Chapter 23
23
As they rolled along the path toward the village, Saoirse’s thoughts kept drifting back to what Owen had said about his dad. She ached for the burden he carried, but for all the empathy she felt for him, Saoirse couldn’t help the realization that he was bearing a load similar to that of her own—the unwieldy burden of responsibility for the death of someone he loved.
Of course, their situations weren’t exactly the same. Saoirse shouldered far more direct blame than Owen ever would, but a tiny ember of hopefulness flickered deep in her soul that if he ever learned the truth about why she left Westmeath, rather than shun her, he may just relate to all she’d been through.
The wagon hit a rut, and Owen and Saoirse bumped into each other. He looked at her and offered a small smile. She responded with a grin of her own as her eyes searched his for a brief moment before turning away again. For the first time since that fateful day, she pulled in a free, deep breath that filled her lungs to their fullest. She smiled as she released it and let her gaze drift to the western horizon. The sun had set the sky ablaze in a wash of brilliant oranges, pinks, and purples, as though nature herself shared in Saoirse’s newfound hope.
The wagon turned off the main road and onto the path that would lead them into the heart of the glen. The glow of a bonfire could already be seen, and laughter carried on the air as they approached.
When the wagon came to a stop, Aileen hopped down and lifted a basket of eggs and flour from its bed. Saoirse hadn’t even noticed her put them in there. Owen alighted next and extended his good hand up to Saoirse. She slid her fingers into his gentle grasp and forced her attention onto the step rather than let herself get lost in his bright blue eyes, which had been set aglow by the sunset behind her.
As they approached the house, Bridie came out to greet them. “Oh, I’m so glad ye came!” She bussed Aileen’s cheeks and took the basket from her before turning her attention to Owen and Saoirse.
“It’s not like I had much of a choice,” Owen said, laughing.
Aileen shrugged, a look of innocence plastered on her face. Saoirse noticed her friend scanning the area as though searching for someone. Aileen finally turned back to Bridie. “So,” she said, sidling up even closer to the woman. “Who all is here so far?”
Bridie looked over her shoulder, her lips twisted up as she thought. “The usual plód so far.”
Aileen’s shoulders fell ever so slightly, and she nodded.
Bridie looked to Owen, questioning, but he only shrugged, clearly as confused by the conversation as the rest of them.
“I hope yas are hungry,” Bridie said as she ushered them all into the house.
The small bungalow was chock-a-block with a mass of people, the air in the cozy space thick and damp. The group passed through the house and into the back garden where the bonfire roared. Several other smaller fires were scattered around for people to cook on. In the distance, cheers rang out and the church bells clanged.
“Wha’s that for?” Aileen asked.
“Tommy O’Hanlon and Deirdre O’Friel just got married,” Bridie called over her shoulder.
Saoirse grinned and Owen’s head spun in the direction of the celebratory sounds. “Wow, they didn’t waste any time, did they? And so young!”
Bridie stopped next to a fire where John sat with several pans. She set down the basket from Aileen, then picked up a bowl and began mixing its contents. “Well,” she said with a shrug, “I s’pose when ya know, ya know. Besides, with weddings banned during Lent, I’d wager they just wanted to get on with it rather than havin’ to wait another forty days or more.”
Owen gestured for Saoirse and Aileen to each sit on one of the stumps that had been placed around the firepit before he lowered himself onto the one between them.
“Aileen, c’mon up here,” Bridie said before Aileen could sit, a small scoop in the older woman’s hand. “You get the first flip.”
Aileen’s mouth fell open, and she shook her head. Saoirse beamed at the honor being offered to her friend. Aileen looked to each person in the group before turning her attention back to Bridie. “I couldn’t. It’s not my place.”
John’s lips flapped as he blew out a puff of air. “Nonsense.”
Bridie elbowed her husband’s arm playfully. “Seein’s how we don’t have an oldest daughter to fulfill the tradition, we want you to do the honors.”
Saoirse pressed a hand to her chest, an ache of awe and sadness mixing beneath her touch. Sadness as she missed her own mother so terribly, and awe at the beautiful scene unfolding before her.
Aileen looked to Owen, mouth still agape, eyes wide.
“G’on then,” Owen said, swinging his hand in a small arc toward Bridie and the pan she held in her hand.
With slow, marked steps, Aileen brushed her hands down the folds of her skirt and did as Bridie bade.
“Ya know the tradition, aye?” John asked.
Aileen licked her lips and nodded. “Aye.” Her voice sounded small—a little scared, even. “It’s never gone well for me.”
Owen laughed. “Well, that’s the truth. Last year was the worst. I never thought we’d scrape the batter off the ceilin’.” His shoulders bounced with intensified laughter. Clearly he was reliving the memory.
“Och!” Aileen swung her hand to swat Owen’s shoulder, but he leaned out of the way.
“Well, who knows,” Bridie said, holding the batter and cup out to Aileen. “’Tis a new day. A new year.”
Tentatively, Aileen took the cup from their host and scooped it into the batter. She looked slowly from Saoirse to Owen and then to the pan, which John now held out to her. Taking it from him, she poured the batter in and rolled the pan around to spread the batter in a thin layer.
Aileen gave one last look to the group. Saoirse smiled and nodded in encouragement. Finally, Aileen held the pan out over the fire, watching intently for the exact right moment to flip it.
“Easy now,” Owen said. “Remember, there’s no extra points for height.” His shoulders started bouncing again, and he covered his mouth with his hand.
