The Swan Lake

by Lisa Ryan

  ‘Can we talk tomorrow? I’ll miss closing time at the shops if I don’t hurry. You’re welcome to come to my Hallowe’en gathering tomorrow night if you like.’ She wants to be on good terms with him, despite his unpleasant attitude, and is quite pleased with herself for thinking of inviting him over. Perhaps that will help him to thaw towards her a little.

  ‘No, I have no desire to socialise with you, Miss Weaver. ’Tis business. I’ll come in the morning.’

  Astarte drives off, pondering on what business he might have with her. This is the closest he has been to civil since she moved here, and she wonders whether he is accepting that she is here to stay. She shrugs, refusing to allow his dourness to affect her.

  All that night, the owl calls. Sirius whimpers in his sleep and Horace creeps beneath the duvet to curl up against Astarte’s neck. Astarte is aware of nothing. She is cocooned snugly in the bed that takes up most of the small room. She dreams of swimming in a warm ocean, diving into its depths and rising to the surface with a handful of oysters. She wakes to a rhythmic humming sound. The swans are flying overhead, and she lies still, listening to the silence that follows in their wake.

  When Ned Connelly knocks on the door, Astarte has just removed a batch of loaves from the range oven. A pumpkin sits on the table, waiting to be carved into a lantern, and pastry is resting in a bowl close by. Although she followed Siobhan’s recipe carefully, Astarte hasn’t worked out the principles of kneading, and she casts a disconsolate eye towards the bread as she goes to open the door. The dough hasn’t risen at all, and she knows the loaves will be tough and hard all the way through. She invites Ned in, forcing a smile. He nudges an excited Sirius away with his foot and the puppy squeals. Astarte narrows her eyes and picks the puppy up, counting inwardly to twenty to stop herself from kicking the man in retaliation. He stands just inside the door, his hands in his pockets, and Astarte notices that he has left his cap on, a deliberate act of rudeness. She squares her shoulders and half-heartedly offers him tea. He refuses curtly.

  ‘I’ll not waste time in pleasantries. I have work to do,’ he tells her.

  Astarte does not like it that he is blocking the doorway. There is only one entrance to the cottage, and seeing it filled by a burly, scowling man makes her uncomfortable. She suddenly wishes that Flynn would arrive, begging tea and teasing her about her lack of cooking skills; or Siobhan, with her ability to charm everyone in her path. She sets her jaw stubbornly.

  ‘That’s good.’ Her voice is brisk. ‘I have a very busy day ahead, too, so what can I do for you?’

  Ned shifts from one foot to the other, and resumes his original stance. ‘You are aware that the well is my property, are you not? And that you fitted a pump without my permission?’

  Astarte’s knees turn to jelly. She sets her lips in the straight line that Flynn and Jamie know so well, and casually leans her hands on the pine table for extra support.

  ‘You are mistaken, Mr Connelly. The well is on my land,’ she says coolly.

  Ned’s lips curl in a sneer. ‘No, Miss Weaver.’ He puts the emphasis strongly on her single state, as though that makes her less aware of legalities. ‘You have been misinformed. The boundaries of my land take in the well.’ ‘The boundaries are very clear in the deeds to this cottage, Ned, and the well is on my land, though you have unlimited access to water from it for your cattle. If you have a problem with this, I will arrange for a copy to be sent from my solicitor.’ Astarte’s voice is trembling with anger. She stalks across the room to the telephone. ‘In fact, just to ensure that there is no further confusion, I’ll call him right now.’ She glances through her address book for Donal’s number, and picks up the phone.

  ‘Could I speak to Mr Flaherty, please? Astarte Weaver here. Yes, I’ll hold.’ She looks across at Ned, her eyes narrowed. If he thinks he can bully her, he is sadly mistaken. ‘Donal, hello. Yes, I’m fine, thank you. Ah yes, the cottage is wonderful. Are you able to come over tonight for my party? That’s a shame. Well, next time. Now, Donal, I have Ned Connelly here with me.’ She tries to maintain a reasonable tone of voice as she explains why she is calling, even though she’s tempted to hit Ned over the head with one of her loaves of bread. ‘OK. Thanks, Donal, I’d appreciate that.’ She holds the receiver out to Ned, who ambles over. ‘Mr Flaherty would like a word with you,’ she says sweetly. He takes the receiver from her as though it may bite him. Astarte wishes it could.

