Across the pub a man slips off his barstool. His steps are soft as he inches closer. He heard me ask the bartender about the Copithorne name. “Copithorne, you say? You’re asking about the Copithornes?”
The deep wrinkles on his face almost hide his gentle eyes. He’s never left this 20-house town, I think, and that brings a sense of home. “Some in the graveyard,” he continues. “Yes, they’re in the graveyard.” He’s nodding as he steps back to the safety of his barstool. “Mrs. Solon lives in their house. She’ll be home. Go knock on Mrs. Solon’s door. She’s a nice lady.”
From the pub Mrs. Solon’s home is a straight walk down the main street. She opens her door quickly, too quickly I think, as she turns to lead the way to her kitchen. Rural living brings that kind of trust.
We sit at her table to drink tea and eat crackers with cheese. She’s had a life in this house, she says, by raising nine children and saying goodbye to her husband years ago when God called him first. She lives with Parkinson’s now and her daughter made this head-wrap she’s wearing to keep her warmer on days like this. If she’s going to be in a picture she’ll get her wig from the bedroom, she insists.
She talks about the Copithornes and calls them “your people” as she remembers the Protestant family, my family, who lived in her home many years ago. “I knew we were the first Catholic family in this home,” she says. “Here,” she continues as she stands and shuffles to the cabinet. “This is from your people.” She’s holding a Canadian-themed teddy bear.
My people aren’t just in the graveyard here. My people are still memories here.
As our visit comes to an end, I ask for her address. “Teresa Solon, Whitegate, County Clare,” she answers quickly, too quickly, so I push for more details: A house number? A postal code?
“Oh no,” Mrs. Solon shakes her head. “They’ll find me.” Right, I think, ask the man in the pub.
LINDSAY EVELYN GROVES. 