good evening to you. This is my new friend, Miss Bridget Something or Other!”
“Sullivan,” Bridget supplied.
“I’m Mr. Seamus Dorgan, and I welcome ye. Where might you hail from?”
“Allihies, sir.”
“Indeed, and let’s all drink to Allihies!”
A roar went up, and all the men took a swallow of their ales. For a second, Bridget saw the scene through Miss Lizzie’s eyes: was this disreputable, men drinking so good-naturedly and loudly? Drinking to her village for her? Was it too rough?
Then Mary caught her arm and twirled her around, a makeshift jig that had Bridget’s feet flying, and soon others gathered around them, forming the straight lines until they were threading the needle, their feet following the time-worn steps.
Each song melded into the next, the fiddlers at the back of the room wiping sweat off their brows whenever they could manage between notes, the pipers and bodhran player taking sips off their pints while the music momentarily faltered. It was grand and glorious, and if Bridget closed her eyes, as she did sometimes in the dizzying twirls as she swapped grasps with new partners, she could almost imagine herself in the barn back home, with nothing outside but a stretch of cold yet fertile land offering greening hillocks to the travelers who lifted a lantern to the sea.
At one point, Bridget’s lungs could take it no more, and she stepped outside the set, giving a smile to Mary who kept dancing. She made her way to the table where meat pies and scones could be had for a few pennies. She bought a beef pie and a tea, and stood balancing both against the wall.
“I haven’t seen ye here afore,” said the woman standing next to her. She was tall and willowy, her red hair in a bun that was losing its formality from, presumably, her dancing.
“No, it’s my first time. I came at the invitation of Mary Doolan.”
“Ah, she’s grand.”
“It does my heart good to hear the tunes well presented, rather than my own deplorable whistling,” said Bridget.
The other girl laughed. “I’m Maggie,” she said.
“I’m Bridget. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Where do you hail from?”
“Kinsale on the coast.”
“So lovely!” said Bridget. “I went once on a holiday.”
“And you’re from?”
“Allihies.”
“I’ve heard of it. And when did ye make your way to these shores?”
“Five years ago,” said Bridget.
“Broken heart?”
“Broken purse more like.”
“Ah, those of broken purses tend to fill up the ships heading west across the Atlantic, do they not?”
“Aye. I’m sending a bit back home each month and hoping to keep myself out of rags as well.”
“’Tis a noble aspiration, to keep all the body clothed,” agreed Maggie with a grin.
“A lofty one indeed!”
The rhythmic beat of the bodhran, a tempered sort of drum, percussion with a lilt like all things Irish, fastened onto Bridget’s mind and became the cadence of their conversation. Everywhere she looked, she saw smiling faces. Unfettered of the general mistrust of immigrants they faced on the street, the group blossomed into joy. They all remembered, in place of the brick mills and soot-darkened windows, the green expanses of their childhoods, the hills besmocked with mossed rocks, the willows bending to the water.
“’Tis gay,” the other girl observed, and as if to underscore her point, a lad in a heather-colored wool cap pulled her off to join a set. Bridget laughed outright at her new friend’s surprised expression.
“Go on and show him the lightning of your footwork!” she called, but too late to be heard.
Bridget ate her pie and drank her tea, lukewarm now. It was good fare, which she hadn’t needed after the dinner she’d made for the Bordens and of which she’d eaten the leavings, but as they were plodding their way through the same tired roast of pork, she was glad to eat a second, more pleasing repast.
As soon as she’d finished and set down her cup and plate, a man appeared as if he’d been waiting. He was flush-cheeked with eyes blue as spatterware and smiled and indicated with a nod of his head that he’d like to squire her onto the floor. She nodded, gratified at the attention, and they joined into the mix. She couldn’t stop grinning for she loved this song.
The row of dancers faced her, full of merriment, darkened hair at the brow where sweat gathered, and circles of dark cloth appearing under their arms. She cared not a whit.
She cocked her leg in front, then curled the other behind, drag-stepping to the right, everyone in accord although not all were graceful—but it didn’t matter, it was only the doing of it that mattered, the shoes bouncing off the floor and returning lightly.
She danced twice more, then begged off with the speechless gentleman who only smiled his regret to lose her. She returned to the corner where Mary Doolan and the girl named Maggie were talking. In contrast to the gaiety, they were talking quickly with their eyes intent on each other.
“Oh, so ye know each other,” Bridget greeted them. “What’s at odds?”
“Maggie’s worried about you,” said Mary.
“About me?” Bridget looked at Maggie, whose face indeed reported concern, her lips thinned and her dimples gone.
“It’s not enough to leap out of the frying pan to save my skin,” she said. “When another jumps in after me.”
“Whatever do ye mean?”
“Maggie’s the girl who worked for the Bordens afore ye,” explained Mary.
“I worked up my courage to leave,” said Maggie. “I didn’t think about ever meeting the girl who took my place. And you’re so nice . . . I can’t not warn ye.”
On the instant, Bridget felt her stomach unsettle. Had the meat from the pie gone bad? It had tasted fine, but maybe its thick juices masked the bad.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s Miss Lizzie.”
The two looked at Bridget, and she pressed her hands against her protesting stomach, suddenly cramping.
“I’ll need the privy,” said Bridget.
“We’ll take you,” said Mary. They walked through the crowd, receiving a few elbow blows from conversationalists deep in their cups, gesticulating to illustrate their stories. They walked past the musicians, red-faced with effort, heads nodding full-force as if snapping awake from a nap over and over.
Mary
