The tribes did not have many laws, but the wildest and least law-abiding tribe would do its best to see that the wishes of the dead were honoured. Granny Mogg could leave her possessions to whom she pleased, there was nothing to say she could not leave her necklace to a buffer woman, but Finn was realist enough to know that there were women in the Tuam tribe, good enough women, who would do almost anything to get hold of that necklace. It was thought to have magical properties, it was revered and valued . . . but if Lucy kept it for special occasions and took care of it there was no reason why anyone should ever know she had it. They would think Granny Mogg had hidden it, or that it had been burned with her, on the funeral pyre. So Finn told himself that he could not leave until he had shown Lucy the necklace, handed it over and made her promise to keep it hidden whilst the tinkers were in the neighbourhood. Which meant remaining in the area for a few days, at least.
It was harvest time, so he had work in plenty. He worked for Padraig and Padraig said he had never had a better worker.
‘Come back next year, boy, and you can sleep in the attic room and feed wit’ the family,’ he said heartily. ‘Never did I know such a feller for work – ye can beat even Kellach who is at the height of his strength. Stay, if you will, for there’s always work to be done on a thriving farm like this.’
Finn smiled and said he would think about it and wasn’t Mr Murphy the best of men to make an offer so generous to a poor tinker? But he knew he must go, and soon.
‘He won’t stay; he’s never stayed,’ Lucy said in private to Caitlin. ‘He’s got to move on, it’s in his blood. I pity the woman that falls in love with Finn Delaney, for he’ll never stay in one place long enough to be caught.’
‘He’s grown awfu’ handsome,’ Caitlin murmured, with her rich, dark hair falling softly over her dark eyes and hiding the expression in them. Does she know I’m sweet on him Lucy wondered? Does she feel the same about him? Sad it is that we, who once shared everything, can grow secretive and solitary and keep the secrets of our souls from each other, just because a man has entered our lives.
‘Yes, he’s handsome,’ Lucy agreed. ‘But sure it’s not looks that are important when you’re after marryin’ a feller.’ Caitlin’s eyebrows rose and no wonder; how my mouth gabs out the things I most want to keep to meself, Lucy mourned, and once more her mouth opened and words came out. ‘Not that I’m thinkin’ of marriage, me. Not for many a long day.’
She shot a quick look at Caitlin. Caitlin’s cheeks were rosy and her eyes were very bright. ‘Nor me,’ she said quickly. ‘Why, we’re neither of us in our dotage yet; plenty of time for that kind o’ thing.’
She is in love with him, Lucy thought, with a mixture of dismay and elation, because at least as things stood they’d both made fools of themselves. And fools was what they were since wasn’t it as plain as it could be that Finn wasn’t for the likes of them? Handsome, yes, charming, yes, but – but fickle as the west wind, and about as easy to grasp, Lucy reminded herself, and tried to work up a proper scorn for a man like that.
And then he came to her on a fine summer evening and said would she like to walk with him down to the lough now, and take a look at the castle and watch the sun setting over the mountains? And Lucy’s mouth opened to say no she would not, she was far too busy and besides, what was the point? Only her heart got in before her head and her heart made her mouth say, ‘That would be nice,’ and then it made her body get up and walk beside him, out of the farmhouse, across the haggard, down the lane and into the sloping meadows, just as the sun was casting its last long, golden rays across the water.
‘I’ve enjoyed bein’ a part of your family so I have Lucy Murphy,’ Finn said, as they walked.
He’s going and he’s going to tell me so, he’s going to say he’ll never return, that we must say goodbye, Lucy’s acute imagination observed dispassionately whilst her voice murmured politely that they had enjoyed his company and that Grandad thought him a marvellous hard worker.
‘Ah, well, we can work, us tinkers,’ Finn said. ‘I didn’t tell you before, alanna, but Granny Mogg wanted you to have something of hers to remember her by. It’s in here.’
They had reached the castle and he gestured to the archway into the keep.
‘I don’t need anything to remember her by, I’ll remember her all my life,’ Lucy said with a rush of affection for the old woman. Whilst Granny Mogg lived, you came here twice, sometimes three times a year, her heart said soundlessly. I’ll never forget her for that reason alone, though there are a thousand others.
