The Hawthorn Crown

by Helen Falconer

  Something tapping at her back.

  Repeatedly.

  Increasingly.

  Gently.

  She opened her eyes a crack.

  She was on her hands and knees in black mud. And large drops of rain were falling on her back, slowly soaking through her thin black dress. She opened her eyes wider. She slid them cautiously from side to side. Low stone walls; dripping brambles. A patch of gorse, pushing out a few wet yellow flowers. The sound of sheep bleating.

  With a deep sob of gratitude, Carla sank down on her face in the mud and kissed with love the hard cold stones of the human world that had made her. Thank you, God, for creating this wet, green land of Mayo. Thank you, brain, for realizing I might have one last wish. Thank you, Aoife, for granting that last wish just in time …

  With a fresh burst of relief, she scrambled to her feet, crying, ‘Aoife?’ But, worryingly, the stony farm track on which she found herself coiled emptily away downhill into the mist. ‘Aoife?’ Silence, apart from the increasing hiss of heavy rain on bracken.

  Then, just as she was starting to seriously panic, came the sound of someone else being sick: ‘Bleuuurgh!!!’

  ‘Aoife!’ Carla rushed happily down the track, splashing through freezing puddles in her bare feet. ‘I’m coming!’ But round the corner was only a plump, red-headed teenage boy in a blue shellsuit, doubled over on his knees, throwing up into a ditch. Sliding to a halt, she cried in shock: ‘Ultan! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Bleuuurgh … Didn’t ask to be here, thanks very much.’

  Immediately Carla felt bad for hurting his feelings. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that – you’re very welcome to Mayo. And sorry about the weather, I know it’s not what you’re used to in the fairy world …’

  Ultan rose unsteadily to his knees, wiping his face on a handful of wet grass. ‘Welcome to where, did you say?’

  ‘Somewhere in the west of Ireland – not too far from Kilduff, I hope, although everywhere looks exactly the same on a day like this.’ Shivering in her wet, thin dress, Carla climbed onto a nearby gate, leaning over it, peering up and down the field. The downpour was now easing to a fine mist, and ghostly mountains were appearing against a grey sky. A pale hint of morning sun was veiled in misty, drifting clouds. ‘Aoife? Aoife? AOIFE!!!’

  But only the mountains echoed back her cry: ‘Eee … Faa! Eeee … Faaaaa …’

  ‘Ugh. Maybe she’s still travelling between the worlds.’ Although at the back of her mind, a terrible thought was forming …

  Did I mess up my last wish?

  No. No. She’d shouted at Aoife to bring them both safe home. And Mayo wasn’t Ultan’s home. He’d just come along because he had been holding onto her, just like her dress had come with her because she was wearing it …

  ‘Mother of God!’ shrieked Ultan.

  ‘What? Where?’ For a wild, happy moment Carla assumed he’d spotted Aoife. The changeling boy was leaping up and down, arms whirling like windmills …

  ‘Mother of God!’ he howled. ‘These are my father’s fields!’

  ‘They’re what …?’

  ‘I bet Mam has scones in the oven! Maybe even a cake!’ And he took off like a hare, shrieking over his shoulder as he disappeared into the thinning mist: ‘Come on, you’re going to love my mam! She’s the best mam in all the world!’

  Leaping off the gate, Carla chased after him in a whirl of panic. ‘Ultan, wait! Ultan!’

  When she rounded the next corner, he was standing in the middle of the track, staring with huge horrified eyes at a fairly new dormer bungalow with a large blue-and-white FOR SALE sign nailed to the gatepost. ‘This isn’t my house,’ he was saying in a frightened voice. ‘This isn’t my house.’

  ‘Oh, thank God … Wait! Stop!’

  She caught up with him again at the next turn. The rainy mist was rolling away, and the sun strengthening above the clouds. Wet copper fields were coming into view, sweeping downhill to a grey-green ocean. Another little house was a long way down the hill, almost at the coast road – a converted one-storey cottage with solar panels and a blue-painted extension, and a set of old stables behind it, once used for farm horses. Ultan stood gazing in misery over the glistening landscape. ‘I don’t understand,’ he kept repeating, in a tight, desperate voice. ‘I don’t understand.’

