by Lisa Ryan
‘We had a feeling we should come.’ Leaf leans closer to Rainbow, and she nods vigorously. ‘Rainbow pulled a tarot card for you. The Chariot. You’re starting a new phase of your life across the water, by the power of your will.’
Astarte pales. She gulps down the rest of her wine and refills her glass. Her parent’s drinks are untouched, but Leaf settles back against the cushions and begins to roll a joint. To give herself time to recover, Astarte goes into the kitchen, roots out an ashtray, and places them on the low table in front of Rainbow of Leaf. She sits down, feeling shaky. Rainbow’s preoccupation with divination is something that she has always scorned, but she has to admit that her mother has put her finger on some mysterious pulse, and read it accurately.
Leaf lights the joint and inhales, holding the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible before allowing wisps to escape from his nostrils. As he and Rainbow smoke and take tiny sips of wine, Astarte, eyes dancing, describes her land and the ruined cottage, the lake, the people she has met, though she omits Eden from the tale. They have never seen her so excited, nor experienced such an outpouring of words from their sullen daughter, and their eyes shine with delight.
Another bottle of wine is opened. Astarte’s speech becomes fuzzy around the edges, but that matters little to Rainbow and Leaf, who are floating in a sea of wellbeing.
‘You’re going back to the land,’ Leaf observes, rolling another joint.
‘To your roots,’ Rainbow whispers.
Though mellowed by recent events and the wine, Astarte bristles automatically. ‘I’m not living your way of life,’ she snaps. ‘This is different.’
Rainbow leans forward, her hand outstretched as though to touch Astarte’s arm, but she withdraws it when she sees her daughter’s hostile expression. ‘That wasn’t what we meant,’ she says gently. ‘Your great-grandmother was Irish. I think she came from somewhere near Galway. You’re going back to your roots.’
As Astarte has not heard mention of her great-grandmother before this evening, Rainbow’s words ricochet through her. She sits gazing in disbelief at her parents, who always seem more like children than adults, and realises that she can take in no more information. Suddenly she feels exhausted. Her eyes sting from the smoke in the room, and she stands up and declares that her bed is calling. Despite Rainbow and Leaf’s protests that they would rather sleep in their tepee in the back garden, she insists that they take the room that was hers before Steve sullied it with Marianne. Waving off their protests, she scales the stairs that seem steeper than usual, and totters into the guest room.
She lies in the narrow single bed, feeling the room spin slowly around and listening to her parents find their way into her old bedroom. This is a day of surprises, she muses; too many to absorb at the moment. The race to Eden’s home, the news of her ancestry, the knowledge that for the first time since she formed an intelligible word there have been no arguments between herself and her parents. And never since her birth have they slept beneath a roof other than canvas or a canopy of branches.
The world is a mysterious place, she thinks. The world is changing. I’m changing.
A shiver runs through her as Rainbow, next door in the bathroom, starts to sing to herself. ‘She changes everything she touches. And everything she touches changes.’ It is an old Goddess song, remembered from many campfires. This is weird, thinks Astarte almost fearfully. Her mother seems to have a direct line into her mind today. It is unsettling.
Confused, she closes her eyes and shifts position, ignoring the dots that spiral around behind her eyelids. The soft pillow moulds itself around her head and she sinks gratefully into its cushiony presence. Within seconds sleep has overtaken her.
Chapter Twenty-two
Astarte wakes feeling confused and lies still for a while, waiting for the fog in her brain to clear. She can hear movement in the house. For a few seconds the past weeks seem like a dream, and she is convinced that Steve is downstairs making breakfast. Her mouth waters in anticipation until she rolls over and registers the narrow single bed. Full wakefulness takes over and she rises, throws on her silky peach-coloured robe, and goes into the bathroom to splash cold water over her face. Her stomach growls with hunger and she realises guiltily that she did not offer her parents a meal last night. A swift mental inventory of her food stocks assuages her discomfort. Rainbow and Leaf would be horrified at packs of frozen ready meals.
