In the Shadow of the Trees (13 page)

‘What? Murder?’

‘There, you see. You put words to a thing and you make it real. I’ll grant you something odd is going on. But I don’t know what and neither do you. There could be all sorts of reasons.’

‘Like what for instance?’

‘Well I don’t know, something hereditary, a genetic defect.’

‘In that case it would have been the men who died. The women weren’t Sullivans till they married into the family. What’s your next brilliant theory?’

‘I don’t have one,’ he stumbled over his words, ‘but when I do it will be based on fact not female hysteria.’

‘God, you’re an arrogant bastard.’ And with that I stomped off towards the lake.

I wasn’t going to go back when he called after me. Only he didn’t. Nor would I give him the satisfaction of turning around to see if he was watching me. No option but to walk on, fists clenched so hard the nails dug into my palms. My breath was tight in my chest and I could feel the heat of blood pumping in
my neck and face. I wasn’t going to cry even though my eyes were stinging. It’s so unfair that anger always brings tears. It’s undermining and humiliating. Now I couldn’t look back. How could I with the face of an hysterical female? I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, the supercilious, chauvinistic…

I took my righteous indignation and stampeded it through the bush with the air boiling all around me and only the trees on which to vent my fury. My mouth was dry with resentment and too much wine on an empty stomach. The sun blasted my face till the tears dried to salt. The world around me hummed and swayed and I couldn’t feel the movement of my legs, only the blood pumping through my thighs and roaring in my ears. I squeezed my eyes to shut out the light and the sight of Liam’s back sweating in the sun as he swung the axe, as he hurled bitter words. I stumbled through the leaves and over serpent tree roots that coiled around my feet. Inside my body it was dark and hot and the anger was drowned in a calm sea like the birth of night. And, as if it were night, I rocked gently, rocked gently on the dark water…

…and I woke. Thrown forward, I was snapped into alertness. As my arms flew out to save me I caught the wooden branches in my hands. Fingers twined among the leaves and brushed the little birds and the insects, all carved in oak, so pretty, so delicate as they twined around the mirror. And there, in the mirror, it was me, my face dark and smeared with dirt and heat. As time had shifted, so the colours had changed. The sun had gone and nighttime creatures now hummed and croaked outside the window where the birds had been singing. But I was safe, unharmed. Only my leg felt strange: there was something on my thigh. Fingers traced the outline of sensation and my eyes followed. A long jagged scratch, deep enough to bleed. Enough blood to ooze down my calf and drip, slow drip after drip, onto the floor.

T
HE
next day it rained. The sky was a cloth of seamless grey, tacked from horizon to horizon. I did battle with the block of wood while the steel roof drummed above me. I was here to sculpt, not go running through the bush to pay house calls on some arrogant sheep-dipper. Nor would I concede when he came to apologise. Only he didn’t. The day was long and I sweated inside the plastic walls until skeins of sawdust clotted my skin. I expected any moment to see a khaki raincoat burst through the undergrowth and his muddy boots come clumping up the steps. But it never happened.

Had I overreacted the day before?

I would have found it impossible to fully justify my behaviour had someone been there to confront me. I’m not entirely sure I can explain it now. I dare say I could rationalise it as being the result of my intense involvement with my work. All that dredging about in the depths of my psyche, all that Jungian race memory stuff; not so much an act of creation as of retrieval. On top of that I was tired, stressed out and balancing on an emotional knife-edge. So I had taken it out on Liam.

Even then I wasn’t clear on what the argument had been about. Was he right? Was I jumping to conclusions, getting
caught up with something that was really none of my business? Ireland, all those women, centuries ago and half a world away. I had no personal involvement with them, so what was I getting so uptight about? In any case, it wasn’t as if it was becoming an obsession or anything. I was merely interested, that’s all. And what did I expect Liam to do? And why should it concern us anyway? So what if there were three graves up in the hills? So what if Anne Sullivan had bled to death and every time I moved the cut on my leg hurt like hell?

The early arrival of evening dimmed the corners of the studio and I was forced to stop. As I stood forever under a hot shower, my head felt light and separated and I remembered I hadn’t eaten all day.

By the time I’d towelled off, the rain had ceased so I ate supper next to an open window, lighting a dozen candles and burning scented oils. Incense floated away on the night air like an offering. I could hear fiddle music carried to me by the wind, an invitation I chose to ignore.

The next morning the sun had returned and so had my sense of humour. I’d spent the whole of the previous day sulking like a spoilt child and he probably hadn’t even noticed. Another day alone would achieve nothing, and anyway he was the nearest thing I had to a friend in this place, apart from Maggie. There would be a sort of triumph in making the first move. I would go over for morning coffee, just as if nothing had happened, as if it were the rain that had kept me away. But before I had a chance to act there was a tapping at the door. I knew it must be him, although at first I wasn’t so sure.

‘Bloody hell!’ I gasped. ‘What have you done to yourself?’

‘Well, I thought, as we were going out, I ought to have a bit of a trim-up.’

