Anne promised Mick if he came there would indeed be stories, food, rest, and dancing. She pinched me as she said dancing. I’d shown her my dancing skills one day in the rain. And then I kissed her senseless in the barn.
“Can I bring Joe O’Reilly?” Mick asked. “And maybe a man to watch my back so poor Joe can relax a bit?”
Anne assured him that he could bring anyone he liked, even Princess Mary. He laughed again, but he hesitated before signing off.
“Tommy, I appreciate this,” he murmured. “I would go home, but . . . you know Woodfield is gone. And I need to leave Dublin for a while.”
“I know, Mick. And how long have I been begging you to come?”
Last year, Mick didn’t dare go to Cork for Christmas. It would have been too easy for the Tans to watch his family and swoop in and arrest him. This year, he no longer had a home to go home to.
Eight months ago, the Tans burned Woodfield, Mick’s childhood home, to the ground and threw his brother Johnny in jail. The Collins farm is now a burned-out husk, Johnny’s health has deteriorated, and the rest of the family is scattered across Clonakilty in County Cork. Mick carries that burden too.
Anne became very still at the mention of Cork and Mick’s home. When I hung up the receiver, her smile was bent and misshapen, though she tried her best to keep it in place. Her green eyes were shimmering like she wanted to cry but didn’t want me to see. She hurried from the room, muttering an excuse about bedtime and Eoin, and I let her go, but I see through her. I see through her now the way I saw through her on the lake, the day everything became clear.
There are things she isn’t telling me. She’s shielding me from the things she knows. I should insist that she tell me everything, just so I can help her carry the weight of what’s to come. But God help me, I don’t want to know.
T. S.
19
A NEEDLE’S EYE
All the stream that’s roaring by
Came out of a needle’s eye;
Things unborn, things that are gone,
From needle’s eye still goad it on.
—W. B. Yeats
Michael Collins and Joe O’Reilly arrived early on Christmas Eve with a bodyguard named Fergus in tow, and they took the three empty rooms in the west wing of the house. Thomas had ordered three new beds from Lyons department store, hauling the frames and mattresses up the stairs to the freshly scrubbed rooms where Maggie and Maeve covered them with new linens and plump pillows. Thomas claimed Michael wouldn’t know what to do with a big bed in a room of his own, having slept so often wherever his head landed and never staying in one place for too long. The O’Tooles were beside themselves with excitement, preparing the rooms as though ancient King Conor himself were coming to visit.
Eoin was frantic as he waited for them, running from one window to the next, watching for them to arrive. He had a secret he was bursting to share. We had created a new adventure in the Eoin sagas, a story where Eoin and Michael Collins rowed the little red boat across the lough and into an Ireland of the future. The Ireland in our story slept under the tricolor flag, no longer ruled by the Crown, the troubles and tribulations of past centuries long behind her. I told the story in rhyme, plotting each page, and Thomas sketched little Eoin and the “Big Fella” sitting atop the Cliffs of Moher, kissing the Blarney stone, and driving along the Giant’s Causeway in Antrim. On one page, the mismatched pair saw the wildflowers and braced themselves against the winds on Clare Island. On another, they witnessed the winter solstice at Newgrange in County Meath. The story hadn’t begun as a gift for Michael, but by the time we were finished, it was agreed that it needed to be.
It was a beautiful little book, full of Irish whimsy and hopeful pining, with two Irish lads, one big and one small, traipsing across the Emerald Isle. I knew that Ireland wouldn’t know the peace found in the pages of our book for a long, long time. But peace would come. It would come in layers, in pieces, in chapters, just like in a story. And Ireland—the Ireland of the green hills and abundant stone, of the rocky history and the turbulent emotions—would endure.
We wrapped the story in paper and twine and placed it beneath the tree with Michael’s name on it, adding it to the parcels that were already there—gifts for each of the O’Tooles and new hats and socks for all the men. Father Christmas would be visiting after Eoin went to sleep. I’d purchased the replica of the Model T Eoin had obsessed over at Kelly’s pawnshop, and Thomas had built him a toy sailboat and painted it red, just like the one in our stories.
