Jamie is convinced that he will never sleep again. Each night he tosses and turns until the bedsprings ping in protest and he rises to slip out of the window and return to the lake, running through the trees, not stopping until the water stretches silver across his path. His feet have created tracks that small creatures now avoid. The scent of man newly emerged from boyhood singes their nostrils and sends them fleeing for other, quieter trails. Sometimes Eden is there, his presence spelled out by the hieroglyphics of rising smoke above the red glow of his cigarette. For both of them this place has become a sanctuary, and Jamie’s spirits lift when he divines Eden’s presence. They speak little but the company is reassuring.
And day after day he wanders past Mairie Hennessy’s gate, but Sinead seems to have vanished. Mairie is sometimes there, pulling up weeds or harvesting herbs and vegetables, and she always calls a greeting but Jamie never stops. He waves and gives a lopsided smile and walks on.
Siobhan is worried about him. She notes his newly jutting cheekbones and smudged eyes and adds more green vegetables to the meals that lie untouched until the compost heap swallows them. She offers to take him to the new young doctor in Ennis for blood tests to discover whether he is anaemic, but Jamie irritably shrugs off her concern and retreats to his room or slams out of the back door to disappear for unaccounted hours. When John is coerced into action he suggests a fishing trip, hoping for a man to man talk, and Jamie goes with him, displaying no enthusiasm, and sits staring blindly at the water. When a fish takes the bait he doesn’t even notice until the water churns and his line snaps and vanishes. Sighing, John gives up and rows to the shore. He places an arm lightly on his son’s shoulder as they walk home, but Jamie’s back is rigid and John drops his hand and casts his mind back to the seething hormones of his own youth. Glumly he comes to the conclusion that the lad will grow out of it if left in peace.
Jamie’s feet seem to have a mind of their own nowadays. They lead him past the Hennessy’s several times a day, and he looks across hopefully each time, his heart lifting in anticipation before it plummets at the sight of the empty garden. He spends most of his time alone, avoiding Bran and their friends, telling everyone that he is busy.
And suddenly there she is, strolling loose-limbed towards him down the lane. Her hair shimmers in the sunlight, swinging in rhythm with her walk, and when she sees him she stumbles on a stone on the path and throws out her arms to keep from falling. Jamie fights an urge to rush forward. His cheeks flame as he searches her face for signs of welcome or rejection. As they draw level with each other she smiles shyly and he stops.
‘How are you, Jamie?’ she asks. A thrill brings gooseflesh to his arms at the sound of his name on her lips. He opens his mouth, intending to say that he is fine, but his treacherous voice takes the words and changes them.
‘I’ve missed you.’
She colours and he wants to flee. He’s appalled at himself and goes to push past her but she puts out a hand and touches his arm.
‘Walk with me.’ Her voice is soft.
As they move through the trees, almost but not quite touching, Jamie racks his brains for something intelligent to say. He longs to impress her with his wit, to make her laugh, to say anything that will dispel the silence that hangs awkwardly between them like a heavy curtain. They both pretend to be engrossed in the path, searching it with their eyes as if it contains hidden treasure, or clues as to how to break the tension. Occasionally their eyes meet and Jamie tries to hold her gaze, to stop just where they are so that he can drown in the grey sea of her irises. But each time her eyes flick away. As they approach the lake he begins to reach out his hand to take hers, but a bird suddenly flutters from a tree and they both startle. The moment is lost.
It puzzles him that they have known each other since childhood and now she is a mysterious stranger. He can remember her coming to live with Mairie; a small, thin scrap of humanity with wide, sad eyes that had touched him deeply. He had overheard his parents talking about the tragedy, and had gone with Siobhan to take a handmade card and some cake and colouring crayons when Sinead came out of hospital. Once, when she was four and he five years old and they played together often, she had shown him the scars on her stomach and he had been vastly impressed that anyone who had been stitched together like a patchwork quilt could still climb trees and run faster than he could. He had made her a daisy chain that day, and crowned her with it. Jamie wishes they could be as relaxed together now.
They reach the boggy ground at the edge of the lake, and stand at the border of bulrushes that mark the transition of mud to water. The deep croaking of a nearby frog provides a bass line to the soprano of the birds flitting noisily above them, and a glimpse of white across the lake announces the presence of the swans. Jamie’s trainers are taking in water and he can feel cold slime seeping between his toes. He shivers and gathers his courage enough to take her hand and lead her to his special corner amongst the trees. Her hand is cool and soft, unresisting, the bones delicately delineated beneath his questing fingers, and she moves easily beside him, her hair sliding over her face so that he cannot gauge her thoughts.
