Rainsongs Page 6

  She breathes deeply and stretches to shrug off the night. Recently she’d joined a yoga class but is not very good. Still it quietens her racing mind as she sweats through Down Dog and the Plank, enjoying her stretching muscles. The physical endeavour replacing mental strain. As she’s heating a saucepan of milk for her porridge, there’s a knock on the door and a woollen hat, pulled down low over a pair of rosy cheeks, peers in, followed by a small rotund body in an outsized jumper that hangs shapelessly over a pair of old tracksuit bottoms.

  It’s difficult to tell whether the person in front of her is a man or a woman.

  Mary Nolan’s the name, the figure says, by way of introduction, holding out a calloused hand. Turf Mary they call me. I just popped by to see you’ve plenty of fuel. We always brought the turf up for Brendan. It’s a terrible thing he’s gone. Sure being in your sixties is no age now. Just you let me know if you want anything and my son Colm, will fetch it up for you. You’ll not be wanting to cart round those dirty, heavy bags, yourself, she says thrusting a scrap of paper with a mobile number on the table.

  That’s really kind Mrs Nolan. As you can see you just caught me grabbing a bit of breakfast. I thought I’d go for a walk while it’s clear.

  Mrs Nolan? What sort of eejit name is that? Everyone calls me Mary.

  Well, Mary, can I offer you a cup of tea?

  No, I’m grand just now thanks. I hope you’ll be alright on your own up here. It’s a windy old place. Just you ring if you need anything. You’ve my number alright.

  4

  Eugene Riordan wakes with a thick head and a bad temper. He shouldn’t have drunk so much. He hates parties, particularly his own. Why does he give these things when he never enjoys them? He didn’t get to bed until three and shouldn’t have had that last cigar. His throat feels like sandpaper and his tongue is huge. A sick headache is no way to start the New Year and, on balance, he’d prefer it if Siobhán wasn’t lying beside him stroking his inner thigh. He doesn’t want to make love or even chat. She has a large spot on her chin. The livid yellow head looks ready to burst. He just wants to be left alone to nurse his headache, then fling on some old clothes and go down to the beach with the dogs. He enjoys their mute company as they run across the wet sands retrieving the bits of driftwood he throws for them. Why does she keep coming back? She insists she’s not interested in his money, just in being close to him. But he’s not sure he wants to be close to anyone. She usually offers up such confessions late at night when he’s mellowed by whiskey and a good dinner. She has a habit of staring into his eyes and making these declarations about which he feels nothing. And she’s far too keen on telling him that he’s ‘in denial’ and ‘not in touch with his feelings’. Well that’s as maybe. But she seems to want the sort of intimacy for which two failed marriages have taught him he has no real talent. He can’t understand what women want, what they expect. What he’s supposed to do or say. He doesn’t love her. In fact he’s not sure he’s ever loved anyone other than his nan who died when he was five. And that might have been some other emotion entirely.

  Lust. He’s felt his share of lust for a variety of different women and the sense of ownership that ignites. Though these days he’s not even sure that sex interests him that much. It’s true that he likes a woman in his bed at night. For ever since he was a child he’s disliked the dark. But such comfort in the small hours always carries the price of having to chat over breakfast or make plans for lunch the following day. He’d rather spend the morning with his accountant or out with the guns.

