Firefly Summer (28 page)

‘He’s got a very quick mind, Fergus,’ said John admiringly. ‘You must find it a great change working with him.’ He smiled quietly.

Kate thought for a moment.

‘Yes, he is great to work for. He’s a real schoolboy
though, a tall thin overgrown schoolboy, he’s not a fellow you’d fall in love with like you are.’

‘Okay, that’s all right, then,’ John Ryan said in mock relief.

It was a great relief to get rid of Eddie. The twins knew they were harsh to him, but Eddie wasn’t like other people. He didn’t understand hints. You had to be fairly brutal. They didn’t have any money for ice creams, so there was no point in going to Daly’s. It would only embarrass Maggie, and make Mrs Daly cast her eyes up to heaven and mouth silent prayers. Mrs Daly’s mouth was moving the whole time. Maggie said she got through dozens of memorares that she was saying for special intentions, while she was serving in the shop.

The twins knew that they mustn’t be seen in Leonard’s unless they were doing a brisk message like buying the paper or getting a writing pad. Grown-ups were allowed to leaf through the magazines, but there was no similar facility for children with the comics. And Tommy would hate them there.

There weren’t many people on the bridge. Those who were there had organised a jumping competition. Usually you jumped from the big rock at the side. But today they were raising it and making it higher in stages. First by an old box, then by a stone on top of the box. Then by a plank on top of the stone. Dara and Michael watched for a bit. It was mainly boys that were jumping, shivering in their underpants. But there were a few girls too. Teresa Meagher in a black bathing costume much admired by all, and laughing over-excitedly as she jumped with the best.

The twins tired of it after a while. They walked across the
bridge away from the town and back down the river bank on the other side. This was the road which would soon change. Instead of being a path with reeds on one side and a hedge on the other, it would be a road to the huge hotel. They didn’t talk about things like that, it had been long accepted. The hedge was full of fuchsia growing wild as anything. Mam had told them that in city places this was a very rare flower, and people paid big sums of money to buy little bushes of it to put in their gardens; sometimes it didn’t even grow properly. Dara stopped beside a huge tree of it.

‘Isn’t it like something in the South Sea Island picture book?’ she said.

‘Here, I’ll climb it and be like a native,’ Michael said, leaving their picnic bag on the path.

As he went to the back of the tree to find a good starting-off place, he gave a great shout . . .

‘Dara, look, careful, careful mind you don’t fall.’

In front of them, totally hidden by the trees and bushes, was an opening. A cave, or better still, a tunnel. They couldn’t believe it. They had found their new home at last. They hardly dared go in beyond the entrance in case it was already somebody else’s home. Those colourful tinkers who came by once a year and annoyed everyone old, by stealing chickens and leaving all their mess and rubbish behind them. They might be in there. Mad Marty who disappeared for months on end and then turned up again, wilder than ever. It could be his home. It was too good a place to be nobody’s.

‘Halloo . . .’ they called as they went round the corner. It was pitch dark.

They paused and shouted again.

‘Do you mind if we come in?’ Dara called.

‘Just for a moment,’ Michael added.

There was no reply. Surely if anyone was there they would have said
something
.

The twins looked at each other in delight and pealed with laughter at their over-caution and politeness.

‘There’s nobody here at all,’ Dara said.

Michael ran to Mrs Quinn’s for candles; he was back in no time and they went in together. They each held two of the half-dozen candles that Loretto Quinn had parted with so willingly, as well as a box of matches. It wasn’t like a cave or a tunnel in books or comics. There were no dripping rocks, just earth and stone, and it was quite high. Even grown-ups could have walked without bending.

The twins stepped forward, each with a tight feeling of anxiety about what might be ahead.

‘It doesn’t smell like coffins or anything,’ Michael said.

‘We don’t know what coffins smell like.’

‘No,’ Michael agreed. ‘But it doesn’t smell frightening.’

Dara wanted to show she hadn’t been superior. ‘It doesn’t look as if it’s going to fall and block our way back, either,’ she said, more to reassure herself than her brother.

‘No indeed, it’s very sound.’

‘And it might be coming out somewhere soon?’ Dara’s voice was thin.

‘Bound to, we must be up at the house now.’

