The Swan Lake

by Lisa Ryan

  ‘What the hell do you know? You don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about!’ Astarte swipes him hard on the arm with the tea-towel.

  Jamie and Sinead look at each other. ‘Time to take you home,’ Jamie says loudly. ‘Great party. See you soon!’ he says to Astarte as he helps Sinead into her coat. The door closes quietly behind them.

  ‘Huh! I have no idea, have I? Well then, if Eden McDonagh and myself were both in trouble, who would you throw the line to?’ Flynn scratches his chin, his eyes glinting angrily. ‘Ah now, let me guess.’ He points his forefinger upwards as though testing for draughts. ‘’Twould be Eden. No doubt of that.’

  Astarte throws the dishcloth at him. ‘That’s not fair! You stupid, stupid man. You’re jealous of a friendship. I pity any woman crazy enough to get involved with you.’ She turns her back on him to put the dishes in the sink, carefully, even though she wants to take each one and throw it at him. Behind her, Flynn is silent. The air in the room fizzes, making the hair on the back of their necks stand up. Sparks could ignite here, and incinerate everything for miles around. Astarte boils inside. The reply she is expecting does not come. Slowly she turns around.

  Flynn’s face is white, stricken. A minute ticks by as they stare at each other. Flynn passes the back of his hand across his forehead and steps back, shaking his head. The cottage goes still; it seems to hold its breath. Even the puppy, from his position on the sofa, stops snuffling in his sleep.

  ‘I’m sorry, Astarte. I had no right …’

  Astarte holds up a hand to silence him. ‘Forget it. Why can’t we just be friends?’ she asks sadly.

  Flynn takes a deep breath. ‘Because there’s something more between us, and you’re too busy denying it to give it credence.’ His voice is soft, resigned.

  ‘There is not. Flynn, we’re friends. We have fun together when we’re not arguing.’ Astarte goes to sit down at the table, the washing-up forgotten. She kicks another chair out, and looks askance at him. He sits opposite her and leans back. Astarte reaches for the open bottle of wine before her, changes her mind, and withdraws her hand. A candle in the fireplace gutters and goes out, filling the room with the smell of burned wax. Horace jumps up on her lap, and kneads her legs with his paws, purring loudly. Absently, Astarte strokes him.

  Flynn raises an eyebrow. ‘There you have it. You’re in denial.’ He laughs then, and it breaks the tension. ‘You’re a pig-headed woman, Astarte.’

  ‘And you’re living in a dream world, Flynn.’ Astarte smiles and stretches out her hand. ‘Friends again?’

  Flynn leans forward to take her hand in his own and turns it over, palm up, examining the fine lines ingrained with specks of peat dust that no soap can wash away. He runs his fingers gently over hers, tracing their outlines, and a bolt of electricity runs up her arm and into her chest. Quickly she withdraws her hand and stands up, displacing Horace.

  ‘How about I beat you at chess?’ she suggests, walking purposefully to the cupboard to find the chess set. When Flynn does not answer, she looks over her shoulder at him. His elbows rest on the table, hands cupping his face as he watches her wistfully. She brings the board over and sets up the pieces, not looking at him.

  ‘Life is not a competition, Astarte. There are no winners or losers. Only players.’

  A flush rises up from Astarte’s neck, and stains her cheeks. She stops in her tracks, suddenly feeling like an errant child.

  Flynn stretches, raising his arms high above his head, and smiles gently at her. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘Let’s play the game.’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  In the solicitor’s office Astarte sits straight-backed, trying not to glare at Ned Connelly’s smug expression as he holds out an ancient, dog-eared set of deeds to Donal. Twirling the end of his moustache around his forefinger, Donal examines the papers closely. Finally he looks up.

  ‘The cottage and land have been sold twice since these deeds were relevant. I can see why you might be confused.’ He turns the papers so that the boundary map is visible to Astarte and Ned, and traces his finger over the lines. ‘If you look here, you will see that on this old map the boundary takes a detour to encompass the well, instead of following a straighter line around the natural border made by the hedges.’ Astarte concentrates on it. The map looks as though a chunk has been taken out, and the lines do indeed cut the well away from her land.

