I’ve been known to bend the truth for art’s sake but I swear this time it’s true. A gypsy put a curse on my Nan. At least, that’s what my Ma told us. It happened one day as Muirgheal stood on the stark Irish shore, staring out at the pitching black waves and dreaming of her silver-tongued, raven-haired beau—Derry Nial McDonagh—a gypsy boy who had trundled into her village with his wayward tinker family. She was just sixteen but the boy had sweet-talked her into handing over her heart as efficiently as his brothers sweet-talked her neighbours into handing over their scrap metal. Not that Muirgheal had minded; her life so far had been as dreary as the low cloud that clung so stubbornly to their town. For Muirgheal, Derry McDonagh was as tantalising as a secret.
Muirgheal was startled when the gypsy appeared. The woman’s face was dark and hard as the stones on the shore. The gypsy told her to stay away from Derry, because he was promised already to his cousin, Branna.
‘Tinkers marry tinkers,’ she told Muirgheal.
Now Muirgheal knew Derry’s cousin—Branna was fair and plump and ceaselessly cheery. Muirgheal had dark hair and wild eyes, and thought far too much about serious things; Derry once declared the west wind blew from her fury. She would have sworn heaven and stars that her Derry loved her. But no, he was meant for another.
Muirgheal placed her hands on her belly in despair—for a little gypsy rogue was growing inside her. Seeing the gesture, the gypsy woman laid her ring-laden fingers against Muirgheal’s belly and swore a set of heaven and stars of her own.
‘A daughter,’ she said.
Muirgheal had been dreaming of a baby boy with dark curls and midnight blue eyes like his father. Would Derry want a girl?
‘You cannot tell him of the child,’ the gypsy warned.
‘But I love him,’ Muirgheal declared.
The gypsy scowled. ‘Foolish girl. You do not know what love is.’ Muirgheal shivered as the air grew dense with magic. ‘Your gypsy daughter will not make the same mistake.’
She clutched Muirgheal’s swollen belly, muttering low words lost to the wind.
‘What did you do?’ Muirgheal asked the old woman.
‘A blessing,’ the gypsy replied. ‘Only her true love will see her. They will see no one else.’
My Nan was foolish enough to believe the woman, she even thanked her as she left.
She named my mother Aibhlinn on the spot. It means ‘wished for child’. Perhaps it was to prove to her baby that she was wanted, even without Derry Nial McDonagh to support her, and perhaps it was to remind Aibhlinn of the wonderful blessing the gypsy had bestowed upon her. Who knows?
Turns out, my mother did not need reminding. And neither do I.
I’m doomed to wait for love. Not just any love, my lousy true love.