know how weâll manage. Think of the disease.â
He smiled reassuringly across the table. âI think weâve seen the worst of it.â
But the worst was something not even Frankie could have foreseen. Fourteen days later, every moderate unionist whoâd expressed an interest in sharing power with nationalists pulled out of the Stormant talks and resigned, but not until three bombs had been detonated in the Republic, killing thirty-three people, not until masked gunmen closed shops, took over factories, and ordered everyone out, not until all water and sewage relief had been cut off to everyone in the county, not until the hum of industry in the entire six counties had been effectively put to a stop, and not until every Catholic was convinced he would be slaughtered at the hands of Protestant death squads. At the end of those fourteen days, Ulster was as staunchly and firmly a part of the British Empire as it had ever been.
***
Frankie Maguire had left Kilvara with the youthful exuberance of a lad who believed in miracles. His original two-week stay had become two months. When he returned to the small town where he was born, he was a harder, more cynical version of himself.
It wasnât an obvious difference. Jilly couldnât put her finger on it. He went about his business as usual, working the dogs, performing odd jobs for his father. But he spoke only when he had to, and he smiled less often than he had before. The strangest change of all, and one that no one else seemed to notice, was that he no longer stuttered. Not that he ever had with her, but now, for some inexplicable reason, the speech impediment had disappeared entirely. When he spoke, it was with the cold, clear purpose of delivering a message or answering a question. Gone was their cheerful conversation amidst the fading, sepia-toned light of afternoons in the kennel. No longer did they share the witty banter of a comfortable friendship or the unexpected revelation of a sudden epiphany. Frankie had gone away from her completely.
If only he hadnât gone to Belfast. With the simple logic of childhood, Jilly rationalized that the city had changed him. Somewhere in the streets of Northern Irelandâs capital, Frankie Maguireâs soul wandered without its body. When or even if it would come back, she had no idea. There was nothing to do but wait.
Jilly sat on the knoll above Lough Neath absorbing the unusual heat that lay heavy and shimmering over the water. It was late summer. Soon she would leave for Kylemore Abbey. Normally, she would have lamented the end of her holiday, the loss of freedom, the structure of living her life by the ringing of bells and the hands of the clock. But this year was different. Frankie was different. She could only hope that the sooner she left Kildare Hall, the sooner she could return and everything would be the same again. She sighed, leaned back on her elbows, and closed her eyes. The drugging warmth of the sun worked its magic, and she dozed off.
Frankie released the stone and watched it skip across the lake, breaking the glassy stillness and sending concentric ripples to the shoreline. At least his aim never failed him. Neither did the dogs. He reached down to caress the bib of the collie beside him. The Fitzgerald champions were trained from birth to behave predictably, exhibiting the manners of true show dogs. Only the best came from the Kildare kennels. No incessant barking, nipping, or growling was tolerated. No bib could be muddy, no coat too dark, no ear less than perfect. All noses must be within the correct dimensions, all paws must be white, all gums a deep pink, all eyes a deep, dark brown. The Kildare collies always bred true, which was why the breeding and the puppies that resulted commanded ludicrous fees. Frankieâs mouth twisted bitterly. If only his own life could be so easily arranged.
Peter Maguire could no longer perform the services required of the Fitzgeraldâs
He smiled reassuringly across the table. âI think weâve seen the worst of it.â
But the worst was something not even Frankie could have foreseen. Fourteen days later, every moderate unionist whoâd expressed an interest in sharing power with nationalists pulled out of the Stormant talks and resigned, but not until three bombs had been detonated in the Republic, killing thirty-three people, not until masked gunmen closed shops, took over factories, and ordered everyone out, not until all water and sewage relief had been cut off to everyone in the county, not until the hum of industry in the entire six counties had been effectively put to a stop, and not until every Catholic was convinced he would be slaughtered at the hands of Protestant death squads. At the end of those fourteen days, Ulster was as staunchly and firmly a part of the British Empire as it had ever been.
***
Frankie Maguire had left Kilvara with the youthful exuberance of a lad who believed in miracles. His original two-week stay had become two months. When he returned to the small town where he was born, he was a harder, more cynical version of himself.
It wasnât an obvious difference. Jilly couldnât put her finger on it. He went about his business as usual, working the dogs, performing odd jobs for his father. But he spoke only when he had to, and he smiled less often than he had before. The strangest change of all, and one that no one else seemed to notice, was that he no longer stuttered. Not that he ever had with her, but now, for some inexplicable reason, the speech impediment had disappeared entirely. When he spoke, it was with the cold, clear purpose of delivering a message or answering a question. Gone was their cheerful conversation amidst the fading, sepia-toned light of afternoons in the kennel. No longer did they share the witty banter of a comfortable friendship or the unexpected revelation of a sudden epiphany. Frankie had gone away from her completely.
If only he hadnât gone to Belfast. With the simple logic of childhood, Jilly rationalized that the city had changed him. Somewhere in the streets of Northern Irelandâs capital, Frankie Maguireâs soul wandered without its body. When or even if it would come back, she had no idea. There was nothing to do but wait.
Jilly sat on the knoll above Lough Neath absorbing the unusual heat that lay heavy and shimmering over the water. It was late summer. Soon she would leave for Kylemore Abbey. Normally, she would have lamented the end of her holiday, the loss of freedom, the structure of living her life by the ringing of bells and the hands of the clock. But this year was different. Frankie was different. She could only hope that the sooner she left Kildare Hall, the sooner she could return and everything would be the same again. She sighed, leaned back on her elbows, and closed her eyes. The drugging warmth of the sun worked its magic, and she dozed off.
Frankie released the stone and watched it skip across the lake, breaking the glassy stillness and sending concentric ripples to the shoreline. At least his aim never failed him. Neither did the dogs. He reached down to caress the bib of the collie beside him. The Fitzgerald champions were trained from birth to behave predictably, exhibiting the manners of true show dogs. Only the best came from the Kildare kennels. No incessant barking, nipping, or growling was tolerated. No bib could be muddy, no coat too dark, no ear less than perfect. All noses must be within the correct dimensions, all paws must be white, all gums a deep pink, all eyes a deep, dark brown. The Kildare collies always bred true, which was why the breeding and the puppies that resulted commanded ludicrous fees. Frankieâs mouth twisted bitterly. If only his own life could be so easily arranged.
Peter Maguire could no longer perform the services required of the Fitzgeraldâs
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