by Lisa Ryan
Astarte glances at Eden again to see whether he is bored. He smiles gently and nods once more. She breaks a chunk off her bread and casts it towards the lake. It disappears among the reeds.
‘One day her grandmother died, the saddest time in the girl’s life, and left the girl rather a lot of money. So she bought a house in the city and tried to be like everybody else. She took a lover, she made a few friends, and she tried to pretend that nothing was missing from her life. But sometimes she woke in the night and thought of fields and water and open spaces, and she hated her parents for giving her these things without preparing her for the world and all its demands, because she thought that to live free in this way meant following in their footsteps.’
A wave of sorrow sweeps over her; for the childhood she had never been a child in, and for the loneliness and alienation that her young self had felt. Eden, sensitive to the slight change in her voice, leans across and takes her hand in his, stroking her palm with his thumb. Astarte comes back to the present with a jolt and smiles damply at him. His expression is serious, enquiring. How beautiful he is, inside and out, she thinks, and takes a deep breath.
‘Her lover went off with her friend. But sometimes bad things turn to good. She realised that she could make her own rules, that she could create a new life. So she came to Ireland and fell in love with a cottage. And here she is now.’
Eden squeezes her hand, puts it briefly to his lips, and lays it in her lap. ‘Thank you. ‘’Tis good to have you here. Astarte Weaver.’
She laughs and shakes her head. ‘Likewise, Eden McDonagh.’
The sun has risen and the lake is tinged with a golden haze. Eden stands and offers his hand to Astarte, pulling her to her feet. Flashes of brightness flicker through the trees, birds zigzag through the dappled light, hunting for breakfast. Astarte throws the last crumbs of bread beneath the tree and a blackbird dives for it, chattering. They walk together to Astarte’s gate, and Eden watches her stroll up the path, swinging her flask in one hand, then turns and heads for home. He knows now that he can face the day and all that it brings. He feels giddy with a sense of release.
At sunset Siobhan arrives at Astarte’s cottage, a curious look on her face. Astarte and Flynn are skimming off concrete from the edges of newly set stones, and Siobhan hands the evening paper to Astarte without saying a word. Puzzled, Astarte puts down her trowel and glances at the front page. There is a fuzzy photograph of Eden kissing her hand, and a heading in large block letters. ‘Love At Last For Haunted Star’ it trumpets. Astarte looks at it in horror as Flynn, nudging her playfully, goes to peer over her shoulder. ‘What’s this? Are you famous already, Astarte?’ he teases, and then he sees the photograph and steps forward to look closer, his lips tightening.
‘Well, you wasted no time, did you?’ His voice is harsh. Astarte stares at him, her mouth open in an ‘O’ of shock. Flynn shoots a look of disgust at her, strides quickly to his van, and roars off.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Flynn sits at the table with a bottle of beer in his hand. He leans back in the chair and looks around at the small sofa, the tidy sink, the paintings on the walls. Everything seems grey and colourless. Tonight he can’t be bothered to be civilised. He drinks straight from the bottle, taking long swallows, then sets it down beside him. A copy of the newspaper sits accusingly before him, and he reads the text for the third time, his heart heavy. Despite the sensational headline the piece beneath it says only that Eden has been spotted on a romantic walk at dawn with an incomer, Astarte Weaver.
Sighing, Flynn pushes back the chair, takes the half-empty bottle to the sink, and upends it, watching as the frothy liquid pumps down the drain with a glugging sound. Drinking will only make him feel worse, and he feels bad enough already.
For sure, Astarte is a free woman. She can do as she likes, and she has made it clear that she is not interested in him. Eden has it all. Looks, talent, fame, wealth, and, damn him, he’s a good-hearted man. Flynn can understand the attraction but it makes him no less miserable. He puts the bottle on the side and goes back to the table, studying the photograph again. They both look relaxed and happy. In a swift movement he gathers up the paper, folds it to hide the picture, and throws it onto the pile he keeps for lighting the fire, then bends down and rearranges the papers so that it is not on top.