  But Carla, on the other hand, understood exactly where she was. The cottage with the solar panels was her grandmother’s – where she’d spent all her childhood until her parents had saved up enough to build their own place. So she hadn’t messed up after all. The wish had brought her home, and Ultan – what a relief! – had only come with her by accident, because he had been holding onto her.

  Which meant that Aoife must be in her own house in Kilduff.

  Teresa Gilvarry’s yellow two-seater sports car wasn’t in the driveway. But the back door was unlocked. Carla ran through the kitchen, where a lovely smell of roasting meat drifted from the oven into the cosy living room, and poked her head into the little bedrooms. ‘Nan? Nan?’ The place was empty. But there was a drawer of Carla’s clothes in the spare room, and she took a moment to strip off her wet dress and pull on a dry hoodie and a pair of jeans. In the mirror she gave her blonde-streaked, shoulder-length hair a quick brush, and wiped the mud from her slim face with a cleansing wipe.

  Then she ran back to the kitchen.

  Ultan was standing gazing around him at the gas-ringed cooker and fitted cupboards and the mantelpiece crammed with wedding, christening and remembrance cards. He seemed as disorientated as when Carla had found him outside the new dormer bungalow. ‘This reminds me of Teresa Gilvarry’s place, but it’s completely different.’

  Carla was amazed. ‘Teresa’s my grandmother! So that explains why I was so sure I knew you when I met you in Falias.’

  Ultan looked even more confused. ‘Grandmother? No, the Teresa I know is only Mam’s age.’

  ‘Oh … Really? It can’t be the same Teresa Gilvarry then, unless your mam is seventy-eight. Hang on, I need to check on Aoife. I’m sure she’s gone straight to Kilduff, but I’d rather be sure.’ Carla dropped into a chair at the table, pulling her grandmother’s laptop towards her.

  Ultan flinched in astonishment as the screen glowed slowly into life. ‘Mother of God, what on earth is that thing?’

  ‘I know – ancient. But at least it’s got Skype! So I can ring my mam, and she can find out about Aoife. Come on, come on – ring. Yay! ZOE!’

  The glowing screen morphed into her parents’ living room, with Carla’s little sister bouncing up and down on the big blue leather sofa, screaming, ‘You missed my fifth birthday! You owe me a present!’

  (Ultan gasped, ‘What the—’)

  ‘Oh, Zoe, I’m so, so sorry.’ Carla nearly burst into tears of shock. In her happiness to be back, she’d completely forgotten about the time difference. She’d been away only a day in the fairy world, but that meant … Multiply by hundred … Three months! Her poor parents must have been demented with worry! ‘Zoe, quick, is Mam there?’

  ‘She’s on the toilet. Hey, stop pushing!’

  The next moment Zoe was shoved aside by another little girl with blonde curls who shrieked, ‘Ultan! Are you Skyping from the fairy world?’

  ‘Eva?’ gasped Ultan, shoving his head between Carla and the screen. ‘This is amazing … Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in the human world … Zoe, go away!’

  Carla shouted over Ultan’s head, ‘Eva, do you know – has your big sister come home yet?’

  But Eva had already disappeared, and the distant living room was swinging in a sickening circle …

  (‘Mother of God,’ groaned Ultan. ‘It’s like Star Trek.’)

  … and the next moment Zoe’s snub-nosed face filled the screen, scowling in disappointment. ‘That’s not the fairy world, that’s my nan’s house. Are you Ultan?’

  ‘Zoe, put Eva back on! I want to ask her about Aoife!’

  After a brief struggle Eva’s face re
appeared, rather pink about the cheeks. ‘It must be the fairy world, ’cos Ultan’s a fairy …’

  The living room turned suddenly upside down and Zoe could be heard screeching out of sight: ‘No, he’s not, he’s a monster, he’s a big, fat, ugly—’

  Carla shouted hastily, ‘Eva, talk to me! Is Aoife at your house?’

  ‘Yes!’ called the little girl from somewhere out of sight.

  Carla’s heart swelled with relief. ‘Oh, thank God.’

  ‘She’s been home for ages!’

  ‘Ages?’

  ‘Eva, your mother’s here to collect you. Girls, please be careful with that laptop.’ A familiar adult voice filtered through the speakers, but before Carla could shout: Mam! I’m here! the connection froze, then dropped.

  ‘Damn it.’ Carla clicked repeatedly, but nothing happened. ‘Come on, you stupid thing. Ugh …’ She shoved the computer aside. ‘So frustrating.’

