Authors: Anita Fennelly
Without waiting for a response, she continued with the arrangements and explained the schedule for the following day. I did not know how to say no. That had always been a problem for me. It was different, however, with Sue’s request; she was asking something perfectly reasonable of me, something any normal person could do and something she was entitled to ask. After all, she had given me huge support since my arrival on the island whether she was aware of it or not.
Three things terrified me. Firstly, the prospect of meeting so many people. The familiar company of Laura and Sigrid was one thing, but a shop full of strangers was another matter entirely. Secondly, the thought that I would be in a situation that I could not get away from. What if I panicked? Thirdly, there was my lack of any mathematical sense.
I knew that it was time to move out into the world again. Here was a challenge I would have to meet. ‘I’m afraid I’m not a great accountant, Sue,’ I answered smiling, although my stomach was churning with anxiety.
‘Don’t worry, everything is priced clearly. I’ll show you. Before I realised it, we were walking down the path to her yellow door. ‘If anyone wants tea and a scone, charge one-twenty. There’s change in the box.’
A shaft of evening sunlight filtered dancing dust particles inside her door. My friendly robin pecked at the floor within the beam of light. As we stepped inside, he hopped indifferently past my foot, foraging for abandoned crumbs. The room was filled with the golden warmth of baking scones.
I knelt and nudged a currant towards him.
‘You’ve met then!’ Sue smiled.
‘Yes, every dawn. I think I must be first on his rounds.’
‘Is he still at that? He used to waken Ray Stagles every morning too.’
‘He’s fairly bedraggled-looking today, isn’t he?’
‘Looks like you’ve been in the wars, my friend. What have you been fighting about?’
The robin cocked his head as if considering his answer, then hopped out of the spotlight in under a wooden chair, which was laden with woollen shawls, to continue his quest for food.
‘Now, the price is on everything: shawls, scarves, hats, tablemats, rugs, everything.’ As I looked around, I could not see a free inch of wall space. Rugs, woven wall hangings and scarves hung all over. Chairs, countertop, windowsills, even the leaking gas fridge was piled high with garments. The kitchen table was lost under Páid’s woodcraft. Maps of the island and postcards covered the tiny table inside the door and every shape and style of woollen hat hung from shelves, nails and cupboard knobs. A narrow path wove its way through the mountains of wool to the back wall, where Sue had just enough room to stand in front of the old gas cooker. ‘Tea and coffee are here, over the cooker. I keep two kettles on the go. Sugar and jam in here,’ she said, indicating shelves hidden behind a red velvet curtain. Everything that could be was secured in jars, while other items hung from the ceiling, out of the reach of greedy mice. ‘Milk and butter are in the fridge.’ I wondered at the best line of approach to the fridge door, which was concealed by the loom and three giant towers of wool.
‘There’s a notebook here where I record each item I sell. Don’t worry if you don’t sell anything. Most people just come in for a rest, a good look around and a chat.’
‘Well, I certainly hope I manage to sell something for you. Remind me about the dyes again. I’ll have to be able to tell people where the natural colours come from.’
‘Right but, again, don’t
worry
if you can’t remember them. The wall hanging nailed to the timber over there has most of the dyes in it. This rich tan is from onion skins. The green below it is from nettles. The gold colour comes from grey lichen – you know the one I was collecting off the rocks the other day?’
‘Yes. So that means the gold in this hat comes from lichen.’ I thought I was getting the hang of it.
‘No, that actually came from another onion dye. These rusts and reddish colours come from heather, and these blends of greens are from mosses.’
I was lost. Each colour seemed to have an endless number of shades. ‘But how can the rock lichen give so many different colours? That one is gold and this one is almost red.’
‘Depending on the season, iodine and algae occur in varying amounts in the sea. Lichens are filter feeders, so, as the composition of the water changes, the lichen changes. The different phases of the moon and the tides will affect it too. That means that, with home dyes, it’s impossible to match colours exactly. If I have weed or lichen left over and I boil it a few days later, the colour can be different from the first batch. It can have dried out and lost its potency or I might have boiled it for a longer or shorter time, changing the colour that way.’
I had visions of a four-seasons’ jumper: four batches of island wool, each dyed from rock lichen picked during each of the different seasons. Then I saw the colour that I wanted as winter. ‘How do you get this deep purple?’ I asked.
