Harbour of my Tomorrows

By Valerie Wiseman

Inspired by True Events From the famine-ravaged fields of Ireland to the peaceful fishing village of Fortune Harbour, Newfoundland, Harbour of my Tomorrows takes the reader on an unforgettable journey of adventure, suspense, and love. John Gavin’s tale begins in County Cork, Ireland, in 1852. Orphaned at a young age, John and his brother, Luke, find solace in each other and the friends they meet in their travels, but shadows of tragedy, betrayal, and murder dog their every step. And when one brother is conscripted by the Royal Navy and sent to fight in the Crimean War, both John and Luke will face their greatest challenge yet: separation, and the uncertainty of whether brotherly love can stand the test of time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flanker Press
• Release date: May 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781771172400

Valerie Wiseman

Although Harbour of my Tomorrows is Valerie Wiseman’s first novel, she is not new to writing, having expressed her thoughts in poetry, music, and live theatre. When she first saw the photograph of John Gavin (her husband’s great-grandfather), Valerie was intrigued. Soon she became captivated. His story had to be told and she gladly accepted the task. Before long, it had become a labour of love. Valerie is a member of the Writers’ Alliance of Newfoundland and Labrador (WANL) and of the Society of Composers, Authors and Music Publishers of Canada (SOCAN). She resides in Fortune Harbour, Newfoundland, with her husband, Joe, and their Newfoundland dog, Tara.

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HARBOUR

of my

TOMORROWS

Inspired by True Events

Valerie Wiseman

flanker press limited

st. john’s, nl

2010

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Wiseman, Valerie, 1951-

Harbour of my tomorrows / Valerie Wiseman.

ISBN 978-1-897317-65-5 (print) 978-1-771172-40-0 (epub)

978-1-771172417 (kindle)

I. Title.

PS8645.I78H37 2010 C813’.6 C2010-901812-5

—————————————————————————————————

© 2010 by Valerie Wiseman

All rights reserved. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon maybe reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, One Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well.

Printed in Canada

Flanker Press

P.O. Box 2522, Station C

St. John’s, NL A1C 6K1 Canada

Toll-free: 1-866-739-4420

www.flankerpress.com

Cover Design: Adam Freake

15 14 13 12 11 10 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities; the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $24.3 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada; the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation.

Dedication

I dedicate this book to the memory of John Gavin, a young Irishman who left behind his wit, humour, and songs to trickle down through the tributaries of time. Today, wherever his descendants gather, they still make the rafters ring with their music, make the floorboards creak from their dancing, and still sport his twinkle in their eyes.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Acknowledgements

About the Author

One

Tuam, County Galway

Ireland, 1852

A detachment of horse police made its way through the marketplace. This presence was often a deterrent for young ruffians planning to animate the evil lurking in their treacherous minds. But it was also the sight that set John Gavin’s heart beating so fast that he momentarily forgot what good fortune the day had bestowed upon him. He had sold Aunt Mary’s handmade butter and a fair amount of eggs. Even if this transaction had taken him the better part of the day, it was worth celebrating. Although this would add another small quantity toward their rent, it could never take away the threat of eviction that hung over the Irish farmer like the blackest of clouds, always on the verge of eruption.

Relying on his peripheral view of the mounted men, he caught the last glance of them as they disappeared into the vast body of Irish buyers and sellers.

Aye, John, ye look loik ye’d been seein’ a spirit, Jim Hayes laughed as he patted his good friend on the back.

John laughed too and shook his head to wipe away a terrifying childhood memory. When he was quite young, his mother had lost sight of him on a crowded street in Queenstown. In an instant he could have lost his life under the hooves of the horses, if not for the fast thinking of a caring stranger. That had been a different county, a different time. But still, the sight of the mounted men swiftly travelling through the crowded street always made him a little anxious. He was almost annoyed with himself for letting it show.

John was strong in body and mind and was blessed with deep green eyes that kept their spark during adversity. He was just eleven when Ireland was brought to her knees by the Great Famine. The failure of the potato crop, coupled with the endless division of tenant farms, had played important roles in the country’s decline. The potato had been the single staple food for millions of poor Irish farmers. When the blight hit, almost overnight, devastation began.

Even now, at seventeen, John’s memories were still as clear as sunlight. Sometimes at night, before the merciful hand of sleep took him to better places, he saw in the darkness the face of his mother. When he was growing up on their small farm she had sung old songs to him, told him stories that made him laugh and held him when he was ill and afraid. Sadly, the inevitable vision of her skeletal body being lowered into a grave without dignity, prayers, or even a coffin, was always his last sight in the darkness.

