Heartstones (24 page)

‘Of course.’ Sally stared, searching through her book display. ‘Only last week I ordered this new book about him, it’s come out prior to the exhibition.’ She seemed torn between her desire to find the book and her desire to keep the circular display tidy, but at last she eased out a large hardback and laid it on top of a pile of Irish cookery books. William M. Flynn was written in white letters across a close-up of dark and swirling brushstrokes and then the title:
Portraits of the Atlantic Ocean
. Phoebe tried to steady her breathing as she began to flick through the glossy pages, starting from the back. Seascape after seascape, night and day, grey and blue and green, all executed in the same vibrant style. Some paintings included tiny sailing boats or ships tossed and battered by gigantic storms, some included snatches of coast line: cliffs rising out of crashing waves, water spraying flecks of white across grey stone, the red stripes of lighthouses looming on dark horizons.

Occasionally there was a suggestion of a tumbledown cottage on a cliff edge or a herd of sheep precariously grazing on a coastal overhang. It seemed, so obviously, the west coast of Ireland. Then the painting she’d bought the post card of, the suggestion of a figure on the beach – it looked brighter in the book, more vivid. Phoebe continued on flicking backwards through the book. She noticed that the artist’s earlier work appeared to have been done on the east coast of America – 
Lobsterpots off Maine, Winter Storm in Cape Cod Bay
– but the very earliest pictures were set in France – 
Breton Fishing Boats, Sunset Over Isle de Batz
. And then suddenly, on the first page, something different: a pastel drawing of a figure on a beach – a girl standing on a rocky promenade looking out to sea, her coat was scarlet and a little terrier sat obediently at her feet.
Girl from Carraigmore
the caption beside it read.

‘You can see why they are so coveted by collectors.’ Sally peered over Phoebe’s shoulder, ‘Such strength of line, such confidence with colour. And to think he used to live in Carraigmore, I just wish he’d done more paintings while he was here; we could have had them as framed prints, I’m sure they’d be very popular.’

Phoebe wasn’t really listening. She flicked through the pages to the back to find his biography. It was all there: William Michael Flynn, born in County Galway in 1928, sixth son of a tenant farmer, also named William Flynn, trained at the National College of Art and Design. Phoebe ran her finger down the list of dates. 1948–1949, teacher in Carraigmore School. 1950, moved to Paris. Not until 1950? It had been June 1949 when he had first asked Anna to go away to France with him, why had he delayed so long? Phoebe skimmed quickly down the rest of the biography. After Paris he had spent a few years in Brittany, followed by a spell in St Ives before settling for many years on the East Coast of America, and then returning to Ireland in the early 1990s. Phoebe was surprised to see that he hadn’t married till the late 1960s – a fellow artist from New York – but the marriage had been short-lived, ending in divorce. There was no reference to any children.

‘I wonder if it’s possible to go and visit him,’ Phoebe murmured, hardly aware that she’d said it out loud.

‘Oh, no, dear.’ Sally still hovered at her shoulder. ‘He died two years ago.’

Phoebe heard a gasp and realised it had escaped from her own mouth.

‘Well, he was over eighty,’ Sally continued. ‘They found him in the studio of his little house in Donegal, still painting up until the very end. It was the main story on the RTE news; he was so well loved in Ireland. Of course his death pushed the prices of his paintings up sky-high.’

Only two years ago. Phoebe wished she’d found out about him sooner, she longed to talk to him about Anna, to ask him what had happened in the end. She turned to the front few pages of the book to see the sketch of the girl on the beach at Carraigmore; it had to be the drawing that Anna mentioned in the diary. Phoebe looked down at the coat she had been wearing all day, looking back at the red coat in the picture. She wondered if it could possibly be the same one.

Sally had moved away, distracted by a sheep that had fallen from its allocated shelf space onto the floor. Phoebe started to close the book but stopped. A narrow black and white photograph caught her attention. It was on the inside of the dust jacket:
Photograph of the artist, Concarneau, Brittany 1953
. Michael leant genially against a fishing boat, shirtsleeves rolled up above his elbows, a cigarette smouldering in his paint-stained hands. He was smiling straight at the photographer. Phoebe felt her heart lurch at the sight of the handsome face, the intense dark eyes, the mop of curly hair; she knew this face, had kept it safe inside her memory all these years, treasuring it, hardy daring to recall it in case she wore the memory out – this was her father, her father’s smile and unkempt hair, the eyes you didn’t want to turn away from.

