Chloe

by Freya North

  She came immediately and was sorely disappointed. He came soon after with a long and curiously high moan. It was the first true sound she had heard from him. His eyes, however, remained closed.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘Dead or aloyve, aloyve-ho?’

  Chloë flung her eyes wide open and blinked hard against the glare of the sun, wondering momentarily where she was. Ah! The Causeway. She could make out a silhouette but it acted as an eclipse and caused her to blink more to restore focus and vision.

  ‘Pardon?’ she said, still unsure to whom she said it.

  ‘Aloyve,’ said the voice, ‘aloyve-ho!’

  Chloë dropped her head a little and her gaze came to rest upon a pair of glinting eyes. They were very green and set deep into a ruddy face with ball-like cheeks and fizzy fair whiskers. Blush-red lips furled away from a haphazard set of large teeth; a tongue, unseen, clicked away behind them. A final blink from Chloë set the picture in focus and she saw that the features made up the face of a very small man who peered at her with his hands on his knees and a grin that was at once both lascivious and harmless.

  ‘Hullo?’ responded Chloë at last.

  ‘B’jayz!’ he responded. ‘So ya’ar aloyve!’

  ‘Indeed,’ she assured, taking stock of his vehemently checked suit.

  ‘Had my een on ya! Still as a doll, were ye!’

  Chloë noticed that his tiny feet were laced to perfection in a pair of highly polished brogues.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Chloë declared with an embarrassed smile and fixed her eyes on the glinting shamrock on the man’s tie-pin. The tie itself was green, woollen, and didn’t surprise her.

  ‘I was just miles away,’ she explained, ‘having a think.’ She nodded at the man, and then out to sea, and then to herself.

  ‘Down in the nyrps or up on the pig’s back?’ It seemed he could not speak without inflecting it as a song.

  ‘The where on the what?’ laughed Chloë who felt utterly at ease with him.

  ‘The nyrps,’ he moaned in a low, sad voice pulling an appropriate face of gloom, ‘or the pig’s back!’ he cried, smiling inanely while flinging his arms about his head and skipping from foot to foot.

  Chloë said ‘Ah-ha’ silently.

  ‘Well,’ she started, ‘I came here because I had indeed a bad dose of your so-called nyrps but,’ she stopped momentarily to solicit her senses with the sights and scents around her, ‘but I suppose this place puts you firmly on the pig’s back.’

  The man stopped his gambolling and regarded her quizzically.

  ‘And what’ll I call ya?’

  ‘I’m Chloë,’ she said with an easy smile, ‘Cadwallader.’

  ‘Well, Cadwallydy, I’m Finn. McCool. But call me Finn if you please!’

  Finn entranced Chloë with tales of the land. He pointed with conviction across the water to where the Scottish island of Staffa lay beyond the horizon, and spoke of the legend of the giant who built his causeway to reach his love living on Staffa.

  ‘Of course!’ said Chloë, playing Mendelssohn’s Hebrides Overture in her mind whilst remembering more from her geography lesson about basalt columns at Staffa. ‘What was the giant’s name?’ she asked Finn. He cocked his head this way and that, ruffled his whiskers and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Bugger me if I cannot recall!’ he said exasperated.

  ‘And was the lady at Staffa a giant too?’ asked Chloë.

  Finn snorted and sighed, wiped his brow and whistled, long and low.

  ‘B’jayz,’ he whispered, shaking his head incredulously, ‘if she wasn’t huge!’

  They heard the impending visitors long before they saw them anting their way down the path. Finn hastily bade her farewell and scurried away, blending with the stacks and then the scraggy cliff. Chloë left the Wishing Chair to make room for the squeals of children and the chiding of parents, and to make some space for herself.

  Off she goes. She takes the path past the Causeway which leads her to a cliff spliced in two with great basalt columns at either side like curtains to usher her through to the quiet bay beyond. When she turns, she half expects them to have draped closed behind her but of course they have not. The bay is a perfect horseshoe shape and as the waves saunter in, they seem to join hands in a perfect semicircle of spume. Chloë veers from the path to the water’s edge and lays her hand gently on the surface of the foam. It fizzes against her skin and feels lovely. She takes her fingers to her mouth and tastes them. Salty. So salty that it surprises her though it really should not.

