Heartstones (12 page)

‘Is that your father on the cliff?’ she asked Honey.

‘No,’ Honey replied without looking up. ‘He’s never out of bed before lunchtime when he’s been drinking.’

‘Was he drinking last night?’

‘After I had gone to bed he started on the whiskey. I told you I couldn’t sleep because of the storm; I came downstairs and I heard him crying. I went back to bed before he saw me.’ She disengaged her hand from Phoebe’s and suddenly ran on ahead. ‘Hey!’ she called back. ‘Look at the stream, it’s like waterfall.’ The little stream that usually babbled beside the boathouse and trickled on to the beach was now a small torrent pouring down the slope of the cliff behind the building and gouging out a mini canyon on the sand.

‘It must have been all that rain last night,’ said Phoebe jumping up onto the concrete slipway to avoid getting her feet wet. A dog barked and she looked up at the cliff-top again; the figure was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter Eleven

November 6th

It is so cold today. Mrs Smythe laid a fire in the dining room but I couldn’t help but shiver over my oxtail soup. Gordon called for Della and asked her to fetch a jumper for me, but when I explained I only had the one I was wearing he said I must go to Mrs O’Leary’s shop and buy as many new jumpers and cardigans as I need. He also asked me if I need a new coat and do I want stouter shoes for walking on the beach?

Thankfully he still shows no intention of ever visiting my room at night.

November 19th

I took Razzle for a walk on the beach but when the sleet started I went into the boathouse to shelter for a little while. Someone had been there. Razzle found a scrunched-up paper bag and he made short work of the half-eaten sandwich inside. There was also a smell of cigarette smoke, cigarettes like the ones Old John the gardener used to smoke. I feel upset, it is my own special place and now some other person has sat by the cracked window looking at my view.

November 25th

I knocked over the milk jug this morning, it smashed across the quarry tiles as I tried to make a cup of tea for Reverend Watkins’s wife. She called by with fruit scones and village gossip. Mrs Smythe was out on errands and Gordon was with his patients, so for the first time I was on my own to play the hostess and what a mess I made of it. Poor Della is ill but she came running from her bed when she heard the crash of the fallen jug.

She found a week-old newspaper for me to wrap the shards in and that is when I saw it – an advert in the
Irish Times
for the sale of the Castle by auction next month. I sat down at the kitchen table and wept. Della put her arms around me though I’m sure she thought I’d gone quite mad.

Eventually Mrs Watkins came to see what had happened to her cup of tea. I couldn’t bear to show her what I’d found in the newspaper and her concern for me made me cry all the more. She told me that women in a certain condition could get very tearful and smiled knowingly and patted my hand; I’m sure half the ladies of the Carraigmore Church Guild will be knitting shawls and booties by now.

November 26th

I went to Mrs O’Leary’s Ladies Outfitters after lunch and was surprised to find Della behind the counter. She told me proudly that Mrs O’Leary says she has an eye for clothes. Mrs O’Leary is right, Della found a bright red coat that fitted me perfectly and a pretty fair-isle cardigan that Della said brought out my eyes. I also chose a pea-green knitted hat that Della didn’t like and I’m sure Mother would say looks awful, but I just want it to keep my head warm when I take Razzle for his walks.

November 27th

I christened the coat and the pea-green hat by wearing them down to the beach with Razzle. I wanted to see if they could stop the piercing wind from driving me home sooner than I’d like.

As I walked I tried not to look at the Castle, I can’t bear to think that in three weeks time it will belong to someone else; whenever I do look up at it I think I see sadness on the grey façade, like a child that has been abandoned and can’t understand why.

I walked to the end of the beach and looked out across the sea. I could feel the empty windows of my old home boring into my back like eyes. As I retraced my steps I looked down at the sand, I wouldn’t let my gaze be dragged up to the house no matter how much I longed to stare at it. That’s why I didn’t notice the man until I was almost on top of him.

He leant against the black rock, sketching a fishing boat rolling on the waves. In his dark grey jacket and black trousers he seemed to merge into the rock face.

After months of watching from a distance he was suddenly so close that I could see his hair was the colour of conkers and that he was younger than I’d imagined, not much older than myself. A box of coloured pastels spilled around his feet and no sooner had I apologised for nearly walking into him than Razzle stole a crimson crayon and chewed it up, foaming red around his mouth. I apologised again and the man smiled at me and told me that he didn’t have much need for the crimson any more. His direct gaze seemed to search my face for a response but I could think of nothing clever enough to say so I called Razzle, who now looked like a circus clown, and walked away. I wish I hadn’t been wearing the hat.