  She glances at Ned, dismayed. He looks pleased with himself. Donal pulls out Astarte’s deeds, and shows them how the boundary delineation now follows the line of the hedges. The cut-out section around the well is no longer there, and the well is now firmly shown as being on her land. She heaves a sigh of relief. Ned scowls and leans forward to slam his hand down on the papers.

  ‘When that land was first sold by my father, long before Miss Weaver bought it, my boundary-line took it in. Someone has changed it without consulting me. Therefore the well is still on my land,’ he roars.

  Donal clears his throat. He’s tired of so many petty squabbles over land rights, but a well is a vital asset, especially where there is a dwelling. And Donal is privy to information that he would prefer not to disclose. He knows that Ned Connelly’s father had sanctioned the border change when he sold that two acres of land with the ruined cottage. He remembers it well, because it is unusual for farmers to allow the borders to be redefined if that could be to their detriment. Donal wonders how he can clarify the situation without causing too much offence. It would be difficult for him to explain tactfully that the older (and now deceased) Connelly sold the land to his mistress without the knowledge of his wife, who merely thought that the other woman was going to be a neighbour. For some reason, perhaps a quarrel, she never moved in there, and the place slid into further disrepair and became just another parcel of her estate after she died. He does not intend to volunteer that information, and sits back, placing both hands on the desk, as he looks penetratingly at Ned and Astarte. They both stare back, waiting.

  Rising to his feet, Donal opens a filing cabinet and takes out a sheaf of papers that are yellow with age. A musty smell fills the room, and he sneezes. He brings it back to the desk.

  ‘Here you are. I checked these as soon as I heard that the cottage was up for sale. You’ll see that they’re in order. I’m surprised you didn’t know of them,’ he tells Ned, laying the papers out carefully. Astarte and Ned lean forward. The border map is identical to the one that is shown on Astarte’s deed. Ned’s face reddens, and Astarte hopes that he will not have a coronary. The thought of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on this man appals her. Instead, he stands up and stalks out of the office without saying a word.

  Astarte looks at Donal. ‘Thank you,’ she says simply. He smiles.

  ‘No trouble at all,’ he tells her.

  Relieved, she heads straight for home.

  Siobhan taps on the door just as Astarte is taking her coat off while being ecstatically greeted by Sirius. She sets out mugs, chattering about the party while Astarte makes tea. ‘Now, I want to hear all about you and Flynn. Jamie mentioned a small disagreement last night. What a shame – it was such a grand evening and all, and a real treat to hear Eden sing again.’

  Astarte shrugs. Flynn’s comment about her competitiveness has struck a nerve, and it galls her to acknowledge that he could be right. She jokes that theirs is a fiery friendship, and that it was nothing to worry about. Siobhan carries the mugs to the sofa and settles herself into it, sighing with pleasure as she sinks into the soft, plump cushions.

  The puppy curls up on Astarte’s lap, gives a small grunt, and falls asleep. She wraps her arms around him, delighting in the softness of his fur.

  Siobhan stretches her legs before her, and casts a sly sideways glance at Astarte. ‘Seems to me that emotions run high between the two of you. He’s a good man, Astarte. And with a body to die for.’ She raises her eyebrows and squints suggestively.

  ‘Then you’re welcome to him, Siobhan,’ Astarte snaps, then regrets it. She touch
es Siobhan’s arm. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude. I flare up too easily sometimes. But there’s nothing going on between us, and I wish people would leave off discussing my love life, or rather, my chosen,’ she puts heavy emphasis on the word, ‘lack of it. It drives me up the wall. Even Flynn seems to be under the impression that I’m attracted to him, the arrogant sod.’ She laughs ruefully. ‘He couldn’t be more wrong.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Siobhan murmurs, non-committal.

  ‘Don’t you go ‘hmm’-ing me. I’m not long out of a relationship. The last thing I want, or need, is to jump into the pit again. Now, do you want more tea?’ She stands up, cradling Sirius against her shoulder like a baby. He whimpers and stirs, his eyes tightly closed, and snuggles against her as she carries him across to the range. ‘But, Siobhan, if you want to hear some real gossip, I’ve had quite a run-in with Ned Connelly.’

  Siobhan sits bolt upright. ‘Indeed? Do tell all!’ Her eager expression is comical, and her subsequent diatribe against Ned makes Astarte feel much better.

