An Irish Heart Page 17

  “You’ve been in a terrible mood today,” she said.

  “I know,” I said. “But I’m not anymore. And I’m sorry.”

  She accepted this offer, and did not contest it. She only said, with a frown and a glinting eye, “Grumpy and cross all day, and not a hug or a kiss to speak of! I might have started to think, you know, that you didn’t even like me anymore.”

  “Not true,” I said. “Never true.”

  “Fortunately for you, I believe that.”

  I lay looking at the blank canvas which was the wall, watching the black paint (which were the shadows that the moonlight made) twisting across it. The shapes were both intriguing and disturbing; my eyes remained fixed to their easy, fluid motion, following their path as a cat’s would follow that of a mouse. I laid my head down next to Thea’s, and pressed my cheek to hers.

  There was a knock at the door, and Mrs Warner’s voice announced from the hall, that it would be supper in ten minutes.

  “I suppose we should go and help,” said Thea, rising from the bed.

  “Sure,” I muttered, quite so softly that I did not think she would hear me. “Shouldn’t keep Kevin waiting, I suppose.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “What did you say that for?”

  “If you insist on knowing – well – well, he was fawning over you all morning! And you didn’t tell him to stop.”

  “He was not,” said Thea. “If he was, I would have.”

  “He was so.”

  “What does it matter, anyway?”

  “It doesn’t,” I muttered. “It doesn’t matter at all.”

  She dropped back down to the bed, and wrapped her arms tight around me. She kissed my cheek, pressed my hand, and said, “I love you, Katie.”

  Suddenly sorry for my fussing, I placed my lips beside her ear to whisper: “Love you more.”

  I could feel her smile.

  Chapter 17

  I sat alone on the front stoop some nights later, sipping at a mug of beer, and trying to see the stars through the thick clouds that hung overhead. I craned my neck till I thought I pulled a muscle; and so finally settled my gaze once again upon the filthy ruin that was Marcker Street. The opposite row of buildings leered menacingly in what seemed to be my direction. They reminded me of a painting I had once seen; no matter which way I moved, the eyes followed. I looked up and down the street, back and forth. The dirty wood and chipped bricks cried out for sympathy.

  The scene was so dark, close, and full – I could look nowhere and see only a patch of emptiness. Houses and flats, slums and abandoned buildings (at least which appeared so, but never were by night, when you could see lights burning in the top-floor windows), all in such proximity to one another. There was a great lack of tall-standing trees (or any trees at all, for that matter), and I experienced a moment of great longing for just a glimpse of the mighty silver-tree. Perhaps it was only the dankness of that part of the city which affected me – but its influence left me feeling quite unkindly towards all the cities of the world.

  Or anywhere, really, that wasn’t home.

  I shivered, lifting the collar of my coat against the bitter wind. I raised my eyes to the sky once again, disappointed when I realised that the stars were not going to unveil themselves to me. I fixed my gaze on the barrier of clouds, willing it to part; and because of my intense concentration, I jumped nearly out of my boots, when I heard a voice somewhere off to the right. I steadied my hand quickly, to keep the liquid in my mug from spilling.

  “Hello, then,” I heard someone say.

  I squinted into the darkness. “Who’s there?” I hissed. I feared, for a moment, a member of the Hounds – come with a switchblade, perhaps.

  “Tyler Ashley,” said a black-clad figure, stepping into the light that shone from a torch beside the door. He stood down on the walk, a few feet from the steps. “At your service.”

  His British accent took me completely by surprise, and inspired within me an immediate dislike. He took off his hat; which I suppose I should take a moment to mention, as it was quite a horrible little hat. It was a bright red bowler with a purple silk band wrapped around. It contrasted most unbecomingly with his black clothing.

  Anyhow, he took off his hat, and made me a bow, revealing shoulder-length curls which were – brown? Even in its dirtiness, his hair had the gleam of brilliant bronze – though, granted, bronze that needed a shine. His dark eyes peered out from a scruffy but handsome face, complete with a week-old beard of whiskers. He set a small suitcase down by his feet.

  He looked about, reaching into his pocket for a silver cigarette case. It was followed by a match. “Nice place you have here,” he said, his voice entirely unconvincing.

  I said nothing. I considered standing, and walking back into the house, without so much as a word to the curly-haired man.

  “Have you a name?” he asked, drawing a cigarette from the case. He held the case out to me, but when I made no move to take a cigarette, he slipped it back into his pocket. He struck the match.

  I stared at the tiny flame in his hands, watching as he lit the cigarette and puffed smoke into the blackness.

  “I suppose that’s rather sad,” he said after a moment.

  “What?” I asked.

  “That your mother gave you no name.”