‘And there’s this one at the back too,’ Honey stretched her arm far underneath the floorboard to pull out yet another leather book. She added it to the teetering pile beside her then sat back on her heels. ‘That’s the last one.’

Phoebe dragged her attention away from the diary in her hand to look at the others; there were eight in all. ‘I wonder why my grandmother hid them under the floor like that. However did you find them?ʼ

‘I could tell the board was loose because it rocks when you walk on it,’ she placed the floor board back in place and stood on as though she were on a surf board, ‘Watch! It goes back and forwards like this.’

‘You look like Mr O’Brian riding his rollers!’

Honey laughed and pretended to fall off with an exaggerated wail of anguish. Suddenly she threw herself onto the armchair and draped herself over the arm so that her hair hung down onto the floor. From her upside down position she looked at Phoebe, ‘Under the floor is the best place to put my crisps and biscuits,’ she whispered loudly, ‘I don’t want my dad to know I come up here so I have to hide them.’

‘Good idea,’ Phoebe whispered back. ‘Did you find anything else under there?’

Honey stopped whispering, ‘Only some old crayons.’ She pulled herself upright and handed Phoebe the box of crayons that she had been using to draw her pictures in the diaries.
Superior Artist’s Quality Oil Pastels, 2/6d.
The faded label was torn and peeling. Phoebe lifted the wooden lid and stared at the array of multi-coloured pastels, some worn down to stumps, some hardly used at all. ‘No red?’ she asked and when Honey shook her head Phoebe thought of Razzle with his scarlet muzzle. Phoebe squatted down and picked up another of the leather-bound books. Flicking through it she saw the writing looked rounder, neater, and more immature. She found a date at the front, 1946: two years earlier. Anna would have been sixteen, oblivious to the heartbreak that was to come.

June 10th, 1946

Hare for dinner again – George and Richard are obsessed with shooting them on the moor this summer – but afterwards we had meringues just how I like them, crisp outside and chewy in the middle – well done Mrs Reilly!

Father is home, at last, from England, and Mother is overjoyed because he bought her a new hat from Bond Street with purple feathers and a spotted veil. She went to Patricia Fitzgerald’s bridge party to show it off to all her friends.

Father took me for a walk along the beach and I told him that I think Mother’s hat is hideous and he winked at me and said he knew it was just the sort of thing that Mother likes; then he reached into his pocket and brought out a silver fountain pen with my name engraved along the side. I am writing with it now – Father always knows what I will like best. He’s told me I can have one of Old John’s puppies when his terrier bitch gives birth next month – a puppy just for me, not to live outside with Father’s hunting dogs but to be mine alone no matter how much Mother protests. If it is a girl I will call her Opal after my birthstone, if it is a boy I will call him Razzle after the horse Father won on in the Derby when he was away.

June 14th, 1946

A dull, dull day. Father has taken Richard and George shooting in Kildare and I have been forced to sit and take tea with Enid Norton and her turtle-necked son Nigel. The Honourable Nigel is twenty-one with a face full of spots, ears like saucers, and all he talks about is salmon fishing. For some reason he has asked me to a dinner-dance in Dublin next month and Mother says I must go because Nigel is in line to inherit from his second cousin, who is related through marriage to the Earl of Cavan. I heard her telling Father ‘It would be a very suitable match.’

Aunt Margaret has written to say that Cousin Elizabeth is to be presented at Court and Mother is desperate that I should be too. I really can’t bear the idea of being paraded around all those London balls and tea parties like a prize heifer on market day. I’m too tall for the layers of chiffon and lace Mother will want to squeeze me into, and I’m bound to topple over when I curtsey to the King. Besides, I think it would be inappropriate after all those poor people have died in the war in England; and the last thing I want is to do is spend the summer away from the Castle and the beach and Father and my new little dog.

What the hell are you doing here?’ The voice made Phoebe up look from Anna’s diary with a start. She saw his reflection in the mirror first – Theo Casson standing at the top of the stairs looking furious, yet again.

ʻWe didn’t touch your pots,’ Honey said quickly.

‘Well someone has, there’s a bloody big hole in one I threw yesterday,’ Theo glared at Phoebe as she turned around to face him. ‘I thought I told you to keep away from my daughter – and this is private property that you’re trespassing on.’

‘I think you should know that this is my property and
you
are the one who is trespassing.’

Theo’s face flushed. ‘And I think
you
should know that this building is on part of my land.’

‘Really?’

Phoebe thought she saw a flash of uncertainty in his eyes, a slight hesitation before he spoke again, ‘What do you mean
your property
? Do you know who I am?’

