Page 18 of Heart of the Wren
Chapter 11
DARA
“I’VE TO take a load of straw to the national school in the village this morning,” Lorcan said over breakfast. “You can come with me if you want.”
“Do you want to bury the brooch first?”
He shrugged. “Michael will be around all morning. I don’t want him to see.”
An hour later, we were unloading bundles from the trailer hitched to his mustard-coloured Ford Cortina. The little two-roomed school sat neat as a pin in the middle of a playground. The headmaster, Eoin “Bullseye” Dolan, came out to meet us with a gaggle of schoolchildren in tow. With the air so cold, a cloud of breath followed them. None of them were older than eight or nine, I’d say. He instructed them to bring the hay into their classroom. Each wore a pair of gloves, some yellow, some pink, some blue, and their hands eagerly grabbed at the bags. Unable to lift them, they dragged the bags across the playground, giggling and shouting all the while.
Bullseye was a wiry man with sad eyes and an academic air about him. “She’s staying with you, is she?”
Lorcan shook his head and puffed out a cloud of his own. “Don’t start, Bullseye…”
He glanced over his shoulder before craning his neck to Lorcan. “I told you not to call me that in school. I don’t want the kids to start using it. You should have sent Carol right back to me.”
Lorcan balled his fists on his hips and stared at the ground. “You’re both as bad as each other. You need some time apart to calm down, now. You know what yis’re like.”
I focused, trying to read Bullseye’s aura but saw nothing.
Bullseye paced and pointed at me. “Who’s this?”
“This is Dara. I told you about him. He’s working on the farm now.”
I held out my hand but Bullseye ignored it. I didn’t take it personally. He was clearly under pressure.
“Is he staying up there, too?” Bullseye frowned and fought to keep his voice under control. “Have you got my daughter under the same roof as some stranger?”
“He’s not a stranger, he’s just… new,” Lorcan said.
There was nothing I could say about myself which wouldn’t immediately sound like I was covering something up. “I hate to see two friends fighting,” I said. “Lorcan was telling me you two go way back?”
Bullseye crossed his arms. “Sure we went to this school together.”
“He was always going to end up headmaster,” Lorcan said. “Little swot that he was.”
Bullseye glared at him.
“I can’t imagine you were a bold child,” I said to Lorcan.
“He was a goody two shoes,” Bullseye said. “Never got in trouble for anything. Always kept his head down.”
“I kept my head down so the teachers would never pick me for anything,” Lorcan said. “I feckin’ hated school. Couldn’t wait to be done with it. I left the second Dad said I could.”
“Have you always worked at the farm?” I asked.
“Sure what else is he good for?” Bullseye asked. “All he does is work. Can you imagine him in a factory? Or, God forbid, in an office? And sure isn’t he lucky to have it? There’s many would love the stability of farming nowadays. Lorcan Fitzgerald was born to the farm, as sure as any lamb, and we’ll bury him in it.”
I had a hard time imagining him anywhere else, I had to admit. Lorcan belonged outdoors, on the land. “What’s all the straw for?” I asked.
“Costumes for Wren Day,” Bullseye said. “We make them every year. Lorcan and I were Wrenboys for a couple of years in a row, do you remember? We had gas craic, altogether, going door to door, singing and asking for spare change. You know he’s trying to put a stop to it?”
“Who?” Lorcan asked.
“Who do you think? Father McDonagh.”
Lorcan tutted loudly. “He’s a gobshite,” he said. “He’s only been here five minutes and thinks he owns the place. Wren Day has been going on forever.”