The famine had devastated Ireland with a million people dying from the effects of starvation and as many making their exodus to America and Australia. But John could not see past the smaller picture: his home, his family, and his own little world. Losing his mother was John’s heartbreak, so when his father was lowered into the ground not long after, he had neither the capacity nor the strength to shed any more tears.

John and his younger brother, Luke, had been born in Ballygarvan, County Cork. Their father, Patrick Gavin, a third-generation tenant farmer, had instilled in his sons a respect for the soil and the love of Ireland. From their mother, Molly, John and Luke had acquired a precious and uncommon gift for children in their class; she had taught her sons to read and write.

After the deaths of their beloved parents, the orphaned brothers had been sheltered in one of the many workhouses situated in County Cork. Multitudes of homeless and starving peasants, desperately seeking shelter and food, had caused the institutions to swell beyond their intended capacity. John and Luke had clung to each other in the midst of starvation and disease. They had floated in and out of consciousness for days. They had no way of knowing that their father’s sister, Mary Burke, had been searching for them in all the workhouses and soup kitchens in the county. During this time, typhus and other dreaded diseases had run rampant and human beings were dropping like so many proverbial flies.

It took weeks before Mary finally found the boys. They had been as close to death as one could be without interment.

Mary and her husband, William, took John and Luke back to County Galway with them. There were few farms in each county that weren’t affected by the potato blight of the 1840s. How fortunate for John and Luke that the Burke farm had been one of them. Fortune had smiled on them once again, for Mary and William had been childless. Though the Burkes were poor, giving the lads a home had been invaluable.

William and Mary lived on a small farm five miles outside Tuam. The town was situated twenty miles north of Galway City. For two boys who had been starving and destitute, sleeping in the musky loft of a relative’s cabin was like resting their heads in the finest of homes. For the work John did on William’s farm he was eventually paid a small wage.

Aunt Mary possessed none of the attributes of their mother. Her appearance was solemn and her movements rigid. When the boys showed any sign of affection toward her, she would return a blank stare, clear her throat, and nervously smooth down her long apron and resume her domestic duties.

Their mother, Molly Carey from Newport, had lovely long brown hair and a beautiful face full of smiles. John had often come into the cabin and his mother and father would be embracing. He had not seen that once between Aunt Mary and Uncle William.

John’s father, Patrick Gavin, had been known for his humour and his strength. When John was getting older, Patrick could still set him and his brother Luke on one of his outstretched arms. This he did as amusement for the boys. Often, Molly would hear her children’s laughter mingled with Patrick’s. This always gave her a warm feeling and would strengthen, once again, the love she felt for her husband. The decision she made, when she had left her family in Newport to marry him, would be reinforced each time she heard his laughter or felt the strength of his loving arms.

Patrick had been a hard worker who, unlike some Irishmen, didn’t spend the little money he had on porter. He always had a wee drink for special occasions, but other than that, Molly and the boys had been his life.

But the famine had taken Patrick and Molly away forever. Luke would cry at night until John convinced him that it was better to live with their father’s sister than with strangers. One night he finally went to sleep without crying. As Luke slept John had said one more prayer for his parents and drifted off with his brother.

——————

Jim had spent the last couple of hours throwing hints about his parched lips and how good it would be to wet his whistle at Egan’s pub. With twilight falling, the feeling heightened.

I’m t’inkin’ a pint o’ porter is in good order, don’t ye, John?

Aye, Jim, ye’re always usin’ yer head an’ I loik yer t’inkin’.

John put his money in his deepest pocket and the two young men walked across the street to Egan’s pub. The room was dimly lit with oil lamps in each corner. To the right of the entrance was the semblance of a band. An old man who was half asleep or inebriated was screeching a tune on the fiddle while another blew into a flute. The pub was alive with loud exchanges of laughter and reeked of pipe smoke which clouded the already musky atmosphere.

Jim found a small table in the corner next to the would-be band. He had been here several times before but this was the first time for John. So Jim had an air of confidence. He would be the one to show John how to ease into the surroundings. John was amused by Jim’s apparent knowledge, so he let him flaunt his experiences without disapproval.

John leaned back and focused on the fiddle player. He was hoping the crowd would quiet down and let him hear the music. But it would take a miracle for a pub full of intoxicated Irishmen to lower their voices.

