But instead of laughing at her burst of temper, or getting annoyed himself in return, he just settled himself down on the green hill beside her, his arms clasped around his faded jeans, and stared out over the endless orange-lilac sweep of bog, saying nothing at all.
Aoife sat grumpily beside him until her irritation subsided. After few minutes she even started to feel bad about having snapped at him. He’d only been saying something to comfort her – that any fool can make mistakes about what they see. She lowered her head and examined the rabbit, and stroked its well-chewed ears. It had been well-loved once, before it had been forgotten. The toy looked back at her with small dark eyes, the black plastic scuffed with rough patches like the pale cataracts of old age. She sighed and shoved the rabbit into the pocket of her hoodie. Some child had loved it once. It seemed wrong to leave it outside, lonely and cold in the rain.
Shay said, ‘I was out helping my father with the lambs, and a little girl came walking towards me along the cliff top, out of the early mist. She was even younger than me, not even old enough for school, and she was wearing a little red shawl, the way they used to on the islands. When she saw me, she seemed to get a big fright and turned and ran off again. I would have chased after her, but for my dad stopped me.’ His voice softened when he spoke of Eamonn Foley. ‘He said I should never, ever follow a sheóg. He said they liked to lure human children out across the bog to drown, to keep them company as ghosts.’
Aoife suggested softly, ‘Maybe he was telling you a story to stop you running off on him.’
‘No, he really believed it. A young woman disappeared out of the next valley soon after, and everyone said she’d run off with a travelling man, but my father said the sheóg had fetched her away.’ Shay raised his dark green eyes and looked straight at her.
She looked straight back at him, saying nothing. She was remembering mad John McCarthy in the graveyard, and how he’d said Eamonn Foley was convinced his wife was a lenanshee.
The softness went out of Shay’s face, like he knew full well what she was thinking. He turned his face away. ‘Sure, my father believed in a lot of things.’
Instantly Aoife felt terrible. Shay Foley never spoke to anyone about anything, and now here he was opening up to her about his father, and she had just stared blankly at him like he was talking nonsense. She said quickly, putting her hand on his arm, ‘Your father was an artist, wasn’t he?’
He glanced at her in surprise, and his expression softened again. ‘Where did you hear that? I didn’t think anyone remembered that.’
‘They do, of course. Is that where you get your own talent from?’
‘My . . .? Oh . . .’ He became suddenly self-conscious, more his old withdrawn self. ‘No, that’s nothing. I’m no good, not compared to him.’
‘You are – the drawing of the dog was brilliant.’
He shook his head, flushing slightly across his cheekbones. ‘Seriously, he was a real artist. Other people thought so too, people who knew, but he never would sell to them. After he died some Galway fellow auctioned his paintings for us, and they went for a good amount. I didn’t want to part with them but my brother needed the money to get the farm going again.’
It came to the tip of her tongue to say I’m sorry for your troubles like everyone said at funerals. But it seemed stupid and pointless, so long after the fact. Instead, she said, ‘What sort of thing did he paint?’
Shay hesitated. ‘Portraits.’
She nearly asked of who, but John McCarthy’s voice piped up just in time: Painting and painting her portrait over and over again. Eamonn Foley painted his wife, nobody else. ‘Did you not keep any of his paintings?’
‘Just one. A small one. I have it in my room.’ His eyes were bright. On impulse, Aoife took his hand; he didn’t pull it away. His palm was hard – a typical farm boy’s hand. He ran his thumb absently over the back of hers. A surprisingly intimate gesture for the boy who usually kept his distance from everyone.
In the silence between them, two lines passed through Aoife’s head:
Her body lies beneath the sea
But in my room she watches me.
She shivered, and Shay looked worried and disengaged his hand as if it might be the touch of him that bothered her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine – just the breeze is a bit cold. I guess you need to get on to Clonbarra.’
He checked his phone. ‘Bit late for the mart now.’
‘Is it? Oh God, I’m sorry . . .’
‘No bother – live chickens don’t go off.’
