I return a nervous smile, trying to match his evident enthusiasm.
After a moment, we head back inside and I find a great, lovingly decorated living area with exposed wooden beams and walls adorned with faded paintings. The room’s grand stone fireplace, likely once the beating heart of the household, now sits silent and lifeless. Though dust has settled, it can’t diminish the house’s character and charm.
‘It’s lovely,’ I say as I run my hand over the back of a dusty chair.
‘It needs a bit of work,’ James says with a laugh. ‘But it can be a home again.’
He leads me from room to room, pointing out areas that need work – from the kitchen with its broken taps to the bathrooms with their peeling wallpaper – as we go. It’s a big job, but I’m encouraged by James’ enthusiasm. I have complete faith in him if he says it’s something we can handle.
Sunlight streams through an open window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in its rays. As I stroll along the mantelpiece, I pause to inspect every photo frame. And that’s when I see him. Mick Kennedy. I pick up the most detailed photograph, the one that appears to be most recent, of Mick wearing his trademark cowboy hat and bushy beard. He’s standing alongside Dom with rods for fishing in their hands and waders on their feet by the lake.
I examine him closely, trying to find some sort of connection or similarity between us, even a vague sense of familiarity. But it’s hard. I’m probably willing it to be there, projecting. I’d love to feel a lightning bolt, for there to be an unmistakable bond thatI can’t deny. But I don’t let myself get ahead of myself – I know this could just be my wishful thinking. Part of me hopes he was a good man who loved my mother, but that could just be my desperate attempt to make sense of my story. Maybe he was just a pleasant single man who knew my mum at one point in time, like Big Sean did.
I study another, this time an older one with Marianne McDonagh, commemorating the market fair’s opening ceremony. He’s laughing as he wears a warm, Guinness-induced moustache. In the next photograph he’s strumming away on his guitar, with a bunch of little kids standing around him outside on the grass, all giggling and clapping along. I wander through the large, wooden-framed house and take in all the memories. Pictures of Mick singing, hiking and surrounded by friends hang on the walls. Even in death, it’s obvious that he was loved. I gaze out at the lake and say a silent thank you for bringing me here.
And then I spy the edge of a polaroid tucked away behind a silver frame and gently lift it out.
‘That’s my mother!’ I exclaim as I point to a beautiful young woman in the image. I hold it up to show James. She’s standing by the lake, Mick’s arms wrapped around her from behind, her long red hair blowing in the wind. They look happy. Very happy. And close. Very close.
I peer at the photo. His fingers around her hips, his chin on her shoulder. She has a coy smile, her eyes dreamy and… in love. It’s unmistakable – my mother was in love. Deeply and passionately in love. With Mick. And by the looks of it, he felt the same way. And it sends a tremor of shock through me as I think of what this could mean.
The warmth of the moment turns cold as I consider what life would have been like if my mother had stayed in Innisfree. Would things have been different? Would we be together now? Maybe if she had just stayed, she’d still be here, sharing allher stories about Innisfree and teaching me its history… Dom’s words echo in my head. Why did she hide her traveller heritage and upbringing from me? Why did she never tell me?
‘Wow,’ James says, taking the photo from me to get a closer look. ‘She’s beautiful.’
His words snap me out of my thoughts.
We stand in silence for a few moments before James says, ‘I wish they were both here with us, to help fill in the blanks.’
Suddenly, we both startle at the sound of something scurrying above us. I grab onto James’ arm and squeeze it tightly, my fingers digging in.
‘Who’s up there?’ I whisper, feeling a mixture of shock and embarrassment, both at the surprising invasion and at the sudden closeness with James.
He places a finger to his lips and gently rests his warm hand on my shoulder, his strong gaze locking with mine and, somehow, he conveys a tender yet unwavering promise to protect me no matter what. He signals for me to stay put, but I shake my head in protest.
‘No, I’m coming too. It could be dangerous,’ I reply.
He acquiesces with a shrug, and we move forward slowly, my fingers wrapped around his wrist as we tread cautiously up the stairs. My heart is pounding in my chest and a thousand butterflies swarm around inside my stomach. Is it burglars? Drug dealers? Squatters making a home in the empty house? I shake my head, trying to clear away any lingering fear or apprehension, and focus on what’s ahead of us. Cautiously, we climb the creaky wooden staircase, past the chipped banister and onto the musty landing.
James calls out into the emptiness, ‘Hello? We mean no harm – whoever you are…’ His voice echoes softly against the walls but remains unanswered; until suddenly we hearsomething stirring in the bathroom – followed by a loud thump that shakes me to my core.
‘Be quiet!’ yells a voice.
‘No, you be quiet!’ retorts another.
‘I’m already being quiet – you’re the one that needs to shut up.’
The voices are youthful and boyish.
James glances my way and smiles, exhaling deeply. ‘It’s all right, lads. James O’Connor here – nobody is in any danger.’
We open one of the doors, finding two boys bickering on the edge of the bathtub. They’re no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, their hands and clothing covered in dirt.
‘Who are you two then?’ James asks cautiously. ‘And what are you doing here?’
The boys share a nervous glance before one of them, the younger one, who has copper curls and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks, stammers, ‘We… I mean, we’re just hanging around. We didn’t want to cause any trouble.’
Sensing something amiss, I decide to probe further. ‘Why are you hiding out up here? It’s hardly safe.’
