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Date Posted: 14:24:06 05/12/10 Wed
Author: Fi
Subject: "Claddagh" - a historical novel

Hi all,

With all the recent activity, I've been motivated to post the first chapter of my historical novel, "Claddagh" (working title, may change).

I've divided this into 2 parts. The first part has been posted before, and only slightly modified. So if you've read it before, you can skip it.

The second part is new! So everyone can have a go at this :)

I'd appreciate either hard or soft crits. I'd like to know if the story holds your attention? If not, where did it lose it? Does the time and place come across? Is the dialogue realistic? Is there enough/too much description? And please point out the usual typos or illogical phrasing!

Thanks in advance,
Fi

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[> Part 1 (word count 1402) >>> -- Fi, 14:31:53 05/12/10 Wed

From Claddagh [working title]
by F.H. Hurley
Copyright March 2010
For critique only

Galway, Ireland. 1663.

Thin sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating silver threads in the man's dark curls.

“You're Kate Flaherty's son?” Mr. Joyce asked, placing his quill tip-down into a jar on the desk. He wore an indoor gown of rich brocade, and there were ink dots on his white cravat.

“I am,” said Richard, breathing in the oak-and-paper dust. “Richard Mahon is my name. Son of Kate Flaherty and Joseph Mahon.” His knees felt knocky, his empty stomach gurgled, and he wondered again why his Ma had sent him to this rich man's place.

“How old are you, boy?”

“I'm ten, sir.”

Mr. Joyce fingered the embroidered fringe of the handkerchief that Richard had given him. The man's nails were trim and his hands smooth; he'd obviously never worked on a fishing boat. But there was something oddly familiar about the shape of his face and the quizzical look in his blue eyes.

“And when will you be eleven?”

“Next March, sir.”

“By Jesus, of course you will.”

Richard was puzzled. “Mr. Joyce?”

“Did your mother have any other message for me?”

“Just that you'd know her and do right by her.” He frowned. He wasn't sure what that meant either. It sounded like begging, which his Ma would normally forbid him to do on pain of sore ears or arse. Yet when he'd queried her on the message, she'd sighed and said he'd understand later. And there was another part of the message that made even less sense. “She said also that you'd remember the bluebells.”

“The bluebells. Of course.”

The man looked again at the handkerchief, and Richard wondered what was so special about it. It might have been white once, but plenty of snot had been washed out of it over the years and it was now a faded buttermilk colour.

“Your father?” Mr. Joyce asked. “John, did you say?”

“Joe.”

“He's a fisherman?”

“He was. He's.... his boat went down.”

You were supposed to say “God rest him” when someone mentioned a dead person, but this man just kept staring from Richard's face to the handkerchief and back again.

“God rest him,” Richard added.

“Of course, God rest him. And your mother, she's well?”

“She is. Misses Da, of course.”

“Surely she does.”

“Mr. Joyce,” Richard cleared his throat. “How do you know my Ma?”

The man sighed, a frown mark creasing the bridge of his nose.

“From before you were born, during the time of Cromwell.”

Richard spit reflexively on the floor at hearing the hated name, and Mr. Joyce smiled.

“Those were hard times, I'm sure you've heard, and made strange allies.”

“My Ma says Cromwell is roaring in Hell now.”

“I'm sure he is. Are you keeping well, boy?”

Richard shrugged. “I am.” Apart from the scratch of hunger in his stomach.

“It can't be easy, with your father gone, God rest him.”

“We're not the worst off. My uncle Jack is good to us.” After he's fed all his own children.

“You have brothers? Sisters?”

“Two younger sisters, Nora and Eily.”

The man kept nodding and staring. Richard, in an attempt to escape from the gaze, looked at the leather-bound books lining the shelf on the wall.

“Can you read?” Mr. Joyce asked.

What a silly question! “I can't, sir. My Da was a fisherman.”

“Of course, of course.”

****

Richard dawdled as he passed over the bridge. The sky was clear, but the river was swollen from last night's rain. On his left were the walls of Galway city and the masted ships bobbing at the quay. He spit into the water and watched the glob swirl around in one eddy, then another, before rushing towards the mouth of the river. He wondered vaguely if his spit would be swallowed by a fish or if it would just break up to become part of the sea.

He crossed the river to the right bank and made his way towards the church spire and the huddled thatched roofs of the Claddagh, the fishing village that was his home. The smell of turf filled the air as he met his mother and auntie Peg, along with two of his older girl-cousins.

“Thanks be to God for a calm day and a good catch!” said Peg. “And how is young Richard? Your uncle Jack said that you'll be big enough soon to help him on the boat.”

“The time will be soon enough,” said Kate. She readjusted the woolen shawl around her head, taking care not to tip out the salmon that she carried in the upturned fold of her apron. Peg and the girls excused themselves and Richard followed his mother home.

“So, what did he say?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Mr. Joyce, of course. Did you see him?”

“I did.” Richard frowned, wondering which of the many words his mother wanted. “He asked after you. And Da.”

He followed his mother into their own cottage, shooing the chickens out of his way. Inside, the fire burned low on the hearth, smoke filling the room with a pleasant, warm fug. The grey cat caught whiff of the salmon and shimmied around Kate's skirts.

“Are you seeing him again?”

She upended the fish from her apron to the wooden table and threw her shawl over the stool. He was tempted to say “who?” again but bit his tongue. She had taken out the gutting knife and looked serious.

“He asked me for supper next Sunday.”

“Well, that's something.” She sliced off the head of the salmon and the cat went demented, curling itself in and around her skirt. She looked at the fish, then at the cat, then at the fish head again and shook her head. “Not the head, puss, I can make soup from that. Have we any potatoes left, Richard?”

He peered into the sack and lifted out a handful, all that was left. “Not many.”

She sighed, slicing through the belly of the fish. “Enough for tonight, anyway.”

“Why did you send me to Mr. Joyce, Ma?” Richard dumped the pebble-sized potatoes on the table beside her. “Why does he want to meet me again?”

“We can't depend on my brother forever.” She pulled out the fish's guts, and the cat headbutted her ankle. “He has his own mouths to feed, and plenty of them.” It was true there were a lot of Flaherty cousins; Peg would scarcely wean one child when her belly would swell again.

“I'll be old enough to fish soon. I'm old enough to help out now, if you'd let me.”

Kate threw the fish guts on the floor and the cat lapped them up.

“Not if I can help it. I've lost too many men to the sea already. My father, my husband. Not my son, if I can help it.”

Richard scowled. Did she think he would not be strong enough to brave the ocean as Claddaghmen had done for generations? Did she think he would be a child forever?

“I'm not a baby, Ma! My cousin Sean was out on the boat before he was eleven.”

She wiped the bloodstained knife on her apron, ignoring him.

“Why is a rich man interested in me anyway?” he demanded.

