Heartstones (26 page)

Phoebe agreed and as the boathouse door closed behind him she took a deep breath and tried to imagine that she was a Buddhist monk.

When Theo returned he was carrying a brown paper bag. ‘Dinner,’ he said placing it down on the workbench and producing two cheese rolls, two Mars bars, a can of Fanta, and a bottle of Italian white. ‘The best that Carraigmore has to offer at this time of day. Only the garage was open.’

He walked across to Phoebe and looked over her shoulder.’ It’s good,’ he said, peering at the pot. ‘In fact it’s very good indeed.’

Phoebe leaned back and took another look at what she’d done; she’d used the sketches of the cow parsley as inspiration for an almost fantastical plant that thrust its way up from the base of the pot, five stems fanned out into delicate seed heads, tiny dots of blue circling each one like drops of dew.

‘It’s so simple,’ Theo had bent down to study it, pushing the wheel around to get the overall effect. ‘It has a touch of the Miros about it and a bit of the 1950s.’ He turned his face to hers; Phoebe was aware how close they were, she could smell wood smoke and tobacco. Theo straightened up. ‘Do you want to decorate another one?’ He walked over to the shelves and took down one of his large bowls. ‘Imagine what you could do with this,’ he said, dipping it into a vat of white glaze and then placing it in front of her.

Phoebe painted a bird: simple, bold, surrounded by stylised leaves and berries.

‘You have a wonderful confidence of line,’ Theo said, as he replaced the bowl with a large jug.

‘Are you sure you want me to paint all over your work?’ Phoebe looked at the jug and decided
shells and seaweed
.

Theo grinned, ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ He took down another bowl. ‘Are you up for one more? Then I’ll let you stop and have something to eat – I promise.’

It was dark by the time Phoebe stopped painting. Theo hadn’t kept his promise and Phoebe had been happy not to remind him of it. He kept producing more and more pots until she had decorated enough to fill the kiln and Theo, keen to see the finished results, insisted that he should start a firing immediately.

Phoebe went upstairs and fetched two mismatched glasses.

‘The wine’s for you,’ Theo said over his shoulder, pointing as he packed the pots into the kiln. ‘Mine’s the can of Fanta; I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol for weeks now.’

‘I’m impressed,’ Phoebe poured wine into one glass and some of the can into the other. She took a sip of her drink and grimaced.

Theo laughed. ‘As I said, the best the garage had to offer.’

They were silent for a while as Phoebe watched him finish filling the kiln. He handled the pots so carefully – gently tipping each one to wipe the excess glaze from the base, and positioning them inside the cavernous metal box with the care and concentration that one might lavish on a small child at bedtime. His hair had fallen over one eye; pushing it back he closed the kiln door.

‘That’s it; they’re all tucked up safely.’ He flicked a switch and the kiln jolted into life with a clunk, followed by a low continuous hum. Theo took the glass that Phoebe held out to him and raised it in a toast. ‘To the kiln gods – please be kind!’

‘I feel so excited,’ Phoebe said ‘Like I used to feel the night before Christmas. I’m sure I won’t be able to get to sleep for hours.’

Theo took a sip and leaned back against the table, ‘Then we’ll have to think of something else to pass the time.’ Phoebe smiled; the exhilaration of creativity and alcohol on an empty stomach had made her light-headed, she managed to hold back a desire to giggle.

‘What are you suggesting? Chess? Charades? A few games of Gin Rummy? My grandmother taught me when I was about seven years old; we used to play for very high stakes – sherbet lemons and aniseed balls.’

‘The only card game I ever learned was solitaire.’

‘Are you trying to make me feel sorry for you?’

Theo grinned and held her gaze for a few seconds. ‘You’ve got a smudge of glaze on your cheek.’

Phoebe’s hand went to her face. ‘Where?’

Theo took a step towards her and touched the skin below her eye. ‘Just there.’ He moved his thumb to wipe it away. ‘It’s gone, just freckles now.’

