The Swan Lake Read online

One area seems to be busier than the rest. A tide of people washes backwards and forwards carrying bulging shopping bags, and she strolls around the corner to find out what the attraction is. A farmer’s market is in progress. A plethora of stalls are set close together, the awnings dripping water onto the customers who squeeze through the tightly packed throng. Waves, like peristalsis, move people along inexorably and Astarte joins the crowd, which ebbs and flows around tables piled temptingly with vegetables, cheeses, meats, and confectionary. She can see the old lady who reminds her of Millie, haggling aggressively over a joint of beef, and feels an urge to speak to her but is swept in the opposite direction.

  Astarte spies some large buckets of flowers so pushes her way through the crowd towards them. The stall-holder, a tall, swarthy man with a wide gap between his front teeth grins broadly as she approaches. She smiles back and picks out several bunches of freesia and a spray of gypsophila. He wraps them and she hands over the money, but as she turns to leave a man bumps into her. He throws his arms out to regain his balance and knocks the bouquet to the ground. He and Astarte both bend to pick it up, and the reek of stale whiskey makes her stomach churn. She swears quietly and pushes him away. He sits down suddenly on the wet ground, looking bemused.

  ‘Jaysus I’m sorry about the flowers, dearie’, he slurs, peering myopically at her. ‘Let me buy you a drink to apologise.’

  ‘No thank you,’ hisses Astarte through gritted teeth as she picks the flowers up and looks for a space to escape through. Suddenly the flower stall seems very popular. Bodies are packed like sardines around it, and she is trapped.

  The stall-holder edges around to take the drunk’s arm and help him up. He looks concerned. ‘Are you all right, Doctor O’Riley? Perhaps it’s time to go home and take a nap,’ the stall-holder says gently.

  Astarte, unable to find a way through the curious crowd, stands riveted to the spot. This man is a doctor? She stares at him, astonished. O’Riley’s eyes are heading for a conference with the bridge of his nose, and he smiles lopsidedly at her. He is a small, slender man in his mid-fifties, fragile-looking, as if even the slightest knock would break him into pieces. She feels a flash of concern.

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ the doctor mumbles as the stallholder steers him through the crowd, calling to people to let them pass.

  Astarte squeezes quickly through the gap, and walks as fast as she can to the guest house and her parked car. If the local doctor is anything to go by, she has no desire to make any further acquaintance with the medical profession.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Siobhan is standing in front of the range, stirring something in a huge pan. There is an odd smell in the kitchen, unidentifiable to Astarte when she knocks on the open door. Siobhan half-turns, calling to her to come in, then places a lid on the pot and lifts the kettle, raising her eyebrows enquiringly. Astarte laughs and nods as she presents her with the flowers. Siobhan bends her head and sniffs them appreciatively, thanking her.

  ‘How much tea do you get through?’ Astarte asks, laughing. ‘I’m awash with it. I thought the English were supposed to be the champion tea-drinkers.’ Siobhan informs her seriously that the Irish win hands down in drinking contests of any kind, and arranges the flowers in a vase, exclaiming over their fragrance.

  ‘John will be down in a minute,’ she says, pouring out three mugs of tea and pushing the sugar bowl towards Astarte. They sit down at the overloaded table. ‘He’s putting a new programme onto Jamie’s computer. So. Are you still wanting to go ahead with that cottage? Or did a good night’s sleep change your mind for you?’

  Astarte grins and assures her that she is determined to take on the cottage. ‘I’ve fallen in love with it,’ she says. ‘I hardly slept last night, thinking about it. I can just imagine how it will look once Flynn’s finished the work, and I can’t wait to move here.’

  Siobhan aims a sly sideways look at her. ‘Ah, yes, Flynn,’ she murmurs. ‘It sounds to me as if you’ve gained an admirer already. Could be useful, you know,’ her eyes are twinkling mischievously. ‘Maybe he’ll give you a discount on the building work.’ She roars with laughter at Astarte’s appalled expression. ‘I’m only teasing, really’, she says, leaning across to pat Astarte’s arm. ‘Now, don’t you mind John trying to put you off. It’s just that we’ve known a few people to take on these places, then give up when they realise how much work is involved. It would be a shame if you moved here then hated it. But I have a feeling you’ll do fine.’

