All night long Astarte wriggles and kicks, grabbing the duvet each time it slips off the makeshift bed. Her ears prick up at every strange sound, and she worries that whoever took the photograph is lurking around outside the van, which makes her angry as well as nervous. By the time the first pale threads of dawn show in the sky she is exhausted and cold, and her head aches dully. Giving up on all hope of sleep, she washes and dresses, and makes tea and toast before dragging a comb through her hair. It catches in the mass of tangles and she throws the comb irritably into the drawer, dragging her hair back into an elastic band instead. She needs an outlet for this excess of nervous energy.
The sky looms low, brooding, and a fine rain sprinkles her hair with tiny bright drops and pats her face lightly, refreshing her. She walks along the track that wends stonily around the lake, leading to the farms and cottages that nestle between groves of trees. Somewhere close by a cock crows. Leaves rustle and a sparrow flutters past. Astarte begins to feel calmer.
Mairie Hennessy is out in her garden pulling carrots. She straightens up and places her hands on the small of her back when Astarte ambles past and waves. Mairie waves her fistful of carrots and Astarte stops.
‘Hello there! Come and have some tea. ’Tis a grey morning.’ Mairie gestures towards the open cottage door. Astarte smiles and assents as she trips through the gate, following the old woman inside. A collie barks once and then comes to push his damp nose into her hand.
‘Down, Blackfoot,’ Mairie tells him, going to move him away, but Astarte bends to stroke him, marvelling at the softness of his ears compared with his rough coat. His muzzle is grey with advancing years, and he has one black paw and three white ones, which makes his name self-explanatory. His liquid brown eyes gaze adoringly into hers as she gently pulls his ears.
‘Sure and he likes you, and he’s a lad with very discerning tastes. Now you must be Astarte. I’ve heard about you from Siobhan. Will you have tea?’
For a rotund woman whose hands show signs of arthritis, Mairie moves quickly, stepping across to check the water level in the ancient kettle on the range, adding an extra spoonful of tea to the pot on the scrubbed wooden table, and taking out a cup to set beside the two others that nestle in saucers beside the teapot. Her hair is snow white, plaited in two coils that circumnavigate her head. She waves towards a chair, gesturing for Astarte to sit down. Blackfoot comes to stand beside her and lays his head in her lap.
Astarte feels slightly bemused at the resemblance between Mairie and her grandmother. She wants to lean her head on this woman’s shoulder. It would feel safe and secure there, and she could forget yesterday’s madness. Instead, she answers Mairie’s probing questions, relaxing into the air of peace that pervades the kitchen. It is comfortable here. Homely. She wonders whether her cottage will be as restful once she moves in, but this reminds her of Flynn and the way he stormed off, so she trains her focus on Mairie instead and asks a question of her own.
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘All my life, Astarte. I was born here, and here I will die, as did my parents and their parents before them, and those before them. ’Tis important to know your place in the world, is it not, and this is mine.’
Astarte marvels at the thought of such continuity. She notices how heavily Mairie plants herself in the worn chair by the range. She idly wonders who the third cup is for as she takes in the room. Bunches of herbs hang upside down above the range. A few framed photographs, yellow and blurry with age, sit on the window sill beside a small vase of flowers. A large basket of vegetables stands in the corner. The kitchen is basic but neat and clean, with none of the usual knick-knacks that punctuate the spaces between useful objects. Curiously Astarte eyes a large salt pig that sits by the back door. Mairie follows her gaze, and cackles.
‘To keep harm at bay,’ she says. Her blue eyes fix Astarte to the spot, seeing through her carefully constructed façade. ‘Sprinkle salt across your doorway and all will be well.’
Light footsteps sound outside the door and a young girl enters, shaking drops of rain from long, wavy hair the colour of polished copper. The girl stops, surprised, her grey eyes alive with multi-coloured lights.
‘You must be Astarte,’ she says, stepping forward to shake hands. Astarte rises from the chair, her cup wobbling precariously on its saucer.
‘Yes, I am. News travels fast here.’
‘Ah, before you’ve been here five minutes everyone knows who you are, what you’re doing here, and whether you’ll stay. ’Tis the way of these communities. By next week even your dreams will not be private. We’ll know what you’re doing even before you have made the plans yourself.’ Mairie’s cackling chuckle is infectious. ‘Now this is Sinead, my great-niece, who shares the cottage with me and will inherit it after I’m gone.’ She waves a gnarled hand towards the girl, who sits beside Astarte and raises her cup of tea, then pauses to grin at Mairie.
