False Mermaid

“Her husband never reported her missing. According to the newspapers, she was gone at least four days before someone finally remarked on her absence. Heaney was questioned, but he told the police she’d run off. There were no witnesses, no evidence against him; she simply vanished. Her body was never found, so they let him go.”

“And you think people really believed she’d gone back to the sea?”

“It’s probably what most preferred to believe. If they could claim to have seen her, they wouldn’t have to admit what really happened. I’ve come to believe that she was murdered—most likely by her husband. A lot more plausible, unfortunately, than any other explanation. As a folklorist, I’m interested in the song, of course, and how it was handed down. But I’m also interested in the broader context of communal beliefs—what the song says about the attitudes and mores about female roles. The late nineteenth century was a period of upheaval in gender politics. Women were beginning to claim a bit more independence, economically and socially, and some people—some men, especially—felt that as a threat.” Roz was suddenly self-conscious. “There now, I’ve rattled on far too long!” She started gathering up the items on the table. “I’ve a whole day’s worth of interviews to transcribe, and I’m sure you two have plenty to talk about.”

Cormac half rose from his seat. “Let me give you a hand, Roz—”

“Don’t stir yourself. I’m just going to peg these into the sink—you and Joe can take care of them later.” She backed through the kitchen door, arms full of crockery.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance,” Joseph said. “That’s the one thing I’ve learned in living so long—the washing up never ends.” He looked thoughtfully after Roz as she retreated into the scullery. “Well now, Cormac, I can’t imagine what brings you all the way up here. Delighted to see you, of course—”

Cormac leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice: “Actually, I’m here because Mrs. Foyle phoned and told me you’d had a stroke.”

“Bloody woman!” The old man looked like he was on the verge of apoplexy, but he spread both hands on the table in front of him, trying to stay calm. “I was going to tell you in my own time. A few days ago, I had what you might call a spell—not serious, a bit of dizziness—Roz drove me to Casualty over at Killybegs. A mini-stroke, they said—transient ischemic attack, if you want to get technical. They put me on blood thinners, advised plenty of rest. I’ve done everything they told me, and I’ve been right as rain since then, I swear. Don’t know how Geraldine Foyle managed to get hold of that intelligence. Foostering auld magpie—it’s she who’ll give me a stroke with all her meddling. The curse of fuckin’ Jaysus on her!”

Cormac felt slightly alarmed. “I’m sorry if I’ve been the cause of any of this. When you first came here, she offered to look in, see if you needed anything, and I’m afraid I didn’t dissuade her—”

“Ah, no, no, I didn’t mind, when I was first here it was grand, you know. She’d pop over—neighborly enough. That was fine. But here’s what happened lately—come here till I tell you.” He gestured for Cormac to lean in, and spoke under his breath. “Didn’t she happen to see Roz coming out of the house one morning about two weeks ago, and decided on the spot she’d call in? To see how was I getting on, she said. But what was she doing, only sniffing around the place, jumping to all sorts of preposterous conclusions! ‘At your age,’ says she, ‘you ought to be ashamed.’ I told her there was no need for me to feel shame, since she obviously fetched up enough for the whole parish. You should have heard her, the sanctimonious, Holy Mary carry-on. Wages of sin, all that auld shite. When you think of the suffering it’s caused in the world—” He stopped himself, but only momentarily. “Not to mention the sheer bloody hypocrisy of it—Roz may have neglected to mention it, but that flahoola of a landlady above in Portnoo happened to be Geraldine Foyle’s first cousin. At any rate, a few more words were exchanged.” He waved a hand. “I may have passed some intemperate remarks about the late Mr. Foyle’s untimely exit.” Cormac could see the old man was still feeling less than apologetic; on the contrary, he seemed rather pleased with himself. “She hasn’t put her beak in since.”

“Why drag me all the way up here over nothing?”

“Well, Geraldine Bloody Foyle wasn’t getting satisfaction from me, obviously. She had to create some pretext so that you’d come rushing up here to break up the love nest. Ah, don’t ask me how her mind works—the woman is sick.”

Cormac considered for a moment. “I hope you’ll forgive an indelicate question, but is there anything for me to break up?”

Joseph’s eyes flickered over to the kitchen door, beyond which they could hear Roz humming absently. His demeanor softened. “Are you serious? Roz Byrne may be a kindhearted woman, but she’s not completely daft.”