Go on, John, would ye be playin’ a tune on the fiddle, Jim coaxed.

Ye’d best be quiet, Jim, John whispered. These people don’t want to hear me play the fiddle, an’ not all music men will be wantin’ someone to show ’em how ’tis done.

Jim jumped up and walked over to the bar.

Two pints of porter, Mr. Egan, an’ by the way, m’friend Johnny Gavin is ’ere. Ye know, the one I told ye ’bout. He’s the best fiddle player yer ears will ever want to hear.

Egan leaned over the bar and ran his freckly hand along his sallow face. Amused by young Jim’s apparent enthusiasm, he nodded in agreement.

I’ll be wantin’ to hear this young Johnny. Tell him to come up, Egan said, while wiping the bar of spilled porter which would frequently gather under the arms of those who stood tapping in time with the music.

Jim headed back to the table, excited by Egan’s approval.

After a little more coaxing, John slowly walked over to the flute player, a gentle-looking man who wore a look of surprise but was willing to give this young lad a listen. He wore a smile that was warm and friendly, but at no time did he exemplify the rowdy and high-spirited temperament usually found in the Irish musician.

Egan walked out from behind the bar and took a deep breath.

If I could be hovin’ yer attention; a young farmer, by the name of Johnny Gavin, will be givin’ us a tune on the fiddle. I trust we’ll all be givin’ him a fine welcome.

John’s heart sank down into his stomach as everyone turned in his direction. He was overwhelmed with the mixed feelings of elation and panic.

On that warm night in April 1852, Egan’s pub probably boasted about thirty patrons. John’s thoughts were swimming in his head, soon to be washed down with porter. He couldn’t help but think of Uncle William, who was quiet and unassuming and only possessed one vice: the love of the drink. Still, the one thing he did for John was to introduce the fiddle. He would let him bring out the music that was already in him. Sometimes John would surprise himself when hearing the way he would emulate William Burke. But this was the first time he had played for anyone other than his uncle’s household and, of course, Jim.

He rather shyly took the fiddle from the old man who looked relieved, freeing him to down a few more swallows. Some woman, three times the age of John and twice as rough as any man in the pub, shouted above the crowd.

Aye, ye don’t hov to play that t’ing, jest stand there an’ let me look at ye.

John laughed and tasted another mouthful of porter. Now he was ready!

"This is the tune m’uncle taught me. It’s called The Rose of Tralee."

The bow touched the strings with precision and ability beyond his years. The loud roar had dissipated, and in an instant John had captured the imagination of all. Sounds so honest and peaceful filled the air. Those who knew the words quietly sang under their breaths.

When John was through, he modestly but confidently walked over to Jim, who was beaming from ear to ear.

I suppose ye’ll be wantin’ another pint for that, Jim said with a grin.

The crowd clapped and wanted more. For a moment in time, the beautiful sounds of the fiddle had put the eager listeners in a place where there were no memories of famine, rebellion, or religious strife.

For John, his first night at Egan’s pub was a good one. He played several more tunes and before long the flute player became accustomed to his style. It was a good night for Egan as well. He had learned years before that singing, clapping in time with music, and dancing could work up a mighty thirst. The pub had been his inheritance and he was always trying to find new ways to entice the thirsty. He would keep this young farmer in mind.

The two friends left the pub with the adulation of the crowd. They climbed on the small cart pulled by a long-legged horse which usually represented the poor farmer. On the road they laughed and sang old songs, mostly in Gaelic, that they were taught as children.

Jim wasn’t John’s only friend, but he was by far the best. Jim had travelled from Ballyduff, County Waterford, to Galway a couple of years ago, a wayward soul looking for work anywhere he could get it. He had moved around a lot for a young lad, even worked on the docks in Liverpool at one time. So he had stories to tell, some embellished just enough to keep him interesting. Jim was a personable lad with a distinct jawline and a round healthy face, lending itself occasionally to the telltale redness left from too many late nights for one of his tender years. He had one brother, back in Ballyduff, who had taken over the family farm, but Jim Hayes wanted whatever life had to offer. For now he was content to work as a servant on Flanagan’s farm, down the road from William Burke.

