The Swan Lake

by Lisa Ryan

  The telephone rings. Ryan watches it suspiciously, his eyes narrowed. He has had few calls lately. His hand shakes slightly as he cautiously lifts the receiver and puts it to his ear.

  ‘Da? Are you there?’

  Ryan’s face splits into a smile. ‘Mark! How are you?’ He bites back the usual appendix of ‘my son.’ His love for Mark is untainted by Cathy’s revelation, but still, he cannot make himself say those words. A pain shoots through his stomach, and he doubles over, straightening gradually as it spreads outwards and relinquishes its stranglehold. Shakily he puts the bottle of whiskey to his lips and takes a small sip.

  The contact with Mark has been sparse since he moved to Limerick. The distance is not far; an hour’s leisurely drive at most along the winding country lanes. But somehow he never seems to go there, and Mark’s adult life is too filled with work and friends for him to find the time to come home. Ryan has a sneaking suspicion that he sees more of Cathy and Dermott, and the thought of this brings back the pain in his stomach. It makes him gasp, and he quickly covers the sound with a cough, hoping that Mark, who is talking animatedly about a new girlfriend, will not notice.

  ‘Are you all right, Da?’ Mark sounds worried, his love life temporarily forgotten.

  Ryan grunts and takes a long swallow of whiskey. ‘Just a bit of a bug,’ he says casually. ‘You know what it’s like working with the sick all day. They’re generous with their coughs and sneezes.’ Mark laughs lightly. He has no idea that Ryan is no longer working, and Ryan prefers to keep up the pretence.

  ‘Well, you chose that with your eyes wide open, did you not?’ Ryan can hear the smile in his voice. Mark always teased him about his dedication. He brings the conversation to a close, making excuses about visiting a patient. When he replaces the receiver, he stands staring into space for a while. Even another slug of whiskey does not anaesthetise the burning in his stomach. He returns to his chair, not bothering to stoke up the fire, and cradles the bottle as if it were a baby.

  Astarte can smell the pig farm before she and Siobhan have turned the corner that precedes the entrance to it. She turns to Siobhan. ‘I thought pigs were supposed to be clean,’ she says, wrinkling her nose. Siobhan waves a hand dismissively, keeping the steering wheel steady with the other as she pulls up to park the car.

  ‘They are. But get any group of animals together, and they stink. Mind you, so do people. Next time you go in a pub, take a deep breath as you walk through. Human stench. Appalling. I don’t know why we gather together, really.’ She grins at Astarte as she puts the handbrake on. ‘Men are the worst,’ she says confidingly. ‘Locker rooms. Ugh! The tribal aroma. You only have to take a whiff of a pair of worn socks to yearn for a deserted island.’ She removes the keys and opens the door. ‘Are you sure about this?’ She looks quizzically at Astarte.

  ‘I’m totally, absolutely sure that I’m sure,’ Astarte trills, swinging her legs out of the car door. ‘Pigs are sweet. Pigs are lovely.’

  ‘Pigs are dinner.’

  ‘Yes, and that too, Siobhan.’ Astarte follows her towards the large old farmhouse that squats comfortably in the hollow of the valley. The farmer, whose name Astarte misses in her excitement, makes it clear from his expression that he considers her to be quite mad, but leads the way to a sow that is being used as a climbing frame by a dozen piglets. Astarte observes them carefully. ‘I want a female,’ she tells the farmer, ignoring his curious glances.

  He climbs over the low fence, picks up a tiny pink piglet with black markings, and hands it over to her. It wriggles in her arms, squealing. The sow raises her head as though to go to its defence, only to sink back. Astarte feels sorry for her. The mother looks exhausted, and no wonder. She feels a surge of protectiveness towards the creature that struggles in her arms, and strokes its nose, crooning softly. The piglet quietens. Astarte looks at the farmer. ‘How much do I owe you?’ she asks. Money changes hands. She and Siobhan walk to the car and drive off, the piglet held tightly in Astarte’s arms.

  ‘Oh look!’ she cries. ‘Those dark patches look just like petals. I’m going to call her Daisy. Hello, Daisy. You’re going to love your new home. Siobhan, isn’t she sweet?’

  Siobhan glances sideways. ‘Very sweet. Couldn’t you just eat her up with a good helping of apple sauce?’ she says dryly. Astarte looks offended.