  He is monosyllabic for a minute or two, then suddenly springs into life. ‘’Tis the wrong deeds you have, Mr O’Flaherty. There was another set. I have a copy of them. And as I was saying to Miss Weaver here, she has no right to fit a pump.’

  Astarte’s cheeks are flaming with rage. Ned listens carefully to Donal, his face turned away from her, taking careful note of the contents of the cottage. ‘Why, sure ’tis a good idea for both of us to speak with you. Tomorrow?’ He looks challengingly at Astarte. She nods tersely. He confirms it, and hands the phone back to her. When she goes to speak to Donal, the line is dead.

  ‘Three o’clock,’ he says, walking past her to the door. ‘Make sure you’re not late.’ The door slams behind him.

  She stands with her mouth open. The nerve of the man! She pulls open the kitchen drawer, finds a bread-knife, and saws savagely at one of the loaves. The knife bends slightly as she leans all of her weight on it. Inside, the loaf is solid, with no air-bubbles in evidence. Cursing, she goes to the door, and throws the bread as far as she can. Sirius runs out after it. From somewhere in the orchard comes a dull thud as it lands.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Eden wipes away the last traces of shaving cream from his chin and splashes his face with cold water. Towel in hand, he looks up, and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The almond eyes that gaze back at him look anxious. Quickly he passes the towel over his face and rubs his hair vigorously.

  Lizzie hammers on the bathroom door. ‘Eden, will you let me in? I’m desperate!’

  He throws the towel into the washing basket and opens the door, stepping aside as she pushes past. She moves to close the door, but he stands in the way, gawping at her in mock-horror. Lizzie is attired as a vampire for Astarte’s gathering, in a skin-tight long black dress. Her brown eyes, so similar to Eden’s, are outlined in kohl, drawn up at the edges, giving her a Gothic-Egyptian appearance. She has straightened her hair so that it flows down past her shoulders like dark satin.

  ‘Go away,’ she giggles. ‘Is there no privacy in this house?’ Eden flicks a lock of her hair, and goes into his bedroom. His battered old jeans and black T-shirt seem boring compared with his exotic-looking sister. He peers into the wardrobe. It contains two more pairs of jeans, a few T-shirts, a dark suit, and a shirt. Eden prefers to travel light.

  Maggie taps on the door to catch his attention, and turns in a circle, posing ostentatiously.

  ‘Very unusual. What are you?’ He eyes her black leggings and long fitted T-shirt. Her make-up matches that of her sister, but her hair is tied up in a ponytail and she has whiskers painted on her face.

  She looks offended. ‘Eden, do I not look like Catwoman? Men!’ she says disgustedly. ‘No finesse. I don’t know why I bothered to ask.’

  Eden examines her dubiously. ‘But it’s Hallowe’en.’

  ‘Yes!’ she cries, throwing up her hands in exasperation. ‘Hallowe’en. Cats. Catwoman. Get the connection? Oh, I give up!’ Maggie turns on her stiletto heels and clatters downstairs. Eden sits on the edge of the bed and picks up his guitar, plays a few chords, then rises and takes it downstairs with him.

  Grace and Fergal are already in their coats, waiting to leave. Eden shrugs his jacket on, and props his guitar by the door. ‘’Tis good to see you’re not in fancy dress,’ he tells them. ‘I thought I’d be the only one after the sight of those two.’

  ‘Ah, go on with you. ’Tis not a fancy dress party. They just wanted an excuse to play.’ Grace smiles at her son. No wonder he looks nervous. This is the first time since he arrived h
ome that he has gone out to see a group of people. Since Astarte mentioned the photograph in the newspaper, so carefully disposed of by Grace, he has barely left the house except to go to Astarte’s van occasionally, under cover of darkness. Linda has been to visit twice, but could not coax him out of his reclusive state. The people at Astarte’s gathering are all old friends, but still, it took powerful persuasion to talk him into going. Grace steps closer, and pats his arm.

  ‘You’ll have a good time,’ she says reassuringly. He nods, unconvinced.

  Shrieks and giggles signal that Lizzie and Maggie are ready at last. Fergal goes to start the car, and they all pile in. Grace notices that Eden has his guitar tucked in beside him. She says nothing, but the cloud of worry that has followed her around lifts and dissipates. This is a good sign, that he feels strong enough to take his music out of the home, she thinks.