  That reminds him, he must ring and find out what’s happening with that land up past Bolus Head. His solicitor promised to hurry things along. He’s trying to clear matters with the local council but the purchase is dragging on forever. The architects have already sent him the first drawings. He’s impressed. There’ll be uninterrupted views of the Skelligs, making it the most exclusive spa in Ireland. Actually he’s quite excited. Spas. That’s where the future lies. They have to be tasteful. But it’s worth the investment. The architects, a young prize-winning firm from Dublin, have suggested Carrara marble, tropical hardwoods and lots of plate glass to show off the views. They want to run the minimal Zen theme throughout. An indoor waterfall flowing over natural boulders into a stream full of golden carp in the entrance. A Japanese garden. It’s what the wealthy Dublin wives he wants to attract expect, as well as those from London, Paris, even the Middle East and New York. And he hopes to entice some new Russian money. All these old communists are into Armani suits and diamond-encrusted Rolex watches now. It won’t just be Jacuzzis and steam rooms. But aromatherapy and hot stone treatments. Lots of thick white towels and complementary bath robes. Body wraps seem to be the latest thing, in algae and seaweed. Then there are the new exfoliating salt scrubs. He’s been doing some research and found an exclusive firm that only sources salt from the Dead Sea. And he wants to serve top-class food. The best on the west coast. Locally sourced oysters, hake and lobster, but with a twist. A touch of Asian fusion along with some traditional Irish dishes presented in a new way. He’s been asking around for a top chef. Maybe with a Michelin star or two. He’s in touch with one who worked for Heston Blumenthal and he’s also on the lookout for a sommelier. There’s a young one in Dublin he’s had his eye on. There’ll also be a juice bar by the pool for those doing a detox—alcohol-free cocktails in any combination of fresh fruits or vegetables the client chooses—and an organic restaurant that serves a macrobiotic, wheat-and-gluten-free menu. Golden flaxseed seems to be the buzzword. And omega-3s. He’s having to get up to speed on the latest nutritional advice. It’s not just the wives he’s after but managers away on stress-busting breaks or a company bringing its senior executives away for a weekend of male bonding. They’re all up for a bit of a massage and a collagen facial after a game of golf. Pampering is no longer just for girls.

  But there are obstacles. The three smallholdings on the mountain will have to be dealt with. The Kellys aren’t a problem. Neither are the Keegan brothers. He can buy them out. But Paddy O’Connell in his white cottage, well, he’ll prove harder to shift. His family have farmed there for generations and he’s not interested in money. He also needs to speak to Martha about the access across the bottom of her field.

  Siobhán’s hand is becoming ever more insistent. He’ll either have to get up or respond. Even though he’s tried to break it off with her several times she always manages to inveigle a way back into his life, getting involved in the colour schemes for the new treatment rooms, researching plants for the Japanese garden. The idea is that it’ll just be raked stones, with minimal planting, which suits this climate. And he’s been thinking of building some little summer houses where the guests can lounge around in private when the weather’s fine, which’ll look directly out onto Skelligs.

  But Siobhán has this tendency to arrive without warning, bearing endless swatches of fabric for chair covers and curtains, copies of Homes & Gardens and books on plants and landscaping, which she spreads all over the drawing room floor. But worst of all are the paintings that have proliferated around the house. Two have appeared on the stairs and one in the hall. She fancies herself as a bit of a collector and likes to be seen to support local artists and goes to all their private views. But he hates the sort of stuff she buys. Most of it looks as though his dogs have shaken their wet coats over the canvas. It may go down in London or New York but it does nothing for him. He’s always suspected it’s a case of the Emperor’s New Clothes. Brendan dealt with the stuff that ended up in museums or on the walls of wealthy American collectors’ condos and had tried to educate Eugene over the years. But without much success. Now everyone seems to be an artist. The whole place is awash with them setting up their galleries in every empty greengrocer’s shop, encouraged by the favourable tax breaks offered to anyone who decides that they’re remotely creative. Siobhán’s made friends with a few of them and keeps urging him to buy their work for the spa. But it�
�s just pretentious rubbish as far as he’s concerned. Stripes and daubs. Where’s the skill in that? Ask half these so-called artists to pick up a pencil and draw one of his dogs and most of them couldn’t do it. He’s happy to support them if they can produce something recognisable. He even commissioned one to do a painting of his house and he quite likes that. It’s well done and you can see what it is. If he employs an accountant he wants one who understands taxes. If he buys a painting he wants it to be skilful. Not something that he could have knocked out in half an hour with a couple of house-painter’s brushes. He wasn’t best pleased when Siobhán removed it from over the fireplace in the drawing room and put up a great thing with swirls and blotches that one of her friends had done. It looked as if someone had spilt a couple of pots of builder’s paint over the canvas. He insisted that she put his back and take her ridiculous canvas away with her to Dublin.

