Liddy flashed him a warning look.
“Dunno, kid,” said Storm. “I’m waiting for Seamus to find the big ladder.”
She looked out the window. As if on cue, a shambling, aged local straight out of The Quiet Man, in green boots, filthy woolen jumper, and bobble hat, limped past with his flea-bitten mutt and crooked stick.
“Ah, there he is. I’ll have a word with him in a minute.”
“Storm, this is my elder son, Matty.”
Matty stood still for a moment. He stared first at his phone and then at the disappearing figure of Seamus, an expression of exaggerated horror on his face. Finally he grunted something unintelligible and went back into his room. That he managed not to slam the door was his only concession to the presence of a stranger. His remorse of the previous night had been short-lived.
“Do you want a cup of coffee, Storm?” Liddy said.
“Only if you’re sure,” said Storm, but as she had already thrown herself onto the couch, Liddy knew this was merely politeness.
“I’m knackered,” Storm continued. “I couldn’t sleep with the foxes barking last night. Did you hear them, Cal?”
Cal shook his head, and proceeded to deal her in to his dinosaur Top Trumps.
“I’ve always thought I could be a writer,” said Storm. “When I tell people about my family, they say I should definitely do a memoir. And of course, Sebastian published a book.”
“What about?” asked Liddy, returning with the coffee.
“Of his poetry,” replied Storm.
“Brontasaurus!” said Cal, putting a card on the table.
“T. rex trumps him!” said Storm triumphantly.
She lifted her mug to take a swig and her sleeve fell down, revealing a vivid and large tattoo in red and black across her forearm. At that moment, Matty somnambulated out of his room for the second time, drawn to the mothership of the hissing fridge.
“What does that say?” he asked, peering over.
“I dunno, it’s Sanskrit for something,” said Storm happily. “But it was twenty years ago when I was living in Bali and I don’t even remember how I got it. I think I was drunk.”
Liddy decided to change the subject. “Have you always lived here, Storm? What do you do?”
“Yes. I was born here. Like Sebastian and our younger brother, Will.” She paused, and Liddy, who excelled at cross-examination, could tell she was about to admit something that she then thought better of. “And . . . I do lots of things, but I told Roberta I’d keep an eye on the place for her while she’s away. To be honest, I’m at a bit of a crossroads. Need thinking time.”
For one moment Liddy thought this might be an invitation to spill deeply personal details and wondered how to convey that she was (a) not the confessional, therapy-loving, neurotic type of New Yorker, and (b) she was not looking for a friend. Fortunately, Storm stood up.
“So I’m off to Dublin now. Anyone fancy a ride?”
Matty opened his mouth, but Liddy interrupted, remembering Sebastian’s e-mail. “We’re fine, thanks.”
She winced as the catarrh in her head began to set like green concrete.
“Do you need anything? How long will you be here?”
“Eight weeks and three days,” said Matty mournfully. “Unless there’s, like, some natural disaster.”
He looked up. The patter of raindrops on the skylights had begun again.
“Does it ever stop raining?” he asked. (Liddy remained silent.)
“This isn’t rain,” said Storm, patiently. “This is what we call a soft day.”
Matty thought for a moment. “Does the lake ever flood?”
Storm ignored this.
“I’m delighted you’re here. It’s a bit of a lonely old station rattling around up there on my own. Come to the house for tea. Three o’clock. I’ll show you round the place.” She looked at Cal. “You can feed the chickens.” Then at Matty. “There’s a pool table in the stables and a trampoline out the back, young man.” Then she turned to Liddy. “And you can raid Roberta’s medicine cabinet and see some really embarrassing photographs of Sebastian when he was a baby.”
“I don’t like pool,” said Matty.
“Oh, give your mother a break,” said Storm, heading toward the door. (Because she was not his parent, she had reached the limits of what she could ignore.)
“Okay,” he replied. “Sorry, Mom.”