And then, round the next turn, they saw the urns and the long shallow steps at the back of Fernscourt. They saw them through the branches of thorns and brambles. Beyond those were huge big beds of nettles. That’s why they had never seen the opening. Who would want to wade through feet of nettles, big high stinging ones, when there were so many other things to explore?

They realised it couldn’t belong to them if they told anybody. So they told nobody at all.

But they thought about it all the time, and they brought back their belongings, slowly and little by little, so as not to create any suspicion. The old orange box, the table-ware, the so-called curtains and rugs, the broken cutlery. Once more it was home. This time by candlelight. When they were older and could do what they liked they would ask Brian Doyle, if he wasn’t dead, if they could make a skylight in the tunnel, because sometimes it was a bit hot and dark, and they would have liked the sunlight.

The roof looked sound enough. Surely Brian Doyle and his workers would be able to put in a window for them. There was a scaffolding: a very rough and ready kind of arrangement of wooden poles and boards keeping the ceiling up. It looked very firm and steady. The twins tested it gingerly, and then more firmly. It was rock solid. They wondered who had built it and why it was there. But they were afraid to ask anyone about it now in case it might all be taken away.

At home they tried to find out what an underground tunnel might be doing in these parts.

‘Would there have been other ways in to big houses in the old days?’ Michael asked one suppertime. Dara frowned. It was too obvious.

Their mother noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

‘Like back doors, do you mean?’ she asked absently. ‘Carrie, don’t leave the saucepan on the table, there’s a good girl. It just means it’s harder for you washing the cloth.’ Mammy was very good at giving out to Carrie; it didn’t seem like giving out at all.

‘I don’t know. I suppose there were, and in those kinds
of places people probably didn’t bring in a ton and a half of mud with them. Eddie, do you have to bring half of Coyne’s wood home with you every day?’

Mam obviously didn’t have any idea of a tunnel. But then she hadn’t been brought up here. Maybe Dad knew. Dad had been here for ever.

But they’d have to be even more careful approaching him.

‘You’re very interested in old houses, aren’t you, Dad?’ Dara had a prissy kind of face on, not her normal look at all.

‘Well, I suppose I am a bit,’ John Ryan agreed.

‘Would you remember what Fernscourt looked like before it was burned down?’

‘No, child, I wouldn’t. I was only two when it was burned. Tommy Leonard’s father would remember, and Maggie Daly’s dad, but don’t go asking them too much about it. They were there at the burning of it. In those days it seemed the right way to go. My own father stood looking at the flames from our front doorstep. He said to me often. But there’s pictures of it of course, you’d be able to see what it was like in those.’

‘Yes, well, but . . .’ Dara didn’t want to be sidetracked by old pictures and the possibility of a history lesson.

‘Would they have had secret rooms in it do you think? You wouldn’t be able to see those in photographs.’

‘I don’t
think
so. Why, did you think they might?’

Michael came in hastily. ‘We were just wondering, you know, taking an interest in everything round us, like you’re always saying to do.’

‘Oh that’s great,’ John said approvingly. ‘Yes, I love to see you doing that.’

‘So we take an interest in all kinds of things, you see,’ Dara added. ‘Like, would they have had tunnels out of a house like Fernscourt, you know, underground tunnels?’

‘All tunnels are underground,’ Michael said quickly, not to put her down, but to warn her not to be too explicit.

If John saw the way the wind was blowing he gave no sign.

‘I never heard of any underground tunnels around here,’ he said absently, brushing the earth and dust off the thin shoulders of his son. ‘But as I say, the place was well gone by the time I was old enough to play in it, so there could have been. I’m sure it would be quite possible to find one if you looked hard enough.’

He caught the look of alarm, and went on, ‘But it would be so well covered over, that sort of thing, that I don’t think anyone would ever find the entrance.’

There was a hint of relief in their faces.

‘What would they have been for, if there were tunnels? That is from houses like Fernscourt, say?’

‘Do you mean, say, possibly going from the house to the river? That is if there was a river?’

They nodded eagerly.

John Ryan paused; they waited for an explanation. He seemed to know the kind of thing they were talking about, but then his face became puzzled again.

