Erin Hart - Haunted Ground

Nora pulled Una aside. “Aoife and I could take a little excursion, if you like, down to the tearoom or something. At least until you’re set up.”

Una’s face revealed a mixture of gratitude and relief. “That would be brilliant. Wait, I’ll give you some money,” she said, reaching for the small pouch that was slung around her waist.

“Oh no, my treat, please. But maybe we’d better ask Aoife what she thinks of the idea.”

Una made her way over to where the little girl was strumming the fringes on a whole rack of Indian scarves. Nora observed their conversation from a short distance, then saw Aoife running toward her, face aglow with anticipation.

“Mammy says you and I can go off on our own.” She slipped her hand into Nora’s. So much for her fear that the child wouldn’t want her as a chaperone. A quick wave and they were off, with Aoife pulling her through the streets like a tugboat towing an ocean liner, her small feet beating double time on the pavement, stopping occasionally to share a tidbit or a confidence.

“There’s Declan Connelly,” Aoife confided to her at one corner. “He chased me once, with his manky old dog.” They barged past a nameless pub; Hickey’s garage, with two petrol pumps stuck in the curb and a shop window full of bicycle tires; the newsagent’s, with windows full of faded postcards and HB ice cream posters. Aoife slowed her pace when she was within sight of her ultimate destination, so that she could get the full effect of the colorful half-curtains, and the homemade sign depicting cream-filled cakes and apple tarts. A signboard leaning by the door said Teas, Coffees, Confections.

“Shall we go in here?” Nora asked. Aoife nodded wordlessly, as if mesmerized, and made a direct line for the case, which displayed a variety of cream buns, as Nora spoke to the girl at the counter: “We’ll have one white coffee, a currant scone, a glass of milk, and—” She looked at Aoife. “Whatever my friend here wants.” The little girl perused the case carefully, finally selecting an enormous, greasy-looking bun piled with whipped cream and with a radioactive-looking cherry on top. Nora shuddered inwardly. She let Aoife choose a table by the window while they waited for the server. As they sat at the bare table, she felt herself the object of the child’s frank scrutiny. Aoife sat back in her chair.

“Do you love Cormac?” she asked.

Nora was dumbstruck. Aoife went on: “I asked Mammy if you did, and she said she didn’t know, I’d have to ask you.”

“Well, he’s very nice,” Nora said, but could see that this answer was not definite enough for her interrogator.

“Would you want to marry him?” Fortunately for Nora, the server approached with a tray. The dreadful cream bun looked even larger on the table than it had inside the display case. Aoife had a fork, but couldn’t resist dipping immediately into its crown of stiff, buttery cream with her index finger, carefully avoiding the cherry. Watching her, Nora was overwhelmed by a sense of loss, remembering outings just like this one that she’d shared with her niece. She hadn’t seen Elizabeth for almost four years; that had been the price of her conviction that Peter Hallett was guilty of murder.

“I’m going to marry someone,” Aoife declared, as if the admission might make it easier for Nora to confess her own true feelings.

“Are you, really?”

“Yes. His name’s Tomas O Flic, and he plays with me sometimes. We have tea”—her voice took on a conspiratorial volume and tone—“only it’s not real tea, it’s pretend.”

“What’s he like?” Nora asked. Elizabeth had made up scores of imaginary friends when she was small, and Nora had loved asking her about them. She’d always been intrigued by the idea that children had such an instinctive buffer against loneliness.

“Well, he’s twigs all in his hair, and sometimes he’s a bit smelly. That’s because he never washes himself and he lives under a tree in the woods.”

“And what do the two of you talk about?”

“Oh, he never says anything at all,” Aoife said. “But sometimes he brings me things. He gave me this.” Licking the cream expertly from between her fingers, she reached into a pocket and brought out a flat, pale stone about the size of a 10p coin.

“It’s beautiful. May I have a closer look?”

Aoife hesitated before handing it over. “Do you promise to give it right back?”

“Oh, I promise,” Nora said. She turned the stone over in her palm. It was a highly polished piece of rose quartz, not something you might find in nature. She handed it back, and felt the slightest twinge of queasy doubt, wondering if she should press any further.

After replacing the precious stone in her pocket, Aoife concentrated briefly on the mountainous portion of cream bun left on her plate, then slumped back in her chair and scrunched up her nose. “I have something to tell you, Nora. I can’t eat any more of this. And there’s something else as well.”

“What’s that?”

“You forgot to answer about Cormac.”

While Nora was at the market, Raftery had phoned to say his aunt would see them this afternoon, and Cormac had taken down a rather elaborate set of directions to the old woman’s house, though she lived less than five miles from Dunbeg. Now the road to the townsland of Tullymore stretched before them like a green tunnel, its walls composed of leafy ditches strangled with ivy, its vaulted roof the arching branches of trees.

“Do you think Jeremy was disappointed that we didn’t ask him along?” Nora asked as she turned the car down a narrow lane at the end of the sheltered road.

“He didn’t look happy about it. But we can’t completely monopolize his time.” Nora felt the same way; it seemed they’d had hardly a minute without Jeremy’s company for the past couple of days. “There’s another turn up here,” he said, “left at the T-junction.” They were beginning to climb the side of a hill now, with flowering blackberries growing thickly on the steep slope to their left.

“I’ll be amazed if we can find our way back,” Nora said. “And I’m trying to convince myself that this Mrs. Cleary might just remember some story from over three hundred years ago.”

“It’s a long shot, but it’s not actually impossible. Some of the airs I play are at least that old. Don’t forget, our cailin rua was an actual person who might have lived no more than two or three miles from where we are right now. You’d be surprised how long things remain exactly where they’ve fallen; the same applies to songs and stories. Just passed on, one person to the next. And a bold attack on English settlers, or a beautiful young woman losing her head—whatever the reason—are just the kinds of things somebody might have set down in a song.”

“I’m wondering whether we shouldn’t have brought the jeep,” Nora said as the road began to narrow. She had to downshift twice; by the time they reached the summit of the hill, it was only a lane with a grassy ridge growing down the middle. The land to either side of the road was a treacherous combination of football-sized stones and spongy pasture.

They crept down the far side of the hill, and turned once more, when Cormac said, “Well, according to these directions, we should be there.” Nora stopped the car, and they looked around. At the far end of the road, some three hundred yards distant, stood a freshly thatched house with tiny windows, its whitewashed walls and yellow roof gleaming in the afternoon sun. As they drove closer, Nora could see that the half-door stood open.

“Looks as if we’re expected, anyway,” Cormac said as they climbed out of the car and approached the house. “Hello?” He rapped on the open door. “We’re looking for Mrs. Cleary?”