Liddy nodded. She decided to relax into the comfort of her illness, which though unpleasant physically, was actually preferable to the mental anguish of the previous night. She liked the sound of the onsite children’s activities. And she was curious to visit the big house, which was tantalizingly out of sight, and walk the Stackallan ancestral lands in order to understand what all the “home and history” fuss was about. She followed Storm outside into the intermittent drizzle to see a large scruffy dog sitting in the aged Land Rover parked outside.
Suddenly she heard the sound of music, distant but recognizable, and she turned. It could only be coming from a house on the far side of the lake.
“It’s amazing how the sound travels over the water,” said Liddy, but there was something in Storm’s expression that made her pause. She noticed the muscular shape of Storm’s arms and knew Storm had been the woman on the paddleboard the previous night.
Storm must have heard her sobbing.
“I’ve had some ups and downs recently,” Liddy said, which was as far by way of explanation as she wanted to go.
Storm nodded. “Join the club,” she said.
She clambered into the vehicle and, after reversing into a ditch, revved the engine so hard it screeched in pain and belched blue smoke over the rosebushes, then roared off onto the main road at about seventy miles an hour.
Liddy looked around. In the distance white sheep dotted the green pastures and two glossy-coated horses whinnied and cantered around the neighboring field.
The boys came outside looking for her.
“I’m hungry,” said Cal.
“I’m bored,” said Matty.
Liddy opened her mouth to retort, but wisely decided she had better get used to those two statements, as they were likely to reverberate constantly for the next eight weeks and three days, like the buzzing of the wasps on the coconut-scented yellow flowers of the gorse bushes. And while there was little at that moment Liddy could do about the latter, she dealt with the former straightaway by pouring bowls of cereal and making toast laden with butter, which they ate standing up by the open window. It tasted good. The pain in her throat eased. Then as she realized this was probably the last day she could send the boys back into bed without protest, she did, and they all dozed for another few hours. By one o’clock they were all starving again, and as Matty had already eaten everything that Liddy had not hidden under her bed, it was time to venture out. There seemed to be no way of securing the house to New York City standards, so Liddy stuffed the two thousand euros in cash she had brought into her jacket pocket and hid her camera and laptop in the rusty bucket beside the garage. Then they headed off. They bought sodas and hot dogs from O’Toole’s shop, a note on the counter confirming that it had been PASSED FOR FOOD HYGIENE, and ate them on the jagged rocks that jutted into the lake.
Cal took off his shoes and dipped his toes in the water. Liddy remembered how to skim stones and even Matty was impressed by the one that leapt five times.
At quarter to three, they trudged slowly along the track through the dark wood, keeping their eyes down to watch for sheep and deer droppings, and trying to ignore the rapid scuttlings and strange rustlings in the undergrowth around them. Then, from deep within an ancient oak tree, a white-faced barn owl flew across their path, its great wings flapping in front of their noses, causing Liddy to shriek with fear and the boys to shriek with excitement. Thankfully, just as Liddy was beginning to feel she was trapped in a live
-action nature special, they emerged from the tunnel of the dense overhanging branches.
There, right in front of them, was the house called Stackallan Demesne.
Liddy involuntarily raised her hand to her mouth. The darkened sky and the gray clouds gave the scene before her the appearance of a black-and-white daguerreotype.
The image would be called Ruined House with Donkey in the Doorway.
“What a dump!” said Matty contemptuously. “I’m not going in there—it looks dangerous!”
Only the external structure of the old house remained: the square gray-stoned shape of a small Georgian manor, two Ionic pillars on either side of the empty doorway. The window frames were empty too, and Liddy could see straight through to the mountains beyond. And while a shiny new roof had recently been put on, the only inhabitants were the couple of tame donkeys, who cheerfully munched grass in what had once been the hallway.
Liddy took Cal’s hand and approached. They walked together up the stone steps and peered inside. In front of them were the charred remains of what had once been a magnificent curved staircase with individually carved railings. The walls of the great rooms to the right and left were a palimpsest of peeling wallpaper, moss, and huge streaks of black soot. All that remained of the furniture were the two crystal chandeliers hanging, miraculously unscathed, in their plaster rosettes in the center of the two ceilings.