‘I hate my freckles; they always come out in the sun.’

‘I think they suit you.’ His finger travelled lightly down the bridge of her nose. ‘Like the speckles on an egg.’

‘Is that meant to be some sort of compliment?’

‘Would you prefer it if I told you that you’re beautiful?’

‘I believe that’s the more conventional way to compliment a woman.’

He laughed. ‘You don’t strike me as being the conventional type, Phoebe Brennan.’

Phoebe arched an eyebrow. ‘Try me,’ she said, and put down her empty glass.

Slowly his finger moved to trace the contours of her lips. ‘Isn’t this where we’d got to when we were interrupted the last time?’

Phoebe shook her head. ‘No, I think we’d got a little bit further actually.’ Phoebe leaned forward and met his mouth with hers; she closed her eyes and melted into the kiss. After a few seconds Theo pulled away; he held her at arms length.

‘I can’t do this.’

Phoebe stared at him.

‘Why?’ her heart plummeted.

There was a short pause. Theo’s serious expression broke into a grin. ‘Because I promised that I wouldn’t try to leap on you if you came to decorate your pot.’

‘Oh yes, so you did.’ Phoebe feigned irritation. ‘But I wouldn’t call this leaping, more a gentle sort of stumble.’ She reached up and let her hands slide around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair as he drew her slowly towards him.

‘I don’t want you to think that this is just because you have a look of Maeve.’ Theo’s voice brought Phoebe round from a state of blissful semi-consciousness. He shifted his arm so that he was resting on one elbow; he looked down at her face.

Phoebe also moved; the single bed was narrow, her bare back pressed against the cool plaster of the wall. She tried to disentangle her legs from his; he stopped her by trapping her shin between his knees. ‘Don’t move away,’ he said, ‘I like the way you wrap yourself around me.’

‘You make me sound like an octopus.’

He leant down and kissed her. ‘Or a boa constrictor.’

Phoebe pushed him back a little. ‘You really are a master of the compliments.’

He laughed and kissed her again. ‘Do you know what they say about boa constrictors?’

‘No?’

‘You don’t? And there was I hoping you could tell me, because I know very few boa constrictor facts myself.’

Phoebe put on a thoughtful expression. ‘They never let you go?’ she offered.

‘That’s good,’ said Theo as his hand moved down her naked torso, lingering over the curve of waist and hip and thigh. Phoebe put her own hand over his to stop him going any further.

‘Is it?’ she asked.

‘Is it what?’

‘Is it because I have a look of Maeve?’

He moved back slightly and held her gaze for a few seconds before he answered. ‘No.’ He twined a ringlet of her hair around his finger. ‘But I’ll tell you what it is about; ever since I first laid eyes on you I haven’t been able to get you out of my head.’

‘Even though I made you so annoyed?’

‘Annoyed? Not just annoyed – you made me furious, exasperated, sometimes absolutely livid. The last time I’d seen you you’d been a quiet little girl with ginger pigtails, collecting heart-shaped stones in a plastic bucket, and then suddenly here you are, back in Carraigmore, all grown-up with wild hair, abducting my daughter, moving into my studio, making holes in my pots, telling me what to do with my child, and on top of that you have a story just as sad as my own – so I can’t wallow in being the only broken-hearted person on the beach. And then the most annoying thing of all; you also happen to be gorgeous, and you made me feel the sort of things I promised myself I would never feel again about another woman.’ Theo flung himself back onto the pillow. ‘Honestly, Phoebe Brennan, now that I think about it I don’t know why I let you talk me into going to bed with you at all!’

Phoebe laughed. ‘It was your idea to come upstairs.’

‘I just thought you were going to make me a cup of tea.’

‘Oh, if you’d only said that in the first place!’ She clambered over him. ‘I’d better put the kettle on.’

He caught her wrist and pulled her down on top of him. ‘I’m happy to wait till morning for the cup of tea.’

