by Lisa Ryan
‘And what question would that be?’ She looks at him innocently. Jamie feels fear grasp his insides. Perhaps she is just teasing him, and will go and tell her girlfriends that she has made a conquest. He looks away across the lake, his face set. Sinead rolls closer and strokes his forearm. ‘Ah, you mean the man-woman question. Well, the answer is yes, but you must promise not to break my heart.’
Jamie turns and lays a hand on her shoulder, certain that his touch will leave burn marks on her cool flesh. He can feel himself melting under her gaze; he knows that if a heart is to be broken it will be his own, for she has experienced more pain and loss in her life than anyone he has known. ‘I promise,’ he whispers, and leans closer until his lips meet hers.
This time she does not flee, but curves her hand around the back of his neck until he feels that he will melt into her. The kiss is inexpert. They’re not sure what to do with their parted lips, and their teeth clink together, making them both laugh nervously as they surface for air. Jamie pulls her down on top of him, burying his face in the hair that falls in a cascade of red-gold over him. Her neck smells of strawberries, and he presses his lips to it until she squirms and giggles and rolls off him to tuck herself beneath his arm and stretch out, fusing the length of her body to his.
When the sun goes down and the birds take to the trees for the night they rise and tenderly brush grass and twigs from each other’s hair and clothes. Jamie walks her home, his arm around her shoulders, savouring the sensation of her hand at his waist. They chatter as they did when they were children, breaking free occasionally to play tag around the trees.
At the gate they kiss goodbye, and Jamie watches her as she runs along the path to the cottage and swivels to wave before vanishing through the door. He turns homewards, stepping slowly to prolong the day, replaying each moment over and over in his mind, committing it to memory. He knows that this afternoon will live forever; that it will be the defining glow that will light up his adult life.
Siobhan has been fretting for an hour, imagining that something terrible has happened. She jumps at every small sound, listening for Jamie’s footsteps. She wonders where her peaceful, cheerful son has disappeared to lately, leaving a surly young man to take his place. John has retreated to the permatunnel, murmuring about plants needing re-potting, but Siobhan knows that really he is escaping from the atmosphere. Just a few weeks ago she considered her family to be the happiest she has known; open and easy-going, infused with laughter. Now she listens at night to Jamie’s stealthy footsteps retreat down the garden to who-knows-where, and she fears for him.
She distracts herself by making a salad with leaves and fennel from the garden, to go with the goats’ cheese and spinach flan that is slowly turning golden in the range.
When Jamie strolls dreamily through the door and grins at her as he flops down on the bench seat, she heaves an inward sigh of relief and refrains from asking him where he has been. Instead she greets him cheerfully.
‘What’s for dinner?’ he asks. ‘I’m starving!’
Siobhan pulls the flan from the range oven and places it on a mat on the table, then goes to the back door to call John in. When she turns to fetch the salad she sees that Jamie has already cut a large slice and is wolfing it down, huffing as it burns his mouth. She smiles to herself. Her boy is back.
Chapter Twenty-four
The camper van breaks down on the way to County Clare, and Astarte spends two hours huddled over the engine in the rain before it finally coughs back into life. By the time she arrives at the cottage she is wet, exhausted, and smeared with oil, which hardly seems an auspicious beginning to her new life. She longs for a hot bath but has to make do with boiling a pan full of water over the tiny hob so that she can wash off the worst of the grime. As she opens a bottle of wine and changes into clean, dry clothes, she can’t wait to go and investigate the cottage, and reflects, as she pulls on Wellington boots, that it seems funny not to have to stop and collect keys. As the cottage has no door, a key is superfluous.
She fills a large mug with wine and takes a sip, feeling it coursing pleasantly through her veins. Taking the mug with her she wanders through the long wet grass, enjoying the sensation of rain on her face although she knows this may pall after a while. The trees gleam palely in the late afternoon light, and glimpses of the lake reflect the grey of the sky.
A thrill runs through her as she enters the cottage and stands in the centre of the room, turning slowly in a circle to survey her domain. She raises her mug towards the old oak beams.
