Chloe (24 page)

Then, yesterday, uncharacteristically, Ronan had called at the house with a percussive rap on the front door. Chloë was beavering away at final adjustments to the price-list, laying it out once more but in a different font and putting the titles in italics. Gus was on the phone to the
Irish Times
. Ronan hovered until they were ready for him.

‘It's done,' he announced and led the way across the lawn, giving reverential berth to the Antony Gormley figure, walking in between the sphere and the pyramid and giving a quick spin to the bicycle wheel on the windmill construction along the way.

The great sliding door of the workshop was ominously drawn and Chloë and Gus stopped instinctively, allowing Ronan forward alone. He pushed the door across and it lumbered all too slowly, creaking. The sunlight entered immediately, a shard that illuminated only the back wall and the nose of the old tractor. As the door opened, light pervaded but the sheen on the polished limestone grabbed it entirely and the rest of the barn was muslin hung in soft grey hues. Gus hummed approvingly and walked into the workshop to circumnavigate the work.

Chloë gasped and stood immobilized.

It was her.

There she was.

Spread over the limestone.

Buck naked.

Splayed and prostrate.

‘It's called
Her
,' announced Ronan, looking at no one.

W
ell, Chloë, you realized your aim. You became the artist's muse; immortalized, written in stone, both locked and released from the very fabric of the mineral. You were the inspiration for the piece, you were the solution for the sculptor's incarcerated creativity. Born of the rock. The reason for the stone. Conceived, carved, polished. How flattered you must feel!

‘Ronan Brady!' Gus had declared once he had perused
Her
at length and from a variety of angles, ‘truly magnificent!'

Chloë remained outside the workshop, clenching her nails into the palms of her hands until she could no longer feel the pain or her fingers. No one looked at her or invited her to cast her eyes and her compliments.

They don't need to
, she thought,
they're having their eyeful right there.

Gus made to leave and suddenly both he and Ronan were facing her, hands on hips.

‘Chloë!' Gus declared.

‘I can see it,' she shouted before tempering her voice, ‘quite well enough, thank you. From here.'

‘For heaven's sake, girl,' Gus retorted raising his eyebrows at Ronan, ‘it's
sculp-
sure! You know – hands on! Come! Have a closer look. A feel.'

She ventured in and walked briskly around the sculpture.

There's my breast. That's my belly button. That crack. God.

‘Fascinating,' she said flatly. ‘When the stone arrived I thought it rather dull – I never realized it had this incredible blue-blackness when polished.'

Indeed, this was her opinion, or part of it, and though Gus thought it flimsy he realized it would have to do. What was it worth anyway? The sculpture was worth a few thousand. He told her to discuss a suitable site with Ronan and left them, for a long-distance call to a wealthy Dubliner living in New York with a known predilection for sculpture and all things Irish. Ronan stood in the doorway, looking in. Chloë was round the other side of the sculpture with her back turned to it, facing the tractor and running her eyes up and down the prongs of the rusting pitchfork. She bit her lip hard, tears of anger welled painfully but she was determined that they should subside unseen. Ronan spoke in a voice that was soft and open and previously unheard.

‘Well?' he asked.

Chloë spun on her heels and glowered at him. She could not speak so she narrowed her eyes and pierced him with them.

‘Do you not like it?' His face creased with the search for approval. Still she could not respond but she snorted and stamped, thrust her hands on her hips and looked way beyond Ronan to the five urns on the lawn. They were so elegant and consummate. She wanted to run to them and sit between them; they had shoulders to lay one's arm about, they had music within.

‘Do you not like it, Chloë?' Ronan repeated.

She sucked her cheeks in and stared at him directly.

‘Cheap!' she hissed. He jumped a little and winced, as if her word coursed through him like poison.

Chloë knows that summer has arrived, not just because it is mid-June, but because she has sat on her natural bench on the forbidden cliff for almost an hour and no dampness has crept through her clothing. She is comfortable enough and her thoughts flow easily. The end of the month will see the beginning of Scotland and she feels already that her Irish sojourn has been and gone and she can wind down her business and pack up her things. She catches a drift of sweet coconut and thanks Jocelyn out loud for informing her that it is the scent of gorse. She cannot see it. Probably further along the path but she will not go in search of it. The path, after all, is dangerous. And she has too much to do here. She casts her mind away from the day in hand back to yesterday.

