In the Shadow of the Trees (25 page)

‘My name is…It’s difficult to pronounce. It would be easier if you called me Iolair. That’s what she called me.’

‘Iolair? That’s easier, is it? What sort of name is that?’

‘It’s Celtic, like your own Cliohna, from the Gaelic. I know you prefer Chloe, but didn’t Miriam sometimes call you Little Wren?’

This was too much, too intimate, this closeness from a total stranger. Who was he to know my name? What else did he know about me? I felt exposed, undefended, a small animal trapped by the intensity of those golden brown eyes. As if he sensed my unease he straightened, pushing backwards in his chair to break the spell.

‘I’ll have some coffee. Dark and sweet and very strong. That’s what’s needed at moments like this.’ He smiled at me, and before I could help it I had smiled back. He raised a long, slender hand in the slightest of gestures and a waiter, busy at a far table, his back towards us, turned from his task and walked over to our corner. At the time my thoughts were too jumbled to register the significance of this. Nor was I concerned when, having brought a second cup to place next to mine, the waiter failed to place with it the slip of paper for the till. It’s only now, knowing what I know, that all the tiny shards of abnormality begin to fall into place.

‘You managed to get some sleep.’ Again it was a statement.

‘Yes, a little.’

I had slept, but fitfully. Paul had pressed some tablets into my hand, insisting that I go home and try to get some rest. I had drifted in and out of dreams filled with images of my grandmother weaving her magical stories, and Hannah, tight-faced and weeping. And there was a bird, a large, brown bird with a vicious beak and talons and the saddest of sad eyes. Its outstretched wings beat against the rushing of wind. Images of Miriam were pierced by its sharp eyes and its strange cry, a scream of pain and despair so real that it woke me several times.

‘I didn’t think I would sleep,’ I said, ‘but I managed to catch a few hours. I woke early. There seems to be so much to do and I don’t really know where to start. It’s all very confusing. I’ve just come from the undertakers. What an odd word that is. When I was little I thought they were the people who took you under when you died. You know, under the ground. I’m still not sure why they’re called that.’ Oh, God, I thought, why am I blathering on like this? I sound like an idiot.

The doors continued to open and close. The room was made hot and humid by the polished chrome machines constantly exhaling gasps of aromatic steam. Iolair sipped his coffee, watching me, unblinking, unerring, forcing me to prattle on.

‘The man there was very solemn and respectful. He talked in whispers, and minced around me as if I were an invalid. He reminded me of an old-fashioned butler, the sort you see in a Noel Coward play. He kept asking me all sorts of questions about what sort of funeral it was to be, where it would be held, and how many cars did I want. And I kept saying that I didn’t know. At one point I said that I’d have to ask Miriam. I felt so stupid. He kept referring to her as “the deceased” and talking about “the arrangements”. I wanted to shout at him, tell him that her name is Miriam and that she’s dead and I just have to bury her. He was a kind man and he was only trying to be helpful, and I felt like punching him in the face.’

‘There will be a lot of that, I’m afraid—people using the correct words, making the proper gestures. It’s all part of the ritual, the process of grieving. You will have to make allowances.’

I picked up the spoon and stirred my unwanted coffee while he took a sip of his, then another, his eyes closing and the tip of his tongue circling his lips.

‘You know, this is an excellent blend. Strong on flavour but gentle on the palate. A slightly nutty taste. It’s got quite a zing to it. You should drink yours—it will kick some life back into you.’

‘I gather you’re not one of those people, are you?’

‘One of who? Or is it whom? I’m never quite sure.’

‘People who go through the ritual, say all the correct words. Try to give comfort.’

‘Would you like me to? I’m willing to give it a try, although I’ve not had much practice.’

‘No, I couldn’t bear that.’

For something to do, I picked up my cup and took a few sips. He was right: the coffee was good. Then I felt guilty about enjoying it.

‘You know, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be feeling.’ The line of his eyebrows flicked up in question at my words. ‘I mean, I’m all hollow and empty. Waiting for it to start hurting. They say that at first you forget that it’s happened, especially first thing in the morning. I had a friend lost her boyfriend in a car accident. She’d wake up looking forward to meeting John for lunch, or thinking she’d get him to look at a faulty plug on her kettle. Silly things like that. Then she would remember that he was dead and it would all come flooding in again. It was like she lost him over and over again each day. I wonder how long it will be before I understand that Miriam has gone.’

‘She loved you very much, you know. In a way she could not love Hannah.’

‘How would you know? Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to be…But you’re right. I think it’s because I can enter her world, you know, the stuff she writes, the stories and folk tales. Hannah always hated all that. Besides they’ve hardly spoken for years.’

‘That made things difficult for you.’

‘Well, it’s not easy. It’s like I’m trying to be two different people. There, see. I’m doing it already. Talking as if Miriam were still here. I’ll have to get used to saying
was.
It
was
difficult. She
did
love me.’

