We sat together at one summer’s end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
—W. B. YEATS
Siobhan urged her bike down the road toward the Leeside. She was coming home from babysitting for Triona, the four-year-old daughter of her friends Maura and Brendan. She loved taking care of Triona, but she wished Maura hadn’t needed her today. The American professor was arriving.
Siobhan had listened to her uncle talk about the man and was now oddly eager to meet him. It was a foreign sensation. She pictured him as an older, learned man, with white hair and glasses, someone who had devoted his long life to the study of her beloved ancient Ireland. She had, over the last twenty-four hours, become keenly aware that this was a unique opportunity to talk to someone who had great knowledge of ancient Irish poetry and folklore, a knowledge even greater than Uncle Kee’s. (Was there disloyalty in that thought?) There were so many questions she wanted to ask the man. She hoped she would not feel shy of him.
Siobhan rounded a bend and looked about her. No matter how occupied her thoughts were along this road, she still gazed with a wonder that familiarity never dimmed. The hues of hills and lough were brilliant today, for the sky prism was full of sun. The golden light spread its translucency like sweet honey, warming every rock pore, seeping into every blade of sea grass, reflecting every gentle swell of water. Siobhan felt the strength of the sun’s warmth on her face and arms. Usually she preferred the moon’s cool, shadowy glow, but today the sunlight heightened her senses and quickened her pulse. She smelled the heat of it in the skin on her arms and felt her cheeks flush with it. Its shimmer danced into her eyes and brain. Cloud shadows flowed in and out of focus, gentle links between earth and sky.
Siobhan realized with surprise that she was excited. She was excited to meet this man. Despite the warmth on her skin, she shivered. And pedaled harder.
Almost home now, she saw a strange car sitting in the yard. He was here then. She felt an odd fluttering in her stomach. She coasted to a stop by the side of the pub, near the vending machine of candy and crisps that Uncle Kee had installed there a couple of years ago. Their visitor sat comfortably on the lough wall. Siobhan carefully leaned her bike against the side of the building. She wanted to go over to him; she wanted to. How strange. She was unused to surprising herself. Then familiar caution took hold and she hesitated, her eyes fixed on the man’s back and shoulders. Half turning toward the pub, she thought maybe she would wait until Uncle Kee was around, so he could introduce her. Then she saw the man stretch his arms upward and throw his head back, carefree and relaxed. The simple honesty of the gesture reassured her. There was nothing to be afraid of here. Her feet changed direction and she walked over to where he was sitting. He didn’t have white hair. As she approached, he turned his head.
Siobhan saw a bony, tall man, with dark unruly hair and deep-set eyes. His face was kind, she thought, kind and strong, and looked as though it was very familiar with smiling.
“I thought you’d be older,” she found herself saying.
He smiled and she liked the look of it.
“I thought you’d be younger,” he replied. “I saw you in the distance on your bike and you looked more like a child. You’re Siobhan, of course. I’m Tim Ferris.”
She looked at him intently, trying to identify what it was about him that made her not afraid. Because she wasn’t, not one little bit. Perhaps it was seeing the outline of his facial bones so clearly under his skin, a sculpture of vulnerability.
He looked at her patiently, attentively. She nodded.
“I’ve always been a bit wee. But I thought you’d be at least older than Uncle Kee—a learned professor and that.”
“Well, it’s not hard to be learned at something if that’s all you’ve done with your life.” After he said it he looked a little confused, as if he had surprised himself. The look calmed her even more, since she could identify with uncertainty.
“Irish poetry, especially the ancients, is an easy thing to be consumed by,” she said slowly. She felt strangely compelled to continue, so she did, carefully and thoughtfully. “It’s so full of the beauty and passion of life—it’s intense. It lays bare the evolution of the human condition. The more you go studying it, the more there is to find. It’s like layers. You uncover more and more and the deeper you go the closer you get to your own soul. That’s the power of it—and the pain.”
