Star of the County Down

for Mac.

My grandfather was a sailor in his youth. As can be typical of sailors, he had quite a few stories about his years traveling. He was a tall and handsome man, visible even to us at the point that much had already faded. He was also a reserved man, and it was that quality that made the times he spent whispering snippets of his stories to us little cailins that much more precious. His stories were otherwordly--the Irish have a knack for treading the line between real and supernatural. Thinking now, there was one in particular that writes like an old ballad, that I still remember vividly, sitting in the corner of my grandparents' living room, rapt with attention. As an adult, I sometimes wondered whether this story included the other very Irish characteristic of embelishment, but that really is here nor there. What follows is my best attempt at doing it justice.

It was the 1940s, right after the war, and his ship was docked in County Cork, the first time he had been back to Ireland in over 6 months. Although his family was originally from Cork, he essentially grew up in the metropolis of Dublin, so this was still somewhat foreign to him. There normally wasn't much to do in this little town, though by some force of luck, the village fair was in town for the week. On a meager sailor's pay, this was perfect, as he could earn a bit of extra money and free food working at one of the booths, even though the oddness of the carnie regulars put him off. They put him at a knock-down-the-milk-bottles booth, surrounded by giant shelves of cupie dolls. It was right next to a small black tent, covered completely and set back from the others, which he knew was the place where men met to bet on cards. As darkness fell, they would saunter in, travelling gamblers, in dark coats and hats pulled down over their faces, only the glint of their pocket watches or an occassional pistol giving them away. Night after night, they came in. Grandfather purposefully never paid much attention to their dealings, thinking it better not to get mixed up with that sort. And just as well, he normally closed up for the night hours before they were through.

On the third day something quite different caught his eye, a petit young woman fresh as the countryside, with beautiful blue eyes and raven hair. Black Irish they used to call it. Her body was lithe and her walk more of a dance than anything else. Her hair had blue velvet ribbons tied in; she passed by several times before he realized that she must be part of the show. Later that day, during his lunch, he followed her at a distance until they both came to the far field where a several families had set out their lunches on blankets and a few old timers sat precipitously on unfolded wooden chairs. She carefully stepped past them all until she had reached the edge of the crowd, then turned about. Only when she began to sing the most beautiful version of Carrickfergus he had ever heard, did he notice the small group of musicians to her left. From that day forth, he took his lunch in the field, watching Carra McConnell sing. All in all, he only had eleven days in port, and with the work, they passed quickly. He could not work up the nerve to speak with Carra and felt it was best, as he was about to leave anyhow, so he continued to watch from afar.

In the blackness of his last night, after the crowd had filed away to bed and he was closing his booth, he suddenly heard shouting from the black tent--some man desperately arguing his loss. He turned away, and the shouting soon dissipated into shuffling, drunken steps. Fortunately, a sheet covered the front of the booth and he didn't have to look the poor sod in the face. They soon passed. The manager came round and paid him for his time and he filled one of the bottles with water for his long walk to the ship. he headed towards Carra's field--a shortcut. He reached it and began to cross, aiming his gaze at a large rowan tree swaying in the middle. As he neared, he noticed dark figures moving, so he slowed and quieted his approach. It was a squat, bullish man in a crumpled suit. By his shuffle, grandfather knew that it was the same man from the card tent. But his heart quickly dropped to his feet, as he realized that the man had another, smaller person--a woman--that he was dragging by the wrists. It was Carra. She was obviously putting up a fight, but her petite frame was no match for his more powerful one, and she whimpered and pleaded with him. Acting on instinct, grandfather crept up behind the tree, as close as he could get to survey the situation. The man, though strong, was stumbling due to the drink, and as he turned his back, a full milk bottle crashed down over his head. He crumpled to the ground. Grandfather quickly scooped up Carra and ran away from the fair, towards the small lights of the town, and only when they had reached the first row of houses did he put her down. She had been roughed up, but was not seriously hurt, and he could not help but gaze into the sorrow in her eyes as he asked her whether he could assure that she reached her home safely. She nodded, and they proceeded in silence along the streets until they reached the water, not too far from his ship, and a small and old blue house. She bowed her head and walked towards the door, but stopped not five steps short. Turning and taking his hands, she stood up on her toes, leaning ever so slightly against his chest, and gave him a kiss.

The next morning as he shipped out, he swears that on the shore, beyond the crowd that had gathered, he saw Carra McConnell in her Sunday dress, waving to him with her handkerchief.