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.