A Turn for the Bad (5 page)

No news. By late evening even Maura was feeling itchy, and she'd never even met John Tully. The general nerviness of the crowd must be getting to her or something. People drifted in, sat for a while, hoping, then wandered out again. Maura wasn't making much money from any of them, but she wasn't about to nag them about it. People were worried, and they wanted to be with other people. If their wives were home with the children, no doubt they were worrying in their own way, imagining what it would be like if their own husband vanished without warning.

She was staring at the darkness outside the windows when Mick came up beside her. “Go home,” he said.

She turned to look at him. “Why?”

“Because there's nothin' to be done here. And it may be that Gillian's there waiting fer yeh.”

“Oh, right.” Maura hadn't heard from Gillian, so she assumed she'd be at the house. Otherwise Maura had no way of getting in, although breaking into her house could probably be accomplished with a dull knife. She located her phone in her bag behind the bar and called Gillian's mobile number.

Gillian answered on the third ring. “Maura. I'm at the house, if that's what's worrying you. I fell asleep.”

“No problem. I thought I'd head home now, since it's a slow night, and I wanted to be sure you were there. Do you need anything? Have you eaten?”

Gillian laughed. “There's not enough in the house to keep a bird alive. I laid in some food, so come ahead.”

“Did you find sheets?”

“I did. See you shortly?”

“I'm on my way.” Maura ended the call and told Mick, “I'm heading out, I guess. I want to see what Gillian's plans are, but I should be in early tomorrow.”

“To see if they've found the man?”

“Well, yes. I hate to say it, but if he's found, well, you know, it would probably be good for business.”

Mick looked at her with one eyebrow cocked. “Ah, Maura, yer hidin' a hard heart in there somewhere. I'll be here as well.”

Maura was stung by Mick's comment. “All I meant was that there may be a lot of people coming in tomorrow, so we should be here.”

“True enough,” Mick said. “No doubt we'll all want to be here until things are settled, and after, to mourn or to celebrate.”

“See you in the morning, then.” It was a good thing they hadn't planned a music event for this particular weekend,
Maura thought. She wasn't sure how she would have handled that without insulting someone.

The drive home didn't take more than ten minutes, and Maura knew the way well now, even after dark. She pulled into the lane in front of her house. “Lane” might be a grand term for the half-paved path: it ended no more than twenty feet past her house in a muddy yard and an abandoned house, with a cattle pasture to one side. The nearer side held the ruins of an older house, reduced to bare stone, its roof gone. She saw an unfamiliar car parked near the cattle gate and assumed it belonged to Gillian. The front door was standing open.

Maura stood on the threshold and called out, “Gillian?”

“Be right there,” Gillian replied from somewhere upstairs. “I was just making up the bed.”

It took Maura a moment to realize what was different about the big room: it smelled of cooking food. She hardly ever cooked, and then only enough to keep herself alive. Since she was rarely home by daylight, she'd kind of let the cleaning slide; the place was neat only because she had few possessions to spread around. How pathetic was she? At her gran's there had always been people coming and going, and Gran had always fed them. And from all she'd ever heard, once someone back in the States knew you had a cottage in Ireland, they'd be beating down your door for a place to stay.

Gillian came clattering down the narrow stairs; she was wearing a loose, flowing shirt over what looked like leggings, something Maura had never owned. “You're back early,” Gillian said.

“Mick and Jimmy can handle the business for this
evening, what little there is of it. I wanted to find out what was happening with you. You went back to Dublin, what—three months ago?”

“I did, just as the summer was ending. I hear Sullivan's has become quite the spot for music now.”

Maura wondered how or from whom she'd heard that. “I just revived what Old Mick used to do, or so I was told by a bunch of people. It seems to be working, bringing in new business, at least. It's been interesting and I've learned a lot.”

“I barely remember those days—my family wouldn't let me come all the way into the village just to hear music, especially in a pub. By the time I was old enough to go about on my own, the music was over and done.”

“If you stick around you can listen all you want. I'm hoping we can bring the tradition back—it's good for business.” Maura wondered how to get to the question she felt she had to ask. She had had few female friends back in Boston and had rarely talked about delicate subjects with them. But maybe Gillian didn't think that description fit her case. She decided on a cautious, indirect approach. “Uh, have you seen much of Harry lately?”

“In Dublin? No, not since we left here.” Gillian grinned at Maura. “Go ahead, I know you want to ask.”

So much for being subtle. “Are you pregnant?”

“I am that. And happy about it, most days.”

“Does Harry know?”

“Not yet. I'm not sure I need him to know. He'd probably go all stodgy and expect to have to marry me.”

“You don't want that?” Maura asked.

“I'm not sure that I do. You've met the man. I've known Harry most of my life, but I'm not sure he's full-grown yet. Not that he's not a good man, but he may not be marriage material. Hold on, I have to stir something.” She turned and lifted a lid on a pot on the stove. It issued a cloud of fragrant steam, and Maura started drooling.

“You can't tell me you made that out of what I had here,” Maura commented.

“Of course not. You must eat like a mouse. I went to Fields in Skibbereen and stocked up.”

“So you'll be around for a bit?”

“Is that a problem? Even if you throw me out, at least I'll know you won't starve to death. But you might freeze first.”

“Sorry. I don't understand the heating here. I asked Mick what to do, and he told me I needed to find an oil supplier or learn to build fires, except that I don't have anything to burn. Then things . . . happened and I forgot. I'll remind him to give me a name.”

“Maura Donovan, you need a keeper. No food, no heat. I wouldn't have pegged you as a helpless woman.”