Tim Ferris stared at her, his face plainly showing that he was staggered by this speech. Siobhan was a little staggered herself. She had told him how she felt about it. She’d never done that before. Not with anyone. The two pairs of eyes locked in amazement and an urgent awareness. They both knew instinctively that they had vaulted across the tributary of polite convention into deeper waters. For Siobhan, the newness of this was heady, making her breath come a little faster.
He spoke first, with a mystified smile. “You know, all my life I’ve never been able to fully explain, even to myself, why this interest of mine draws me so…obsessively. And now you…you just say it, plainly and exquisitely, in a few short sentences. I’m astonished. Does it affect you like that? I suppose it must, or you wouldn’t have said it.”
Siobhan nodded slowly as she came forward and tentatively placed her hands on the wall next to him. Odd to feel tentative about touching the wall, her wall, but it seemed so very much his in this moment; and perhaps more odd was her being at ease with that. They were now side by side, their size difference an absurdity—a sapling next to a sycamore.
“Ever since I discovered the ancient Irish poetry and mythology,” Siobhan said slowly, barely above a whisper, “it was as if I had been hungry for it and not known.” Suddenly she flushed with discomfort. Even she, with little social subtlety, knew instinctively that the conversation was too personal, too revealing. She forced herself to speak casually. “Of course, Uncle Kee has devoted a lifetime to studying Celtic folklore and poetry. He’s totally brilliant. He used to read to me endlessly from books about legends and folklore. When I was a wee one, I couldn’t go to sleep without a story, and once I learned to read I was never without a book. I’d even read under the covers with a flashlight. We’re both hooked.”
He laughed then and she smiled.
He said, “It is easy to get hooked.”
“It is,” she replied. There was a pause; she was anxious with embarrassment now.
Then Tim Ferris said, “It’s understandable, though, isn’t it? After all…” He began to quote:
“We are the music-makers
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams…”
He had chosen one of her favorite poems. Siobhan finished the first verse with him and their voices echoed across the water:
“World-losers and world-foresakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.”
Siobhan refused to look at him then and backed away from the wall, saying, “I’d best go get the tea ready.” She left him as suddenly as she’d arrived. Fleeing to the kitchen, she leaned on the table with both hands flat and noticed that they were trembling. How wonderful—how wonderful it had been to say the words out loud like that! With him. How tremendously wonderful. She turned her head so she could see him through the window. Her heart lifted as it did when she gazed upon her lough, but that wasn’t what she was looking at. Siobhan pressed her hands to her face to steady them and felt the warm tingle of blood in her cheeks. There was so much he must know, so much he could teach her. As she watched, he suddenly hopped down from the stone wall and walked toward the back door. She froze for a moment, then seized the electric kettle and filled it with water.
He came in, almost apologetically. “I hope I’m not in the way. Your uncle said I could use the back door.”
She couldn’t look at him. “No, that’s fine.”
“I was enjoying the view but then I felt a little lonely.” His voice sounded puzzled.
There was a silence, then Siobhan said a little breathlessly, “You’re welcome to stay.”
“Stay?” He sounded puzzled again.
“I mean here, in the kitchen, if you’ve a mind to.” She didn’t know if she wanted him to stay with her or not. Her hands still trembled slightly as she got the rashers of bacon out of the refrigerator.
“Oh! Well, thanks. I think I will.” He sat down in what was usually her chair. “This is a wonderful old place. Seventeenth century, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” This was easier; Siobhan was used to telling people about the history of the Leeside. She recited her little piece. “It was built around 1682. The lough has sea access; there’s a bit of a river estuary at the far end that leads into Kilkieran Bay. Lots of smuggling went on back then, so we suspect this place was used for dark dealings. There’s a good cellar under this floor where they were probably hiding the goods. But its main use was as a coaching inn.”
“I see.”
Siobhan glanced at him covertly and saw that he was staring into space, nodding. He spoke, but she wasn’t sure he was talking to her. She had the distinct impression that he was simply saying his thoughts out loud.
“This is a remarkable place. There’s an uncanny atmosphere—it’s at once isolated and yet complete. Rather intriguing. Yes, very intriguing.”
