The Swan Lake

by Lisa Ryan

  As they walk sedately out of the door, Astarte stares after them. ‘Screw your karma! You just want to wreck my life!’ she screams. The door closes quietly behind them.

  Sirius, made anxious by Astarte’s raised voice, sidles up to her, tail wagging sycophantically, and offers his squeaky ball to her. She takes it from him and savagely hurls it against the door.

  The sound of the van starting up brings Astarte to the window. She watches the tail-lights disappear around the corner, and puts her hands in her hair, tugging it, pacing up and down as she curses loudly. Sirius stands watching her, tail between his legs. Daisy raises her head to squint, piggy-eyed, from her place by the fire, before rolling over and going back to sleep. Finally Astarte stops and stands still, thinking. She walks to the phone and picks up the receiver to deliver a verbal roasting to an unsuspecting John.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Rain falls, washing the snow into puddles of grey sludge that quickly melt and disperse. Jamie walks Sinead home from school, his arm snug around her shoulders, breathing in the scent of her wet hair. They raise their faces skywards, laughing, blinking water from their eyes. They know that tonight they will dream of each other, as they always do. Filled with the unshakeable confidence of youth, they plan out their lives, punctuating each future event with a kiss. Jamie will be a musician like Eden, but without his fear of crowds. Sinead will be a veterinary surgeon, running on swift feet to the aid of sick creatures. Wrapped in an impermeable blanket of love, they lean against each other as they walk, the sides of their bodies fused together despite the barrier created by coats and scarves; the trappings insisted on by anxious adults who have forgotten that love can keep you warm, whatever the weather.

  At the gate they kiss goodbye again and again, prolonging the moment of parting. There is homework to plough through and chores waiting to be done. Each time Sinead steps away, Jamie pulls her back and she does not resist. She cannot bear to leave him, not even for a few hours.

  Mairie watches them from the window, smiling to herself, a bittersweet yearning tugging at her chest. Her short-term memory may lapse occasionally, but she still has vivid scenes imprinted on her mind’s eye. She can remember every single moment of being fifteen years old, of being worshipped like a goddess, of seeing the vast, mysterious glory of heaven in a young man’s eyes. Her face softens as her gaze shifts inwards, reeling back the line of time to capture memories that shine like silver fish caught on a hook.

  The latch clicks, thrusting her back into the present. For a moment she feels dizzy and disoriented. Sinead, her coat and hair dripping, unwinds her sodden scarf and looks at her curiously. ‘Were you watching us?’ she asks, piqued at the intrusion into their private moments.

  Mairie smiles at her, flexing stiff fingers before lifting the teapot. ‘No, my beauty. I was watching myself.’ She turns away from Sinead’s questioning eyebrows, and busies herself with milk and sugar.

  Now he is alone, Jamie’s pace accelerates. Suddenly hungry, he jogs home, his rucksack bouncing heavily on his back. He bursts through the back door, wiping his feet on the mat, and stops in his tracks, staring.

  An odd couple sit at the table with John, poring over a boundary map. They are gaily decked out, and look like no one he has ever seen, but what fills him with a rising sense of horror is their hair. Swinging from their tangled and beaded locks are owl feathers. Jamie’s stomach turns cold. He feels as if he has swallowed a stone, and the flush of earlier happiness drains from his face. Quickly, surreptitiously, he makes the sign of the cross.

  John looks up, the smile on his face vanishing to be replaced by concern. ‘Jamie, are you OK?’ He stands up and moves towards the boy, who looks as though he may faint. Jamie says nothing. His eyes are fixed on Rainbow and Leaf. John touches his shoulder. ‘Jamie! What’s the matter?’

  Jamie’s eyes slowly shift to focus on his father’s worried face, then flick back to the couple at the table. ‘’Tis bad luck to bring owl feathers into the house,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Come now, where did you get this nonsense from? And where are your manners? Rainbow, Leaf, meet my son, who is not usually the superstitious sort. Jamie, these are Astarte’s parents. They’re buying some land here.’

  Jamie nods abruptly at them. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, but ’tis not good to carry the feathers of an owl on your person.’

  The strange couple seem undisturbed. Leaf smiles gently at him. ‘Owls bring wisdom, not misfortune,’ he says.