——————

The road was smooth going and the evening air took on the scent of early blooming flowers. When they came upon the narrowest part of the dirt road, there was a sudden rustling of the lichen and fern along the sides of the ditches. Suddenly, three figures appeared in the middle of the road. It was late evening and darkness was gradually falling, so the three assailants appeared as silhouettes against the sky. They were holding sticks and large stones which they had every intention of using against the two young men.

John, like his father, never went looking for trouble, but he was well able to take care of himself and his friends. John knew that many a man had to defend himself on the road coming from market. He would be travelling home with the moneys received for his sale or the items he had bought or bartered. Either was enough to incite bad blood.

There was still enough daylight to illuminate the face of one of the attackers, who immediately John recognized as one of the faces in Egan’s pub.

The horse made a sudden jerking movement which landed the two on the road where the attackers were advancing. With a sudden blow to the side of his skull, Jim Hayes lay on the narrow dirt road. The three gathered around John with choreographed precision, no doubt acquired through experience. The tall one loomed at John, wielding a large stone that still dripped Jim’s blood. A surge of strength and rage zoomed through John’s body like a small campfire caught by a sudden change of wind. Momentarily oblivious to the other two, John blocked the arm holding the bloody weapon. In an instant, the rock fell to the road and with one blow from John’s tightly clenched fist, the tall young man fell beside it.

The second man, short and stocky, lunged at John, unnerved by the sight of his fallen companion. John was ready. In an instant, he turned the astounded man around and used him as a weapon. With the strength inherited from his father, he brought the heads of the two together to fine effect. The blow had annihilated their senses and destabilized their legs. Three of the attackers were out for the count; the bloody ambush was over almost before it began.

John ran to Jim’s side. He thanked every saint he could think of to find that Jim was still breathing.

Stay wit’ me, Jim . . . are ye good enough to stand? John said nervously.

I t’ink so. Sure, ’twas more of a fright than anyt’ing, Jim said, wiping away the trickles of blood.

John helped Jim to his feet and, as they slowly trudged away, they could hear the three wretched souls muttering behind them.

We’ll meet again, fiddle player were the haunting words that John heard as the three, defeated and wounded, swiftly left the road and soon were out of sight across a meadow.

We should hov killed them where they stood, Jim said, hanging on to John’s old coat, which had been worn by many men before and had seen better times.

An’ then what? Be hanged in front of the town gaol while five or six t’ousan’ looks on? I don’t want to spend m’last night in a condemned cell. I’d loik m’last night to be spent in the arms of the fairest girl in Ireland, an’ me about ninety-nine years old. An’ who is the ‘we’ ye’ll be talkin’ ’bout, Jim? I seem to recall ye were lying down while I was takin’ care o’ them, an’ there could be more of them somewhere ’round wit’ a different story for the aut’orities. Aye, ye’re all right now, Jim. They won’t be botherin’ us again.

——————

John saw his friend to his place of lodging at Flanagan’s farm. For two years, Jim’s bed of straw had been situated in the loft above the back room. The main cottage boasted nine rooms with windows covered by English lace curtains. Flanagan had fine furniture in each room and the sanded wooden floors were covered with soft colourful rugs. He held twenty-seven acres of well-tilled land which included a large meadow and a high surrounding stone wall. This was just one of the farms owned by Flanagan. He had several acres scattered around the area in different parts of the county. He was one of the very few landlords who actually lived on his property. His kind spirit and generous ways put him, once again, in the minority.

The door opened and Flanagan stood there with a pistol in hand, which his father had owned and used before him.

Who’ll be comin’ here this time o’ night?

Immediately, he recognized the voices in the darkness.

John blurted out the whole story while Flanagan took in the events of the night as if he had been there himself. John was very taken with the generous way Flanagan had treated Jim. He realized then the reason why Jim had not spoken of moving on for quite a while. This elderly, kind man had given him a home.

——————

The morning was glorious. During the night, the fields had felt the fury of May’s heavy rains. But with the morning light, a clear blue sky was spreading over the countryside. The sun shot sparkles through the wet meadows, which were alive with a gentle wave of primrose and heather, set to dance, ever so lightly, by the warm spring breeze.

This would be the first trip to Tuam since the attack on the narrow road.

John walked across the cabin floor, past the open fire where an iron bar, set horizontally through the stone chimney, suspended the only potato pot that Aunt Mary would ever own. John sat at the table with Luke who talked on incessantly about a book Father Kelly had given him. He would look at the pictures of wild animals of other countries a thousand times and see something new each time. John had seen them all so often that he couldn’t bear to view them again. Luke was eleven now. John found it hard to believe that this was age when their parents had died and left him to take care of a five-year-old child. Luke resembled his mother and, sometimes when he laughed, John was brought back to the days when she filled their poor cabin with an abundance of sunshine and happy hours. A few years ago the resemblance of Luke to their mother was more than John could take, but as time passed, it brought him untold comfort.