Much later Phoebe rested her head on Theo’s chest. She kissed his skin and tasted the sweet saltiness of sweat. Below them the kiln clunked and hummed while outside the early morning breakers crashed against the shore.

‘What do you think they’re doing now?’ she murmured.

‘Who?’

‘The pots in the kiln.’

‘Let’s see,’ he turned his head. ‘Judging by the pale grey light between your curtains I’d say it’s nearly dawn.’ He paused and tapped out a calculation on her shoulder. ‘Seven hours, one hundred and fifty degrees an hour, it must be nearly one thousand degrees in the kiln by now, so that means the air around them will be red with the heat and the glaze will be just beginning to melt. By the time the kiln is finished the air will be so hot it’s white and the glaze will be like molten glass.’

‘When can we get them out?’

‘Not until this evening at the earliest.’

Phoebe groaned. ‘That’s ages, I’ll be at work by then.’

‘You’re so impatient,’ Theo laughed. ‘I’m running out of ways to distract you.’ He picked up the book beside the bed. ‘I’ll have to resort to reading you a story to keep you entertained.’ He looked at the cover. ‘
Jane Eyre
, very interesting. I suppose you think of me as some sort of Mr Rochester figure, brooding away behind the battlements.’

‘Hopefully not with a mad wife hidden in the attic.’ As soon as Phoebe had said the words she wished that she could take them back. A hollow silence fell, even the kiln and the sea seemed to stop as though they held their breath at the awfulness of what Phoebe had just said. Phoebe looked up at Theo. ‘I’m so sorry, that was tactless.’

‘Don’t worry about it. But I can guarantee you she’s well and truly buried in the cemetery of St Brigid’s church in the high street.’

‘I didn’t mean –’

Theo stroked her hair. ‘I said, don’t worry about it.’ He flicked through the book. ‘Is it one of your favourites?’

‘To tell you the truth, I don’t really even know the story. David gave it to me to read but I can never get past the first few pages.’

‘You must miss him very much.’ Phoebe shivered and Theo pulled the quilt over her shoulder. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to pry; I’m just curious. Were you very happy together? How long were you married?’

Now was the time to tell him, now was the time to admit that she had only been the mistress, not the wife; surely after intimacy there should be honesty. Phoebe took courage from his fingers gently running up and down her back. She took a breath.

‘I think I ought to – ’

‘You don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to,’ Theo interrupted. ‘I know how painful it can be to remember.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘We’re lucky to have found each other. We’ve been on the same journey, we can understand what it’s like to lose the person you’d promised to spend the rest of your life with.’

Phoebe bit her lip. She’d thought she wanted to spend the rest of her life with David but there had been no promises, no
forsaking all others
and the
till death us do part
was a mere act of chance. Lying in Theo’s arms she tried hard to remember how she’d felt with David. Had she ever been so comfortable? So relaxed?

Phoebe didn’t speak. Theo held her closer; his strong potter’s arms felt warm around her and she noticed that his heartbeat had seemed to find a rhythm with her own.

They lay silent for a while until Theo tilted Phoebe’s chin up with one finger. ‘Is that offer of a cup of tea still on?’

Chapter Twenty-five

Phoebe wished she didn’t have to go to work.

As she walked up the lane she couldn’t help smiling, once she even executed a small pirouette, accidentally spinning into Swedish Jan who was coming down to the beach for his mid-morning stroll.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked her as he helped her up from the ground.

‘Absolutely wonderful,’ Phoebe replied before she continued onwards up the hill. She wondered if Theo was still lying in her bed; she thought about the night before and had to force herself not to go back to join him.

Eventually, long after dawn, they had slept, and woken, and then they’d slept some more. As the bright sun poured through the window Phoebe knew she’d have to get up and go to do the lunchtime shift. Fibber had a meeting with the doctors in Tralee and Phoebe had promised Katrina that she’d help her in the pub all day.