“Let's say he owes me a favour,” she said.

They were interrupted as his two little sisters rushed through the door. Six-year-old Eily leaned her head against her mother's hip, giving her brother the usual greeting by popping out her tongue. “Did you get any money in Galway?”

Eight-year-old Nora put hands to hips. “Eily, he wasn't selling anything today.”

“Why did he go there, then?” the younger girl asked.

Richard shrugged, and Kate handed her older daughter a potato.

“Nora, start peeling. Wait, there's some eating in the skins: don't peel them, scrub them. And Richard, throw a few more sticks on the fire.”

He took a handful of twigs from the pile and added them to the hearth; the flame licked and crackled some more. He doubted that he would get any more answers today.

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[> [> Re: Part 1 (word count 1402) >>> -- Paige2, 19:44:38 05/13/10 Thu

Hi Fi,

I really enjoyed this tale. I loved your dialog between the characters. However I'm a bit confused by narration/POV. I think I would flesh out Mrs. Joyce just a bit. Does she know about Richard and why this woman is here. Also, in the 1st part you had Richard answering his mom that "he" was invited back for supper but yet in 2nd part the mother went with him. Confused me at first.

I enjoyed the details it made the story very visual to me. I could see the office, the fishing village, could almost smell the fish and see the dancing cat at her feet. :-) Wonderful settings.

Below I bolded out some items.

*****
Mr. Joyce fingered the embroidered fringe of the handkerchief that Richard had [just ?] given him. The man's nails were trim and his hands smooth; he'd obviously never worked on a fishing boat. But there was something oddly familiar about the shape of his face and the quizzical look in his blue eyes.

*****

The man looked again at the handkerchief, and Richard wondered what was so special about it. It might have been white once, but plenty of snot had been washed out of it over the years and it was now a faded buttermilk colour. [ick & ewwwwww, but vivid]

******

“He was. He's.... his boat went down.”

You were supposed to say “God rest him” when someone mentioned a dead person, but this man just kept staring from Richard's face to the handkerchief and back again.

“God rest him,” Richard added. [Not sure but should the above all be together, since Richard is talking. The middle paragraph I had to re-read since I wasn't sure who was talking.]

*****

Richard dawdled as he passed over the bridge. The sky was clear, but the river was swollen from last night's rain. On his left were the walls of Galway city and the masted ships bobbing at the quay. He spit into the water and watched the glob swirl around in one eddy, then another, before rushing towards the mouth of the river. He wondered vaguely if his spit would be swallowed by a fish or if it would just break up to become part of the sea.

He crossed the river to the right bank and made his way towards the church spire and the huddled thatched roofs of the Claddagh, the fishing village that was his home. The smell of turf filled the air as he met his mother and auntie Peg, along with two of his older girl-cousins. [I liked the visuals in these 2 paragraphs. I could see a young boy doing and thinking that and I could so see the village. Curious, didn't they use peat for burning? Visual was great.]
******************

Overall, I thorouhly enjoyed it and would like to read more. I want to see how Richard deals with this news.

Great Job!!

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[> [> [> Thanks>>> -- Fi, 05:03:26 05/14/10 Fri

Hi Paige2,
Thanks for your comments and kind words. I guess I need to flesh out Mrs. Joyce as a character. I was trying to keep things simple by focusing the other three people, but her role is quite important so I'll need to put more detail into this, her first appearance.

In Ireland, "turf" is often used as a synonym for peat, but since "peat" is the more widely-used term I should change it to this.

Thanks for your help and glad you enjoyed it,
Fi

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[> [> I enjoyed it the first tiem I read it and it's still got my attention. -- debikm, 19:14:45 05/14/10 Fri

Your dialogue is believeable, your imagery real and the random little-boy thoughts are so good. I can just imagine a kid spitting in the water and thinking something like that. hell, a lot of adults too, for that matter. Good stuff.

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[> [> Re: Part 1 (word count 1402) >>> -- Promise, 00:27:42 05/19/10 Wed

All comments in boldface. Anything that I recommend to be omitted I will put inside brackets [ ]. If I suggest a replacement word, phrase, or punctuation, that will follow the bracket.

Galway, Ireland. 1663.

Thin sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating silver threads in the man's dark curls.

“You're Kate Flaherty's son?” Mr. Joyce asked, placing his quill tip-down into a jar on the desk. He wore an indoor gown of rich brocade[,] and there were ink dots on his white cravat.

“I am,” said Richard, breathing in the oak-and-paper dust. “Richard Mahon is my name. Son of Kate Flaherty and Joseph Mahon.” ---Awkward, no one talks like that. Also, in this situation, I wouldn’t expect Richard to volunteer information. He’s far too shy and nervous.--- His knees felt knocky, his empty stomach gurgled, and he wondered again why his Ma had sent him to this rich man's place. ---His stomach is actively doing something, would it not be better for his knees to be knocking together?---

“How old are you, boy?”

[I'm] ten, sir.”

Mr. Joyce fingered the embroidered fringe of the handkerchief that Richard had given him. The man's nails were trim and his hands smooth; he'd obviously never worked on a fishing boat. But there was something oddly familiar about the shape of his face and the quizzical look in his blue eyes.

“And when will you be eleven?”

“Next March, sir.”

“By Jesus, of course you will.”

Richard was puzzled. “Mr. Joyce?”

“Did your mother have any other message for me?”

“Just that you'd know her and do right by her.” He frowned. He wasn't sure what that meant either. It sounded like begging, which [his] Ma would normally forbid him to do [on pain of sore ears or arse]. Yet, ---add a comma--- when he'd queried her on the message,---Seems out of place that he’d “query” his mother. Instead, I suggest you have her response to a confused look he gives her.--- she'd sighed and said he'd understand later. And there was another part of the message that made even less sense. “She said, --add a comma--- also, ---add a comma--- that you'd remember the bluebells.”

“The bluebells. Of course.”

The man looked again at the handkerchief, and Richard wondered what was so special about it. It might have been white once, but plenty of snot had been washed out of it over the years and it was now a faded, ---add a comma--- [buttermilk colour.] the color of buttermilk.

“Your father?” Mr. Joyce asked. “John, did you say?”

“Joe.”

“He's a fisherman?”

“He was. He's.... his boat went down.”

You were supposed to say “God rest him” when someone mentioned a dead person, but this man just kept staring from Richard's face to the handkerchief and back again.

“God rest him,” Richard added.

“Of course, God rest him. And your mother, she's well?”

“She is. Misses Da, of course.”

“Surely she does.”

“Mr. Joyce,” Richard cleared his throat. “How do you know my Ma?”

The man sighed, a frown mark creasing the bridge of his nose.

“From before you were born, during the time of Cromwell.”

Richard spit reflexively on the floor at hearing the hated name[,] and Mr. Joyce smiled.

