Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (48 page)

“I’ll put the kettle on,” she said, stepping over boxes to light the new range.

“Will I light the fire?” he asked, “It’s a wee bit damp in here.”

She shook her head resolutely. “No, it’s my job to light the fire, that much I do know.”

She set the kettle to boil, wiped her hands on a tea towel and went to kneel before the hearth, a feeling of reverence settling inside her. It had to be done right, this first fire in their home. It was both the center and the welcome of the place, where the young were brought to cradle and the old to warm their aching bones. It was where the singing and storytelling would be done.

She laid the peat in three lines, placing each with an invocation that she couldn’t remember knowing before this moment.

“In the name of the God of Life
In the name of the God of Peace
And in the name of the God of Grace.

She closed her eyes and stretched her hand forth intoning these words softly;

I will build the hearth
As Mary would build it.
The encirclement of Bride and of Mary
Guarding the hearth, guarding the floor,
Guarding the household all...’

She finished quietly, “Bless this hearth in the name of Saint Brigit, the radiant flame, goddess of fire.”

She opened her eyes and touched the flame to the dry peat, watching as it caught and held, spreading into a soft glow. Casey watched narrow-eyed, to see if the repaired chimney would draw well. He sighed with satisfaction when it became apparent that they weren’t going to be smoked out.

She turned to find him smiling at her, a bemused expression on his face. “What is it?” she asked.

“You. Every time I think I’ve a grasp on the essence of you, ye manage to surprise me.”

“I think Rose must have taught me this when I was little. I don’t remember learning it and yet I knew it.”

“A radiant flame is how ye look right now, with the fire behind ye an’ yer face aglow.” He crossed the floor to where she stood and wrapped his arms around her from behind. She leaned against him gratefully, savoring his warmth.

“Do ye like yer new home then, Jewel?” He sounded half eager for the answer, and half afraid. She saw suddenly how much this all mattered to him. For years he’d only known transitory places of abode. The first home they’d shared had been a two-up, two-down in the Ardoyne that had been burned to the ground during the riots in the summer of ’69. Then the walkup in Southie and the narrow confines of the rooms over the youth center. Before that it had been a five year stretch inside prison walls for him.

And yet, despite the years together and the shared experiences, she knew that to him this was their first home, the one that mattered, because he’d given it to her with his own two hands, because it had been formed, every nail and board and stone of it, with love.

“It’s the home I’ve been waiting for all my life,” she replied softly, and knew that it was true.

“Wishing you always...
Walls for the wind,
A roof for the rain
And tea beside the fire.
Laughter to cheer you,
Those you love near you,
And all that your heart may desire.”

Casey said, reading from the cross-stitch sampler that Peg had made for them shortly after their marriage. Pamela had placed it on the mantel, alongside a set of pewter candlesticks and a pair of doves Casey had carved.

“You seem happy,” she said.

“Aye,” she could feel his smile against her neck, “I suppose I am. I’ve a house, a wife and,” he looked over the lit yard where Finbar had ambled out and was nosing around a guilty looking Lawrence, who was surreptitiously trying to roll his illicit tobacco up his sleeve, “a family. I guess ye could say I’m a man who has everything he wants.”

“Everything?” she asked quietly, taking his callused palm and placing it over the still flat plane of her stomach.

“Aye,” she could feel the smile stretch further, “everything.”

THE VILLAGE OF COOMNABLATH CONSISTED of some one hundred souls, five pubs, several hundred sheep and a Catholic Church whose spires could be seen poking above the tops of the existing trees. It also boasted a hardware store, a post office and a defunct railway station that had shut down service some twenty years earlier.

In true Irish fashion Casey had quickly established which pub was the one he would frequent on a regular basis. At first glance, Pamela had not seen the charm of the place. The front end was a grocery and news stand, and a small snug at the back the limit of the licensed premises. The seating admitted no more than six patrons at a go, but after meeting Owen and his wife Gert, Pamela quickly understood why Casey was so comfortable there.