‘Who’s your stylist? Sweeney Todd?’

‘Sorry about that.’ He fingered the little patches of blood-soaked paper on his cheeks. ‘I’m a bit out of practice with a razor.’

‘You look…different.’

The frayed mass of tangles had been scooped back and tethered at the nape of his neck where it again exploded into a wiry brush. A severe line of dark hair now framed a high forehead. The wild facial matting was trimmed into a neat beard and moustache, revealing pale cheeks beneath the wide, grey eyes. His newly visible mouth was full and soft, tinged more with blue than red. I realised with a shock that he was much younger than I’d thought.

‘You haven’t forgotten, have you? The fair?’

‘No, no, of course not. I’ll only be a few minutes.’

Of course I’d forgotten, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I darted into the bedroom and grabbed a sweater, rolling it into a ball and cramming it into a small backpack that I found kicked under the bed. I nearly trod on my sunglasses and threw them in too. Where were the car keys? And why was I panicking? I stopped to catch a breath, the pulse kicking in my throat. It’s only a tatty craft expo, I told myself, hardly the social event of the year. But I fluffed up my hair and squirted scent on anything that showed.

‘There, I’m ready,’ gliding serenely across the kitchen. ‘How far is it?’

‘They’ve set up in a field just this side of town. About half an hour, but it’s a pleasant enough drive. I thought we could take Bramble. Badger’s comfortable enough and he could do with the rest.’

I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed driving that truck—a sort of empowerment, I suppose. There’s something quite sensual about strapping yourself into the seat and taking the controls of a big
machine, and I rode it like a stallion I’d personally broken in. Bramble was up on the seat behind us, pointing her nose out the window and flicking the back of my head with her tail. Liam also hung out of the window, crammed up against the door as if, in such a confined space, he needed to make a point. I glanced over at him a few times, becoming aware that he wasn’t bad-looking in a dark sort of way. He smiled back but said nothing. Yesterday sat between us like an unexploded bomb.

‘Have you thought any more about your friend’s letter?’ Well, someone had to say something.

‘Yes and no. I mean, I’ve thought about it, but come to no conclusions.’

‘Oh. So what do you think we should do next?’ I was being so cool about this. I hadn’t asked who his friend was or even why he’d deleted the emails. Dealing with this man was like walking on cracked ice.

‘We don’t
have
to do anything.’

I said nothing but looked straight ahead, kicking down on the accelerator, forcing the engine into a higher gear. There was a long silence in which I could feel him watch me grip the wheel.

‘All right then,’ he shifted in his seat, ‘we’ll see what else he comes up with from Limerick. Meanwhile, I could make some enquiries here. Find out more about the family history.’

‘How could we do that? Ask the locals, I suppose. People hereabouts must know the Sullivans.’

‘No, we’ve got to tread easy. If there’s something amiss we don’t want to go attracting attention. In any case, if it gets back to Sullivan that we’re checking up on him we’ll both be out on our ears.’

‘Well, what do you suggest?’ I asked.

‘There’s bound to be records, registrations of births and marriages.’

‘And deaths.’

‘Yes, and deaths. Then there’s the local land registry of course, council records.’

‘Won’t that attract attention?’

‘Not if I make up some story. Like, I had family in the area from way back. It would be natural for me to be tracing the name Connors among the early Irish settlers.’

‘And what about a local newspaper? They usually keep some sort of archive. We could see if they have any old photographs.’

‘I said “I”, not “we”. It would be better if you stayed out of it.’ I was about to argue when he turned and looked at me. His eyes were sharp and hard as flint and I decided to leave further discussion for another time.

We could see the parking paddock from the brow of the hill. There was no mistaking the lines of coloured cars all glinting in the sun like strings of bright jellybeans. The town was nearby and people had turned out by the hundreds. Through the trees to another paddock, and there were the travelling people. A circle within a circle of houses on wheels, everything from camper vans to swish designer mobile homes towed by four-wheel drives. Then there were the houses grafted onto lorries, wonderful wooden structures like gingerbread cottages with high gabled roofs and leadlight windows. There was even an authentic gypsy caravan with wooden shafts resting, empty, on the grass and a hooped cover perched on top of huge, bright yellow wheels.

In this week between Christmas and New Year people were still in a party mood. I’d slipped a leash on Bramble, not so much for control but to help her feel more secure. Not at all used to crowds, she stuck to us like Velcro, trying to walk between my legs so I was constantly tripping up. I knew how she felt though: I’d been a virtual hermit for weeks, going for days, sometimes,
without speaking to a soul. The sudden crowd burst upon my senses with all its noise and colour; children screeching and running past with streamers and paper windmills on sticks; young men colliding with each other, made clumsy by bravado and cans of beer. There were young couples, their arms twined around each other’s waists, wrapped in their own dialogue to which the day was only a backdrop. But I wasn’t alone and we both patted Bramble as an affirmation.