“Those were hard times, I'm sure you've heard, and made strange allies.”

[My] Ma says Cromwell is roaring in Hell now.”

“I'm sure he is. Are you keeping well, boy?”

Richard shrugged. “I am.” Apart from the scratch of hunger in his stomach.

“It can't be easy, with your father gone, God rest him.”

“We're not the worst off. [My] uncle---Capitalize "Uncle", it is his title and titles are capitalized.--- Jack is good to us.” After he's fed all his own children.

“You have brothers? Sisters?”

“Two younger sisters, Nora and Eily.”

The man kept nodding and staring. Richard, in an attempt to escape from the gaze, looked at the leather-bound books lining the shelf on the wall.

“Can you read?” Mr. Joyce asked.

What a silly question! “I can't, sir. My Da was a fisherman.” ---This comes across as sounding impertinent. Unless you mean it to, I suggest changing it simply to “No, sir.”---

“Of course, of course.”

****

Richard dawdled as he passed over the bridge. The sky was clear, but the river was swollen from last night's rain. On his left were the walls of Galway city---Should “city” be capitalized?--- and the masted ships ---Is “masted” a word typically used to describe ships? It sounds odd. Not even sure that “masted” is a word.--- bobbing at the quay---Awkard description. One usually thinks of boats bobbing in the water not at something.---. He spit into the water and watched the glob swirl around in one eddy, then another, before rushing towards the mouth of the river. He wondered vaguely if his spit would be swallowed by a fish or if it would just break up to become part of the sea.

He crossed the river to the right bank and made his way towards the church spire and the huddled thatched roofs of [the] Claddagh, the fishing village that was his home. The smell of turf filled the air as he met his mother and auntie---Capitalize Auntie, it is her title and titles are capitalized.--- Peg, along with two of his older girl-cousins.

“Thanks be to God for a calm day and a good catch!” said Peg. “And how is young Richard? [Your uncle]---I’m assuming Peg is married to Jack, also, this makes it seem that Jack is Kate’s uncle, or is Peg not addressing Kate here?--- Jack said that you'll be big enough soon to help him on the boat.”

“The time will be soon enough,” said Kate. She readjusted the woolen shawl around her head, taking care not to tip out the salmon that she carried in the upturned fold of her apron. Peg and the girls excused themselves and Richard followed his mother home.

“So, what did he say?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Mr. Joyce, of course. Did you see him?”

“I did.” Richard frowned, wondering which of the many words his mother wanted. “He asked after you. And Da.”

He followed his mother into their own cottage, shooing the chickens out of his way. Inside, the fire burned low on the hearth, smoke filling the room with a pleasant, warm fug. The grey cat caught whiff of the salmon and shimmied around Kate's skirts.

“Are you seeing him again?”

She upended the fish from her apron to the wooden table and threw her shawl over the stool. He was tempted to say “who?” again but bit his tongue. She had taken out the gutting knife and looked serious.

“He asked me for supper next Sunday.”

“Well, that's something.” She sliced off the head of the salmon and the cat went demented, curling itself in and around her skirt. She looked at the fish, then at the cat, then at the fish head again and shook her head. “Not the head, puss, I can make soup from that. Have we any potatoes left, Richard?”

He peered into the sack and lifted out a handful, all that was left. “Not many.”

She sighed, slicing through the belly of the fish. “Enough for tonight, anyway.”

“Why did you send me to Mr. Joyce, Ma?” Richard dumped the pebble-sized potatoes on the table beside her. “Why does he want to meet me again?”

“We can't depend on my brother forever.” She pulled out the fish's guts, and the cat headbutted ---Correct spelling is with a hyphen: head-butted.---- her ankle. “He has his own mouths to feed, and plenty of them.” It was true there were a lot of Flaherty cousins; Peg would scarcely’ve weaned one child when her belly would swell again.

“I'll be old enough to fish soon. I'm old enough to help out now, if you'd let me.”

Kate threw the fish guts on the floor and the cat lapped them up.

“Not if I can help it. I've lost too many men to the sea already[.]: [M]my father, my husband. Not my son, if I can help it.”

Richard scowled. Did she think he would not be strong enough to brave the ocean as Claddaghmen had done for generations? Did she think he would be a child forever?

“I'm not a baby, Ma! My cousin Sean was out on the boat before he was eleven.”

She wiped the bloodstained knife on her apron, ignoring him.

“Why is a rich man interested in me anyway?” he demanded.

“Let's say he owes me a favour,” she said.

They were interrupted as his two little sisters rushed through the door. Six-year-old Eily leaned her head against her mother's hip, giving her brother the usual greeting by popping out her tongue. “Did you get any money in Galway?”

Eight-year-old Nora put hands to hips. “Eily, he wasn't selling anything today.”

“Why did he go there, then?” the younger girl asked.

Richard shrugged, and Kate handed her older daughter a potato.

“Nora, start peeling. Wait, there's some eating in the skins: don't peel them, scrub them. And Richard, throw a few more sticks on the fire.”

He took a handful of twigs from the pile and added them to the hearth; the flame licked and crackled some more. He doubted that he would get any more answers today.

Final Thoughts:
Intriguing beginning. I, too, am rather curious about Mr. Joyce's response to Richard. Inviting him to dinner is NOT the expected response at all as men of his class do not typically dine with children, especially poor ones.

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[> Part 2 (word count 1245) >>>> -- Fi, 14:42:46 05/12/10 Wed

From Claddagh [working title]
by F.H. Hurley
Copyright April 2010
For critique only

Galway, Ireland. 1663.

The housekeeper was only a little taller than Richard, but she took up nearly the width of the doorway. She led him and his mother through the kitchen, a great space with a huge fireplace and a smell of gravy that made the water pool in his mouth. A maid not much older than Richard, hair in kerchief and sleeves rolled to the elbows, scoured the inside of a brass skillet. Kate cast a desperate look at the pots, hoping perhaps that she would be allowed to stay among the servants, but the rotund housekeeper led them through to the parlour.

A great crackling fire warmed Mr. Joyce's face, compensating for the dimming of daylight from the window. A woman in a stripped cream-and-pink dress directed another maid to set a jug on the table, and turned around to greet the visitors. Her pretty cheeks were ruddied by the fire, and her eyebrows moved independently: first the left, then the right.

“Please come in.” She motioned towards the table.

Kate twiddled with her shawl and took a stool. Richard was intrigued by the spread of food: hand-sized pies, slabs of cheese, slices of ox-tongue, and some candied fruit. Slivers of salmon fanned on a plate, but no potatoes. His stomach made a cat's growl.

“I hope you don't mind if I leave,” said the woman, placing a hand on her swollen belly. “I'm feeling rather tired.”

“Of course not, darling.” Her husband kissed her forehead and she left the room, her back-skirts sweeping the floor.

