Miriam's Talisman (31 page)

‘Oh, we went on for a while. Barely civilised. We talked when necessary, but we had nothing real to say to each other. She wouldn't let me near her, wouldn't let me touch her. That thing round her neck, it was like an invisible hand, pushing me further and further away. I felt like an intruder in my own home. Spent less and less time there. Threw myself into my work. Miriam immersed herself in her story-collecting. Spent all her time with the local people, going around the villages, delving into this magical stuff they all believe in. It became like an obsession with her. At least she was still taking Hannah with her. Then she'd spend hours alone, reading and writing. Walking. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing, she was…absent.

‘Then, suddenly, it was time to go back to the States. I was almost relieved when she refused to go with me. Our marriage was dead. There was no point in dragging its corpse all the way back to Boston. Somehow she'd
persuaded the authorities to let her stay. The worst part was leaving Hannah. I told myself that in the long run it would be easier for the child if the break were permanent, that it was right she should stay with her mother. There was nothing I could I do for her. That's what I told myself. But there was also that invisible hand, pushing me away, pushing me out.'

‘So you went back alone.'

‘Right. And in no time her work started appearing on the bookshelves and in the bestseller lists. Of course I bought the first one, read some of it. A romanticised blend of historical fact and mythology. I didn't bother with the rest. But others did. Seems she could hit the nail on the head, led researchers along all the right paths. By then I was looking in other directions. I'd had all I wanted of Celtic history.'

‘But you kept in touch.'

‘I wrote often, to begin with at least. I suppose as time went by the letters got fewer. But, like I said, I always sent a card and a letter to Hannah on her birthday and at Christmas.' He looked down at his hands, twisted together on the table. He scratched hard along his finger with the nail of his thumb. His skin was purple with age, the nails yellow and cracked. I laid my hand on his. Mine looked tiny, like a child's.

‘Hannah and Miriam were never close,' I said, ‘and I think Hannah's very lonely. Perhaps it's not too late.'

We both fell silent for a while. Then I said, ‘Greg told me about you and Miriam keeping in touch.'

‘She wouldn't write back, not at the beginning. I was surprised when the first letter arrived. It was several years later and it came from a firm of solicitors. She'd moved
to England by then. After that she wrote every year. Just a brief update and a few photographs. Always via the solicitor—I never had her address. I wrote back to her, but I never made any attempt to return. God knows I should have done, for Hannah's sake. I'd thought about it often enough, but time falls away and it becomes more and more impossible.'

‘You never thought to divorce or remarry.'

‘No, never had reason to. I expect you're going to ask if there was a man in Miriam's life, if that's what drove us apart. There were times when I wondered myself. But there was nothing to go on, no one who would make any sense. Although, when I think of those times, there are things I can't quite seem to remember. Like shadows at the edge of my mind. I don't know. It all slips away before I can touch it.

‘It's like I said, I can't tell you what happened. There's nothing to tell, nothing real, nothing solid. Only that thing you're wearing. If I never did anything for Miriam and Hannah, at least I can warn you, Cliohna. Get rid of it!'

I knew he was right. I knew everything he had told me was true. But I also knew how Miriam had heard it call to her. I knew how she had knelt beside the body, her eyes searching, her hands sensing the air. How she had to possess it. How she wore it every day until she died. How she made me promise never to take it off.

And now it was mine.

I
THOUGHT THE FLIGHT
home would never end. Like some forsaken astronaut, I was doomed to circle the Earth forever. The cabin had become oppressively familiar. My armchair capsule existed in its own time–space continuum, divorced from a world where real things happen. Or perhaps they only seem real, or they only seem to happen. And all the while my hand moved to my neck, my fingers tracing the silver form of a bird, caressing the lines and curves.

I must pull my head together, I told myself. I needed to think clearly, evaluate everything objectively, examine the new facts and fit them into the overall picture. Then I'd decide upon a plan of action.

As if I could do that. As if it were that easy.

I kept seeing Harold. We had found each other and he said that was enough for him, he was content. I promised I would be back very soon. He held me tight until the last moment and his eyes were red. When I looked back, he was blowing his nose on a grubby handkerchief. I boarded the plane feeling wretched, trying to hold the breaking threads together as long as I could.

The engines droned on. How many hours do I have
left? I wondered. A film projector splashed colour on the screen in front of me, and two men with guns ran from each other in meaningless silence. I must work this thing out, try to understand what was happening before we landed and it started all over again. If I concentrated I could figure out a way through it.

The attendant brought supper. It was all set out on a tray, neatly divided into compartments, all the components of a feast neatly wrapped in transparent plastic and clearly labelled so one knew exactly how to handle them. But my situation wasn't like that. I tried laying all the pieces out in front of me, each in its appropriate slot, all hermetically sealed and emotionally sterile. And still no sense could be made of it. When the attendant returned, I found I'd opened all the little packets, tipped them out and shuffled them around. I handed her the tray, demolished and uneaten.

Already I was missing Harold. I resolved to call him as soon as I got home. Of course I never did. Other things intervened. I must speak to him now, perhaps today, when the sun comes up. I must tell him what has happened, or at least as much as can be told. At the very least I must let him know where I am now. But then, sitting there in the sky, the plane taking me further and further from him, I needed the substance and the safety of my grandfather, the solid strength of his hands.

I have to think, concentrate on what I
do
know, I whispered to myself. Above all I knew he had come to me and it was not against my will. Therefore, as long as I was capable of making choices, I would hold some responsibility for whatever happened. But how do you cope when a fantasy lands in your lap? Herewith, one
unicorn, handle with care. Knowing my luck there would be no instructions. I wouldn't know how to feed it or what it was capable of. It could tear the universe inside out. I had to stop this nonsense. It was getting me nowhere.

