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><b>Comments in boldface. Anything I suggest to be >omitted will be surrounded by brackets [ ]. Any >suggested replacement will follow.</b> > >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 <b>stripped ---misspelling: >striped---</b>cream-and-pink dress directed another >maid to set a jug on the table, and turned around to >greet the visitors. <b> ---Who turned, the maid or the >woman?---</b>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 <b>---Is this >the same person as Mr. Joyce? Or is there someone else >here?</b> 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<b>, ---add a comma---</b> too.” ><b>---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?---</b> > >“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.”<b><i>Butter?</I> Why >would the French purchase <i>butter</i> 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.---</b> > >“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<b>, ---add comma---</b> 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<b., ---add comma---</b> 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<b>[.], “[F]f</b>rom >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<b>, ---add comma---</b> 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<b>[, and]; ></b> 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<b>, >---add comma</b> so it never seemed relevant. > >“It seemed like the Four Horsemen of the Apocolypse ><b>---Apocalypse---</b> had run across the land. War >that wouldn't end. We were under siege within the city >walls, not just the townsfolk<b>, ---add comma---</b> >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 ><b>---apologize---</b>. This is not really a topic for >supper.” <b>---He’s right. He’s relating this for the >reader’s benefit, but as written, it feels like a >history lecture, not dinner conversation.---</b> > >“And that's when you met my Ma!” Richard >realised.<b>---realized---</b> “The people from >outside the city were within the walls during the >seige!<b>---siege---</b> From <b>[the]</b> Claddagh >too?” > >“From <b>[the]</b> Claddagh too.” Mr. Joyce daubed a >little gravy from his chin. > >“And after the siege<b>---siege---</b> 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<b>---Uncle---</b> 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.” ><b>---Repetitious use of the phrase “fought as >well.”---</b> > >“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!” <b>---New paragraph not >needed.---</b> > >“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. > ><b>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. </b>
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