  The sun is that of early summer, it catches her eyes without stinging them and sends a glow throughout her body. She turns back for the path and heads for the distant cliff. There she can see a patch of land peeled back to reveal an infrastructure of more basalt columns. It is the Organ. It is famous. She will have it all to herself. Close to, the columns soar upwards and again Mendelssohn booms out. Chloë knows she ought to reserve him until Scotland but as she does not know where she will be, she lets him ring out here. Just in case.

  Unlike the stacks of the Causeway proper, these great towers are slightly segmented, mossed and lichened; they seem older, sad somehow. Chloë starts to feel contemplative. Ahead of her, the cliff head blooms rock of rose and terracotta. The gentle breeze fans the longer grass on the downy tussocks up and over like quiffs. She walks on. Planks of wood bar further entry with warnings of crumbling rocks. Danger! But Chloë can see a small, natural seat in the side of the cliff just a few yards on and feels strongly that she must reach it. She picks her way carefully under the barrier and treads cautiously onwards. She takes her time and makes it there on a lot of adrenalin. She concentrates on calming her breathing. When she has done so there is little else she can do with her mind than to cast it back again, into the heavy shadow of the consuming and depleting two weeks.

  She watches the gannets hurtle and plunge into the sea. To the side of her, yellow birdsfoot trefoil smiles bravely from the tufted grass and herb Robert clambers out from behind a rock.

  Sex with Ronan, she considers, was perhaps the most exciting she has ever had. And yet something so fundamental was lacking that, even if it hadn’t later manifested itself in the ugly way it had, she doubts whether they would have had sex together again. From her experiences with Brett, she discovered that sex without love was possible though not pleasurable. It was all she had known. Until Carl. Only by having sex with Ronan has she realized that, in retrospect, the messy, noisy, laughter-strewn session in the insalubrious surroundings of the combie-van with Carl was lovemaking. Unequivocally.

  ‘I think I did love Carl,’ she says, under her breath to whoever will listen out on the cliffs, ‘in a way.’

  That silent, violent, self-absorbed morning she spent in the workshed with Ronan two weeks ago had been, initially, supremely erotic. But the lack of any reciprocal emotion to accompany it soon stripped any sensuality from the memory. They had fed themselves with no thought for the other’s taste, or diet. Both had been starving. They had their fill and dissipated their hunger but they would not be going to that restaurant again. The menu was bland. Rather like nouvelle cuisine – the thought of it was exciting, it looked appetizing but was over quickly and forgotten even more so. And the price of it.

  And yet she does not regret it. She thinks perhaps it is sometimes quite good to crush the mystique of something essentially inflated, overrated. Afterwards, Ronan and she managed fairly easily to restore their previous formal interaction. But she had rarely visited the workshop over the past fortnight. And Ronan had taken to working through the night. Or behind closed doors. Anyway, sculptures had been arriving daily and Chloë immersed herself in their siting. Abstract constructions in reclaimed timber and humorous pieces created from objets trouvés, shared the Ballygorm estate with more classical pieces and wholly figurative compositions. A giant snail carved from Purbeck marble nestled in the long grass while a totem pole stood proud in the woods. A small herd of red deer knitted and knotted out of wire, ma
de their way into and out of the pond; their backs to the aluminium pyramid and sphere which lay enigmatically on the lawn. The five urns by the Cornish potter stood in a warm crowd of burnished hues, humming to themselves, while the sound of wind chimes trickled out from their camouflage in the horse chestnut trees. Chloë was busy, flat out, had too much to do to warrant lengthy periods in Ronan’s workshop. And if she wasn’t so busy, she soon found tasks to preoccupy her. Mary always welcomed assistance in the vegetable garden and Gus did not object to her reorganizing his library thematically and then alphabetically.

  Then, yesterday, uncharacteristically, Ronan had called at the house with a percussive rap on the front door. Chloë was beavering away at final adjustments to the price-list, laying it out once more but in a different font and putting the titles in italics. Gus was on the phone to the Irish Times. Ronan hovered until they were ready for him.

