THE NEXT DAY, hearing nothing further from the inspector about the investigation, I took Toby on a long walk, to shake off the ghosts. He had asked for a tour of the megalithic tomb, but I just couldn’t. I proposed instead that we drive north above Keel and follow a path from the beach through the bogs. The guidebook promised a lively stream fringed thickly with flowers, the contrast of bare, black bogs, and the grandeur of walking toward mountains with the ocean at our backs. All this was delivered with white, billowing clouds blowing fast across the sky. Toby tramped the trail energetically, and I tried to keep pace. But from my hips to my feet, I felt weighted. I gave it my best, but Toby could tell.
“Too much today,” he said.
He understood how I was feeling—my shock at finding Bert dead, my concern for my mother, all the emotions tangled up inside me. I knew the guards were working diligently behind the scenes and wondered if they had turned up anything new. I carried Mom’s button with me everywhere, afraid that in the cottage it would be vulnerable to discovery. I kept fingering it in my pocket nervously. Toby noticed my jitters. He rubbed my back lightly and said, “Let’s slow down.”
The path turned away from the bogs toward the sea. As we descended, my breath came back and my limbs grew lighter. By the end of the walk, I was ready for another, but Toby called for lunch at the beach café. “Famous for their double-chocolate cake,” Toby said. He knew I couldn’t resist that.
Toby and I love an hour of reading after lunch. Since Mom and Dad’s car was gone and we didn’t see Angie about, we grabbed our chance. Toby took the bedroom, which meant either a good read or a good nap. I confiscated a book from the living room—my first Maeve Binchey—and took the couch. I was settled into marriage on Tara Road and beginning to sniff adultery when a knock on the window made me lose my place. It was Angie, waving at me in an odd, backhanded gesture, which I interpreted as a request to be let in. Once through the door, she continued waving her hand back and forth, first in front of her face in peek-a-boo style, and then at hip height, as if drying fingernail polish.
“Is that a jig that you learned from Bobby?” I asked.
She giggled. “It’s something that I got from Bobby. Look!” She thrust her right hand toward my chest. A silver band with a raised heart shone on her ring finger.
I flopped back on the couch pillows, and Maeve Binchy fell to the floor.
“Don’t say it!” Angie said. “It’s not an engagement ring.”
“Then what is it?”
“A friendship ring. See—it’s a heart held by two hands.”
“I know about claddagh rings,” I said, “and I know they’re engagement rings.”
“You’re out of date, cupcake. They’ve been used as engagement rings, but now they’re friendship rings too. Some people even buy them for themselves, to show they’re Irish. The heart means love, of course, and the crown on the heart is for loyalty, and the hands mean friendship.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” I muttered.
“I’m not protesting anything. There’s nothing wrong with exchanging friendship rings.”
“Exchanging?”
“Yes. Bobby gave me this one, and I gave him one.”
“So this isn’t Bobby’s grandmother’s heirloom claddagh ring that he’s been saving for the right girl?”
Angie looked put out. “Maybe I am the right girl! And maybe not. Whatever.”
I told myself to be nice, and I said, “It’s very pretty. Where did you get it—them?”
“At the craft shop across from the town hall at Achill Sound. Bobby went to school with the owner. He fitted us and explained how to wear them. They’re a local tradition, you know. Claddagh’s not that far from here. See, I’m wearing it on my right hand, which means it is not an engagement ring. But the point of the heart is toward my waist, which means . . .”
“You finally ended up in the sack.”
She blushed by way of confirmation. “It means the wearer is in a relationship.”
“Aha!” I said. “So more than just friendship.”
Angie pouted. “Why do you always have to pin me down? I like my ring. Bobby likes his ring. We like having rings together. Period.”
“And are you planning to send a picture of it to Sister Glenda along with the other snapshots of your trip?”
“I don’t need to be reminded of the convent, okay? I’m supposed to be testing how I feel about giving up sex before I make a commitment to the order, that’s what Sister said. To see if it’s the right choice for me. So I’m testing.” She grinned.
“Well, I’m glad you are,” I said. It was good to know that Angie was monitoring her feelings, but I couldn’t help joshing her. “Testing—one, two, three,” I teased, miming an announcer talking into a microphone. That broke the tension and we both laughed. The giver of the ring arrived soon after, which kicked up a fuss of tea-making.
“Don’t be troubling yourself,” Bobby said, while seating himself at the table. From that vantage point, he watched contentedly while Angie put water in the kettle and brought out a box of Mikados. Now, there was a sign of assimilation. After only a week in Ireland, Angie was addicted to these little wands of biscuit and chocolate. And here she was sharing her stash with her “friend.” I caught her placing her right hand on the table, next to Bobby’s, to create a display of the twin rings. His was the masculine counterpart to hers, with a thicker band showing a raised heart topped by a crown and supported by clasped hands. Bobby turned to look at her, and they shared what they thought was a private smile.
Then Bobby sat up straight, as if waking himself up, and put a question to me. “Did our girl tell you she’s going to be a star?”
“With Angie, you have to be ready for anything,” I said. “Star of what?”
“We’re putting on The Playboy of the Western World to kick off our summer festival on Sunday, and we need a fill-in for one of the cast who just dropped out. Angie’s agreed to take her place.
“But that’s only a few days from now. How’s she going to learn the part?”
“It won’t be hard,” Angie replied. “I’ve just got a walk-on part with a couple of lines. It’ll be fun.”
Angie’s always been attracted to the theater. All through school she tried out for plays and usually managed to get chosen for a role. It started with Eat Your Veggies in the first grade, when she played a carrot. (Angie was always the tallest girl in her class.) So it wasn’t too surprising that she would volunteer to step in at the last minute at the request of her new beau. “Bobby plays the hero,” she enthused. “He’s going to help me rehearse.”
