Heartstones (16 page)

A bark – a loud bark, followed by another. Phoebe looked up from the diary. Now there was another noise, the creak of a door, then the scuff of feet on rough flagstones, footsteps on the stairs, slow and heavy on the wooden treads. Phoebe couldn’t move, her body frozen with fright; her eyes stared, unblinking, at a dark shadow moving up the staircase wall. She wished she’d accepted Fibber’s offer and stayed in the pub’s spare room, how ridiculous to think she would be safe here on her own. Her heart beat so loudly in her ears that she could no longer hear the advancing footsteps. She watched the mirror, waiting for it to reveal the intruder.

‘Phoebe!’ Phoebe felt flooded with relief as Theo’s body appeared in the glass, bundled up in a wax jacket, hair dripping, his face glistening with rain. He addressed Phoebe’s reflection as it stared back at him. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’

‘What are
you
doing here, more like!’ she said in a classic bedclothes-pulled-up-around-chin pose.

‘I saw a light, and I thought boys from the village must have broken in; it’s happened before. I didn’t recognise the car outside, I was sure it was trespassers.’

‘Well, it’s just me.’

Theo looked around him at the electric fire and the kettle and the clothes spilling out of her rucksack, and then turned back to Phoebe. ‘I thought you’d gone. I thought you were going back to England.’

‘I changed my mind. I decided to stay around for a bit longer, maybe the whole summer.’ She smiled in an attempt to defuse his obvious annoyance.

Theo ran his hands through his wet hair, ‘You could have told me, saved me coming out in this dreadful weather. I think I have a right to know who’s living in my studio.’

‘I planned to come up to tell you tomorrow.’

‘Would you? Or would you just have decided I wasn’t worth the bother, like when you so rudely left this morning.’

‘Rudely?’ Phoebe remembered the anguish she had been feeling at the time she left the Castle. She had barely held herself together long enough to make it through the door, let alone engage in polite goodbyes.

‘Yes, rudely. One minute you were going to drink a cup of tea with us and the next you were gone; you could at least have had the courtesy to say goodbye to Honey. She thought you’d gone back to England for good – she was upset.’

Phoebe pushed herself up in the bed, feeling somewhat disadvantaged in her spotty pyjamas, still stained with the jam from Honey’s toast that morning.

‘I’m sorry if I hurt Honey, but I was upset –’

‘It was just a bottle of whiskey.’

‘Pardon?’

‘It was only a bottle of Jameson’s, not a kilo bag of heroin.’

Phoebe stared at him and tried to work out what he could be talking about.

‘I saw you; when the things fell out of the cupboard and you saw the whiskey bottle your whole demeanour changed, and then you walked out with that sanctimonious look on your face.’

‘My being upset had nothing to do with the whiskey. You go ahead and drink yourself into a miserable hole, it’s your life, I don’t care what you do with it.’ She met his eyes with her own and held his gaze until he looked away.

Theo took a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket and opened it.

‘Hey,’ Phoebe cried. ‘I don’t care if you choose to smoke yourself into a miserable hole either, but don’t do it here. New boathouse rule – no smoking.’

Theo put the cigarette in his mouth and for a moment Phoebe thought he was about to light it anyway, but then he took it from his lips and put it back into the packet.

‘We seem to continually get off on the wrong foot.’ He said with a sigh. He looked suddenly tired.

Phoebe shrugged and hugged her knees. ‘It’s the initial greeting that needs work; maybe a “Hello” and a “How are you?” instead of full-on rage and indignation.’ She tried a smile again.

Theo stared back at her without expression.

‘I’d better get back, I left Honey sleeping.’ He moved to the top of the stairs then stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. ‘
My
boathouse rule,’ he said. ‘Don’t touch my pots.’

Phoebe’s mouth fell open, but the power of speech had abandoned her. Without another word Theo started to descend the stairs.

The door banged shut beneath her. ‘Now who’s not bothering to say goodbye?’ Phoebe shouted into the empty room. She lay down again and tried the yoga breathing she’d learned in an ashram in Bangalore – it didn’t work. She sat up again and thumped at the suddenly uncomfortable pillow; she wondered if she could evict Theo, he had loads of space to work in up at the Castle. All those empty rooms, why should he have half of her space? She flung herself back on the pummelled pillow and resisted the urge to run downstairs and poke holes in all his unfired pots. She squeezed her eyes shut. More yoga breathing: in for five out for seven, in for five out for seven. Phoebe decided to spare the pots.

Outside the storm had diminished; the rattling of the wind and the noise of rain and sea lessened. Slowly Phoebe’s anger began to ebb away until, finally, she fell asleep.