Owen was roughly the size and shape of a gnome, with a slow amiable manner that put his patrons at ease. Gert, in true Mutt and Jeff fashion, was the epitome of the large German housefrau, though her wit was nimble and her tongue unsparing of those who mistook Owen’s mannerism for a debility of mind. Both grocery and pub were simply called Gallagher’s, that being the surname of Owen and Gert.

When she’d queried Casey about the lack of picturesque names on Irish pubs—for one rarely ran across a Green Dragon or Pig and Poke in the plethora of pubs that dotted the country, as one would every other half mile in England—he ruminated for a moment before replying.

“I’ve never given it much thought, but I suppose it’s because when ye’ve had most everything stripped from ye an’ ye finally manage to get something to call yer own, ye want to stamp it with yer name. If it couldn’t be the land then at least it could be on the buildings. It’s a way I would think of sayin’ ‘this here is mine, my property an’ make no mistake of it.’”

For a city boy Casey had settled into the countryside without apparent effort, as if he’d spent his entire life digging gardens, building sheds and hoeing lazy beds in the dusk of summer nights. He came to bed at night smelling of wood shavings, freshly dug earth and the peppermint soap he favored for bathing. He slept soundly, awoke energized for the day’s tasks and all in all was a man at one with his surroundings.

His contentment was contagious it seemed, for she herself, despite a frisson of underlying tension about her pregnancy, was happy. All the time in Boston she’d been like strung wire, ready to sing with tension at the slightest touch. But now she could feel herself relaxing, with a soft bubbling well of happiness at her core. She found herself lost in small moments, realizing she’d been standing in place for twenty minutes watching Casey work, watching the look of concentration on his face as he shaved long creamy curls of wood off of a plank that would become a door.

He’d a touch with the wood that was magical, within a pile of it he could pick out the one piece that would form itself to his hand and knife and become a wee bird, a puzzle box, a tiny boat made to float on childhood seas. She knew the entire shape of the house was there in his mind, translating itself to his hands as he worked his way through the plans. He wore an absentminded look, always had a pencil tucked behind his ear and often muttered to himself as he scribbled things on bits of grubby paper. In short, he was a man in a state of bliss.

Lawrence, on the contrary, seemed to think the countryside something specifically designed to either terrify or bore him to death. He escaped to Belfast at every opportunity, even taking a job with Pat after school running errands and helping paint the tiny office space that was the entirety of the Fair Housing Council. And where Lawrence went, so went Finbar—down the lanes, in the car, through the narrow Belfast streets, leaving a path of toppling paint cans, muddy paw prints and disgruntled humans in his wake. Happily, both he and his boy were oblivious to these worldly concerns.

Casey had only a few rules where Lawrence was concerned, but on these few points he was adamant—he would be home before dark, or would be lodged in town with Pat, who would make certain there was no crawling out of windows past bedtime. He would attend the local school on weekdays when it resumed in the fall and would only be allowed into town with either himself or Pamela on weeknights. He would respect those whose roof he lived under and do his chores with minimal complaint. And he would be honest at all times about his whereabouts and activities. Casey also reserved the right to say no to any of the above activities and all whereabouts were subject to prior approval. Lawrence submitted to these conditions with a grace so meek as to arouse Casey’s immediate suspicions. For now they were living in a good-humored détente, with each keeping a wary eye upon the other.

Casey’s weekdays were still divided between his construction job and the youth center. Weekends, however, when he wasn’t picking up extra shifts or sorting out ruffian boys, were completely absorbed into the simple routine of home repairs and yard work.

This morning he’d been up with the sun and out working on a small shed he wanted to convert into a workshop for his tools and garden implements. Pamela had heard him humming on his way out, his step light on the stairs, and had smiled to herself before falling back into a heavy sleep, one of the side effects of early pregnancy.

It was possible that his early rising was due in some small part to the cat that had set up house on their front porch, and who howled most mornings from the time dawn cracked the sky until Casey—with curses and imprecations both dark and threatening—went out with the bowl of cream that was the only thing that silenced the howls. They had named him Rusty, due to the rather dirty and unattractive reddish hue he sported. He was also missing half an ear, generally had at least one swollen eye from his latest brawl, and his whiskers sported a terminally singed look.