Siobhan didn’t respond but concentrated on her cooking. It was nice that he felt he could be alone with his thoughts, and yet with her at the same time. She was hungry for his thoughts. She could absorb them into herself without disturbing him. All she wanted at this moment was to hear his voice go on talking. Siobhan carefully turned the rashers in the pan and felt her whole body rejoice as he continued, though he spoke barely above a whisper.
“I had the oddest feeling when I first drove up over the rise and saw this place. I was suddenly seized with the temptation to turn around and drive away. It was as if the scene before me was so perfect that I myself would spoil it by entering. Such a lovely picture of sunlight and water, and the hills and the little stone building. It was the first time in all my travels in Ireland that I felt like I was trespassing. I felt that if I left then, right at that moment, I knew I’d still keep this place forever inside me.”
Siobhan did not move, her fork poised over the sizzling pan. Her heart raced at the beauty of his words. Here was someone else who thought the Leeside was perfect, and he had only just seen it for the first time today! A little thrill of fear shot through her as she thought of him driving away and not coming here. She would never have met him. He began to quote the poet Yeats, still in that soft, elusive voice.
“The wind is old and still at play
While I must hurry upon my way,
For I am running to Paradise;
Yet never have I lit on a friend
To take my fancy like the wind
That nobody can buy or bind:
And there the king is but as the beggar.”
“Oh, yes!” Siobhan spun around from the stove, her eyes shining. “Yes, that’s exactly it!”
Tim Ferris looked up at her and his unfocused eyes sharpened with recognition. He was about to speak when Uncle Kee burst into the kitchen from the pub wearing a big smile.
“Did I hear someone quoting W.B.?”
Neither Tim nor Siobhan answered him for a moment, then Tim visibly shook himself.
“Yes, I was. I was trying to convey what this place suggests to me. I was telling Siobhan that it is quite unique.”
Kee nodded. “I couldn’t call anywhere else home. Come into the pub for a bit so we can chat. I’ve only got one customer out there, and he’s not my favorite person in the world.”
Siobhan said, “It must be Niall.”
“It is. Come along, Tim. Siobhan, those rashers are burning, love.”
She spun back to the stove, flushing with embarrassment, and quickly lifted the pan off the heat. Her heart beat fast. He understood! Her soul floated free with the wonder of it. Who was this man, that he could understand and appreciate her home with such keenness when he had never been here before? And…and could he understand…her? She could feel the difference in herself when she talked to him. Her shyness with him came and went like swells of the sea, it surged up and she became tongue-tied, but then ebbed away as his conversation pulled her out of herself. She propped open the swinging door that led from the kitchen to the bar so she could listen to the conversation as she made potato cakes.
“Would you be wanting a drink, Tim?” she heard Uncle Kee ask him. “A welcome drink, on the house.”
“On the house?” a young man’s voice exclaimed, before Tim could answer. That would be Niall. “Since when are you a one for giving drinks away?”
“Shut up, Niall. Professor Ferris is our guest, is all.”
“I’d like a drink,” Tim said quickly. “What do you have besides Guinness?”
Niall asked with a trace of a sneer, “What’s the matter, then? Guinness too strong for you?”
“No, I like it. In fact, it’s all I’ve been drinking for the past five weeks.”
Uncle Kee said, “You’ll be wanting a change. I’ve got something I think you’ll like. Have you ever had a Murphy’s stout?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, you’ll have it now.”
Niall spoke, again with a sneer. “So, what are you professor of?”
“Irish and Celtic studies. I teach college in the States.”
“Irish studies, eh? What about this, then?” Niall spoke the next sentence in rather halting Irish: “I’ll bet you don’t know half of what Doyle here knows about all that.”
Siobhan heard the smile in Tim’s voice as he replied in Irish, “Probably not. That’s why I’m here, to learn what Mr. Doyle has to teach me.”
Uncle Kee shouted with laughter. He couldn’t abide Niall. He said, “Drink up, Niall, and be on your way. You’ll be late for work.”
Niall blustered, “How the hell was I supposed to know—”
“You weren’t. And it’s no surprise to me that you’re capable of making an eejit out of yourself in the Irish as well as English.”
