Full circle The next morning, while they were being shown around Tralee, Maeve made sure that she fell behind so she could walk with McCabe.

'Sir?' she said. 'I need to ask you something.'

McCabe tried to smile, but Maeve could see his mind was far away.

'Are you okay, sir?'

He ran a hand through his hair. 'We had a rough night last night, my mother and I.'

'Isn't the B&B you're staying in any good?'

He hesitated before he spoke. 'Maybe you'll understand, Maeve, because you know what it means to lose a parent.

'Last night, my mother came to my room. I was already in bed, reading, and she came to say goodnight. To kiss me goodnight. All through my growing up, I used to pray, every night, that my mother would find me. When I was a little boy, I used to fantasise about having her come to my bed in the orphanage and tuck me in. And here I am, an old man, and my mother, at last, she's there with me. I wanted to laugh at the irony, but then I saw the grief of it was breaking my mother into pieces. You see, every night, since she put me in St Bart's, the orphanage I grew up in, every night, she's prayed for me. Not for the growing boy, nor the living man, but for my soul. She thought I was dead. She'd gone back to the orphanage and they'd told her I was dead!

'So here she was, fifty-eight years later, come to say goodnight to her son, and she started to weep. For all those lost years. The things she's missed! The things we both missed out on! I'd always thought I was the one who suffered a boy without a mother but she was broken, utterly broken by it. The waste of it all. She never had the chance to meet my wife, Gabrielle, never had the chance to see her grandsons grow up. I was all she had, and she's led her whole life alone. I'd never thought . . .'

Maeve reached out instinctively, but he pulled away and brushed his hand across his face.

'So she started weeping, grieving for all those years without me, and then she couldn't stop. I held her in my arms as if she was a little child. All night, she wept. I didn't know. I didn't understand it would be like this for her.'

Maeve felt a cold twist in her chest, as if her heart had stopped beating for a moment. What if it was like that with her father? What if he fell apart? Or what if she did?

They walked on in silence, neither of them listening to the chatter of the other girls ahead of them or Ms Donahue's directions.

'I'm sorry, Maeve. It wasn't appropriate for me to tell you all that. What were you going to ask me?'

Maeve looked up at his weary face. 'Nothing. It doesn't matter.'

The other girls chatted loudly, jostling each other as they queued for tickets. Maeve drifted through the cultural museum in a daze, hardly paying attention to any of the displays. When they finally had some free time, she walked straight to the nearest phone booth. She fingered the phone card for a moment before pushing it into the slot.

Foxy John's was in the main street of the town of Dingle, a dusty, battered-looking pub that also doubled as a shoe repair shop. Maeve saw McCabe raise his eyebrows questioningly at her dad's choice of venue. She knew he was taking a risk in bringing her to Dingle. It was definitely bending the rules to exempt her from the planned program, especially without her grandparents' permission.

Steph and Bianca were beside themselves when they found out that Maeve had arranged to meet up with her father and that she'd talked McCabe into taking her there. They couldn't believe that they were going to have to spend a day in school joining in on cla.s.ses and watching another broom-dancing demonstration while Maeve and McCabe went to meet Maeve's father.

McCabe and Deirdre took a table at the back of Foxy John's beside a workbench piled high with leather sc.r.a.ps and old boots. They each ordered a shandy while Maeve sat on a stool near the door of the shop, watching the street.

A short, wiry, bald man stared in through the window at her. Was that him? Was that her dad? She felt like the little bird from the Beginner Books chirping 'Are you my mother?' at everyone, pathetically searching for a parent that she couldn't even recognise. She stared hard at every man who entered the shop but most of them were only dropping off something for repair or stopping by for a quick midday pint to slake their thirst.

Maeve pressed her hands against her face, and then rubbed her eyes until they stung. She didn't feel like crying. It wasn't tears that were swelling inside her but an explosion of emotion. When she looked up again, a man was standing at the window, staring in at her. His dark hair was cropped close to his scalp but his pale eyes were unmistakable. The high cheekbones, the wide crooked mouth, all the features of her own face that she used to feel were mismatched, that made her different from her mother, here they were in this stranger's face. She folded her hands in her lap and stared back, watching calmly as he walked through the narrow double doors. The bell above the door tinkled and then he was beside her. He towered over her. She hadn't imagined him being so tall. She stared up into a face so familiar and yet so strange it made her catch her breath.

'Maeve?'

