Heartstones (21 page)

Mrs Flannigan’s eyes flashed at Phoebe then back to Young John. ‘It’s a long time ago,’ she said. ‘I’ve enough going on in the present to want to be bothered raking up the past.’ She bent her head and finished pouring the pint. Young John shrugged and turned back to Phoebe speaking in a low whisper. ‘Always was a prickly mare, acted like she was better than the rest of us. Especially when she came back from living in England.’

‘She lived in England? When?’

‘When she was young. She got a job as a secretary, only went for a year; she told us that the London smog was rank and that she had to come home for some fresh sea air.’ He laughed and coughed again. ‘I think I remember it being said that the real reason she came back was because she had never learned to read.’

Phoebe drove back to the boathouse in a daze. So Mrs Flannigan had been Della Smythe, the young girl who had lived in the same house as Anna, witnessed her unhappy marriage, carried messages between Anna and Michael, watched them as their affair developed. As Phoebe walked up the path to the boathouse she stopped – no wonder Anna and Michael had used Della to carry messages, they would have been perfectly safe to say what they liked because their go-between couldn’t read what they had written.

Phoebe didn’t even turn her head to look for signs of Theo that night. She ran up the stairs and searched through the pile of diaries, looking for the next instalment, searching for more clues.

Chapter Nineteen

Phoebe’s mind raced in circles, she wondered just how much Mrs Flannigan remembered. Phoebe had worked in the pub for weeks now, but Mrs Flannigan had never given any indication that her connection with Anna had been more than just a brief acquaintance. For the first time since receiving Nola’s awful text, Phoebe wished that she could see her sister again, she wanted to tell her about Anna’s diaries, she wanted to talk it all through, to try to piece it all together.

Phoebe picked up her phone and then remembered she had no signal in the boathouse. She glanced at the time, one o’clock. She couldn’t possibly go to bed now; she was wide awake and whirring with unanswered questions.

As Phoebe picked up the fourth diary a letter fell out. By now she recognised Michael’s handwriting.

My darling, darling Anna,

I am so sorry that I made you sad. France is just a fantasy, I walk in the Kerry rain and imagine that in France I would be sitting in the sun discussing Expressionism with Picasso, but the truth is that I can’t even speak French, and the sun only burns my skin and brings out my freckles. When you ran away from me I thought my heart would split in two. I watched you disappearing up the lane and I knew that I could never bear to be without having you in my life. When I said I’d rather be anywhere than Ireland I was wrong. All I want is you, here, now, with me in my arms. Please believe me when I say I love you more than I would ever have believed possible.

M x

With a sigh Phoebe let the letter fall onto her lap; why had David never written to her with such passionate words? Pushing the thought away Phoebe started reading again. The fourth diary had been spared Honey’s creative endeavours and there were more letters from Michael pushed into the pages, mirroring Anna’s fervent feelings with his own. Phoebe read until her eyes throbbed with tiredness as she scanned page after page of her grandmother’s looping writing and Michael’s spiky scrawl; occasionally she rubbed her temples but time seemed irrelevant, sleep hopeless, her mind became consumed with Anna and Michael’s affair.

Anna spent more and more time with Michael; walking Razzle was her marvellous excuse.

Della was always ready to carry messages; she seemed captivated by the young lovers, pleading with Anna to give her details, embellishing them with her own MGM-inspired fantasies.

March 20th

After dinner Della appeared in my room with too much lipstick on and a note from Michael. She said he had been waiting for her outside the shop as she was leaving; she said that he had looked soaked through by the rain. She asked me if I loved him and I found the “Yes” forming on my lips as though I knew it so readily I didn’t have to think. I had to make Della promise over and over that she won’t tell a living soul.

Initially Anna and Michael spent languorous weekend afternoons in the boathouse, lying on the narrow bed, their limbs entwined but as spring approached they ventured out like bears emerging from hibernation. Anna borrowed Della’s bicycle and they went to see a Neolithic dolmen on the moor. They climbed on the huge stone slab to sit and eat their sandwiches and wondered about the people who had built it all those thousands of years ago. On their next trip they came across the remains of a round tower and standing inside it looked up to see a peregrine falcon.

In a letter Michael wrote that he would never forget the bird
flying across the perfect sphere of cornflower sky.

As the weather grew warmer they ventured further afield, cycling across the peninsula and then setting out by foot along clifftops edged with drifts of thrift and gorse. They discovered secluded coves and followed streams inland, finding pools deep enough to bathe in. In May they swam naked in a deep pool at the bottom of a waterfall. In peat-stained water, like molten gold, they gazed at each other’s bodies and afterwards they made love on the mossy river bank while Razzle dozed in the warm afternoon sun.