“Oh, sod off, Doyle.”
Siobhan heard Niall bang down his glass and thump out the door.
“Sorry about that, Tim,” Uncle Kee said.
“That’s okay. It was pretty funny. And you were right about this stout, it’s great. Won’t you join me?”
“I no longer imbibe, thank you kindly.”
“Oh.” Tim sounded blank. “Well, a soft drink then?”
“Not at the moment, thanks. You speak the Irish well.”
Tim sounded rueful as he said, “It took a long time to learn, I can tell you that. I was lucky enough in grad school to have a prof from Cork. He spoke some Irish, although not very fluently. But when I told him I wanted to really learn the language he sent away for a set of Irish Gaelic language tapes. But learning to speak it and learning to read it were two completely separate undertakings.”
Uncle Kee laughed. “It certainly is not the most phonetic of languages.”
“No.”
“But it’s beautiful. I’ve heard some people say it’s too guttural, like German.”
“That’s not true,” Tim protested. “The sounds are much softer, if it’s spoken correctly.”
“That’s what I say,” Uncle Kee replied, sounding pleased. “Siobhan!”
She jumped at the sound of her name.
“Siobhan, where’s tea, child?”
“It’s ready now, if you’ll come,” she replied, grabbing plates from the cupboard.
The three of them sat around the kitchen table to a meal of potato cakes with greens, bacon, and scones. Siobhan felt much more shy of Tim with her uncle there, and she had a vague idea that it would be best if Uncle Kee didn’t sense her interest in the man. The three of them sat in the kitchen, with the door to the pub open so her uncle could watch for customers. Since it was Thursday, he told Tim, there probably wouldn’t be anyone but a few regulars coming in tonight.
The talk soon turned to Tim’s reason for coming to the Leeside. Siobhan heard his voice grow warm with devotion as he described his curriculum, and what he tried to give his students by way of appreciation for Irish literature, especially the ancient poetry. His hosts asked him questions and gave suggestions, and soon all three were in the midst of the most amazing conversation Siobhan had ever experienced. There was no shyness left in her as she took her place beside the two men in intelligence and scope. Nothing mattered but this shimmering exchange of knowledge, ideas, and interpretations. She could see that there were times when Tim was surprised at the depth of their knowledge, and his reaction added fuel to her zeal.
“There’s such a seamless intermingling of what’s historically real with the supernatural lore. The two great annals of old Irish romantic writing have their basis in historical fact but are then taken into flights of fairy fantasy—much like The Iliad and The Odyssey, don’t you think?” Siobhan looked eagerly at Tim.
He nodded slowly. “I make that same comparison in my Early Irish Poetry class. The intimate and detailed description of fairy cavalcades, for example. I also try to tie in references to Tolkien’s Hobbit and C. S. Lewis’s Narnia books to help the students identify with, as you say, the seamless mingling of history and fantasy.”
Siobhan dismissed Lewis out of hand, but agreed that Tolkien’s depth of detail was a valid comparison. “His use of language doesn’t compare, of course. The language of that early Irish poetry is so brilliant and glowing.” And so the conversation continued, flitting back and forth, impatient, eager, excited, fulfilling.
Uncle Kee had to jump up and serve one or two customers who came in, so there were times when Tim and Siobhan continued the discussion alone. During these intervals Siobhan talked more, almost basking in the rays of Tim’s obvious appreciation. She found she could even joke with him, and after making him laugh at a humorous interpretation, she looked at herself in wonder. Was this her, Siobhan Doyle, sitting here talking with a stranger and feeling perfectly at ease? The thought made her pause, and when she did, Tim leaned back in his chair and gazed at her. Suddenly she didn’t feel at ease any longer, as his expression made her scalp tingle.
“You know,” he began, “your input is completely unique, yours and Kee’s. Your perspective comes from devotion, not scholarship, unlike so many of my colleagues. You have no agenda, no desire to further your theories at the expense of others. You’re so open, so passionate—and incredibly knowledgeable. I’m stunned. It’s like finding buried treasure.”