‘Oh yes, I know you; you used to dive off the black rock on the beach when the tide was in. I remember one day one of you lost your swimming trunks in the sea and had to run up the beach stark naked.’

Theo looked astonished.

‘That was you, Daddy, wasn’t it? Uncle Oliver told me.’ Honey giggled. ‘He said the whole beach was full of people on holiday and you had no clothes on and that your face was the colour of a tomato and they could all see your …’

‘All right Honey, that’s enough of what Uncle Oliver told you,’ though his voice was stern he ruffled Honey’s hair. He stared at Phoebe. ‘How do you know about that?’

‘I was there, sitting on the slipway, waiting for my grandmother to finish making a pot.’

Theo stared at her as though trying to recall her face. ‘Nola?’

Phoebe laughed. ‘No, I was the annoying little sister, Phoebe; you and your brother were too busy showing off to Nola to notice me.’

Theo looked flustered. ‘I remember Nola; she had long blonde hair and skinny legs. My brother Oliver fancied her like mad; he was always hanging about the beach when she came over from England.’

‘You fancied Nola too if I remember rightly. Didn’t you once have a fight over her?’

Honey’s eyes widened.

‘Did you really fight with Uncle Oliver?’

Theo looked down at Honey. ‘We were always fighting, that’s what brothers do.’ He turned back to Phoebe. ‘How is Nola?’

‘Still blonde, but not such skinny legs these days. She’s married with two kids and working as a doctor’s receptionist.’

Theo ran a hand down his unshaven face. ‘I knew that Anna left her studio to her granddaughters, but I doubted you would bother coming back to claim it after all this time.’

‘Well, I’m back now.’ Phoebe folded her arms.

‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.’

He looked apologetic, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, his tired face suddenly made handsome by a smile.

‘No, you shouldn’t.’ Phoebe relaxed her stance a little but kept her arms defiantly crossed. ‘And you shouldn’t be using my grandmother’s studio for your own work. Whoʼs paying the bills? Am I going to find I suddenly owe hundreds to the electricity and water companies?’

ʻNo! I pay the bills.ʼ Theo sat down on the bed and let his hands drop between his knees, as he looked up at her. ‘To tell you the truth,’ he said. ‘I’ve only just started to use this place. When we first moved back to the Castle I was full of plans to set up my pottery in the old stable block.’ He stared down at the floor and was silent for a while. He sighed. ‘And then events rather overtook us.’ Honey sat down beside him and he put his arm around her. ‘When I looked in here I was amazed to find it all just as Anna had left it, with her clay and tools and everything just like it used to be. Maeveʼs mother had been looking after it for years, cleaning it, painting the outside. I never really understood what her attachment to it was but it seemed the ideal place for me to start again. Maeveʼs mother said it would be fine, gave me a key. She said that Anna would have liked it to be used for making pots again.’

‘Did you know my grandmother?’

‘Oh yes, when I was a boy I spent hours in the studio with Anna. She was generous with her knowledge and time and very talented.’ He smiled. ‘She had large hands, I always remember them, extraordinarily big for such an elegant woman, she seemed to be able to use them to make the clay do exactly what she wanted it to do. It was because of her that I wanted to become a potter. It’s been comforting to be in here again, to work at Anna’s wheel, to be surrounded by her things.’

‘I think I saw your work in the craft centre in the village, it stood out amongst all that tourist tat.’

Theo laughed, ‘Don’t let Sally O’Connell hear you calling it tat; she’s very proud of her shop and her sales of my work have kept me and Honey in baked beans and biscuits for the last month.’ And whiskey, thought Phoebe; but she didn’t say it. ‘She’s waiting for more stock,’ continued Theo. ‘That’s what’s in the kiln. I came to see if the it was cool enough to open but unfortunately it’s still much too hot.’ He nodded towards the pile of books on the floor. ‘What are those?’

‘Just some notebooks of my grandmother’s.’

‘To do with her work?’

‘No, just writing she did as a girl; stuff about living at the Castle.’ Phoebe felt reluctant to say too much.

‘She had very fond memories of the Castle,’ said Theo. ‘When I was a boy I used to ask her to come and look round, to tell me if it had changed much.’

‘And did she?’

Theo shook his head, ‘I think she wanted to remember it as it had been. My father was on his third wife by that time; all those different women had wanted to make their own mark on it so she was right, it wouldn’t have been the same at all. My own mother was American, en-suite bathrooms and central heating were her contributions – though she still called the place a draughty old pile of rubble.’