by Lisa Ryan
Flynn is already at work when Astarte arrives home. A bouquet of flowers is propped up against the door of her van, and she can hear him whistling from inside the cottage. She stands and looks at the flowers then takes a deep breath and goes to face him.
He looks up and grins when she enters the cottage. ‘We’re doing well,’ he says, waving the trowel at the walls. ‘Jamie’s coming in a while. There will be a storm later, so I want to get as much done as possible this morning.’
Astarte is relieved that he is in a good mood. She resolves not to mention his tantrum, and goes to sort through the stones.
‘The sun has come out,’ she comments. He looks at her sharply, unsure whether she means the weather or his mood. He’s trying to make it right between them, despite his hurt over her not-so-secret relationship with Eden. Then he grins.
‘Ah, so Mairie will have her washing out. The sun always shines for her. You wait, as soon as she takes it in the storm will come.’
Astarte laughs and shakes her head. Mairie seems to have a reputation in the area, but Flynn apparently thinks fondly of her.
‘She has, actually. I just saw her. And your father. He doesn’t seem to like her much.’
‘The understatement of the year.’ Flynn shakes his head ruefully.
‘Are the flowers from you? They’re beautiful.’
Flynn looks awkward. ‘Must be the fairies who left them.’ He walks to the doorway and peers out at the bouquet. ‘Definitely the fairies, I would say.’
Astarte makes a mock curtsey in the direction of the van. ‘Thank you kindly, fairies,’ she calls, then heads for the nearest gap in the wall and fits a stone carefully into it, wondering what she can use as a vase.
With three of them working hard, the walls are gradually becoming whole again. It gives Astarte a sense of intense pride to see the results of the hours spent finding the right stones and setting them carefully in place. The atmosphere is more comfortable with Jamie around. He and Flynn tease each other, but Astarte intercepts admiring glances aimed in Flynn’s direction. Jamie makes it clear that he respects Flynn’s expertise, and takes notice of instructions.
They break for lunch. As Astarte is carrying a tray of bread and cheese, tea, and biscuits down the garden, there is a sudden crash of thunder and the heavens open. Flynn and Jamie race out of the cottage to meet her, grabbing the tray and trying to shield its contents from the downpour. Laughing and whooping, they scuttle into the cottage and huddle in the corner where the roof is intact. They sit squashed together, watching puddles form on the floor as the rain finds its way through holes in the rusty corrugated iron that covers the beams. The men grab chunks of sodden bread and mugs of tea diluted with rainwater. Astarte tucks her legs against her chest, shivering, and her hands shake when she picks up her mug.
Lightning sears the sky and illuminates the cottage. ‘One, two, three …’ Jamie counts, reverting to boyhood and forgetting to be cool and casual. The thunder that follows is so loud that Astarte jumps, spilling tea on her already wet jeans. ‘Three miles!’ Jamie cries. The next bolt of lightning is followed immediately by a drumroll from the sky. Astarte curls herself into as tight a ball as possible, shrinking back against the wall until sharp stones dig into her back. She shudders. ‘Right overhead!’ calls Jamie.
Flynn laughs at the boy’s excitement, then stops as he notices Astarte’s ashen face. He puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks. Her shoulders are level with her ears and her knees are drawn up to her chin. Most of her hair has escaped from the elastic band, and hangs in curling rats’ tails over her face. He brushes it aside carefully and peeks at her. Jamie, engrossed in the storm, is watching the window and door spaces, eagerly awaiting the next flash of lightning.
‘Astarte?’ Flynn puts a finger under her chin and raises it so that she has to look at him. Her eyes are wide and terrified. Flynn’s heart contracts. He puts his arm around her shoulder. She is rigid, unyielding. ‘’Tis only a storm. It will pass soon,’ he whispers. Gradually she allows herself to be drawn under his arm, and nestles against him.
‘You’re like a little bird,’ he murmurs, his face against her hair, breathing in the scent of rain and warm flesh. She smells of flowers and stone dust. ‘They don’t like storms either.’ He looks into her eyes and smiles. Tremulously she smiles back, then jumps as the next roll of thunder sounds. ‘See. It’s going away. There was a decent space between the lightning and thunder. ‘’Twill not be long before it is gone.’ She nods in reply.