While he warms up some soup and cuts slices of bread he muses at the effect this woman has had on him. At their first meeting he’d felt a sense of recognition; could see past those startling eyes and rampant curls into the person beneath. His first impression was her curious blend of toughness and vulnerability, and an honesty that made him certain that she was only interested in the truth and had no time for superficialities. It hurts to think that all the time she was involved with Eden, though Flynn can’t imagine how they met. He wonders whether that was the real reason why she moved here.
Pouring the soup into a bowl, he carries his meal to the table and takes a mouthful. It tastes of cardboard and he grimaces, tries another spoonful, and gives up. Pushing it aside, he sits with his chin in his hands, staring straight ahead.
Grace decides not to show Eden the newspaper. She knows how fickle the press are, and she is sure that it will all be forgotten by tomorrow. She’s pleased that Eden ventured out of the house, and thinks that whatever his relationship with Astarte may be, it will be good for him. Her son has been through enough upset and she warns her family not to mention the photograph. If he sees it he will be reluctant to leave his room. She throws the paper in the trash, muttering curses on all paparazzi under her breath.
Eden is in a light-hearted mood. He laughs and jokes over dinner, and afterwards sits in the corner picking out a new song on his guitar, singing a few lines, fingering the guitar strings until the picking sounds right, and then singing it over. Grace smiles fondly at him.
‘’Tis good to see you with your music,’ she tells him. He looks up, still plucking the chords.
‘’Tis good to play again. But in future this is a private affair, for myself and those close to me. I have no desire to go back on stage.’
Lizzie and Maggie raise their heads from a jigsaw puzzle they are attempting to figure out together. It has a thousand tiny pieces, and somehow most of them look the same.
‘But Eden,’ Maggie exclaims. ‘Your music is your life!’ Grace hushes her quickly.
Eden laughs wryly. ‘No, Maggie, my life is my life. My music is only part of it, and I can do that at home. I’ve had my fill of crowds, and heaven knows I have no need of the money. If I was to go back out there I would be selling my soul.’
‘But how will we meet gorgeous musicians now? There are no men around here. Eden, you are being very selfish.’ Lizzie’s eyes twinkle mischievously. It’s a relief to see her brother acting normally again. She was frightened by the change in him when he came home.
Eden chuckles. ‘Even for you I would not go back there. You’ll have to find your own men or become an old maid.’
Lizzie pulls a face at him. ‘Shame on you. Now, will you play that song properly? You’ve been plinking away for ages and I want to hear how it ends.’
Siobhan and Astarte are drinking John’s homemade wine in the van. The sun is setting and the evening has grown cool. Astarte pulls on a jumper and lights the oil lamp and a candle. Siobhan doesn’t want to pry, but she’s itching with curiosity, and surprised at Flynn’s reaction to the photograph. Very little upsets him; he is always friendly and equable, and she can tell that Astarte is as shocked by Flynn storming off as she is by seeing herself in the newspaper.
Midges are swarming into the van, hungry for blood, and Astarte gets up and pulls the door closed with more force than necessary.
‘How could they?’ she cries suddenly. ‘Someone must have been sneaking around following us. It’s spooky. Horrible.’ She crosses her arms, hugging herself, her shoulders hunched, and paces three steps forward, then back again, up and down in the confined space.
Siobhan pats t
he seat. ‘Come and sit down, Astarte. It’ll all blow over soon.’ Astarte stops pacing, and gestures widely.
‘But we weren’t doing anything! We just bumped into each other and talked, and he walked me home. I’d like to get my hands on the bottom-dweller who took that photo. I feel violated. Poor Eden.’
Siobhan doesn’t rate the chances of the bottom-dweller if Astarte catches him or her. She puts on the voice that always worked when Jamie was a truculent child. ‘Eden will be fine. And look on the bright side. You’ll be the envy of many a woman tonight. Come on, drink your wine. They’ll get bored with following him soon. There’ll be other fish to fry.’
Astarte sits beside her and picks up the mug, takes a sip, and sets it down again. ‘No wonder he hated fame so much,’ she mutters.