Her parents are in the kitchen. Clouds of incense billow upwards from one of the work surfaces, mingling with the drifting cardamom fragrance of Chai tea. Rainbow pours some into a mug and hands it to her as she gingerly sits at the table. Astarte sips gratefully and wonders what to do about breakfast.
Throughout her childhood they insistently proclaimed the benefits of eating raw foods, asserting that cooking destroyed the goodness, the vitamins, and the life-force, and created bad karma. Astarte can remember crying over a carrot at the age of three, when Rainbow told her that by eating it she was taking its life into her body. She fasted all that day, hating the thought that she was killing something. The best meal in her parent’s opinion, firmly and repeatedly voiced, was freshly gathered from hedgerows and orchards. There are none of those around here, but she could go to the corner shop for bread and honey, or buy some fruit and dried muesli.
She casts her mind back to the last time they visited, two years ago. It was a brief, tense collision of cultures. They had offered Steve a toke on their joint, and assured him that he had been Astarte’s son in a previous life. This did not go down well with him. Astarte now suppresses a smirk at how angry he had been, but at the time she was mortified and furious and had asked them to leave. She looks at them now, sitting side by side, as always, trading tender glances at each other, and feels a pricking behind her eyelids. However much they irritate her, they have always been happy together.
A procession of images parades through Astarte’s mind; of herself as a child, constantly chastising them, insisting that she could parent herself more effectively than they ever could. It makes her feel small and mean, and she blanks it out instantly. ‘Did you sleep well?’ she asks. They exchange a look.
‘Well,’ Rainbow’s soft voice is hesitant. ‘We couldn’t sleep. Your house is very nice, Astarte,’ she adds quickly, ‘and the bed is very comfortable. But it felt so closed in that we decided to go and sleep in the garden.’
Astarte rises to look out of the back window. The garden is empty of all but grass and flowers. ‘So where’s your tepee?’ she asks.
Leaf’s traces a finger along the tabletop, not looking at her. ‘We just slept on the grass,’ he mumbles.
‘I don’t believe it! Oh my God, the neighbours probably thought you were vagrants. I’m amazed the police haven’t been here …’ Astarte stops, silenced by the contrite looks on their faces. ‘Look, it’s fine.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Honestly. If you’d rather sleep on damp grass and risk pneumonia, that’s entirely up to you.’ Despite her irritation she can’t help grinning as she pours out more Chai. ‘You two really take the biscuit. The whole bloody bakery, in fact.’
The house seems quiet and empty after they have left. A thick haze of smoke creates blue-grey bands in the air, and Astarte throws all of the windows open to let in the scent of summer flowers. Their fragrance is overlaid with the olfactory signature of the city. Smoke, car fumes, cooking aromas; the distinctive, pervasive smell that signals many people living in small, closed spaces, boxed together. Astarte considers how long she has lived on this street, and realises that the only person she knows by name is Mrs Hargreaves next door.
What strange lives we lead, cut off from each other and from the natural world, she thinks. How many of her neighbours have watched swans fly overhead, and heard the night scuttlings of wild creatures? Astarte knows that the city can be the loneliest place of all, and she holds an image in her mind of the cottage and the lake that will soon be her home. Warmth spreads through her at the prospect of becoming part of a community, and this le
ads her thoughts back towards Rainbow and Leaf, and the group of people they have travelled with for many years. Her parents have friends in every corner of the world, and it suddenly strikes her how happy they are with their lives, and how little they want or need; fuel for their van, a bush to plunder, a clear view of the sky.
Astarte is quite rattled to find herself viewing Rainbow and Leaf from a different perspective. For once she doesn’t feel frustrated or angry. To inject some realism she reminds herself of her childhood. Of her constant horror at the lack of personal hygiene; the infestations of head lice that tormented and humiliated her; the drugs; the lack of roots; the yearning to be like the people who lived in houses and went to school, and who despised her for being a traveller.
It makes her feel better to create a balance, to not get carried away by a momentary lapse of good sense. She can place this new-found tolerance (which after all, is similar to finding someone’s kitten rather sweet, but not wanting to have a cat) on one side of a set of mental scales, then pile up her age-old resentments on the other side and watch the scales tip and sink. Astarte Weaver may be feeling a little unsettled and confused, but she has no intention of allowing that to cloud her judgement.