“You've been keeping well, Kate?” asked Mr. Joyce, sitting opposite her.

“I have, thanks be to God.” She worried her hands in her lap and glanced up at the high ceiling. “This is a fine place you have.”

“It's the old family home. When the king returned to England, he allowed Catholics to return to the town, those that had been loyal to him. Those that survived. He still hasn't given us back our other land, but I'm writing him letters every other week so please God we should get it back too.”

“I've seen a lot more ships on the quays this past year or so.”

“Trade is picking up again, thank God.”

“I saw a big French ship the other day,” said Richard. “You could hear them blabbering away in the town.”

Mr. Joyce's smile was the first genuine one that evening.

“That's where this wine came from. We sold them a fine lot of butter and salted fish.”

“Fish from the Claddagh, sir? Do they eat Claddagh fish in France?”

“They surely do. Isn't it great that there are still Catholics in the world, to keep buying our fish?”

Kate's mouth twitched but she hid the half-smile in her hand.

“We must all be hungry,” he said.

Richard's hand reached across the table, but his mother swiped it back as she bowed her head for grace. After she finished, Mr. Joyce took one of the pies and motioned to Richard to do likewise. It still steamed as his knife cut through the pastry, and as he lifted a slice to his mouth he forgot about his confusion; all the world seemed to shrink to the gorgeous sensation of gravy melting on his tongue.

“What are those, Mr. Joyce?” he pointed at the candied fruit.

“They're oranges,” said Mr. Joyce. “From Spain.”

Richard's head swam even as his stomach filled. Wine from France, oranges from Spain. This table seemed to connect to the harbour, which connected to a wide world beyond.

“Have you ever been to these places, Mr. Joyce? France or Spain or England, even?”

“I've been to Spain. My family has connections there. I had to leave, during the time of Cromwell.”

Richard would have spit but his mouth was full of pastry and he didn't think crumbs on the tablecloth would make a good impression.

“You know about those times? The Catholic Confederacy had fought long against Cromwell's troops, and Galway was the last town to stand against them?”

Richard nodded. Adults often talked about the war in whispers, but it had happened before he was born so it never seemed relevant.

“It seemed like the Four Horsemen of the Apocolypse had run across the land. War that wouldn't end. We were under siege within the city walls, not just the townsfolk but people from the surrounding countryside too. Then Hunger came as the food ran out. Then Pestilence: the bloody flux, the plague. I lost my wife – my first wife – and our three children.”

“God rest their souls,” said Kate.

“God rest their souls.” Mr. Joyce nodded. “I apologise. This is not really a topic for supper.”

“And that's when you met my Ma!” Richard realised. “The people from outside the city were within the walls during the seige! From the Claddagh too?”

“From the Claddagh too.” Mr. Joyce daubed a little gravy from his chin.

“And after the seige was broken, you went to Spain?”

“Not directly after. Some of us escaped into the hills and continued to fight for several months. The countryside was a ruin; towns razed, people scattered and pushed westwards, starving and desperate. My mother's family had connections in La Coruňa, so I took the first boat I could get there.”

“And Ma, she fought as well? Ma, didn't uncle Jack tell me you fought as well?”

Kate wet her lips and fidgeted with her knife. “I fought as well, in the hills of Connemara.”

“Learned to fire a musket as well as any man.” Mr. Joyce smiled.

“And my Da? You must have known my Da, Mr. Joyce.”

“I wish I had known him. He must have been a good man, God rest him.”

Mr. Joyce cut a slice of ox tongue and put it in his mouth. Richard frowned. He had been born ten months after the siege ended, so his mother must have been married when she'd fought in Connemara. She must have been....

Richard thumped the table with both fists. The pies jumped and wine spilled from the top of the jug.
“You must have know my Da!”

“Richard!” Kate's raised voice sounded strange in this room. “I brought you up with manners!”

“I will be forever grateful to Joe Mahon,” said Mr. Joyce quietly.

The boy's lower lip trembled. “What do you want, sir? Why did you ask us here?”

Blue eyes and a high forehead, eerily familiar, looked straight at Richard.

“I asked you here because you are my son.”

Richard's stomach lurched. A rich man with a brocade gown and long curled hair, a man who traded with French and Spanish captains, a man who made strange marks on paper with an ink-dipped feather.... No, it wasn't true!

“Liar! Ma, tell him he's a liar!”

His Ma with her proud eyes, her voice that sang sweetly and scolded sharply, the faint aroma of turf and salmon lingering in the fibers of her shawl... No, it couldn't be true!

Kate nodded. “It's the truth, a storín.”

“You're both liars!”

He stood and stormed out through the kitchen. The young maid almost dropped the pots as he swung the back door open and slammed it behind him.

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[> [> Re: Part 2 (word count 1245) >>>> -- Alex, 13:36:48 05/13/10 Thu

Hi Fi. I like the changes you've made since your first posting, but I'm trying to figure out what POV you're going for here. Also what's the date?

POV-wise I find the scenes waver. It's subtle and took a bit for me to figure out why. These are Richard's scenes. Everything is filtered through him (supposedly), yet the reader doesn't get all his observations, feelings, etc. because the POV shifts at times to a more general, generic telling of what's going on. Like in the closing exchange, when he's shocked to discover he's a bastard. His stomach is full. He's just gorged himself on meat pie, yet he doesn't feel like he'll hurl it back up again, instead 'his stomach lurched'. There's also a great description of his Ma and her proud eyes, but the reader doesn't get to see her looking ashamed. Or turning her gaze from his. POV has shifted outside/overhead, into more of a narrative, telling the reader what's going on. Which is not a problem, but it does put a barrier up, making the reader a step removed from everything. Showing Richard gathering the clues from Mr. Joyce and his mother that she 1. slept out of wedlock and married/used 'his father' or 2. is an adulteress, would have more emotional impact with the reader, than telling them about his actions when he receives the news. Richard comes off as throwing more of a tantrum, rather than having his world turned on its ear...hmm, I guess that's because his actions are prioritized over his emotions. Anyway, like I said, I don't know if your story is written with the POV shifting in and out of a narrative for a reason. Like the opening line. It's just floating out there, a general observation of the man and his silver laced curls. It takes several paras before the reader gathers it's Richard's observation, but it's not really. It more an overhead narrator's perception. If you tweak the sentence, making it firmly Richard's, the whole scene will come across as stronger. It puts the reader in the scene, instead of watching it unfold at first.

And the reason why I asked about the date is the dialog phrasing seems to fluctuate into modern times, as well as Richard's interaction with Mr. Joyce. Seems too familiar. He starts out calling him sir, then shifts to calling him Mr. Joyce. Why the change? What did Mr. Joyce do to make Richard comfortable enough to use the more familiar address? I'd expect Richard to be a bit intimidated by Mr. Joyce's wealth and position and be very conscious of the demarcation between child and adult. Wouldn't he call him sir, unless Mr. Joyce indicated otherwise? And isn't calling him a liar a BIG deal? It wasn't something lightly bandied about back then, right? Duels were fought over such an insult? And since Richard's world is fairly black and white, Catholicism, adhering to vehement behavior (the spitting at the mention of Cromwell), would he call his mother a whore?

