There was a ripple of satisfied applause. Even I had enjoyed the story, though it had lacked the grandeur of those my father told. Then the grey-haired man, apparently cured of his toothache, volunteered a song. It was a fine, uplifting tune about how hard it was to make a living in the bitter cold and harsh land of Ceann na Mara, and how he loved it so well, regardless, that his heart would always call him back there. There were more tales: funny, sad, touching. At the end, Darragh was persuaded to play his pipes. This time he did not choose one of the heart-stopping laments I had heard so often ringing across the hillside above the cove. He played music for dancing, and the young folk got up and made a circle, and there was a stamping of feet and a clapping of hands, and the bright whirl of skirts and fringed shawls in the warm golden light of the camp fire. I sat and watched and sipped my drink. Darragh played on. He was not looking at the joyful dancers, or at the older folk seated comfortably, renewing friendships after a year’s parting. He was looking at me. Get up and dance, his eyes said, challenging. Why don’t you? And deep inside me, something wanted to do just that. The music spoke to the blood; it called to feelings best left unwoken. But I had been well trained. I spoke to myself severely. You, dance? Don’t be silly. You’ll never dance, not without making a fool of yourself. Besides, you are what you are. You are outside this, and always will be.
After that it was easy enough to get up, have a quiet word with Peg, and retire to the tent.
‘Enjoyed yourself, did you, lass?’ Peg queried. I gave a little nod that could have meant anything, and fled to my dark corner and privacy. Outside the music played on. At some point, Darragh’s pipes were joined by a whistle and a drum. In my own small patch of stillness, I unfastened the wooden chest and, rummaging through the contents, I found Riona and took her out. Her features could barely be discerned in the shadows.
Did my mother dance? I asked her. Is that what this once was, a dress for dancing? My fingers touched a fold of the rose-coloured silk that made up Riona’s small gown. Surely only a lovely, confident girl would wear such a fabric. And yet, that same girl had become the fragile creature of Peg’s words, the woman who had abandoned her little child and the young man who loved her so desperately, the woman who had simply stepped off the cliff one day and gone down, down through the wild spray into the icy grip of the ocean surge as it hammered the rocks of the Honeycomb. Her own family had done this to her; her father, her uncles, her brother who still ruled as lord of Sevenwaters. Darragh’s talk of family was rubbish. They had as good as killed her, and they had all but destroyed my father. In their way they were as bad as my grandmother. Now I must confront them, and somehow I must complete the task my grandmother had laid on me. How could I think of tales, and music, and fun, when I had that ahead of me? Dan Walker and his kind were simple folk. Even the stories they told were simple. I did not belong with them, and it was foolish to believe I ever would. I must keep myself to myself and make sure I drew no undue attention. In time the journey would be ended, and I could begin the work that was required of me.
But it was not so easy. It seemed to me there was a small conspiracy afoot to bring me out of myself, and make me a part of everything whether I wanted it or not. They were up early next morning, with folk already eating their porridge as I emerged, bleary-eyed, from the tent. There was a communal water trough. I splashed my face, having learned soon enough not to be too fussy.
‘Eat up quick,’ advised one of the girls as she hurried past me, tying her hair neatly back in a kerchief. ‘It’s quite a walk. And trading starts early.’
Mutely, I accepted a bowl of porridge and retired under the trees to sit on a fallen branch and eat. I was tired. It had been a late night. I did not want to go anyway. But they all seemed so busy; there was nobody I could ask. The ponies must look their best; Dan was inspecting them as the boys moved around putting the final touches on: the intricate plaiting of a mane here, the careful brushing of a tail there. Peg was sorting out the best of the baskets, and giving the girls instructions about trading and more instructions about not getting into trouble. Maybe there was no need to ask if I could stay behind. Maybe they would just forget me. A sudden wave of homesickness swept over me, a longing to see Father and be back in safe, familiar, quiet Kerry once more. If only I could just pack up a little bag and set off by myself, retracing the way until I came up the hill where the standing stones marked the passing of time, and found myself back in the cove again. But I could not go. The only way was forward. I felt powerless and sad. I felt truly outside, as if there were nowhere I belonged.
‘Best clean that bowl and get ready to go, lass.’ Peg’s voice broke into my thoughts. ‘We’ll be away soon. Busy day.’
I looked up at her, framing the words. Then Darragh appeared behind her, dressed in his best, green neckerchief jaunty, boots polished to a high shine.
‘It’s too far for Fainne to walk,’ he said to his mother.
‘Lass’ll do well enough,’ Peg said, looking at him sidelong with a rather odd expression. ‘She’s not a cripple.’
‘I – I would –’ was as much as I got out. Two pairs of eyes regarded me intently, and I knew they knew what I was trying to say.
‘Tell you what,’ said Darragh casually. ‘I’ll take Fainne with me. Won’t hurt Aoife to carry one more. I’ll drop her off near the oaks, make sure we find you before I head off for the sale lines. Be easier for all concerned.’
‘If that’s what you want,’ said his mother drily. ‘Don’t be late, now.’
‘No, Mam,’ grinned Darragh, and advanced to where I stood scowling under the trees, empty porridge bowl in hand. ‘Ready?’ he queried with a lift of the brows.
‘I don’t even want to go,’ I grumbled.
‘Well, you can’t stay here on your own, so there’s no choice really, is there?’ he said lightly. ‘You’ll need a kerchief on your head, it’s windy riding. Best plait up your hair, too. Want me to do it for you?’
‘I certainly do not!’ I snapped. ‘I’m not a baby. I’ll do it myself.’
‘Don’t be long,’ he said calmly.
One of the other girls offered to help with my hair, and because I was in a hurry, I let her. This I regretted soon enough.
‘Special treatment, huh?’ she queried as her fingers worked their way through the thick, intractable mass of russet curls.
I could not look at her, to quell her gossip with an expression of disdain. I was forced, therefore, to reply. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Getting a ride with Darragh. He’s never done that before, taken a girl up to the Cross with him. Too many lasses after him, that’s his problem. Very careful, is Darragh. Doesn’t play favourites.’
I could scarcely think of what to say. I might have slapped her face, if she had not had hold of my hair.
‘There’s no favourites about it,’ I whispered angrily. ‘He’s just being helpful, that’s all, because I can’t walk very fast.’ I moved my right foot slightly, to show the boot that was a different shape from an ordinary one.
‘That?’ said the girl, offhand. ‘That’s nothing much. You’d keep up all right. Got a bit of ribbon, have you?’
I handed her the blue ribbon, over my shoulder.
‘No. You’re favoured all right. Not like him to hang around waiting, first day of the fair. He’s always the earliest one off, straight after sun-up. Horse mad, Darragh is. Wait till he turns up at the Cross with you behind him. Break a few of the lasses’ hearts, that will.’
‘You’re wrong, I’m sure,’ I said, feeling my cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. ‘It’s just that –