Born in Fire
Page 42
She wanted the wall of the breastplate thin enough so that light could seep and be refracted through it. This required additional trips for heating and careful patient work with tools for flattening and for adding the slight curve she envisioned.
Hours after she’d blown the first gather, she placed the vessel in the annealing oven and struck the pontil.
It wasn’t until she’d set both temperature and time that she felt the cramps in her hands, the knots in her shoulders and neck.
And the emptiness in her belly.
No scraping out of a can tonight, she decided. She would celebrate with a meal and a pint at the pub.
Maggie didn’t ask herself why, after pining for solitude, she now hurried toward company. She’d been home for three days and had spoken to no one but Brianna. And then only briefly and angrily.
Maggie was sorry for it now, sorry that she hadn’t tried harder to understand Brianna’s position. Her sister was always in the middle, the unlucky second child of a flawed marriage. Instead of leaping for her sister’s throat, she should have taken her oversolicitousness toward their mother in stride. And she should have told Brianna what she’d learned from Christine Sweeney. It would be interesting to gauge Brianna’s reaction to the news of their mother’s past.
But that would have to wait. She wanted an undemanding hour with people she knew, over a hot meal and a cold beer. It would take her mind off the work that had been driving her for days, and off the fact that she’d yet to hear from Rogan.
Because the evening was fine and she wanted to work out the worst of her kinks, she straddled her bicycle and began the three-mile trek into the village.
The long days of summer had begun. The sun was brilliant and pleasantly warm, keeping many of the farmers out in their fields long after their supper was over. The curving narrow road was flanked on both sides by high hedgerows that provided no shoulder and gave Maggie the impression of riding down a long, sweet-smelling tunnel. She passed a car, gave the driver a wave and felt the breeze of its passing flutter her jeans.
Pedaling hard, more for the fun than because she was in a hurry, she burst out of the tunnel of hedges into the sheer breathless beauty of the valley.
The sun dashed off the tin roof of a hay barn and dazzled her eyes. The road was smoother now, if no wider, but she slowed, simply to enjoy the evening breeze and the lingering sunlight.
She caught the scent of honeysuckle, of hay, of sweet mown grass. Her mood, which had been manic and restless since her return, began to mellow.
She passed houses with clothes drying on the line and children playing in the yard, and the ruins of castles, majestic still with their gray stones and legends of ghostly inhabitants, a testament to a way of life that still lingered.
She took a curve, caught the bright flash that was the river flowing through high grass and turned away from it toward the village.
The houses were more plentiful now and stood closer together. Some of the newer ones made her sigh with disappointment. They were blocky and plain to her artist’s eye, and usually drab in color. Only the gardens, lush and vivid, saved them from ugliness.
The long last curve took her into the village proper. She passed the butcher’s, the chemist’s, O’Ryan’s little food store and the tiny, neat hotel that had once belonged to her grandfather.
Maggie paused to study the building a moment, trying to imagine her mother living there as a girl. A lovely girl, according to Christine Sweeney’s report, with the voice of an angel.
If it were true, why had there been so little music in the house? And why, Maggie wondered, had there never been a mention, a hint of Maeve’s talent?
She would ask, Maggie decided. And there was likely no place better than O’Malley’s.
As she pulled her bike to the curb Maggie noticed a family of tourists wandering on foot, shooting videos and looking enormously pleased with themselves to be committing a quaint Irish village onto tape.
The woman held the small, clever little camera and laughed as she focused on her husband and two children. Maggie must have stepped into the frame, for the woman lifted her hand and waved.
“Good evening, miss.”
“And to you.”
To her credit, Maggie didn’t even snicker when the woman whispered to her husband, “Isn’t her accent wonderful? Ask her about food, John. I’m dying to get more of her on tape.”
“Ah…excuse me.”
Tourism couldn’t hurt the village, Maggie decided, and turned back to play the game. “Can I help you with something this evening?”
“If you wouldn’t mind. We were wondering about a place to eat in town. If you could recommend something.”
“And sure I could do that.” Because they looked so delighted with her, she layered a bit more west county into her speech. “Now, if you’re after wanting something fancy, you couldn’t do better but to drive along this road another, oh, fifteen minutes, and you could have the very king of meals at Dromoland Castle. It’ll be hard on your wallet, but your taste buds will be in heaven.”
“We’re not dressed for a fancy meal,” the woman put in. “Actually, we were hoping for something simple right here in the village.”
“If you’re in the mood for a bit of pub grub”—she winked at the two children, who were eyeing her as if she’d stepped off a light-flashing UFO—“you’ll find O’Malley’s to your liking, I’m sure. His chips are as good as anyone’s.”
“That’s means french fries,” the woman translated. “We just arrived this morning, from America,” she told Maggie. “I’m afraid we don’t know much about the local customs. Are children permitted in the bars—pubs?”
“This is Ireland. Children are welcome anywhere, anywhere a’tall. That’s O’Malley’s there.” She gestured toward the low plastered block building with dark trim. “I’m going there meself. They’d be pleased to have you and your family for a meal.”
“Thank you.” The man beamed at her, the children stared and the woman had yet to take the camera from in front of her face. “We’ll give it a try.”
“Enjoy your meal, then, and the rest of your stay.” Maggie turned and sauntered down the sidewalk and into O’Malley’s. It was dim, smoky and smelled of frying onions and beer.