Siobhan lays a hand on her shoulder. ‘He will be fine,’ she says again.
The morning brings dark clouds that hold promise of a storm. Flynn lies in bed, gazing up at the ceiling. If it rains there will be no work done on the cottage. Briefly he hopes the deluge will come before he is due there so that he has an excuse to avoid Astarte today. The thought of not seeing her feels worse than the prospect of facing her, so he dresses and cooks a large breakfast to compensate for his missed meal last night. As he sits down to eat it he murmurs to himself, ‘The condemned man ate a hearty meal before courageously facing the firing squad.’ Astarte must not have been impressed by his behaviour last night.
On his way to the cottage he stops to buy a bunch of flowers as a peace offering. He resolves not to ask Astarte about her new relationship. She is his employer, and she has a right to her privacy.
Chapter Twenty-eight
All night long Astarte wriggles and kicks, grabbing the duvet each time it slips off the makeshift bed. Her ears prick up at every strange sound, and she worries that whoever took the photograph is lurking around outside the van, which makes her angry as well as nervous. By the time the first pale threads of dawn show in the sky she is exhausted and cold, and her head aches dully. Giving up on all hope of sleep, she washes and dresses, and makes tea and toast before dragging a comb through her hair. It catches in the mass of tangles and she throws the comb irritably into the drawer, dragging her hair back into an elastic band instead. She needs an outlet for this excess of nervous energy.
The sky looms low, brooding, and a fine rain sprinkles her hair with tiny bright drops and pats her face lightly, refreshing her. She walks along the track that wends stonily around the lake, leading to the farms and cottages that nestle between groves of trees. Somewhere close by a cock crows. Leaves rustle and a sparrow flutters past. Astarte begins to feel calmer.
Mairie Hennessy is out in her garden pulling carrots. She straightens up and places her hands on the small of her back when Astarte ambles past and waves. Mairie waves her fistful of carrots and Astarte stops.
‘Hello there! Come and have some tea. ’Tis a grey morning.’ Mairie gestures towards the open cottage door. Astarte smiles and assents as she trips through the gate, following the old woman inside. A collie barks once and then comes to push his damp nose into her hand.
‘Down, Blackfoot,’ Mairie tells him, going to move him away, but Astarte bends to stroke him, marvelling at the softness of his ears compared with his rough coat. His muzzle is grey with advancing years, and he has one black paw and three white ones, which makes his name self-explanatory. His liquid brown eyes gaze adoringly into hers as she gently pulls his ears.
‘Sure and he likes you, and he’s a lad with very discerning tastes. Now you must be Astarte. I’ve heard about you from Siobhan. Will you have tea?’
For a rotund woman whose hands show signs of arthritis, Mairie moves quickly, stepping across to check the water level in the ancient kettle on the range, adding an extra spoonful of tea to the pot on the scrubbed wooden table, and taking out a cup to set beside the two others that nestle in saucers beside the teapot. Her hair is snow white, plaited in two coils that circumnavigate her head. She waves towards a chair, gesturing for Astarte to sit down. Blackfoot comes to stand beside her and lays his head in her lap.
Astarte feels slightly bemused at the resemblance between Mairie and her grandmother. She wants to lean her head on this woman’s shoulder. It would feel safe and secure there, and she could forget yesterday’s madness. Instead, she answers Mairie’s probing questions, relaxing into the air of peace that pervades the kitchen. It is comfortable here. Homely. She wonders whether her cottage will be as restful once she moves in, but this reminds her of Flynn and the way he stormed off, so she trains her focus on Mairie instead and asks a question of her own.
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘All my life, Astarte. I was born here, and here I will die, as did my parents and their parents before them, and those before them. ’Tis important to know your place in the world, is it not, and this is mine.’