After all the fantasies and tormented nights Jamie suddenly feels fully alive, bursting with the desire to be the man who is chipping away inside him striving to escape. He wants to shed boyhood like a snakeskin, to wriggle out, fresh and revitalised, to surprise the girl beside him with his maturity. He draws her down to sit beside him and raises his free hand to brush back the silken net of hair from her face. Hazel and grey eyes meet, and Sinead’s lips curve in a smile.
‘So, Jamie Langford, are you after telling me that you have a mind to be my man?’ Her voice is light, amused, but her eyes hold his as if challenging him.
He looks down at the hand that fits so neatly into his own, and strokes his thumb gently along the curl of her fingers, then raises his eyes to meet hers once more.
‘Sinead Hennessy, will you be my girl?’ His voice, long broken, cracks and squeaks and he inwardly curses his nervousness. She doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes are fixed on his, green lights dancing amongst the grey. She carefully raises her free hand and strokes his cheek with light, feathery movements. Her fingers rub the goatee beard that he has nurtured so carefully all this year.
‘I’ve always wondered what a beard feels like,’ she muses. ‘It’s not as coarse as I thought it would be. You have swansdown on your chin, Jamie Langford.’ She tweaks a strand teasingly and he grabs at her hand and misses as she raises it. Sinead pushes at his chest playfully and he falls over onto his back.
‘Bejaysus, woman, you’re stronger than you look,’ he teases, and she giggles and lies on her stomach beside him, resting her chin on her hands. Jamie’s arm shoots out and knocks her forearms, sending her off-balance. ‘And you’ve not answered my question.’
‘And what question would that be?’ She looks at him innocently. Jamie feels fear grasp his insides. Perhaps she is just teasing him, and will go and tell her girlfriends that she has made a conquest. He looks away across the lake, his face set. Sinead rolls closer and strokes his forearm. ‘Ah, you mean the man-woman question. Well, the answer is yes, but you must promise not to break my heart.’
Jamie turns and lays a hand on her shoulder, certain that his touch will leave burn marks on her cool flesh. He can feel himself melting under her gaze; he knows that if a heart is to be broken it will be his own, for she has experienced more pain and loss in her life than anyone he has known. ‘I promise,’ he whispers, and leans closer until his lips meet hers.
This time she does not flee, but curves her hand around the back of his neck until he feels that he will melt into her. The kiss is inexpert. They’re not sure what to do with their parted lips, and their teeth clink together, making them both laugh nervously as they surface for air. Jamie pulls her down on top of him, burying his face in the hair that falls in a cascade of red-gold over him. Her neck smells of strawberries, and he presses his lips to it until she squirms and giggles and rolls off him to tuck herself beneath his arm and stretch out, fusing the length of her body to his.
When the sun goes down and the birds take to the trees for the night they rise and tenderly brush grass and twigs from each other’s hair and clothes. Jamie walks her home, his arm around her shoulders, savouring the sensation of her hand at his waist. They chatter as they did when they were children, breaking free occasionally to play tag around the trees.
At the gate they kiss goodbye, and Jamie watches her as she runs along the path to the cottage and swivels to wave before vanishing through the door. He turns homewards, stepping slowly to prolong the day, replaying each moment over and over in his mind, committing it to memory. He knows that this afternoon will live forever; that it will be the defining glow that will light up his adult life.
Siobhan has been fretting for an hour, imagining that something terrible has happened. She jumps at every small sound, listening for Jamie’s footsteps. She wonders where her peaceful, cheerful son has disappeared to lately, leaving a surly young man to take his place. John has retreated to the permatunnel, murmuring about plants needing re-potting, but Siobhan knows that really he is escaping from the atmosphere. Just a few weeks ago she considered her family to be the happiest she has known; open and easy-going, infused with laughter. Now she listens at night to Jamie’s stealthy footsteps retreat down the garden to who-knows-where, and she fears for him.
She distracts herself by making a salad with leaves and fennel from the garden, to go with the goats’ cheese and spinach flan that is slowly turning golden in the range.
When Jamie strolls dreamily through the door and grins at her as he flops down on the bench seat, she heaves an inward sigh of relief and refrains from asking him where he has been. Instead she greets him cheerfully.
‘What’s for dinner?’ he asks. ‘I’m starving!’
Siobhan pulls the flan from the range oven and places it on a mat on the table, then goes to the back door to call John in. When she turns to fetch the salad she sees that Jamie has already cut a large slice and is wolfing it down, huffing as it burns his mouth. She smiles to herself. Her boy is back.