The photographer from the wedding at the Gresham Hotel had mailed us copies of the pictures he’d taken. I’d managed to intercept the package without anyone else seeing it. I’d put the picture of Thomas and me—the one Eoin would keep all his life—inside a heavy gold frame. It wasn’t an exciting gift for a small boy, but it was a precious one. I’d placed the other picture from the wedding, the one with Michael grinning in the center, in another frame to give to Thomas. That was the night when I’d first admitted my feelings, the night when I’d confessed everything, and the memory of those moments and the significance of the history took my breath away every time I looked at the photo.
Garvagh Glebe had been turned into a glittering, glowing wonderland of warm smells and gleaming surfaces, of spice and shine and fragrant trees tied with ribbon and decorated with berries and candles. I wasn’t surprised to learn that Thomas opened his doors every year to his neighbors, hiring musicians and supplying enough food to fill a thousand bellies. The festivities always began in the late afternoon and would continue until the party moved to St. Mary’s for midnight Mass or home to sleep off the day’s excesses.
Just after five o’clock, wagons and rattling farm trucks, cars, and carts began making their way down the lane toward the manor, which was aflame with light and sound. The ballroom that was empty year-round had been dusted and decorated, mopped and waxed, and long tables were laden with pies and cakes, turkey and spiced meat, and potatoes and bread prepared a dozen ways. It wouldn’t stay hot, but no one complained, feasting as they milled about, laughing and visiting, their cares set aside for a few hours. Some swarmed Michael Collins while others steered clear; the lines were already being drawn between those who thought he’d brought peace to Ireland with his Treaty and those who believed he’d brought civil war. The news that he was at Garvagh Glebe spread like wildfire, and some stayed away because of it. The Carrigans, the family who had lost their son and their home because of the Tans last July, had refused to take part in the festivities. Mary’s burned hands had healed, but her heart hadn’t. Patrick and Mary Carrigan didn’t want peace with England. They wanted justice for their son.
Thomas had gone to extend a personal invitation and to see how they were faring. He was thanked and turned away with their warning ringing in his ears. “We won’t bow down to England, and we won’t break bread with any man who will.”
Thomas had worried that Michael wouldn’t find respite or reprieve, even in Dromahair, and began circulating a warning of his own among the townsfolk. There would be no political debate or even discussion allowed at Garvagh Glebe that Christmas. Those who came to partake of his hospitality would do so with peace in their hearts, in the spirit of the season, or they were not welcome. So far, the people had cooperated, and those who could not had stayed away.
Thomas asked if I would entertain his guests with the story of the holy birth and light the candles in the ballroom windows. The candles were a tradition, a signal to Mary and Joseph that there was room for them inside. In Penal times, when priests were forbidden to perform Mass, the candle in the window was a symbol of the believer, a sign that the inhabitants of the house would also welcome the priests.
There were tight lips and glistening eyes as I spun the tale and lit the wicks. A few people shot withering looks toward poor Michael, condemnation in their gazes, as if he had forgotten all the pain and persecution that had come before. He stood with a glass in his hand, a lock of dark hair falling over his brow. Joe was on one side and the man he had introduced only as Fergus on his other. Fergus had carrot-colored hair, a wiry build, and a gun strapped to his back beneath his suit coat. He didn’t look like he’d be much in a fight, but his flat eyes never stopped moving. Thomas had explained to the O’Tooles that Fergus should be allowed unfettered access to the house and grounds and that he was there to keep Michael safe, even in tiny Dromahair.
Then the musicians began to play, the center of the room cleared, and the dancing commenced. The singer’s voice was theatrical and warbling, as if he was trying to mimic a style that he wasn’t suited for, but the band was eager and spirits were high, and couples paired off and whirled, only to pair off again. The children wound their way through the couples, dancing and chasing each other, and Eoin’s cheeks were flushed and his enthusiasm contagious as Maeve and Moira tried to corral him and his playmates and organize a game.
“You made me love you. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to do it,” the singer mourned unconvincingly, and I stared down at the spiced punch in my hand and wished fleetingly for crushed ice.
“Dance with me again, Annie.” I knew the speaker before I turned my head.