Jamie, oblivious, leaps up and runs to look out of the window. The rain blows in, drenching him further. ‘Nine, ten … ah shit, it’s getting further away.’ He turns and sees Astarte tucked under Flynn’s arm. ‘Oh!’ he says, nonplussed.
Blushing, Astarte quickly moves away from Flynn and jumps to her feet. Flynn retrieves his arm. ‘She’s scared of storms,’ he tells Jamie.
‘But it’s the elements! It’s the gods in battle! How can you be frightened?’ Jamie’s face is alive, impassioned. Flynn thinks ‘Uh-oh’ as Astarte’s lips set in a tight line. She shrugs.
‘I just don’t like storms, OK?’ Her tone is challenging, and Flynn marvels that someone so small in physical stature can exude such belligerence.
‘OK.’ Jamie’s voice is light. He is trying not to laugh. The rain has already eased from a tumultuous roar to a light patter. Astarte walks stiffly across to collect some more stones before retreating to a dry patch to begin fitting them in. Flynn and Jamie follow her lead. They work in silence. Flynn’s arm feels warm where Astarte had rested against it. He tries not to think, not to hope or dream. Instead he concentrates on the stones and the wall. An hour passes in near silence. The rain stops and Jamie looks outside longingly.
‘What a great storm that was,’ he sighs. Flynn glances across at Astarte and catches her watching him. Quickly she looks away, her cheeks flaming.
Past midnight, just as Astarte is falling asleep, she hears footsteps crunching up the driveway. She rises and peers out of the window but nothing can be seen in the blackness. Something clatters against the side of the van and she jumps. Her heartbeat escalates as she creeps to the passenger seat window and unwinds it. ‘Who’s there?’ she calls. Only silence answers her.
It takes her a long time to fall asleep that night. In the morning there is no evidence of an intruder at all.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Jamie’s savings mount up quickly. Astarte pays him well, insisting that his hard work means she will be able to move into the cottage before winter comes. He glows beneath her praise. It makes him feel valued and important. At night he trawls the internet. He knows exactly what he’s looking for, but still it takes weeks before he tracks it down. When he finally finds it he shouts a jubilant ‘Yes!’ and punches the air. But to buy it he needs Siobhan’s help.
Siobhan eyes him suspiciously when he stacks the dishes immediately after dinner, and takes them to the sink to wash them without grumbling once. Jamie waits until John has gone out for a drink with Flynn, then pours a glass of wine for Siobhan, places it beside the paperwork she is studying, and sits opposite her. She looks up, surprised.
‘Out with it, Jamie. What do you want?’
Jamie looks offended. ‘That’s a fine way to hank me for being such a loving son!’
Siobhan laughs and takes a sip of wine. ‘Well,’ she muses, ‘my mother’s intuition tells me that you are after something. Bribery might help soften me up, but it depends on what the request is.’
Jamie leans forward. ‘I need to buy something online, Mam. If I give you the cash, could you use your card?’ It irks him that she will have to know about himself and Sinead. He wants to keep his feelings secret. He fears that once other people become involved, Sinead will vanish from his life forever. Every night he hears the owl call and this disturbs him, even though he tells himself that it is just a bird, doing what birds do. He sometimes wonders, morbidly, whether it portends his death; at times, when Sinead kisses
him, he’s sure that he will burst into flames and all that will be left is a scattering of ashes to mark his passing. His fear of losing Sinead’s love makes him hold her too tightly. She teases him that he will flatten her like a cardboard box, but still, she holds him close as well.
Siobhan grins at her son. He looks so earnest that it reminds her of his three-year-old self begging for a bicycle, convinced that the answer would be no.
‘So what is it you’re wanting to buy? I’ll not use my card for girlie magazines,’ she teases, laughing at his shocked expression. ‘Sure, Jamie, we can do that. But you’ll have to show me what it is.’
Jamie silently leads the way upstairs to his room, and calls up the website on his computer, clicking his way through the links. A photograph fills the screen and Siobhan gasps.
‘How beautiful. But Jamie, who is this for? It will cost you the earth!’
He shrugs. ‘For a friend. And I have the money. I’ve worked for it.’
‘’Twouldn’t suit me, you know.’ Siobhan’s eyes twinkle with mischief. Jamie shakes his head, suppressing a smile, aware that she is fishing for information.
Siobhan studies the image of a matching hairbrush and mirror. The backs are pale silver, studded with tiny shells and beads in a delicate filigree of wirework that weaves around a central spiral.