They were suddenly aware of footsteps approaching. A moment later, Father Kelly was blocking all the light from the open doorway. He had the height and physical attributes of a bare-knuckled fighter but the kindest heart the lads had come to know in Galway. His personable manner and winning smile always put people at ease, eliminating any awkwardness that most felt in the presence of clergy. His thick black hair was greying a little but his seventy-one years in the world were not evident by many lines in his face.

Dressed in black from head to toe, Father Kelly walked across the floor of the cabin and sat next to Luke.

Are ye enjoyin’ the book, Luke? he asked, noticing it opened on the table.

Aye, Father, I take it to bed wit’ me so I con be seein’ the pictures when I wake in the mornings.

Luke hunched his shoulders as he smiled and, looking rather shy, thanked him, in Gaelic, for the wonderful gift. "Go raibh maith agat," he said as he turned another page.

Father Kelly turned his attention to William who was leaning against the wall wearing an uncomfortable smirk while trying to mask the face of drunkenness.

William, I got a letter from Father Grady in Wexford an’ he tells me that he’s lost four young lads from his parish last mont’ to the Royal Navy. There were about ten men and a British officer using weapons. I believe they knocked them unconscious an’ dragged them right out of a public house. At least that’s the story Father Grady was given by some of his parishioners. M’guess is that they’re probably still aboard a receiving ship as we speak. Nothing but prison ships, they are. There’s a lot of pride for Irish families when the young lads join up an’ work out their years on the sea but it’s not a happy day when they’re taken by force.

Father Kelly’s concern was unmatched by William’s indifferent glance and unfocused stare.

Sure if they were to be takin’ every young lad from Donegal to Cork, what con a poor farmer be doin’ about it? William muttered under his breath, still smelling of last night’s binge of the drink.

But Father Kelly’s words had struck a chord in John. He knew of this practice of impressing young Irishmen for service in the Royal Navy. No man was safe at home when the captains needed to man their ships. There were many lads who had joined the Navy of their own free will to escape the horrors of the famine. The thought of seeing other countries had an appeal for some as well. Some lads as young as Luke already had a couple of years of service in, working on the high seas. The idea momentarily chilled John’s spine, for he was a landlubber through and through. Just the thought of waking up each morning with the swaying and heaving of the ocean made John nauseous. But he had learned to marginalize any thoughts that had proven to be unsettling for him. He prayed the time would never come when he or Luke would have to work under the authority of the British Admiralty. But the idea seemed so far from reality, here on the farm, that he placed it away in the vault of his seldom-visited thoughts.

For now, he had to go to Tuam on business for his uncle. Jim, of course, would join him down the road.

——————

Nolan Street was never as crowded as on market day, with everything being sold and bartered, from livestock to trinkets and wool. With great effort, John and Jim made their way through the crowd. John jumped to one side, almost hit by a turf wagon. Tuam’s business had picked up after the famine, making the demand for the market so great it was held two or three times a week.

The pair made their way to Brennan’s shop, where a short, heavy-set, offensive-looking man leaned on the open doorway glaring at the two as if he was suspecting them of the most despicable crimes. He was at least in his sixty-fifth year, garbed in an apron permanently scarred by the droppings of years in the wine, spirits, and groceries trade.

William had always treated himself to a small jar of imported rum whenever he felt that he deserved it, or for any other reason. He was not a person who liked being among crowds and the city made him nervous and uneasy, so John would make his trips to Tuam for him. At least John was serving some purpose other than working the farm with an untiring will he inherited from his father. And so it went. Whenever William needed anything from town, John would bring the town to him.

Would ye be fillin’ this wit’ rum, Mr. Brennan? John asked, producing a small jar William kept just for such an occasion. They watched as Brennan scooped up the rum from an old vat and filled the jar to his liking.

If that’s all ye’ll be wantin’, give me yer money an’ move on, an’ don’t ye be touchin’ anyt’ing on yer way out. An’ make sure ye’ll be takin’ that other wretched lad wit’ ye.

The two left Brennan’s shop behind, hardly able to contain their laughter. All of a sudden, they were stopped dead in their tracks by a soft feminine voice.