‘Are you all right, Phoebe?’ Sally had a hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. ‘You’ve gone quite pale; in fact you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’

Chapter Twenty-three

Phoebe left the gallery and walked slowly down the road. She vaguely realised that the mid-afternoon sun had become quite warm, but she was far too deep in thought to think about taking off the coat. She wondered what Gordon Brennan had felt about bringing up another man’s child. She remembered being told long ago that Anna had refused to send her son home to boarding school. Instead he had gone to the local Nigerian school, with extra tuition from a Baptist missionary that lived nearby. As a child, Phoebe had assumed it was from love of her son that Anna kept him with her, but maybe Gordon had refused to pay. Or maybe Anna really couldn’t bear to be parted from the child of the man she had loved so much.

Yellow tulips had replaced the daffodils in the terracotta pots outside the boathouse; the cup-shaped flowers swayed in a warm breeze, waving in welcome as Phoebe arrived home. She opened the door ready for another search for Anna’s missing diaries.

Her foot was on the first step when she saw the envelope in front of her, propped up against the fifth stair, exactly where she would see it as she started to climb up to the flat. It was decorated with a picture of a large green dragon, wings outspread, at its feet a small blonde-haired figure and a wild-haired man stood with wonky smiles and dots for eyes. A child’s hand had written ‘Feebee’ at the top, which had then been crossed out and replaced with ‘Phoebe’ in an adult’s slanting scrawl.

Phoebe picked it up. Opening it, she found a paper heart folded into two. It was an invitation, formally worded in glittery blue ink with the same slanting, slightly scrawling writing.

Honey and Theo Casson request the pleasure of the company of Miss Phoebe Brennan for lemonade and homemade cake on the terrace of the Castle at 4 p.m. on Sunday.

Phoebe smiled, surprised at the little burst of happiness the invitation gave her. She looked at her phone. Half past three. Her search for Anna’s diaries would have to wait. She decided that the occasion called for something more than jeans and a T-shirt, and, digging in a drawer of Anna’s clothes, pulled out a floral dress she hadn’t noticed before. She held it up against her; it was very long – what had been probably just below the knee for her grandmother was mid-calf for Phoebe. She stripped off her clothes and slipped the dress over her head, enjoying the fluidity of the fabric against her bare skin. It needed ironing, the pattern of daisies looked scrunched, and the hem hung unevenly. Phoebe pulled out the skirt and swished it, spinning around in a full circle so that it billowed out like a bell. It was very pretty.

The dress screamed out for high-heeled strappy sandals, or maybe a wedge or a peep-toe. For Phoebe the choice was boringly easy: her clumpy biker boots, that was all she had.

She looked at herself in the huge mirror on the wall. She thought of Anna and wondered if she had put on the same dress and admired herself in the same mottled glass? Had William Michael Flynn stood beside her and told her she looked beautiful in the dress? She gave a shiver. It was suddenly too much to contemplate, as if everything she thought she knew about her past had changed, as if she had changed, had different blood swirling in her veins, making her a different person.

She picked up her phone to check the time. She’d have to hurry, she didn’t want to disappoint Theo and Honey by being late. She had no iron; the creases would just have to fall out by themselves.

Snatching up a cardigan she started to descend the stairs. Midway she stopped. She turned back, lifted Anna’s wide straw hat from its peg, pulled it down onto her curls and full of sudden energy ran up the lane to the Castle.

She could see the table set with tea things as she climbed the flight of stone steps leading to the terrace. A teapot, jug, and three striped mugs were gathered around the glass cake stand. On top of the stand stood a magnificent cake, golden yellow and glistening with a sugar crust.

Honey appeared through the French windows carrying a stack of plates. She saw Phoebe and immediately ran back inside. Phoebe could hear her shouting into the echoing hallway.

‘She’s here, Daddy. Sheʼs here.’

Minutes passed with no sign of Honey or her father. Phoebe leant against a lichen-mottled balustrade and admired the view. It was not that dissimilar from the view that she and Rory had looked at from the top of the dolmen only a few hours before: the sea, the distant mountains, the bright blue sky. Poncho ambled out of the kitchen door and came to sniff Phoebe’s feet. Someone had tied a red and white scarf around his neck. Phoebe crouched down and patted his sleek black coat.

‘Here she is, Daddy. Doesn’t she look pretty?’ Phoebe hadn’t heard Theo and Honey’s approach. Poncho turned to his master and Phoebe straightened up. Honey had changed into a sequined party dress and Theo was clean-shaven with a fresh white shirt and his unruly hair slicked back.

