’s in order,” Irene said.

Peggy peeked at her son. Kieran was about to fall asleep. He had always needed a great deal of rest. Now that she was working so hard with him, he seemed to need even more.

Bridie seemed to notice, as well. “The boyo’s about to land in his supper.”

“I’ll put him to bed, then we can have dessert,” Peggy said. Nora had baked a layer cake that afternoon, and there was fresh fruit to go with it. Bridie was staying the night, because Finn was occupied for the evening.

“I’m thinking you should put him to bed, then go into town,” Irene said. “With him so tired and Bridie right here, I believe we can manage just fine without you, dear. You could have a night out, all to yourself. Now what do you say to that?”

Peggy didn’t know what to say. For the most part, the peace of Tierney Cottage was a welcome substitute for the hectic pace of her life in Ohio. Life here offered little in the way of actual entertainment, though. Irene had television and a satellite dish, but aside from “ER” and two BBC medical dramas, Peggy had found few programs that interested her. She’d read all the books she’d brought with her, then ordered more and read those, too. She probably did need a night out.

Peggy glanced over at Bridie, who was working on her second chop. She couldn’t imagine leaving her here with so little to do. “I thought we could play Charades,” Peggy said. “Bridie would like it.”

“Oh, I have homework,” Bridie said. “I won’t be much company.”

Peggy sensed a plot. Bridie had the entire weekend for homework. “What would I find in town?”

Irene pushed her plate away. “Well, the pubs, of course. But tonight they’ll be setting up for the
Fleadh Ceoil,
and there’ll be music there. Tonight’s really the beginning, you know, just for us, not for the tourists. Go and have a pint on the green and listen. Meet some of the townspeople. Take that ridiculous dog with you and leave him there while you’re at it.” She winked at Peggy.

Bridie looked up from her chop, indignant. “Banjax likes it here, and you like him. Can you say you don’t?”

“Oh, I suppose he’s all right where he is for now. Mind you, though, he won’t be coming inside ever again. I only let him in this afternoon because I was afraid it might rain and the wind would slam the shed door shut.”

Peggy focused on her son in an attempt not to smile. The afternoon sky had been as clear as Waterford crystal.

“You’ll take a night out?” Irene demanded. “It’s a perfect opportunity, you know.”

“I will.” Peggy stood, setting her napkin beside her plate. She reached for Kieran, whose eyelids were drooping lower. In a moment he really was going to slip quietly into his mashed potatoes. “I’ll bike in for a little while, if you’re sure…?”

“We’re both sure. You go ahead. Bridie and I will have an evening, just the two of us. And have a pint for me, will you, dear? Since it’s clear I won’t be having one for myself any time soon.”

Finn knew that he’d disappointed—no, that was too mild a word—
disheartened
Shanmullin’s citizens when he closed down his medical practice. Even those who preferred his colleague Joe Beck’s arrogant manner, equating Beck’s insensitivity with superior knowledge, had been upset, even angry, when Finn pulled his door closed for the last time. With only one doctor to serve the local population, everyone’s care was compromised.

Finn had done what he could to repair the damage. He had presented Shanmullin’s case at every turn, attempting recruitment of friends or colleagues from other counties, pleaded with national and county authorities to fill the gap, even offering his surgery and all its furnishings at a bargain rate. But no one wanted to live in the small Western Ireland village beyond the far edge of Clew Bay. Oh yes, it was perfect for a holiday, scenic and traditional and a return to long withered Irish roots. Friends recounted warm memories of family gatherings in villages just like this one. Then they headed gratefully for cities like Galway or even Westport, with their larger opportunities.

And Shanmullin was left with one doctor.

Finn had disappointed so many people that when asked each year to participate in the village
Fleadh Ceoil,
he could not say no to that, as well. He longed to. He was tortured each time he attended by memories of Sheila, baby Brian in one arm and little Mark hugging her skirts, standing at the edge of the crowd, staring up at the musicians’ platform as he performed with the others. Sheila had played the harp, lovely, ethereal Sheila with the pale blond hair bequeathed her from some ancient Norse invader. Some years the committee had persuaded her to perform, as well, and she had silenced the raucous crowd with her mournful tunes and clear, haunting soprano.

Sheila, Brian and Mark, gone forever.

“Ye’re not looking so good, Finn,” Johnny Kerrigan said. “Ye’re not catching that flu that’s been making the rounds, are ye?”