>>“They surely do. Isn't it great that there are still Catholics in the world, to keep buying our fish?”

Great sounds modern here. Wonderful, instead?

And lastly, introduction of new characters. There's a great description of Mr. Joyce's wife, but instead of Richard gathering the info and drawing his own conclusions about who she is, the narrator tells the reader who she is after the fact with the use of 'her husband'. What are the social customs of the time? As the lady of the house, would she introduce herself and welcome them to her table? Would her husband introduce her? Would there be tension between Kate & Mrs. Joyce? Mr. & Mrs. Joyce? Is Mrs. Joyce's departure a statement? She's extending an insult, slighting Kate & her husband's bastard by refusing to eat with them? And even if she's not, would Kate perceive it as such? And Richard, being astute, would gather the undercurrents in the room, but be clueless as to reason and just chalk it up to Mrs. J being snooty? So I guess I'm suggesting more layers need to be added to the scenes. *s* Physical perceptions. I for one think seeing Mr. Joyce's actions and expressions in the first scene would flesh him out and make him more three dimensional for the reader. But, it's your story, Fi. Up to you. And hey, let me know if this feedback is even a help, okay?

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[> [> [> Re: Part 2 (word count 1245) >>>> -- Fi, 05:30:28 05/14/10 Fri

Hi Alex,
Thanks for your feedback, it's much appreciated.

I can see that I have some work to do, esp with establishing POV and making the dialogue/actions appropriate to the time and place. I guess I need to flesh out the Joyces (especially the wife). I originally had Mrs. Joyce staying for supper, but she wasn't doing much and just cluttered up the scene, so I decided she should exit stage left :) But I guess I should give her more of an entrance before she exits.

Thanks for showing that I need to focus more on Richard and show his internal reactions to events. It is supposed to be his POV and I can see where that's not clear now, so I know what to work on.

Dialogue can be a real bitch to write in historical fiction! Hard to know where to strike the balance between "gadsooks, thou knave" and "dude, where's my periwig?" I see what you mean about the demarcation between classes and generations; so I need to make this clearer in the speech.

The date is 1663, 11 years after the Cromwellian conquest of Ireland, 3 years after the Restoration of Charles II in England. Although the Joyces are well-off compared to Richard and Kate, they're actually middle-class merchants rather than gentry, and they're vulnerable to the political and religious upheavals of the time.

Thanks again for your help. Hope you keep reading.
Fi

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[> [> Re: Part 2 (word count 1245) >>>> -- debikm, 21:06:22 05/14/10 Fri

>The housekeeper was only a little taller than Richard,
>but she took up nearly the width of the doorway. She
>led him and his mother through the kitchen, a great
>space with a huge fireplace and a smell of gravy that
>made the water pool in his mouth. A maid not much
>older than Richard, hair in kerchief and sleeves
>rolled to the elbows, scoured the inside of a brass
>skillet. Kate cast a desperate look at the pots,
>hoping perhaps that she would be allowed to stay among
>the servants, but the rotund housekeeper led them
>through to the parlour.
>
>A great crackling fire warmed Mr. Joyce's face,
>compensating for the dimming of daylight from the
>window. A woman in a stripped'striped'? cream-and-pink dress
>directed another maid to set a jug on the table, and
>turned around to greet the visitors. Her pretty cheeks
>were ruddied by the fire, and her eyebrows moved
>independently: first the left, then the right.
>
>“Please come in.” She motioned towards the table.
>
>Kate twiddled with her shawl and took a stool. Richard
>was intrigued by the spread of food: hand-sized pies,
>slabs of cheese, slices of ox-tongue, and some candied
>fruit. Slivers of salmon fanned on a plate, but no
>potatoes. His stomach made a cat's growl.
>
>“I hope you don't mind if I leave,” said the woman,
>placing a hand on her swollen belly. “I'm feeling
>rather tired.”
>
>“Of course not, darling.” Her husband kissed her
>forehead and she left the room, her back-skirts
>sweeping the floor.
>
>“You've been keeping well, Kate?” asked Mr. Joyce,
>sitting opposite her.
>
>“I have, thanks be to God.” She worried her hands in
>her lap and glanced up at the high ceiling. “This is a
>fine place you have.”
>
>“It's the old family home. When the king returned to
>England, he allowed Catholics to return to the town,
>those that had been loyal to him. Those that survived.
>He still hasn't given us back our other land, but I'm
>writing him letters every other week so please God we
>should get it back too.”
>
>“I've seen a lot more ships on the quays this past
>year or so.”
>
>“Trade is picking up again, thank God.”
>
>“I saw a big French ship the other day,” said Richard.
>“You could hear them blabbering away in the town.”
>
>Mr. Joyce's smile was the first genuine one that
>evening.
>
>“That's where this wine came from. We sold them a fine
>lot of butter and salted fish.”
>
>“Fish from the Claddagh, sir? Do they eat Claddagh
>fish in France?”
>
>“They surely do. Isn't it great that there are still
>Catholics in the world, to keep buying our fish?”
>
>Kate's mouth twitched but she hid the half-smile in
>her hand.
>
>“We must all be hungry,” he said.
>
>Richard's hand reached across the table, but his
>mother swiped it back as she bowed her head for grace.
>After she finished, Mr. Joyce took one of the pies and
>motioned to Richard to do likewise. It still steamed
>as his knife cut through the pastry, and as he lifted
>a slice to his mouth he forgot about his confusion;
>all the world seemed to shrink to the gorgeous
>sensation of gravy melting on his tongue.
>
>“What are those, Mr. Joyce?” he pointed at the candied
>fruit.
>
>“They're oranges,” said Mr. Joyce. “From Spain.”
>
>Richard's head swam even as his stomach filled. Wine
>from France, oranges from Spain. This table seemed to
>connect to the harbour, which connected to a wide
>world beyond.Love this thought. How true...
>
>“Have you ever been to these places, Mr. Joyce? France
>or Spain or England, even?”
>
>“I've been to Spain. My family has connections there.
>I had to leave, during the time of Cromwell.”
>
>Richard would have spit but his mouth was full of
>pastry and he didn't think crumbs on the tablecloth
>would make a good impression.
>
>“You know about those times? The Catholic Confederacy
>had fought long against Cromwell's troops, and Galway
>was the last town to stand against them?”
>
>Richard nodded. Adults often talked about the war in
>whispers, but it had happened before he was born so it
>never seemed relevant.
>
>“It seemed like the Four Horsemen of the Apocolypse
>had run across the land. War that wouldn't end. We
>were under siege within the city walls, not just the
>townsfolk but people from the surrounding countryside
>too. Then Hunger came as the food ran out. Then
>Pestilence: the bloody flux, the plague. I lost my
>wife – my first wife – and our three children.”
>
>“God rest their souls,” said Kate.
>
>“God rest their souls.” Mr. Joyce nodded. “I
>apologise. This is not really a topic for supper.”
>
>“And that's when you met my Ma!” Richard realised.
>“The people from outside the city were within the
>walls during the seige! From the Claddagh too?”
I can just hear his voice as her blurts out his discovery. Richard is a sharp lad.
>“From the Claddagh too.” Mr. Joyce daubed a little
>gravy from his chin.
>
>“And after the seige was broken, you went to Spain?”
>
>“Not directly after. Some of us escaped into the hills
>and continued to fight for several months. The
>countryside was a ruin; towns razed, people scattered
>and pushed westwards, starving and desperate. My
>mother's family had connections in La Coruòa, so
>I took the first boat I could get there.”
>
>“And Ma, she fought as well? Ma, didn't uncle Jack
>tell me you fought as well?”
>
>Kate wet her lips and fidgeted with her knife. “I
>fought as well, in the hills of Connemara.”
>
>“Learned to fire a musket as well as any man.” Mr.
>Joyce smiled.
>
>“And my Da? You must have known my Da, Mr. Joyce.”
>
>“I wish I had known him. He must have been a good man,
>God rest him.”
>
>Mr. Joyce cut a slice of ox tongue and put it in his
>mouth. Richard frowned. He had been born ten months
>after the siege ended, so his mother must have been
>married when she'd fought in Connemara. She must have
>been....
>
>Richard thumped the table with both fists. The pies
>jumped and wine spilled from the top of the jug.
>“You must have know my Da!”
>
>“Richard!” Kate's raised voice sounded strange in this
>room. “I brought you up with manners!”
>
>“I will be forever grateful to Joe Mahon,” said Mr.
>Joyce quietly.
>
>The boy's lower lip trembled. “What do you want, sir?
>Why did you ask us here?”
>
>Blue eyes and a high forehead, eerily familiar, looked
>straight at Richard.
>
>“I asked you here because you are my son.”
And the shoe drops. I like the allusion to it all along. Richard's own reflection maybe?
>Richard's stomach lurched. A rich man with a brocade
>gown and long curled hair, a man who traded with
>French and Spanish captains, a man who made strange
>marks on paper with an ink-dipped feather.... No, it
>wasn't true!
>
>“Liar! Ma, tell him he's a liar!”
>
>His Ma with her proud eyes, her voice that sang
>sweetly and scolded sharply, the faint aroma of turf
>and salmon lingering in the fibers of her shawl... No,
>it couldn't be true!
>
>Kate nodded. “It's the truth, a storín.”
>
>“You're both liars!”
>
>He stood and stormed out through the kitchen. The
>young maid almost dropped the pots as he swung the
>back door open and slammed it behind him.