‘What do you
mean
you didn't discuss a site for
Her
?' Gus's soup spoon hovered and shook, the liquid dribbled off it and back into the bowl. ‘Where on earth have you been for the past few hours?'

‘Walking,' Chloë said quietly, dabbing her mouth with the napkin though she had taken no soup.

‘Walking!' bellowed Gus. ‘But I asked you to help Ronan find a suitable spot for his sculpture!'

Chloë remained silent and twisted the napkin tight around one hand. She could hear Gus eating his soup and the rhythmic slurping irritated her supremely. She pulled the napkin taut until her hand throbbed and she knew, if she looked, that it would be quite purple.

I'm not your slave!
she thought loudly to herself.

‘What?' said Gus.

Out it came, unchecked.

‘I am not your slave.'

‘I beg your pardon!'

Chloë cleared her throat.

‘Yes,' she spat, ‘you may well have asked me to find a site for Ronan's
thing.
But there was no “Please”. There have been neither “p”s nor “q”s from you. Ever. Just orders and criticisms barked at me. Huge demands made of me. And woe betide if I flunk.'

Gus's spoon hovered again, his jaw had dropped. Chloë glanced away.

‘I didn't come here to be treated like this,' she said in a calm, controlled voice, ‘and I have done nothing to deserve such treatment.'

‘Then why, might I ask, did you come?' said Gus, whose voice was quiet but pinched. Chloë found his eyes and held their gaze.

‘I came,' she said coldly, ‘because Jocelyn sent me.'

Gus lowered his eyes to his half-eaten soup. Was that pain she saw flicker over his brow?

Couldn't have been.

Gus? Feel anything? Surely not!

She waited until he ventured his eyes upwards and she caught them again before staring at his jugular.

‘And what,' she said icily, ‘would Jocelyn
think
, Mr Halloran? What do you think she'd have to say?'

The sweep and shift of power was intoxicating. Chloë's strength and conviction, the steadiness of her voice, had quite surprised her. And it pleased her too. A self-congratulatory smile was not, however, appropriate, so she bit it back. She scraped back her chair and rose, placing her hands with a smack on the table.

‘Know what I think?' she laughed viciously. ‘I think she'd be horrified – utterly appalled – at the pompous misogynist you are!'

Gus's spoon clattered into the bowl, a glob of pea soup splashed on to the tablecloth and slowly blotted. Gus's eyes were fixed to it, Chloë stared at the top of his head thinking that his yellowing hair must really be quite long under its slathering of wax.

‘She'd be
writhing
,' whispered Chloë, ‘writhing in her grave. Not that
you
give a damn!'

She walked across the room slowly and with her head held high. As she put her hand out to the brass handle of the door, she was amazed and delighted by its steadiness. Without turning, she delivered her
coup de grâce.

‘I'll be leaving,' she announced, ‘a fortnight today. For Scotland. I believe you have an envelope for me.'

‘Bout ye! If it isn't Cadwallydy!'

‘Where on
earth
did you come from!' Chloë is delighted to see Finn McCool though the surprise of his sudden appearance threatens to dislodge her right from the cliff.

‘Scapin' the crowds!'

‘Me too,' she murmurs.

‘Had your
tink
?' he asks without prying.

‘Sort of,' says Chloë looking at her lap with a gentle sigh. ‘I'm leaving for Scotland in a fortnight.'

She feels Finn catch his breath and, as he releases it, he sighs ‘Scotland' mistily.

‘It's just,' begins Chloë, ‘I don't know. I felt so justified but now I feel wretched. I suppose I don't know the full story. I suppose one never does.'

They sit in silence, the sun has slipped away unnoticed and the breeze has now a sharp edge to it.

