‘Please,’ said Cynthia.
‘’t would be a féirin,’ said Anna.
‘Th’ Nightingale, then, and God help an’ oul’ woman.’ Maureen rose from the chair and joined Bella.
William looked disapproving. ‘’t is a tune of the English.’
‘They borrow from us, we borrow from them,’ said Bella. ‘Niall plays it.’
‘Niall,’ said William, with obvious distaste.
At the opening notes, Maureen closed her eyes, tilted her head, and joined her dusky voice with the music of the fiddle.
As I went a-walkin’ one mornin’ in May
I met a young couple who fondly did stray
An’ one was a young maid so sweet and so fair
An’ the other a soldier and a brave grenadier.
An’ they kissed so sweet and comfortin’ as they clung to each other.
They went arm in arm along the road like sister and brother.
They went arm in arm along the road till they came to a stream
An’ they both sat down together to hear the nightingale sing.
From out of his knapsack he took a fine fiddle
An’ he played her such merry tunes that you ever did hear
An’ he played her such merry tunes that the valley did ring
An’ they both sat down together to hear the nightingale sing.
Hers was a face which had been fully lived in, he thought, and while he was no fan of aging, it had done a grand work on Maureen McKenna. Bella turned from them to the woman she called grandmother, bending low into the croon of the music.
… an’ if ever I return again, it’ll be in the spring
An’ we’ll both sit down together an’ hear the nightingale sing.
An’ they kissed so sweet and comfortin’ as they clung to each other.
They went arm in arm along the road like sister and brother.
They went arm in arm along the road till they came to a stream
An’ they both sat down together to hear the nightingale sing.
They rose to their feet, even William, applauding, cheering.
‘Give us another!’ cried William.
‘Do, Mamó.’
‘Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye!’ said William.
‘You know I can’t sing it for bawlin’ me eyes out. What’ll it be, then?’ she asked Bella.
The fiddle answered.
Maureen laughed, nodded to the fiddler, and sang.
I’ll tell me ma when I go home
Th’ boys won’t leave th’ girls alone.
They pull my hair, they stole my comb,
But that’s all right ’til I go home.
She is handsome, she is pretty,
She’s th’ belle of Belfast city.
She is courtin’, one, two, three.
Please won’t you tell me, who is she?
Albert Mooney says he loves her.
All th’ boys are fightin’ for her.
They rap at th’ door an’ they ring th’ bell
Sayin’, Oh, my true love are ye well?
Out she comes as white as snow,
Rings on her fingers, bells on her toes.
Ol’ Jenny Murphy says she’ll die
If she don’t get th’ fellow with th’ rovin’ eye.
Let th’ wind an’ th’ rain an’ th’ hail blow high
An’ th’ snow come shovelin’ from th’ sky…
Bella tapped her foot, bore down on the tune, and circled back to the opening lines.
‘But that’s all right ’til I go home!’ The music ended on a high, comic note that gave them all a laugh.
Maureen stood unmoving for a moment, spent and breathless. Seamus bowed to the fiddler and then to Maureen. William thumped his cane, and all the rest put in their money’s worth.
The concert was over. Bella lowered the fiddle and bow. A smile played at the corners of her mouth.
‘Brava! Brava!’ yelled the club, as Bella disappeared along the stair hall and Maureen returned to her chair.
‘Thank you,’ he said with feeling. ‘Well done.’
He wanted it all to happen again, the music had flown so quickly. They had been given rage, mourning, hope, laughter-and joy-they had also been given joy.
Cynthia was embracing Anna, Anna was kissing Maureen, Seamus was slapping William on the back.
‘What did you make of that?’ asked his astonished wife.
‘Camp meeting.’ The finest half hour of camp meeting he’d ever seen, and he’d seen a few.
He embraced Anna with great feeling. ‘There,’ he said.
‘There,’ she said, laughing through tears.
‘Will she come back and join us?’
‘She gave us all she had just now.’
‘Rev’rend,’ said William, who was dressed to the nines in a sport coat and tie, ‘have an Irish whiskey, ’t will be good f’r ye.’
‘How good for me do you think it might be?’ he asked.
‘’t will give ye a good laugh and a long sleep,’ said the old man.
‘A very attractive benefit, but I’m going to hold off. However-before I go home, William, we’ll have a shot of the Irish together, just you and me.’
‘At Joe Kennedy’s or Broughadoon?’
‘Broughadoon. I’ll challenge you to a game of checkers.’
‘Done, sir,’ said William.
Maureen handed around a tray. ‘If you won’t slake th’ thirst, have a sweet, then.’
‘I’ll pass, and thank you. God’s blessing on you, dear lady, you’ve helped raise a young genius.’
‘She’s not a bad girl a’tall, Rev’rend, not deep down. As for m’self, I was a very bad girl.’
‘I’m not believing that.’
‘You should have seen th’ tricks I was up to with th’ lads hereabout-there was a Daniel, a James, two Roberts, an’ a Paddy-an’ all after marryin’ me. I turned my mother’s hair white as any fleece. A willful scut I was.’
‘I can’t imagine…’
‘Aye, an’ save your tryin’; I’ve done my confessin’ an’ he’s put the all of it as far as th’ east is from th’ west.’
‘What happened to change things?’
‘My oul’ mother prayed for me, and m’ grandmother, to boot.’
‘That’ll do it,’ he said.
‘I lived forty happy years with Tarry, an’ niver a bitter word between us.’
‘Now, Maureen,’ said Anna.
‘Ah, well, one or two is all. So you see, Rev’rend, there’s always hope, for I don’t think I came out too badly, thanks to God in ’is mercy.’
‘Amen,’ he said. ‘You were wonderful tonight. ’
Maureen laughed. ‘’t wasn’t only th’ guests got a surprise out of th’ evenin’.’
He glanced up then and saw Liam, standing by the sepia photographs as if dazed, his face wearing the flat, pasty look. They made eye contact; Liam lifted his hand in a gesture which he didn’t understand.
He excused himself and went to him. ‘What is it?’
Liam grasped his arm; they walked along the hall and into the dining room.
‘The Barret,’ whispered Liam.
But there was no Barret.
Except for the sconces and two empty picture hooks, the wall above the sideboard was bare.
Seventeen
7:15 a.m.
Warm, clear day predicted
Broughadoon
Dear Henry,
Up later than usual-having coffee at our table by the window and taking advantage of the rare quiet moment around this place.
There’s nothing so bad it couldn’t be worse, say the Irish, and turns out they’re right. After the shock and nuisance of the cupboard business, comes the theft of a valuable painting from the dining room while guests and staff gathered in the library, innocent as babes.
Appears to have been lifted off the picture hooks and ferried out the side doors to the garden, with no footprints to be found anywhere on the property (due in part to a considerable amount of pea gravel around the lodge). No tire tracks in the lane leading to the main road. It’s as if the picture, valued at roughly 350,000 in American dollars and largely uninsured, was taken up in the air.
The Gardai (or perhaps it is Garda, I can’t seem to get it straight) swarmed the place. Photos taken-a rogue’s gallery if you ever saw one-four guards, a detective, and a video of all interviews with guests, etc., keeping the lot of us up past one in the morning. I slept so poorly that I rose at the usual time just to have the misery over with, and prayed the Morning Office-you, Peggy, and Sister faithfully in my petitions. Fell asleep in the chair and reduced the deficit by two hours.