‘You’ll be here forever. ’Tis indestructible you are, fuelled by mischief,’ Sinead says casually, as though she has heard this many times before and will not take it seriously. ‘There’s a new chick hatched this morning,’ she adds, nodding in the direction of the door.
Mairie smiles, and her eyes almost disappear into the laughter lines that fan out around them. ‘A new day, a new life,’ she says, nodding with satisfaction. ‘That is good.’ Sinead loves those hens, and it is her job to let them out each morning and scatter grain before they wander off to ruin the seedlings. ‘Will you have breakfast, Astarte?’
Astarte refuses politely and stands to leave. Mairie and Sinead see her off from the doorway. The beauty of youth and age, she thinks as she closes the gate behind her. She pauses and calls out, ‘Come and visit any time!’ and they both wave. She’s curious about why Sinead lives there, and smiles to herself as she follows the track further. No doubt she will hear the tale soon enough.
Seamus is bringing his cows back to the field from early morning milking. They move slowly but purposefully, heading for home and sweet grass, their udders comfortably empty. He sees Astarte and waves. She stops and waits for the cows to pass her and enter through the gate in an orderly line. Seamus closes the gate behind him and leans on it. His feathery hair sticks to his head in damp patches, and his leather coat is cracked with age and creaks with each movement.
‘Well, and good morning to you,’ he says, beaming. ‘Now will you have tea with an old admirer?’
Astarte feels awkward at refusing hospitality. ‘I have to turn back now, I’m afraid. Flynn will be arriving soon. But another time that would be lovely.’
Seamus nods. ‘Ah yes, well the old must make way for the young, to be sure.’ He squints in the direction of Mairie’s cottage and mutters something under his breath.
‘Pardon?’ Astarte asks.
‘The old bat is at large this morning. Will you look at that?’ Astarte turns. Mairie is hanging out a clean sheet on the line, and waves a corner of it at her. Astarte waves back. ‘Has she not noticed the rain?’ he says, and harrumphs, then shoots a calculating look at Astarte. ‘You be careful with that old witch. She’s a sly one, not to be trusted,’ he says.
Astarte raises her eyebrows but says nothing, remembering his comments at John and Siobhan’s about Mairie Hennessy. She does not intend to be mixed up in neighbourly warfare if she can help it. She lays a hand on Seamus’ arm.
‘I’d love to have tea with you another day,’ she tells him, and turns to retrace her steps homeward. He watches her, eyes narrowed, as she vanishes around a bend in the track, then sighs and goes to tend to the cows. As he slips the bolt across the gate a watery sun appears between the clouds, and the rain stops. He glowers across at Mairie’s sheets hanging limply.
‘Old witch,’ he mutters, and spits onto the mud.
Flynn is already at work when Astarte arrives home. A bouquet of flowers is propped up against the door of her van, and she can hear him whistling from inside the cottage. She stands and looks at the flowers then takes a deep breath and goes to face him.
He looks up and grins when she enters the cottage. ‘We’re doing well,’ he says, waving the trowel at the walls. ‘Jamie’s coming in a while. There will be a storm later, so I want to get as much done as possible this morning.’
Astarte is relieved that he is in a good mood. She resolves not to mention his tantrum, and goes to sort through the stones.
‘The sun has come out,’ she comments. He looks at her sharply, unsure whether she means the weather or his mood. He’s trying to make it right between them, despite his hurt over her not-so-secret relationship with Eden. Then he grins.
‘Ah, so Mairie will have her washing out. The sun always shines for her. You wait, as soon as she takes it in the storm will come.’
Astarte laughs and shakes her head. Mairie seems to have a reputation in the area, but Flynn apparently thinks fondly of her.
‘She has, actually. I just saw her. And your father. He doesn’t seem to like her much.’
‘The understatement of the year.’ Flynn shakes his head ruefully.
‘Are the flowers from you? They’re beautiful.’
Flynn looks awkward. ‘Must be the fairies who left them.’ He walks to the doorway and peers out at the bouquet. ‘Definitely the fairies, I would say.’
Astarte makes a mock curtsey in the direction of the van. ‘Thank you kindly, fairies,’ she calls, then heads for the nearest gap in the wall and fits a stone carefully into it, wondering what she can use as a vase.