  When John and Siobhan arrive, John takes Astarte aside and, looking concerned, mentions that he has heard of her problems with Ned. She shrugs. ‘John, don’t worry about me. He’s a pain in the arse, but I’ve met far worse people than him and I can look after myself. Let’s forget about that old misery and enjoy ourselves.’ John nods and brandishes a bag containing bottles of his lethal wine. Mairie winks.

  ‘I know what to do with that gut-rot of yours, John. We’ll put it in the punch.’

  Siobhan and John help Mairie make fruit punch while Jamie and Sinead finish carving a face into the hollowed-out pumpkin. It looks lopsided but suitably macabre, and Astarte passes Sinead a candle to place inside. She touches a match to it and Flynn switches off the overhead lights, leaving only the lamps and candles to illuminate the room. They are all standing admiring the fearsome glow of the pumpkin when Fergal’s car can be heard pulling up outside.

  Astarte rushes over, exclaiming at the girls’ outfits, and draws them indoors. Eden kisses her cheek as he strolls over to greet the others, trying to look relaxed, determined to just enjoy the evening. Compliments about Astarte’s new home fill the air.

  The room hums with conversation. Mairie is enthroned on the sofa, flanked by Grace and Fergal. Ryan is comfortably ensconced by the window seat with the young people, taking a sip of beer occasionally. Maggie and Lizzie seem to be competing to see who can drink the most punch, and are slightly tipsy. Eden is enjoying himself, chatting happily with John, while Siobhan makes pointed comments about it being a long time since she and John danced together.

  Astarte quietly asks Flynn whether his father is coming. Flynn, who has been watching Eden closely, trying to gauge the nature of his relationship with Astarte, nods his head. ‘Yes, though I didn’t tell him that Mairie was invited too,’ he says with a sheepish grin. ‘Sparks will fly, you mark my words.’

  Astarte shrugs. ‘I couldn’t invite one and not the other. That would be terrible. I like both of them, Flynn, and I refuse to be caught up in their games.’

  He shakes his head, then nudges her and points surreptitiously to the door. Seamus has entered, and stopped to speak to Siobhan, who is flirting shamelessly with him as she offers him a drink. Astarte smiles as she goes over to greet him. She hopes he won’t storm out.

  ‘Seamus, I’m so glad you came! Well, what do you think of your son’s handiwork?’ She waves an arm to encompass the room. Seamus looks around, nodding his approval somewhat reluctantly.

  ‘He’s a better builder than farmer, I’m sad to say.’ His eyes alight on Mairie, seated on the sofa with John and Ryan O’Riley. ‘Oh Jaysus. If I’d known that old bat was coming, I’d have saved my energy and stayed at home!’ he cries, his face turning puce. He turns to leave, and is almost at the door when Mairie’s voice rings out.

  ‘Seamus O’Malley! If you turn your back on your friends, you prove yourself to be the coward I always thought you were. Sure and we can sit at opposite ends of the room. Now stop being a wet blanket, and join Astarte’s party!’

  Seamus stops and looks at Flynn. ‘Did she call me a wet blanket?’ he asks belligerently.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Flynn says mildly. ‘And a coward, as well.’ Astarte digs him in the ribs, and frowns. He winks at her surreptitiously.

  Seamus bristles. ‘I’ll not be called a coward. ’Tis right that she’s here, Astarte.’ He raises his voice for everyone to hear. ‘Well, they say that the witches are abroad at Hallowe’en, and you have your very own, flown here on her broomstick.’

  Over on the sofa, Mairie cackles. ‘Give him another drink to cheer him up, but keep him away from my home brew, or he might turn green and disappear in a puff of smoke.’

  As Seamus grudgingly allows Siobhan to top up his glass, Flynn whispers in Astarte’s ear, ‘She’s a clever woman, is Mairie.’

  Astarte grins at him, and whispers back, ‘We have our little ways.’

  Eden feels blissfully relaxed. He’s enjoying the evening far more than he expected to. He is welcomed warmly, with no fuss or questions, as though he has never left Ireland, and has always been just one of the community. The sense of ease that he was so certain would never return, rises to the surface, and he drinks John’s home-brewed wine, and joins in with the others, bobbing for apples in the bowl of water that Astarte put by the sink. He feels like a child again; carefree, sure of his place in the world. Grace, from her vantage point on the sofa, watches with satisfaction. She knew it would do him good to come.