‘Well, maybe. But she wanted you to have it. It’s in her old room. Will ye come up?’
‘Of course I will,’ Lucy said, momentarily affronted. ‘It wasn’t me that didn’t like the stairs, Finn, it was Caitlin. I’ll go first.’ And she shot up the stairs so fast that Finn was left far behind laughing up at her as she pushed against the door and burst into the small, round room.
She had not been up here once since Granny Mogg had moved into the farm and she looked round, momentarily distracted. It had not changed at all, not one iota. The bracken bed was still piled up against the wall, the table was in the middle of the room, the chair pushed beneath it. Only the smell was different; now the little room smelt of mice and loneliness.
Finn came into the room and closed the door behind him. He went over to the bracken bed and shifted it from the wall and showed Lucy a small loose stone there. He pulled it out and pushed his hand into the hole, drawing it back with something wrapped in a piece of what looked like black velvet. He unwrapped the velvet and gold shone dully.
‘Here,’ he handed her the necklace and Lucy gasped, unable to believe that she was being offered something so heavily, richly glowing, but she took it and stood quite still, looking down at it.
It was very, very old, and every link was wrought in the shape of a bee, and each bee clung with its front or back legs to the bee before and behind it. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, ever touched, and the gold was soft and richly coloured, but the necklace was heavy and cold in her hands and suddenly she was afraid. She shook her head and handed the heavy gold chain back to him.
‘I don’t want it; truly Finn, it frightens me. You must have it – I give it to you freely because . . . because I loved you, when I was a little girl. Take it and give it to – to your wife, when you marry. Please, Finn! I would rather you had it than anyone else in the world.’
He stood there, holding the necklace, his expression suddenly diffident. ‘No, I can’t take it, Luceen. It’s the only truly valuable thing Granny Mogg possessed, it was her grandmother’s, and her grandmother’s grandmother’s before that. It has come down in her family for generations but tinkers don’t regard that, no one would blame Granny for not wanting her daughter-in-law to have it, not after what happened. She had no daughters of her own and she knew you loved her – she loved you. Please take it.’
Lucy put her hands behind her and shook her head. ‘I can’t. Besides, I’ve given it to you, as a present for your future wife. You can’t refuse me that, Finn. Now can we go home?’
He looked at her for a long moment; his eyes seemed to burn into her very soul and she was sure he knew how she felt about him and despised her for it. But presently he reached out and took her hand and his fingers were warm and light, their grasp friendly.
‘Thank you, alanna, for your gift. I’ll wear the necklace round my own neck, for safe keeping, until the time comes to pass it on to another. And now I suspect you know what I’m going to say.’
‘You’re leaving,’ Lucy said calmly.
‘Yes. And I shan’t . . .’
‘You won’t be coming back. It’s all right, Finn, I understand. But – but you won’t go for ever, will you?’ Her composure slipped suddenly and she looked down, afraid he would read the naked love in her eyes. ‘You’ll come back one day, will you not, if only to dance at my wedding?’
He grinned then, abroad, natural grin, and transferred his hands to her shoulders, shaking her slightly.
‘Little goose! I cannot for the life of me imagine you a sober wedded wife but no doubt it’ll come to that one of these fine days. So if you want me at your wedding, you must send for me.’ He stopped smiling suddenly and was serious. ‘Alanna, I shan’t come back because I turn my face forwards, always. Only Granny had the power to bring me back season after season, year after year. But now she’s gone and I must go onward, I must see more of this land. If you ever need me come to Killarney and talk to the man who drives the yellow and green jaunting car; if it isn’t meself then it’ll be me good friend, Devvy. He’ll tell you where I’m to be found, if I’m still on this earth.’
‘Oh, Finn, don’t say that,’ Lucy quavered. ‘You aren’t going to die, are you?’
‘Man born of woman is bound to die, Granny Mogg used to say. And remember, we’re talkin’ of the distant future, when you’re going to invite me to your weddin’! By then I’ll be an old feller, if not a dead’un. Now come on, let’s see you smile.’
She smiled though tears trembled in her eyes and Finn smiled too and then, very gently, he took her in his arms. He kissed her with tenderness, then with passion – and then he simply let her go and moved away from her.
‘Enough of that, Luceen. Let me walk you home.’
