The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (15 page)

He let go of her jacket abruptly, dropping her like a stone
to the ground.

“Ouch!” She landed unceremoniously on her arse.

“Are you a complete moron? We could all have been killed,”
he barked, “this is the west of Ireland, not West Hampstead, for goodness sake.
For someone supposed to be vaguely intelligent, what on earth are you doing out
climbing cliffs on a day like this?”

And with that he strode off towards the car, leaving her
there in the rain. She struggled to her feet and, lifting Monty, tucked him
safely inside her jacket, then pulling a sour face at Ryan’s back, followed and
climbed into the vehicle. She felt relieved and pissed off at the same time.
She should be grateful. She was grateful but he was still an arrogant tosser.
She could not believe she had wanted to kiss him, surely it was just the
emotion of the moment? She certainly did not fancy him, not one bit. Then she felt
guilty, he had taken a huge risk and she had put them all in a very dangerous
situation. Ryan O’Gorman, her saviour yet again.  She contritely considered his
heroism as they rattled down the road towards the village.

“I really am very grateful,” she said in a small voice.

“And I really am very wet and very cold, so you two must be
nearing hyperthermia. You stupid woman, what possessed you?” He poked his words
at her, snarling as he crashed through the gears. He was probably the rudest
and the bravest man she had ever met.

Arsehole, she thought, staring blankly at the windscreen.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.

When they reached Weathervane Cottage he surprised her by
gallantly jumping out of the car to run round and open the door for her. Tucking
a shivering Monty even further beneath her jacket, she found her voice.

“I really don’t know how to thank you.”

“You can buy me a pint later.” He nodded towards Maguire’s.

“I’d be glad to.” She said, quietly.

“Sure you’re both okay?” He seemed kinder now. She nodded
and he was gone.

She flung herself through the door. Putting Monty down, she
ran, still trembling, to the bathroom to draw a bath, as her heart rate
gradually returned to normal. Both bathed and dry, she heated soup and, dunking
brown bread in the creamy vegetables, fed it slowly to Monty. He licked it
elegantly off his whiskers, his gentility making her smile. She scratched the
space between his ears with shredded fingernails and when he had finished
eating, bundled him in her arms, taking him upstairs, breathing in his clean,
freshly-washed smell.

“I very nearly lost you today, you monster. What would I
have done then?” She held him at arm’s length, laughing at the little white
ball, soft, bright eyes and huge pointed ears. He turned his head endearingly,
giving her his quizzical, ‘what’s up?’ look.

“You little scrap.” She smiled. “You lovely little scrap.”

She wrapped him in her arms, rocking him gently and, without
noticing, she started to sob softly. As she wept, her sobs grew louder and
longer, coming from somewhere buried deep inside, her weeping became a mournful
howl, the desolate wail of bereavement she had never allowed herself to
release. The cottage filled with the hollow sound of loss. Weeping and rocking,
rocking and weeping, gradually her mourning grew quieter, the rocking stopped,
until her sobbing subsided and the bleak tears had dried on her skin. Monty did
not stir from her arms throughout. At last she slept, another dark and
dreamless sleep in the big warm bed and when she woke, a couple of hours later,
everything had changed. She felt calm, still and a deeper, stronger feeling
that whatever the danger had been, it had passed, and a lot more besides.

The heat of bodies and smell of burning
peat greeted her as she pushed through the door of the Lounge Bar of Maguire’s.
The aroma of alcohol combined with the faint whiff of excitement blended
pleasantly in welcome. Oonagh spotted her first. She beckoned, chubby arms
jangling with bangles, smiling through tangerine lips, painted to match her
satin blouse.

“What can I get you?” she called across the crowded bar.

“A whiskey and red, please.” Marianne had enjoyed whiskey
and that unique Irish concoction called Red Lemonade since her student days.
She loved this uniquely Irish tipple, although she also included a cube of ice,
much to her Aunt Peggy’s dismay.

“Sure you’re watering it, girl. It’ll have been watered
enough already in dis establishment,” Aunt Peggy would comment loudly, no
matter which establishment they happened to be in.

“And mine’s a pint.” He had slipped in unnoticed.

