The Swan Lake

by Lisa Ryan

  ‘Here, hold the mirror, just so, and let me brush your hair, and then you can wear this clip.’ She smiles at him, her eyes swimming with tears. ‘Do you not like it?’ he asks anxiously. ‘Mam almost cried over it. Perhaps I should take it away. I would not want to be the cause of tears.’

  Sinead sniffs, and laughs. ‘’Tis just so very rare and precious,’ she says, kissing his cheek as he moves to sit behind her. She holds the mirror up. Her face stares back at her, and her reflection makes her shiver slightly. There is something in the eyes looking back at her that is different, unfamiliar. She angles the mirror to catch Jamie’s expression as he carefully, slowly, pulls the brush through her hair, lifting strands that glitter in the light as he tries to avoid tangling it.

  The brush strokes fall into a hypnotic rhythm. Sinead sways gently, her head lifting and falling, following the sweeping curve that the brush makes through her hair. She watches Jamie in the mirror. His face is intent, concentrated. His hazel eyes are golden with reflected sun. Her heart swells and spills over, filling her with love for the entire world. It seems to both of them that the universe has reduced itself to a shimmering bubble of light that contains only this moment, only this place. Only the two of them.

  Chapter Thirty

  Flynn balances precariously on top of the roof, fitting the last tiles in place. Astarte stands below, shading her eyes with her hands as she watches anxiously. This is the last part of the building process. Tomorrow other workers will take over, and the final steps to civilisation that they call the ‘second fit,’ the plumbing, electricity, and telephone, will begin.

  Astarte can’t bear to look up any longer. She’s sure that worrying about Flynn falling will actually make it happen. She wanders into the cottage and walks through each room lightly, as though the floor is cushioned with air instead of covered in concrete.

  The cottage has been divided up into compact spaces. The largest section will be her open-plan kitchen and living room. A small bedroom and tiny bathroom lead off it. Although Astarte wanted to leave the stone walls fully exposed, Flynn dissuaded her, insisting that they damp-proof and plaster them. Still, the shapes of the stones peek through, creating dappled shadow patterns on the newly whitewashed walls. The brickwork on the internal walls looked odd in contrast, so they kept the continuity by setting stones against the bricks before plastering. The inglenook fireplace dominates the living area, and Astarte can’t wait to fill the rooms with lamps and candles, and lay bright rugs over thick, lush carpets. Her toes curl in anticipation. She’d like to move in right now. The van is beginning to feel claustrophobic. Autumn is coming. The early September evenings are drawing in, the lamp is lit earlier each day, and she now wears a sweater to bed to keep warm.

  A thud from outside causes her to spin swiftly on her heels, expecting the worst. Flynn grins at the concern on her face as he leans in the new doorway.

  ‘’Tis done. Come and see!’ he beams.

  Astarte squeezes past him to run outside. ‘Oh, Flynn, it’s fantastic! It’s just wonderful!’ She jumps up and down, hugging herself with delight. Flynn comes to stand beside her, and on impulse she hugs him as well, then skips away to stand further back and admire the roof. She cannot contain her pleasure, and Flynn’s face is wreathed in smiles as he watches her.

  She runs back into the cottage, dances through each room, spinning and twirling, and out through the door again to admire the roof, making whooping noises while Flynn studies her, shaking his head in amusement.

  ‘Time to celebrate. I bought a bottle of champagne for just this moment. Come on, Flynn.’ Astarte dashes ahead of him through the grass, pausing at the van to turn and look at the cottage, then dashes inside to reappear a few moments later with a bottle and two mugs. Flynn waits a few feet away, surveying the results of almost two month’s work.

  ‘We should drink this in the cottage,’ Astarte says, and he nods. They walk companionably inside and stand by the fireplace. Astarte struggles to release the cork, shakes her head at its stubbornness, and hands the bottle to Flynn. One twist, and the cork flies into the fireplace with a popping sound, accompanied by a spray of champagne.

  ‘Woooo-hoo!’ shouts Astarte, filling the mugs with froth. She hands one to him, and clinks it with her own. ‘To the best damn builder in County Clare! In Ireland, even,’ she says jubilantly.

  ‘You’re selling me short, Astarte. I’m the best builder in the world.’ He shouts the final word, and they both laugh.