Theo was asleep. Phoebe studied his face, his beautiful features could have been chiselled out of marble, he looked perfect, the handsomest man she’d ever seen. She kissed him lightly on the forehead and attempted to get out of bed without waking him up.

‘Not so fast, Miss Brennan.’ He suddenly caught her arm and pulled her towards him to kiss her neck, her shoulder, her breast, and eventually her lips.

Half an hour later she said, ‘Now I really do have to go to work,’ and prised herself from his arms to quickly shower and dress.

‘You are looking very well this day,’ Katrina handed Phoebe another tray of glasses to put away. ‘Your eyes, they look different. They look like they are full of sparkles.’

‘Probably just hay-fever,’ said Phoebe, turning to the shelves and hoping Katrina wouldn’t notice her blush.

Honey sat at the kitchen table, hulling strawberries for a pavlova.

‘Are you OK in there, Honey?’ Katrina called to her from the bar. There was a short
Yep
of a response. ‘Oh dear,’ Katrina sighed and lowered her voice. ‘She is a sad girl, she has so many worries that Theo will say “Yes” to the offer for the Castle and take her away to America.’

Phoebe’s heart lurched;
she
had so many worries that Theo would accept the offer and disappear to America. She wondered if last night had made any difference to how he felt – a familiar fear that she would be abandoned had already began to seep into the pit of her stomach. Maybe last night would hasten his departure, maybe he was already regretting what had happened, realising that Phoebe could never live up to his memories of the saintly Maeve.

‘My good gracious,’ Katrina exclaimed. ‘The time; it is flying today. Nearly it is time to open up and I have not got the mousaka in the oven or the towels on the line – Mrs Flannigan would be saying it is a grand day to do the drying and I will feel very bad if we use the tumble dryer.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Phoebe put the last glass on the shelf. ‘You sort out the mousaka and I’ll hang up the washing.’

Phoebe unloaded the washing machine, dragging the soggy mats and tea towels into a plastic basket. She felt a slight vibration in the back pocket of her jeans – a text.

Trying to do something constructive with my day but seem only able to sit around grinning and thinking of last night. T x
.

Phoebe smiled, picked up the washing basket, and started to sing.

‘I hear you,’ shouted Katrina from the kitchen. ‘You are too happy with the joys of spring. I have suspicion.’ Phoebe ignored her and stepped outside.

The contrast between the darkness of the pub and the bright sunlight of the yard made her squint as she stepped through the back door. As her eyes adjusted she picked her way through weeds that pushed up through the broken concrete. Judging by the quantity of dandelions and encroaching brambles it didn’t look as though Fibber had been making much of an attempt to clear the yard on the day that Phoebe had noticed the smoke. She put down the basket and began to peg the clothes along the sagging line. As she hung up the final tea towel a small scrap of paper drifted on a gust of wind to settle in the empty basket.

Phoebe bent down and picked it up. The edges were charred as if it had been burned and the ink on it had bled from dew or rain. Phoebe recognised her grandmother’s writing immediately, she could just make out the date
June 15th
on one side and the words,
we walked through miles of purple heather.
Phoebe turned the paper over
he has such wonderful plans; I can hardly bear to believe we might succeed.
The rest was too smudged to make out.

Phoebe hastily looked around and found more torn-up bits of paper – nestling in between cracks in the concrete, inside a rusty bucket, lodged in between the branches of a fuchsia hedge. She gathered up the tiny pieces, examining each one as she found it. Some were illegible but many weren’t.

Gordon is in Dublin. I spent the whole day with Michael – heaven!

He brought me a bunch of late daisies, to match the new blue dress I bought in Mrs O’Leary’s sale.

Della has been so sweet; today she took my note to Michael even though her headache is very bad.

We walk beneath the falling leaves around the Castle gardens. He has a plan to …

Despite the cold, damp weather I feel a happiness I didn’t know was possible.