“Good evening Mr O’Gorman, still a filthy night out there,
but you’re looking well enough,” fluttered Oonagh. He wore faded denim and
leather, quite well, Marianne begrudgingly thought. She was in green moleskins
and an Aran sweater, in honour of the occasion, a green silk scarf at her
throat and emerald studs in her ears; a gift from George.

“That’s definitely on me.” She smiled at him, a warm,
genuine smile. He very nearly smiled back. “He rescued my dog this morning.”

“Ah, sure we know all about it,” laughed Padar, coming to
help Oonagh pull pints, standing them in an enticing row to settle. “You were
out alone on Croghan with the storm raging, it can be very dangerous there,
even in the sum-ugh.” Oonagh had given him a good puck in the ribs but Padar
would not be quietened, “Sean told us, he saw it all. He was up on the hill
watching.”

“Shame he didn’t move his arse and come down and help,”
snapped Oonagh. “Two packets of crisps, was it?” She cooed at another customer,
passing Ryan his pint, as Marianne handed over the euro.

“Slainté,” she said.

“Cheers.” He returned, nodding to a faraway corner. She
followed. Oonagh raised an eyebrow at her. Marianne pretended not to notice.

The band was tuning up, an electric fiddle, guitar,
accordion and drum kit were cluttered together on the makeshift stage. The bass
drum bore the legend, The Finnigan Twins, though it was hard to see any family
resemblance between the gathered ensemble. There was the obligatory ruddy,
redhead with beard and beer belly; a reed-thin middle-aged man, wearing a pony
tail and a bit of a hump, and a young, elfin-faced boy, beneath a flurry of
blue-black curls who reminded Marianne of a long ago pop star, Stevie Saffron.
Momentarily lost in thought, she remembered when, as a young girl, she had seen
a recording of the pop idol on
Top of the Pops
, and as she watched him,
feeling for the very first time, the deep, fluttering stirring of teenage lust;
the seeping dawn of sexual desire. Delicious.

“That young boy reminds me of Stevie Saffron,” Ryan broke
into her reverie, nodding at the gaggle of musicians.

“I was thinking just the same.”

“Really? You must have been no more than a baby when he was
around. I met him once when we were in the band, charming, handsome and a
wicked sense of humour.”

Marianne smiled. “I’m envious. The older girls at the
convent loved his music. He was my first proper crush. I really fancied him.”

“Everyone did.” He laughed, eyes twinkling, and watching him
as he bent to lift his pint, eyelashes so long they shone, Marianne felt again,
that long hidden stirring deep inside and gave herself a little inward shake.
Enough of that, thank you. She took a sip of her drink and looked back at the
members of the band tuning instruments, putting microphones on stands.

The boy was smiling a half-grin at a girl, about his age but
taller and fairer. She wore a purple smock over stonewashed jeans; the smock
was worn where her bony elbows threatened to break free. Her hair was roped in
a plait to the side and threaded with purple ribbon, highlighting the violet of
her eyes and the veins in her translucent skin. They were both beautiful and
clearly in love. Marianne was not sure whether it was the whiskey or the young
couple giving her a warm glow.

“Who are the twins, I wonder?” Ryan asked, as he sipped his
pint.

A woman with a perm and a low-cut t-shirt squashed up beside
them on the bench.

“Sure, don’t you know the Finnigan Twins?” She oiked a finger
at the two men. “Sure everyone knows the Finnigans. You’re in for a real treat
if you’ve never heard them before.”

“Did you never hear of the Finnigans?” a round-faced man
chipped in, squeezing in beside her, pint in each hand. “Where’ve you been? You’ve
never heard of them!” he exclaimed. Ryan blinked. They had both looked straight
into his face and neither gave the remotest sign they had any idea who he was,
or had ever seen him before in their lives. Ryan looked at Marianne, he seemed
surprised not to be recognised. She could not tell whether this pleased him or
not.

“I work abroad a lot,” he said, hopefully. They looked back
blankly.

Marianne smiled. “Oh, the Finnigans, those Finnigans, sure
they’re great altogether.” She laughed, loading the accent and pulling a face
at Ryan.