“Hey! Liddy!”
Liddy turned to see Storm waving enthusiastically from the doorway of what might most kindly be described as an inelegant prefabricated bungalow, sitting beside the tumbledown stables to the right of the property.
“Kettle’s on,” she hollered, and they all came over.
Storm was smiling as she saw the expression on Liddy’s face.
“I know, I know,” she said. “Everyone thinks it’s gonna be like Downton Abbey!”
(Liddy, who had most definitely thought this, tried to look more nonchalant.)
“When did it happen? Is it a . . . historical thing?” asked Liddy.
“You mean were we burned out by the Fenians?” said Storm, laughing. “Not at all! We’re Catholics. We’ve been on this land since 1758, and swapped sides a few times to keep it. No, it was New Year’s Eve eight years ago. Roberta left her curling iron plugged in and sent the whole place up in flames. Sebastian was staying, thank goodness, and he saved her, but he couldn’t save the house. She lost most of her stuff, lots of inherited family things, and she hadn’t ever increased the insurance so the roof is all it would pay for. All in all a Stackallan-style family disaster!”
They walked into the cramped hallway, only to be greeted by the pungent smell of pets and mothballs. An arthritic cat crawled toward Liddy and scraped her bony body against Liddy’s ankles, purring.
“It was an awful time,” continued Storm. “Mummy was in a desperate state, but then she got in touch with her witchy powers and became a druid. We had to call her Daffodil for two years.”
Liddy snorted with laughter, but Storm looked serious, and so Liddy turned it into a cough.
“I know it sounds mad, but it saved her, to be honest. She did find some peace in the rituals, and it helped her to be close to nature and reconnect with the land.” Storm picked the cat up and put it out the window. It screeched in protest as it jumped down onto an aged barrel. “Sebastian was shaken up for a long time too. We reckon he had that PTSD and that’s why he married that ghastly woman. But now I think he loves the old place more than ever. He’s always had a weakness for lost causes.”
Liddy took this personally. She wiped the snot from her nose and stood up a bit straighter and attempted to do a better impersonation of herself, but then she looked around and gave up. The bungalow was like a junk shop; furniture was piled high in corners, and on every available piece of wall space hung an eclectic jumble of pictures, photographs, and books. Matty and Cal were dumbfounded. Liddy felt depressed.
“Boys, what are you staring at? In you come,” called Storm. “The kitchen’s down here. I made a cake.”
“This place is very messy,” said Cal.
That’s my boy, thought Liddy.
“Nonsense,” retorted Storm. “Every home needs some mess. A forgotten nook you can bring your book and no one will find you.”
In the small, cozy kitchen Storm had rescued a collection of Sebastian’s board games, their crumbling boxes clearly dating from his youth. Storm cheerfully told them that she had retrieved them from his secret hiding place. As a child Sebastian had been very particular about who played with his toys, so all the pieces were intact. Cal picked up a box of dominos and started to line them up on the wooden table like a long, wind-y snake. Matty went to the window and, seeing a basketball and hoop in the courtyard, took the proffered slice of sponge cake from Storm and headed out to play.
Storm handed Liddy a cup of lemon and ginger tea. She retrieved a bottle of whiskey from behind the breadbasket and poured a good slug into it.
“Kill or cure!” she said happily. “That’s what the house used to look like.” She pointed to a faded photograph propped up on the dresser that showed a striking young woman and her three small children, all wearing floppy hats and flares, standing on the stone steps in the sunshine. Wisteria and ivy crawled up the facade of the picturesque building behind them; a menagerie of pets sunbathed in the driveway. It was like a home in an old-fashioned children’s storybook, or maybe a dream. Liddy stared at it.
“Is that Sebastian in the middle?” she asked.
Storm nodded. “Yes. That’s me, obviously, and that’s our little brother, Will.”
Sebastian held a pet tortoise with pride. At ten years old, he had the same measured, slightly amused gaze as in his forties.