“Well, good luck,” I said.
“You’re supposed to say, ‘break a leg.’ That’s what theater people say.” She beamed.
“Do you know the play?” asked Bobby. “It’s by John Millington Synge, our greatest playwright.”
“I’ve never seen it, but I’ve always been intrigued by the title.”
With the pride of the newly informed, Angie took it upon herself to explain. “It doesn’t mean ‘playboy’ in, like, a rich guy who runs around with a lot of babes. It means more of a rogue and a braggart. And the ‘western world’ refers to right here. It’s a play about the west of Ireland.”
“That’s right,” added Bobby. “It’s set on the coast of County Mayo.”
“It’s about a stranger who comes to town and claims he’s running from the police,” continued Angie. “His name is Christy Mahon—that’s Bobby—and when he tells his story, the people take him for a great outlaw, and all the girls chase after him.”
I must have looked puzzled.
“It’s a comedy,” said Bobby.
I could use a comedy right about now, I thought. “Well, you’ve definitely got my interest. I can’t wait to see it.”
“Then we better get on with our rehearsal,” said Bobby. “Will you excuse us?”
I left them together, huddled over their paperback editions of the play. Angie seemed happier than she had been in a long time.
There’s a busy little butcher shop in a small strip of stores at the entrance to Achill Sound. I suggested we go there to get meat for dinner, preferably something other than lamb. I had started to feel globules of lamb fat congealing in my blood. Before we left the cottage, Toby said hello to the budding thespians and was treated to a display of their new rings. “Bobby seems nice enough,” he said as we drove through the low-lying, monochrome bog lands. “Maybe this time it’ll work out.”
“I hope so. Angie’s had too many disappointments with men.”
“I have a feeling,” said Toby, “this time might be different.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear,” said I.
Twenty minutes later, as we approached our destination, we encountered an angry group of people milling about the small parking lot in front of the butcher shop. They were blocking the entrance, so we pulled to the curb. Within moments, the restive gathering spilled out of the parking lot and into the street. Protestors brandished signs. Save Our Greenway, said one. No to the Achill Steam Train, said another. Save Our Cycling Path, Keep Achill Green, said a third. Some of the demonstrators had bicycles by their sides; others carried walking sticks and had backpacks. Passersby stopped on the sidewalk to see what was going on. A buzz of approval arose when a red-haired woman and a burly man stepped out of the shop and moved to the front of the crowd. The man I recognized as the instigator of the brawl in the Annexe pub; he was red-faced Michael O’Hara. Today he wore a butcher’s apron. The woman beside him was striking: tall and slim, with fiery red hair flowing down her back. She wore a green cloak around her shoulders, which reminded me of Maud Gonne, the beautiful Irish revolutionary who cast a spell on Yeats. She must have mounted a box or platform of some kind, for in a moment she was elevated above the crowd.
“Let’s see what’s happening,” said Toby. He slowly drove forward past the blocked entrance and found a parking space down the street. We walked back and stood at the edge of the crowd to listen.
The speaker was inveighing against Uncle Bert’s idea to reconvert a section of the old Achill railbed to its original purpose. Just a few years ago, she reminded the protestors, the rails had been torn up and the trackway transformed into a hiking and bicycle trail for the enjoyment of all. What once was the Great Midlands Railway was now the Great Western Greenway, an environmental gem stretching some twenty-six miles from Achill to Westport. The disused rail route had been granted a second lease on life and was now a path for nature lovers on foot or on bike.
“Our greenway is known throughout the country,” the woman shouted. “But today it is threatened. Greedy businessmen want to convert it to a train ride for personal profit. The death of the project’s top developer hasn’t stopped them. The plan is still moving forward, led by his partner and their rich backers. It’s up to the people of Achill to stop them!”
“We will!” shouted one belligerent man. “Frank Hickey will get what’s coming to him!”
I grasped Toby’s arm at the elbow.
“We don’t want that kind of talk,” the speaker admonished. “I understand your anger. But we’re taking our grievance to court. That’s why I’m asking for your donations. Solicitors cost money, and you can be sure the developers have plenty of that.” She scanned the faces in the crowd and continued. “We’ve already seen how easily green belt protection can be circumvented. The county planning committee has shown just how susceptible it is to business interests by giving its approval for a disgraceful scheme, supposedly to increase tourism on Achill. Sure, their decision’s no surprise. Didn’t money tempt Judas to betray the Lord? I’d like to know whose hands were crossed with silver before the planning committee got flexible.”
“Dead right!” yelled the butcher.
“The applicants,” she went on, “have influence and large financial resources, and we’re nothing but a bunch of boggers and fishers to them. And yet, we’ve pushed back. We’ve spoken at council meetings, we’ve sent a petition, and we’ve held demonstrations. Now legal action is required if our greenway is to be preserved.”
“And if legal action doesn’t work, we’ll damn well block the construction. We’ll down the site!” shouted another voice.
“Save our greenway!” The chant picked up with people standing near the speaker, and it spread throughout the group. Pretty soon everyone was chanting, the notable exceptions being us.
We were spotted by Michael O’Hara, who pointed in our direction. “That fella in the back is a friend of Frank Hickey,” he called out. “He’s no friend of ours.” That prompted a collective grumble of resentment. A man standing next to us turned to Toby and said, “You’re not welcome here.” Another man began pushing his way toward us.
Toby said in an even voice, “We’re going.” He tugged me gently into the street. The men let us pass, but several rough-looking boys followed us to our car. I said to Toby, “So much for the butcher’s.” That evening we made do with soup.