Living here

Thursday afternoon, two o'clock. Having bought Eleanor her cod from the fish truck in Edenderry, I dropped it off at the farm and headed to Nodlaig's. Nodlaig (pronounced NULLig) lives in a bungalow on Ballinderry land, across the road from Ballinderry House. She and Charlie, who died in 2006, built the house after their marriage. They knew each other as children, but Nodlaig left her home to work in Dublin while Charlie stayed to work for his older brother Jasper, who had inherited Balinderry in 1956. There was another barrier to their marriage: Charlie was Church of Ireland, and Nodlaig is Catholic. But by the time Nodlaig returned to care for her ailing mother, the question of children was moot since they were both past 50, and times had changed. They married in 1973.

Nodlaig was taking me to the bookmobile, called more prosaically the travelling library here. She loves this little library, and hasn't missed a single time since it started coming. We drove in her little car to the site where the truck was parked, on what was once the Ballinderry bogland, about a quarter mile from her house. The truck was spectacular, only two years old, its shelves neatly arranged with fiction (Nodlaig's choice; her favorite is the Irish romance author Maeve Binchy) and children's' books. There is a small non-fiction section and even magazines, although you have to look at those in the truck. There is a checkout desk and a corner seat for reading. Of course everyone knows each other in this place so small there isn't even a name for it, so for its brief 30-minute stop the truck becomes a gathering spot for old friends.

Today we had to rush a bit because Nodlaig was having visitors. My cousin Deirdre, whom I had never met, her daughter and her daughter's two children were travelling down from Dublin to see Nodlaig, and she had graciously included me in the visit. When we got back to the house she had the tea things all set out: brown bread slathered with butter (the first time I ever actually understood how much butter that meant) and small, square dense bars that looked like brownies but were called simply biscuits, just like every cookie is here. The tea was already in its pot by the hearth and the room was set up with chairs for everyone. 

Nodlaig's little house is modest and cozy. The sitting room is crowded with a motley collection of worn chairs, many small gewgaws on the mantle, an assortment of dusty tables (Nodlaig loves to cook but she admits to rarely picking up a broom). The kitchen is warmed by a stove that is a far simpler version of the mighty Aga. This one burns turf, and Nodlaig keeps it lit most of the time. There is an obvious pride in the space, but no pretensions about it. Mostly it is a welcoming house, just like Nodlaig herself.

Before Deirdre got there Nodlaig's sister-in-law Reenie dropped by. Reenie is the most elegant woman I have seen here so far. She wore a calf-length gored skirt, a simple shirt with a vest and a sweater over it, all in muted shades of brown, black stockings, pointed shoes with small heels, and had a burberry scarf wrapped around her neck. Her hair and makeup were perfect. She must be 85 but looked years younger.

When Deirdre and Barbara arrived we chatted, then tea was served. Because I was given the chair of honor in the room, Charlie's chair, it fell to me to pour the tea, a task I didn't do well, since Nodlaig had to remind me to top up everyone's cup.

Deirdre's daughter Barbara has two boys. The youngest was born with Down's Syndrome, and much of the conversation revolved around his care. When she heard where I was from she asked if I knew anything about a new treatment being investigated at Stanford. I wish I could have helped her.

So this was the day: work in the morning, fish delivery, library on wheels, sitting in a circle of chairs with three generations of women, warmed by the turf burning in the hearth, drinking thick tea and eating brown bread and butter. It felt like one of the best days here so far.