Siobhan didn’t reply and couldn’t return his gaze. Insanely pleased at his words, she wanted to thank him, but the words wouldn’t come. The timidity had returned.
Eventually the pub became busy enough that Uncle Kee had to stay behind the bar. He invited Tim to join the group of customers in the pub common room. Siobhan hesitated before entering the public area, as she always did, taking stock of who was present. Regulars all, many she’d known her whole life, and yet she had perpetually hovered in the doorway of their lives. She now slipped into her role of quiet observer, watching Tim’s reactions to their little circle of regulars.
“Now then,” Uncle Kee began, “this here is Professor Timothy Ferris. A man who enjoys an impressive font of knowledge regarding Irish literature and such. But he also is a man with enough humility and good sense to realize that I might possess wisdom and insight in that direction that he does not.”
“What are you saying, then?” asked Katie O’Farrell, sitting at the corner of the bar. “He’s come to sit at the feet of the master?” She gave Uncle Kee a teasing look.
“Well, Katie, I wouldn’t put it quite that way, but he’s interested in what I have to say. Which is more than can be said of certain people around here.”
Katie said mischievously, “Well, this is the most I’ve heard you talk in quite a while, I’ll say that. So I’m favorably disposed toward Professor Ferris already.”
“Please call me Tim.”
Siobhan frowned into the glass she was cleaning at the easy charm in his voice.
Katie got up and sat next to him. Siobhan stiffened. “I’m Katie O’Farrell. It’s grand to meet you, Tim.”
Siobhan watched as they shook hands, feeling a vague resentment. Katie was an old friend of Uncle Kee's, about his age, a sharp-edged predator with short reddish brown hair. Siobhan had always admitted grudgingly that she was good-looking in a ruddy, outdoors sort of way.
Katie continued: “And since Keenan Francis here didn’t think to introduce any of us, allow me.”
Uncle Kee gave her a mock scowl. Katie gestured to the thin, fair young man sitting at the bar on Tim’s other side.
“That’s Brendan Doherty,” she said, and the two men greeted each other. “Brendan’s our commuter. He lives in Carnloe but drives into Clifden every day. He’s an accountant, and he and his wife have a little daughter so lovely it almost makes me wish I had one. How is Triona, Brendan? She had a bit of a cold at her riding lesson this week.”
“She’s better, thanks,” Brendan answered.
“That’s grand. Now that couple there in the booth,” Katie continued, “are John and Mary Kelleher. They live in Ballynaross, which is about six kilometers east of here. They hail from Boston and, ignoring God and everyone, decided to retire here.”
Tim swung around on his barstool and smiled at them. The couple nodded at him cordially. Katie came around the counter behind the bar—which Siobhan always hated—and picked up a knife to slice some ham. Uncle Kee was drawing another pint. Siobhan tried not to glare at Katie, but it was difficult. She saw Tim’s eyes on her, questioning. He was about to speak and Siobhan quickly asked him if he’d like another Murphy’s stout. She didn’t want to talk about…about poetry and such things here, in front of everyone. He looked faintly surprised but accepted another stout, getting out his wallet as he spoke.
“Yes, please. But no more on the house. Would you like to join me?”
Siobhan felt Katie’s sharp eyes on the two of them. She shook her head, feeling the rising flush in her cheeks. She began to draw Tim’s stout at the other end of the bar.
Uncle Kee asked Brendan if he wanted another as the young man drained his glass.
“No, thanks. I’m off home. Siobhan, I’ll take five of the meat pies to go. Maura was busy with her dad today. She had to take him to the dentist, so I told her I’d bring home some dinner.”
“Right.” Siobhan went into the kitchen and Uncle Kee finished drawing Tim’s pint. Siobhan heard Katie ask Tim if he was hungry.
“I’m just making myself a ham sandwich,” Katie said. “I can make one for you as well.” Siobhan tensed, listening for Tim’s response.
“I’m not hungry, thanks,” he replied easily. “I had a wonderful tea with Kee and Siobhan. That’ll hold me for the night, I think.”