  ‘Stop it!’ she says firmly. ‘I know what pigs are for. I just think she’s gorgeous. Look at her dear little trotters. And that cute little snout.’

  Siobhan pulls in to the side of the road to allow a tractor to pass. ‘You’ll be able to make good soup with those trotters. I’ll give you the recipe.’ She shifts gears and drives on. Astarte talks softly to the pig, pointedly ignoring her friend.

  The car stops with a jolt. They both lurch forward in their seats, slamming backwards a millisecond later. The pig squeals loudly where Astarte has clutched her tightly around the belly. ‘What …?’ Astarte shouts. Siobhan, breathless with shock, points to the road as she opens the car door. The body of a man lies there, his coat billowing upwards over his head. Siobhan runs forward as Astarte throws her door open, thrusts the piglet inside, and races to the prone figure.

  Siobhan gently pulls the coat down. ‘Oh, sweet mother of God. It’s Ryan.’

  Chapter Thirty-five

  ‘Did we hit him?’ Astarte asks anxiously, feeling for a pulse. She opens Ryan’s eyes and peers into them. His eyelids flicker.

  ‘No! No, he was already there. I stopped just in time. Is anything broken? Is he badly hurt?’ Siobhan strokes Ryan’s face gently. ‘Ryan, can you hear me?’

  He groans and attempts to sit up. Astarte tells him to lie quietly while she checks for injuries. Siobhan is close to hysteria. ‘Ryan, what happened? Were you knocked down by a car?’

  Ryan shakes his head slowly, and winces. ‘Ah, no,’ he slurs. ‘I lost my balance, that’s all. I’ll be fine now. Just you help me to my feet and I’ll be on my way home.’

  Siobhan’s mouth tightens. ‘You’ve been on that bloody whiskey again, have you not? Don’t you dare try and deny it. The smell of you is enough to make a grown man lose his breakfast. Jaysus, you could have been squashed flat by a car!’

  The women help him up and half carry him to the car. A pantomime ensues when they open the back door and the piglet tries to scramble over the front seat and escape. Between them, they manage to bundle Ryan in and close the door. Another five minutes passes as they try to slip in through the front doors without allowing the piglet out. Eventually they sit back, exhausted and bedraggled. Siobhan switches the ignition on and places her hands on the wheel.

  ‘We’d better bring him to my place,’ she says. ‘Jaysus, this is not a good turn that the day has taken. Jamie and Sinead are cooking John and myself a romantic meal tonight. Candles, wine, the whole caboodle. They decided it was time we had a treat.’

  Astarte bites her lip. ‘We’ll take him to my cottage,’ she says, her heart sinking. She wants to settle the piglet in and spend the evening reading by the fire, with music playing softly in the background. She sighs, and meets Siobhan’s eye. ‘My cottage. I insist.’

  Sprawled across the back seat, Ryan is oblivious to the conversation. Words flow over him like water. They hold no meaning, but the sound is soothing, and he drifts until Astarte touches his shoulder and tells him to come inside. His eyes open blearily, and he stares at her, puzzled.

  ‘You have a pig in your arms,’ he says. ‘Am I dreaming?’

  ‘No, you are not,’ Astarte tells him. ‘This is Daisy.’ She nods at the pig.

  Ryan’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline. ‘Daisy. A pig called Daisy.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Astarte says in a tone that brooks no further discussion. The women help Ryan indoors, where they are greeted ecstatically by Sirius and Horace until they see the strange animal in her arms. Sirius barks excitedly, and runs around in circles. Horace, his tail in the air and fur bristling, hisses and stalks away in disgust, to climb through the
open window and make a pointed but dignified exit. Ryan, supported by a woman on each side, is dumped on the sofa. Siobhan takes Astarte by the arm and walks with her to the door.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ she murmurs. ‘I feel terrible about you having to deal with him.’

  Astarte nudges her through the door. ‘Go home and enjoy your evening. He’ll be fine. I’ll sober him up, and take him home later.’ She nods towards the car. ‘Go on. And thanks for taking me to collect Daisy.’

  ‘Call me if you need me.’ Siobhan is reluctant to leave. Astarte nods assent, and gives her friend a small push.

  ‘Certainly not. Good grief, I’ve had far worse than this to deal with. Don’t worry. Just go and have fun.’ She closes the door firmly behind Siobhan, and stands still for a moment, then turns, a bright smile fixed on her face.