I suspected as much from the previous parts to the story, but the way you revealed it was nice. Kate wants her son looked after. Richard needs a father. But I wonder what Mr. Joyce's current wife thinks about the whole situation. It's will be interesting to watch this story unfold. Great stuff, Fi!

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[> [> Re: Part 2 (word count 1245) >>>> -- Promise, 00:56:14 05/19/10 Wed

Comments in boldface. Anything I suggest to be omitted will be surrounded by brackets [ ]. Any suggested replacement will follow.

Galway, Ireland. 1663.

The housekeeper was only a little taller than Richard, but she took up nearly the width of the doorway. She led him and his mother through the kitchen, a great space with a huge fireplace and a smell of gravy that made the water pool in his mouth. A maid not much older than Richard, hair in kerchief and sleeves rolled to the elbows, scoured the inside of a brass skillet. Kate cast a desperate look at the pots, hoping perhaps that she would be allowed to stay among the servants, but the rotund housekeeper led them through to the parlour.

A great crackling fire warmed Mr. Joyce's face, compensating for the dimming of daylight from the window. A woman in a stripped ---misspelling: striped---cream-and-pink dress directed another maid to set a jug on the table, and turned around to greet the visitors. ---Who turned, the maid or the woman?---Her pretty cheeks were ruddied by the fire, and her eyebrows moved independently: first the left, then the right.

“Please come in.” She motioned towards the table.

Kate twiddled with her shawl and took a stool. Richard was intrigued by the spread of food: hand-sized pies, slabs of cheese, slices of ox-tongue, and some candied fruit. Slivers of salmon fanned on a plate, but no potatoes. His stomach made a cat's growl.

“I hope you don't mind if I leave,” said the woman, placing a hand on her swollen belly. “I'm feeling rather tired.”

“Of course not, darling.” Her husband ---Is this the same person as Mr. Joyce? Or is there someone else here? kissed her forehead and she left the room, her back-skirts sweeping the floor.

“You've been keeping well, Kate?” asked Mr. Joyce, sitting opposite her.

“I have, thanks be to God.” She worried her hands in her lap and glanced up at the high ceiling. “This is a fine place you have.”

“It's the old family home. When the king returned to England, he allowed Catholics to return to the town, those that had been loyal to him. Those that survived. He still hasn't given us back our other land, but I'm writing him letters every other week so please God we should get it back, ---add a comma--- too.” ---I know this is here for the reader’s benefit, but it seems strange for Mr. Joyce to be telling Kate that—shouldn’t see know this?---

“I've seen a lot more ships on the quays this past year or so.”

“Trade is picking up again, thank God.”

“I saw a big French ship the other day,” said Richard. “You could hear them blabbering away in the town.”

Mr. Joyce's smile was the first genuine one that evening.

“That's where this wine came from. We sold them a fine lot of butter and salted fish.”Butter? Why would the French purchase butter from Ireland? In the 17th century, timber and iron were the chief Irish exports. Also, unless the fish are salted, they wouldn’t be fit to eat by the time they got to France (no ice at this time), which has its own rather long history of a fishing industry. Now, during the 18th century, salt- beef and pork, butter, and hard cheeses were exported through Cork to supply the British navy, but your story is set a century before that.---

“Fish from the Claddagh, sir? Do they eat Claddagh fish in France?”

“They surely do. Isn't it great that there are still Catholics in the world, to keep buying our fish?”

Kate's mouth twitched, ---add comma--- but she hid the half-smile in her hand.

“We must all be hungry,” he said.

Richard's hand reached across the table, but his mother swiped it back as she bowed her head for grace. After she finished, Mr. Joyce took one of the pies and motioned to Richard to do likewise. It still steamed as his knife cut through the pastry, and as he lifted a slice to his mouth he forgot about his confusion; all the world seemed to shrink to the gorgeous sensation of gravy melting on his tongue.