‘Yes,’ Theo sounded rather awkward. ‘Nice dress. And the hat, itʼs very …’

‘No biscuit crumbs in my hair today,’ Phoebe interrupted as he searched for the word.

‘I knew you’d come,’ said Honey slipping her hand into Phoebe’s. ‘Daddy said you wouldn’t but I told him that you would. He didn’t want to shave and he said putting on a clean shirt would be a waste of time, and I said it wouldn’t be a waste of time, and making the cake definitely wouldn’t be a waste of time because we could eat it even if you didn’t turn up, but you have turned up.’ She looked up at her father with sparkling eyes, ‘So you see, Daddy, she didn’t probably have better things to do after all!’

Theo pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and looked at his feet. ‘I saw you walking up the beach with Rory O’Brian this morning. I expected you’d be gone all day,’ he muttered.

‘Daddy said I could do anything I wanted today,’ went on Honey, jumping from one foot to the other with excitement. ‘And I said that I wanted to have you to tea and make a lemon cake, and to eat it outside, and then I want us all to watch
Harry Potter
, and for you to stay until it’s time for me to go to bed.’

Phoebe smiled down at the pretty face. ‘I’m honoured.’

‘Come on,’ Honey was impatient to get them to sit down. ‘Oh, we haven’t got a knife to cut the cake. I’ll go and get one and I’ll see if the kettle has boiled yet, and I forgot to bring the plates back out.’ She ran into the house leaving Phoebe and Theo facing each other across the wrought-iron table. Phoebe took off the hat, suddenly feeling self-conscious in it.

Theo sighed. ‘When I said she could do anything she wanted I had expected her to say she fancied going swimming in Sneem or a trip to McDonald’s in Killarney. You’ve no idea how long it took to bake that cake. Thereʼs an earlier attempt in the bin and one in the dog. I just hope our last effort tastes all right.’ He ran his hand across his face as though exhausted by the whole experience.

Phoebe raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m so sorry, I hope you haven’t had to put yourself out too much on my account.’

‘No. No, of course not.’ Theo looked uncomfortable. ‘I didn’t mean to sound disgruntled.’ Phoebe resisted the urge to say that that would make a change. ‘Hosting tea parties isn’t exactly my forte, I usually left that sort of thing to Maeve.’ He picked up an empty mug and started absentmindedly turning it around in his hand as though thoroughly absorbed in its vertical blue-and-white-striped decoration. After a few seconds he put the mug down and seemed to study Phoebe in much he same way as he’d studied the mug. ‘That dress suits you. I especially like it with those chunky boots.’

‘Really?’

Theo nodded. ‘And the pale blue flowers bring out the colour of your eyes.’

Phoebe smoothed the floral fabric across her knee. ‘It was my grandmother’s.’

‘I remember her style of dress being rather more ethnically inclined. I always think of her in multi-coloured scarves and shawls, and she had one of those Indian skirts with little mirror decorations and elaborate embroidery that fascinated me as a child.’

‘I think she would have worn this dress many years before you knew her, maybe even before she went to Africa.’ Phoebe hesitated, toying with the idea of telling him about Anna and her affair with Michael Flynn; she was still bursting with the excitement of realising that the famous artist was her grandfather.

Theo picked up the mug again. ‘This was made by Anna.’

‘I thought you must have made it; like the dress it doesn’t seem to be her style.’

He smiled. ‘I think she was going through a bit of a creative crisis at the time, trying to break away from the heavy stoneware pots she’d learned to make in Africa. She must have made these just before she started to develop the celadon glazes. I remember how she experimented with blue and white stripes and spotty patterns using a traditional Dutch technique.’

‘Delftware?’ asked Phoebe.

‘Yes, very like delftware – tin and cobalt glazes on earthenware or porcelain. My mother bought a set of eight mugs from her, these three are the only ones that remain.’

Phoebe picked one up as well. Turning it over she saw her grandmother’s initials stamped into the unglazed foot-ring: A.B. Phoebe lightly touched the mark. When she looked back up Theo’s eyes were watching her again, their colour seemed darker than usual, as vivid and intense as Anna’s cobalt glaze.

She picked up another mug and tried to avoid his gaze. ‘I like the blue and white, I’m sure it could be used for some lovely contemporary decorations.’