Well, a handsome young lad an’ a jar of rum; sure, that’s what wishes are made of.

John turned around with sudden interest. There in the noonday sun, he beheld the most beautiful creature God had put on earth. His heart led his mouth into an awkward silence.

Sure, I was t’inkin’ how good it would be if this handsome young lad wit’ the jar of rum could only speak.

John tried not to let it show, the effect her beauty had on him.

Aye, I con certainly speak . . . as m’friends con tell ye that, indeed, I talk too much."

An’ would this handsome young lad, wit’ a jar of rum, who talks too much, hov a name?

John Gavin, m’lady, he said as he animated an exaggerated bow. An’ ye are?

Maggie Ryan, kind sir, she said as she duplicated his movements.

John tried not to stare at her, but as she spoke, he had lost his ability to blink. Her long red hair was tied behind with a green ribbon, which was failing miserably to hold back the curls that framed her face. They just moved freely in the warm breeze. Her small waist was clinched by a tight belt, which merged her white lace blouse with her long black skirts in perfect proportion. But it was her lips that John noticed most. He wanted to kiss them, and feel the warmth of them on his. John knew a young woman like her would have many admirers, and as she flirtatiously let her shawl fall off her shoulder, John realized that he too had fallen victim.

Well, Johnny, I t’ink I’ll grab a pint, Jim blurted out as he headed across the street to Egan’s pub.

I’d best be lavin’ too, or I’ll be late for m’work, Maggie said with a sudden hurried voice as she started down the crowded street.

Where might that be? John yelled above the crowd.

Ryan’s Eating House were the last words he heard as she disappeared out of sight.

——————

I tell ye, John, she’s too old for ye. Must be all of twenty-six or twenty-seven, Jim advised as they travelled the narrow road, which soon left the crowded streets behind and welcomed the two young men with a late afternoon smell of May flowers. There was an occasional sight of a blackbird or a sudden quick movement of a grey squirrel, but everything went unnoticed by John. His heart was filled with beautiful Maggie. He could still smell the scent of lavender that had surrounded her in the street.

In the week that followed, he saw her in his thoughts as he worked the land. He saw her as he walked the narrow path; he saw her as he played the soft haunting sounds on the fiddle; he saw her in the early hours after everyone else had fallen asleep. He knew he had to go into town and visit Ryan’s.

——————

Most of the time, William Burke was dressed in the old clothes that held profoundly the smell of accidents that took place during his drunken comas. No matter how much Aunt Mary washed them in the small tub behind the cabin, the evidence would prevail. But John knew that behind the makeshift door leading to the small windowless room where William and Mary slept, there was an old suit. It consisted of a blue flannel coat with tails, trousers resting just over the knee, and a fine waistcoat with a matching collar attached. It hung on a nail, covered with a piece of cloth salvaged from Mary’s wedding dress. This was the suit that William had worn for every special occasion that Mary had dragged him to in the years they had been together. William and that old suit had started life with Mary at the same time.

John thought the suit needed new blood and he felt the desperate need to impress the lovely Maggie. In spite of William’s bent shoulders and sluggish posture, they were still about the same size. He was alone in the cabin, so he thought he would make his move. There was no mirror anywhere to be seen, but the musty old suit felt good. As he strutted out the door, he felt an air of importance, like Father Kelly or Martin Walsh, the banker. This time he would travel to Tuam alone.

John sat on a large stone across the street from Ryan’s eating establishment. He suddenly felt uneasy about his decision. He pictured Maggie showing anger and disgust at the presumptuous manner in which he was acting. A moment later he visualized her holding the hand of a gentleman of high rank, whose attire was new and up-to-date and didn’t smell like a windowless room in a mud cabin.

All of a sudden he was forced out of his trance by the unmistakable sound of the bell ringing from the tower of the Roman Catholic Cathedral. Through the front window of Ryan’s, he saw her. She was handing two gentlemen their coats and hats and smiling graciously while showing them out the door. Just before returning to the dining room, she glanced in John’s direction. Immediately she recognized him and motioned for him to join her across the street. All the concerns he possessed a moment before dissipated in the mere joy of seeing her again.

Well, John, ye must be all dressed up for the funeral, Maggie said as she looked him up and down.

He knew of no such event, but in an instant of panic he answered in the affirmative.

Maggie shook her head sadly and went on.

"He was a kind soul, a