Chapter 15

Three o’clock could not come fast enough for Moira’s taste. At half-past two, the minutes had slowed to a crawl. Aside from a few well-timed pranks from Áedach, the day had passed with relative ease. The lumpy brown toad waiting in her seat after the lunch break was her personal favorite of the day. “How was Áedach to know I love toads?” she had asked the class. Snakes, on the other hand, were another matter entirely.

“Thanks be to God for Patrick driving all the snakes from this land,” she muttered to herself while stoking the fire. Whether or not Moira believed the tale, the fact remained that no wild snakes existed on the Emerald Isle.

The day reached its lowest point when Moira took a large gulp of tea and was rewarded with a mouthful of soggy peat instead. She reminded herself to say an extra prayer for the lad during her evening devotions.

Yes, pray he survives the school year.

Moira regretted the thought as soon as it had formed but couldn’t deny the nugget of truth buried in the sentiment. She had no idea how she was going to not only finish the year with her pupils having learned all they needed but also with her sanity intact, the way things were currently running with the boy. His pranks and outward disrespect were growing in frequency and severity. Clearly ignoring the issue served only to feed the lad’s confidence.

You must address it, Moira Girl. But . . . perhaps tomorrow.

“Miss Doherty, why is yer feece so red?”

Moira jolted out of her reverie to find Aoife standing next to her, innocent curiosity floating in the child’s eyes.

“What, dear?” Moira pressed a hand to her cheek. Roasting. “Oh, I must’ve been standing too close to the fire, sweetheart. I’m alright.”

She couldn’t very well tell the child she was flushed with embarrassment over her harsh thoughts toward Áedach. At least she hoped that’s all it was.

The church bells began to chime, and Moira’s head pounded in unison with each peal. The students, however, instinctively began closing books and dropping pencils, slate boards, and sticks of chalk in various containers around the room.

For once the chimes came to her rescue.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Moira said, “Very well, children, thank you for a lovely day.”

Mostly lovely anyway.

“Be sure to eat a hearty supper and get lots of rest. I’ll see you all in the morning.”

Relief flooded Moira when the door closed behind the last child and their chatter and laughter faded into the distance. Not only had Bríd’s odd reaction that morning left her with a strange sense of dread the rest of the day, a dull ache had taken up residence in the back of her throat. All she wanted was to grab the items she needed at the market and get home to a nice cuppa in front of the fire and then an early bedtime.

What a quirky little place. The till sat on a long, rough counter running the length of the back of the store. Various dishes bearing sweets and baked goods crowded each nook and cranny. Her eyes could scarcely take in all the canisters of tea, tobacco, and the few medicinal herbs available, as well as large sacks of flour, oats, and sugar, loading the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind the till counter. Moira could almost hear the ledges groaning under the weight of it all.

She meandered around the store, taking in each eccentric detail to keep like wee treasures deep in her heart. The scent of tea leaves, stale tobacco, and fresh-baked scones hung in the air. Moira’s stomach growled and her mouth watered for a decent cup of tea. She fingered strange vegetables resembling white carrots, adding their earthy notes to the medley. She admired the odd towel or lace table runner scattered in among the usual groceries.

“I’ll be right wit’ ye, dearie,” called a voice from behind a curtained doorway.

Moira craned to find its source.

A second later, a young woman with an apron at her waist rounded the corner. “So, now, sorry to keep ya waitin’, dearie. What’ll it be for yas?”

A wide grin broke across Moira’s face upon seeing the woman. She’s young!

Other than Sean, Moira had yet to meet another soul anywhere near her own age. The young lady’s round face bore a rosy hue with a set of deep, welcoming dimples marking the center of both cheeks. Piercing blue eyes stared back at Moira, with eyebrows raised.

“So, do yas want anytin’ or will ya just stand there and stare?” A hearty laugh rumbled from the young lass. Moira liked her instantly.

“Right. Sorry.” Moira echoed the girl’s laugh and stepped closer to the shopkeeper. “I was just so shocked to see someone my own age, I didn’t know what to say,” she offered in a stage whisper.

“Ah, right so! You must be the Yank—er—teacher.”

Though Moira hadn’t thought it possible, the young woman’s smile grew even bigger. She skipped over to Moira, leaving mere inches between them.

She returned the girl’s smile. “I’m Moira. Moira Doherty.”

“Well, now, Moira Darrty, yas have a right good Irish name for a Yank, so ya do.” The robust young woman grabbed Moira’s hand and gave a hearty shake. “I’m Sinead. Sinead McGonigle. I’m pleased to make yer acquaintance, so I am.”

“Yes, me too,” Moira said. Though unexpected, Sinead’s boisterous manner and bubbly personality refreshed Moira’s spirit.

“Now, dearie, what can I get yas? I’m sure yas didn’t come in here to chew the fat with the likes o’ me.”

“To be honest, the conversation is quite refreshing, even if it wasn’t my main reason in coming to the market today.” She shrugged. “It’s been a bit lonely. I wasn’t sure I would ever have a friend my age again.”

She bit her lip. Don’t be so presumptuous. Of course, Sinead had grown up here, and running the local market, she must be well connected. Perhaps she didn’t need, or want, another friend.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, dearie. Northwest Donegal isn’t exactly the social center of Ar’land.” Another guffaw was followed by a snort. Sinead clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

Moira stifled a giggle. “Very true.”

“Anois, what can I get fer yas?”

“Right. I’d like a small slab of butter, some tea, a half kilo of flour, and a hundred grams of bread soda, please.”

Moira couldn’t help but track Sinead as she collected the items. The discovery of someone so similar to her—yet so vastly different—revived Moira’s hope of having some semblance of a normal life. She hadn’t even realized that hope had withered in so many days of relative solitude.

Sinead scooped flour into a small canvas sack. Fine white dust floated up around her. “So, that’s the last of it. This should be all yer messages.”

Moira pressed her brows together. “I, er, messages? Did a letter arrive for me?”

Sinead jabbed a chubby fist on her hip and cocked her head to one side. “Wha’?”

The two stared at each other in silence for a moment, both clearly searching for what to say.

Moira broke the silence. “You said you had . . . messages for me?”

“Yeah?” Sinead gestured to the pile of groceries on the counter.

Moira turned her gaze to the items. “Those are messages?”

Sinead raised her eyebrows and nodded emphatically. Once again her throaty laugh shattered the air.

Moira found it useless to resist and added her own laughter to the mix.

“I see I have a lot to learn. Where I come from, messages are . . . well . . . messages from one person to another.”

“I don’t know about America, but here in Donegal, messages are the nairmull things you collect from the market.” Sinead paused, crossing her arms over her chest. “Do ye have a word for that over there in the States?”

“We call those staples.”

“Ya don’t say? Staples?” Sinead wagged her head. “I t’ink maybe we should meet again soon for some language lessons, dearie.”

“That’s very kind of you. I do hope to learn Irish someday, but for now it’s a bit overwhelming. You know, with me still settling into the school and whatnot?”

“I’m not talkin’ about layrnin’ the Gaeilge, dearie. I’m talkin’ about our so-called common tongue. Yas need to layrn how to talk our English or you’ll never survive.”

Sinead’s laughter again punctuated the conversation.

Moira gathered up her messages and headed home, chuckling now and again the whole way.