‘Here’s to you and I, and a long and happy relationship,’ she says solemnly. Siobhan’s comment that people tended to give up on renovating these old places has struck a nerve, and she is determined that she will be a stayer. Gazing around at the ruin that the cottage has become, she feels protective towards it and silently promises to make it cosy and beautiful. A sparrow appears in the window space, lands briefly on the crumbling stone, and looks at her quizzically then flies off towards the lake. Astarte smiles to herself. ‘Welcome to my home,’ she murmurs.
She steps outside to watch the sun sink low over the lake, transforming the grey water into streaks of silver and scarlet. There is a hush in the air, as if the birds are holding their breath, and Astarte raises her face to the glowing sky. Her shoulders relax and she feels an immense sense of relief. She retraces her steps to the van, refills her mug, and takes a candle and holder, a block of charcoal, and a pot of her special incense from her small box of possessions.
Back in the cottage she places her mug on the floor, lights the candle, and sets it in the inglenook fireplace, then holds the charcoal over the flame until it begins to smoulder. Blowing gently on it she places it carefully into one of the many cracks between the stones and waits for the charcoal to turn grey before filling its central well with incense. Dark smoke rises immediately, turning paler as the incense pops and crackles. Retrieving her drink, she sits cross-legged in the centre of the room, oblivious to the dirt floor, and lets her gaze travel around every nook and cranny as she sips her wine.
Night slips down quickly and shadows flicker in the solitary light of the candle. The flame dips and rises, creating elongated shapes across the walls. Astarte stands and stretches. She picks up the candle and, cupping her free hand around the flame, uses it to light her way back to the indistinct blur of the van, stumbling slightly as she negotiates the uneven ground. Once inside she places the candle on the counter, shakes her legs to free herself of the Wellington boots, and lights an oil lamp. The seats pull out to make a bed, and she hauls out pillows and a duvet and throws them across, pours the last of the wine into a fresh mug, and stretches out, listening to the sounds of the night.
Cows are lowing softly somewhere nearby. A high eerie cry startles her and she shudders. She’s heard tales of Irish banshees, and the sound makes her think of them. She knows that their name is derived from ban, meaning ‘bean’ and sidhe, meaning ‘fairy’, and that, despite the apparent association with food, they are fearsome creatures who wail at night before a death occurs and strike terror into the hearts of strong men. She feels briefly afraid, aware that she is alone in the strangeness of the night, then laughs at herself for being silly, slugs back the last dregs of wine, and blows out the candle. Still, she leaves the oil lamp burning. It fills the interior of the van with a soft glow, but the windows are unsettlingly black and she reaches across to draw the curtains in case the banshees should chance to peek in.
Sleep eludes her for a long time. She had forgotten how dark the countryside is. She’s grown used to street lamps and traffic, and the sounds of revellers making their way home from pubs and nightclubs. From outside she can hear tiny scufflings and squeaks, and that strange cry that pierces the air and drives through to her core. She pulls the duvet over her head and closes her eyes tightly. A thread of a song runs through her mind and she focuses on it; Rainbow’s voice, soft and childlike. ‘She changes everything she touches, and everything she touches changes.’
Finally her breathing slows enough for her to slide into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Astarte wakes to a thumping headache and a raging thirst, and curses herself for drinking too much wine. Gingerly she peels back the duvet and takes careful steps to the bottle of water by the sink, grateful that the camper van is small enough to make everything close at hand. She swallows large gulps of water, gropes around for her kettle, and makes a mug of tea.
The cows sound much louder this morning. Astarte sits on her bed and considers how a surfeit of alcohol can affect the auditory sense. Usually she tends to go slightly deaf after a bottle of wine, so muses on this and decides that the relative quiet of the countryside is magnifying the natural sounds.
A bellowing noise right outside her window and a sudden rocking motion causes her tea to slop over the front of her jumper just as she raises the mug to her lips. She leans across and parts the curtains, swearing loudly at the sight that meets her eyes.