‘Commercial dye, I’m afraid. It’s nearly impossible to get purple naturally. That’s why purple was the colour of kings in the past, the most elusive and, therefore, the most expensive colour.’
I put back the purple shawl, feeling disappointed.
‘If you saw this red colour being made on the island in the past, you knew that a young woman was emigrating. Your red petticoat was like your rite of passage, I suppose.’
I had one last look around before the evening light disappeared. Sue started the fire with an empty milk carton and flour bag. ‘Don’t forget to remind people to take their litter back home to the mainland. The island is a plastic-free zone, so don’t take any.’
‘Right, now you’d better get your red petticoat ready for the morning.’ I gave her my shopping list: matches, candles, bananas, apples, brown rice, vegetables, beans and batteries.
‘I’ll knock on your door before I leave and thanks very much; I couldn’t go unless I had someone to look after the shop.’
‘Thank me when I’ve sold something. Goodnight.’
The next morning, things happened so fast: as soon as I waved Sue off on the ferry, I lit the gas under two kettles, put the spinning wheel out on the wall and attempted to hang the weathered, wooden signs for the weaver’s shop outside on the gable. The few rusty nails, jutting from the wall at odd angles, failed to hold the heavy battered boards, which read ‘
Fáilte Isteach
’, ‘Craft Shop’ and ‘Visitors Welcome’. In the hands of any geometrically minded person, the rusty chains dangling from each sign would have matched the rusty nails on the wall. I was not that person. As soon as I had one side up, the other would fall down. As the kettle screeched, I dashed inside, momentarily abandoning the task. The scones looked delicious, so I decided that it would be time for breakfast, once the sign was up. I lit a nightlight under some lavender oil, then re-emerged into the glare of the sunshine.
The spinning wheel looked spectacular, standing high on the stone wall, cutting brilliant blue slices of sky. I turned back to my battered sign, reaching up on my tiptoes, when a man’s voice startled me. ‘Let me help you with that.’ A tall figure stretched above me, hooking the two chains easily into place. ‘Which one is next?’ he asked in a strong Scottish accent. Awkwardly I handed him ‘
Fáilte Isteach
’ just as two great, sweating American women collapsed in a heap onto one of the benches. Behind them, a steady procession was making slow progress up from the landing slip. I had not noticed the ferry’s arrival. My heart started racing. A wave of nausea surged through me. I didn’t think I could do it.
‘Can we have two Cokes with ice, dear?’ one of the large ladies asked, before I had even thanked the man who had hung the signs.
‘I have only tea and coffee. For Coke, you’ll have to go up to the cafe. This is the weaver’s shop.’ I pointed in the direction of the cafe; up the hill towards the
Dáil
and across the rabbit path. They looked at me in horror.
‘I think we have walked quite enough, Dorothy, don’t you? We’ll take two coffees,’ she panted.
At this stage, there were three French girls inside, trying on hats. A young boy emerged with a map and handed me a fiver. As I made to go inside to get his change, a man shouted over the wall, ‘Can you tell me which house is Tomás Ó Croimhthain’s please?’
I indicated the ruin, set back to the left of Páidí Dunleavy’s cottage, smiled and headed for the door once more.
‘So where did Muiris Ó Súilleabháin live?’ he asked. I went out through the gap in the wall, pointing out the ruin at the back of Sue’s, still holding the fiver. I had no sooner shown him that house than he asked for the King’s house.
‘We sell a very good map and guide, if you’d like it.’
‘No, thank you,’ his wife interrupted. ‘We’ve wasted enough money this holiday. We’ll wait till you’re ready.’
The tall Scottish man was still there, gazing over the island.
‘We’ll have cake with the coffees,’ the larger of the American ladies added as I walked past.
‘How much for this, please?’ The three French girls held out one postcard to me. I took the card, escaping inside to find the price, get the boy change and make the coffees. I stopped in panic. Differently priced baskets of hats were emptied and strewn everywhere. I had no idea which hat belonged to which basket. I attempted to put order on it and make coffees as two Cork ladies came in. They were fascinated with the natural dyes. I explained as much as I had gleaned from Sue. Before re-emerging with the coffees, I had sold two scarves, two maps and a postcard each to five children. I came into the sunshine, relieved; I had sold something! As I set the milk and sugar on the upended box and presented two steaming mugs of coffee and a plate of scones to my customers, I felt quite proud of myself. I offered the tall man a cup of tea and thanked him for his help. Just then, I overheard one of the Americans commenting on my bare feet. I paused as she continued.