  ‘They are creatures of the dark, and to the dark they belong,’ the boy mutters. As he passes them to go to his room, his hunger forgotten, he recognises the sickly sweet fragrance that clings to their clothes, and determines never again to raid Mairie’s herb patch. ‘And you should have the wisdom to know not to bring them indoors,’ he says under his breath, running up the stairs two at a time.’

  Astarte, her temper played out, sleeps heavily. She wakes with a start, roused by the sound of Daisy scratching and snuffling at her bedroom door, hoping for breakfast. Rising to let the animals out, she stokes and cleans out the range, and puts the kettle on. While she waits for it to come to the boil she bathes and dresses, then sits chin in hand at the table, filled with a heavy sense of inevitability. The thought of Rainbow and Leaf living close by makes her shudder. John had patiently waited for her tirade to end, even though the phone was burning up in her hand last night. He then reminded her in a reasonable tone that he has a job to do, and can hardly refuse to sell land to a client. Astarte reluctantly had to concede the point. They parted company on cordial enough terms for the friendship to remain undamaged. Still, she wishes that Rainbow and Leaf had not come here.

  A small plank of wood catches her eye when she delves into the basket to get kindling for the fire. She picks it out and turns it over in her hands, musing, then sets it aside. Flynn has been generous with off-cuts from his yard. The thought of him brings a small smile to her lips. She’s glad he turned up last night, and relieved that the tension between them has dissipated.

  She lays the fire, deciding to light it after she returns from Ennis. A portion of pasta bake has been stored in the oven for Ryan, and she wants to deliver it before Eden arrives with Linda this afternoon. She picks up the piece of wood again. Before she goes out, there is something she has to do.

  Ryan takes a long time to answer the door. Astarte is about to leave the food on his doorstep when she hears a shuffling sound from inside, and straightens up, waiting. The door opens a crack, revealing an eye and part of a nose. ‘Ah, ’tis you, Astarte,’ he croaks.

  ‘Are you ill?’ she asks.

  ‘He nods. ‘Not well today at all.’ The gap between the door and its frame widens slightly. His face, more easily visible now, is ashen. Astarte steps forwards.

  ‘Ryan, let me in, please. I have some food for you,’ she adds cajolingly. He hesitates. ‘Ryan, please. I’ll only disturb you for a minute, but I’m concerned about you.’

  The door opens. Astarte slips inside quickly, before he can change his mind, and places a hand gently on his shoulder. A swift glance exposes the bare, cold room, and the bucket full of empty whiskey bottles in the corner. She takes Ryan’s hand. ‘You’re frozen. Here, sit down, and I’ll light a fire for you and heat up this pasta bake. That’ll do you some good.’

  Steering Ryan to the solitary chair, she cleans out the grate and makes a fire, noting that there is very little fuel to keep it going. Ryan sits gazing in her direction, his eyes glazed, while she chatters inanely, striving to fill the silence. She spies a blanket crumpled in the corner of the room and drapes it around him. The man looks twenty years older than his true age. The whites of his eyes are yellowish, his hands tremble visibly, and his shoulders are hunched as though his back can no longer hold him upright. Astarte takes steady breaths to prevent the tears in her eyes from overflowing onto her cheeks.

  The fire brightens the room a little, though it will be a while before its warmth is felt. Astarte stands and goes over to Ryan, l
aying a hand on his shoulder. ‘Is the kitchen through there?’ she asks.

  He nods once, reluctantly, staring into the newborn flames. She picks up the pasta dish from the floor, and takes it through.

  The kitchen smells odd, metallic. Astarte’s eyes narrow. She knows that stench. A single unwashed plate stands on the counter, the remains of the last meal she brought stuck fast to its surface. Astarte touches the electric kettle and finds it cold. She switches on the oven, thanking the heavens that he does not have a range that would take time to warm up, and slides the meal inside before taking the kettle to the sink. Looking down, she gasps.

  Quickly she runs the taps, washing the sink clean, fills the kettle and switches it on, then returns to the living room. Ryan has not moved, and she kneels on the floor beside him and takes his icy hands in her own, rubbing them gently.

  ‘Ryan,’ she says quietly, looking up into his face, ‘how long have you been vomiting blood for?’

  Avoiding her eyes, he shakes his head slowly, and gives a slight shrug.