The garden is overrun with bullocks; large ones. Almost fully grown bull-sized ones, she realises with dismay. They are gaily tramping about in the orchard and milling around the camper van. One is actually leaning against the side of the van, scratching himself against it. As she watches in mounting horror, two of them amble towards the cottage and disappear through the gap that marks the doorway.
Astarte holds the mug between her hands, taking deep breaths to slow her racing heart, and forces her muzzy brain to move into gear and provide a solution. She stands and peers out of each window. No-one is around. The bullocks have taken over her land. Her land, she thinks furiously. How dare they? She slams the mug down beside the sink, hopping about as she forces her bare feet into her Wellington boots. Her anger exceeds her fear and she throws the door open and stands in the doorway, waving her arms and shouting at the creatures to go away. They ignore her, which enrages her even more.
She steps outside and watches them with narrowed eyes. Astarte is certain that there will be a leader among them; an alpha bullock, so to speak, and her glance skips swiftly from one to the other, seeking him out. One, she notices, seems to have a few followers and is feasting beneath a baby apple tree. Trying not to hyperventilate she focuses on her quarry and advances as fast as her hangover will allow, waving her arms like a windmill and shouting ‘Yah!’ at the top of her voice.
The bullocks in her path skitter sideways. One nudges her and she sidesteps neatly and yells at him. The alpha male turns to look at her, a bunch of foliage hanging from his mouth. He has a mean expression and Astarte fights an urge to run for the van. She looks him in the eye and projects every ounce of anger in her quivering frame at him. A fleeting image of Steve and Marianne in her bed flashes through her mind and she draws herself up to her full height, murder in her heart.
‘Yah! Get out of here before I make shoes out of you, you greedy bundle of leather,’ she screams at him. The bullock wheels around, the whites of his eyes showing, and trots towards her gate. The others follow, pushing and shoving and making terrifying bellowing noises. Astarte tails them, clapping her hands and shouting. From the corner of her eye she can see that the cottage is being vacated.
When the last bullock has left her land she closes the gate, reminding herself never to leave it open again, and leans on it, panting. Her knees suddenly feel too weak to support her. A slow handclap makes her jump and she looks up to see Flynn emerging from his van, applauding her with a gleam in his eyes. Astarte feels uncomfortably warm.
‘How long have you been lurking there?’
‘I’ve just arrived. No wonder you didn’t hear my van. You were shrieking enough to scare the birds from the trees. There’ll be no hens laying within a two mile radius, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He looks at her sternly. ‘You’re a lucky woman.’
Astarte pulls herself upright. ‘Oh really,’ she says sardonically. ‘Well, a garden full of sides of beef is a sign of good fortune to come, I suppose.’
Flynn vaults effortlessly over the gate and stands close, looking down at her. He seems annoyed.
‘No, you’re lucky to be alive.’ His eyes flick over her, ice-blue in the morning light. ‘You’re hardly bigger than a milk churn. If those bullocks had made a rush at you, you’d be compost for the garden by now. Keep your gate closed, and don’t go trying to be a Wild West cowboy again.’
Astarte eyes blaze and she shakes with fury.
‘Who the hell do you think you are, telling me what to do?’ she stutters. ‘I got rid of them.’ At his shocked expression she starts to laugh, and finds she can’t stop. She leans over the gate with tears running down her cheeks. ‘I’m the champion!’ she tells him, raising her arms in the air in mock triumph.
Flynn’s mouth twitches at the corners. After a moment he laughs with her.
‘Astarte, you’re a madwoman. Promise me you’ll not risk life and limb like that again.’
She shakes her head, still convulsed. ‘I need coffee. Strong coffee. Come and join me. Then we have a house to build.’
Chapter Twenty-five
Flynn drives off to collect sacks of the stones he has been storing, ready to rebuild the cottage walls. Astarte roams around outside the cottage, gathering loose stones from the ground around it, and adds them to a pile just outside the gap that will one day be the door. She stretches and takes a sip from her almost cold mug of tea. A chugging sound can be heard coming along the lane and she turns to see a tractor grinding to a halt by the gate to the field next to her land. A man alights and Astarte strolls over to her gate, mug in hand.