  ‘And the most modest,’ Astarte comments, taking a sip and giggling as bubbles rise up her nose. She looks around the cottage. ‘Though I can hardly argue with that. You’ve made a dream come true.’

  Flynn’s glass pauses on its way to his mouth. ‘Hear this well. She gave me a compliment,’ he announces to the walls, and turns to look into Astarte’s eyes. He raises his mug towards her. ‘Here’s to a job well done, and a team that could not be bettered.’ She blushes, and pings her mug against his own again. The easy camaraderie falters. They both look away, unaccountably uncomfortable.

  ‘I’ll still be needed here, to oversee the pipe-laying,’ Flynn comments, gazing towards the window.

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ Astarte says quickly. She tops up their mugs.

  ‘And I’ll help you to lay carpets and bring furniture in.’

  ‘Thank you. I’d appreciate that.’

  ‘Unless Eden is helping you with that.’

  Astarte stares. ‘Eden? Why would Eden help me lay carpets?’

  Flynn turns away, and pretends to be admiring the fireplace. ‘Will he not be doing any of that then?’

  ‘No. He’s a musician, Flynn.’ Astarte frowns, puzzled.

  ‘Ah, yes. A musician.’ Flynn turns back to face her, and winks. ‘Well, your friendly neighbourhood builder is at your service.’

  Astarte grins back at him. ‘At a price.’

  ‘To be sure.’ Flynn’s smile is strained. He wonders whether to tell her that he would gladly build a hundred cottages just to be by her side, but decides against it. There have been no more photographs in the newspaper, but he has overheard the gossip in the Post Office. Astarte and Eden seem to be seeing a great deal of each other. The champagne suddenly tastes bitter, and he goes to put the mug on the window ledge when a tap at the door makes them both jump.

  Jamie’s head pokes around the doorway, with Sinead’s auburn mane visible close behind him. ‘We’re not disturbing anything, are we?’ he asks mischievously.

  Astarte laughs. ‘We’re celebrating the new roof. Come on in, and have some champagne. I’ll fetch more mugs.’ She is relieved to have company. The atmosphere between herself and Flynn feels rather strange. She’ll be glad when the work on the cottage is finally completed.

  They look around admiringly, and Sinead exclaims over the transformation. She has called in often while Jamie has been working here, ostensibly to see Astarte, and check on the progress of the cottage. But secrets are hard to keep here, where everyone knows their neighbour’s business, and it is clear that she will find any excuse to be near to Jamie. The jewelled hair slide, only removed before sleeping, has aroused much comment and made her the target of envy among her friends.

  Jamie slips a proprietary arm around her. Watching them together gives Astarte a bittersweet pang. The world disappears when their eyes meet. Sentences are left unfinished. Questions remain unanswered; they do not hear them. Astarte wonders what it must be like to love so intensely. She’s not sure that she would want that experience, but sometimes she intercepts a look that passes between them, and feels as if she has become unwittingly drawn into a realm of light and fire that is frighteningly seductive.

  She leaves them in the cottage, and hurries to collect two more mugs and some candles to brighten the encroaching twilight. When she returns, Jamie’s rucksack is on the floor, and beside it is a foil-wrapped bowl, still hot from Siobhan’s oven. Astarte, embarrassed by their generosity, now insists on taking John and Siobhan out for a pub meal once a w
eek, to thank them for the frequent gifts of food. It is as though Siobhan intuitively knows when Astarte has forgotten to buy supplies, or is too exhausted to prepare a meal, and, like a fairy godmother, comes to her rescue.

  She unwraps the foil to find the bowl crammed with steaming baked potatoes, dripping with melted butter and cheese, and thanks Jamie profusely. He shrugs. ‘’Tis nothing,’ he tells her. ‘Quick, eat them before they go cold.’

  Sinead takes the candles from Astarte and lights them, placing them carefully in the fireplace and by the windows. A soft glow fills the room, casting flickering shadows. They fill their mugs with champagne, and sip it slowly, toasting the miracle of creating new beauty from old.

  ‘Who would have thought a pile of stones could be raised to this?’ muses Jamie. ‘We did a grand job, did we not?’ He kisses Sinead’s cheek as she snuggles against him, and she smiles beatifically.