Sometimes Anna mentioned Gordon, and Phoebe noticed it was increasingly with concern.

June 13th

Gordon looked tired at supper, his eyes are shadowed and his shoulders seem to sag beneath his new summer jacket. I asked if he were well and he said he was.
I cannot help but feel affection for this poor, tormented man I have been so incongruously attached to.

It is a strange thing but instead of feeling anger I feel a warmth towards him, a compassion for his situation. The only anger I feel is for my mother; Mother must have known, or at least suspected. I’m sure her love of idle gossip would have delighted in a rumour about the village doctor, she never could resist the smell of scandal until of course it was her own stench that filled the air in Carraigmore.

At least I have Michael, I have Michael, I have Michael – I could write it over and over again.

Phoebe thought Gordon must have known, or at least suspected that his wife was having an affair. By July Anna and Michael were meeting almost every day.

Sometimes they walked in the grounds of the Castle; renovation work progressed slowly and there was no sign of the film director or any of the Hollywood glamour Della had so eagerly anticipated. At the weekends the weed-choked gardens were empty; there were no workmen or decorators to see Anna and Michael as they sought out the old rose garden or searched amongst the fast-encroaching brambles for the place where the lavender always grew. Michael asked her many questions: about her childhood, her family, and her life in the idyllic house. Anna’s passion for her old home must have been evident as she recorded Michael’s words to her after one particular trip around the overgrown grounds.

He said a man could get to feel quite jealous of a house. I laughed and made to kiss him but he held me at arms length, his expression serious. He seemed to study my face for some time as though I were a subject for his painting and then he asked me if I’d go with him to France. I said, ‘You don’t speak French’ and Michael told me that I’d have to do the talking for us both.

Chapter Twenty

Phoebe’s eyes sprang open. Looking out of the window she saw the dim grey light of morning and realised that she must have dropped off to sleep while reading in the armchair. The diary had slipped onto the floor; she bent to pick it up and heard a gentle humming noise beneath her. The humming turned into a loud whir. Theo!

Phoebe stood up, still half asleep. She started for the stairs, unsure why she wanted to see him; maybe she couldn’t bear the hostile feeling between them any longer.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs she saw Poncho lying across the doorway; he looked at her but didn’t make any attempt to move. Theo was bent over his wheel, his back to her. His hands, grey with wet slip, were deftly shaping a fast-revolving dome of clay. Phoebe watched him, mesmerised by the pot that was magically appearing. It seemed to have a life of its own, moving rhythmically, growing, then shrinking, pulsing at the slightest touch from Theo’s fingers. It swelled outwards, then rose up, then swelled again. Though Phoebe couldn’t see his face she could sense Theo’s absolute absorption in the process. His sleeves were rolled up, the muscles in his arms tense; she could see now that it would be a vase, full-bellied and round.

The speed of the wheel gradually decreased until it stopped altogether, and Theo leaned back slightly to look at his creation. Then he spun the wheel very slowly to study the pot from all angles before taking a thin piece of wire, slicing the pot away from the wheel. and lifting it onto a shelf.

Phoebe walked down the final step into the room and Poncho barked. Theo turned and Phoebe tried to read the expression that crossed his face as he saw her: surprise, irritation but something else as well, maybe a small suggestion that he was actually pleased to see her?

‘It’s beautiful.’ Phoebe nodded at the moon jar on the shelf.

She braced herself for some cutting comment, but instead he picked up a new ball of clay and put it down onto the wheel-head ready to start another pot. His foot pressed the control pedal at the side and the wheel began its humming rotation again. After a few seconds he stopped and turned back to Phoebe.

‘Did your grandmother ever teach you how to throw?’

Phoebe shook her head. ‘She used to let Nola make little bowls but she said I was too young. I’ve always wanted to give it a try; I nearly joined an evening class last September.’ She remembered it had clashed with the evening Sandra always took the twins to see her mother, giving David and Phoebe three clear hours to spend together – too precious an opportunity to waste on pottery classes.

Theo climbed off his seat and gestured to her to sit at the wheel. ‘Come on then, I’ll tell you what to do.’

Phoebe hesitated; did she really want to risk making a fool of herself?

‘No?’ Theo said. ‘Maybe another time.’ He sat back down and turned his back to her.

‘OK then.’ Phoebe stepped forward. ‘I’ll have a go, but don’t laugh at me if I make a total mess of it.’