It wasn’t uncommon to see this ragged-arsed creature—as Casey called Rusty- following Casey about the yard as he did his chores. Casey, despite vehemently insisting that he’d no use for cats, had developed the habit of talking to the cat and conferring with him on various aspects of their work. She could have sworn that only the other morning she’d heard him reciting
Pangur Ban
whilst Rusty sat on top of the lumber pile, blinking out of his one good eye at Casey.

Saturdays had acquired their own rhythm for her as well. She generally had tea and breakfast with Casey and Lawrence, though mostly she just watched them eat of late, being that nausea had taken a strong hold and didn’t seem inclined to leave. Then if she didn’t have to drive Lawrence into the city, she would venture down to the small farmer’s market that was set up near the church. Here there were always treasures to be found and brought away for the week ahead—fresh vegetables and country bread, honey taken from the combs only days before, home brewed jugs of cider and if one knew where to ask, poteen, though other than as a disinfectant or a swift method of blinding oneself, Pamela didn’t see its charms. The wee market was also the hub of village gossip, and a way of quickly summarizing the past week’s events in the moil of one hundred and some odd lives.

People had kept their distance at first. She was a stranger to their world with an even stranger accent. But slowly, as she showed up each Saturday, the women began to chat with her and enquire after the well-being of her family. The men would tip their caps and mutter a brief salutation, which was how they greeted everyone.

She had found an immediate friend in the gruff old Swede whose land bordered their own. Shortly after moving in she’d gone in person to thank him for the gift of the sideboard. The thanks he’d shrugged off, but had invited her in for tea. The ancient farmhouse was alarmingly cluttered, not terribly clean and rather strong with the smell of the four wet dogs that trailed them in and then flopped down beside the fire. However the tea was strong and hot—though the biscuits didn’t bear contemplation—and the company surprisingly good. Though he wasn’t possessed of a glib tongue, Mr. Guderson was a kind man in his own homely way and was happy to show her about his farm, introduce her to his many sheep and his small shaggy donkey. As well as showing her the bits of furniture he was restoring in what she supposed was meant to be the parlor of the farmhouse.

When she’d left he had given her a small wheel of goat cheese, which he’d made himself, and silently patted her hand. Now on Saturdays she would drop by with a loaf of bread, some freshly baked scones and a pot of jam and he would be out in the yard, or the outbuildings, but always near enough to stop and take tea with her. Today he’d a gift for her, and while she hadn’t seen a way to refuse it, she wasn’t looking forward to Casey’s reaction to said offering.

The gift reposed in a large, smelly box in the back seat of the secondhand Citroen that Casey had found at a farm auction. It was, at present, still and quiet, though her ears were still ringing with the noise the box had made all the way home.

She dug the box out of the back seat with great trepidation. It shifted alarmingly in her arms and Finbar came galloping across the yard, long legs getting knotted halfway there and bowling him over in his excitement. His outraged woofs drowned out the plaintive noises the box was now emitting.

She struggled up the front stair, shifting the box to one hip in order to have a free hand with the door. The door however swung open, Casey on the other side of it, a tea towel slung over his shoulder and a hammer in hand.

Pamela smiled weakly and opened her mouth to speak, only to be pre-empted by the box letting out a startlingly loud, “MEEEHHHH!!”

“Ye’ve been at Guderson’s place, haven’t ye?” Casey asked, in what seemed to Pamela, a rather accusatory fashion.

“I have and before you say anything, just let me explain—he’s an orphan.”

Casey raised a sarcastic brow. “Well of course he is. Do we have any other sort about here?”

Pamela sat the by now quaking box down near the hearth. A small black face emerged from the top, followed by a skinny, wrinkly neck. Then came a set of long gangly legs with great knobby knees. The owner of these abundant charms let go of another “MEEEEHHHH!!!” Only this one sounded distinctly distressed.

“He’s hungry,” Pamela said.

“Who the hell
is
he?” Casey asked.