The place fell hush, the first strains of an air started up
as the snare beat them in, the accordion and guitar followed and then the boy
on the fiddle. The jig started softly, easily and flowed over them with a
light, dancing beat. Fingers tapped glasses, toes tipped off the floor and
heads nodded in time with the lift and fall of the tune, light and lovely, like
a sunlit meadow of wild flowers. The band was tight, they finished as one, and
as one, the packed pub erupted, roaring and clapping and calling for more.

“Told you they were good,” teased Marianne.

“Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Ryan acknowledged, “I
was only having the one, but looks like I’m here for the night. Want another
one?” 

She hesitated. He sat down abruptly.

 “I’m sorry, where are my manners?” he said. “I’d be
delighted if you’d join me for a drink and we could listen to some more of this
fantastic music together.”

She flushed, and drained her glass.

“Why not?” She smiled and this time he smiled back and the
smile reached his eyes.

The Finnigan Twins, a mismatched bunch comprising unlikely
looking twin brothers in their forties, various cousins and friends, and the
handsome young couple, were the purveyors of the type of magical gatherings the
west of Ireland could still produce at the drop of a hat. Each musician
selected pieces highlighting their talent, and the one featuring the boys’
feisty interpretation of
Whiskey in the Jar
had the place rocking. The
girls’ haunting vocal of
Ride On
made the hairs stand up on the back of
Marianne’s neck, and the audience was so still, only the groaning of the gale,
building to a crescendo outside, could be heard along with the youngster’s
spellbinding voice.

The rafters rattled with applause again as, without signal,
tables and chairs were pulled from the room, so those who had been jigging in
corners and generally straining at the leash, could get up and let rip in
whatever style they fancied, for however long the band had the wherewithal to
play.

Padar and Oonagh kept the drink flowing and then with the
help of Kathleen MacReady, the postmistress and one of Padar’s many relatives,
they passed around plates of ham and chicken sandwiches, piled high with
delicious sticky-skinned sausages.

In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the Finnigan Twins
announced the next number had to be the last, nothing to do with licensing
laws, Sergeant Brody and Garda O’Riordan were in the audience, but they had
played for nearly four hours and there was a hell of a storm kicking up its
heels outside. The whole place rose to its feet for
Brown Eyed Girl
and
because it would have been churlish not to, they rolled it into
Dark Side of
the Street
for the grand finale.

Marianne found herself dancing with Padar, then Garda
O’Riordan, who politely introduced himself over the music and enquired if she
was enjoying her holiday, and eventually with Ryan, who had been swirled away
by Oonagh and a variety of Innishmahon’s womenfolk. Ryan danced in a very
un-thespian-like manner, he looked more like a scarecrow than an actor, holding
his arms out so that they hung and swung at the elbows, nodding his head in
time with the music, placing his feet oddly around himself and his partner, in
a quirkish clodhopper style. Marianne swished around him, lifting her arms and
waving her fingers in a fashion she considered, being at this stage rather
intoxicated, engagingly exotic.

“Hah, hah,” he guffawed overacting dreadfully, throwing his
head back and catching her by the arm, twirling her into his side. “You’re
trying to seduce me with your womanly wiles, I surmise.” He used a
mock-dastardly voice, pretending to twist the end of a moustache with his
fingers.

“Unhand me, sir. I do declare, I mean no such thing,” she
flipped back at him in her best Southern-belle drawl and, unfolding herself,
nearly fell across a stranded chair. He leaned quickly forward and put his arm
around her waist as she stumbled.

“Then let me save you from yourself, Ma’am,” he countered,
melodramatically.

“You’re always saving me.” She leaned back as he held her
tightly. It was the first time they had looked at each other directly since
they had met on that fateful night in London. It was like an electric shock,
the tip of her nose started to tingle, she could not tear her eyes away from
his. The music stopped and they straightened up, breaking away from each other
quickly, not easy, as they were both a little drunk.

“Can I walk you home?” His voice returned to normal.

“All that way? How kind.”

The gale nearly blew them both back into the pub as they
battled against the wind to the cottage door. Monty pricked his ears; he had
been waiting for her return.

“Now, don’t ask me in for coffee. I have far too much work
to do tomorrow.”