Heartstones (23 page)

‘You’ve lost someone too?’ asked Phoebe gently, Rory nodded. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

After a long pause Rory spoke. ‘His name was Owen; he described himself as being built like two scrum halves sewn together – he was big and burly and Welsh, hilariously funny and absolutely gorgeous. We met at a Celtic language convention when I was teaching in Dublin; he was a teacher too, in Aberystwyth. He taught geography and we found we shared a passion for rocks and rivers and sea and Elvis. We both loved climbing. We spent every holiday together, travelled the world in between term-time, planned our ascent of Everest, and gave the Holyhead ferry a lot of business at the weekends. We talked about marriage when they made it legal over here, we planned the day right down to our outfits: I wanted to wear gold lamé like Elvis on his 1959 album cover while Owen wanted to be in black leathers like Elvis’s 1968 TV appearance. We’d even found a website that could make the trousers big enough to fit around Owen’s gigantic thighs! We thought we’d say our vows in Welsh and Irish. I was sure we’d spend the rest of our lives together, I had a fantasy that we’d have children one day – he’d have been a wonderful father.’ Rory stopped speaking. Phoebe put her arm around him. ‘I haven’t been able to listen to Elvis since I lost him,’ he mumbled into her shoulder.

‘Was his death very sudden?’ she asked gently.

Rory disengaged himself. ‘Oh no, he didn’t die. We had a row, a ridiculous row about which Elvis film was his best – he said
Jailhouse Rock
, I said
Blue Hawaii
. It all got very personal and then he walked out and that was the last I ever saw of Welsh Owen – though I did hear that a few months later he was spotted climbing the mountains of Patagonia with a PE teacher from the Rhondda Valley – the same trip we had planned to make for our honeymoon.’

‘I’m so sorry Rory, that’s really sad.’

‘I know it’s not the same as what you must have gone through when your husband died, but to me the pain felt as bad as any grief I could imagine. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t work; in the end I came back home to Carraigmore.’

‘In a way it must have felt worse because you knew that Owen was happily trekking over South American mountains with another man while your heart was breaking over here.’

Rory wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘It was over eighteen months ago now – I can’t believe it still makes me so upset. The sad thing is that I always liked
Jailhouse Rock
, I don’t know why I had to make such a stand against it.’ He straightened up and gave a small smile. ‘I’m trying very hard to move on. I met Ben in Kenmare at Christmastime, and apart from the inconvenient shifts that he works we’re very happy. He’s blond-haired, blue-eyed, slinky hips, every boy’s dream I’m sure; but, you know …’ Rory studied his hands in silence for a few seconds. ‘He’s more interested in clubbing than climbing mountains, and I’m sure he only comes surfing because he can show off his fantastic body in a wetsuit, and he once asked me if Elvis was that fellow in the white suit in
Saturday Night Fever
!’ Rory shrugged again. ‘He’s a nice bloke but somehow he just isn’t Welsh Owen.’

Phoebe squeezed his hand. ‘How do your parents feel about you being gay?’

‘They’ve been great, though I was terrified of telling them that I’d never be inclined to marry the buck-toothed girl on the farm next door like I knew they wanted me to. In fact it was your grandmother who persuaded me to come out in the first place.’

‘How did she do that?’ Phoebe raised her eyebrows.

‘I was seventeen, trying to pretend I was the same as all the other lads, trying to flirt with the girls but always ending up having a good chat with them at the end of the evening rather than a snog. I suppose I knew I was gay but I sort of hoped I might grow out of it.

‘I had been to see your grandmother to buy one of her pots for my mother’s birthday. I took ages trying to decide which one, and in the end Anna disappeared and came back with a pot of tea and two enormous slices of fruit cake; she said she always had to have tea and cake in the afternoon, a leftover from her childhood.’

Phoebe nodded, ‘Yes, I remember afternoon tea was always sacrosanct.’

‘It was summer,’ Rory continued. ‘Anna had the doors at the front of the boathouse open and we sat in the sunshine eating the cake and drinking the tea. She asked me if I had a girlfriend and I suddenly found myself telling her about a massive crush I had on the brother of the buck-toothed girl next door.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She told me not to be ashamed of the person I was, not to try and hide my sexuality, to be proud of it rather than afraid. I can’t tell you what a relief it was to finally talk to somebody about all the things that had been worrying me for so long. She died the following year, before I ever had a chance to thank her properly for giving me the confidence to be honest with myself as well as with everyone around me. She was a wise woman, it’s a shame she had to go the way she did.’