Every moment, every hum and throb of the engine, was eating up the distance between us. That was the only thing that mattered, to be home. To step on creaking, wooden floors through shafts of dusty sunlight. To wipe mist from the window and see the orchard, the trees with moss on their bark and spider webs strung with silver rain. To feel him there, to know he was moving closer. To feel his breath among the loose strands of my hair, the strange webbing of skin between his fingers.

Oh God, his smile, I thought, I've forgotten his smile.

I'm in turmoil, scrambling among layers of memory, desperately grasping at images. No, he's there. I breathe again. He's in the kitchen, hunched on the counter-top, his fingers twirling the stem of a wineglass. His smile is lazy. It starts at the corner of his mouth, just a movement of the cheek and the crinkling of the corner of his eye. It spreads slowly and his lips part; the darkness of his face retreats like the shadow of a summer cloud chased across the meadows by the emerging sun. His teeth are small, not white but a pale ivory, and the edge of one tooth overlaps another. He's not perfect. I have him now. I can rest easy. But I'm not easy. There's heaviness inside me, a vast iron hollowness that engulfs my solar plexus. It's the space where he should be, where he will be if I can ever reach him again.

I had to see Hannah when I got back, spend some time with her, try to make things right between us. I'd tell her about Harold. Even if she didn't want to hear, I'd make her
listen. I'd tell her about the box and the letters and about the photos in his wallet. I needed to make her understand that it wasn't his fault. Or Miriam's really. But someone had to take the blame for what they did to Hannah.

My hand was at my neck again, touching the silver. For a while I slept. I dreamed of the rushing of wings.

The plane landed at 10.30 in the morning, right on time, then spent an eternity manoeuvring on the airfield before it finally docked. I watched suitcases going round and round on the carousel. Several times I abandoned hope of mine and turned to run to the exit. But it would do no good. They would only call me back, force me to wait.

Even though I had some priority, the line through Customs crawled. It was there I remembered Paul. He would be waiting for me, impatient, disapproving. He would moan about inadequate services and the lack of facilities for the public. I would have to endure the journey, the pointed questions, the begrudging acknowledgement of my survival. Perhaps I could get a taxi instead. No, that would take much longer. Paul was the quickest route home. Besides, he would be bound to see me. Unless he was late, unless he had forgotten. No, never, not Paul. He would see this through to the bitter end.

I stacked my belongings on a trolley and a steward directed me to the gate. There a tight crowd pressed forward, straining over the barrier, reaching out hands to loved ones, smiling, calling their names. Paul was not among them. Could he be waiting in the café area, expecting me to go to him? The wheel of my trolley squeaked over the tiled floor, echoing through the vast space.

Then, suddenly, there he was.

I saw him across the far side of the hall, a crowd of people between us. But I knew him. He stood with one foot raised and braced against the pillar on which he leaned, arms folded across his chest. The angle of his raised knee parted the folds in his long black coat and I saw he was wearing…yes…he was, and I laughed out loud. He was wearing red shoes! Bright red, glossy leather shoes. He couldn't have heard me, but he turned his head, very slowly, and frowned. And then he began to smile and the sun came out, just as I remembered.

I was running across the floor. Perhaps people were in my way, but if so I wasn't aware of them. I dropped my bag and papers; my luggage stood abandoned. He was there and I was drinking in the smell of damp moss, grasses crushed on a hot summer's day. I was wrapped in darkness, the embracing warmth of soft earth, a cavern in which to bury myself. His mouth was on my face, in my hair, whispering words, strange words I couldn't know the meaning of, yet I understood. His arms so tight around me I could scarcely breathe. After a long, long while he let me go and we were both laughing.

‘So you decided to come back to me then? Has my Little Wren had enough of flying round the world?'

‘I had to go. I had to find out …' I stumbled for words.

He was suddenly serious, and very tender. ‘Yes, I know. It's all right. Shall we go home now?'

I nodded. ‘Oh, my things, my suitcase.'

I stepped backwards across the floor, reluctant to leave him, thinking that if I turned my back he might disappear. But he didn't. He just watched me, smiling in
wonderment, as if I were the most fascinating creature on earth. His eyes were softer than I remembered, gold tinged brown, like warm toffee. He continued to watch as I retrieved my bag from an amused airport official and struggled to lift my case off the trolley.

‘Look, do you think you could …'

‘What?' His expression changed to quizzical frown. Then realisation dawned. ‘Oh, your luggage. You want me to help?'

‘Yes, that would be nice.'

With the swiftness of a chameleon snatching a moth, he scooped up my belongings in one hand and took me in the other. We were heading for the short-stay car park.

‘Do you like my shoes?'

‘Yes, they're wonderful shoes.'

‘I chose them in your honour. A fanfare of colour to welcome the return of the traveller.'

Then I remembered. ‘Oh, what about Paul? He was supposed to meet me.'

Iolair turned and paused for a moment. ‘Paul couldn't come.' He grinned at me, that mischievous schoolboy grin of wicked innocence. ‘You didn't want to see him anyway, did you?'

‘What do you mean, he couldn't come? How did you get here, then? And how are we going to get back?'

‘It's all right. I brought your car.'

‘I didn't know you could drive?'

‘No, neither did I. Miriam would never let me try. She said that life was perilous enough as it is. I don't know what she was making all that fuss about. It's quite easy, really. Though we loved each other dearly, there were times when she displayed a distinct lack of trust in me.'