The Matchmaker of Kenmare by Frank Delaney

cups and saucers on the table; offering richness in a blue pitcher of white milk; slicing a voluptuous pie; prancing across the stone-flagged floor—while eliciting all kinds of information without seeming to pry, as when she asked, “Now, do you know anybody from Kansas?”
    The young officer, Charles Miller, eyeing Miss Begley like a woman eyes a sable coat, said, “That’s the very center of the United States.”
    “My grandmother’s late husband was from Kansas, wasn’t he, Nana?” And turning to Miller again, she said, “I hope some of you are farmers, because we have farmers all ’round us here. Of course the farms are very small—” and immediately the young officer told us that his fatherowned five thousand acres, but the Great Depression had hit the farmers hard.
    She elicited details of their posting—a U.S. military camp in the far north, near the Donegal border.
    “We all believe the Yanks will come into the war, don’t we, Nana?”
    John, one of the two younger soldiers, said, “Well, ma’am, that’s what we’ve been told to expect.” At which the others shot him “shut up” glances, thereby confirming what I thought—they were in Europe under marching orders.
    Throughout this hospitality, I also observed Miss Begley’s exchanges with her grandmother—eyebrow lifts, subtle nods, tiny hand gestures, and I wondered if I were seeing an operation in progress; were the Matchmakers of Kenmare sizing up?
    They were. Easy to tell from their attitudes—and, next, their questions.
    “Is it hard being away from your loved ones?” asked Miss Begley, but the soldiers gave no hint of wives or sweethearts.
    “Of course it is,” encouraged the grandmother. “And fine young men like you always have girls waiting for them.”
    “You didn’t dance away with any of the girls last night,” said Miss Begley.
    “I’d say they’re still in that dance hall waiting for you all to come back,” said the grandmother.
    Other than pretty blushes, mumbles, and shrugs, the two women got nothing out of the three men.
    That night, I wrote my observations of Lieutenant Miller:
    He might indeed be a farm boy, but not the kind I know. College-educated? Maybe. Hasn’t been on a farm in a while—look at those hands, big as shovels, bigger even than mine, but perfect, level fingernails. Sharp fellow; thinks before he speaks, that little pause before he answers a question. Does he laugh much? His face is too smooth to tell. Does he perhaps have something of the winter in him, a certain bleakness?
    He’s perfectly turned out. Uniform spotless; pant creases like blades, even after traveling down from the north. Height? Six feet five inches is my guess. He’s smart enough, I can see that; he glances around him,he takes in everything. How does he look at Miss B.? With definite interest, and I think some respect. But why do I feel threatened? Is he a little sinister?
    Today, I look down on that scene from high above—I am a camera at one corner of the ceiling. The uniformed young lions sit to eat in an Irish country cottage. They ooze energy and good manners. The most distinctive of them, their crisp and powerful leader, has taken the chair at the head of the table, directed there by Miss Begley.
    On the table itself, the blue pitcher draws the eye to its point of color. And this girl, this lively, inexhaustible girl in her mid-twenties, patrols the fringes of this little feast; she’s like a fixer, looking, checking, scrutinizing, and chattering.
    Past them all, through the panes of the little window, the waters of the ocean sparkle aquamarine, and under passing clouds some of the rocks are purple again.

16
    I’m not quite sure how the next development arose; no crude or obvious moves occurred, therefore I must have missed the signals. Yet, when tea had been taken, Miss Begley separated Mr. Miller from the others and led him out of doors. His comrades remained at the table, asking polite questions of the old