‘It’s very hard to say, it would have been exciting, whatever the reason was. Of course if you found one of those things you’d have to be very careful. I mean a person would have to take great care that the roof wouldn’t fall in, or that it wasn’t all crumbling before they went and explored it.’

‘Oh there’s no danger, it’s quite safe,’ said Michael. ‘I mean I’d say they’d be quite safe.’

‘No parts where it’s supported with props or anything?’

The twins looked at each other.
How
could he know?

‘Like scaffolding,’ their father said helpfully.

‘Well . . .’

‘Um . . .’

‘That’d be the bit to stay well away from if you ever found one,’ John Ryan said firmly. ‘It’s like in old mines, those would be the parts where it would all cave in.’

‘I suppose you could test it by pushing and pulling at bits near the entrance if you ever found one,’ he went on.

They went away in case they let anything slip.

‘He said it would have to be an exciting reason for it,’ Michael said.

‘We knew that,’ Dara said. ‘But what could it have been?’

It provided hours of happy speculation for them.

Dara decided it was built by a young Miss Fern to meet her lover in a boat.

Michael decided it was built by a cousin of the Ferns who had an intent of storming Fernscourt one night and claiming it as his own. But they told no one. Without actual lies they managed to suggest they spent the time hanging around the bridge in the town. Kate was glad to think that they were making other friends.

‘Am I beautiful, Carrie?’ Dara asked. She was sitting on Carrie’s bed, watching the preparations for the day off.

‘I don’t know.’ Carrie giggled at the question, but mainly concentrated on her own appearance in the speckled mirror over the dressing table. The table was
covered with powder and hairpins and nearly finished pots of make-up that had been castoffs of other people.

‘I think I might be beautiful, if only I had curly hair,’ Dara persisted.

‘You might be.’ Carrie was doubtful. ‘Isn’t it sickening that we don’t have curly hair? Your mam has a rake of it and she doesn’t need it at all.’

‘Why doesn’t she need it?’

‘Well she’s old and she’s got her fellow. It’s the likes of yourself and myself that need curls.’ Carrie looked at her reflection without pleasure.

‘Why do you want to get all dressed up just for going home?’ Dara asked with interest.

Carrie looked at her suspiciously. ‘Well, why do
you
want to be beautiful?’ she countered.

‘I want to be beautiful so that Kerry O’Neill will admire me,’ Dara said simply.

Carrie looked at her and softened. ‘You’re grand as you are,’ she said. ‘And listen, I’ll tell you a secret; I’m not going home to my people at all today, I’m going on an outing, with a fellow. With Jimbo Doyle.’

‘Not Jimbo Doyle,’ Dara screeched.

‘Why not? He’s very nice, Jimbo is, and he said he’d take me for a walk up to Coyne’s wood on my day off.’ Carrie looked annoyed now, and a little uncertain.

Dara bit her lip. She had offended Carrie greatly, she must make it up somehow.

‘I know he’s nice, and he’s a great singer. I heard him singing “The Yellow Rose of Texas” when he was building the rockery. You could ask him to sing to you up in Coyne’s wood.’

‘Yes, I suppose I could.’ Carrie was doubtful. She felt
that Jimbo Doyle hadn’t planned on an afternoon of singing among the quiet trees and on the springy moss of Coyne’s wood.

They held their resolve, to tell no one about the tunnel. No one at all.

‘Not even Grace?’ Michael said.

Dara paused. She thought about it.

‘Not even Grace,’ she said.

‘If we told Grace, we’d have to tell Maggie and Tommy and everyone else,’ Michael said.

‘Yes.’ Dara frowned. ‘And that would change it. Do you think we’re being a bit childish about all this?’

‘Not at all,’ Michael reassured her. ‘I think we’re doing the right thing.’

They grinned at each other. The twins were back where they had always been. Best friends against the world.

There was a postcard from Grace from Donegal where the waves were huge and they had been swimming. They were having a great time, she said, and whenever she thought they were coming back to Mountfern, Father thought of somewhere else to visit. But they would be home soon, she missed everyone and longed to see them again. She sent cards to Tommy and Maggie too, and sent her love to Jacinta and Liam, but didn’t dare to write to them in case they would be punished for having communications in English rather than Irish.