Notes from a Spinning Planet—Ireland (8 page)

“And it sounded like Sean was making some kind of diabolic plan.” Her eyes grow wide as she leans forward like she’s going to say something very confidential. “I think he’s actually part of the underground IRA.”

“Seriously?” I blink at her. Is my aunt imagining things?

She nods with a somber expression.
“Very seriously
. And to make matters worse, it sounds like he’s planning some kind of an attack in Belfast. I think it has to do with the Orange Rose on Beach Road.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“A well-known Protestant pub.”

I kind of shrug. Like I would really care if someone bombed a pub. Okay, I take that back; I guess I probably would.

“You overheard
than?
” Ryan looks stunned.

“Well, I couldn’t catch everything.” She glances over her shoulder as if she’s really worried that someone could be listening. “But I heard enough to make me suspicious.”

“Did this guy, this Sean person, have any idea you could hear him?” asks Ryan.

“I slipped outside just as he hung up the phone. I pretended to be interested in the herb garden, which was really quite nice.”

“And then you went ahead and did the interview anyway?” I ask, thinking I probably would’ve concocted some excuse to get away from this crazy guy.

“Yes.” She nods with sad eyes. “There’s a story here. How could I let it get away?”

“Did he mention anything about the underground IRA in your interview?” asks Ryan.

“No. And I even asked about it. But he said those recent stories had been blown out of proportion, and he acted as if he were still very interested in peace. He said that’s why he left Belfast, to get away from the violence. In fact, he did such a great job of talking it up that I was almost convinced.”

“But not quite?”

She sighs. “I know what I heard. Sean is just one of those Irishmen with the gift of the blarney.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you warn someone?”

“I already did.”

“Who did you tell?” asks Ryan with a worried expression.

“My editor back at the magazine. I figured that would be the safest route. He’ll contact the authorities from over there. We don’t want anyone over here tracking this back to us.”

He nods with very serious eyes.

“Are we in danger?” I ask.

Sid pats my hand. “No, sweetie. We’re not in any real danger. But it was pretty exciting getting the inside story…and sad….”

“Do you think you really stopped something?” I ask.

She shrugs and takes a sip of her Guinness. “I sure hope so.”

“Time will tell,” says Ryan.

“But you can see how this puts a whole new twist on my story.” She stares off into space. I almost think I can see the wheels spinning in her head. “It’s not what I hoped for, but just the same I can’t wait to start writing. People need to know what’s going on here. Disappointing as it is, it will do no good to hide these facts.”

“You won’t put yourself in danger, will you?” says Ryan with real concern. “I mean, you know what kinds of things can happen over here.”

“Don’t worry, Ryan. I’ll be very careful. Especially since I have you two with me. In fact, I may have to act more like a tourist than a reporter now.”

“For a cover?” I say.

“Yes. I’ll continue with my peace-camp interviews, but I’ll make it all seem fairly low-key, like we’re mostly here just to see the sights.”

“Why?” I ask. “Do you think someone is actually watching you?”

“Not yet.”

“This is too weird,” I say.

“Don’t be worried, Maddie,” she says in a comforting tone. “I’m sure I’m making this into far more than what it really is. And I suppose I could be totally wrong about Sean too.” She glances over her shoulder again. “Just the same, you guys are sworn to secrecy about this. Understand?”

“Of course.” Ryan gives her a firm nod.

“Sure,” I say in a light tone. “Like who would I tell anyway?”

She gives me a fairly stern look, as if this really isn’t funny.
“No one.”

Okay, that sort of worries me. What have I gotten myself into?

F
or the next couple of days, we act like regular tourists, tooling around Galway County and touring castles, monasteries, formal gardens, seaports, the highlands, and even a small, family-owned farm. (I promised my dad I’d check out the agriculture.) One of my favorite spots was a castle that I actually discovered myself while taking an early morning walk. The castle is actually more of a ruins but really mysterious looking. It’s off of a gravel road that’s just a little ways out of Clifden, and I had to walk through a field inhabited by some rather intimidating bulls. But being a farm girl, I just kept my cool as well as a wary eye on the animals until I climbed over the fence stile. There before me, shrouded in fog, stood a big stone structure that looked like something right out of a fairy tale. I almost expected to see a captive princess waving from one of the high arched windows. But as I got closer, I saw that it was only a shell of a castle. All windows and doors were missing, and there was grass, vines, and even some small trees growing inside. Still, it was fun to explore the grounds, and I considered the people who dwelled there in previous centuries. I can’t imagine that the castle had ever been very warm or cozy in Ireland’s cool and damp climate, not to mention that it was located
quite close to the sea. I guess I don’t envy whoever once lived there.