With three of them working hard, the walls are gradually becoming whole again. It gives Astarte a sense of intense pride to see the results of the hours spent finding the right stones and setting them carefully in place. The atmosphere is more comfortable with Jamie around. He and Flynn tease each other, but Astarte intercepts admiring glances aimed in Flynn’s direction. Jamie makes it clear that he respects Flynn’s expertise, and takes notice of instructions.
They break for lunch. As Astarte is carrying a tray of bread and cheese, tea, and biscuits down the garden, there is a sudden crash of thunder and the heavens open. Flynn and Jamie race out of the cottage to meet her, grabbing the tray and trying to shield its contents from the downpour. Laughing and whooping, they scuttle into the cottage and huddle in the corner where the roof is intact. They sit squashed together, watching puddles form on the floor as the rain finds its way through holes in the rusty corrugated iron that covers the beams. The men grab chunks of sodden bread and mugs of tea diluted with rainwater. Astarte tucks her legs against her chest, shivering, and her hands shake when she picks up her mug.
Lightning sears the sky and illuminates the cottage. ‘One, two, three …’ Jamie counts, reverting to boyhood and forgetting to be cool and casual. The thunder that follows is so loud that Astarte jumps, spilling tea on her already wet jeans. ‘Three miles!’ Jamie cries. The next bolt of lightning is followed immediately by a drumroll from the sky. Astarte curls herself into as tight a ball as possible, shrinking back against the wall until sharp stones dig into her back. She shudders. ‘Right overhead!’ calls Jamie.
Flynn laughs at the boy’s excitement, then stops as he notices Astarte’s ashen face. He puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks. Her shoulders are level with her ears and her knees are drawn up to her chin. Most of her hair has escaped from the elastic band, and hangs in curling rats’ tails over her face. He brushes it aside carefully and peeks at her. Jamie, engrossed in the storm, is watching the window and door spaces, eagerly awaiting the next flash of lightning.
‘Astarte?’ Flynn puts a finger under her chin and raises it so that she has to look at him. Her eyes are wide and terrified. Flynn’s heart contracts. He puts his arm around her shoulder. She is rigid, unyielding. ‘’Tis only a storm. It will pass soon,’ he whispers. Gradually she allows herself to be drawn under his arm, and nestles against him.
‘You’re like a little bird,’ he murmurs, his face against her hair, breathing in the scent of rain and warm flesh. She smells of flowers and stone dust. ‘They don’t like storms either.’ He looks into her eyes and smiles. Tremulously she smiles back, then jumps as the next roll of thunder sounds. ‘See. It’s going away. There was a decent space between the lightning and thunder. ‘’Twill not be long before it is gone.’ She nods in reply.
Jamie, oblivious, leaps up and runs to look out of the window. The rain blows in, drenching him further. ‘Nine, ten … ah shit, it’s getting further away.’ He turns and sees Astarte tucked under Flynn’s arm. ‘Oh!’ he says, nonplussed.
Blushing, Astarte quickly moves away from Flynn and jumps to her feet. Flynn retrieves his arm. ‘She’s scared of storms,’ he tells Jamie.
‘But it’s the elements! It’s the gods in battle! How can you be frightened?’ Jamie’s face is alive, impassioned. Flynn thinks ‘Uh-oh’ as Astarte’s lips set in a tight line. She shrugs.
‘I just don’t like storms, OK?’ Her tone is challenging, and Flynn marvels that someone so small in physical stature can exude such belligerence.
‘OK.’ Jamie’s voice is light. He is trying not to laugh. The rain has already eased from a tumultuous roar to a light patter. Astarte walks stiffly across to collect some more stones before retreating to a dry patch to begin fitting them in. Flynn and Jamie follow her lead. They work in silence. Flynn’s arm feels warm where Astarte had rested against it. He tries not to think, not to hope or dream. Instead he concentrates on the stones and the wall. An hour passes in near silence. The rain stops and Jamie looks outside longingly.
‘What a great storm that was,’ he sighs. Flynn glances across at Astarte and catches her watching him. Quickly she looks away, her cheeks flaming.
Past midnight, just as Astarte is falling asleep, she hears footsteps crunching up the driveway. She rises and peers out of the window but nothing can be seen in the blackness. Something clatters against the side of the van and she jumps. Her heartbeat escalates as she creeps to the passenger seat window and unwinds it. ‘Who’s there?’ she calls. Only silence answers her.
It takes her a long time to fall asleep that night. In the morning there is no evidence of an intruder at all.