As Siobhan peered through the doorway she saw Katie’s eyes rake his tall, thin frame. “You don’t look like you eat enough to keep a bird alive.”
Tim smiled. “Oh, I do. I just burn it off. Nervous energy.”
Siobhan hurried out of the kitchen carrying a paper bag. “There you are, Brendan. Five pies. Mind, the bottom’s hot.” Brendan paid the fifteen euro for them and picked up the bag.
Katie asked him, “Why five pies? It’s just you and Triona and Maura and her dad, isn’t it? That’s four. Niall’s working tonight.”
Brendan flashed a smile. “I eat two.” He banged out the door.
Tim asked, “Niall? Is that the Niall who was in here earlier?”
Uncle Kee nodded. “That’s Maura’s younger brother. Not good for much.”
“He lives with them?”
“They all live together in Seamus Curry’s house, that’s Maura and Niall’s da. He’s getting on and is a bit poorly, so Maura looks after him. Brendan’s okay with the arrangement since they’ll get the house when Seamus dies. Then maybe they can throw Niall out on his arse.”
“Oh, Niall’s not so bad,” Katie protested. “He’s good with the ponies when I need an extra hand. And that part-time job at the fish-and-chips shop in Ballynaross was all he could find, you know.”
Uncle Kee responded drily, “Oh, and I know he looked high and low for it. Besides, he’s our quality-control expert. He tests all the new barrels of stout to make sure we’re up to standard.”
Katie chided him. “Will you leave off Niall?”
“Fine, fine. I never took to the lad, that’s all.”
“You’ve just never forgiven him for breaking one of your windows when he was twelve.”
“That as well.”
Katie laughed and pushed against him with her shoulder. Siobhan’s stomach turned over as it always did when she saw them touch. “You’re hopeless.” Katie bit enthusiastically into her enormous ham sandwich. Siobhan hated the way Katie commanded attention, either cheaply, by flirting, or intensely, through her eternal awareness of others. She could see that Tim was curious about Katie.
Sure enough, Tim now asked her, “What do you do for a living around here? You’re much too young to be retired, like the Kellehers.”
She smiled at him and glanced at Uncle Kee. “Thanks for the compliment. There aren’t many going around here. I breed and show ponies, Connemara ponies. I have a place just outside Ballynaross.”
“That sounds great. How big is your operation?”
“My operation, is it? That makes it sound very grand. I have twenty-eight right now, twelve of my own and sixteen boarders. Next week is the big show—the Connemara Pony Show in Clifden. It draws buyers from all over the world. I hope to sell quite a few…and maybe pick up two or three as well. That reminds me. Siobhan, you’ll be coming over on Tuesday and Wednesday to give me a hand, you will?”
As always with Katie it was less of a question than an assumption. Siobhan nodded. She’d go. She always did, for the sake of the ponies.
Katie continued casually: “I don’t suppose you want to enter yourself and Blasket in any of the classes? Tomorrow’s the deadline so I can still get you in.”
Siobhan shook her head without looking at Katie. Tim glanced at her.
“No.” Katie sighed theatrically. “I didn’t think so. Poor Blasket. When I think of the time I put in on that boy…” Siobhan bit her lip until it almost bled.
“Blasket is a pony?” Tim asked, looking at both women.
“He is,” Katie replied. “He’s Siobhan’s. A brilliant animal, but she doesn’t like showing him off.”
Tim said easily, “Well, some people don’t enjoy the competitive aspect of that kind of thing.”
Siobhan rewarded him with a look of real gratitude.
“Oh, I know that well,” Katie replied acidly. “We’ve been down that road more times than I like to count. Siobhan’s a wonderful rider but doesn’t like anyone to know it. Competition’s a dirty word in this house.”
I’m wishing you were a dirty word in this house, Siobhan thought fiercely, banging shut a drawer.
“Now that’s not true, woman,” Uncle Kee growled. “There’s nothing I like better than a good game of darts. And Siobhan and I are always going at it, having matches between ourselves in our own special field of interest, you might call it. You should see us playing Who Wrote That Stanza? Blood is drawn, I can tell you that.”