  ‘It’s done,’ he announced and led the way across the lawn, giving reverential berth to the Antony Gormley figure, walking in between the sphere and the pyramid and giving a quick spin to the bicycle wheel on the windmill construction along the way.

  The great sliding door of the workshop was ominously drawn and Chloë and Gus stopped instinctively, allowing Ronan forward alone. He pushed the door across and it lumbered all too slowly, creaking. The sunlight entered immediately, a shard that illuminated only the back wall and the nose of the old tractor. As the door opened, light pervaded but the sheen on the polished limestone grabbed it entirely and the rest of the barn was muslin hung in soft grey hues. Gus hummed approvingly and walked into the workshop to circumnavigate the work.

  Chloë gasped and stood immobilized.

  It was her.

  There she was.

  Spread over the limestone.

  Buck naked.

  Splayed and prostrate.

  ‘It’s called Her,’ announced Ronan, looking at no one.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Well, Chloë, you realized your aim. You became the artist’s muse; immortalized, written in stone, both locked and released from the very fabric of the mineral. You were the inspiration for the piece, you were the solution for the sculptor’s incarcerated creativity. Born of the rock. The reason for the stone. Conceived, carved, polished. How flattered you must feel!

  ‘Ronan Brady!’ Gus had declared once he had perused Her at length and from a variety of angles, ‘truly magnificent!’

  Chloë remained outside the workshop, clenching her nails into the palms of her hands until she could no longer feel the pain or her fingers. No one looked at her or invited her to cast her eyes and her compliments.

  They don’t need to, she thought, they’re having their eyeful right there.

  Gus made to leave and suddenly both he and Ronan were facing her, hands on hips.

  ‘Chloë!’ Gus declared.

  ‘I can see it,’ she shouted before tempering her voice, ‘quite well enough, thank you. From here.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, girl,’ Gus retorted raising his eyebrows at Ronan, ‘it’s sculp-sure! You know – hands on! Come! Have a closer look. A feel.’

  She ventured in and walked briskly around the sculpture.

  There’s my breast. That’s my belly button. That crack. God.

  ‘Fascinating,’ she said flatly. ‘When the stone arrived I thought it rather dull – I never realized it had this incredible blue-blackness when polished.’

  Indeed, this was her opinion, or part of it, and though Gus thought it flimsy he realized it would have to do. What was it worth anyway? The sculpture was worth a few thousand. He told her to discuss a suitable site with Ronan and left them, for a long-distance call to a wealthy Dubliner living in New York with a known predilection for sculpture and all things Irish. Ronan stood in the doorway, looking in. Chloë was round the other side of the sculpture with her back turned to it, facing the tractor and running her eyes up and down the prongs of the rusting pitchfork. She bit her lip hard, tears of anger welled painfully but she was determined that they should subside unseen. Ronan spoke in a voice that was soft and open and previously unheard.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  Chloë spun on her heels and glowered at him. She could not speak so she narrowed her eyes and pierced him with them.

  ‘Do you not like it?’ His face creased with the search for approval. Still she could not respond but she snorted and stamped, thrust her hands on her hips and looked way beyond Ronan to the five urns on the lawn. They were so elegant and consummate. She wanted to run to them and sit between them; they had shoulders to lay one’s arm about, they had music within.

  ‘Do you not like it, Chloë?’ Ronan repeated.

  She sucked her cheeks in and stared at him directly.

  ‘Cheap!’ she hissed. He jumped a little and winced, as if her word coursed through him like poison.

  Chloë knows that summer has arrived, not just because it is mid-June, but because she has sat on her natural bench on the forbidden cliff for almost an hour and no dampness has crept through her clothing. She is comfortable enough and her thoughts flow easily. The end of the month will see the beginning of Scotland and she feels already that her Irish sojourn has been and gone and she can wind down her business and pack up her things. She catches a drift of sweet coconut and thanks Jocelyn out loud for informing her that it is the scent of gorse. She cannot see it. Probably further along the path but she will not go in search of it. The path, after all, is dangerous. And she has too much to do here. She casts her mind away from the day in hand back to yesterday.

  ‘What do you mean you didn’t discuss a site for Her?’ Gus’s soup spoon hovered and shook, the liquid dribbled off it and back into the bowl. ‘Where on earth have you been for the past few hours?’