All Hallows Eve, not too much longer now.

… only one small suitcase …

I felt so sick this morning I had to rush out of the room. Gordon is quite …

The days are passing much too slowly. Della keeps me company most evenings. We plan to go to Kenmare to see a matinee tomorrow.

Phoebe’s heart thumped in her chest as she searched for more. They were definitely pages from the missing diaries, but why were they torn-up and scattered, semi-scorched, around the garden?

Phoebe noticed the brazier in the corner and realised that it must have been the source of Fibber’s fire. Peering inside she could see the blackened pages of some sort of book, she poked it with a nearby stick and it disintegrated into a mushy pile of ash. Phoebe stared at the remnants of Anna’s diary and tried to make sense of her discovery. She had been right; someone had broken into the boathouse, been into her flat, and had stolen the diaries. And then they had tried to destroy them. Phoebe’s mind whirred, who could have done it? And why? Cold water seemed to be seeping through her veins.

She stepped backwards from the metal drum, trying desperately to think of some logical explanation, trying desperately to rationalise the fear that had begun to creep into her heart. It was then that she noticed something beneath the brazier itself. She still held the stick in her hand and she used it to drag the book out.

It had been shielded from the rain and even though it looked as though most of the pages had been ripped out in some sort of frenzy a handful remained. The writing was scrawled and difficult to read as though it were written in a hurry or under stress.

December 3rd

I can’t give up hope, I just can’t. Why do I not hear from him? I can’t stop thinking of those hours I spent standing at the crossroads, waiting for him long after I had realised he wasn’t going to appear around the bend. I can still feel that rain against my cheeks, the freezing drops that drenched my clothes. What would I have done if Gordon hadn’t come for me? How did Gordon know where I was? He has been so kind, even though I know that he has many worries of his own. I heard the parish priest tell Gordon that he could persuade the boy to talk and then the whole village would know what abominations were being committed under their noses.

Yesterday Gordon told me that he heard that Leviticus 18:22 was quoted during Mass. I said nothing but I understood what he was trying to tell me.

December 8th.

I asked Della to check the post in the shop again today – she told me to stop asking her, told me to just accept that he didn’t want me and that he wasn’t coming back. I saw her looking at my stomach, looking with disgust at the straining of my waistband, the swelling underneath my jumper. I have caught Mrs Smythe looking too, she puckers her lips and once I’m sure I heard her mutter ‘harlot’ before she left the room. Everyone will notice soon, I cannot button my red coat so I do not go out. Does Gordon know? I’m sure he does, he is a doctor after all.

December 15th

Gordon sat me down today to tell me he is going to go away. He says he cannot go through what he went through in Howth; he would rather leave than face the humiliation of being denounced in the pulpit and being hounded out of town by people he once thought of as friends. He has heard of a position for a doctor in Nigeria and has applied and been offered the post.

He suggests I go to England, to live with Mother and Aunt Margaret. He has offered to write, to explain that he has decided to fulfil a lifelong vocation to work in Africa and that in the meantime he thinks it better for me and the child to stay in Cheltenham until he is settled – a plausible enough story I think, but the very idea of Cheltenham fills me with horror.

December 16
^th

Gordon is to leave on Boxing Day; he has already found a new doctor for Carraigmore.

I can’t sleep. Where should I go? Not to Mother, that is for sure, and I have not heard once from either of my brothers. But I have no reason to stay in Ireland any more; there is nothing here for me but memories.

December 20th

I have asked Gordon if I can go with him to Africa. I have offered to help him with his practice; I believe I would make a good nurse: I have no fear of blood or illness and I have strong, swift hands and am quick to learn. Gordon told me conditions may be tough – little better than living in a mud hut, he has been told. I don’t care. Anything seems better than the dark oppression of this sanctimonious village.

