Page 41 of Road Trip
“They’re just plain naughty,” the girl said, sticking out her lower lip. She ran off in pursuit of the fleeing fowl.
“You asked who takes care of things? My cousin Madelyn has the lofty title of director of operations, which means she’s the one who keeps the place running, along with a band of big-hearted volunteers. Retired folk, mostly. Susannah, who you just met, is Maddie’s youngest. Six years old, and as you Americans say, a real pistol.”
Maeve followed after him, walking slowly, taking in the little settlement. She could see four more similar whitewashed cottages assembled in a raggedy row, each separated by a small garden plot and animal pens.
The door of the nearest cottage opened, and a young woman poked her head out. “Liam,” she called. “What good luck! You’re just in time to help Gregory muck out the goat pen.”
She was an older version of her daughter, with straw-colored hair, a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and the same wide smile, which she flashed now in Maeve’s direction.
“And you’ve brought help, I see.” She extended her hand to the visitor. “Hello. Madelyn O’Shea. And you are…?”
“An innocent tourist who is not about to be bushwacked by the likes of you,” Liam replied.
Maeve took Madelyn’s hand. “I’m Maeve Dunagin. I just did the tour of the distillery and your cousin offered to show me the home farm. My great-grandmother actually grew up in this area, probably in a farmhouse not too different from this one.”
“Come on inside then. We’ve only half an hour or so before we close up shop for the day.”
The interior ofthe cottage was no bigger than Maeve’s childhood bedroom. The floor was brick, and the main room was dominated by a peat-burning fireplace. The furniture consisted of a wooden table, three chairs, and a primitive settle covered with a homespun-covered cushion. Pride of place in the living area was given over to a large walnut dresser where thick ironstone crockery and a few Blue Willow plates were displayed.
A plate in the center of the table held a loaf of rustic bread wrapped in a napkin and a slab of butter. “You just missed the butter-making demonstration,” Madelyn said. Liam tore off a hunk of the bread, slathered it with butter, and handed it to Maeve, who chewed and nodded appreciatively.
“You really make butter? From scratch?”
“Not me personally,” Madelyn said. “Ruthie, one of our volunteers, makes the butter from milk from our cows and bakes the bread right there in the fireplace. She’s gone home now.”
Maeve walked to the opposite side of the room where a linen curtain was partially hung across the doorway into the cottage’s single bedroom. The bed was oak and low to the floor, and nearby was a pallet covered with a wool blanket. Clothing hung from hooks on the wall and a large crucifix was prominently displayed on the wall above the bed.
“How many people used to live here?” Maeve asked.
“According to our research, the Egans, who were the last family to occupy this cottage, had four living children. I believe they moved out sometime in the late 1950s, when old Mrs. Egan passed away. Edwina, her name was.”
“Six people, living in this tiny space?” Maeve asked in disbelief.
“Not an easy life, but it was all they knew,” Madelyn said. “Some of the other cottages are larger and were updated, but this was the norm.”
“No indoor plumbing?”
“Not when the Egans lived here. And we didn’t want to add anything during the restoration, for the sake of authenticity.”
“Then where do you…”
She laughed. “There’s a decent loo out back, not that bad in a pinch, but usually I walk over to the visitor center, just up the hill a bit.”
The door was thrown open and Susannah burst inside with a chicken tucked under each arm. Her cheeks and pinafore were spattered with mud, and the pink ribbon fastening one of her braids had come undone.
“Mum! I caught Darla and Mabel, but Betty flew up in the bush and won’t come back down.”
“Well, she’ll have to just sleep up in that bush tonight then,” Madelyn said, gently taking the hens from her daughter. “Serves her right for being so naughty. Let’s put these other two girls back in the coop, and then it’s time to go home and get some dinner ready for your dad.”
“Thank you for the tour,” Maeve told her hostess. “It was really fascinating.”
“Glad to meet you,” Madelyn said. “Dunagin? Is that your family name? Liam and I grew up here, but I don’t think we know any Dunagins.”
“It was my mother’s family that were from here,” Maeve said. “She was a Sullivan, but her mother’s maiden name was Kathleen Rose Connor. According to Ancestry.com, she immigrated to the US around 1926.”
“Kathleen Connor, did you say?” Madelyn and Liam exchanged a look.
“Yes,” Maeve said eagerly. “Do you know of the family?”