  ‘My poor, dear friend, this cannot go on. Let me call Doctor Connaught out to see you.’

  Ryan shakes his head more vigorously, and sighs. ‘No, I’ll not see anyone. ’Tis too late now. There’s nothing to be done.’

  ‘You could stop drinking, or at least slow it down a little. I can’t leave you like this, and do nothing.’

  ‘I’ll not thank you to interfere, Astarte. This is my business.’ Ryan’s voice is stronger. Astarte hears the kettle click off, and gets to her feet. She makes a cup of tea, and places it in his hands. The saucer rattles when he holds it, so Astarte takes it from him and places it on the floor. She sits facing him.

  ‘You’re killing yourself, Ryan. Your liver is failing.’ She strains to make her voice sound firm, when all she wants to do is put her arms around him and lay his head on her shoulder.

  ‘Ah, to be sure, there’s none would miss me,’ he says drily.

  She brushes a tear from her cheek, anger flaring. ‘Don’t you go laying on the self-pity! You have your son, and friends who would miss you terribly. John and Siobhan, Flynn, Eden, myself, and I could name a lot more. You have a choice to make, Ryan. You have to choose whether to live or die, because you are driving yourself into an early grave, and I don’t understand why!’ She pulls a tissue from her coat pocket, and blows her nose noisily.

  Ryan’s strength seems to rally. ‘There are two as would know why, and they’d be glad to see me gone.’

  ‘No-one wants to see you gone, Ryan. And what about your son? He’d be devastated.’

  His laugh is coarse and wheezy, a fingernail on the blackboard of his thin chest. ‘Ah yes, my son who is no son.’

  Astarte stares at him. ‘I heard you were very close,’ she says, puzzled by the bitterness in his tone.

  He snorts, looking her directly in the eyes. ‘Close indeed, for a boy not my own. And if you tell a living soul of this, Astarte, I will come back and haunt you to the end of your days, so help me God, I will. Not even Mark knows of this; only his whore of a mother, and her paramour.’

  The silence that fills the room is thick enough to choke them both. Astarte’s breath catches in her throat, and sticks there. She coughs twice, and swallows hard. Leaning forward, she kisses him carefully on the cheek, and puts her arms around him. His head rests wearily against her own. She strokes his thinning hair.

  ‘I won’t tell anyone, Ryan. I promise.’

  They rest together for a few minutes, until Ryan gives a long sigh and raises his head. She releases him, and stands up. For a moment she remains still, and then goes to take his meal from the oven, and make him another cup of tea.

  Astarte drives slowly homewards, weighty with sorrow. As she comes towards the turning for Flynn’s place, she changes gear and manoeuvres the van around the corner, feeling her spirits lift slightly at the sight of his van and car parked side by side. She draws to a halt, and goes in search of him.

  Flynn is in his workshop, carefully turning a piece of wood to make a banister. He looks up and stops when Astarte appears in the doorway.

  ‘What an unexpected pleasure,’ he calls. ‘Have you come for my famous Irish coffee, or just a cup of tea?’

  His expression of open welcome prompts the release of the tears that Astarte has been struggling to hold back. She leans against the doorjamb, sobbing helplessly. Flynn is beside her in an instant. He takes her in his arms, and wraps her tight against him, planting light kisses on her forehead.

  ‘Hey now, my tea is not as bad as all that. You can have a glass of water if you’d rather not take the risk.’

  Astarte snuffles, and gives a small hiccough. Her arms creep around his back like a child after a nightmare. When the sobs subside, he raises her chin with a finger, and gazes down into her reddened eyes as he brushes salt water from her lashes. ‘Come inside for a while,’ he says tenderly.

  In the cottage, he makes tea for both of them, and draws her close beside him on the sofa, an arm resting protectively around her shoulders, while she tells him of Ryan’s haemorrhage, and the lack of comforts in his house.

  ‘I’ll take him wood and turf this afternoon,’ Flynn says. ‘At least we can keep him warm and fed. Poor man. He went into a decline as soon as his wife left, but we care too much about him here to gossip. He was always the rock that the community could lean on, and it’s hard that he will let no-one help him. Could we persuade him to go to the doctor, do you think?’

  Astarte shakes her head. ‘No. He’s adamant, and we can’t force him to go.’ She looks sadly at Flynn. ‘He’s given up.’