She kept staring at him, mute. Should she call him Dad? Or Diarmait or Mr Lee? She nodded, suddenly terrified that he was going to embarra.s.s her in front of the entire cafe by hugging her. But he didn't touch her. He simply sat down on the bar stool beside her. Every now and then they glanced across at each other and smiled shyly. Then he reached along the bar and folded his big, strong hands over hers.

'Thanks,' he said.

'For what?'

'For waiting. I've been walking up and down the street for these past ten minutes, trying to get the courage to come and face you. Thank you for having the courage to find me.'

'It wasn't so brave.'

He smiled at her and the silence between them stretched out like a great abyss that she knew one of them would have to leap across.

'We've been studying this play,' she said. 'We had to read out bits of it in this drama workshop in Dublin. It's called Waiting for G.o.dot, but you know, he never comes. I didn't want to wait for ever to find you. I'm not very good at waiting.'

'Like your mother. She was always one for chasing fate with a stick.'

Maeve frowned, not sure if that was a good thing. As if he read her thoughts he said, 'It was her great strength, the way she took hold of what she wanted. Not like me. I was a drifter. When things got too hard, I'd move on. I never stayed long enough in one place to catch hold of a dream. It all slipped through my fingers.'

Maeve had thought she'd want to ask him everything why he left, if he'd guessed that Sue was pregnant, if he would have stayed if he'd known but all she could do was gaze at him, as if he might vanish if she looked away.

He ordered two pints of Guinness, and when they arrived he set one down in front of Maeve.

'I'm only fourteen,' she said, staring at the thick, dark brew with the creamy, foaming head.

'Are you not allowed to be drinking Guinness? I'm sorry, darlin'. I should have made to meet you somewhere grander than this. I don't know why I said Foxy John's. There's some sw.a.n.ky cafes down by the harbour and here I've dragged you into my old haunt instead.'

Maeve took a sip of the bitter, dark Guinness. 'No, I like it. I mean the place, not the beer. Maybe you finish the Guinness and I'll order a c.o.ke.'

She was a little startled when he emptied both pints before she'd even started her drink.

'Let's get out of here, into the air where we can talk.'

'I'd like it, but could I bring my teacher?'

He looked puzzled. 'He drove me from Tralee,' she reminded him. 'I told you he would.'

She led her father to the table at the back of the pub.

'Diarmait Lee, this is my music teacher, Mr Colm McCabe, and his mum Deirdre,' she said.

'No, call me Davy. I sign my work Diarmait but my friends call me Davy.'

'Mr McCabe is Australian but Deirdre's from Dublin. They're a bit like us. They've only just found each other, too,' said Maeve.

'Sure, if everyone doesn't come back to Ireland to find their roots,' said Davy.

As they left Foxy John's, a wind swept down the street, rich with the smell of the sea, brisk and clean.

'Do you fancy a walk and I'll show you a bit of the town?' said Davy.

Maeve was glad to have an excuse to be moving. It was good to be outside, to be stretching her legs and buying time to think.

McCabe and Davy started talking about the town, its history and its future while Maeve walked behind with Deirdre. She was glad that she didn't have to do all the talking, that she could simply spend time watching her father, the way he moved, the way he laughed, the way he talked with such animation when McCabe asked him a question.

'Can you manage a walk, Deirdre?' asked Maeve.

'It's a fine thing to be walking in the open air. Colm and I can walk the streets of Dingle, the streets of Dublin, we can walk together anywhere in the world and no shame to it. No one to tell us otherwise, is there?' The old woman laughed, as if she'd just told the funniest joke. She looked different to when she'd first walked onto St Stephen's Green taller and even younger, as if a weight had been sloughed away.

Davy led them up a twisting track behind the town that quickly grew narrow and tussocky. He and McCabe stopped and sat on a stone wall, waiting for the others to catch up.

'Why did we come up here?' asked Maeve, helping Deirdre to sit beside them.

'Colm said he was interested in the history. This is a favourite place of mine. I come up here sometimes to think about the luck of the Irish. Behind us, this field, this is a famine cemetery.'

Everyone turned to gaze at the small paddock. It looked like nothing more than lumpy ground surrounded by a low stone wall.

'Why aren't there any crosses? Why isn't there anything to mark the graves?' asked Maeve, bewildered.

'At the height of the hunger, they buried their dead without ceremony. They laid them in trenches. Maybe five thousand lie here. It's a sad, secret place, but Ireland's full of secrets.'

'Was I a secret? Did you know about me? Mum said she wrote to you but she never knew if you got her letters.'

'No, darlin', you would have heard from me before now if I'd known. I spent ten years travelling after I left Australia. I only settled back in Ireland after your sister was born.'