  Flynn grins. ‘We did indeed. You’ll be a builder yet, Jamie.’

  ‘Well, if I need work, I’ll know where to come.’ Jamie doffs an imaginary hat in Flynn’s direction, and Sinead giggles. She slips out from under his arm to pick up the bowl of potatoes and hand it to Astarte.

  ‘Do eat them while they’re still hot. You have first choice. Your man is a big eater, I hear, so grab some while you can.’

  Astarte looks at Sinead. ‘He’s not my man,’ she says, taking a potato. Her fingers sink into its buttery warmth, and her mouth waters.

  ‘Sure, and it’s a figure of speech, Astarte. It means nothing.’ Sinead is amused at Astarte’s discomfort.

  Flynn winces slightly, but keeps his tone light. ‘Though do you not think the lady protests too vigorously?’ he remarks, stepping forward to take a potato. ‘Ouch! That was uncalled for, Astarte. You do not hit your friends as a mark of affection. Ow!’ Astarte pokes him in the chest. ‘The woman is a vixen, Sinead. Don’t you go taking lessons from her, now.’

  Astarte, her nose in the air, steps over to relieve the bowl of another potato, and sits on the hearth to eat it. Flynn goes to sit beside her, and she shuffles sideways to create more space between them. Flynn shrugs, arms out-flung as though helplessly confused. ‘She likes me really. She said I’m the best builder in the world, and these walls are my witness.

  ‘You said that, not me. I said Ireland, not the world.’

  ‘A mere detail,’ Flynn remarks, biting into his potato.

  Sinead and Jamie exchange amused glances. ‘Now, now children, enough of the squabbling. We’re celebrating, remember? Now behave yourselves, or we will take the food away.’ Sinead wags a finger at Astarte and Flynn, who grin sheepishly. ‘Come on now, kiss and make up,’ she says. Flynn leans towards Astarte, his lips pursed grotesquely. He knows that the only way he can refrain from kissing her is to act the fool.

  ‘Ugh. Look at him! I’d rather kiss one of the pike from the lake. Flynn, stop it!’ He makes gulping noises, and she pushes him away and leaps to her feet. He follows, still pretending to be a fish.

  Astarte turns her back on him, swatting a hand over her shoulder as he comes up behind her, making fish noises. She looks back, and giggles nervously.

  ‘Flynn, you are being ridiculous. Put your mouth back where it belongs. The oris obicularis muscles in contraction hold no appeal for me whatsoever.’

  Jamie gawps at her. ‘The what?’

  Astarte smirks. ‘It’s the medical term for kissing. Puts you right off the idea, doesn’t it? Flynn, if you don’t step back this instant, you will truly regret it.’

  Flynn stops, and picks up his glass before helping himself to another potato. He grimaces at Jamie and Sinead. ‘Is she not romantic? And the lesson of the day,’ he intones, as though speaking from a pulpit, ‘is to never have a love affair with a nurse. She’ll whisper sweet nothings by reciting the name of each bone in your body.’ ‘Oh, there’s no danger of that happening with me,’ says Astarte airily. ‘I’m immune to love. I’ll never murmur the difference between the tibia and fibula, or extol the wonders of the nervous system to a rapt admirer. I’m done with nursing, and I never intend to have another relationship. They’re really not my forte.’

  Sinead looks across at Flynn, puzzled. Jamie seems to be under the impression that Flynn has a fondness for Astarte. Yet Flynn suddenly looks as though all of his birthdays have come at once.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Astarte sits by the window and gazes across the valley, stroking Sirius, a black puppy of indeterminate heritage; a surprise gift from Flynn. In the distance, the strange hill with the tower rises from the late October mist like a ghost. She wonders who built it, and why. There are several hill forts in County Clare. They fascinate her, sending her into a dreamy space that she emerges from, heavy-eyed and languid, the echoes of long-gone voices ringing in her ears.

  The wind lifts the mist over the lake, layer by layer, punctuating it with gusts of autumn leaves. The swans drift close to the edge, dipping their beaks into the water in a slow, easy rhythm. Astarte smiles to herself and sips her tea as she looks around the room, her fingers buried in the puppy’s fur. When she opens her eyes each morning she is infused with a sense of delight. She has held an image of the completed cottage in her mind for months, and it thrills her that the pictures in her head, mulled over carefully with her friends, have been brought so vividly to life.