‘There’s this as well.’ Jamie clicks his mouse on another link. A photograph of a matching hair slide, curved like a crescent moon, pops up on the screen.
‘Jaysus, I’ve never seen the like before,’ Siobhan breathes, leaning closer to inspect it. Unexpectedly her eyes fill with tears. No one has ever bought her a gift like this, or even wanted to. She suddenly feels old, and blinks hard to shake off the sadness that threatens to engulf her. My boy is gone. His heart has taken wing and flown away. Keep him safe, she prays silently. Please let him not be hurt.
Jamie is looking at her expectantly, waiting. When she nods and goes to fetch her credit card he breathes out audibly.
By the time Siobhan comes back, her fleeting sense of sorrow has given way to excitement and questions. She holds back until the gifts are paid for and Jamie has carefully counted out his cash, then looks up into his face. It still seems odd to her that her son now dwarfs her.
‘Well then, Sinead will no doubt be the happiest girl in Clare. And so she should be. Does she know of this?’
Automatically Jamie shakes his head. ‘No, it’s … how did you know?’ His amazement is comical, and she laughs.
‘There’s no one else would suit these better.’ Siobhan gestures towards the screen, then reaches up to ruffle Jamie’s hair. His peculiar mood swings now make sense. ‘She’s a lovely girl. But you be careful now. You’re both very young still.’ She holds up a hand at his protest. ‘I will say no more, to you or anyone else. This is between us. That’s how you want it, is it not?’
Jamie nods emphatically. Siobhan walks to the door and then steps back into the room. ‘Sure and you make a grand couple,’ she says softly.
He listens to her footsteps retreat down the stairs, and stares rapt at the computer screen. He can’t wait to see Sinead’s face when he gives these to her. Leaning back, he puts his hands behind his head and gazes up at the ceiling, planning how he will deliver the gift, and day-dreaming about her reaction.
Three days later the parcel arrives with Siobhan while Jamie is eating breakfast. There are no home deliveries here. The mail goes directly to the tiny village Post Office, to be sorted and filed into cubby-holes marked for each household. Many of the residents go there once or twice a week to check for mail and exchange news. Siobhan or John drive there daily to pick up letters requesting house details, although only a few of the prospective clients will buy. Most are townies who dream of a country cottage but change their minds when they realise how secluded they will be from work and friends.
He looks up hopefully when he hears the car door slam, and pours a cup of tea for his mother. Siobhan bursts in, chattering even before she is through the door. In her excitement she trips over Sebastian the cat, and pauses to gather him up, almost dropping the package tucked under her arm. Jamie pounces, diving to grab it from her. Laughing, she holds it aloft, ignoring Sebastian’s outraged meow.
‘’Tis mine! Give it here, you terrible woman!’ Jamie grapples with her, and Siobhan releases Sebastian, who leaps to the floor, and escapes.
‘So I’m a terrible woman, am I? And from the goodness of my heart I bring your gifts? Shame on you, ungrateful boy! I’ve a mind to keep it all for myself.’ Siobhan dodges him and dances around the kitchen, holding the parcel aloft. Jamie pre-empts where she will go next and grabs her around the waist, tickling ferociously. She squeals and hands the package over.
‘Don’t you go running upstairs. I want to see it as well.’
Grinning, Jamie sits down at the table, his breakfast forgotten, and carefully cuts through the binding tape. Siobhan sits beside him, peering over his shoulder, as impatient as her son. A sigh escapes her as he slowly removes the set from its layers of bubble-wrap.
‘On my soul, ’tis beautiful indeed. Oh Jamie, will you look at this?’ She picks up the hair slide. ’Tis suited to a queen, or the fairy-folk,’ she breathes.
Jamie stares, entranced, as he lifts up the mirror and hairbrush and turns them to catch the light. Sinead will love these, he knows. He will give her something that no one else has ever thought of; something precious and enduring. He passes the mirror to Siobhan and takes the hair slide from her, turning it in his hand.
Siobhan holds the mirror before her face, and looks into it. The edges are bevelled, the frame encrusted with beadwork and shells to match the back. Light from the open front door spills over them and reflects in the mirror, so that her features are blurred by a shifting golden haze. She feels strange, not herself. The mirror reveals the radiant image of a woman she does not recognise. The face looking back at her is a stranger to business and household chores, a fey, bright-eyed creature who belongs in the forests, or far out in a deep, lonely ocean. Her chest feels tight, her breathing ragged. Silently she hands the mirror to Jamie, kisses the top of his head as she stands up a little shakily, and takes her cup of tea out into the garden.