‘I wish she was still here now to tell me what to do,’ said Phoebe quietly.

‘She could have told you that you had no worries as far as my intentions towards you are concerned.’ Rory laughed, and then was serious again. ‘I remember she told me that someone she once knew had been gay, and that he had ended up ruining someone else’s life in his attempts to hide it. I think that was when I realised I had to be honest with my parents.’

Phoebe bit her lip, wondering if she could confide in him. ‘I know who my grandmother was talking about.’

‘Who?’

Phoebe leaned back on the warm stone of the dolmen, her head supported on one hand. Rory leant back too so that he was facing her, and she began to tell him Anna’s story. She felt as though she was outlining the plot of a novel or a film, not the real-life events that had happened to her relative more than sixty years before. Rory listened in silence occasionally letting out a little gasp, or widening his eyes in surprise.

‘Then what happened?’ he asked as Phoebe reached the part where Michael had asked Anna to go to France with him.

‘I don’t know,’ said Phoebe. ‘There are only two diaries left, but when I got home last night – all ready for my next instalment – they weren’t where I thought I’d left them. I put the diaries I’d already read back under the floorboards, but I’d left the last two on the windowsill. I searched and searched but I couldn’t find them anywhere.’

‘You’ve got to find them!’ exclaimed Rory. ‘I can’t wait to find out if Anna and her artist ever made it to Paris. And how did she end up living in the African bush with the gay doctor?’

‘Yes, that’s the really weird thing. Why did she go to Africa and why did she stay with Gordon for so long? The stories I remember being told about him made him out to be some sort of saint. My father adored him and I always imagined that Anna did too.’

‘I wonder why she didn’t just run away with Michael when she had the chance?’

‘I’m sure the diaries hold the key. I canʼt have simply lost them – it’s not as though the room is exactly large!’

 ʻYou donʼt think …?ʼ Rory looked aghast.

Phoebe nodded.

 ʻA theft in Carraigmore?ʼ

Phoebe nodded again.

ʻDum dum duuuummm …ʼ Rory hummmed dramatically.

ʻIʼm being serious. I think someone has taken them.ʼ

ʻThere are no burglars in Carraigmore and if there were Iʼm sure theyʼd be after your cash or that nice lace blouse of yours rather than old diaries. And how would they have got in without breaking a window or kicking down the door?ʼ

ʻThe key is kept under a stone in the garden – anyone could get in if they wanted to!ʼ

ʻOoooh, donʼt tell the Neighbourhood Watch Committee – theyʼll just say you were asking for a trouble. Anyway Iʼm sure theyʼve just fallen down the side of the bed or something.ʼ

 ʻIʼve checked, they are not down the side of the bed!ʼ

Rory looked at his watch.

‘Well, Iʼd love to solve mysteries all day with you, Nancy Drew, but I have a band practice with the boys in half an hour; we’re playing at Fibber’s tonight. Will you be there?’

‘I have a night off. I might just stay at home to catch up on my sleep.’

‘That’s a shame; Ben is coming and I’d love you to meet him.’

Phoebe started to pack the remains of their picnic away in Rory’s rucksack and slipped the red coat back on. ‘Maybe I’ll try and come, just for a little while. I wouldn’t want to miss the chance of seeing the ambulance-driving Adonis.’

Rory laughed. ‘You can keep an eye on Swedish Jan for me. I’m afraid Jan has taken a bit of a liking to Ben. He likes to tell him risqué stories about his time in the Swedish Merchant Navy.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d have much competition from Swedish Jan, unless Ben has a thing for bushy beards and a paunch.’

They walked back along a track that led them inland – crossing the gorse-splashed moor, the sea behind them, craggy grey outcrops on each side. They headed towards the distant spires of Carraigmore – the two churches were clearly visible between a band of trees, one at each end of the town, although now only the Catholic church remained a place of worship. The sight of the redundant Anglican spire prompted Phoebe to wonder if Sally O’Connell in the Arts and Craft Centre knew anything about Michael. Had he gone on to become a professional painter or had he simply stayed a teacher in a rural primary school?’

‘Don’t you think your sister might have some information?’ Rory said as though heʼd read her mind. ‘She must remember more about your father and Anna than you do.’