‘Hello,’ she calls. ‘I’m your new neighbour, Astarte Weaver.’
The farmer is tall and strongly built, with deep frown lines and eyes that seem to disappear into their sockets as he scowls at her. ‘Aye,’ he tells her, ‘Any fool can see that.’ Astarte is instantly on the defensive, even though she wants to be on friendly terms with the community.
‘And you would be …?’ she asks teasingly.
‘Mr Ned Connelly, to you. This is my land.’ He turns away towards the gate. Astarte takes a deep breath.
‘Well, not quite all of it is your land,’ she says in as reasonable a tone as she can manage. ‘This little patch is mine now. Would you like a cup of tea?’
Ned turns savagely towards her and she recoils. He steps forward, matching her steps backward.
‘I have no desire for your tea or your company. We don’t want your sort around here. Blow-ins taking our land and our jobs! Soon there’ll be no room left for the Irish.’
Astarte stops and stands her ground, trying not to be intimidated by this display of hostility. He is only inches away from her, and she can see a globule of spittle beside his mouth.
‘There is no need to be rude. I was just trying to be friendly,’ she says quietly.
Ned Connelly steps even closer. She can feel his breath on her hair. ‘Let me tell you something, girly. Meself and the rest of the Old School say what goes on in this place. We say who moves here and stays, who leaves, and who will find themselves missing their kneecaps one cold dark night. We don’t take kindly to blow-ins, be assured of that. So the sooner you go running back to wherever you came from, the better. You’ll not stick it here for long, I can promise you that.’
Astarte fights the chilly sensation of fear which is trickling along her spine. It gives way to even colder fury. ‘Are you threatening me, Mr Connelly?’
‘And why would I bother to do that, Miss Weaver?’ He turns away then, eyes narrowed, looks over his shoulder at her. ‘For all your big ideas you’ll not last five minutes here.’
As Ned Connelly stalks off through the field gate, slamming it shut behind him, Astarte stands shocked. After a minute she goes to the van and makes fresh tea, her hands shaking slightly. As she walks back down to the cottage she mutters to herself. ‘I’ll not last five minutes? Mr Connelly, I think you’ll find that you’re very much mistaken.’
When the tractor disappears back down the lane fifteen minutes later, Astarte feels immensely relieved. So
on after, the slowing of a car engine catches her attention. Clutching a large rock in one hand she shades her eyes with her free hand and squints towards the gate.
Siobhan strolls into view, accompanied by Jamie. ‘We come in peace, bearing gifts of sustenance,’ she calls. Cheering, Astarte drops the rock and goes to meet them. Siobhan uncovers a large dish to reveal a flan and Astarte’s mouth waters. She hasn’t eaten since she arrived, and the flan smells appetising.
‘Remember my son, Jamie?’ The young man shakes Astarte’s hand politely, looking slightly uncomfortable. Astarte hides her amusement. He obviously considers her to be of the older generation, and his expression when he glances between the camper van and the ruins of her cottage makes it clear that he can’t imagine why she would want to live here.
‘Ah yes, the man who comes when the bell rings!’ Astarte grins at him. ‘Maybe I should get a bell,’ she tells him. ‘I could gather a flock of men to do my work for me!’ Jamie comments that the idea may be a good one and they walk up to the van to make tea and sit together on the grass. Astarte cuts the flan into slices, but Siobhan and Jamie refuse to take any, insisting that it is for her. She bites into a piece, closing her eyes momentarily in bliss.
‘Siobhan, you’re the best cook I ever met,’ she says between mouthfuls. ‘Maybe you could teach me to cook.’ Siobhan grins delightedly.
‘Well, you can’t do much with a tiny camper stove. But I’ll be glad to. You’ll not starve here. It’s a tradition to bring food to a new home. I have some fresh-laid eggs in the car, and a bottle of John’s wine.’
Astarte groans at the thought of wine, and recounts her experience of driving off the bullocks that morning. They laugh, and Jamie solemnly advises that she keep a stout stick in the van in case of future intrusions. He wanders off to cut one for her, and Astarte smiles at Siobhan.