False Mermaid

The pair appeared again as Cormac was loading his box of provisions into the back of the Jeep. This time they were headed into the pub, and he decided to follow, just out of curiosity. The pub’s interior was dim after the bright day outside, but thanks to the smoking ban, at least it wasn’t filled with a noxious haze of cigarette smoke. Cormac ordered a glass of ale and turned to survey the room. The silver-haired man and his young companion had found a place at the back. They’d begun to take out their instruments when Cormac’s attention was pulled away by a pair of middle-aged men who stood to the bar at his elbow. The first wore a plain flat cap, the other a narrow-brimmed tweed fedora—and a broken expression.

“Never mind now, Denis, never mind,” said the cap, trying to cheer his friend. “There’s always next year. Your young one will catch up next year.” West Kerry, Cormac surmised, from the broad accent.

But Denis the Hat was having none of it. He made a disgusted gesture. “I wouldn’t mind, but that little one is only after taking up the fiddle a twelvemonth ago. Playing like that after a twelvemonth—doesn’t it bate all?” He shook his head sadly and downed the shot of brandy his friend had ordered, then started in on his pint, downing nearly half of it before coming up for air. “I’ll tell you one thing, Michael—” He wiped the foam from his lips with the back of a hand, pausing for dramatic effect. “When I get home, that fuckin’ television is goin’ straight out the window!”

Cormac turned back to the fiddle players in the corner. It was no wonder the silver-haired man was familiar; now that his eyes were used to the pub atmosphere, Cormac could see that the man in question was Garrett Devaney—the policeman he and Nora had met down in Galway. What class of coincidence was at work here? As he was often reminded, very few things were completely random. Even what humans perceived as chaos had patterns.

Devaney must be here for the Fiddle Week. That was something of a surprise. He hadn’t seemed like the type who went in for music competitions. From the look of her, the girl was his daughter; maybe that was explanation enough. Cormac watched as the pair tightened their bows with an almost identical flick of the wrist, and launched into “The Pigeon on the Gate” in G minor. Cormac found himself struck by the looks that passed between them as the tune whirled along, the obvious delight they took in the music, a conversation expressed in the secret language of notes. The girl was definitely the policeman’s daughter, and clearly his pupil as well. Cormac thought of his own father, lying in the bed back at the hospital, feeling again the full measure of what he had missed. Too late now. Sometimes the resentment still flared inside him, imagining what they might have had. If only. Then he thought of the story Roz had told him about his own grandparents, and the sound of those two fiddles on the old 78 recording. It was Aunt Julia who had played with his father all those years ago. Perhaps the detail was insignificant. But perhaps it was part of the complex story, the reasons why Joseph Maguire had never learned to be a father.

Cormac stood listening to the sound of two fiddles in tight unison, going note for note, and felt something inside him breaking up, cracking apart, ice on a frozen river. The winter he had held so long inside him would soon be past. His anger, once a means of protection, didn’t seem to serve much purpose anymore.

Looking up as the tune finished, Devaney recognized Cormac, and raised his pint in greeting. He set down the fiddle, handing the bow to his daughter for safekeeping, and made his way through the bar patrons to Cormac’s side. His face glowed a healthy pink. “Maguire, by Jaysus, how are you getting on? You’re not here for the competition?”

“I’m not, no. Just visiting—relations nearby.” My father.He still couldn’t say those words in sequence. Still had trouble even thinking them.

“Is Dr. Gavin about?”

Cormac suddenly felt ears all around him, listening in. “She went home to the States for a bit.” He changed the subject. “You seem to be celebrating. Good result today?”

Devaney gave his characteristic tight-lipped smile. “Ah, Róisín did well enough. But that’s not why we’re celebrating. No, one day into it, and she’s made up her mind that competitions are a load of bollocks. I couldn’t be more fuckin’ delighted. You haven’t the machine on you?” he asked, looking around Cormac’s person for a flute case. He tipped his head in the direction of the corner. “Nice spot for a tune, that.”

“Sorry, can’t stay—I just came into town for a few things, and I’ve got to be getting back.”

“Right. Well, sure—” Devaney reached for a beer mat and produced a biro to scribble down a phone number. “We’re here for the week, anyway, hoping for a few tunes and a bit of craic. That’s my mobile. Give us a shout, and we’ll have a bit of music next time you’re about.”