So there was still no room for the bike in Shay’s car, and Aoife ended up having to push it home after all. That evening, she lay on her bed and had a long conversation with Carla about the amazingness of Killian, who had actually texted Carla to ask how she was.
‘Wasn’t that lovely of him?’
‘Yeah, really nice.’
‘I said I was fine and I’d see him in school tomorrow.’
‘That’s great, well done.’
Carla said suddenly, ‘Aoife, are you all right? Has something happened?’
Aoife flopped over onto her back, stared up at Lady Gaga. ‘Mm. A couple of things.’
‘Well, like what?’
‘I ruined my tyres.’
‘Ugh, bad luck – those potholes in your lane are getting ridiculous.’
That’s what it was! Two days in a row she had ridden right over the growing potholes instead of going round them. No wondered she’d ruined her wheels – nothing strange was happening to her. She said more cheerfully, ‘And I saw Shay Foley. You won’t believe this, but he was driving.’
‘Are you serious? He’s only fifteen!’
‘Nearly sixteen.’
‘So? He’s not allowed till he’s seventeen. I suppose that comes of having no parents.’
‘Yeah, it’s so sad for him.’
‘No, I mean it’s kind of cool not being told what to do all the time. That must be why he’s so independent. I get forced to not even have visitors because I have a stupid cold, and he gets to drive around the countryside in a car. Where was he when you saw him?’
‘On the Clonbarra road.’
‘The main road! Are you sure it was him?’
‘He stopped to talk to me.’
‘No way! What’s he like when he actually opens his mouth?’
‘Nice.’
‘Serious or funny?’
‘Serious. Funny. Both.’
‘And gorgeous! Did he ask you out?’
‘No! He was just being friendly. We drove around for a bit.’
‘Oh my God! He wants to ask you out!’
‘Give over, Carla. We had a conversation, that’s all.’
‘So? I’ve never even had a conversation with Killian.’
‘Ah, come on. You must have talked to him about something on the bus.’
‘Not really. To be honest, I think that’s where everyone else has gone wrong with him – he’s not really one for conversation. It kind of tires him out.’
Shay Foley’s first words to Aoife: Don’t worry about your friend. She’s well able for him, more than you think. Thinking about it, Aoife found it amazing that the quiet, reserved farmer’s son, who had never spoken to her best friend – who never socialized with anyone – still somehow knew that Carla Heffernan was well able for Killian Doherty. While Aoife, who had known Carla almost her whole life, had in this case got her best friend completely wrong.
CHAPTER FIVE
Just as Aoife was pulling on her grey school coat, Carla called her on her mobile and carried on the conversation as if they’d never left off. ‘This is mank – Mam’s keeping me home in bed.’
‘She is?’ Aoife heaved her concrete-heavy school bag onto her shoulders, swapping the phone from one hand to the other. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘I’m so bored and Zoe’s annoying me—’
‘Still, you’re better off in bed if you’re ill.’
‘What are yo
u, my other mammy?’
The front door was standing open and it was pouring, netting the world in silver-grey, flattening the grass. Maeve was waiting in her old Volvo at the gate. Aoife tried to judge whether if she lingered in the hallway for another few seconds the rain would ease off for the time it would take her to reach the car. ‘I’m just off to school now.’
‘Rub it in, why don’t you. Tell everyone “hi” from me.’
Maeve beeped impatiently.
‘Two secs – I’m not hanging up . . .’ Aoife sheltered the mobile under her jacket while she dashed through the rain and threw herself into the Volvo. She got straight back on the phone. ‘Here again.’
Carla said, ‘By everyone, I mean Killian.’
‘I realize that.’
‘Do you think he’s more pretty-boy or more sexy-boy?’
‘My mam’s driving.’
‘I think both. Will you tell him “hi” from me?’
‘Sure.’
‘And don’t let him go off with anyone else till I get out of here.’
‘I won’t.’
‘By anyone, I mean Sinead. She was expecting to go out with him next – it’s why she dumped Darragh.’
‘Carla, I swear on my life I won’t let her lay a finger on him.’
