Father Duran, and there was nothing to fear from that corner. Eat up now, she said crisply, there are glasses t be wiped and the floor t be swept.
Annie forced the unwelcome food past her lips and fought back tears. Brigid bit her lip. Annie didnt want to wipe glasses or sweep floors any more than Caitlin had. She was crazy for horses, another trait she shared with her mother. But this time Brigid knew it wasnt horses the child needed. She wanted to go home to her own room, to her friends, and her father. Estelle, the Claibornes cook, would have made French toast with syrup and bacon, Kentucky baconthe thin crispy kind that curled at the edges, not the thick rubbery, undercooked slab that passed for bacon in Ireland.
Brigid glanced over at Ben and the knot around her heart eased a bit. Praise be for little boys. Ben was shoveling in oats as if it was his favorite meal.
Annie was through with pretending. She left the spoon stuck in a mound of congealed mush. Im finished, Gran, she said softly.
Ill have yours, Ben announced, licking his spoon and reaching across the table for his sisters portion.
Brigid stared down at the barely touched lump of gray in her granddaughters bowl. Would nothing she did ever please the child? Even her buttery scones were pushed away after no more than a bite. Caitlin believed the children would acclimate. Brigid wasnt so sure. Dragging two children halfway around the world, away from everything familiar, without so much as a bit of explanation was foolish, if not disastrous. But then Caitlin had always been one to take risks.
This time, Brigid reflected, her daughter might have bitten off more than she could chew. In her own way, Annie Claiborne was as stubborn as Caitlin had been, perhaps even more so because it was plain to see that Annie had been indulged from the moment she was born. Not that Brigid wouldnt have liked to indulge her own children, but there were too many of them. There was always an endless round of work to be done, and Caitlin was such a prickly little independent thing. When she was no more than an infant, Brigid recalled finding Caitlin uncovered, her blankets kicked aside, her arms spread out in flight position even in sleep.
It was all her late husbands fault, of course, the lack of time and the unending round of work that never ceased. His death could have been prevented if he hadnt been so fond of the drink. Not that Sean was good for much more than a bit of laughter and a warm body to share the
craic
with. Still, he helped out in the pub on occasion and cooked for the girls, all the while weaving his stories of light-touched Connemara and the queer folk of the Gaeltacht until the wee ones trembled with delight, their dreams filled with visions of Emain Macha, Queen Maeve, King Conor, silkies, mermaids, druids of the summerlands, and Celtic warriors of the Red Branch.
If only Sean hadnt drunk himself into a near-amnesiac condition, he wouldnt have fallen into a trench and hit his head against the scaffolding of the old schoolhouse. Neither, would he have toppled head first into a gutter and drowned in six inches of rainwater. He died young, poor man. Brigid surreptitiously crossed herself and then remembered that her grandchildren werent Catholic, a serious breach she would discuss with Caitlin as soon as her daughter had a minute to spare.
Calling up the discipline that was never far from her consciousness, she pushed away her thoughts and concentrated on her charges. Pick up the dishes and put them in the sink, Annie. Your mother will wash them later. Hurry up. She shooed Ben and Annie through the door and down the small flight of stairs that was once a rectory drawing room and now served as the pubs main floor.
Brigid had tidied up the night before. Everything was in its place, unopened bottles on the polished oak shelves, breakage set out on the bar, wine glasses hanging from the rack, tumblers sitting in the residue of what was once a tub of hot soapy water,
Annie forced the unwelcome food past her lips and fought back tears. Brigid bit her lip. Annie didnt want to wipe glasses or sweep floors any more than Caitlin had. She was crazy for horses, another trait she shared with her mother. But this time Brigid knew it wasnt horses the child needed. She wanted to go home to her own room, to her friends, and her father. Estelle, the Claibornes cook, would have made French toast with syrup and bacon, Kentucky baconthe thin crispy kind that curled at the edges, not the thick rubbery, undercooked slab that passed for bacon in Ireland.
Brigid glanced over at Ben and the knot around her heart eased a bit. Praise be for little boys. Ben was shoveling in oats as if it was his favorite meal.
Annie was through with pretending. She left the spoon stuck in a mound of congealed mush. Im finished, Gran, she said softly.
Ill have yours, Ben announced, licking his spoon and reaching across the table for his sisters portion.
Brigid stared down at the barely touched lump of gray in her granddaughters bowl. Would nothing she did ever please the child? Even her buttery scones were pushed away after no more than a bite. Caitlin believed the children would acclimate. Brigid wasnt so sure. Dragging two children halfway around the world, away from everything familiar, without so much as a bit of explanation was foolish, if not disastrous. But then Caitlin had always been one to take risks.
This time, Brigid reflected, her daughter might have bitten off more than she could chew. In her own way, Annie Claiborne was as stubborn as Caitlin had been, perhaps even more so because it was plain to see that Annie had been indulged from the moment she was born. Not that Brigid wouldnt have liked to indulge her own children, but there were too many of them. There was always an endless round of work to be done, and Caitlin was such a prickly little independent thing. When she was no more than an infant, Brigid recalled finding Caitlin uncovered, her blankets kicked aside, her arms spread out in flight position even in sleep.
It was all her late husbands fault, of course, the lack of time and the unending round of work that never ceased. His death could have been prevented if he hadnt been so fond of the drink. Not that Sean was good for much more than a bit of laughter and a warm body to share the
craic
with. Still, he helped out in the pub on occasion and cooked for the girls, all the while weaving his stories of light-touched Connemara and the queer folk of the Gaeltacht until the wee ones trembled with delight, their dreams filled with visions of Emain Macha, Queen Maeve, King Conor, silkies, mermaids, druids of the summerlands, and Celtic warriors of the Red Branch.
If only Sean hadnt drunk himself into a near-amnesiac condition, he wouldnt have fallen into a trench and hit his head against the scaffolding of the old schoolhouse. Neither, would he have toppled head first into a gutter and drowned in six inches of rainwater. He died young, poor man. Brigid surreptitiously crossed herself and then remembered that her grandchildren werent Catholic, a serious breach she would discuss with Caitlin as soon as her daughter had a minute to spare.
Calling up the discipline that was never far from her consciousness, she pushed away her thoughts and concentrated on her charges. Pick up the dishes and put them in the sink, Annie. Your mother will wash them later. Hurry up. She shooed Ben and Annie through the door and down the small flight of stairs that was once a rectory drawing room and now served as the pubs main floor.
Brigid had tidied up the night before. Everything was in its place, unopened bottles on the polished oak shelves, breakage set out on the bar, wine glasses hanging from the rack, tumblers sitting in the residue of what was once a tub of hot soapy water,
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