  Really he’ll have to end things with her once and for all. She has too much of a foothold. It was a mistake to ask her advice on alternative therapies just because she’s done a six week course in Reiki. Suddenly, she’s an expert on alternative medicine. On crystals and Indian ear candles. On homeopathy and acupuncture. But he’s not interested in blocked energy channels, chakras or pressure points. Just in a business plan.

  The trouble is he doesn’t really fancy her any more. He was flattered when he first met her at the golf club dinner, where she was accompanying her father who’d recently helped him evict a troublesome tenant. Her flirtations were seductive for a while. But her boyish body with its small breasts has begun to irritate him. He’s always preferred curvaceous girls. He must end it. Get the inevitable crying and shouting out of the way so he can get on with his project. What he really wants is to be on his own. The occasional fling, maybe. But he doesn’t need someone around permanently. Doesn’t want to have to justify himself to anyone.

  He can’t be bothered to get out of bed and lies staring at the ceiling trying not to respond to Siobhán’s hand. Caesar is pawing at the bedroom door and whining to be let in. When Siobhán’s not here the dogs sleep with him and they feel put out. They flop at the bottom of the bed and keep him warm with their dusty, livery presence. Stick their wet noses in his face to wake him and be let out. He needs to get up. But Siobhán shifts onto her elbow where, from behind a curtain of fallen hair, she moves her lips slowly up and down his semi-erect penis. He doesn’t have the energy to resist, though Caesar is still scratching at the door and yowling.

  He was surprised that Martha Cassidy came to his party. He’d only asked her out of curiosity. He’d heard in the garage shop, when he called in for some matches that she was up at the cottage. He never really expected to see her here again. But it’s convenient. He needs to get her on board. Now Brendan’s gone, he supposes she won’t care too much what happens to the place. Even if she keeps the cottage, which seems unlikely, she probably won’t want the field. He knew Brendan for a long time. His father knew his father, Dermot. And before him, the old man. When they were boys the two of them, and Brendan’s younger brother Michael, played together on the beach, fished and built camp fires. He’d never done anything like that. It was the closest he ever came to having a real friend. Now all his so-called friends are business colleagues. He’d met Martha a few times in the ’80s and she rather irritated him. There was something so English about her. So self-contained. He could never quite work out what she was thinking.

  He frees himself from Siobhán’s grip, intending to get up, have a bath and shave. But she reaches for his arm and pulls him back.

  Don’t go Eugene. How’s your headache? Shall I get you some aspirin? Come on, come back to bed and I’ll make it better for you. I’ll give you a massage. I have some lovely geranium oil. What’s the rush? It’s New Year’s Day. There’s nothing we need do, she says, wrapping her arms around his shoulders so he can feel her small breasts with their hard little nipples pressed against his back, her slightly fetid breath on his neck. As she runs her fingers down his spine his resolve weakens. He turns, aware that he’s crushing her and, with his eyes closed, empties himself quickly inside her.

  5

  Martha is getting ready for a walk when a red van pulls up. A tall, gangly young man in a plaid shirt and a woolly hat jumps out of the driver’s seat and slams the door.

  Where shall I put these? he asks, hauling two bags of turf from the back. Inside I’d say, if you’ve the room. No point in letting it get wet, is there?

  You must be Colm.

  He nods, steadying the blue plastic sack on his left shoulder, and carrying it into the cottage.

  Will it suit here? He asks, not waiting for a reply, before tipping the contents into the basket, then reaching for the dustpan and brush by the fire to sweep the debris.