“Oh, that sounds real exciting,” Katie drawled. “Hey, why don’t we have a competition between you and Siobhan and Tim here? A battle of the ancient Irish scholars. That would be a lark.”
“For who?” Uncle Kee asked. Siobhan knew Katie was baiting him.
“Oh, come on now, Kee. It would be brilliant. You’d enjoy it. Don’t say you wouldn’t because I’d know you were lying.”
Uncle Kee smiled at her. Although she could be provoking, Siobhan knew that Katie amused him considerably. “Well, she’s right,” Uncle Kee said to Tim. “Could you bear it?”
Siobhan’s heart beat faster as she looked at him with alarm. This was a terrifying idea.
Tim said good-naturedly, “Sure, I guess so.”
She opened her mouth but closed it again as she caught Katie’s warning eye. Katie wanted this. Siobhan’s resentment flared sickeningly as it always did when Katie dangled her influence over Uncle Kee, like an apple, in front of her. She turned away.
“Good man yourself,” Uncle Kee told Tim.
“But what would it be?” Tim asked. “Like a trivia contest?”
Katie nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely. It’ll be great.”
Siobhan forced herself to speak. She had to make this unbearable turn of events somehow bearable.
“I don’t want to. It should be just Uncle Kee and…and Professor Ferris.” Everyone looked at her but she struggled on, keeping her eyes on her uncle. “I mean, someone’s got to be the…the judge and think up the questions and that. I can do that bit.”
Uncle Kee nodded approvingly at her. He understood that she’d not want to be the center of attention. “Good idea, love. We’re on then. When shall we have this momentous event?”
“Let’s do it tomorrow night,” Katie suggested firmly. “There’ll be more of a crowd then.”
“But the pub’s always so busy on Fridays,” Siobhan said quickly. “Uncle Kee and I won’t have time to—”
“Oh, I’ll come behind the bar and help. And Maura can, too. I’m sure she and Brendan will want to be here. It won’t be much of an evening unless we get a good crowd. We’ll talk it up in Ballynaross, won’t we, John?”
“We certainly will,” John Kelleher replied. “And now, Katie, we have to get going. If you want a ride back with us, we’ve got to be on our way.”
“Right.” She drained her glass.
Uncle Kee asked, “You came with the Kellehers? What’s the matter with your Rover?”
“It’s in the shop. Needed a new muffler. I can’t go hauling ponies over to Clifden next week with a vehicle that sounds like that demented motorbike of Niall’s. It’d be giving them all nervous breakdowns. See you tomorrow.”
It seemed extraordinarily quiet when they had all gone. Siobhan had been looking forward to everyone leaving, but now that they were gone she had nothing to say to Tim. A scholars’ duel. It was such a stupid thing to do, such a cheapening of everything she loved. How could Tim and Uncle Kee have agreed? Her disappointment in them both was equally intense. She glanced at her uncle and could see he was looking rather penitent.
“Heaven knows what I’ve let us in for, Tim. That Katie can talk a cat away from a fish.”
“That’s because she’s a cat herself,” Siobhan said with more spirit than she had intended.
Uncle Kee looked displeased. “Now, now. She just likes her bit of fun.”
“But at whose expense? It’s a foolish thing.”
“She means no harm,” he said firmly. “She’s a very old friend with the privileges of same.”
“Privileges, is it?” Siobhan spoke quietly, with a sideways glance at him.
Tim threw himself into the fray. “I really don’t mind. It’ll be fun. After all, the three of us are the only ones who’ll know what fools we’ll make of ourselves.”
Uncle Kee smiled. “That’s true enough. Siobhan, love, you’ll come up with some grand questions for us, won’t you now?” He was coaxing her, wheedling her into a better humor. Despite herself she smiled.
“I will then,” she said, “and I’ll make sure that the odds aren’t with the house.”
“The devil you will! Well, Professor, we can’t say fairer than that.”
Tim smiled. “I suppose people will be betting on us.”
“They will indeed. But it’s harmless enough.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Siobhan said. “Uncle Kee, you’d better ring Eamon and Liam—they weren’t in at all today.”