  Setting her mug aside, Astarte leans forward confidentially. Her voice is low. ‘I do understand. I know I look like a city girl who hasn’t a clue.’ She waves away Siobhan’s protest. ‘But I grew up living wild. And I mean wild. Believe me, a few months in a van is luxury compared with the tepee I grew up in for the first fourteen years of my life.’

  Siobhan’s eyes widen and fill with questions but, before she can speak, footsteps clatter down the stairs and John appears. He strides across to greet Astarte and shake her hand, then sits down and cradles his tea in both hands.

  ‘Well, all the papers are ready for you, if you still want to go ahead. I’ve arranged to take you to see Donal, the solicitor, this morning. He’ll make sure you know what you’re doing.’ He winks at her. ‘Unless, of course, you’d prefer to view a few more places. Or go home and think it over.’

  ‘I am home,’ Astarte states simply. John and Siobhan exchange a look, then he laughs and shakes his head.

  They chat for a while. The couple are a mine of information about the area, and Astarte digs deep and shivers inwardly at the thought that soon she will be living here. Most of the income is generated through farming, though the situation is getting very tight for the farmers and many of them are struggling financially. Selling off land that has been in the family for generations is a last resort that some of the farmers have been forced to take, and borders are carefully mapped out and often fought over. But there is a growing alternative community who hope to increase visitors, and therefore income, to the area. And many tourists come to see the extraordinary landscape of the Burren, not too far away in West Clare, and to enjoy the wealth of Irish music. Siobhan reminds her that she is invited to dinner this evening. ‘There are a few people it would be nice for you to meet,’ she tells her. ‘Just two or three of your closest neighbours. I did ask Mairie, too, who I think you will like a great deal, but she is busy tonight. It will help you to get a feel of the community before you actually move over here.’

  Astarte is touched. ‘I’d like that. It’s very good of you,’ she tells them. She sniffs the air. The strange smell is getting stronger. ‘What’s cooking?’ she asks. ‘Is that tonight’s meal?’

  Siobhan glances towards the pot that simmers on the range. ‘It’s stewed shirts. I’m dyeing some clothes,’ she says. ‘But don’t worry,’ she smiles at Astarte’s startled expression. ‘I’ll try to remember to wash the pan out before I cook dinner.’

  Donal Flaherty is a small, dapper man in his late fifties. His thick brown hair is oiled back, and a flamboyant moustache curls upwards at the corners of his cherry-red mouth. He looks as if he has stepped out of an old movie. His voice is loud and hearty, and he shakes Astarte’s hand vigorously enough to almost detach it from her wrist before escorting her to a large leather chair. She half expects him to pull the chair out and seat her, but instead he walks to the other side of his imposing polished desk and sits down, moving his spectacles further up his nose as he takes the sheaf of papers and reads them through carefully.

  Astarte waits in silence, looking around at the paintings of landscapes on the walls, planning how her cottage will look once the work is done. She becomes so engrossed in her daydream that she jumps slightly when Donal coughs, and pulls her gaze back to focus on him.

  ‘It’s very straightforward,’ he tells her. ‘The boundaries are well delineated, and the property is freehold, so I can’t foresee any problems. Are you intending to build any other residences there?’

  A
starte shakes her head vigorously, and states emphatically that she intends to live alone there. Donal takes her through the paperwork, explaining each detail with care and precision. She listens and signs her name, feeling an overwhelming sense of joy. I belong here now, she thinks. I have a cottage. Well, a pile of stones, formerly and in the future a cottage. She takes the business card that Donal hands her as he walks her to the door, and puts it in her purse alongside the one that Flynn gave her.

  ‘If you need any advice, don’t hesitate to call me,’ the lawyer tells her. He has a fatherly manner, and she grins broadly as she shakes his hand and goes to meet John in the pub next door for a celebratory Guinness. She wants to dance and sing, and does in fact perform a brief twirl as she steps outside the building.

  Donal, glancing out of the window as he sits back down at his desk, smiles to himself, then opens a file and spreads the papers in front of him, sighing. He has a will to prepare for young Frieda Haggerty, who is dying of cancer. She lost her husband in an accident four years ago, and will be leaving five children behind for her parents to care for.