‘Of course you’ll make a total mess of it.’ He paused and smiled when he saw Phoebe’s indignant expression. ‘Everyone always does the first time. It takes a lot of practice; you should have seen me when I started. I think your grandmother despaired that I would ever produce anything, but something kept me persevering. Have a go; I think you’ll enjoy it – after all it must be in your genes.’ He handed her a heavy cotton smock. ‘Here, you’d better put this on; you don’t want to spoil that nice lace blouse.’ Phoebe looked down and realised she still wore the clothes she’d put on for her shift in the pub the night before. Pulling the shapeless smock over her head, she thought how bizarre it was to be having a pottery lesson at dawn on a chilly Sunday morning. Theo didn’t question what she was doing up and dressed at such an early hour, and she didn’t ask him why he felt the need to work at night instead of during the day.

Phoebe sat down on the high seat in front of Theo’s wheel. The smock was huge and she had to roll the sleeves up several times.

Theo leant against the table and began to issue instructions, ‘Press the pedal gently, keep your arms down, and let your hands get a feel for the clay as it turns, relax your shoulders but keep your arms firm, keep the speed steady, start to make a small indentation with your thumb, increase the speed a bit now. Good, you’re doing well, remember it’s all about tension, start to raise the sides – well done, keep going.’

Phoebe’s heart began to lift as a tangible shape started to appear in front of her. She smiled, a vessel, a pot – it was definitely pot-shaped. The feel of the wet clay between her hands felt wonderful, cathartic, the rotation of the wheel hypnotic. Phoebe found she was enjoying it, why had she never tried throwing a pot before? She should have gone to those evening classes.

She let her fingers pull up the sides to make it bigger, the pot swelled a little, she pushed it slightly at the top to try to make a vase, determined to prove Theo wrong. Even if it had taken
him
a long time to get the hang of it, she could do it perfectly first time. Suddenly the pot began to wobble and then distort; in seconds it was uncontrollable, refusing to answer to her touch, slip splattered over the smock as it twisted back and forth. The wheel juddered to a halt as she took her foot off the control pedal. In a second the perfect shape she’d made collapsed into flaccid lump in front of her. She stared at it and tried not to show her disappointment.

‘Don’t worry,’ Theo said. ‘It happens to the best of us. You did well for your first time.’ He leant over, swiftly cut the disastrous pot away from the wheel, and threw down another ball of clay. ‘I could help you this time,’ he said and leant in front of her to centre the clay on the wheel. Phoebe moved to one side so as not to get in his way. His arm brushed against her shoulder and she felt him flinch, though his eyes stayed firmly fixed on the rotating wheel. Phoebe tried to move over some more, risking falling off her seat. ‘Maybe you should have another go on your own,’ he stepped back to his position by the table. Phoebe pressed the pedal again and placed her hands onto the soft grey clay. Almost immediately the clay began to shudder, refusing to rotate smoothly, whirling awkwardly from side to side.

‘Try and keep it in the middle,’ Theo instructed. ‘Hold your wrists firm, don’t go with it, get control, show it you’re in charge – no, not like that, keep your arms at your sides.’ He was standing beside her again. She tried to gain control by pressing down harder on the clay. ‘No, you’re losing it now. Come on, try to get it back on course, remember what I said about the tension, feel it through your body, through your core,’ his hands were briefly on her shoulders. ‘The pressure should be coming from up here; think tension and pressure – that’s the key to throwing.’ Phoebe tried as hard as she could to think tension and pressure but it had no effect on the drunkenly spinning clay. She wanted to stop but her brain seemed to refuse to communicate with her foot on the pedal; her foot pressed down harder and the clay swung ever more wildly from side to side.

‘Shall I help you?’ Theo was leaning over her again, his hands inches from her own, longing to rectify the mess she was making.

‘OK,’ she replied reluctantly. Theo placed his hands on hers, firmly guiding her, gently pushing her palms against the spinning clay, his forearms leaning against hers. His hands were large, much larger than her own. She noticed the well-defined muscles in his arms.

Suddenly the swaying motion turned into a smooth whirl and a cone shape began to appear between their conjoined hands.

‘There,’ Theo said. ‘It’s coming now.’ He pushed and the clay rose up into a tower, he pressed down and it spun into a drum like cylinder. ‘We need to build the tension before we can make the vessel,’ he explained, pushing it up again. ‘Do you see what I mean? Tension, pressure, control.’

For a second Phoebe closed her eyes, the rhythmic movement of the clay felt wonderful, Theo’s hands encapsulating hers felt strong. His face was very close; she could feel his steady breath against her cheek as he concentrated on the wheel. Every now and then he added more water to keep the surface moist and little droplets of grey slip would spatter across their arms leaving a pattern of tiny dots.