We drifted from stall to stall, each set out in front of the vendor’s home. There were racks of gaily coloured clothes that hung like flags at a medieval tournament, tables piled high with jewellery and joss sticks, coloured glass and crystals to catch the sun.

Liam knew all about everything and everyone and there was a lot of hand shaking and backslapping as he met up with old friends. I had to be introduced, of course, and my head was swimming with new faces. ‘This is my friend Regan,’ he would say and there was a kind of warmth in his voice when he spoke my name so that I didn’t feel like an outsider. They were an interesting assortment of people. Not real gypsies of course, but, as he had explained, people who were looking for a different way of living—ex-typists who now made hand-dipped candles, runaway bank managers stringing coloured beads into necklaces.

We made our way around the field eating junk food and drinking lemonade, meeting up with people and collecting all sorts of useless treasures. Liam insisted on buying me a leather hat, a belated Christmas present. He said it was a proper bush hat and that I shouldn’t go walking with my head uncovered. I conceded he was right and wanted to wear it straight away, but first he had to pick bits of candyfloss out of my hair while we stopped to watch some Morris dancers. Then we witnessed an escape artist emerge from a sack bound with chains. It was like watching a butterfly struggle free from its chrysalis, and when
he spread his arms to take a bow it was as if he were drying his wings in the sun.

We came upon a sad young man whose eyes were black bruises in a white face. He sat on the grass carving little wooden animals with hands that still trembled from whatever tragedy had led him here. Liam introduced him as Jethro, though I’m sure that wasn’t the name he’d started out with. I picked up a roughly carved snail. It was awful: the shell was painted a lurid green and its face was lopsided.

Liam said to Jethro, ‘Regan here, she does a bit of wood carving herself.’

‘That’s right,’ I said, reaching for my purse. ‘Oh, but not as nice as these.’

Jethro beamed as I handed over my five dollars. He wrapped the hideous thing in a sheet of tissue paper, making it precious, and I stowed it in my bag with great ceremony.

Liam shook his head as we walked on. ‘No, you’re nothing like I expected,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘When you first arrived and I realised who you were I had an image of how you’d be. But you’re not like that at all.’

We found Carl and Fleur’s wooden house parked under a tree. The man was sitting by a makeshift bench, twisting silver wire into bracelets. He stood up immediately, laid down his tools and ran forward to grab Liam in a bear hug.

‘Hey, Fleur,’ he shouted over his shoulder, ‘come see what the wind’s blown in!’

A woman emerged from the doorway and her face lit up with a smile that rivalled the morning. She jumped down the steep steps two at a time and ran across the grass to Liam, who caught her, swinging her around in his arms. She was short and fair like me, but that was all. Fleur was well named, a snowdrop in a field of wild gorse. Short curls of white blonde hair framed her face like petals opening around a smooth bud. Everything about
her was slender and fragile, her neck, her hands; she could not move without being graceful. Watching from the sidelines, at first I thought she was a young girl. Then Liam introduced her as Carl’s wife and I noted the finest tracing of lines at the corners of her eyes. Carl was tall and wiry. His head was a shiny dome but strings of grey and black hair draped his collar and hung from his top lip.

Fleur took my arm and led me behind the table that held their display of silverware. It was like crossing the border into another country, a land where the travelling people sat and watched the ordinary folk parade by in their holiday clothes. Extra chairs were found and Carl went indoors to make tea, returning with enamel mugs and a big teapot. Then questions were asked and answered, all the usual where have you been and what have you been up to sort of questions. And then who was I and what did I do and how long had I known Liam. Liam was surprisingly open, telling them all about the sheep station that wasn’t and how much work he didn’t do. Bramble sidled up to Carl, who sneaked her a biscuit when they thought no one was looking.

‘And are you still playing the fiddle, man?’ asked Carl. ‘Did he tell you he used to be a busker at the fairs? How long was it you were with us? It must have been six months. Best musician we’ve ever met on the road.’

‘So what made you stop?’ I asked Liam.

‘Oh, you know, winter coming on and all that. By the time spring came round I’d found a steady job.’

‘You’ll have lunch with us, won’t you?’ asked Fleur.

‘That would be just fine. And I wondered, Fleur, afterwards, if you wouldn’t mind…’

‘You want me to do a reading for Regan? And what does Regan think about that?’

I glanced at the board hanging next to the door of the van. ‘Psychic Consultant,’ it announced. ‘Readings by Tarot and Runes. $15.00.’

‘Yes, that’s me,’ she said, ‘but pay no mind to that, it’s just a quick fix for the punters. I can usually pick up something positive to say, but you can’t be of much help on a holiday outing. The last thing they want to hear is the truth. But if you want me to read for you I’ll do it properly. Though I should warn you, I’m not a fake.’

‘I think Fleur can help you, Regan,’ Liam broke in. ‘I think you should listen to her.’

‘Yes, but what does Regan think?’

‘Yes, I’m up for it. Why not?’ Although, from the way they were exchanging looks I wasn’t too sure any more.