  ‘Ryan, you and I both need some good, strong coffee,’ she tells him. He looks plaintively at her, and she reflects that he certainly is a sorry sight. His clothes are streaked with mud, and his bloodshot eyes threaten to overflow with tears. Astarte places the kettle on the range and goes to him. ‘Let’s get this coat off you, shall we?’ Her voice is soft and, like a child, he struggles to help her remove his coat. Astarte, the piglet still in her arms, kneels down to stoke up the fire. When she puts Daisy on the floor, the pig totters a little, runs squealing around the room, attempting to escape from a curious Sirius, then gives up and lies on her side by the fire. After sniffing at her, Sirius lies beside her, his back touching hers. Astarte shakes her head in amazement and makes coffee, glancing over at Ryan as he gazes unseeingly into the flames. She brings the mugs over and places one in his hands before sitting beside him.

  He stares at her, trying hard to focus. ‘’Twas the phone,’ he mutters.

  Astarte frowns slightly. ‘The phone’s not ringing, Ryan.’ She keeps her voice low and soothing. ‘Are you feeling OK? Should I call a doctor?’

  ‘I am a doctor,’ he announces huffily, shaking his head firmly. ‘No, I’ve no need of a doctor. Bejaysus, what’s in this?’ He grimaces as he takes another sip of the coffee. ‘Is there a whole jar in here?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Astarte grins. She watches Ryan as he drinks, then, taking pity on him, fetches a pint of water as a chaser. He downs it quickly and leans his head back, staring up at the ceiling. Without meeting her eyes, he says quietly, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Astarte leans back, mirroring his position. ‘Can I help in any way, Ryan?’ she asks gently.

  He looks sideways at her. ‘You’re a good girl, and kind, but there’s no help to be had.’

  ‘There’s always something.’ Astarte takes in Ryan’s ravaged face and dirt-stained clothes, and shifts her gaze towards the fireplace, thinking intently. Her glance takes in the sleeping dog and piglet, and inwardly she marvels at the acceptance of the very young, and the incongruity of the scene. Ryan drinks for a reason, she is sure of that. Siobhan told her that his wife left him, but from what Astarte has heard of Ryan’s reputation before that happened, he seemed to have been forged of stronger stuff. She can’t imagine why he seems to be hell-bent on a path to self-destruction.

  She turns her head towards Ryan. He is watching her, more sober now. The sorrow in his eyes makes her want to weep; to gather him in her arms like a child, and tell him that everything will work out. ‘More coffee?’ she asks. He shudders. She refills his glass of water, and watches him drink.

  ‘Why did you think the phone rang?’ she asks quietly.

  He puts the empty glass carefully on the floor beside him. ‘I didn’t think it rang. ’Twas not your phone that I meant. I had a phone call earlier that upset me, and foolishly I drank more than was good for me, and went out for fresh air.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  Ryan shakes his head slowly. ‘I do not. ’Tis of no account to anyone but myself, and I’ll not bore you with the tale.’ Astarte smiles gently at him. Sirius stretches and trots across to clamber on to her knee. Daisy, having never before experienced the warmth of a fire, stays where she is, her nose twitching blissfully.

  ‘We all have tales to tell, and often they’re only boring to ourselves.’ Astarte strokes the puppy’s ears, and smiles when he suddenly jumps up to lick her face. She wipes her wet cheek with the back of her hand. ‘I’m not going to ask you to tell me anything. But if you ever want someone to talk to, you know where I am. Now, you need some rest. Let me take you home. You’ll feel better after a night’s sleep.’

  Slowly, he rises to his feet, still a little unsteady. He seems much older than his years, and he is obviously not taking care of herself. Astarte’s heart goes out to him. On the way to the door she pauses to slip a box of eggs and pack of bacon (suddenly the thought of eating it makes her feel quite queasy), and the remainder of her loaf of bread into a polythene carrier bag. She helps him into his coat, and pats his thin shoulders. ‘You’re welcome here any time,’ she tells him. His smile is one of genuine surprise and delight. She stands for a moment with her hands on his shoulders, then plants a swift kiss on his cheek before guiding him to the van.