Astarte marvels at the thought of such continuity. She notices how heavily Mairie plants herself in the worn chair by the range. She idly wonders who the third cup is for as she takes in the room. Bunches of herbs hang upside down above the range. A few framed photographs, yellow and blurry with age, sit on the window sill beside a small vase of flowers. A large basket of vegetables stands in the corner. The kitchen is basic but neat and clean, with none of the usual knick-knacks that punctuate the spaces between useful objects. Curiously Astarte eyes a large salt pig that sits by the back door. Mairie follows her gaze, and cackles.
‘To keep harm at bay,’ she says. Her blue eyes fix Astarte to the spot, seeing through her carefully constructed façade. ‘Sprinkle salt across your doorway and all will be well.’
Light footsteps sound outside the door and a young girl enters, shaking drops of rain from long, wavy hair the colour of polished copper. The girl stops, surprised, her grey eyes alive with multi-coloured lights.
‘You must be Astarte,’ she says, stepping forward to shake hands. Astarte rises from the chair, her cup wobbling precariously on its saucer.
‘Yes, I am. News travels fast here.’
‘Ah, before you’ve been here five minutes everyone knows who you are, what you’re doing here, and whether you’ll stay. ’Tis the way of these communities. By next week even your dreams will not be private. We’ll know what you’re doing even before you have made the plans yourself.’ Mairie’s cackling chuckle is infectious. ‘Now this is Sinead, my great-niece, who shares the cottage with me and will inherit it after I’m gone.’ She waves a gnarled hand towards the girl, who sits beside Astarte and raises her cup of tea, then pauses to grin at Mairie.
‘You’ll be here forever. ’Tis indestructible you are, fuelled by mischief,’ Sinead says casually, as though she has heard this many times before and will not take it seriously. ‘There’s a new chick hatched this morning,’ she adds, nodding in the direction of the door.
Mairie smiles, and her eyes almost disappear into the laughter lines that fan out around them. ‘A new day, a new life,’ she says, nodding with satisfaction. ‘That is good.’ Sinead loves those hens, and it is her job to let them out each morning and scatter grain before they wander off to ruin the seedlings. ‘Will you have breakfast, Astarte?’
Astarte refuses politely and stands to leave. Mairie and Sinead see her off from the doorway. The beauty of youth and age, she thinks as she closes the gate behind her. She pauses and calls out, ‘Come and visit any time!’ and they both wave. She’s curious about why Sinead lives there, and smiles to herself as she follows the track further. No doubt she will hear the tale soon enough.
Seamus is bringing his cows back to the field from early morning milking. They move slowly but purposefully, heading for home and sweet grass, their udders comfortably empty. He sees Astarte and waves. She stops and waits for the cows to pass her and enter through the gate in an orderly line. Seamus closes the gate behind him and leans on it. His feathery hair sticks to his head in damp patches, and his leather coat is cracked with age and creaks with each movement.
Astarte feels awkward at refusing hospitality. ‘I have to turn back now, I’m afraid. Flynn will be arriving soon. But another time that would be lovely.’
Seamus nods. ‘Ah yes, well the old must make way for the young, to be sure.’ He squints in the direction of Mairie’s cottage and mutters something under his breath.
‘Pardon?’ Astarte asks.
‘The old bat is at large this morning. Will you look at that?’ Astarte turns. Mairie is hanging out a clean sheet on the line, and waves a corner of it at her. Astarte waves back. ‘Has she not noticed the rain?’ he says, and harrumphs, then shoots a calculating look at Astarte. ‘You be careful with that old witch. She’s a sly one, not to be trusted,’ he says.
Astarte raises her eyebrows but says nothing, remembering his comments at John and Siobhan’s about Mairie Hennessy. She does not intend to be mixed up in neighbourly warfare if she can help it. She lays a hand on Seamus’ arm.
‘I’d love to have tea with you another day,’ she tells him, and turns to retrace her steps homeward. He watches her, eyes narrowed, as she vanishes around a bend in the track, then sighs and goes to tend to the cows. As he slips the bolt across the gate a watery sun appears between the clouds, and the rain stops. He glowers across at Mairie’s sheets hanging limply.
‘Old witch,’ he mutters, and spits onto the mud.