  The afternoon slides into evening, and Siobhan leaps up with a gasp when she realises that it is fully dark outside. ‘They’ll be sending out a search party for me.’ She hugs Astarte at the door. ‘Now you stay away from bullying farmers, do you hear?’

  Astarte grins. ‘Don’t worry. If he comes around again, I’ll set my dog on him.’

  Astarte sings to herself as she chops vegetables and prepares a rich soup to simmer on the range. She brings in more fuel and stokes up the range and the fire, lights the lamp and some candles, then sits contentedly with Sirius on her lap, watching the flames.

  Horace springs in through the window and jumps lightly into Astarte’s lap beside Sirius, kneading and purring. Sirius opens one eye, winks at the feline, and goes back to sleep again. Horace, with an air of superiority, settles himself in the remaining space on Astarte’s lap and proceeds to wash himself, paying careful attention to his ears.

  Footsteps can be heard outside. She waits for a knock on the door and when that doesn’t come, moves the animals onto the sofa and goes to look outside.

  ‘Hello!’ she calls. ‘Who’s there?’ Only the hooting of an owl answers her. Frowning, Astarte locks the door and checks that the bolt is across.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  All night long the rain batters against the windows, hurled across the countryside by the high winds that bend the trees, shaking the last remaining leaves free to go flying through the air like dancers. The surface of the lake churns into choppy waves that make for an uncomfortable resting place for the swans. They paddle to the edge and take shelter among the reeds.

  Astarte, unable to sleep, gets up to find a book and reads for a while until she slides gratefully into oblivion. Early in the morning the wind drops to a soft whistle.

  The harsh roar of Ned’s tractor wakes her, and she lies listening to the downpour, feeling safe and secure, gazing fondly at the animals sprawled across each other beside her. After a while she stretches and slips out from beneath the duvet to run a bath, revelling in the luxury of instantly hot water. She stokes the range, cleans out the fire and rekindles it, and takes her bath while the kettle comes slowly to the boil. Today she plans to go to Ennis for supplies, and even the rain cannot dampen her spirits.

  The sky is iron-grey, still shedding its load, when she takes Sirius outside. He scrambles to escape back into the cottage. Astarte catches him and holds him up, looking at him sternly.

  ‘Surely you’re not afraid of a bit of wet grass, you rascal! Do your business and then you can come inside for breakfast.’ Reluctantly he sniffs around, and squats. She steps aside to allow him back indoors, and stands at the entrance, peering through the rain at her van, concerned that the wheels won’t catch hold in the thick mud, mentally noting the need for more gravel or tarmac on the driveway.

  Her eyes drift towards the gate, and the lake. The view is obscured by Ned’s tractor, and Astarte frowns. It is parked directly across the bottom of her drive, blocking her exit. She looks around. Ned is nowhere to be seen, and she curses him loudly. Until he returns, she is trapped on her land, unless she elects to walk two miles each way through the rain to the nearest village shop for milk and bread. Slamming the door behind her, she goes to towel her hair dry and make breakfast.

  The day wears into afternoon. The rain continues, and Ned’s tractor remains stubbornly in place. Astarte busies herself around the cottage, chafing, drinking black coffee when the milk runs out, listening for the tell-tale splutter that signals Ned’s departure. By the evening she is fuming.

  A knock on the door brings a flood of relief, supplanted once again by fury. She throws the door open, ready for battle. Flynn, his raincoat dripping, takes a step backwards and raises his hands.

  ‘Whoa!’ he tells her, ‘I’ve changed my mind! I’m leaving.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Flynn. I thought you were Ned Connelly.’

  Flynn looks concerned. ‘Ned? His tractor’s outside. Hey, calm yourself. What’s happened?’

  ‘He’s blocked me in all day. He tried to trick me out of my well, but Donal stopped him, and now I’ve been stuck here all day, waiting for him to move it. I couldn’t even go out for milk and bread. And someone’s been walking around my cottage at night. I’m sure it’s him. He hates me, Flynn!’

  Flynn takes a step forward. The rain flattens his hair to his head, and runs down his coat in dark shiny tracks. ‘Astarte, will you invite me in and tell me what’s going on? What’s this about the well? And don’t you go regretting moving here. It was probably wildlife sniffing around that you heard.’

