Bruar's Rest

serene and quiet, and soon, with their journey over, they were disembarking at the capital port of Dublin. This city, where she imagined men stood on street corners sharing tales of great politicians, and the country where there were tiny magical people called leprechauns, fascinated her. Dublin was full to bursting with all kinds of people, talking, it seemed to her, in several different tongues. Michael told her she was privileged to hear the Irish Gaelic, which much to his dismay might soon be heard less as more folks spoke the English, especially the young. She said that in Scotland the northern folks were being forced to go the same way. She’d even heard some say that in schools a child not speaking English should go home and not come back until they’d scoured the Gaelic from their mouths. ‘My father-in-law told me that,’ she added.
    ‘Here’s our Paddy now,’ Michael said, as a noisy car drew alongside them, horn honking loudly. ‘This is Megan,’ he told the plump character with small twinkling eyes and rounded rosy cheeks nesting in a greyish beard. A bonnet sat on the side of his head, with thick grey curls sticking out beneath like a spiky broom. She held out her hand, which he accepted with a flourish, then planted a kiss on it.
    ‘‘And this, dear, is my friend and right-hand man, Patrick O’Neil.’
    ‘Tis a fine evening, and may I say it’s a pleasure to meet you at long last. Sure his nibs here spoke of little else last time he was home.’ A blush spread across her face and she lowered her eyelids.
    ‘Well, bless my soul if this colleen isn’t a mite slip of a thing, hardly a picking on you. I dare say you’ll be putting a bit of beef on yourself when Mrs Sullivan feeds you up.’
    ‘Leave her be, Paddy. Tell me now, how are me girls doing?’
    ‘Sure, the mares couldn’t be better with all the love me two hands have been giving them. They’re better treated than frilly females, I’d say.’
    With each passing mile Dublin was fading into yet another memory. She smiled, thinking of the Gaelic tongue, and remembering how Bruar would only utter it if annoyed at big Rory and O’Connor.
    For the whole length of the journey, apart from the odd times that a jolt brought the car’s engine to halt and each man took turns to yank it into life with a starting handle, all they spoke of was horses. This was fine because it gave her time to think; not about Bruar, but about the presence of Buckley somewhere over the stretch of sea, which seemed to her not that far away.
    Darkness had settled around, and only silhouettes of the countryside were visible. Michael tried, with clumsy words, to paint a picture of how lovely the place was, but with the disappearance of the light, all she saw were lengthening shadows.
    It must have been two in the morning when they jolted to a sudden halt. Mrs Sullivan, the housekeeper, had stayed up to greet the master of the house with a giant yawn. ‘Hello dear,’ she said, after hearing the brief explanation given for Megan accompanying him. ‘I’ll put you in the room on the first landing where the guests usually sleep unless...’ Michael answered her questioning look by saying, ‘Yes, I’m sure she’ll be comfortable.’
    They were exhausted, so after sharing milky cocoa with the others, Michael showed her to her room. Smiling, she asked him whether or not she should mention her marital status. ‘Do I mention Bruar, or would you rather I didn’t? It’s just that I don’t know how to present myself. Can I talk freely or is it best to say nothing?’
    ‘I have simply told them you are a girl I met at Appleby Fair and that’s that. No husband, no search. Don’t mention him, because in these parts it would look wrong if I had another man’s wife under my roof. It’s a religious taboo here, and one that’s seen less fortunate women tarred and feathered.’
    Saying goodnight, she slipped quietly into her comfortable bedroom, slightly opened the window and listened to a solitary owl calling from some treetop into the night. She was troubled; it felt like a betrayal not to mention her man. She stayed up well into the night, pacing the bedroom floor, before deciding what to do. It wasn’t the fear of being tarred and feathered, but she knew she had to keep the peace, be accepted.
    When sleep overpowered her, nothing and no one entered her subconscious mind, and because of this she felt as refreshed by her sleep as she’d done in a long while.