On Friday we check out of our inn and head north toward Donegal County, driving all day through miles and miles of beautiful, lush green countryside. It’s around five o’clock when my aunt finally parks the car in a small seaport town called Malin.

“Are we in Northern Ireland?” I ask as I climb out of the backseat and pause on the sidewalk to have a good stretch. From what I can see, this place doesn’t look much different from Galway. The weather has turned cold and windy, so I immediately reach for my thick wool sweater. It’s hard to believe it’s nearly July.

“Not officially,” my aunt tells me as she opens the trunk. “But we’re really close. At least as the crow flies.”

“So what made you want to come here?” I ask. “Not that it doesn’t look interesting.”

“Malin Head is where Ryan’s ancestors lived. I thought he’d enjoy seeing it. Check out his roots, if he likes.”

“Why did they leave?” I ask Ryan. “Was it due to the potato famine?”

“No. That didn’t have too much of an impact on my family. Plus they left quite a bit later.” He pauses from helping my aunt unload the bags. “My grandparents immigrated to the States a few years before World War II started. My grandpa’s folks had been fishermen for generations, but he and my grandma were looking for a better life. My dad was the first one of their kids to be born in the U.S.”

“Oh.” I sling my backpack over one arm and reach for my
wheelie bag. I want to ask Ryan how his dad died but can’t think of the right way to put it just now. And maybe its none of my business anyway. “So, are your grandparents still around?”

He closes the trunk with a thud. “Just my grandma, but she lives in a nursing home in Tacoma, and I think she might have Alzheimer’s or something. She doesn’t really know anyone anymore.”

Another wave of compassion washes over me. Ryan seems so cut off from his family. It’s like he’s totally on his own. I can’t imagine what that would be like. And it makes me feel bad to think of some of the things I’ve said to him these past few days, not to mention the way I’ve treated him in regard to drinking his occasional Guinness. Why am I so petty?

We check into our hotel, and since the rooms are pretty small, Sid decides we’ll each have a room of our own. “That way I can work on my article without disturbing you,” she tells me as she hands me a brass key.

“Works for me,” I tell her. Trust me, I’m not complaining about having my own room. I mean, my aunt is nice and everything, but I’m just not used to sharing a room with anyone. A break will be nice.

“Shall we meet in the lobby in about an hour or so?” she asks as we part ways in the hallway. “I’ve got some phone calls to make.”

“Sounds great,” Ryan says as he unlocks the door directly across from mine. “I might take a little walk to check this place out. Maybe I’ll run into some long-lost relative.” He laughs. “Want to join me, Maddie?”

“Sure,” I tell him as I fumble for my room key. “If you want company, that is.”

“Can you be ready in a few minutes?” he asks.

“No problem.”

I quickly toss my bags onto my bed, freshen up a little, pull on my fisherman’s-knit sweater, then hurry back out to join him.

The wind is really starting to whip as we leave the hotel. “Looks like it’s going to rain,” I say, speaking loudly to be heard over the wind.

“You up for this?” he yells back.

“Sure,” I say. “It’s kinda fun.”

He points across the road. “Want to check out the bay?”

I nod and pull the collar of my sweater up around my neck, and we hurry in that direction, straight into the wind. And even though its biting cold, it’s also invigorating. We walk for several minutes, but Ryan seems to know where he’s going. And after a while we find ourselves down by the docks, just in time to see fishermen hurrying to unload crates and tie things down, as if they’re getting ready for a storm. Everyone seems busy, and we try not to get in their way as we look at the various fishing boats. Then it starts to rain. Not just small drops either. It’s like the sky has literally opened up, and the rain is coming down by the bucketfuls.