Saoirse laughed and rolled her eyes. “ Tsk ! You’re terrible.” She waited for Owen to catch her eye, hoping he could see the playful glint in them. “G’on, Aileen. You can do it! It’s your year now. I can feel it.”
“Hear, hear!” Bridie and John cheered in unison.
Aileen jiggled the pan, then jostled it forward and back a few times. Finally, she stuck the tip of her tongue out of her mouth in concentration and stilled. Then, suddenly, she popped the pan upward. The pancake flung up, flipping twice in the air before landing back in the pan, perfectly flat. Her mouth popped open again in surprise. “I did it!”
John clapped, and Bridie wrapped an arm around Aileen’s shoulders.
“Well done, Aileen,” Saoirse called, joining John in the applause.
“Well, wonders never cease,” Owen said, a look of sheer surprise on his face.
“Owen Sean McCready, you just stop that right now.” Aileen’s words were scolding, but her voice was laced with delight.
“I’m only messin’,” he said, joining the crowd standing around Aileen. “So,” he continued, “who’s the lucky lad?”
Bridie patted the air. “Now, now, the superstition only says she’ll be lucky in love and likely wed before the year is over. It says nothin’ about who she’ll marry.”
Aileen still stared at the pan in disbelief, her mouth bobbing open and closed. “I still can’t believe I did it after all these years! Mine always land in a crumbled-up heap.”
“If they land in the pan at all,” Owen whispered in Saoirse’s ear. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop her giggle.
John thrust a plate at Aileen. “Well, yas better eat it afore it gets cold and all the luck runs out of it.” Aileen turned the pan over and plopped her prized pancake onto the plate. She stepped over to a makeshift table housing butter, sugar, and sliced lemon so she could doctor her cake to her liking before tucking in.
“Right, Saoirse, your turn.” John waggled the pan in her direction.
Saoirse waved her hands in front of her. “Oh, I’m grand. No thanks.” She couldn’t fully explain the panic that had seized her chest in that moment. As the eldest daughter of her family, she’d flipped the first pancake of Máirt na hInide plenty of times. And she wasn’t sure she even believed the old wives’ tale that if the pancake landed unruffled in the pan, she would marry within the year. But she wasn’t sure she didn’t believe it either. And for some reason, the thought of flipping errantly in front of Owen made her want to run and hide.
“Ah, g’on, g’on,” Bridie and John were both saying.
“Sure, what d’ya have to lose?” Aileen asked around a mouthful of pancake.
Her gaze flitted to Owen, who was watching her, waiting for her response. At length, the corner of Saoirse’s mouth pulled up, and she shrugged matter-of-factly. “The tradition only works for the first pancake of the night.”
John lifted a finger, ready to protest, but he stopped, looked to Bridie, and dropped his hand. “Oh muise, she’s right.”
Bridie sighed. “Oh well.”
Saoirse nodded, just in case they still needed convincing. Though John looked so disappointed, she almost caved and took the pan from his hands.
Bridie also looked disappointed for a wee second before her telltale joy returned. “But just because ya don’t flip ’em doesn’t mean ya can’t eat ’em.”
“Allow me.” Owen stepped over and scooped a cup of batter. When he took the pan from John, it almost fell from his hand. He glanced at Saoirse, frustration in his eyes. But before she could jump up to his rescue, a loud cheer rose from the front of the house.
“Is that the pancake race?” Owen asked, eyes alight like a schoolboy at Christmas.
“I believe it is,” John answered.
“Oh, I can’t miss that.” Owen carefully set the pan down and handed the scoop back to Bridie. “C’mon, girls.” He hurried them back through the house and out the front door just in time for the start of the first race.
Four women were lined up across the street, each with a pan in hand.
“Right,” Father Cunningham was saying. “I want a good, clean race, ladies. Remember, you must cross the street, touch the lintel post of the house, and cross back over to this side of the street all while flipping your pancakes.”
The crowd cheered.
“If you drop your pancake, ye’re out,” the priest continued. “If ya deliberately cause an opponent to drop her pan or cake, ye’re out.”
The crowd booed.
“The first one back across the line wins!”
More cheers.
“What about the flips?” someone asked.
“Oh, yes.” Father Cunningham nodded. “There will also be a prize for the lady who crosses the finish line with the most successful flips of her pancake!” The crowd cheered again, and the priest had to wait for them to settle back down.
“Are we ready?” he asked the contestants. They all nodded and exchanged good-natured threats of defeat to one another. Father Cunningham rubbed his hands together. “Right, then. Ready. Steady. Go!”
The ladies took off, pancakes flying in the air. One woman’s landed on the ground after the first flip, much to the delight of the onlookers. A second tripped and dropped her pan just after touching the doorframe. The final two were neck and neck until the very end, when the older one just barely reached the finish line before the younger one.
Joyous chaos erupted as the winners were congratulated and the number of flips were tallied. Father Cunningham conferred with a tall, slender gentleman. Saoirse squinted through the dusk light and eventually recognized him as the schoolteacher she’d seen in the village the other day. At last, they announced that Nora Boyle had been declared the winner of both the race and the flips. She was presented with her prizes—a pint of stout and an extra stack of pancakes. She downed the stout in one go before scurrying over and feeding the cakes to a gaggle of children sitting under a nearby tree.
“Alright,” the schoolteacher called out, “who’s next?”
Next to Saoirse, Aileen’s hand flew up into the air. “Me! Me and Saoirse’ll go!”