  To his consternation, she bursts into tears as she stands back to let him inside and closes the door after him. He quickly removes his coat and throws it over the radiator before stepping forward to take her hand and lead her further into the kitchen. With his free hand, he sweeps his hair out of his eyes and looks closely at her.

  ‘I can’t even offer you tea,’ she sobs. ‘No milk.’

  ‘I’m wet enough to not worry about dehydration, Astarte. But there’s a bottle of wine over there. Sit down and open it.’ He picks it up and looks around for the corkscrew. Sniffing loudly, Astarte opens a drawer and rifles through it, passing the corkscrew to Flynn. He opens the bottle and hands it to her.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about a glass. Just take a drink,’ he tells her. Astarte smiles damply and retrieves two glasses from the cupboard. They sit side by side on the rug in front of the fire. Flynn stretches his legs out, watching the steam rise from his soaked jeans, while Astarte tells him of the scene at Donal’s office. He refills her glass and stands up. ‘Can I use your phone?’ he asks. She nods, and Flynn dials a number.

  His voice is pleasant but firm. ‘Ned, ’tis Flynn O’Malley here. There’s a slight problem. Your tractor is blocking Astarte’s driveway, and it’s inconveniencing her. Yes. Could you come and move it now, please? Well, to be sure, if it’s broken down, I can tow it away. I’m here right now, and I have my van. It’s no trouble at all.’

  At the fireside, Astarte gives a tiny snort. Flynn winks at her. Sirius wakes and clambers on to Astarte’s lap to stand on his hind legs and lick her face. She ruffles his soft fur, suddenly feeling much better.

  ‘That’s great. Thank you, Ned. And if you have any more problems with that tractor, be sure to call me. I can be there in five minutes.’ Flynn replaces the receiver and grins at Astarte. ‘He’ll be straight down to move it. He tried to pretend it had broken down, but he doesn’t want my help.’ He shakes his head. ‘Scoundrel that he is, taking advantage of a woman. Have you pen and paper, Astarte?’ He scribbles down Ned’s telephone number and places it by the phone. ‘Just in case you have any further trouble. Astarte, you should have called me.’

  She shrugs. ‘I’m not used to knights in wet raincoats coming to the rescue,’ she says with a wry smile. ‘Thanks, Flynn.’

  Waving the bottle at him, she reaches over to refill his glass. His clothes give off a faint scent of rain a
nd wood-chippings, with a deeper, more subtle scent of spices and warm flesh. Quickly she leans back and picks up her glass.

  ‘Now, let me tell you all about the new addition to my menagerie that Siobhan and I are collecting tomorrow.’

  Ned’s tractor has gone when Flynn leaves. Astarte watches him from the doorway until he has vanished into the darkness. With a small sigh, she takes Sirius outside and waits while he miserably snuffles around. The rain has eased to a gentle patter, and she listens to the sounds of the night. Somewhere in the distance a fox barks and an owl calls in answer. A rhythmic dripping noise signals that her roof guttering is in good working order. Astarte clicks her fingers to the beat until Sirius bounces through the long grass and jumps up, muddying her with his paws. She stoops to gather him in her arms, laughing as he tries to shake himself to lose the beads of water that cling to his coat. ‘Come on, little bear. It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow.’

  Ryan O’Riley tips back his head to receive the last few drops in his whiskey bottle. His savings are running low, and he tries not to think about what this could lead to. Cathy cleared out the joint bank account when she left, and Ryan is hardly bothering to buy food nowadays. Forcing himself upright, he ambles unsteadily into the kitchen and opens the cupboard doors. Two eggs and a small chunk of green-edged cheese keep company with an unopened bottle of whiskey. Other than that, the cupboards are bare. He stands looking at them for a moment, turns away, and then changes his mind. Ryan has not eaten since Astarte’s party, and his stomach is clenched in a knot of pain. He wishes he had taken up John’s offer of lunch yesterday when he bumped into him in Ennis.

  With an effort of will he ignores the bottle and takes the eggs out. He cracks one into a bowl and steps back, retching at the smell. Quickly he empties the bowl into the empty trash bin, and throws the other egg and the cheese in after it. He reaches for the whiskey bottle and unscrews the cap.