Chapter Fifteen

Phoebe woke up late. The fury she had felt about Theo was diminished by the excitement of waking up so close to the sea. She pulled a jumper over her pyjamas and went outside. Standing on the slipway, a breeze blew through her sleep-tangled hair, the air smelled wonderfully salty. Phoebe yawned and stretched, arms extended to the sky, a narrow strip of stomach exposed to the cool air. Above her the sun was a bright smudge in the sky, in front of her great grey rollers crashed onto the sand. Phoebe smiled; it was all hers: the sky, the sea, the sand, the boathouse, it was her own new world. She didn’t need Nola, she didn’t need her job at the school, or all that clutter she had accumulated in her flat – she didn’t need anything or anyone. A bubble of happiness floated up inside her and she had a huge desire to run along the sand. The thought of David broke through the bubble and she felt guilty for feeling so happy and went inside to make a cup of tea.

Ten minutes later she was back outside, a steaming mug in one hand and a lump of Theo’s clay in the other.

She sat down on the slipway, her unzipped boots kicking lightly against the side. Taking a piece of clay from the main lump she began to shape it with her thumb and forefinger into a small round pot, just the way her granny had shown her many years before. Tiny shells had been thrown up by the storm and Phoebe used one to leave an impressed pattern around the outside and then, picking up a twig, drew a wavy line beneath the rim.

‘That’s pretty,’ Phoebe had known the little girl was there even before she heard her speak; she had thought of her moments before and had somehow known that she was on her way.

Honey dropped into a crouch beside her and put her finger out to lightly touch the rim of the pot. Phoebe noticed that her nails were painted a bright scarlet and cleverly decorated with tiny black spots to make each one into a ladybird.

‘Nice nails,’ said Phoebe. ‘Did Katrina do them for you?’

ʻNo,’ Honey spread her fingers out in front of Phoebe’s eyes and wiggled them. ‘Daddy did them for me yesterday.’

Phoebe raised her eyebrows. ‘He’s good.’

‘He did my toes too.’ Honey took off one baseball boot to reveal sparkling blue nails with a minute pink butterfly or daisy alternating in the centre of each. ‘And then I painted his toes like rainbows.’

Phoebe tried to imagine them up there in the Castle – the big, angry man and the little girl in all that mess, painting each other’s nails.

‘Can I have some clay?’ Honey asked, already gouging out a lump. ‘I’m going to make a pot too.’

‘Shall I show you how?’

‘I know how.’ Honey began to roll the clay between her hands. ‘First you make a sausage.’ Slowly the clay grew into a long rope, Honey’s small pink tongue protruded between her lips with concentration. ‘And then you coil it round and round and round like this.’ She began to make the rope into a spiral and then after she’d made a small base she started to coil it up into a little vessel, smoothing out the sides as she went, expertly giving it shape. Phoebe watched her as she picked up a different shell and pressed it gently into the soft clay until she had two rows of pretty fans around the edge.

‘It’s beautiful.’ Phoebe smiled at her. ‘Did your dad teach you how to make coil pots like that?’

‘Ages ago,’ said Honey. ‘When we lived in Dublin he used to take me to his studio and let me play with clay while he worked. Now he only makes his pots when I’m not there.’

‘I think he’d be impressed with what you’ve made today. Maybe he’d let you put it in his kiln and glaze it for you.’

Honey studied the little pot in her hand, turning it around to look at it. Suddenly she squeezed it hard, her ladybird tipped fingers digging into the clay, crushing the sides, compressing it into a ball in her palm. She looked up at Phoebe’s dismayed face. ‘It wasn’t that good,’ she said and threw the ball of clay onto the beach.

‘What a shame,’ said Phoebe. ‘I would have liked to have kept that if you didn’t want it.’ Honey took another piece of clay and started to roll it between her palms.

‘I’m glad you’re going to stay,’ she said, smiling up at Phoebe.

‘Did you hear that I’m going to live in the boathouse for a while?’

Honey nodded. ‘My dad told me this morning. He thinks you’re going to be a bloody nuisance.’

‘Does he?’ Phoebe couldn’t help smiling.

‘Look I’ve made a snake!’ Honey wormed her long rope of clay along the slipway with a hiss.

‘It looks like a big letter S from here,’ said Phoebe.

‘Sssssssssss for snake,’ laughed Honey.

‘What else begins with S?’

Honey looked at Phoebe warily, as if suspicious that she’d let herself fall into some sort of trap. She shrugged and started making the coil into another pot.

‘Lots of things round here begin with S,’ Phoebe continued. ‘Do you like “I spy”? I’ll start. I spy with my little eye something beginning with S.’ Honey remained absorbed in her pot. ‘I’ll give you a clue – it’s wet and has waves.’

Honey sighed. ‘Sea,’ she muttered without looking up.

‘That’s right, well done.’

‘I’m not stupid, you know,’ Honey glared at Phoebe. ‘I know what begins with S; I’m not in nursery school – S for sand, S for sky, S for sun, S for seaweed, S for stupid games like “I spy” – I mean the “spy” bit, not the “I”.’

‘What about S for shell?’

‘Shell doesn’t begin with S.’

‘What does it begin with then?’

Honey shrugged again. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on – I’ll show you,’ Phoebe jumped off the slipway and picked up a stick of driftwood. ‘Race you down to the sea.’ They ran across the sand, both laughing as the wind blew back their hair and billowed up Honey’s anorak as if she might take off into the air. They stopped at the water’s edge; Honey started playing “chase” with the waves, daring them to make her feet wet.