  With big round eyes, Ultan picked the little laptop up and turned it over, checking the back. ‘What is this thing?’

  Still trying to work out what Eva meant by ‘ages’, Carla answered distractedly, ‘An old iBook.’

  ‘An old book? Mother of God, I had no idea there’d be such a thing in the human world …’

  ‘How did Aoife get back before me? Maybe I travelled slowly, because you were hanging onto me.’

  Ultan shot her a hurt look: ‘I’m not that heavy.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that! Just there being two of us … And I suppose even a couple of hours would make a difference when it all gets multiplied by a hundred. I wonder what the month is? Daren’t look.’ But she did, leaning towards him to squint at the date in the corner of the screen. ‘February! Ugh, I was right – three months.’

  ‘February?’ Almost throwing the laptop back down on the table – like it had bitten him – Ultan stared from it to Carla. ‘This tells you it’s February? Is it accurate?’

  ‘Yes, it’s February the eighth …’

  ‘July, August, Septem— I’ve been gone for seven months!’ He clasped his plump cheeks, mouth distorted with shock. ‘Mother of God …’

  Carla winced. The poor lad had obviously no idea about the time difference. ‘Oh, Ultan – didn’t you know?’

  ‘And I can’t even find my way home!’

  ‘So awful for you …’ But then a car pulled up outside, and she leaped to her feet in relief. ‘Here’s Nan – she’ll sort you out. She knows absolutely everyone around here so she’ll know exactly where you live, and we can get you home in no time – once she gets over how amazed she is at seeing me!’

  Before she could open the back door, it flew open with a kick, and there was her grandmother on the doorstep, a bag of shopping in each hand, wearing a purple cape and a vivid green woollen hat with dangling pom-poms, surveying her kitchen with a frown. Instead of being amazed to see her granddaughter, she offered Carla a brief – in fact, rather angry – nod, before turning her eyes to Ultan.

  Carla was taken aback. ‘Nan? Hello? It’s me, Carla!’

  ‘Yes, dear, I can see that, I’m not blind yet, you know.’ But the old lady was still only staring at Ultan, while slowing setting down her shopping.

  Carla protested loudly, ‘Nan, it’s me – Carla! Weren’t you worried about me at all? I’ve been gone for three months!’

  ‘I’m not deaf either, dear, so there’s no need to shout. And no, I wasn’t worried once I heard you’d been having an absolutely wonderful time going to wild parties in Dublin …’

  ‘Dublin?’

  ‘… with some little wagon called Sheila Cunningham.’

  ‘What? I don’t know anyone called—’

  ‘Jesus, Mary Mother of God and all the saints.’ Now the old woman was slowly collapsing onto a chair, her wrinkled hand pressed to her heart. ‘Look who it is. I can’t believe my eyes. It’s Ultan McNeal.’

  Ultan – who had turned bright pink under the old woman’s scrutiny – beamed happily: ‘This is great – Carla said you knew everyone. I need to find my way home – do you know where I live?’

  ‘Ultan McNeal,’ repeated Teresa Gilvarry in a dazed, faraway voice, turning her fading eyes towards the mantelpiece. ‘Ultan McNeal, come home at last, just like his mother always said he would.’

  And that was when Carla, following her grandmother’s gaze, finally realized – with sinking heart – why it was that as soon as she’d set her eyes on Ultan in the fairy world, she’d been so certain she knew his face. On the mantelpiece, among all the wedding and christening cards, stood a very old, yellowing remembrance card. A remembrance card which had been pointed out to her a thousand times since she was a little girl.

  ‘Poor Ultan McNeal!’ her nan would say, gazing fondly at the portrait on the front of the card – the faded figure of a plump teenage boy with thick auburn hair, wearing an electric-blue shellsuit. ‘My darling neighbour’s only child, got late in life! Such a poor weak object he was that the doctors said he would never last into his second year, but Kathleen made a wish off the fairies to save his life, and overnight he became a pink fat bouncing thing …’ At that point in the story Teresa’s voice would always rise to a dramatic wail: ‘Ah, Ultan McNeal, where did you go? Seventeen years old when you disappeared up the mountain, never to be seen again! And your poor fond mammy looking out for you night and day until the day she died, and making me promise to keep on watching for you, and to make sure that your poor father had a second place at the table always laid out for you, just in case the fairies ever did let you home.’

