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?’
Astarte 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.