you know about Kildoolin?’
‘It’s just listed as the place of birth of one of my ancestors, on some censuses. Like I said, I couldn’t find it on Google maps. But one census said “Kildoolin, Ballymor, Ireland” so I thought I should start here.’
‘That was a good plan, all right. Kildoolin’s a deserted village. No one lives there any more. It was abandoned during the famine years, in the 1840s. Everyone either died or moved to the towns, and probably many of them emigrated. It’s just a collection of ruins today. Quite evocative, so it is. As I said, it’s an easy walk up there so you’ll be able to see for yourself. There’s a path leading up from the end of Church Street, just as you leave the town. You can park there or it’d only take five minutes more to walk it from here. It’s signposted –“The Deserted Village”. You can’t miss it.’
A famine village! I felt stupid that I hadn’t realised that. I’d never actually researched Michael McCarthy’s birthplace in detail. He was a Victorian portrait painter, and my great-great-grandfather. I had one of his pictures hanging above my bed back home – our bed, I should say, mine and Dan’s – and I’d come here to research more about him, as well as work out my personal problems along the way. Find my ancestors; find myself. Something like that, anyway. I felt a shiver of anticipation as I imagined walking around the ruins of a village abandoned over a hundred and fifty years ago. Michael and his family must have been among the last inhabitants of it.
‘Thanks, Declan, I’ll definitely go there. Probably tomorrow if the weather allows it.’ I glanced out of the window. It had begun to rain, just a light drizzle, but not the sort of weather you’d want for undertaking a hike across the moors.
‘You might have to put up with a bit of rain if you’re staying here in Ballymor,’ Declan said. ‘Anyway, that’s not proper rain, is it, Paulie?’
The old man shook his head and cleared his throat. ‘Ah no, ’tis a grand soft day,’ he pronounced. His voice was surprisingly soft for such a grizzled old man, with a beautiful west-of-Ireland sing-song lilt.
Soft. Not the adjective I’d use for the rain which was now beginning to run down the window. I was glad I’d brought my luggage in already and only hoped I wouldn’t need to move my car.
‘So, who were your ancestors that lived above in Kildoolin?’ Declan asked, with what looked like genuine interest.
‘My great-great-grandfather was a man called Michael McCarthy. On the UK censuses he gave his place of birth as Kildoolin, though he spent the latter half of his life living in London. He was a Victorian artist, and I’m here to research him.’
‘You must be very interested in genealogy, then?’
I smiled, suddenly feeling shy. ‘Yes, but I’m also interested in art history. I did a degree in it, and my final-year thesis was on the work of Michael McCarthy. Now I’d like to research him a bit more, find out about his life as well as his work, and write a book on him. I know he was born here, had a spell in America where he first became noticed as an artist, then settled in London, although he continued to travel for his work. He mostly took commissions – he painted portraits of the rich for money.’
‘That’s fantastic, so it is, to write a book about him. Are you an artist yourself?’
‘Sort of.’ I told him about my job teaching art at adult education classes. There was something about Declan that made him easy to talk to. He was a good listener, and managed to ask questions that drew me out without him seeming nosy. I liked him instantly.
‘You’re here on your own?’ he asked, at one point.
‘It’ll be easier to get on with the research on my own. Dan would have distracted me, and I’d have spent half the time worrying he was feeling like he was wasting his holiday. So, yes, just me.’
‘Dan’s your partner?’
‘Yes.’ I poured myself another cup of tea, keeping my eyes down.
He frowned slightly, as if my short answer had raised questions in his mind, but seemed to realise I was not going to elaborate on mine and Dan’s relationship. Although he was easy to talk to I didn’t feel I could tell him all my relationship problems within five minutes of meeting him. He took the hint and returned to asking about Michael McCarthy, a safer topic. ‘Your artist ancestor, should I have heard of him?’
‘Not really. He’s quite well known in academic circles, I suppose – if you were studying Victorian art you’d come across him. But he’s not well known to the general public. There are a few of his paintings in museums, and the National Portrait Gallery in London holds several but doesn’t often display them. I had to make special arrangements to see them when I did my degree. And I’ll need to do the same again for the book, I guess. There’s a little bit of a mystery surrounding him, actually.’
Declan raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? Go on.’
I grinned. I loved telling people this story. ‘Many of Michael McCarthy’s portraits are of the same beautiful red-haired woman, in different settings. Some in Ireland, some in England, New York, Paris, all over.’
‘Someone he loved?’
‘They were all entitled “Kitty”. That was his mother’s name. The rumour is that she disappeared, and he spent much of his adult life searching for her but he never found her. Instead, he painted her from memory, wherever he travelled.’
He gazed at me wistfully. ‘That’s a lovely mystery. Are you hoping that maybe you can find out what happened to Kitty while you’re here?’
I nodded. ‘That’s my dream. She was my great-great-great-grandmother. She was stunning – at least, if Michael’s paintings are at all accurate.’
‘He must have really loved his mother to keep searching for her.’
‘Yes, he must have.’ I couldn’t imagine feeling like that about your mother. My own mother and I had very little to do with each other these days. If she went missing I’m not sure I’d spend that long looking for her. I’m not sure she’d want me to.
Declan smiled. ‘I think it’s grand that you’re writing a book. Really interesting. The kind of thing I’d love to do myself if I wasn’t . . . so busy. Well now, if I can help at all in any way while you’re here, you’ve only to ask. I come in here most days, to keep an eye on old Paulie, there. Isn’t that right now, Paulie?’
The old man grunted and raised his pint in Declan’s direction.
‘Ah well, I should leave you now. Your tea’s drunk, cake’s eaten and you’ll be wanting to take your things to your room. So, have a good day tomorrow exploring Kildoolin. There’s an ancient stone circle up there too, not far from the old village, but if you go off the tracks and across the moors watch out for the abandoned copper mines. There are a few mine entrances ought to be better protected than they are. They’re not a danger if you’re sensible, mind, and keep to the paths. So, will I see you in here tomorrow evening, perhaps? There’ll be some music later on, if you like that kind of thing. Aoife prefers heavy metal herself, but she tolerates traditional Irish music in the bar for the sake of the tourists. It’s good craic, anyways. You can tell me how you got on up at the old village.’
‘Sure. I’ll probably have my dinner in here tomorrow evening, catch you then.’ I grinned as Declan raised an imaginary hat