‘It couldn’t be hygienic, making food like that.’
‘The whole place is primitive. I don’t understand how the receptionist would be allowed recommend
this
as a trip.’
The Scottish man smiled reassuringly at me. ‘I’d love a cup of tea, thank you, and those scones look great. Sarah, come over for some tea!’ A young girl, who was kneeling patiently outside a rabbit hole, looked up.
‘I think he’s gone out the back door, Dad.’ She looked about twelve, fair-skinned and fair-haired. Her shoulders and nose were going pink already. As I made a pot of tea, I could hear her chattering. ‘I’ve counted eleven rabbits already, Dad. There are holes everywhere. Look at the two donkeys over there, at that funny house with the round top. Can I feed them?’ The doorway darkened as more visitors came in. They stopped immediately, allowing their eyes to adjust. A man in an Australian hat – the kind with corks on strings – stood in the doorway with a woman and children.
‘
Dia dhuit
,’ was all I could understand as he spoke to me at full speed. I apologised once more for my lack of Irish. ‘No need to apologise, I didn’t let you get a word in.’ Liam introduced himself and his family. He was a lecturer in University College Cork and was a frequent visitor to the island.
Another older couple came in, speaking Irish too. I could just pick up that they were from Cashel, County Tipperary, as I hurried in and out with teapots and mugs. They held Joan and Ray Stagles’s book open and were trying to find Tomás Ó Croimhthain’s house on the map. Taking care not to drop jam on the page, I pointed it out.
Outside, while I poured the tea, introductions were made. The lady from Cashel was fascinated with Tomás Ó Croimhthain, recalling how he never married the girl that he truly loved, because his sister did not think it was a suitable match. Liam suggested that it was Tomás Ó Criomhthain who had given us the truest account of island life because he had spent all seventy-one years of his life on the island. Peig, on the other hand, was by birth a mainlander, only coming to the island after her wedding. Muiris Ó Súilleabháin had left the island and spent most of his life in the city. As I went in and out serving, clearing and selling, I picked up snatches of the conversation, which switched between Irish and English.
When the next ferry came into sight, the American women who had been watching for it through my binoculars stood up to leave. ‘Well, this was a waste of a morning. There’s nothing to see out here.’
‘Bunratty Castle was much better. Where is the restroom, dear?’
‘Sorry there’s none here. You’ll have to go up to the cafe.’ They looked at me in disdain. Once again, my bare feet seemed to be the focus of attention.
‘I think we might just wait till we get back to the hotel, Dorothy.’ Without another word, they brushed past me and began stepping sideways heavily down the hill. I was still smarting from their dismissal as Sarah’s father strode down the hill past them, retrieving two backpacks that were lying abandoned at the clifftop.
‘Goodbye, ladies,’ he called. ‘What a pity you can’t stay over. Maybe next year!’
Meanwhile, Sarah was delighted to carry mugs and plates in and out for me. Washing up in a basin, out on the grass, was her idea of ‘heaven’. She told me that she and Michael, her father, had been on the island before when she was very small, but she did not remember. Her mother had been with them then. She asked me if she could help for a while. I told her I would be delighted, if her father did not mind, but it would be a shame to lose out on seeing the island too.
‘We’re staying for a few days, so I’ve got lots of time.’
After three pots of tea and much chat, the Cashel couple decided to leave. ‘Can you suggest a walk for us? We need to be back for the four o’clock ferry.’ I did not realise it at the time, but it was to be the first of countless walks that I would tailor to suit visitors during my stay on the island.
Liam and his family left to explore the village, while Sarah and her father went up the hill to drop their bags in Peig’s hostel. Dozens of groups and couples filed in and out during the morning. By one o’clock, I was exhausted and there was no respite. I had become historian, tour guide, walk planner, tea-maker, first aider and listener to family trees. I wondered at Sue’s stamina.