“I'm still learning my way around,” Maura said, feeling defensive. “And I notice you changed the subject pretty fast. So you don't want to marry Harry—I get that. But you want the baby?”

Gillian hesitated and looked away. “I do now. It's not easy to . . . stop it in this country, but then I realized . . . Well, I'm older than you, and I don't know how many chances I'll have, and it's not as awful a thing, to have a baby alone, as it once was. The whole Magdalene thing is behind us now, thank God.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Maura told her. “What's Magdalene?”

“You'd be happier not knowing, Maura.” Gillian shut her eyes and thought for a moment. “The Magdalene sisters ran laundries and took in children who were illegitimate or had committed minor crimes, or they might have been prostitutes. Sometimes families sent their children there if they couldn't care for them. And there were those who were pregnant and had nowhere else to go. They were treated like slaves. At least now we fallen women have more choices.” Gillian made a grimace.

“I'm not judging you, Gillian, just trying to find out what you're thinking. Do you want to stay around here? Because if you do, Harry's going to find out sooner or later.”

“I haven't decided. Now I've lost the place on Ballinlough where I've spent my summers—and how I'll miss the light there!—but I'm not sure if that's a sign that I should pack up and go somewhere else. What is there for me here? You know that when Harry's Aunt Eveline passes, the whole estate reverts to the National Trust? So Harry will have to decide where he plans to go and most likely it'll be Dublin, where his work is. No doubt he'll be relieved that he'll no longer have to support Eveline, though he doesn't complain about it. He takes his responsibilities seriously, and I don't want to add to those.”

“What about your family?”

“They've no need to know—we don't often speak,” Gillian replied with a tone that didn't invite comment.

“Can you afford it?”

“Damned if I know.” She straightened her back and
changed the subject. “Let's eat dinner now. I'm always more cheerful with a full stomach.”

“Sounds good to me.”

*   *   *

D
inner lived up to its good smells, and Maura ate more than she usually did. They avoided talking about either Harry or the baby, which Gillian had more or less admitted was his. “I talked to this liquor distributor guy who stopped by this morning,” Maura said, just to make conversation. “He asked me something that I'd never really thought about, about the—well, I guess I'd have to call it the morality of running a pub that lets people drink, and sometimes too much.”

“You aren't one of those religious abstainers, are you?” Gillian asked.

“No. I just don't happen to like to drink myself. More than that, I've seen too much of what it can do to people. Back in Boston, not here. There were plenty of guys there—my grandmother used to look out for them, give them a good meal now and then, maybe slip them some cash when they were hard up—they were living kind of crummy lives, with no family around and few friends and not much money. So going to a bar and drinking was one of the few things they could enjoy. Except they couldn't always tell when to stop, and I guess they didn't want to. Then they'd get into fights and start not showing up for work, when they could find any at all. And that only made things worse.”

Gillian nodded. “I hear what you're saying, Maura. It's much the same in Dublin, or at least some parts of it, or
Cork city. There are always those who can't handle the drink. But are you seeing that at Sullivan's?”

Maura shook her head. “No, not really. Maybe the people—mostly guys—who are out of control do their drinking at home. It's probably cheaper, and they don't have to worry about the gardaí pulling them over on the way home—I'm told the laws about drink and driving are pretty strict. People don't come into Sullivan's to get drunk and start fights. They come for the company and the talk. And a drink or two makes that better. Does that make sense?”

“I'd say you've got it right, more or less,” Gillian agreed. “So this man wants to sell you something?”

“Well, that's his job. But even if I bought something to keep him happy, I don't recall anybody at Sullivan's asking for the fancy stuff, and I wouldn't know what to offer them.”

Gillian cocked her head at Maura. “You don't get the spillovers from the posh places at Glandore, or the odd tourist looking for the real Irish goods?”

“Not that I've noticed. And tourist season is pretty much over for this year.”

“Whiskey keeps, you know. In fact, it gets better with age. No hurry.”

“Whatever. If he's still around, maybe I'll let him talk me into tasting some. So what are your plans?”

“What, you're trying to get rid of me already?”

“No, it's not that,” Maura protested. “But I can't hang around with you at the house here and chat—I've got work to do, and I'm gone most of the day and half the night.”

“And why does that not surprise me?” Gillian asked the ceiling. “You live like a nun here—why would you want to
stay here? You've been here half a year already. How much have you seen of Cork? Or anyplace else?”

“Not much,” Maura admitted. “Like I said, I've been busy.”

“How about this, then: take yourself a day off and we two can do something nice, the two of us. The boys can handle things at Sullivan's, and we'll tell Old Billy to keep them in line. What do you say?”

“Okay, I guess,” Maura said reluctantly. She was having trouble visualizing a day off spent with Gillian. Of course, they'd spent time together before, digging through Harry's attic, but that hadn't been for the pleasure of it. They'd been looking for missing ancient documents.

“Jaysus, you'd think I was dragging you to the dentist,” Gillian said, with an exaggerated accent.

Maura smiled briefly, but then added, “Not until they've found John Tully, though.”

“Fair enough. So we'll take it day to day. And don't worry—I'll sort something out about where I'm to live.”

They parted at the top of the stairs and settled into their bedrooms, behind closed doors. Still, Maura lay in the dark, listening to the unfamiliar sound of someone moving around in the house. Funny how she'd spent all of her life living in apartments or triple-deckers, where there were always people around, above and below, and they weren't always quiet. Here she'd become used to the silence so quickly it surprised her. In her cottage, after dark, all she heard was the occasional lowing of a cow, the sound of a night bird, or the rustle of some small animal in the underbrush, and, rarely, the passing of a car on the road down the hill. Not that Gillian was a noisy guest, but she was there.