“And how are you, Tim?” Maggie asked as she settled herself at the bar.
Hours after she’d blown the first gather, she placed the vessel in the annealing oven and struck the pontil.
It wasn’t until she’d set both temperature and time that she felt the cramps in her hands, the knots in her shoulders and neck.
And the emptiness in her belly.
No scraping out of a can tonight, she decided. She would celebrate with a meal and a pint at the pub.
Maggie didn’t ask herself why, after pining for solitude, she now hurried toward company. She’d been home for three days and had spoken to no one but Brianna. And then only briefly and angrily.
Maggie was sorry for it now, sorry that she hadn’t tried harder to understand Brianna’s position. Her sister was always in the middle, the unlucky second child of a flawed marriage. Instead of leaping for her sister’s throat, she should have taken her oversolicitousness toward their mother in stride. And she should have told Brianna what she’d learned from Christine Sweeney. It would be interesting to gauge Brianna’s reaction to the news of their mother’s past.
But that would have to wait. She wanted an undemanding hour with people she knew, over a hot meal and a cold beer. It would take her mind off the work that had been driving her for days, and off the fact that she’d yet to hear from Rogan.
Because the evening was fine and she wanted to work out the worst of her kinks, she straddled her bicycle and began the three-mile trek into the village.
The long days of summer had begun. The sun was brilliant and pleasantly warm, keeping many of the farmers out in their fields long after their supper was over. The curving narrow road was flanked on both sides by high hedgerows that provided no shoulder and gave Maggie the impression of riding down a long, sweet-smelling tunnel. She passed a car, gave the driver a wave and felt the breeze of its passing flutter her jeans.
Pedaling hard, more for the fun than because she was in a hurry, she burst out of the tunnel of hedges into the sheer breathless beauty of the valley.
The sun dashed off the tin roof of a hay barn and dazzled her eyes. The road was smoother now, if no wider, but she slowed, simply to enjoy the evening breeze and the lingering sunlight.
She caught the scent of honeysuckle, of hay, of sweet mown grass. Her mood, which had been manic and restless since her return, began to mellow.
She passed houses with clothes drying on the line and children playing in the yard, and the ruins of castles, majestic still with their gray stones and legends of ghostly inhabitants, a testament to a way of life that still lingered.
She took a curve, caught the bright flash that was the river flowing through high grass and turned away from it toward the village.
The houses were more plentiful now and stood closer together. Some of the newer ones made her sigh with disappointment. They were blocky and plain to her artist’s eye, and usually drab in color. Only the gardens, lush and vivid, saved them from ugliness.
The long last curve took her into the village proper. She passed the butcher’s, the chemist’s, O’Ryan’s little food store and the tiny, neat hotel that had once belonged to her grandfather.
Maggie paused to study the building a moment, trying to imagine her mother living there as a girl. A lovely girl, according to Christine Sweeney’s report, with the voice of an angel.
If it were true, why had there been so little music in the house? And why, Maggie wondered, had there never been a mention, a hint of Maeve’s talent?
She would ask, Maggie decided. And there was likely no place better than O’Malley’s.
As she pulled her bike to the curb Maggie noticed a family of tourists wandering on foot, shooting videos and looking enormously pleased with themselves to be committing a quaint Irish village onto tape.
The woman held the small, clever little camera and laughed as she focused on her husband and two children. Maggie must have stepped into the frame, for the woman lifted her hand and waved.
“Good evening, miss.”
“And to you.”
To her credit, Maggie didn’t even snicker when the woman whispered to her husband, “Isn’t her accent wonderful? Ask her about food, John. I’m dying to get more of her on tape.”
“Ah…excuse me.”
Tourism couldn’t hurt the village, Maggie decided, and turned back to play the game. “Can I help you with something this evening?”
“If you wouldn’t mind. We were wondering about a place to eat in town. If you could recommend something.”
“And sure I could do that.” Because they looked so delighted with her, she layered a bit more west county into her speech. “Now, if you’re after wanting something fancy, you couldn’t do better but to drive along this road another, oh, fifteen minutes, and you could have the very king of meals at Dromoland Castle. It’ll be hard on your wallet, but your taste buds will be in heaven.”
“We’re not dressed for a fancy meal,” the woman put in. “Actually, we were hoping for something simple right here in the village.”
“If you’re in the mood for a bit of pub grub”—she winked at the two children, who were eyeing her as if she’d stepped off a light-flashing UFO—“you’ll find O’Malley’s to your liking, I’m sure. His chips are as good as anyone’s.”
“That’s means french fries,” the woman translated. “We just arrived this morning, from America,” she told Maggie. “I’m afraid we don’t know much about the local customs. Are children permitted in the bars—pubs?”
“This is Ireland. Children are welcome anywhere, anywhere a’tall. That’s O’Malley’s there.” She gestured toward the low plastered block building with dark trim. “I’m going there meself. They’d be pleased to have you and your family for a meal.”
“Thank you.” The man beamed at her, the children stared and the woman had yet to take the camera from in front of her face. “We’ll give it a try.”
“Enjoy your meal, then, and the rest of your stay.” Maggie turned and sauntered down the sidewalk and into O’Malley’s. It was dim, smoky and smelled of frying onions and beer.
“And how are you, Tim?” Maggie asked as she settled herself at the bar.