  It does a soul good , he thinks, as he picks up his pen, to see a client leave with a spring in her step.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sun is sinking low in the sky, touching the clouds and hilltops with a rosy tinge, when Astarte drives over to John and Siobhan’s house. She is in a jubilant frame of mind, tapping a rhythm with two fingers on the steering wheel to emphasise the persistent thumping of a bodhrán on the CD that plays as loudly as her ears can stand. The windows are rolled down, welcoming in the constant rush of air that blows her curls into tangles. Swifts swoop and dive in the fields, feasting on midges, and a cat slinks into the hedgerow as she passes.

  Four cars clog the patch of gravel in front of the house, and Astarte takes a deep breath as she parks carefully in the space beside an ancient Mini Traveller, noting with a slight sinking of her stomach that Flynn must be here. She briefly contemplates driving straight back to the guest house. The man is good at his job, but far too self-assured for her liking, and she can’t face the thought of sly sideways glances from John or Siobhan if she allows him to bait her. She sighs, and switches off the engine when John appears in the doorway, backlit by a warm glow as he waves merrily to her. A hum of voices reaches her ears as she approaches.

  ‘Astarte! Come in, come in,’ he sings out jovially, stepping back to allow her to pass. ‘Your new neighbours are keen to meet you.’

  Several pairs of eyes are fixed on her, and the conversation falters. Astarte feels awkward, but the men clustered around the kitchen table look friendly, though curious. Her eyes skim the room seeking out Siobhan, who is stirring a pan over the range and turns to call a greeting, provoking a strange sense of déjà vu. John makes the introductions, pointing at each person as he names them quickly. Flynn grins at her, his eyes crinkling into half-moons. ‘We’ve met, of course,’ he says. ‘Nice to see you again so soon, Astarte.’ She nods at him, relieved that he’s wearing a shirt this evening.

  A stocky man with a shock of white hair inclines his head in her direction as John points him out as Seamus, Flynn’s father. Astarte steps forward to shake his hand. ‘I saw a photo of you at Flynn’s house yesterday,’ she tells him.

  ‘Ah yes, ’tis an old one, taken in the days before my dear wife passed away, God rest her soul, and my hair lost its colour. Still, they say ’tis more distinguished to have white hair. Do you not agree?’ His gaze is direct, almost flirtatious, and Astarte assures him that it suits him well.

  As John signals towards a small man sitting at the far end of the table, Astarte feels a flash of recognition. ‘And here is our doctor, Ryan O’Riley,’ says John fondly. It’s the drunk from the market, and Astarte is relieved to note that he looks sober this evening. The doctor looks at her curiously, his eyes twinkling.

  ‘You look familiar, my dear. I think we must have met before – I never forget a pretty face.’

  Astarte is mortified to feel heat flushing her cheeks. Apparently he has forgotten the encounter, and she is reluctant to go into details.

  ‘We were both in the market this morning,’ she says carefully. ‘I, um, dropped a bunch of flowers.’ Siobhan glances sharply at Astarte, then at the doctor.

  Understanding dawns on Ryan O’Riley’s face. He stands and reaches across Flynn to shake her hand. His hand is small, dotted with liver spots, with long, slender fingers that tremble slightly as she grasps it in her own. He smiles suddenly and his eyes light up with humour and a keen intelligence.

  ‘Ah, yes, of course. I do believe I owe you an apology. I didn’t go to my bed last night. A friend and I, we hit the hard stuff, and I was a little the worse for wear this morning.’

  Astarte smiles and shrugs, giving the hand that holds hers a little squeeze before relinquishing it. She murmurs that we all have days like that, as her mind flashes up a still photograph of the morning she discovered Steve and Marianne, and her attack on the bottle of Bordeaux afterwards. It makes her feel quite warmly disposed towards the doctor.

  John hands Astarte a glass of wine, and refills the men’s glasses with beer. Astarte takes a sip and grimaces at the strong taste. ‘Wow! This really is extraordinary wine!’

  Siobhan laughs. ‘John brews it, Astarte. ’Tis good stuff, but be careful – it packs a hefty punch. Fortunately for you, dinner is ready so you’ll not be drinking it on an empty stomach.’