  ‘ I would love to hear you sing, Eden,’ sighs Sinead.

  Eden looks momentarily petrified. Then he smiles shyly. ‘I’ll never play onstage again, Sinead. But my guitar is in the car.’

  ‘Oh, please fetch it! Please! Just for me.’ Sinead’s pleading look makes him ignore the sudden racing of his heart. Swiftly, while he still has courage, he strides out to the car, to return with his guitar.

  The round of applause that greets him hurls him briefly into terror. Astarte takes his arm and smiles deep into his eyes. His palms prickle with sweat, but he smiles back tremulously and takes a deep breath. He is with friends here. Perching on the window seat, he tunes the guitar, and looks over at Astarte, who stands with one hand on her heart, astounded that he is willing to sing. ‘This is for you,’ he tells her. Astarte’s eyes widen, and soft ‘Ahhhhs’ echo around the room. Flynn tenses.

  Closing his eyes, Eden picks out the first notes, and the room goes quiet. His voice, hesitant at first, gathers in richness and strength. Astarte recognises the first few lines as those she had heard him sing on that morning by the lake when they were photographed.

  There’s something about you,

  That touches me deeply,

  It’s more than the grace of your smile

  Or the lights that reflect from your hair

  And I could write poetry,

  It would be so simple,

  The colours around you are beautiful,

  I just raised my eyes and you were there

  Your voice seemed an echo,

  That shivered within me,

  A resonant harmony,

  That moved me in symmetry

  And I wanted to tell you,

  That I’d like to love you,

  If just for one moment,

  If just for one day

  Eden’s voice soars, grainy and languid, as he repeats the verse and refrain and hums the final line once more, playing a riff that fades into silence, before opening his eyes and setting his guitar against the wall. There is a hush, followed by a burst of clapping and cries for more. Eden smiles, but shakes his head.

  ‘Another time, perhaps. This is Astarte’s evening.’ He sounds slightly shaky, but picks up his glass of wine and holds it aloft. ‘To Astarte and her new home. May she be truly happy here!’ They all echo his words, and cheer.

  Astarte’s eyes fill with tears. She’s certain that her heart will burst with happiness. ‘And to all of you, true friends! Thank you for everything you’ve done for me!’ she cries, looking around the room at everyone as she takes a sip of wine. She weaves through the knot of people to hug Eden. He holds her close for a long
moment. ‘That was so beautiful. I can’t thank you enough,’ she tells him quietly.

  ‘Be happy,’ he whispers. She nods, dashing a hand across her eyes.

  Across the room, Sinead glances at Flynn. He is looking on, his face a mask. He turns to leave, and she steps quickly over and takes his arm.

  ‘Flynn, I need to ask your advice about the hen coop,’ she gabbles. There is no real problem with the coop, but she can’t think of anything else to say that might catch his attention. He stops by the door, and allows her to lead him back into the throng. His eyes seek out Astarte, who is talking to Seamus, deftly brushing off compliments. Eden is deep in conversation with Jamie on the window-seat.

  The evening settles into a natural rhythm. Seamus and Mairie take care to avoid each other, Sirius begs titbits from all the guests and revels in the attention. Ryan stays reluctantly sober under Siobhan’s watchful eye, though she knows that as soon as he is home he will open the whiskey bottle. Lizzie and Maggie attempt to entertain everyone with a dance, to prove that Eden is not the only talented one in the family, but soon give up when Lizzie’s fitted dress restricts her movements. Instead, they bemoan the lack of eligible men, though Lizzie does cast her eyes in Flynn’s direction several times.

  When the guests are preparing to leave, Sinead and Jamie offer to stay and help with the clearing up. Flynn, glad of an excuse to stay on for a while longer, rolls up his sleeves and runs water into the sink. Astarte brandishes a tea-towel, pretending to be a matador. She feels wide awake, buoyed up, and knows it will be impossible to sleep.

  ‘’Twas good to hear Eden sing. And how sweet that he wrote a song for you. Astarte, you are so lucky,’ Sinead comments, as she pushes furniture back where it belongs. With several glasses of wine making her head spin, she has already forgotten Flynn’s reaction earlier.

  Flynn bristles. ‘Ah, yes, you made a conquest there, Astarte. The great star all the women wet their knickers over, who can’t even get his own act together.’