‘I can’t ask her; we’ve fallen out and I don’t think she wants anything more to do with me.’

‘Why?’ Rory looked surprised. ‘I can’t imagine you could have done anything that bad.’

Phoebe briefly considered telling him the truth about her relationship with David but couldn’t seem to find a way to start. ‘Oh, you know how families are, little things blow up into all-out war at the drop of a hat.’

‘Tell me about it. My cousins haven’t spoken for years because one of them won the Carraigmore Donkey Derby in 1999 and failed to split the €40 winnings with his brother who owned the champion donkey in the first place. They didn’t even ask each other to their weddings years later.’ Rory then went on to regale Phoebe with tales of various relatives seemingly innocent misdemeanours that had resulted in family feuds that only went on to confirm to Phoebe that her affair with a married man would be really shocking, let alone the deception in which she’d now unwittingly embroiled the entire village.

They reached the crossroads where Rory would take the road back to his parents’ farm where Na Buachaillí Trá were meeting up for band practice.

ʻWill you be all right?ʼ asked Rory. ʻI mean with the phantom diary thief lurking around.ʼ

Phoebe smiled, ʻIf they strike again Iʼll call you.ʼ

ʻYou do that and Iʼll slip into my Batman costume and be with you in a flash.ʼ

ʻWith Ben as Robin?ʼ

ʻHeʼd look very fetching in a pair of tights!ʼ

Phoebe laughed and gave Rory a kiss goodbye before taking the road that led through town.

Sunday afternoon sleepiness pervaded the high street, even the pub was shut, though a plume of smoke that rose from behind it suggested that Fibber might be trying to clear the overgrown yard for the summer beer garden he seemed always to be talking about. Only the Art and Craft Centre had an open door. Phoebe stepped inside.

Sally O’Connell emerged from a display of Aran jumpers. She had them artfully cascading out of piles of wicker baskets and draped across a circular table. Beside the table, a dressmaker’s dummy was dressed in an Aran jumper, plus a matching waistcoat and a scarf. As Phoebe entered Sally was hanging a large St Brigid’s Cross pendant around the dummy’s headless neck.

‘It adds that certain
je ne sais quoi
to the
ensemble
, don’t you think?’ Sally turned to smile at Phoebe.

‘Um, yes. I’m sure the tourists will love it.’

Sally seemed happy with the response and stepped away from the display to admire it from a distance.

‘I take so much pride in my displays, Phoebe. To me they are like small works of art, sculpture – or installations, to coin a more contemporary phrase.’

‘Mmm,’ said Phoebe thinking about Tracey Emin and wondering if a few knitted expletives hanging over it would win the great mound of knitwear the Turner Prize.

‘It’s my one creative outlet,’ went on Sally. ‘I do so envy you artistic types. I’d love to have been blessed with a talent like your grandmother’s, and you yourself have been spotted several times with a sketchbook and a box of charcoal crayons.’

‘Have I?’

‘Why yes. Only the other day someone saw you on the cliff path drawing a sprig of candytuft, and that was a lovely little sketch you did of the view from the top of the lane down to the beach.’

Phoebe started to ask who could possibly have noticed her, as both times she was sure that she had been alone, but Sally interrupted.

‘I must say red suits you better than I ever would have thought.’ She touched the sleeve of Phoebe’s coat. ‘Did you have a nice walk with the schoolteacher up on the headland? You certainly had the weather with you. Aren’t we having a wonderful spring? Now, tell me, have you decided whether you need a seat on the coach to go to see the William Flynn exhibition next November?’

‘I’m sorry, I just can’t think that far ahead at the moment, but I do have a question to ask you. I wondered if you know anything about a painter called Michael who lived here in the 1940s. I’m sorry I don’t know his surname, but I know he was a schoolteacher in the village and he did a lot of oil paintings of the sea and beach.’

Sally started to arrange a display of books, fanning them out in a circle. She stopped. ‘The only painter I’ve ever heard of living here at that time was William Flynn himself. He worked at the school for a year or so before leaving Ireland for France.’

‘But you’ve never heard of a Michael?’

Sally shook her head slowly, her brows knitted in thought. ‘But now that I think about it, William Flynn always signed his name William M. Flynn.’

Phoebe could feel her heart beginning to quicken. ‘Could M have been for Michael? Is there any way I could find out?’