  And that was when Carla remembered that Kathleen McNeal’s own remembrance card also stood on her grandmother’s mantelpiece, right next to her son’s.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Mam, are you there? It’s me, Carla! I’m home – at Nan’s! Can you hear me? You’re breaking up on me …’ Carla moved out of the back door onto the outside step, trying to find better reception.

  Behind her, in the kitchen, her nan was ‘comforting’ Ultan: ‘Now, here’s your own remembrance card – isn’t it a nice one? I’ve kept it for thirty-one years. And here’s your mother’s – what a fine, well-built woman she was. Ah now, don’t cry, Kathleen’s been gone a long time – twenty years! – and there’s no good crying over spilled milk. Drink your tea. There’s nothing that a nice cup of tea can’t cure, as Kathleen would say, and one thing you could say about your mother, she was always right. Which was probably why the funeral was such a small affair.’

  ‘Oh, Mam, Mam!’ wept Ultan.

  ‘Drink your tea! We haven’t the time to sit around here chatting. I promised your mother that as soon as you got home, I would sort everything out for you. She warned me one of your father’s relatives might try to move in on the farm, and I have to say, she was always …’

  Carla flattened her hand over her other ear, to block out Teresa’s prattling. ‘Mam, I can’t hear you, but if you can hear me, I’ll be home in a couple of hours, and I love you so much, and I’m so happy you and Dad are still alive. What? Oh …’

  ‘… of fun, was it? Not like boring old Kilduff?’ raged Dianne Heffernan, her voice suddenly coming loud and clear through the speaker. ‘Did you have a wonderful time?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ This was really distressing – her mother seemed more angry than happy to hear from her. Maybe that was a normal psychological reaction, but surely Dianne should have been a small bit pleased to find out her daughter was still alive, before she got mad at her for running away in the first place? ‘I promise you, it wasn’t fun at all.’

  ‘How could you do this to me and Dad? Running off to Dublin and going to all those wild parties with your new little friend, Sheila Cunningham?’

  Carla’s brain reeled in astonishment. ‘But that’s not what I—’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Carla. I made Aoife tell us everything about what you’ve been up to and—’ Gone.

  ‘Mam? Can you hear me? Mam?’ But the phone was out of charge.

 
Carla spent a few seconds staring over her grandmother’s garden at the grey-green ocean beyond. What the—? She’d assumed her grandmother was getting confused in her old age and had got her mixed up with someone else altogether. But if she’d heard correctly, her mother also thought she’d been in Dublin, going to wild parties with some strange girl. And it seemed this falsehood had originated with Aoife, who had got home before her. But why had Aoife told her mother and grandmother something so ridiculous? It didn’t make sense …

  ‘Come along, come along!’ Her grandmother came pushing past her, hustling a tearful Ultan towards the little sports car. ‘No time to sit around – there’s already two offers been made on the property. Carla, you can ride in the luggage space behind the seats. Darling, are you deaf or confused or something? Get in the car!’

  The sports car pounded back up the hill, did a squealing right turn at the FOR SALE sign, shot up the driveway and screeched to a halt behind the dormer bungalow. Teresa Gilvarry hopped out into the wintry sunshine, green pom-poms swinging. ‘Come on, everyone out!’

  Ultan stayed in the car, quavering tearfully, ‘But this isn’t my house, Mrs Gilvarry.’

  ‘You’re right! It isn’t! Because there’s your house, Ultan McNeal – let go to rack and ruin despite your mother insisting that it was always kept nice for you and a place always laid for you at the table!’ And the old woman jabbed an angry finger in the direction of a washing line, where a man’s black trousers and a row of beige Y-fronts flapped in the wind. Behind the wet clothes was a hedge of young conifers. And behind them again was an old stone shed. The front door had been taken off its hinges and inside the building were neatly stacked piles of turf – yet it had clearly once been lived in, because it had a chimney and there were yellow curtains – now faded and torn – at the windows.

  Ultan was climbing out of the car, his eyes growing huge with horror: ‘No. It can’t be. Oh God. It is.’ And he buried his face in his hands and broke down altogether. ‘Oh, Mam, Mam, why did you have to die? You’d never have let our lovely home be turned into a turf-shed!’