Without another word they walked home; he saw her into the farmhouse, called out to her grandfather, said he needed to have a word with Kellach before he went to the barn to sleep. He walked away jauntily, without looking back, and Lucy went up to her room, undressed, washed, put on her nightgown, got into bed.
And once in bed she thumped her pillow and then turned over and sobbed into it, for she knew she would not see Finn when she awoke next morning. That kiss – those kisses – had been their farewell.
But he did the right thing, leaving, her mind said comfortingly just before she fell asleep. It isn’t everyone who could live a tinker’s life, and I don’t even want to try. I love the farm, and Grandad, staying in one really beautiful place surrounded by people I love and respect. And some day soon I’ll meet a man who matters to me more than anyone else on earth, and we’ll marry and make beautiful love and settle down to raise a family.
But learning to live without even the hope of Finn was going to be awfully hard.
Maeve, in her neat brownstone house in New York, entertained Caleb’s friends and made friends of her own. She soon had a thriving social life and worked for any charity which needed her, because Caleb was an increasingly popular and successful attorney and insisted that she employ staff to help in the house. Caleb wanted her to have a nanny for little Padraig, too, but Maeve drew the line at that. Could she not look after her own child as, once, she had looked after little Evie’s? She pushed Padraig’s pram in the park and although she did have a maid, a nice little girl who came from the old country, as Maeve did, as well as a cleaning woman who did the rough work, a gardener and a boot boy, she did most of the cooking and all of the food buying, trekking all over New York to get the proper ingredients for her soon famous dishes.
‘Maeve’s soda bread is out of this world, and her fruit puddings are better than mother made,’ Caleb’s business associates said. ‘She’s a fine woman, she worships Caleb and that li’l feller of theirs.’ And they looked accusingly at their smart wives who never touched a mixing bowl and scarcely knew their own nanny-reared children.
So Maeve was happy and busy and though she often thought of home, of big Padraig and of Lucy, it was comfortably, fleetingly. They lived their own lives far away and their lives impinged upon Maeve’s not at all.
But the little daughter she longed for did not put in an appearance, and for fear that little Padraig would grow up spoiled and selfish Maeve pushed him across to Central Park every afternoon, even when it rained or when snow piled up at the pavements edge, so that he might play with other kiddies on the grass, the swings, by the lake.
On a particularly pleasant October afternoon, when she was pushing the pram with Padraig just awoken and inclined to be grumpy, in it, she slowed by the lake to let him see the ducks, and what must the naughty boy do but heave off his brand new tweed hat with the velvet bow on top and throw it in the lake, where it bobbed amongst the interested and investigative ducks like a tiny curragh. And not only was the hat new, it went with his little tweed and velvet coat and had cost a great many dollars, so Maeve gave a cry of distress and looked round for a stick to prod it out before the ducks decided it was good to eat after all.
The only stick available, however, fell short by a good two feet of the object she was fishing for. With a sigh, Maeve began to unlace her sensible shoes; there was nothing else for it, she would have to wade in, and oh, though the sunshine was warm, she just knew the water would be cold! She gave her son, sitting up in the pram and beaming at the ducks, a black look, then rumpled his soft hair. He was only being a boy, bless him!
But as luck would have it, Maeve did not have to paddle. A young fellow in a seaman’s jersey and rough navy trousers had seen her plight. He didn’t even bother to remove his boots but simply walked a foot or so into the water, fished for the hat with the very stick Maeve had so unsuccessfully used, and returned the hat to her with a grin.
‘Oh, that was so kind; thank you very much; I’m afraid me son’s getting full of mischief and would rather walk than ride,’ she explained, smiling at the young man. ‘But he’ll outgrow that, I hope.’
‘Oh, all kids gerrin ’ot water when they’re fed up of ridin’ and would rather walk,’ the young man said easily. He leaned over the pram. ’Oo’s a bad feller, eh? But your mam’s goin’ to get you out o’ there any minute, ’cos it ain’t far to the playground.’
‘You’re right, I am. And what are you doing so far from home, may I ask?’ Maeve said, as she began to push the pram towards the playground and the young man fell into step beside her. ‘You’re from Liverpool, England, or I’m much mistaken. I’m Irish, but I spent some time in your city a couple of years back and I could recognise that accent anywhere. What are you doing in New York?’