  He strokes her cheek. ‘Then we will be there for him if he needs us.’ Guiltily, he pushes away the stab of pleasure that it gives him to hear Astarte say ‘we’ instead of ‘I’. He can hardly believe that he’s sitting here, with her curled up against him. She rests her cheek against his hand for just a moment.

  ‘Thank you, Flynn. You are a man among men.’

  He smiles into her eyes. ‘And you are a woman among women.’ She gives a waterlogged giggle. ‘Now, that’s better. ’Tis not good to be burdened alone. Two can carry a load more easily, and we can share it with John and Siobhan. Between us, we’ll see him through.’

  Astarte sighs gratefully, and lifts her head to kiss his cheek. He dips his chin, and their lips meet. The kiss, gentle at first, deepens swiftly, and Flynn’s fingers creep into her tangled hair, holding her head closer.

  She jerks back suddenly, leaving him breathless. ‘Oh my God, what am I doing? Eden’s bringing Linda over this afternoon!’ She scrambles to her feet, tugging at her coat. ‘Flynn, I have to go,’ she gabbles. Please don’t forget to go and see Ryan.’ She is out of the door before he can say a word. Moments later he hears the van drive off. He rests his head against the back of the sofa, and stares ahead, lost in a dream. Even the mention of his rival’s name cannot take the smile from his face, as he rises to fill sacks with wood and peat for Ryan.

  Chapter Forty-two

  By the time Astarte arrives home, the euphoria that temporarily eclipsed her worries about Ryan has dissipated. She feels flat and listless. ‘I am a dishcloth in the wringer of the universe,’ she tells her reflection in the rear-view mirror, and sighs. In retrospect it was unwise to kiss Flynn, but then, Astarte is aware that wisdom tends to be born through experience. She rubs her lips together experimentally, as though lipstick has been applied. They feel soft and swollen. ‘You really are a bloody idiot,’ she mutters, trying to forget the feeling of Flynn’s lips on hers as she opens the door to a riotous welcome from Sirius. Resolving to behave herself in future, she hooks a bottle of wine out and downs half a glass in one swallow.

  The fire lit, and a casserole bubbling in the range oven, for Astarte’s soup and stew recipe has proved quite versatile, she glances around to make sure the place is tidy, removes a chewed slipper from a chair, and pushes dog toys into the corner with her foot before opening the door to let Sirius back inside. Daisy trots after him
with a grunted greeting, and flops in her usual spot.

  Astarte sits back on the sofa, takes another sip of wine, and rests her feet on Daisy’s back. ‘You really are a bloody idiot,’ she says again, but she can’t help the small smile that plays treacherously around the corner of her mouth. Daisy snorts, and stretches out her back legs. ‘Not you. I’m talking to myself. It’s the first sign of madness, and my sanity is surely to be questioned today,’ Astarte informs the pig. She ticks off her fingers as though memorising a shopping list.

  ‘One. Do not get involved with men. They spell trouble. Two. Never, ever kiss a friend in any manner other than platonic. Three. Giving friends the wrong impression is the best way to lose them forever. Four. Oh, sod it, it’s done now.’

  Her excuses made, she forcefully steers herself away from thoughts of Flynn, wondering what can be done to help Ryan. His revelation has shocked her deeply. Poor man, she muses, no wonder he drinks. His grim determination to deliberately shorten his days in so ghastly a manner both horrifies and upsets her.

  Sirius leaps up, barking, and Astarte answers the door just as Eden’s hand is raised to knock on it. She stands back to allow them entry. Without her high heels and sharp suit, Linda looks wholesome and girlish. She wears jeans and a loose sweater, and her hair is drawn back in a neat French plait. To Astarte’s pleased surprise she steps forward and kisses her on both cheeks.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to getting to know you, Astarte.’ Her cut-glass voice is the same as before, but she seems more approachable than Astarte expected. ‘Even more so, now we’re going to be neighbours,’ she adds with a wide smile.

  Astarte takes their coats. ‘So you’ve agreed to be involved in the studio, then? I’m so pleased!’

  Linda and Eden look flushed and happy. They chatter excitedly while Astarte pours wine. Eden refuses a drink, saying that he has to go back for a meeting with some musicians. He lingers for a few minutes before breezing out of the door, reminding Linda to call him when she’s ready to leave.