wasn’t The Sound of Music.’
‘The nuns burst into song, all sorts of impossible harmonies, that’s what I heard.’
Rosie followed scripture to the end.
‘Some of them couldn’t even sing. But they had beautiful voices that day, like angels.’
Peg stared at the ceiling, knowing what was coming.
‘It was a miracle.’
Here they were, at the edge of Rosie’s mission, the reason she had returned to New York, against her better judgement: the Unofficial Miracles of Pope John Paul III. Rosie stared at her imagined Blarney Stone; she could just make it out in the dark. Peg would take the bait, Rosie knew she would, letting the silence stretch, a task that years of sharing a bedroom had prepared her for.
‘That’s not what happened,’ Peg said eventually.
Rosie waited a moment.
‘What did happen, then?’
Peg sighed; it was too late to feign sleep. Part of her longed to, wishing she could kick Rosie and her sheet-hogging back into the living room. Another part of her liked this, though, the two of them in the same room, talking in the dark, they way they’d used to back in 7 Dunluce Crescent, Peg’s snores never fooling Rosie, even then.
Peg shifted around. She could just make out Rosie’s eyes in the dark. Here they were, at the edge of the Unofficial Miracles of John Paul Doyle. Peg had them all in her head.
Remember the Scarlet Communion Dress?
Remember the Blessed Shells of Erris?
Remember the Fish Fingers that Fed the Fifty?
Other historians might have picked a different miraculous origin (the bloody tea towel; the singing nuns at the christening) but Peg knew enough about alternative histories to select a miracle where she had a central role.
‘Do you remember The Chronicle of the Children of Lir?’
Series III:
(1985–1991)
1
The Chronicle of the Children of Lir by Peg Doyle (1985)
Rosie chewed on her colouring pencil and looked out the window at Clougheally’s blustery beach.
‘I think when I grow up I want to be a swan.’
Peg gave the Rosie! sigh she’d been practising for several years. Even though she was almost five, it was clear that the boundaries of the world weren’t certain for Rosie Doyle. Happily, Peg, nine years old and a fount of wisdom, was always there to clarify matters.
‘Humans can’t turn into swans in real life.’
‘I’ll be like the Children of Lir,’ Rosie said, adding extra feathers to her doodle, as if this might help her point.
‘That’s just a story,’ Peg explained.
‘When I grow up I’m going to be a fireman!’ John Paul shouted, not listening. ‘Or … or Imma going to be a Transformer! And-and you can be a Transformer too, Dam’en, one of the bad ones, but-but then Imma save you and we’ll fight Optimus Prime together, yeah yeah!’
Colouring on a rainy day was not John Paul’s strong suit, so he was already hopping about the kitchen to demonstrate his firefighting and robotic abilities.
‘And-and we’ll have a BIG hose and we’ll point it at the bad guys and then-then they’ll be DOOMED!’
Damien nodded, content to play whatever role John Paul’s narrative required, as long as he ended up a Good Boy when he grew up, his primary ambition.
‘I think I’ll be a swan. Like the Children of Lir,’ Rosie said, as if Peg hadn’t spoken.
‘You want to be stuck here for hundreds of years?’ Peg said, in a less understanding voice.
‘Maybe,’ Rosie said, finishing her picture. ‘Then I won’t have to be dead like Nanny and when I’m tired I’ll just flap flap flap up to the sky.’
Peg shot Aunty Mary an adults among adults look: Nanny Nelligan’s death was at the heart of Rosie’s nonsense. Nanny Nelligan’s wake had left quite an impression on them all, especially the sight of the withered old woman in the coffin. Nanny Nelligan had a great fear of being trapped underground, so she’d been cremated, a shock to the village, mutterings that you wouldn’t want to be trapped inside a small urn either. The urn sat by the rattling window, the breeze coming in through the gap as if it was trying to upturn the lid and release a spirit. Peg felt a shiver down her spine, then remembered that she was practically a grown-up.
‘You don’t have to be scared of dying, Rosie.’
‘I’m not. I just want to fly.’
‘Fly’ was the spell that roused John Paul: he’d been quiet for a full minute, possibly a record.
‘Imma gonna FLY like a PILOT!’ John Paul shouted, accelerating around the room and tugging at Damien’s jumper. ‘Dam’en, you be Chewie and I’ll-I’ll be HAN SOLO! I’m so fast you’ll never catch me!’
‘We haven’t finished the story,’ Peg said, as Damien threatened to stand up.
John Paul was so frustrated that he stopped moving.
‘But-but I want to go OUTSIDE! C’mon DAM’EN! ROSIE!’
‘Ciúnas!’
For the first time, Peg heard the schoolteacher in Aunty Mary’s voice.
‘Sit down and draw, would you? We have to stay inside while it’s raining.’
‘But-but it’s ALWAYS raining HERE.’
John Paul had a point, Clougheally no threat to the Costa del Sol, but Peg shot Aunty Mary a pious this is what I have to deal with look. Granny Doyle and her dad were in Ballina for the day, so the balance had shifted. There was nobody there to praise John Paul’s every step with the fervent belief that one day such legs might walk on the moon; Damien and Rosie were up for grabs. This was the dance that Peg and John Paul performed, daily. I am a leader, they said, devising games or schemes, waiting for their docile siblings to follow. Usually, John Paul won the battle, Damien and Rosie happy to follow him on some inane dash up and down Dunluce Crescent, leaving Peg with disappointment jigsawed in front of her. Today, Peg might have a chance.
‘You can be Ardán,’ Peg said to John Paul.
‘I don’t want to be