  A potpourri of appetising smells floats through the air as Siobhan and John carry dishes to the table. Siobhan takes a small bell from the top of the bookshelf and rings it at the bottom of the stairs. Feet clatter loudly on wood and a teenage boy slouches into the kitchen, takes a plate piled high with food, grunts briefly at the guests who greet him, then vanishes back up the stairs. ‘Our son, Jamie,’ says Siobhan to Astarte. ‘He’s writing a programme for his computer, so there’s a Do Not Disturb sign on his door. He’s at that age. The other sign on there says ‘Here Be Dragons. Death To All Who Enter!’ Astarte grins, remembering that intense need for privacy.

  The food is delicious, and all locally sourced. Vegetable soup from the kitchen garden, coq au vin, courtesy of Seamus, though Astarte tries to forget that this bird was running around only this morning. She’s grown used to supermarket chickens; bloodless, cellophane-wrapped, bearing no resemblance to living creatures. The wine is home-brewed, and the strawberries are fleshy and tender. Astarte silently savours each mouthful, feeling her taste buds open out like flowers. She feels a surge of excitement at the thought that in a year or so she will be enjoying the fruits of her own garden. Voices ebb and flow around her, punctuated by the clink of steel on china. Compliments wing through the air, gracefully accepted by Siobhan.

  ‘Do you like to cook, Astarte?’ asks Siobhan.

  ‘Hardly.’ Astarte scoops up the last strawberry on her plate and sighs. ‘I don’t think you can count putting frozen packet meals in the oven actual cooking. My first job when I was at school was in a greasy spoon café, but I just did waitressing after I managed to set fire to a fried egg.’

  Seamus leans forwards, intrigued. ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘I forgot to put it in the pan. No, seriously, I never quite figured out how it happened. It made a terrible mess when it exploded.’ Why did I say that? she thinks, horrified. They’ll think I’m an idiot. The wine is beating a gentle rhythm through her bloodstream. It’s stronger than she expected and she’s already drunk two glasses and can’t seem to stop sipping from the glass that she thought was almost empty but is now miraculously full. Amid the laughter she takes another sip, cautiously this time.

  Seamus leans towards her. She smells of fruit and youth, and he breathes her in then leans back, almost losing his balance. ‘Well, you have plenty of time to learn,’ he tells her seriously. ‘My wife, God rest her, made the best stews I ever tasted.’ He smiles, pushing a hand through feathers of white hair. ‘Mind you, that was the only edible thing she ever did make. You could use her bread
rolls as tennis balls, could you not, Flynn? But on my word, I miss those stews.’

  You find it hard being on your own , thinks Astarte, and glances up to find Flynn watching her. Quickly she looks away as Seamus leans forward again, almost knocking her glass over, and leers knowingly. ‘Don’t you believe what they say about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach, my girl? There are other body parts that are just as important.’

  ‘Leave her be, you old letch.’ Flynn playfully punches his father on the arm. ‘Go and find someone your own age. Sure and you have Mairie Hennessy right on your doorstep.’

  The old man sits up straight, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘Sure and I’ll have none of that,’ he declares, offended. ‘The devil take Mairie Hennessy, the old witch. There’s none else would have her! Though you never know, she may be a good match for Ned Connelly. Yer man and her would fit well with each other.’

  Flynn grins at Astarte. ‘Ned owns the land around yours, Astarte. He’s a man to avoid, cantankerous as hell, but he keeps to himself and he’ll not bother you. As for me father and Mairie – well, there’s a long story for a dark night. But I’ll save it for another time. Ryan, you’re very quiet,’ he calls across the table.

  Ryan O’Riley starts guiltily. He has almost been caught in the act of sneaking his hip-flask out of his pocket, and he promised Siobhan he would stick with beer tonight. He slips the flask quickly back and smiles.

  ‘I’m just listening to Seamus making a fool of himself,’ he says innocently. Siobhan’s gimlet eyes are fixed on his hand that still hovers just below the line of vision, so he reluctantly brings it up to the table and circles it round his beer glass. Siobhan turns her attention back to Flynn, asking him whether he wants another beer, and Ryan heaves a sigh of relief but decides to forget the whiskey until later, just to be on the safe side.

  John and Seamus are arguing, smiling triumphantly on the scoring of each verbal point. Astarte looks at Ryan. He appears to be surrounded by silence, watching the conversation with an air of not belonging, his expression sad. As if he can feel Astarte watching him he suddenly shifts position, glances sideways, and smiles.