‘It's odd,' she continues to herself as much as to Finn, ‘being strong, standing up for yourself – at last – seems only to carry a burden of responsibility with it too. In retrospect. Perhaps meek is easier after all.'

‘Meek,' cautions Finn, ‘be weak.'

‘And I suppose shirking responsibility is weak too then,' ponders Chloë a little forlorn.

‘More!' growls Finn. ‘Bad. Very bad. Dangerous, even.'

Chloë's bottom is numb, her neck is stiffening and she is feeling tired. Finn stares intently across the sea at Scotland with an ambiguous half-smile that is semi-sad. Chloë claps her hands lightly on her thighs.

‘Oh well,' she says in a jolly voice, ‘I'd better wend my way!'

‘Easy how you go, now,' says Finn, without diverting his gaze.

‘It's been lovely to talk to you,' Chloë says warmly, crouching and extending her hand. He drags himself away from whatever is obsessing him and cups his hands around hers.

‘Pleasure was mine!' He winks at her, gravely. Chloë makes a careful path back to the barrier alone.

‘Make your peace, Cadwallydy,' she hears Finn call after her, ‘make your peace.'

When she has reached the safety of the path, she turns and waves. There is no longer anyone there to wave back.

She drives home with a trepidation which ensures that she motors at thirty miles an hour. Frequently, she stops to admire the view and take deep breaths. Up and over a steep hill, the road bisects a small lake. Really it is smaller than a pond, but it is a very deep navy and the wind breaks little crested waves upon it, which gives it the grandeur of a lake. There are Highland cattle grazing nearby.

‘All is pointing to Scotland,' says Chloë, taking note of her worried, tired eyes in the rear-view mirror.

She is very near Ballygorm now but takes a minor road that will lead her back via three sides of a square. Dry-stone walls plot and piece the meagre fields of the wiry high ground; the rocks used in their construction are round and perched on top of each other in an apparently flimsy configuration. With the sky clearly visible through the spaces in between, the walls stretch across the land like lattice-work and seem most inappropriate for their purpose. It is a strange contradiction for, though they look weak, Chloë knows that she can push her weight against them and they will stay put. She stops the Land Rover and walks over to a section of wall and stares very hard at it; that she now shares its juxtaposition of fragility and strength does not escape her and she thinks on it awhile. She sits on her heels with her back resting lightly against the wall. A scrabble of sheep edge nearer and hear what she has to say.

‘I've made myself plain. Said what I feel. Expressed my indignation. And yet, though I do feel cleansed in some way, I feel sad too. Remorseful, a little.' The sheep chew their cuds thoughtfully and Chloë mulls over her thoughts, running her fingers through the grass and pressing her back more firmly against the wall.

‘Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. Taken it on the nose. Cried later.'

She wouldn't mind crying now, but she thinks better of it.

‘Perhaps it's better – healthier – to feel sad rather than resentful.'

The sheep amble away. They seem to have faith in her. She's on the right track. So she drives on. She has not been along this road before. As it dips down towards the valley the stone walls are replaced by a hotchpotch of barbed wire fences and thorn hedges; a more vicious way of dividing a much gentler landscape. Just before she comes back on the main road, she passes a rusting grain silo in a field. It is redundant, battered and lying on its side. Graffitied.

‘Good luck Trevor
+
Julie'
it proclaims on its nozzle.

‘Loop loop, go home'
it reads in large white letters daubed along the side. Fleetingly, Chloë wonders what or who ‘Loop loop' is, but the message strikes a graver chord.

‘If someone told me to “go home”,' she says aloud, ‘where would that be? Where would I go?'

C
hloë crept to her room. A tray had been laid with orange juice, sandwiches and biscuits. A small vase proffered a bunch of lilacs from the garden and propped against it was an envelope marked ‘Scotland'. As she ate, she turned the envelope this way and that, holding it to the light, fingering the sealed edge. But she did not open it, nor did she give it to the Andrews for safe keeping. She did not even take it to her nose for a just-in-case. Instead, she popped it into her empty rucksack and went to bed. It was half-past eight but she did not want to have a bath or to think about anything. Sleep rescued her for a full twelve hours.