Himself(42)
‘What did Quinn say?’
‘He told her to pray to the Good Lord for wisdom in the face of ignorance and superstition. Then he threw her water over the buddleia and said let that be an end to it.’
‘And was it?’
‘Not at all. Mary told him the story of the Protestant sheep washers. You know it?’
Mahony shakes his head.
‘In 1876 there was a holy well up the coast, along Belmullet way. Now one day the Protestants visiting the big house got wind of it and had a laugh about it and they had a flock of sheep brought to it. Then they washed the filthiest animal they could find in the holy well. A sheep with shit up to its oxters.
‘Sure enough this angered the well and of course wells can be spiteful as well as bountiful.’
‘So what happened?’
‘The well upped and moved along the coast to Portacloy, where they were very pleased to have it. And every last one of the individuals involved with the sheep was struck down the very next day.’
‘What happened to them?’ asks Mahony.
‘They were out riding their horses across the fields, having a splendid time, when a blinding bolt of lightning came out of the blue and melted the lot of them on the spot.’ Bridget purses her lips. ‘For years the outline of the riders was seared right there on the ground. You could even see the horses, hooves raised mid-gallop. To this day no crops will grow in that field and no animal will feed in it. Even the rain won’t fall there; I swear to God it slants away before it hits the ground.’
Mahony smiles. ‘So Father Quinn should look over his shoulder now?’
‘He should. I’m away back to the house to put some nails in his pockets. He’s a marked man as soon as there’s a hint of a storm. Now, talking of looking over your shoulder, Mahony.’
‘No further attempts.’
‘Well, keep your wits about you, son.’
‘Have you any ideas?’
‘I’ll keep you posted.’ Bridget squints up at the clouds. ‘I have my suspicions.’
Mahony watches Bridget Doosey thread her way back through the graveyard with old dead Mother Doosey following behind her, waving a dim set of fire tongs.
Mahony must have slept, because it’s cold when he wakes and the church is empty. Even the dead have gone. He wipes saliva from the side of his mouth and gets up off the ground.
As Mahony heads round the side of the church he sees her standing with her back to him. She’s wearing a dress so faded that for a moment he’s not sure if she’s dead or alive. But when she turns to face him Mahony knows that she’s alive, for the pain is real and raw on her face and Mahony has to fight himself from reaching out to hold her.
Róisín Munnelly gives him an apologetic smile and searches blindly in her bag for a handkerchief. Her face is delicate, honed by grief, so that her fine cheekbones show below the grave brown eyes that look into his.
‘No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ she says.
Without a thought Mahony smoothes a loose strand of hair behind her ear as gently as a mother would and whispers, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’
They sit on the ground, one each side of the grave, and Róisín tells Mahony about her daughter. While she talks, she absently plays with the little white chippings spread inside the marble kerb. Róisín tells him that at first she found it very hard to leave her daughter up here in the graveyard. That she still feels an urge to tuck her in when she leaves, for the ground is cold all year round. But on a nice day it’s not too bad, if the sun is out and the birds. And recently she’s had a growing feeling that her little girl is no longer down there.
When they told Róisín, it took her feet right from under her. She has a scar above her eyebrow where she hit the dresser on her way down.
Her daughter had been missing for two days when the guards found her on the Carrigfine road. Her injuries were compatible with a hit-and-run. They never found out whose car it was. The ground was too dry and the tracks had all blown away.
Her husband tells her that she shouldn’t keep coming up here, because it can’t bring her back. He says that she has the boys to think of now.
When Mahony bolts the gate behind him he can still make out a little speck of colour. It’s a yo-yo, balanced carefully on the top of a small, white, heart-shaped gravestone that reads Margaret Ida Munnelly, 20 November 1961 – 12 May 1968.
Chapter 17
May 1968
Mammy told her to keep to the fields nearby only and she could take her toy. It was round and yellow and perfect. Uncle Eamon brought it out from his pocket with a smile. He showed her how to flip it and trick it and walk the dog with it and Lord knows what. Mammy laughed and put her hands on her hips and Ida looked at her face and knew that Mammy had forgotten all about the pots on the stove and the Sunday dinner and the smell of cabbage lifting the lids and the steaming potatoes splitting their skins in the bowl ready for the butter to go on. Maybe they were laughing too. Laughing potatoes. Daddy was in his armchair behind his paper.
‘That’s grand, Margaret,’ he’d said. ‘That’s grand.’
No, she thought, I’m not Margaret. I don’t want that name. That’s not what I call meself.
She had seen a great deal already that day.