December 22nd

I feel lighter, better. Beneath my gloom I see a sliver of hope for the future, a crescent moon appearing in a stormy sky. All I want now is to see my unborn child, my little piece of Michael, my memory of what we had together. I think of how in Africa the sun will shine down on my baby and it will never have to endure the cold and damp and rain.

December 24th

We are packed. I have very little that is mine, not much more than when I arrived over a year ago. I have asked Della if she will look after Razzle, she has agreed but she is so odd lately it is hard to believe that she will really care for him. For many months she was a good friend to me, now she barely meets my eye. I stopped her on the stairs and asked her to forward any letters; she nodded curtly and continued on without a word.

Mrs Smythe seems quite unbalanced, there is an agitated look about her; constantly she talks of the new doctor, the preparations for his arrival seem to completely fill her time. We have had tinned soup for three days in a row for dinner.

This afternoon I found Mrs Smythe frantically polishing the writing desk in the drawing room; tears were streaming down her face and she made no attempt to wipe them away. I touched her arm and tried to comfort her; she stopped polishing and I found a look of pure hatred directed at me. ‘You people from the Castle, you are all the same – callous and hard-hearted.’ She started to sing “Night and Day” by Cole Porter in an odd, high-pitched voice and continued to grind in the polish as she sang. Then she spat ‘Good riddance’ at me and I left the room. As I was about leave she spoke, her voice almost a whisper – ‘He said that was our special song.’ Her eerie singing started up again and seemed to echo round the house long after she had stopped.

December 25th

We leave tomorrow, two sinners creeping away as St Stephen’s Day dawns. Will we find forgiveness in Africa? Or acceptance? I felt the baby kick today, a Christmas present after all.

‘Phoebe, Phoebe,’ Katrina’s voice took Phoebe by surprise. ‘There you are.’ Katrina came into the garden, her face and hair spattered with yellow cream. ‘You must come quick. There is a queue of peoples banging on the door to say it is past opening time; and my electric whisk has gone up the blink so that I must go and quick shower before I face the customers.’

She turned to hurry inside, but Phoebe put a hand on her arm to stop her. ‘Who was having a fire out here last Sunday?’ She nodded towards the brazier.

‘It was Mrs Flannigan,’ Katrina answered. ‘She wanted to get rid of some old account books. She ask Fibber to start a fire for her and then she start to rip them up and put them in the flames.’ She peered over Phoebe’s shoulder at the remains of the diary in her hands. ‘Is just old notebooks, she say they make clutter. Poor Mrs Flannigan it was when she is doing this that she collapse. Fibber found her lying on the grass.’

‘So she had her heart attack while she was getting rid of the books?’

‘Yes, yes, that is right, but please be hurrying, Phoebe; we don’t want the customers to give up waiting.’

Lunchtime dragged, the surfers and the walkers stayed put on the beach, and apart from the initial regulars who had formed the queue outside (Young John, Swedish Jan, and Molly from the Hair Hut’s husband) there were few takers for Katrina’s mousaka and pavlova. Phoebe received another text from Theo,

Taking Poncho for a walk, wish that you were with me, xx

and Katrina received a phone call from Fibber.

‘The doctors they say that Mrs Flannigan can come home tomorrow. Fibber, he is very happy, though his mother will be a long time travelling the route to full recovering.’

‘The road to full recovery,’ said Honey from her position on a high stool where she and Phoebe were busy writing out the alphabet in peanuts on the bar.

Katrina sighed. ‘Not you too, Honey.’

‘You don’t want people to think that you’re not from round here, do you?’ said Honey earnestly. ‘It’s taken ages for people to stop teasing me about my Dublin accent, and you come from so much further away than that.’ She shoved a pile of nuts across the counter, ‘Come on Phoebe, it’s your turn. We’re on
M
now.’

Phoebe’s thoughts were still distracted by her discovery of the diaries in the garden; what could possibly have been in them that made Mrs Flannigan so desperate to destroy them? What had happened to Michael? Why had he and Anna not gone to France?