Perplexed, Jamie stares after her as she stands by a rose bush, gazing out into the distance with a dreamy look on her face. He gathers up his treasures and takes them to his room to wrap them in blue tissue paper studded with silver stars.
Although Jamie and Sinead usually arrange to meet by the lake, he cannot wait. He walks to Astarte’s cottage to tell her that he cannot help out today. She is helping Flynn to fit the new window-frames, and is so engrossed in seeing the task to completion that she waves off his excuses with a flap of her hand and a smile.
‘The sun’s shining. Go and have some fun,’ she tells him, leaning back to squint at the spirit-level. Jamie needs no further encouragement. He runs out into the lane and walks swiftly along it. For once he does not notice the swans gliding to the edge of the lake, or the forget-me-nots that spangle the grass with blue lights. He carries the gift in his rucksack, tucked carefully beside the picnic that Siobhan prepared when she came inside from her peculiar excursion into the garden. At the very top of the rucksack rests a cake for Mairie. Her fondness for sweet things is legendary.
When he arrives at the gate to Mairie’s cottage he stops for a moment, suddenly nervous, worried that Sinead will be out; or worse, that she will not like his gift. He stands beneath a tree and rolls a cigarette, then changes his mind and stuffs the tobacco pouch back into his pocket. Taking a deep breath, he squares his shoulders and marches up the path.
Mairie opens the door, her face crinkled with pleasure. ‘Why, Jamie, what a lovely surprise! Come in, come in.’ Jamie shrugs off his rucksack and opens it gingerly so that Mairie will not see inside it. He lifts out the cake and hands it to her.
‘From my mam,’ he says. She takes it, beaming, and unwraps the clingfilm around it, inhaling deeply.
‘
Ahhhh. ’Tis lemon cake. My favourite. Will you have a slice?’
Jamie grins and shakes his head. He knows that whichever cake he brought would be Mairie’s favourite.
‘No, ’tis for you. Is Sinead at home?’
He need not ask. Sinead has heard his voice and she is through into the kitchen before he has finished speaking. She stands shyly across from him, blushing. Mairie’s bright eyes dart between them, missing nothing. She nods her head sagely, but says nothing other than to thank Jamie for bringing the cake. The young people stand awkwardly. Jamie shuffles his feet. Mairie cackles softly.
‘Be off with you both. ’Tis too grand a day to waste it indoors.’ Sinead kisses her soft cheek and they leave, strolling slowly down the lane, their hands bumping against each other until they are out of sight, and then they stop and embrace.
Beneath the willow trees they sit close, leaning into each other. Jamie’s hands tremble, and his fingers feel clumsy and alien when he unpacks the rucksack. He lays the picnic out carefully, laughing at Sinead’s squeals of delight, leaving the gift until last. Finally he takes it and places it on Sinead’s lap. She looks askance at him.
‘What is this? ’Tis not my birthday.’
‘Open it,’ Jamie urges. His mouth feels dry, and he grabs the bottle of lemonade and twists the cap. A spray of liquid spurts out over his hands and arms, and he blushes. He feels stupid. He’s scared that she will laugh at him.
Sinead reaches for a paper napkin and wipes away the spill, her fingers stroking the soft hairs on his forearm. She kisses him gently on the lips, her tongue lingering on his in a way that makes him catch his breath, before drawing back to pick up the gift and turn it in her hands, feeling the shapes within it with a mystified expression. Slowly she unwraps it, unaware of Jamie’s silent anguish.
‘Oh, sweet Jaysus. Oh Jamie, I have never seen anything so beautiful! ’Tis pure, pure magic!’ She takes out the hair slide and looks closely at it, moving it around to catch the sunlight from different angles, all the while shaking her head slightly in disbelief. Laying the ornament in her lap, she draws out the hairbrush and marvels at it, pointing out every delicate detail to Jamie as though he has never seen it before, exclaiming at the craftsmanship and running her fingers over the beadwork. The mirror receives the same ecstatic reaction. Jamie relaxes, beaming with delight. He takes the hairbrush from her.