The telephone rings. As she answers it, Astarte notices that the answer-phone is winking. Six messages. It is David Horton, the estate agent.
‘I’ve been trying to reach you for two days,’ he says. ‘Did you get my messages?’
‘I’ve been away. I thought I’d told you I would be in Ireland.’ Astarte puts on her most assertive voice. She doesn’t like being placed in the wrong, and the man sounds quite aggrieved. ‘I’ve only just noticed there are messages.’
‘Oh.’ He sounds less confrontational. ‘Well, Miss Weaver, I have a buyer for your house.’
Astarte sits down quickly before her legs can buckle under her. ‘Already?’ she squeaks.
‘It’s a very desirable residence.’ His tone really is quite pompous, and Astarte suppresses the urge to giggle. To her, a pile of stones (formerly a cottage, and awaiting its next incarnation) is desirable. This house, that she was once so proud of, no longer fits that description as far as she is concerned. She can’t wait to leave here. But David Horton would consider her to be crazy if she said so.
Astarte realises that she has tuned him out, and asks him to repeat his last sentence, making the excuse that she was so surprised by his speed and efficiency that she missed what he was saying. He preens audibly.
When she replaces the receiver she stands still for a moment and then leaps into the air, both fists raised in triumph. She picks up the phone, automatically beginning to dial Marianne’s number, then realises what she is doing and drops the receiver as if it has burned her fingers. She has good news, and not one friend here to share it with. Briefly she feels sad, and then she grits her teeth, fishes out her address book and dials the number for John and Siobhan in County Clare. She can hardly believe that her life has changed so swiftly.
Rainbow, of course, would say that it is fate; that the universe in its awesome benevolence has conspired to bring her just what she most desires.
Chapter Twenty-three
Jamie is convinced that he will never sleep again. Each night he tosses and turns until the bedsprings ping in protest and he rises to slip out of the window and return to the lake, running through the trees, not stopping until the water stretches silver across his path. His feet have created tracks that small creatures now avoid. The scent of man newly emerged from boyhood singes their nostrils and sends them fleeing for other, quieter trails. Sometimes Eden is there, his presence spelled out by the hieroglyphics of rising smoke above the red glow of his cigarette. For both of them this place has become a sanctuary, and Jamie’s spirits lift when he divines Eden’s presence. They speak little but the company is reassuring.
And day after day he wanders past Mairie Hennessy’s gate, but Sinead seems to have vanished. Mairie is sometimes there, pulling up weeds or harvesting herbs and vegetables, and she always calls a greeting but Jamie never stops. He waves and gives a lopsided smile and walks on.
Siobhan is worried about him. She notes his newly jutting cheekbones and smudged eyes and adds more green vegetables to the meals that lie untouched until the compost heap swallows them. She offers to take him to the new young doctor in Ennis for blood tests to discover whether he is anaemic, but Jamie irritably shrugs off her concern and retreats to his room or slams out of the back door to disappear for unaccounted hours. When John is coerced into action he suggests a fishing trip, hoping for a man to man talk, and Jamie goes with him, displaying no enthusiasm, and sits staring blindly at the water. When a fish takes the bait he doesn’t even notice until the water churns and his line snaps and vanishes. Sighing, John gives up and rows to the shore. He places an arm lightly on his son’s shoulder as they walk home, but Jamie’s back is rigid and John drops his hand and casts his mind back to the seething hormones of his own youth. Glumly he comes to the conclusion that the lad will grow out of it if left in peace.
Jamie’s feet seem to have a mind of their own nowadays. They lead him past the Hennessy’s several times a day, and he looks across hopefully each time, his heart lifting in anticipation before it plummets at the sight of the empty garden. He spends most of his time alone, avoiding Bran and their friends, telling everyone that he is busy.