“I will. Thanks for reminding me.” He went to the phone hanging on the far wall.
Tim asked her with a smile, “And who are Eamon and Liam?”
She returned his smile shyly. “They’re brothers, old farmers in the district. They usually come in every day, unless one of them isn’t well. They live alone, so we try to keep an eye on them.”
“That’s good of you,” Tim said.
“Well, they’ve known Uncle Kee since he was born. They were friends of his parents’.”
Tim hesitated, then asked, “Tell me about your parents. How did you come to live here with your uncle? I don’t mean to pry, and don’t tell me if you’d rather not. But I’m really interested. In both of you,” he added a bit hastily.
She managed to answer him. “I don’t mind.” She was bemused. He was interested in them, in their history, their lives…She wasn’t shy about her parents’ story since everyone here knew it. “My parents were both killed in an IRA bombing when I was two.”
Tim’s eyes widened, and he was about to speak again when Uncle Kee hung up the phone and came back to them.
“They’re all right. Eamon was a bit under the weather today so they stayed home. They hope to be here tomorrow night with bells on.”
Tim Ferris stood up. “I think I’d like some fresh air. Siobhan, would you like to come with me while I stretch my legs?”
At his suggestion, her shyness swelled up once more and swallowed her. She fought against it but in vain. She just couldn’t go out with him into the gloaming—alone. It would be too intimate, too intense. The night was her space, always experienced alone. Sitting in the kitchen with him was one thing, but this was entirely different. The lump of terrified ice in her stomach would not thaw, not even in the warmth of Tim’s easy smile.
“No.” It came out in a whisper. “No, thanks. I’ve things to see to.”
A quick glance at Uncle Kee revealed that he was frowning slightly, looking at Tim. His voice, so familiar to her, sounded a shade deeper than usual as he said easily, “I’ll come with you, Tim. We’ll let Siobhan mind the store for a bit. I could use a hand with some kegs in the shed. Would you mind?”
“Sure. Okay.”
Did he sound disappointed? Siobhan wondered desperately as she escaped into the kitchen. She wanted so much to make friends with this man. But she didn’t know how. Keeping people at a distance was her specialty.
An open cupboard door half caught her attention and she closed it without thinking. But then she slowly opened it again and stared without seeing at the rows of jarred spices. How do people open doors in their lives for other people to step through? With words? What words? She shivered. How chilling it must be to open a door only to have someone pass it by. But how much worse, how infinitely worse, it would be to have someone enter for a time and then go away. Siobhan was comfortable with being ignored. The thought of being acknowledged, and then rejected, was horrific. She shivered again.
Why did the opinion of a total stranger matter so much to her? It never had before. Always she had placed strangers into two categories: those to be feared and those to be ignored. She could not ignore Tim, and didn’t want to. But she didn’t fear him, either. Was it because he loved what she loved? She admired him. Except for Uncle Kee, she couldn’t remember admiring anyone in the real world before. Her beloved mythic heroes had captured all her devotion, until now. Siobhan was shocked at how much she wanted to know how Tim perceived her. She recognized herself through the eyes of Uncle Kee, but through the eyes of someone else? Who would she be?
Siobhan railed at her timidity. There was so much she wanted to talk to Tim about. It was never going to happen if she allowed her shyness to dominate her. Before now her self-imposed diffidence with strangers had been born of disinterest. Their presence didn’t affect her, it was her choice not to let them in. Now she wanted to let someone in. And much more than examining why, she was concerned whether she should. Why did she need anyone but Uncle Kee to give her life meaning? Was it wrong to feel this way, to want something more?
Anxiety came rushing in and she took a deep breath, closing her eyes, using her calm voice. Now, Siobhan, you can talk to the man on a purely intellectual level. That’s all it needs to be. There’s nothing wrong with that, nothing frightening. You learned long ago that thinking too much about yourself is dangerous. You know you must travel along the surface of the lough, not explore its depths. The depths lead to drowning. Siobhan nodded to herself vaguely as she gently shut the cupboard door. They lead to drowning.