'My sister?'

'Yes, and if it's all right with Colm and Deirdre, I'd like you all to come back to my house and meet her.'

It was such a weird idea. She had a sister, just like she had Ned. And she supposed she had a stepmother too. Which was an even weirder idea. An instant family. She'd thought she'd be the only one, his only daughter.

'Do you feel up to it?' he asked, almost shyly.

35.

Third burren As they walked down from the famine cemetery, Davy dusted off his hands.

'Maria will be wondering what's become of us.'

'Maria?' said Maeve.

'That's the wife.'

He pulled out his mobile phone and made a quick call. Then he turned to the three of them.

'Will you follow me?' he said to McCabe. 'You have to turn down a right muddy bothereen, but it's only a short drive.'

Maeve rode up front with her father in a rattling green Renault while McCabe and his mother followed behind in the slick hire car. There was a pile of canvases in the back seat of the Renault and a box full of rags that were sharp with the tang of turpentine and paint. Maeve tried to make out what the images on the canvases were, but could only see swirling dark colours and the limb of a man merging with a wing.

She was glad to get out and open the old gate, leaping over muddy puddles and then waiting for the two cars to pa.s.s. She expected the farmhouse to be a whitewashed cottage tucked in the folds of green hills like Hannah's house, and was surprised to find that only a corner of it was a cottage. The rest was a bright, clean modern extension built of gla.s.s and stone.

They kicked off their muddy shoes at the door and Davy called out 'h.e.l.lo' as he crossed over the threshold. A small girl with white-blonde hair pounced on him, shouting 'Daddy! Daddy!'

Maeve stared at her, trying to see how they might resemble each other. But the girl was like an Irish pixie with thick, curling hair and bright blue eyes.

A tall blonde woman came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth, and tousled the little girl's hair before kissing Davy on the cheek.

'You must be Maeve,' she said, taking Maeve's hands in her own.

'Maeve, this is my wife, Maria,' said Davy. 'And your little sister, Bella.'

'Hi,' said Maeve. 'I hope it's okay, turning up like this.'

'We're delighted, Maeve. Bella's been dying for you to get here.'

Maeve touched Bella lightly on the tip of her turned-up nose.

'We both have freckles,' she said.

'Are you my big sister, then?' asked the little girl. She stepped up close to Maeve and took hold of her hand. 'C'mon, you have to see my room. You can sleep in my room, if you like. You can sleep with me in my bed and be my friend and my sister.'

She dragged Maeve over to a narrow flight of stairs built into the old stone wall.

'I'll put the kettle on,' called Maria. 'I've baked a cake. Bella, you bring Maeve downstairs again as soon as you've shown her your treasures.'

Bella talked without stopping all the way up the stairs. Maeve loved the sound of her voice, the lilt of her Irish accent and her cheeky laugh. The bedroom at the top of the stairs had sloping ceilings and a small paned window. Bella started pulling dolls out from under the rumpled bedcover.

'And this is Betty, and this one's Belinda and this one is Berfa,' she said.

'Why do they all have names that start with B?'

'Because B is best, silly,' said Bella. She giggled.

Maeve knelt on the little girl's bed and peered out through the paned window. Across the fields lay Ventry harbour, a darkening blue in the late afternoon sun.

'That's where Daddy lives,' said Bella, pointing to the distant beach.

'No, your daddy lives here,' said Maeve. Though she wanted to say 'our dad', she couldn't make herself say it out loud.

'No, he doesn't. Only sometimes. Daddy, he lives there,' said the little girl, jabbing her finger against the window pane and pointing to the beach.

It took Maeve ten minutes to convince Bella to come downstairs again. She was as stubborn as Ned and much better at arguing the point. At the bottom of the stairs, Maeve stopped before a huge landscape painting of fields and sea.

'See the girl up in the sky?' said Bella, pointing at the picture. 'That's me.'

Maeve looked closely at the swirling clouds that covered the top half of the canvas. A woman's face was subtly embedded in the paint, her long hair woven into the texture of the clouds. Maeve caught her breath. The face looked nothing like Bella. The almond-shaped eyes of the cloud woman definitely belonged to Sue. Maeve smiled and led Bella into the sunny living room.

The adults chatted quietly as they sat around a scrubbed wooden table. Thick slices of fruitcake lay on a platter and everyone sipped cups of steaming hot tea. Maeve sat opposite Davy and tried not to stare. It was so hard to act normally, to strike a balance between ignoring him and swallowing him up with her eyes.