‘Why don’t you have a go yourself?’ Theo asked. ‘You could decorate that pot you threw the other day. I can mix the glazes for you and show you how to apply them,’ he paused. ‘And I promise I won’t try to leap on you this time.’

Phoebe felt her cheeks redden. She tried to say she’d like that, meaning the pot decorating, but her voice faltered as she realised it sounded as though she were saying she’d like to be leapt on, so instead she made a comment about the weather and then a silence fell between them. Theo lit a cigarette and Phoebe studied the pattern on her dress and wished that she still smoked.

The chink of china heralded a welcome diversion. They both turned to watch Honey’s progress across the terrace. The sequins on her dress glittered in the afternoon sun so that she appeared to be shimmering her way towards them like some sort of fairy child. As she got nearer they could see that a large bread-knife was slithering about precariously on top of the pile of plates she was carrying.

Honey put the plates onto the table with a clatter.

‘This was the only knife I could find.’ She wielded the bread knife in the air and stared hacking into the cake with a flagrant disregard for the danger of sharply corrugated blades.

‘Shall I do that?’ said Phoebe, taking the knife from Honey.

‘And I’ll go and make us all a pot of tea,’ said Theo, picking up the teapot and disappearing into the house.

Any awkwardness between Theo and Phoebe was soon dispersed by Honey’s constant chatter.

‘I love lemon drizzle cake; I love the taste of lemons, but why can’t lemon fruits be nice to eat on their own? You know, like oranges, why can’t they be sweet like oranges? I’m sure if they were, the people that make the lemons would sell loads more.’

‘No one makes lemons, darling,’ said Theo. ‘They grow on trees.’

‘I
know
that. I mean the people who make the lemon trees could sell loads more of them. I’m sure it can’t be that hard to make sweet lemon trees, after all they invented those sweet potatoes for people who thought that ordinary potatoes were boring. Do you want more cake, Phoebe?’

‘Just another little slice. It really is delicious, well worth all the hard work you both put in.’

‘Did Daddy tell you that he burnt the first one, and Poncho stole the next when it was cooling on the wire rack, and then Daddy said there was no way he was making another bloody cake for you and stomped off saying lots of words I’m not allowed to say, and I had to do this cake nearly all by myself!’

Phoebe looked at Theo. He gave a small shrug – Phoebe had to restrain a laugh.

For the rest of the afternoon they sat on the terrace and talked and drank and ate three-quarters of the cake between them, until Phoebe felt awash with tea and lemon-sponge and a cool breeze coming from the sea made her wish that she had brought the red coat.

‘It’s getting cold,’ said Theo. ‘I think it’s time to go inside.’ He stood up and started to clear away the plates.

‘That means it’s time for
Harry Potter
,’ cried Honey jumping up. ‘I’ll go and put it on.’

‘Hang on.’ Theo put a restraining hand on his daughter’s arm. ‘Maybe Phoebe has to go, she might need to work tonight or she might need a rest after being with such a chatterbox all afternoon.’

Phoebe smiled at Honey, ‘I’m not working tonight, and I don’t need a rest, so if it’s all right with your dad I’d love to watch
Harry Potter
with you.’

‘It is all right, isn’t it, Daddy?’ asked Honey tugging on her fathers shirt. ‘You want to watch the film with Phoebe too, don’t you?’

Theo grinned down at her. ‘Yes, I think that would be very nice.’

The three of them sat, squashed together, on the sofa in the room that Honey and Theo used as a living room. Poncho lay, prostrate and snoring, at their feet. The room looked much tidier than when Phoebe had seen it before, and the late afternoon sun coming through the long windows gave the yellow walls a warming, golden hue.

Honey supplied a running commentary throughout the film, she claimed to have seen it over one hundred times and was eager to tell Phoebe exactly what was about to happen in every scene.

After the film, Theo made them hot dogs which they ate while they watched the complementary DVD about how the film was made. When that was finished Honey disappeared into her bedroom, re-emerging with a box that she proudly called her beautician’s kit. Theo groaned.

‘It’s not time for my pedicure again, is it?’

‘No, don’t be silly, Daddy. You’ve still got spotty toenails from yesterday. Today I want to paint Phoebe’s fingernails.’

Phoebe tried to hide her hands. ‘You can do my toenails, Honey, but not my fingers, they are much too short to do anything with.’ Since David had died she’d found herself reverting to her teenage habit of biting her nails down to the quick. She saw Theo glance at them and noticed that his own nails were badly bitten too.