The stranger said nothing. He leaned across the table and covered my hand with his. A sudden rush of salt-hot tears gushed down my face. I rummaged in my pocket for some tissues, trying to disown the helpless sobs and gulps that shook my body. A few people fidgeted, embarrassed, and politely turned away. It was easier to study the pattern of fine blue veins that traced his wrist bone and the delicate curve of the thumb. He waited, still and silent, until the storm had subsided. I began to apologise and search for more tissues.

It was as I bent down to retrieve my bag that my jacket fell open and the pendant swung forward, clinking against the rim of my cup. Iolair jolted violently, as if a surge of energy had coursed through him. He stared at the silver ornament and for a moment stopped breathing, his body held rigid.

‘It suits you well, the talisman.’

‘Talisman? Is that what it is? I’m not sure what that means. It was Miriam’s.’

‘Yes, I know. She always wore it. And now you seem to be in possession of it.’ His fingers gripped the rim of the marble table. ‘An intriguing design. Celtic obviously. Do you know anything about it?’

‘No, only that she wore it constantly. She gave it to me last night.’

‘Did she, indeed?’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘Did she?’ His arm reached out. ‘May I?’ Slim fingertips took hold of the silver shape, tracing the interwoven lines and knots of the pattern. His hands were shaking. How pale they were, almost silvery blue, long and tapered with a delicate webbing of skin between each finger. ‘I would like to see it more closely. Would you mind just slipping it off for a moment?’

It was a reasonable request, a harmless curiosity, and I responded accordingly. Or was it the habit of obedience? ‘Do as you’re told, there’s a good girl.’ I took the chain in both hands, about to lift it over my head. Then something held me back, something Miriam had said as she gave it to me. I thought at the time she must be delirious and I should humour her, but I had given my word. It was a promise, the last one I ever made her. I hesitated, then let go of the chain, allowing it to fall back into place.

‘No. No, I’m sorry, but I’d rather not if you don’t mind. It’s very special. I don’t want to take it off, well not yet anyway.’

He sighed heavily. ‘Of course not. How insensitive. I should never have asked, I apologise. I know how very precious it must be to you.’

‘She told me never to part with it. As you say, she always wore it. Perhaps I will too.’

‘Perhaps.’ He looked suddenly weary and defeated, slumping back into the chair, his head thrown back.

I thought of the bird I had seen in my dreams, its cry of despair. I watched the angular line of his throat rise and fall as he struggled to hold down his own distress. Why should Miriam have meant so much to him? We had become very close, my grandmother and I, over the last few years. It was strange that she had not spoken to me of this man.

He looked at me again and his expression softened into a gentle smile. ‘I have intruded upon you long enough.’ His departure was as abrupt as his arrival, and for a moment I almost asked him to stay. But then didn’t. ‘We shall meet again soon, Little Wren.’ He stood and turned from his chair, and his long black coat swirled around him like a cloak. At the door he turned and looked back to me. ‘Try talking to Greg son. I’m sure he can help.’ Then he was gone.

The caf subsided back into normality, and all the mundane noises of dampened conversation and clinking china sank in to fill the spaces where he had been. The only evidence of his presence was a half-finished cup of coffee.

After a few moments, I began to wonder if he had ever been there at all.

When 18-year-old Kitty Carlisle’s father dies in 1838, her mother is left with little more than the possibility of her beautiful daughter making a good marriage. But when Kitty is compromised by an unscrupulous adventurer, her reputation is destroyed. In disgrace, she is banished to the colonies with her dour missionary uncle and his long-suffering wife.

In the untamed Bay of Islands, missionaries struggle to establish Victorian England across the harbour from the infamous whaling port of Kororareka, Hell-Hole of the Pacific. There Kitty falls in love with Rian Farrell, an aloof and irreverent sea captain, but discovers he has secrets of his own. When shocking events force her to flee the Bay of Islands, she takes refuge in Sydney, but her independent heart leads her into a web of illicit sexual liaison, betrayal and death.

Deborah Challinor is a writer and historian living in the Waikato. Author of the bestselling Children of War historical romance series:
Tamar, White Feathers
and
Blue Smoke,
her most recent novel,
Union Belle,
was an instant bestseller.

When the first effects of the 1951 waterfront workers’ strike ripple through the country, Ellen McCabe—wife, mother, union supporter—is happy with her life in Pukemiro, a small Waikato coal-mining town. Even when her husband’s union lays down tools in support and the strain of making ends meet begins to wear her down, she’s ready to play her part in the lean months ahead.

But when Jack Vaughan comes to town, something inside her shifts. Jack is handsome, a charismatic war veteran—and a friend of her husband’s. Suddenly everything changes, with irrevocable consequences, as the turmoil and divided loyalties swirling through the town threaten to tear Ellen apart.

Union Belle
is a story of love, duty and passion played out against the backdrop of the infamous strike that turned friends into enemies, shattered communities and almost brought New Zealand to its knees.