  A painting hangs over the fireplace; a view of a lake, with a blurred image of a child flying astride a swan, that Astarte found in a gallery in Galway. It may not be ‘her’ lake, but it looks similar. Nestled by the inglenook is a tall turquoise vase from the same gallery.

  She wriggles her toes into the teal green carpet and casts her eyes over the bright rug by the fireplace, the soft gold-coloured velvet suite, the ancient pine table that she carefully stripped to bring back to its original state. The range was rescued from a moving-out sale and fuels the hot water and radiators, as well as providing far more cooking space than she needs for just one person. A rack suspended from the ceiling above holds bunches of herbs rescued from the wilderness of her kitchen-garden, and comes in useful for drying her washing on rainy days.

  Everything sparkles where Astarte scrubs and polishes, determined that her cottage will shine with light and the illusion of space. From her window seat, built by Flynn to allow her to look out over the lake in comfort, Astarte surveys her home with pride and counts her many blessings. Flynn has been indefatigable, tracking down the range, overseeing the complex and stress-laden process of laying pipes, digging and installing the cesspit, chasing the electricians and the telephone engineers when they failed to turn up for days at a time. He had become so much a part of her life that it felt strange when she moved into the cottage and he was no longer there early each morning. At her house-warming meal a week ago, Siobhan teased him that he looked as if he was at a funeral, not a celebration. He told her that he was taking notes for future commissions, but secretly he was wondering how he could find excuses to drop by regularly.

  Tomorrow it will be Hallowe’en. Astarte plans to buy bags of rosy apples and ingredients for a feast for the friends who have supported her more than she had thought possible. She runs through a mental shopping list, and thinks that she must carve a pumpkin to put in the centre of her kitchen table.

  The glow within her spreads outwards, melding with the warmth from the fire and range. She rises to place another log on the fire, and curls up close to watch the tongues of flames as they leap up around it. Horace, the kitten that Flynn brought her the day after she moved in, scrambles through the open window, and jumps carefully on to the carpet. He sits and washes himself, his sandpaper tongue fastidiously arranging tortoiseshell fur. Astarte adores both of her animal companions. Her eyes had filled with tears when Flynn called in and reached into his coat pocket to gently show her the tiny, mewling ball of fluff. He found Astarte’s choice of name bizarre, but conceded that it was up to her if she wished to burden the poor little creature, who had no way of arguing with her. Horace’s antics mak
e her laugh, and he curls up with Sirius on her bed at night, and wakes her with a cold nose against her cheek each morning.

  Astarte takes her mug to the sink to wash it. Running water is a luxury after months in the van. An electric pump has been fitted to the well, and it still seems somehow miraculous that she can turn a tap, instead of having to trudge across the garden with a bucket. Her first bath here lasted for two hours. Her skin was as wrinkled as a walnut when she finally stepped out, but Astarte didn’t care. She wrapped herself in a warm, soft towel, and went to sit beside the fire, before dressing in clean clothes that smelled of sunshine.

  Humming to herself, Astarte bends over to pick up Horace, and strokes his head, peering into his slanted green eyes. He purrs loudly, and butts his nose into her chin. Sirius opens one eye before dozing off again.

  ‘Time to go shopping,’ she croons. ‘You two can stay by the fire, but I have things to do.’ He lifts his chin so that she can stroke his neck, and she kisses his nose and sets him down on the carpet. ‘Dinner’s in the supermarket, sweeties, but I’ll be back soon,’ she says, slipping into her coat and picking up her bag and keys.

  Ned Connelly’s tractor is parked at the bottom of her drive, leaving her little room to manoeuvre the van out into the lane. He stands by it, gazing gloomily at a cracked windscreen. Astarte puts the brakes on and rolls down the window.

  ‘That doesn’t look like good news, Mr Connelly. Anything I can do?’ He turns, frowning, to squint at her. He does not look pleased to see her, but then, he never does.

  He shakes his head, and hooks his pipe out of his mouth. ‘No. I’ll take it to be mended. But I have something to discuss with you.’