  ‘Walking,’ Chloë said quietly, dabbing her mouth with the napkin though she had taken no soup.

  ‘Walking!’ bellowed Gus. ‘But I asked you to help Ronan find a suitable spot for his sculpture!’

  Chloë remained silent and twisted the napkin tight around one hand. She could hear Gus eating his soup and the rhythmic slurping irritated her supremely. She pulled the napkin taut until her hand throbbed and she knew, if she looked, that it would be quite purple.

  I’m not your slave! she thought loudly to herself.

  ‘What?’ said Gus.

  Out it came, unchecked.

  ‘I am not your slave.’

  ‘I beg your pardon!’

  Chloë cleared her throat.

  ‘Yes,’ she spat, ‘you may well have asked me to find a site for Ronan’s thing. But there was no “Please”. There have been neither “p”s nor “q”s from you. Ever. Just orders and criticisms barked at me. Huge demands made of me. And woe betide if I flunk.’

  Gus’s spoon hovered again, his jaw had dropped. Chloë glanced away.

  ‘I didn’t come here to be treated like this,’ she said in a calm, controlled voice, ‘and I have done nothing to deserve such treatment.’

  ‘Then why, might I ask, did you come?’ said Gus, whose voice was quiet but pinched. Chloë found his eyes and held their gaze.

  ‘I came,’ she said coldly, ‘because Jocelyn sent me.’

  Gus lowered his eyes to his half-eaten soup. Was that pain she saw flicker over his brow?

  Couldn’t have been.

  Gus? Feel anything? Surely not!

  She waited until he ventured his eyes upwards and she caught them again before staring at his jugular.

  ‘And what,’ she said icily, ‘would Jocelyn think, Mr Halloran? What do you think she’d have to say?’

  The sweep and shift of power was intoxicating. Chloë’s strength and conviction, the steadiness of her voice, had quite surprised her. And it pleased her too. A self-congratulatory smile was not, however, appropriate, so she bit it back. She scraped back her chair and rose, placing her hands with a smack on the table.

  ‘Know what I think?’ she laughed viciously. ‘I think she’d be horrified – utterly appalled – at the po
mpous misogynist you are!’

  Gus’s spoon clattered into the bowl, a glob of pea soup splashed on to the tablecloth and slowly blotted. Gus’s eyes were fixed to it, Chloë stared at the top of his head thinking that his yellowing hair must really be quite long under its slathering of wax.

  ‘She’d be writhing,’ whispered Chloë, ‘writhing in her grave. Not that you give a damn!’

  She walked across the room slowly and with her head held high. As she put her hand out to the brass handle of the door, she was amazed and delighted by its steadiness. Without turning, she delivered her coup de grâce.

  ‘I’ll be leaving,’ she announced, ‘a fortnight today. For Scotland. I believe you have an envelope for me.’

  ‘Bout ye! If it isn’t Cadwallydy!’

  ‘Where on earth did you come from!’ Chloë is delighted to see Finn McCool though the surprise of his sudden appearance threatens to dislodge her right from the cliff.

  ‘Scapin’ the crowds!’

  ‘Me too,’ she murmurs.

  ‘Had your tink?’ he asks without prying.

  ‘Sort of,’ says Chloë looking at her lap with a gentle sigh. ‘I’m leaving for Scotland in a fortnight.’

  She feels Finn catch his breath and, as he releases it, he sighs ‘Scotland’ mistily.

  ‘It’s just,’ begins Chloë, ‘I don’t know. I felt so justified but now I feel wretched. I suppose I don’t know the full story. I suppose one never does.’

  They sit in silence, the sun has slipped away unnoticed and the breeze has now a sharp edge to it.

  ‘It’s odd,’ she continues to herself as much as to Finn, ‘being strong, standing up for yourself – at last – seems only to carry a burden of responsibility with it too. In retrospect. Perhaps meek is easier after all.’

  ‘Meek,’ cautions Finn, ‘be weak.’

  ‘And I suppose shirking responsibility is weak too then,’ ponders Chloë a little forlorn.

  ‘More!’ growls Finn. ‘Bad. Very bad. Dangerous, even.’