‘Listen to the sea,’ said Phoebe. ‘What’s it saying?’

‘It’s saying, “You’re going to get a soaking if you don’t get out of my way.”’

‘But what sound is it using to say that? Can you hear it?’

Honey stood still and listened for a few seconds and then she laughed. ‘It’s saying
Shoo, shoo, shoo
.’

‘That’s right, sh for shoo, shoo, get away.’ With her driftwood stick Phoebe wrote
sh
in the wet sand left by a retreating wave, a new wave quickly slid up to take its place and gobbled up the letters. Phoebe wrote it again and again, and again and again the sea took it away.

‘I want to do it,’ cried Honey, and she took the stick from Phoebe and wrote a long line of sh’s along the sand, skipping sideways like a crab to avoid the waves as they took away her letters, delighted with the game. ‘It’s like it’s eating its own words,’ she laughed.

Phoebe smiled, the misty sky had lifted and the sun seemed to reflect its sparkle in Honey’s wide blue eyes. ‘Sh, sh, sh!’ shouted Honey to the sea as she ran along the beach writing the letters.

‘My goodness, another spelling lesson, Miss Brennan?’

Phoebe turned to the man who had appeared beside her. ‘My goodness, another run on the beach, Mr O’Brian?’

Rory smiled and took a few deep breaths.

‘Word on the mean streets of Carraigmore has it that you’re staying around.’

Phoebe smiled at him. ‘Word travels fast.’

‘Oh yes, you’re causing quite a stir; all the boys were raving about you at band practice last night.’

‘Band practice?’

‘I’m in a local band.’

‘What kind?’

‘Traditional music mostly, but we try to punk it up a bit – you know, a bit of Pogues, a touch of The Killers – Celtic style. We’ve not long been playing together. It’s just a bit of fun really. I play guitar and do a share of the singing.’

Phoebe raised her eyebrows. ‘A man of many talents.’ Rory shrugged, although his dimples gave away the hint of a smile. ‘What’s the band called?’

‘Na Buachaillí Trá.’

‘Pardon?’

‘It means “The Beach Boys” in Irish. We’re all surfers you see,’ Rory went on in explanation.

Phoebe tried very hard to suppress her laughter. ‘Sorry, I know it’s not that funny. It’s just the contrast between the Californian Beach Boys singing beside blue seas and sunlit skies and a Kerry version on a freezing beach with intermittent drizzle.’

‘Yeah, very funny, and we don’t have those tanned West Coast girls in bikinis either; it seems our West Coast girls wear baggy jumpers with spotty pyjamas and boots they can’t even be bothered to do up.’

Phoebe looked down at her clothes and then back to Rory. ‘I’ve not had time to get dressed yet!’ They both turned to look at Honey who was still dancing down the beach and writing in between the waves.

‘You’re great with the old literacy ideas,’ said Rory. ‘You’ll have Honey reading Dostoyevsky before we know it.’

‘Are you being sarcastic?’

Rory shook his head. ‘No. You seem to be a great teacher; your talent will be wasted pulling pints at Fibber’s.’

‘Well, maybe I could help Honey sometimes to keep my hand in. You could give me some of her reading books to get us started?’

Rory frowned. ‘You’d have to ask her father.’

‘Does he really need to know?’ The thought of another run-in with Theo was too much for Phoebe.

‘Yes, he does. I couldn’t agree to anything without his permission. And
you’d
have to ask him. I’m telling you, he never listens to me when I try to talk to him about Honey.’

‘OK,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’ll go up there and see him.’

‘Today?’

‘Maybe tomorrow, when I’ve unpacked.’

‘You have a lot of luggage, do you?’

Phoebe gave a small snort. ‘I mean I’ll talk to him when I’ve thought of what to say.’

‘Good luck to you, he’s very sensitive about his daughter. Let me know if he does agree to you helping her and then I’ll be happy to go over what I’ve been doing in class.’ Rory looked at a large watch on his wrist. ‘I’d better be going, my mother will be back from Mass and I always help her cook the veg for Sunday lunch.’

‘I’ll let you know when I’ve plucked up my courage to talk to Theo.’

Rory grinned. ‘You’ll be seeing me tonight when you go to work. Na Buachaillí Trá are playing at Fibber Flannigan’s. I’ll look forward to hearing what a karaoke queen like yourself thinks of us.’ Phoebe started to protest that she had never even sung karaoke before she came to Carraigmore but Rory had already started to jog away. ‘Good luck with the unpacking,’ he called over his shoulder.

A few yards up the beach he stopped briefly to say something to Honey and seemed impervious to the dirty look she threw at him. With a cheery wave he set off again towards the end of the beach – where Phoebe had no doubt that he would scale the cliff, abseil down the other side, and sprint the remaining few miles to his parents’ farm in record-breaking time, before serenading his mother with “Danny Boy” while peeling a ton of potatoes and whipping up the best colcannon in all of County Kerry.