Finn looked beyond the milling villagers, who were chatting and exclaiming over children and grandchildren. A row of trees at the end of the green was as good a place to focus as any. He counted treetops, darkening as the sun slowly sank into the ocean. In a moment the memories and the squeezing pain in his chest that always went with them began to ease.

“I’m fine.” Finn lifted his tin whistle from its case and made a show of cleaning it. “A long day, that’s all.”

“Ought to go back to pushing pills, ye know. Hours are just as bad, but at least ye did it right here in Shanmullin.”

Finn was so used to remarks of that type that he ignored it. “There’ll be a crowd tonight.”

“Gets larger every year.” Johnny removed his concertina from its case, giving it a couple of squeezes for good measure. It squawked in response. “We’re wanting to remember our traditional ways.”

Finn wasn’t sure that for most people, at least, tradition was the real point of the festival. Shanmullin’s residents were grateful for any excuse to convene. Then the talking could begin.

“And who would that be?”

Finn looked up at the reverence in Johnny’s voice. Johnny was closer to seventy than sixty, his head as bald as Croagh Patrick’s peak and as round as its base. He fancied himself a lady’s man and had confided to Finn that he was finally on the lookout for a wife after a long life without one.

Finn expected to see an aging widow, most likely one who’d kept her figure and sense of humor, since Johnny was determined to have both. Instead he saw Peggy Donaghue chatting with a group of older women just ten yards or so from the edge of the platform.

Her long hair was drawn back in a braid, and her cheeks were flushed with natural color. She wore a rust-colored jumper over black jeans, and practical hiking boots. And still, with no attempt at artifice, she was stunningly beautiful.

“The Lord our God took His time putting that one together, didn’t He now?” Johnny said. “Then He sent her straight to Ireland to torture us all.”

“Not so straight. She’s an American.”

Johnny whistled softly. “I’ll be putting my passport in order.” He turned to Finn. “Ye know her?”

“Peggy Donaghue. She’s staying at the Tierney Cottage. A long-lost relative of Irene’s.”

“They always come back, ye know, the lost Americans looking for home and family. Do they flock to Poland and Portugal the same way, do ye suppose?”

“I think Irene convinced her to visit. Peggy’s been good for her.” The latter surprised him. He hadn’t even thought it, and out it had come. It was true, however. Irene took great delight in both Peggy and the little boy. Even his daughter thought the two of them were the genuine article and was spending as much time at Irene’s as she was allowed.

“Ye have yer eye on her, do ye now?” Johnny asked.

The unspoken corollary, of course, was that if Finn didn’t, Johnny wanted to step in. Finn’s first foolish impulse was to remind his old friend that he
had
a wife, but of course, he didn’t. Sheila had been gone for two long years, and last year the village matrons had begun parading their daughters and granddaughters, oblivious to the fact that this was the twenty-first century and marriage was no longer crucial to a man’s economic survival.

Or perhaps he was making too much of their desire to see him happy again. No one understood the height and breadth of his demons.

“Well, perhaps the widow visiting Mary Sullivan is more my style,” Johnny said when Finn didn’t answer. “Mary says she fancies older men.” He preened a little.

Peggy took that moment to look up and meet Finn’s gaze. He supposed she had little enough reason to regard him as a friend. Her smile was slight, but genuine enough. He doubted she expected it to be returned. She broke away from the group that had nearly swallowed her and moved toward the platform.

“I didn’t know you played an instrument, Finn. Bridie tells me you sing, too?”

Unaccountably, he was embarrassed, as if performing against his will this way had opened some secret door inside him. He didn’t even question why he wanted to keep himself apart from her. He only knew that he did.

“There’s little to do here,” he said gruffly. “I learned to play as a boy.”

“I love music. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but I think that’s my throat, not my ears.”

The other musicians were drifting up to the platform. Two fiddlers whose names he couldn’t recall, Matt with his accordion, Sean with his bodhran and Sarah with the uilleann pipes. The musicians of Shanmullin played together whenever they could, in the pubs, in the church hall, strangers taking seats to play with them, neighbors leaving to have a pint or a smoke. The music had been played this way for centuries, changing only slowly and relying on the oral tradition for instruction. Variations on old themes, respect for those who had come before, tentative, very tentative, forays into a new century. No need to reinvent what had stood them so well for so long.