“What are those, Mr. Joyce?” he pointed at the candied fruit.

“They're oranges,” said Mr. Joyce[.], “[F]from Spain.”

Richard's head swam even as his stomach filled. Wine from France, oranges from Spain. This table seemed to connect to the harbour, which connected to a wide world beyond.

“Have you ever been to these places, Mr. Joyce? France or Spain or England, even?”

“I've been to Spain. My family has connections there. I had to leave, during the time of Cromwell.”

Richard would have spit, ---add comma--- but his mouth was full of pastry and he didn't think crumbs on the tablecloth would make a good impression.

“You know about those times? The Catholic Confederacy had fought long against Cromwell's troops[, and]; Galway was the last town to stand against them?”

Richard nodded. Adults often talked about the war in whispers, but it had happened before he was born, ---add comma so it never seemed relevant.

“It seemed like the Four Horsemen of the Apocolypse ---Apocalypse--- had run across the land. War that wouldn't end. We were under siege within the city walls, not just the townsfolk, ---add comma--- but people from the surrounding countryside too. Then Hunger came as the food ran out. Then Pestilence: the bloody flux, the plague. I lost my wife – my first wife – and our three children.”

“God rest their souls,” said Kate.

“God rest their souls.” Mr. Joyce nodded. “I apologise ---apologize---. This is not really a topic for supper.” ---He’s right. He’s relating this for the reader’s benefit, but as written, it feels like a history lecture, not dinner conversation.---

“And that's when you met my Ma!” Richard realised.---realized--- “The people from outside the city were within the walls during the seige!---siege--- From [the] Claddagh too?”

“From [the] Claddagh too.” Mr. Joyce daubed a little gravy from his chin.

“And after the siege---siege--- was broken, you went to Spain?”

“Not directly after. Some of us escaped into the hills and continued to fight for several months. The countryside was a ruin; towns razed, people scattered and pushed westwards, starving and desperate. My mother's family had connections in La Coruòa, so I took the first boat I could get there.”

“And Ma, she fought as well? Ma, didn't uncle---Uncle--- Jack tell me you fought as well?”

Kate wet her lips and fidgeted with her knife. “I fought as well, in the hills of Connemara.” ---Repetitious use of the phrase “fought as well.”---

“Learned to fire a musket as well as any man.” Mr. Joyce smiled.

“And my Da? You must have known my Da, Mr. Joyce.”

“I wish I had known him. He must have been a good man, God rest him.”

Mr. Joyce cut a slice of ox tongue and put it in his mouth. Richard frowned. He had been born ten months after the siege ended, so his mother must have been married when she'd fought in Connemara. She must have been....

Richard thumped the table with both fists. The pies jumped and wine spilled from the top of the jug.
“You must have know my Da!” ---New paragraph not needed.---

“Richard!” Kate's raised voice sounded strange in this room. “I brought you up with manners!”

“I will be forever grateful to Joe Mahon,” said Mr. Joyce quietly.

The boy's lower lip trembled. “What do you want, sir? Why did you ask us here?”

Blue eyes and a high forehead, eerily familiar, looked straight at Richard.

“I asked you here because you are my son.”

Richard's stomach lurched. A rich man with a brocade gown and long curled hair, a man who traded with French and Spanish captains, a man who made strange marks on paper with an ink-dipped feather.... No, it wasn't true!

“Liar! Ma, tell him he's a liar!”

His Ma with her proud eyes, her voice that sang sweetly and scolded sharply, the faint aroma of turf and salmon lingering in the fibers of her shawl... No, it couldn't be true!

Kate nodded. “It's the truth, a storín.”

“You're both liars!”

He stood and stormed out through the kitchen. The young maid almost dropped the pots as he swung the back door open and slammed it behind him.

Final thoughts:

Kind of an abrupt way to tell a kid, isn’t it?

There’s a lot of exposition of back-story in the conversation and it just doesn’t feel natural.

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[> [> [> Re: Part 2 (word count 1245) >>>> -- Fi, 11:24:37 05/21/10 Fri

>Kind of an abrupt way to tell a kid, isn’t it?
>
>There’s a lot of exposition of back-story in the
>conversation and it just doesn’t feel natural.

Hi Promise,

Thanks for your useful comments. Looks like I have a lot of editing work to do. Backstory is such a pain!

Fi

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[> [> [> [> Re: Part 2 (word count 1245) >>>> -- Promise, 12:56:53 05/21/10 Fri

Fi,

Yeah, backstory is hard to deal with. As you could see from my own work, I'm struggling with it as well.

It's so hard because *we*, the authors, know the backstory and we want it to be in our readers' minds from the beginning, so that they understand the characters and their actions in the same way we do.

But, thinking of how DG reveals backstory in bits and blobs throughout the books, maybe characters are *more* interesting when you don't understand everything they do because you don't know the backstory? What do you think?

Promise

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[> [> [> [> [> I agree. It's tempting to think the readers need to know this NOW rather than build up their interests first. But if writing was easy, where would the challenge be? -- Fi, 12:51:49 05/25/10 Tue

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[> [> Sorry it's taken me so long! >>>> -- Page, 17:37:40 05/22/10 Sat

Before I get to the comments, let me just say how much I love this story already! Kind of reminds me of John Jakes' North and South a little, except Richard is more likeable than the Hazzard lad! *G*

>From Claddagh [working title]
>by F.H. Hurley
>Copyright April 2010
>For critique only
>
>Galway, Ireland. 1663.
>
>The housekeeper was only a little taller than Richard,
>but she took up nearly the width of the doorway. Great description, and a perfect example of telling, not showing! She
>led him and his mother through the kitchen, a great
>space with a huge fireplace and a smell of gravy that
>made the water pool in his mouth. A maid not much
>older than Richard, hair in kerchief and sleeves
>rolled to the elbows, scoured the inside of a brass
>skillet. Kate cast a desperate look at the pots,
>hoping perhaps that she would be allowed to stay among
>the servants, but the rotund housekeeper led them
>through to the parlour. I also like this last sentence; brings out Kate's feelings about where she thinks she belongs in such a house in just a few short words.
>
>A great crackling fire warmed Mr. Joyce's face,
>compensating for the dimming of daylight from the
>window. A woman in a stripped should be "striped" cream-and-pink dress
>directed another maid to set a jug on the table, and
>turned around I would take out "around" to greet the visitors. Her pretty cheeks
>were ruddied by the fire, and her eyebrows moved
>independently: first the left, then the right.
>
>“Please come in.” She motioned towards the table.
>
>Kate twiddled with her shawl and took a stool. Richard
>was intrigued by the spread of food: hand-sized pies,
>slabs of cheese, slices of ox-tongue, and some candied
>fruit. Slivers of salmon fanned on a plate, but no
>potatoes. His stomach made a cat's growl.
>
>“I hope you don't mind if I leave,” said the woman,
>placing a hand on her swollen belly. “I'm feeling
>rather tired.”