  Outside his home Ryan stands awkwardly, hesitant. He has not invited anyone inside since Cathy left. He is ashamed of the contrast between the empty shell that he now inhabits, and the cosy home that was always open to visitors in the old days. Astarte hands the carrier bag to him. ‘You’ll need a cooked breakfast,’ she says with a smile.

  Ryan looks as though he may cry. ‘Thank you, Astarte. I appreciate your kindness.’

  ‘That’s what friends are for,’ Astarte replies lightly. She waves from the van window, and watches him go inside. As he turns on the light, before the door closes behind him, Astarte catches a glimpse of an empty room. She presses her lips together, and drives home. Some of his sorrow has rubbed off on her. Even the pale moon peeping through the clouds, and the shimmering outlines of the swans sailing calmly across the centre of the lake, cannot lift her spirits. The night seems infused with heartbreak.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Winter comes. In the mornings the branches of the trees are clothed in a thin veil of frost that sparkles in the weak sunlight. The ground is white and hard, slippery underfoot. Eden stands beneath his favourite willow tree, watching the still surface of the lake. Appearances are deceptive, he knows. Beneath that layer of apparent calm, pike patrol the depths and microscopic creatures inhabit private worlds, unaware that other universes exist beyond their own. Eden wonders whether the earth is just another tiny world encompassed within something greater, which in turn is small and insignificant compared with yet larger universes. He thinks of a set of Russian dolls that Grace treasures; a long-ago birthday gift from her children, in the halcyon days before his fame was even a seemingly unattainable fantasy. The dolls still fascinate him; each a perfect replica of the others, fitting close in a gradation of sizes. They remind him of the steady evolution of each human being through life; the child contained within the adolescent, the lover, the parent, the grandparent; each expanding in experience, and hopefully wisdom, as they move into the next stage. He smiles to himself, shaking his head wryly. Eden knows that he gets carried away on flights of fancy, but sometimes he just can’t help it.

  His hands are cold, and he pushes them deep inside his coat pockets. The freedom of being outside in the mid-morning sun is exhilarating. The interest of the press has waned. New dramas have taken over, and the attention is no longer centred on him. For that, he is immensely grateful. Lately the panic attacks have eased. He can walk through the countryside without fear, retracing the paths of his childhood. He can sit in a bar in Ennis and chat with the old men who never seem to have a home to go to. He can ignore the curious looks of passers-by, or meet them with a small smile, and go on his way, undisturbed. Eden, for the first time in several years, is at peace with himself.

  A puddle close by is patterned with frost. Eden gazes at it, carefully observing the cracks that scar its surface, striating out across the delicate lacework that
resembles a captured snowflake. He looks up at the turquoise emptiness of the sky. His breath comes out as a fine white mist, creating clouds that obscure the clarity of the morning. He takes a deep breath, feeling the cold entering his lungs, and exhales, blowing his breath into the air in small puffs of white.

  After a while, he realises that he is shivering. He crosses his arms over his chest, slapping them to move his circulation, and turns to walk to Astarte’s cottage. If she is home, he can beg a cup of tea and congenial company.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Astarte gazes in satisfaction at the two loaves cooling on the kitchen table. She picks one up and turns it over to tap the base, revelling in the hollow sound. Her bread-making skills are improving, thanks to lessons from Siobhan. She breathes in the fragrance that pervades the room, and sighs with pleasure.

  A knock at the door sends Sirius into a frenzy of barking. Pointing a finger at him until he sits, yipping with excitement, Astarte opens the door, her face lighting up at the sight of Eden. ‘Perfect timing!’ she cries, drawing him inside to hug him. ‘God, you’re frozen! Come into the warm. And look, I’ve just baked some bread.’

  Eden, his arm still around her shoulders, eyes the loaves warily. Astarte laughs, and Sirius takes advantage of her distraction to bound forwards to greet the visitor, rolling on his back so that Eden can bend down and rub his belly. Astarte lifts the kettle from the range and makes coffee.

  ‘It’s safe to eat, I promise. It won’t break your jaw like the last batch,’ she calls over her shoulder, giggling at his dubious expression. ‘Honestly, Eden, I’ve got the hang of it now. Ryan’s been testing it out for me, and he’s still in one piece, you’ll be glad to hear.’ She pauses over the coffee pot before resuming pouring. ‘Well, as close as it comes to one piece.’

  The sudden change in her voice makes Eden look up. He rises to his feet, and puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re worried about him, are you not?’