And suddenly there she is, strolling loose-limbed towards him down the lane. Her hair shimmers in the sunlight, swinging in rhythm with her walk, and when she sees him she stumbles on a stone on the path and throws out her arms to keep from falling. Jamie fights an urge to rush forward. His cheeks flame as he searches her face for signs of welcome or rejection. As they draw level with each other she smiles shyly and he stops.
‘How are you, Jamie?’ she asks. A thrill brings gooseflesh to his arms at the sound of his name on her lips. He opens his mouth, intending to say that he is fine, but his treacherous voice takes the words and changes them.
‘I’ve missed you.’
She colours and he wants to flee. He’s appalled at himself and goes to push past her but she puts out a hand and touches his arm.
‘Walk with me.’ Her voice is soft.
As they move through the trees, almost but not quite touching, Jamie racks his brains for something intelligent to say. He longs to impress her with his wit, to make her laugh, to say anything that will dispel the silence that hangs awkwardly between them like a heavy curtain. They both pretend to be engrossed in the path, searching it with their eyes as if it contains hidden treasure, or clues as to how to break the tension. Occasionally their eyes meet and Jamie tries to hold her gaze, to stop just where they are so that he can drown in the grey sea of her irises. But each time her eyes flick away. As they approach the lake he begins to reach out his hand to take hers, but a bird suddenly flutters from a tree and they both startle. The moment is lost.
It puzzles him that they have known each other since childhood and now she is a mysterious stranger. He can remember her coming to live with Mairie; a small, thin scrap of humanity with wide, sad eyes that had touched him deeply. He had overheard his parents talking about the tragedy, and had gone with Siobhan to take a handmade card and some cake and colouring crayons when Sinead came out of hospital. Once, when she was four and he five years old and they played together often, she had shown him the scars on her stomach and he had been vastly impressed that anyone who had been stitched together like a patchwork quilt could still climb trees and run faster than he could. He had made her a daisy chain that day, and crowned her with it. Jamie wishes they could be as relaxed together now.
They reach the boggy ground at the edge of the lake, and stand at the border of bulrushes that mark the transition of mud to water. The deep croaking of a nearby frog provides a bass line to the soprano of the birds flitting noisily above them, and a glimpse of white across the lake announces the presence of the swans. Jamie’s trainers are taking in water and he can feel cold slime seeping between his to
es. He shivers and gathers his courage enough to take her hand and lead her to his special corner amongst the trees. Her hand is cool and soft, unresisting, the bones delicately delineated beneath his questing fingers, and she moves easily beside him, her hair sliding over her face so that he cannot gauge her thoughts.
After all the fantasies and tormented nights Jamie suddenly feels fully alive, bursting with the desire to be the man who is chipping away inside him striving to escape. He wants to shed boyhood like a snakeskin, to wriggle out, fresh and revitalised, to surprise the girl beside him with his maturity. He draws her down to sit beside him and raises his free hand to brush back the silken net of hair from her face. Hazel and grey eyes meet, and Sinead’s lips curve in a smile.
‘So, Jamie Langford, are you after telling me that you have a mind to be my man?’ Her voice is light, amused, but her eyes hold his as if challenging him.
He looks down at the hand that fits so neatly into his own, and strokes his thumb gently along the curl of her fingers, then raises his eyes to meet hers once more.
‘Sinead Hennessy, will you be my girl?’ His voice, long broken, cracks and squeaks and he inwardly curses his nervousness. She doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes are fixed on his, green lights dancing amongst the grey. She carefully raises her free hand and strokes his cheek with light, feathery movements. Her fingers rub the goatee beard that he has nurtured so carefully all this year.
‘I’ve always wondered what a beard feels like,’ she muses. ‘It’s not as coarse as I thought it would be. You have swansdown on your chin, Jamie Langford.’ She tweaks a strand teasingly and he grabs at her hand and misses as she raises it. Sinead pushes at his chest playfully and he falls over onto his back.
‘Bejaysus, woman, you’re stronger than you look,’ he teases, and she giggles and lies on her stomach beside him, resting her chin on her hands. Jamie’s arm shoots out and knocks her forearms, sending her off-balance. ‘And you’ve not answered my question.’