  Crouched beside the stove in his muddy work boots, his jeans straining against his long thighs, it’s his hands Martha notices. Each joint pressed against the stretched skin. The knobbly wrist-bones protruding from the frayed cuffs.

  You’re the fiddler, aren’t you? Didn’t you play at the party the other night? I didn’t recognise you in that hat.

  Sure, that’s me, he answers, putting back the dustpan, and tucking his thick lumberjack shirt back into his belt. This should see you right for a couple of days.

  Thank you. That’s an enormous help. Can I get you a cup of tea? I was about to go for a walk but as you can see, she says, it’s started to tip down.

  He pulls off his hat and runs his fingers through his messed hair.

  If it’s no bother, I wouldn’t say no. Been on the go all morning.

  I’ve no biscuits, I’m afraid and only some rather old Earl Grey. I still haven’t done a proper shop.

  He takes the offered mug and sniffs it suspiciously.

  I enjoyed your singing the other night, she says. Is that what you do when you’re not delivering peat?

  Sort of...

  Sorry?

  No need to be sorry. I mean I just play with my friend Niall. He’s the one on the flute. And I write a bit. Not professionally, mind. Not yet. Though we hope to make a demo CD soon. And I help my mam. That’s Mary who you met. Those are our sheep up past Bolus. There’s only me here, now. Kathleen—that’s my sister—she’s away in Dublin. She’s a midwife and not much interested in sheep. So you like this windy old place then, do you?

  Well it’s a long time since I’ve been here. It was summer then and the place has rather complicated memories for me. But it’s incredibly beautiful. I love being right on the edge of the ocean. After London it feels very remote. But it probably feels different if you live here all the time.

  Yeah, kind of. But sure, it’s beautiful alright. Well it looks as though the rain’s stopping if you fancy your walk. It changes very quickly up here. I’ll be on my way then, he says, leaving his undrunk tea on the draining board. Just give us a ring if you need anything else. Then, hitching up his jeans, he turns for the door and adds:

  I was sorry to hear about Brendan.

  You knew him?

  Yes, he says pulling on his hat. We used to chat about this and that.

  By the way, she says, you haven’t told me what I owe you for the turf.

  It’s €5 a bag.

  And delivery?

  Ah, I was passing, he replies. €10 cash will be grand.

  She fetches her purse and fishes out a note. He shoves it into the back pocket of his jeans, swings himself up into the van, then slams the door, starts the engine and drives off down the track, Catherine wheels of mud spraying from the tyres. As she turns to go back inside the heavy bank of cloud parts to reveal a sliver of blue.

  6

  There’s a strong wind and the waves boom against the rocks as she makes her way up the cliff path towards Bolus Head. The track is steep and she has to slow down to catch her breath. Her calf muscles ache. She thought she was fitter than this. At the curve in the track sh
e stops at a pink cottage. Despite the dusty bottles of washing up liquid in the window it looks empty. Floral curtains sag with neglect. She goes to the gate. Above the doorway is inscribed: National School 1899. She imagines children from the scattering of mostly derelict cottages making their way up here, barefoot and hungry in the mist, to snatch a few hours practising their letters, having first fed the backyard pig or clutch of scrawny hens. Every child had to bring a sod of turf to school. Though few saw the benefit as the teacher’s backside hogged the fire. Poverty and politics, the Church and superstition dominated the lives of those scratching a living up here.

  Brendan’s cottage, for she still thinks of it as his, was rebuilt in the ’20s when the villagers left the old hamlet further up the mountain. Presumably they got tired of waking to find their roofs ripped off, blown across the fields like confetti. That they built up there in the first place, so open to the elements, seems incredible. Brendan’s grandfather farmed about five acres. Fields and tillage plots of potatoes, rye and oats. He also had a herd of sheep and a few head of cattle. What must it have been like bringing up a family with no running water or electricity in a place where it always rained? They’d have been permanently wet—for where was there to dry their clothes? And smelt. A rich mix of peat smoke, damp wool and sweat.