The first lesson was double history. At the lockers Aoife ran into Lois, also late, who checked her up and down with narrowed eyes. ‘God, Aoife, you’re even thinner than you were two days ago. Do you ever eat at all?’
‘Yes . . . no . . . what?’ Aoife was rummaging through the rubbish in the bottom of her school bag. ‘Crap, I’ve forgotten my locker key.’
Lois raised her voice. ‘I dare say it’s just that you feel so guilty about messing up poor Sinead’s birthday and poor Carla being ill. I suppose guilt would make you lose your appetite. You poor thing.’
Yet when Aoife rested her hand on the metal locker, the catch clicked and opened. For a moment she was worried someone had been messing with her stuff, but everything seemed in order – or at least everything was in the exact same total disorder as she had left it. Where were her history books? Right there, as if by magic, neatly on top of the pile.
Lois slammed her own locker shut. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t even give Sinead a present.’
‘Ah Jesus . . .’ It was annoyingly true: the envelope with the ten euros was still on the windowsill in her bedroom, and she’d gone and forgotten it again. She grabbed her books. ‘You’re right, I’ll sort it.’
Pleased with herself at finally getting a proper guilty reaction, Lois said, ‘But don’t imagine that’s going to make up for anything.’
The history class had already started. Mr Vaughan, a thin man with a fierce red comb-over, was writing on the whiteboard. The history room had long fixed desks; the rows near the front were fairly full, growing emptier towards the back. Lois marched up to the front and slid in next to Sinead. Aoife hesitated by the door: no Carla to sit with. Several heads turned towards her, clearly interested to see how she would deal with her first day back in school after making such a show of herself on Saturday. Shay was sitting by himself in the back row, slightly turned away from her towards the window, doodling left-handed on the cover of his copy book, his right hand shielding his face from her view. Lois nudged Sinead and shrieked in a high squeaky voice, ‘Quick, there’s a leprechaun hiding behind that rock! Oh no, it’s a sheep.’
‘Quiet!’ snapped Mr Vaughan, without turning round from the board.
As the laughter died, Shay said loudly without looking up, ‘Quick, there’s a rock. Oh no, it’s Lois’s head.’
‘Quiet!’
Grinning, Aoife slipped into the empty row in front of him, scooting along to sit by the window. Yet when she turned to smile her thanks, Shay had twisted the other way so that he was now facing the door instead of the window, resting his face in his left hand instead of his right. Confused, she turned back to her desk and opened her textbook.
At the front of the room, Lois was still trying to get Sinead’s attention with repeated jabs of her elbow. But her friend was having a whispered conversation with the boy on her other side, smiling up at him from under her lashes. Crap! Carla was right. Sinead was already trying to move in on Killian. Now it was too late for Aoife to go and sit near them herself, and there wasn’t a lot of point in glaring at them from behind. She raised her forefinger and squinted along it, at a point between Killian’s shoulders. In her head, she said, Bang.
Killian jerked, gasped, and spun in his seat. ‘What d’you do that for, ya fool?’
Darragh, sitting at the desk behind him, made a big show of innocence. ‘Wha’? What are you on about? I done nothing!’
‘Don’t give me that – you jabbed me in the back with your biro . . .’
Aoife, grinning, felt oddly powerful – she’d been wanting to annoy Killian, and then it had happened, as if by remote control. Clearly Darragh was feeling the same way as herself – no doubt because Sinead had dumped him only just before the weekend.
‘Settle down!’ Mr Vaughan turned to face the room. ‘Page forty-two, Vikings. Pillage in the village, et cetera. Sinead, before we get to the fun bit, perhaps you can remind us about the arrival of Christianity from last week?’
Sinead wasn’t paying attention to him either, any more than to Lois; she was practically leaning against Killian.
‘Sinead, the arrival of—?’
With an indignant cry, Sinead shot up in her seat, clapping her hand to the back of her neck. The history teacher took a startled hop backwards. Sinead turned vengefully on Darragh. ‘Quit poking me, or I’ll rip you!’
Killian’s cousin threw his hands up in the air. ‘Leave me alone, the two of ye. I’m doing absolutely nothing to either of ye.’