“Sebastian hasn’t changed much, has he?” said Storm. “Mummy says he’s always had this amazing sense of self. He’s not always easy, but he’s good and he’s loyal. I just wish . . .” She trailed off for a moment before continuing. “I wish he smiled more. He never smiles anymore. How long have you been friends?”
Liddy thought about the “lost causes” comment again. “To be honest, Storm, we’re colleagues. I had a . . . difficult episode and I think he felt sorry for me. I don’t know if we are friends.”
“Well, he’s very particular about who he lets stay in his house, so you must be something,” said Storm stoutly.
Liddy smiled. “You all seem very happy,” she said, looking at the photograph again.
“We were,” said Storm. “I mean you couldn’t call it a conventional upbringing. The three of us have different fathers, not one of whom stuck around, and we have four stepbrothers too. Dear Gordon, the stepboys’ dad, died suddenly of a heart attack in the conservatory, and we were broke whenever Roberta was between husbands, but . . . it was okay. Good shot, Matty!”
Liddy gulped at the amount of trauma and tragedy this sentence encompassed, but Storm did not seem to notice. In the courtyard Matty pumped his arms and ran to the window.
“Will one of you play with me?”
“Not now,” said Storm. “But tomorrow I’m gonna whoop your ass!” She poured more hot water into Liddy’s mug. “You look bloody awful to me, Liddy. Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Without waiting for a reply, she pressed play on the stereo, walked over to the sink, and started peeling potatoes. “Tomorrow we’ll find these boys a soccer camp, go shopping, and I’ll show you the local sights,” she continued, and when Train came on she began dancing wildly to “Drive By” and Cal danced around too.
So this is how it feels to have a wife, thought Liddy, gratefully sipping her tea. Storm was as kind a person as her brother, and it appeared they were to be friends (whether Liddy liked it or not).
And so Liddy James discovered what most parents do when on vacation. She became a chauffeur and cook and watcher of children’s movies, and was asleep by nine o’clock every night. For “Liddy time”
she would sit in the nearby Laundromat, reading dog-eared gossip magazines and watching the clothes go round and round in the dryer. Of course, she attempted a to-do list of self-improving activities—learn to conjugate Irish verbs! knit Celtic cable sweater! read Ulysses!—but she quickly abandoned it and decided that if she could dye her own hair with a drugstore kit and get rid of the cluster of stubborn plantar warts that nestled on her right heel, that would be enough. Then Storm opened up the garage and they found old surf gear and guitars and three bicycles. After a shaky and comical start where Liddy fell off her bike four times and was treated to a hearty rendition of a new song by Matty and Cal (with the rhyming scheme of “ass” hitting the “grass”), most nights she allowed them to chase her in the rain, laughing, up and down the driveway. The soft days turned into soft weeks, until, to her amazement, Liddy awoke one morning at the end of July to see that the sun was streaming through the window. The light made the room look shiny and new. She decided that she would agree to Storm’s suggestion that they spend the day surfing on the beach at Brittas Bay, something she had been avoiding.
She had not been near surf, sand, or sea since Cal’s conception.
She flipped pancakes and chivied everyone into their swim gear and soon they were lying on the wide sandy beach under stripy umbrellas. At a little distance, a glamorous German Frau and her two deeply tanned teenage daughters sunbathed in small bikini tops. Matty sat nearby, his wetsuit rolled down over his skinny white torso, rigid in a state of amorous confusion. He did not know which one to pretend was his girlfriend.
Two teenage lifeguards in red shorts were grinding flags into the sand to demarcate the swimming area and telling anyone who passed them to beware of the riptides farther along. Cal was digging a big hole with a plastic spade and Storm, resplendent in one of Roberta’s caftans, had decorated its perimeter with pebbles and driftwood. With great satisfaction Liddy glanced at her watch; all this by ten thirty in the morning.
Around them, the beach was filling with other families, staking their claim to an area with soggy towels and plastic buckets; Liddy made a mental note that they must always get there early to guarantee a superior position. Suddenly Storm’s mobile phone rang and, startled, she scampered off toward the dunes to talk.
The Real Liddy James Page 21