“Let’s get out of this,” says Ryan as he grabs me by the arm and practically drags me through a dark doorway right off the street. My eyes adjust to the dim light, and I instantly recognize that we’re in a pub. It figures. But at least it’s warm and dry, and I notice
there’s even a fire crackling in a small stone fireplace over in the corner. If it weren’t a pub, it would be very inviting.

Ryan leads me over to a tall table situated right in front of the window, and I sit down and peel off my damp sweater. “This is nice,” I say as I peer out the cloudy glass to see the docks and boats being pelted by the rain.

“Really?” One of his brows lifts in a skeptical expression.

“Yeah. Really.”

“So are you going to wig out if I order a Guinness?”

I consider this. “No,” I finally say, “I am not.”

“Cool. I don’t want one, but I appreciate the flexibility.” He smiles, and it occurs to me that he has a very nice smile.

I’m not sure why, but for the first time since we’ve been in Ireland, I don’t feel all that concerned that I’m sitting in a pub or that Ryan might have a beer. It seems like no big deal. Whether this means I’ve made some kind of spiritual compromise is a mystery to me. But at the moment, I don’t care. I’m just glad to be in a dry place.

We order our drinks. Coffee for Ryan and hot tea for me. “So how does it feel to be in the same region where your father’s family came from?” I glance around the sparsely populated pub. “Think anyone here is related to you?”

He studies the guys sitting at the bar. They look like fishermen, but I don’t see any resemblance to Ryan. “Who knows?”

“Want me to ask if anyone here knows someone by the name of McIntire?” I say in a slightly teasing tone.

He laughs. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that just yet. I feel like I need to get my bearings first. You know?”

I nod. “Yeah, it must seem kind of strange.”

“Yeah. It’s really making me think about my dad. To be honest, I haven’t done that much. I mean, I never really knew him. And my mom didn’t speak of him much. At least not until this past year.”

“What was he like?”

“Well, like I said, he was born in America, but according to my mom, his heart belonged to Ireland.”

“How’s that?”

“I suppose it was a result of hearing family stories and stuff. But during the seventies, he really got caught up in Northern Ireland politics. He wanted to come over here, but his parents said he had to finish college first. So after he graduated, he came. I guess it was supposed to be just for a visit, but then he decided to stay.”

“For good?”

“For good or for bad.”

“Huh?”

“I think he was kind of torn. I mean, he really loved my mom, and he knew she didn’t want to live here, not back then when things were such a mess. And then she got pregnant with me, so they went back to America.” He sighs.

“But then he returned to Ireland?”

“Like I said, he came back when I was a baby. It was supposed to be a short trip…”

“But he never came home again.”

“Yep.” Then he takes a drink of his coffee.

“Because he died here,” I offer, feeling as if I’m the one telling Ryan’s story.

“Yep.”

“How did he die, Ryan? Do you know?”

“My dad was a member of the IRA.”

“Really?” I blink in surprise. All I know about the IRA is that they want to reunite Ireland through means of violence. They’re the ones who were responsible for the bombings and shootings when Sid and Danielle came here. And even though they’ve “disarmed,” it seems their influence is still around—especially after hearing about Sid’s interview with the dude who’s plotting to bomb a Belfast pub. That pretty much creeps me out.

“Yeah. My dad was really sympathetic to the IRA cause. Like lots of other Irishmen, he resented the British and wanted them out of Ireland completely. Like I said, he grew up hearing his parents’ stories. He knew all about the kinds of persecutions that had gone on here for centuries. My ancestors lost valuable land to the British, and even though my grandparents pretty much recovered from poverty not long after they immigrated to the U.S., I don’t think they ever got over the painful memories.”

I nod as I refill my teacup.

“So, anyway, my dad met my mom at a party in Belfast, and according to my mom and Sid, he fell head over heels for her.” Ryan kind of smiles. “After meeting my mom, my dad somehow tracked her back to the peace camp, and he started writing her letters with poems, and he sent her flowers and all kinds of things.
The poor guy was totally smitten. I guess he even volunteered to help out at the camp, which seems kind of weird, considering he was a member of the IRA. But he just wanted to be near her.”