Wouldn't the woman have introduced herself? Or maybe her husband might do it? It seems a bit odd to me that she offered them a seat and then bugged out immediately.

>“Of course not, darling.” Her husband kissed her
>forehead and she left the room, her back-skirts
>sweeping the floor. And if introductions were made you wouldn't have to tell us she was Mrs. Joyce, but could show us through the story.
>
>“You've been keeping well, Kate?” asked Mr. Joyce,
>sitting opposite her.
>
>“I have, thanks be to God.” She worried her hands in
>her lap and glanced up at the high ceiling. “This is a
>fine place you have.”
>
>“It's the old family home. When the king returned to
>England, he allowed Catholics to return to the town,
>those that had been loyal to him. Those that survived.

>He still hasn't given us back our other land, but I'm
>writing him letters every other week so please God we
>should get it back too.” I'd remove the part above since I think that would be something Kate would know, having lived through those times herself. I know it's relevant to the story (the treatment of Catholics, etc.) but I think you can probably work it in a different way. Maybe someone explaining it to Richard who might wonder why Mr. Joyce has such a fine house while other Catholics he knows live in such poverty.
>
>“I've seen a lot more ships on the quays this past
>year or so.”
>
>“Trade is picking up again, thank God.”
>
>“I saw a big French ship the other day,” said Richard.
>“You could hear them blabbering away in the town.”
>
>Mr. Joyce's smile was the first genuine one that
>evening.
>
>“That's where this wine came from. We sold them a fine
>lot of butter and salted fish.” Fish I can see, but butter?
>
>“Fish from the Claddagh, sir? Do they eat Claddagh
>fish in France?”
>
>“They surely do. Isn't it great that there are still
>Catholics in the world, to keep buying our fish?”
>
>Kate's mouth twitched but she hid the half-smile in
>her hand.
>
>“We must all be hungry,” he said.
>
>Richard's hand reached across the table, but his
>mother swiped it back as she bowed her head for grace. I love that! I can just see her!
>After she finished, Mr. Joyce took one of the pies and
>motioned to Richard to do likewise. It still steamed
>as his knife cut through the pastry, and as he lifted
>a slice to his mouth he forgot about his confusion;
>all the world seemed to shrink to the gorgeous
>sensation of gravy melting on his tongue.
>
>“What are those, Mr. Joyce?” he pointed at the candied
>fruit.
>
>“They're oranges,” said Mr. Joyce. “From Spain.”
>
>Richard's head swam even as his stomach filled. Wine
>from France, oranges from Spain. This table seemed to
>connect to the harbour, which connected to a wide
>world beyond.
>
>“Have you ever been to these places, Mr. Joyce? France
>or Spain or England, even?”
>
>“I've been to Spain. My family has connections there.
>I had to leave, during the time of Cromwell.”
>
>Richard would have spit but his mouth was full of
>pastry and he didn't think crumbs on the tablecloth
>would make a good impression.
>
>“You know about those times? The Catholic Confederacy
>had fought long against Cromwell's troops, and Galway
>was the last town to stand against them?”
>
>Richard nodded. Adults often talked about the war in
>whispers, but it had happened before he was born so it
>never seemed relevant.
>
>“It seemed like the Four Horsemen of the Apocolypse
>had run across the land. War that wouldn't end. We
>were under siege within the city walls, not just the
>townsfolk but people from the surrounding countryside
>too. Then Hunger came as the food ran out. Then
>Pestilence: the bloody flux, the plague. I lost my
>wife – my first wife – and our three children.”
>
>“God rest their souls,” said Kate.
>
>“God rest their souls.” Mr. Joyce nodded. “I
>apologise. This is not really a topic for supper.”
>
>“And that's when you met my Ma!” Richard realised.
>“The people from outside the city were within the
>walls during the seige should be "siege"! From the Claddagh too?”
>
>“From the Claddagh too.” Mr. Joyce daubed a little
>gravy from his chin.
>
>“And after the seige was broken, you went to Spain?”
>
>“Not directly after. Some of us escaped into the hills
>and continued to fight for several months. The
>countryside was a ruin; towns razed, people scattered
>and pushed westwards, starving and desperate. My
>mother's family had connections in La Coruòa, so
>I took the first boat I could get there.”
>
>“And Ma, she fought as well? Ma, didn't uncle Jack
>tell me you fought as well?”
>
>Kate wet her lips and fidgeted with her knife. “I
>fought as well, in the hills of Connemara.”
>
>“Learned to fire a musket as well as any man.” Mr.
>Joyce smiled.
>
>“And my Da? You must have known my Da, Mr. Joyce.”
>
>“I wish I had known him. He must have been a good man,
>God rest him.”
>
>Mr. Joyce cut a slice of ox tongue and put it in his
>mouth. Richard frowned. He had been born ten months
>after the siege ended, so his mother must have been
>married when she'd fought in Connemara. She must have
>been....
>
>Richard thumped the table with both fists. The pies
>jumped and wine spilled from the top of the jug.
>“You must have know my Da!” Richard's vehemence seems a little out of place to me. I can see him asking, but pounding his fists on the table struck me as a little out of place.
>
>“Richard!” Kate's raised voice sounded strange in this
>room. “I brought you up with manners!”
>
>“I will be forever grateful to Joe Mahon,” said Mr.
>Joyce quietly.
>
>The boy's lower lip trembled. “What do you want, sir?
>Why did you ask us here?”
>
>Blue eyes and a high forehead, eerily familiar, looked
>straight at Richard.
>
>“I asked you here because you are my son.”
>
>Richard's stomach lurched. A rich man with a brocade
>gown and long curled hair, a man who traded with
>French and Spanish captains, a man who made strange
>marks on paper with an ink-dipped feather.... No, it
>wasn't true!
>
>“Liar! Ma, tell him he's a liar!”
>
>His Ma with her proud eyes, her voice that sang
>sweetly and scolded sharply, the faint aroma of turf
>and salmon lingering in the fibers of her shawl... No,
>it couldn't be true!
>
>Kate nodded. “It's the truth, a storín.”
>
>“You're both liars!”
>
>He stood and stormed out through the kitchen. The
>young maid almost dropped the pots as he swung the
>back door open and slammed it behind him.

Overall, a super job, Fi!

Hugs,
Page

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[> [> [> Thanks, Page. Your comments show me what I have to do: expand more about Mrs. Joyce and cut down the backstory. Glad you liked Richard :) (NT) -- Fi, 12:49:18 05/25/10 Tue

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[> Oh, I'm so glad you posted the beginning again! It's nice to have it here to re-read before delving into the next part. Give me a day or two to process it all, and I'll be back to comment! -- Page, 16:00:24 05/12/10 Wed

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