‘Now, let’s start to push down, make an indentation with your fingers, exert a little pressure to the sides.’ Phoebe watched as a vase began to climb upwards, magically appearing, smooth and perfectly round. ‘Lovely,’ said Theo almost inaudibly, ‘just a little more and we’ll be there.’ He moved her hands around the pot, shaping it into a narrow-necked sphere, guiding her fingers around the clay, smoothing the surface. It appeared to be finished, but Theo went on guiding her fingers and Phoebe went on pressing on the pedal to make the wheel go round, wondering when Theo would tell her to stop.

She turned her face to look at him and at the same time his face turned to hers. His leant towards her and their lips met, he drew back and hesitated for the briefest moment then he kissed her again. Phoebe found herself responding, her foot had left the pedal, the pot had been forgotten. Theo’s hands were caressing her back through the smock; drawing her towards him, he lifted the thick cotton and found her skin. A tiny groan of pleasure escape from Phoebe’s lips, then suddenly Theo released her and turned away. The whole encounter had lasted less than thirty seconds.

He stood by the workbench, his back to her. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right.’ Phoebe still sat at the wheel, she pulled down the hideous smock, wanting to take it off altogether but afraid that it would look like some attempt to seduce him further.

‘I don’t know what came over me.’ He had picked up a small piece of natural sponge and seemed to be studying it as though trying to lose himself in its intricacies.

‘I told you, it’s all right.’ She reached out to touch his arm, but he visibly stiffened and she withdrew her hand.

‘I’d better leave,’ he said, taking his coat from the end of the workbench. At the door he turned and their eyes locked for a second. Phoebe started to say something but he gave a brief command to Poncho to follow him and left.

Some time later, Phoebe climbed back up the stairs. Slowly she undressed and climbed into the narrow bed. The clock on her mobile phone said seven thirty and she could see through the window that the grey sky had cleared to a brilliant blue that in no way reflected her frame of mind.

Phoebe tried to sleep but the recollection of Theo’s kiss had left her restless, unable to settle into the oblivion her exhausted body craved. Thoughts of Theo mingled with thoughts of Anna and Michael; she wondered if they had made love in the very place where she now lay, she wondered how long their happiness continued. Briefly she thought of getting up and reading the last two remaining diaries but she felt too tired; her mind began to wander between consciousness and dreams. She dreamed she found a painting of a naked Anna, thick strokes of oyster-coloured oil paint making up a languorously beautiful body. She was draped across the flower-covered armchair, and the long mirror had been placed behind her to reflect a swarthy-faced young artist, his eyes intently concentrating on the easel in front of him. In her dream Phoebe held the painting up to the window light and the figure on the chair seemed to swell a little, the hips and thighs fuller, the limbs less elongated, the whole effect more fleshy. The neat dark bob was replaced with long unruly curls; peering closer Phoebe found it was her own body lying there, and that the artist in the mirror was no longer swarthy but fair, his unshaven face as chiselled as a Grecian sculpture, his hair falling over piercing eyes. Phoebe looked again and realised it was Theo and that he was trying to say something, his lips moving on the coarse canvass. She couldn’t hear him, she tried desperately but she couldn’t make out the words. The face changed again, she tried to work out who the artist was now, trying to recollect the clean-shaven jaw and neatly cut brown hair: David, it was David. His voice was muffled as though coming through a thick wall, but she could hear him.
Sorry, I’m so sorry,
he was saying,
I don’t know what came over me.
He repeated the words over and over again.

She woke up to find herself already sitting up in bed, her heart racing, her body clammy. It took a few seconds to recollect the dream and then a few more to remember the night before. The dream became mingled with reality and she had to force her brain to work out if the passionate kiss she had shared with Theo had been part of the dream or something real that had actually happened.

She picked up her phone to check the time and realised that if she didn’t hurry she’d be late for her lunchtime shift at the pub.

As she climbed into a pair of jeans and slipped on her lace blouse she wondered if she dared ask Mrs Flannigan about Anna and Michael. She was sure that Mrs Flannigan must remember something, she had been fifteen at the time, the same age Phoebe had been when she’d first met David; an impressionable age, an age when romantic books and films stayed in one’s memory. Surely Mrs Flannigan would recollect something of the real-life romance she had been caught up in.

Phoebe quickly brushed her teeth and applied a quick flick of mascara to her pale eyelashes. Before she left she checked her reflection in the mirror and was horrified to see the smears of dried-up clay on her blouse. She remembered Theo’s hands searching beneath the smock and an initial jolt of desire was quickly replaced with embarrassment. She wrenched the blouse off over her head without undoing the buttons and flung it behind the armchair, out of sight. Rummaging through the chest of drawers she found a long-sleeved polo-necked jumper and pulled it on, wishing she had time to shower away the large grey handprint that she noticed on her back.