‘Sure you’re not—’
‘Sinead. The arrival of Christianity.’
Aoife hastily locked her hands together on her desk. This time she’d been looking straight at Darragh, sighting along her forefinger over his shoulder at Sinead – and she knew Darragh hadn’t done anything. It was almost as if it had been her that had poked Sinead . . . She glanced back at Shay, to share her puzzlement. But still she couldn’t get him to meet her eyes. His hand was a barrier between them; the frayed cuff of his jumper was pulled up all the way over his knuckles instead of being pushed back to the elbow as it normally was. She could see the tilt of his jaw and the curve of his mouth no more.
Disappointed, she turned back to her book, riffling through it for page forty-two. Despite what she’d said to Carla about Shay only meaning to be friendly, she had kind of wondered – that time on the hill, when he had caught her and pulled her down and his mouth so close to hers – she had kind of hoped . . .
I dream of this:
Under the hawthorns he raises me with a kiss.
Maybe he had only wanted someone to talk to for a while, about his childhood. Maybe she’d just been around at the right time, when he’d needed company. Maybe he now regretted opening even that small window into his soul.
Several feet above her head, a bee was hitting off the high window, trying again and again to take the obvious way out. Aoife knew how it felt. It would be so good to fly out of this concrete box of a classroom and run for miles and miles, all by herself, up into the damp and lonely bog.
Mr Vaughan said, ‘All right, Darragh, perhaps you can tell us why the Vikings came to the west of Ireland.’
‘God only knows, sir.’
‘Darragh!’ Mr Vaughan scowled down the room-wide shout of amusement. ‘Serious answer.’
‘I am being serious. Why would anyone come here? I mean, there’s no gold or decent women, just rain and sheep.’
Sinead said, ‘Don’t pretend you don’t prefer sheep.’
‘Page forty-two!’
The buzzing above Aoife’s head was becoming demented, rising even above the laughter. The bee had one wing caught in a strand of web, and was spinning and tugging on it like a balloon in the wind. A spider
with a red back abseiled down the strand and sank its teeth into the bee’s fur. As soon as its victim stopped vibrating, the spider wove a grey shroud around it, then hung it, paralysed but alive, from the topmost corner of the window, three metres above the ground. Never to fly again.
As soon as the bell went for first break, Shay stood up abruptly and left. All Aoife saw of him was the back of him disappearing out of the door. She gathered her books together slowly, letting everyone else leave before her. He had gone back to his old silent self, and she had her pride – she didn’t want him to imagine she was following him.
A heavy squall of rain rattled the high window. Far above, the shrouded bee dangled, a grey bead on a string; the spider sat waiting. A very tall but flimsy set of shelves stood against the wall. Could she? No, she’d pull the bookcase down. I’m feather-light . . . Aoife glanced around to make sure she was alone in the room, then ran up the bookcase, leaned across to pluck the bee’s body from the web, and sprang from the top shelf to the floor, landing with her knees bent and her heart pounding with shock and exhilaration. When did she get to be able to do such things? She’d never been unfit, but this was like being an Olympic gymnast.
She’d think about it later. Right now, she had to rescue the living creature from its shroud. There was a loose end of thread hanging from the pointed end. She pinched it between her fingertips and pulled. The sticky thread started to unwind. She pulled some more. The bee spun round and round on her palm like a cotton reel being unwound.
‘Aoife?’
She glanced up sharply, closing her hand over the bee. Sinead had come back in and was sidling towards her between the desks. ‘Aoife, there’s no need to hide away from the rest of us just because of what happened on my birthday.’
‘Thanks, I’m not hiding, I was just doing something.’
‘Because it’s OK. Lois says you’re feeling really guilty about ruining the trip for everyone, but I just want you to know I forgive you. I mean, you must feel bad enough about Carla ending up with the flu . . .’
A peculiar tingling sensation rushed into Aoife’s fingers, like lemon juice had been squirted into her veins. She said, ‘If you’re feeling sorry for Carla, maybe you should quit trying to steal her boyfriend.’
The Changeling Page 5