Buried in a Bog Read Online Free PDF Page B

middle of it. It was like nothing she’d ever seen in Boston—a true Irish cottage.
    When Mick started to follow, Mrs. Nolan stopped him with a raised hand. “We’d just bore you with our talk of old times, darlin’. Why don’t you come back in a couple of hours?”
    “You sure you’ll be all right, Grannie?”
    “I think I can handle one nice young American girl on my own. Go on, then.”
    She watched as Mick headed out the door and pulled away in the car, before turning back to Maura. “Will we sit in the parlor?” Mrs. Nolan gestured toward the smaller room, where Maura could see upholstered chairs. “And can I get you something? Tea? A biscuit?”
    Maura hated to put her to any trouble, but she didn’t want to insult her hospitality. “That would be lovely. Can I help you with anything?”
    “No, dear, I’ve got the kettle on the boil. I just need to set the tea to brewing. Go on, sit.”
    Maura went through the doorway and into the parlor, which boasted a smaller and more elegant fireplace with a coal grate. The shallow mantel above it held a collection of photographs, of children, grandchildren, and quite possibly great-grandchildren, interspersed with china knickknacks that Maura guessed were at least a century old. There were other, earlier pictures on the walls, as well as a religious print of the Virgin Mary in a prominent central spot. The sole window in the front of the room let in a flood of spring sunshine. Maura listened to the clink of cups and cutlery as Mrs. Nolan pottered around in the other room, and whileshe waited she studied the faces in the pictures, trying to find resemblances among them.
    Finally Mrs. Nolan made her careful way into the room, carrying a tray laden with quaking tea things. Maura made a move to help her, but Mrs. Nolan nodded her off. “Ah, don’t worry yourself—I’m slow but steady. I do all right, most days. Better now that spring’s coming.” Maura watched with trepidation until the tray was safely settled on a table. “But you could pour for me, there’s a dear? I can’t manage the big pot so well these days, and it’s hot.”
    Maura busied herself with filling the lovely bone china cups. She wondered if they were brought out only for special events. Did her visit qualify? She handed one to her hostess, then took the other and settled herself in an overstuffed chair. It gave off a faint musty sigh as she sank into it, and the pattern, to Maura’s unskilled eye, could have dated from the 1950s. She looked up to see Mrs. Nolan beaming at her.
    “I’m so glad you’ve come. It gets lonely a bit here—so many of you young girls are off to work these days. Not like the old days, when there were lots of people around, kids calling after each other. Like when your grandmother Nora was young. What did she tell you of us here?”
    “Very little, I’m sorry to say. I know she came to Boston after my grandfather died, with her son—my father. But I didn’t even know my father very well. He died when I was young.”
    “I know, I’m so sorry—I knew him when he was only a lad, and he was a lovely boy, smart as a whip, and with a bit of sass to him.”
    “And you know about…my mother?”
    “That she ran off and left you in your gran’s care? I do—Nora wrote me regularly over the years. I know life was hard for all of you. Did your mother never come back?”
    “No, and I haven’t looked for her either,” Maura said, uncomfortable talking about her mother.
    Mrs. Nolan seemed to sense her discomfort and smoothly changed the subject. “Look here, I found some of the letters your gran sent me. I thought you might like to see them.” She rummaged among the bric-a-brac on the small table next to her chair and handed Maura a packet of papers and photos tied up with a faded ribbon. Maura recognized her grandmother’s hand on the envelopes and felt a stab of sadness. Why couldn’t they have made this trip together? But she knew the answer: they could