  “Did it cross your mind, that perhaps I just don’t wish to give it?”

  He smirked. “Ah, I see. A classic case of Irish distaste. Is it my accent, I wonder? I suppose it must be.”

  I felt myself flush. “It may have something to do with the fact that I’ve no idea who you are.”

  “Well, that’s odd. I could have sworn I introduced myself.” He made me another bow (and I missed not a beat of his sarcasm). “I am Tyler Ashley,” he said, “world-traveller; and, as you so cleverly perceived, former resident of London.”

  “Why aren’t you still in London?”

  He shrugged. “Too noisy. Those bombs are enough deafen a fellow, you know.”

  He straightened up, and returned the cigarette to his mouth, still grinning.

  He irritated me.

  He removed his hat again to run a hand through his unkempt hair, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “Let’s play a game, shall we?”

  I frowned.

  “I’m going to try and guess your name,” he said. “All you have to do is tell me if I’m right.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Come now, be a sport. Let’s see . . . how about Mary? No? No. Susan, then?”

  He stood very still, stroking his beard as if in deep thought. “Hmmm. This is a tough one.”

  “You do this often, then?” I asked.

  He nodded. “It’s become a pastime of mine.”

  “How pathetic of you.”

  His grin widened. He moved a little nearer, and I noticed his eyes for the first time. I had seen that they were dark eyes, but now I saw that they were brown – brown, but not of the boring variety. They were brown that bordered on black, brown of the darkest shade there was. In the bright porch light, I saw the strands of colour that ran through them – strands of every colour you could imagine. I saw blue, green, yellow and red. I saw pink, violet, orange and white. I took them for the eyes of some otherworldly being, strange and somewhat disconcerting.

  “Give me a minute,” he said.

  “How do you know that you didn’t guess it already?”

  “Your expression.”

  He tapped his chin. “Molly? I knew a girl named Molly once. She looked quite different from you, though, I must admit. It can’t be right. Let’s try . . . Margaret.”

  I made a face.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  He looked at me for a moment. Then he threw his cigarette to the ground, and crushed it under his boot. He pulled out the silver case again. And – again – he offered it to me.

  I had never smoked a day in my life. I’ve no ide
a what came over me at that moment, to make me reach out, and take a cigarette from Tyler Ashley’s gleaming silver case.

  He struck another match to light the fags. I stared at it for a moment or two before raising it to my lips, curious at the smoke that rose from its tip, curling the paper. Once I had taken a puff of it, though, I began to cough horribly.

  Tyler chuckled. “I take it you’re not experienced with this sort of thing.”

  “Shove it up your arse,” I said, turning my head to cough again.

  “How ladylike.”

  I wiped my mouth, examining the small smoking stick of tobacco in my hand. “If that’s what you’re looking for,” I told him, “here’s not where you’ll find it.”

  Our eyes met, then. I didn’t know why I’d said that. I felt the blood creeping into my cheeks, as he watched me. I looked away, and reached for my mug.

  The door opened behind me. I turned my head and saw Donny. “Ella’s baked a cake –” he began, stopping short when he saw Tyler Ashley at the bottom of the stoop. “Who are you?”

  “Just a weary traveller,” Tyler answered, tossing his cigarette to the cracked flagstones at his feet. “I was only stopping for a few moments of company. I’ll be on my way.”

  “I’m not ordering you off the premises, if that’s what you think. So long as you’re an honourable fellow.” He spotted the fag in my hand. “What in the world is that? I’ve never seen you smoke.”

  I stood up quickly, flinging the cigarette away as if it had burned me. “It’s nothing,” I said. “I’ll be right in.”

  Donny nodded, smiled, and disappeared back into the house.

  “Your brother?” Tyler asked, hands in his pockets.

  “No.”

  “Your chap, then?”

  I shook my head.

  “All right, then. I suppose I should run and fetch the constable.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  His smirk returned, as he reached yet again for the silver case. “Well,” he said, “I suspect he’d be the one to notify – about the unidentified fellow inside your house.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be a prat.”

  “I’m only trying to help,” he said innocently.

  “You’re an annoying man,” I told him.

  “So I’ve heard. From a variety of reliable sources, mind.”

  “It’s strange you’d admit that,” I said, turning towards the door.

  “Hey, now, hold on a minute. I never got your name.”

  “You didn’t guess it.”

  “Oh, come on. After all of that work? Just reward my effort, why don’t you?”

  “I’m not one for giving things away.”

  He nodded. “Well, all right. How about this? If it hasn’t come to me, by the next time I decide to visit, you don’t have to tell me at all. But, if I have guessed it, you must live forever in utter awe of my rare and most valuable name-guessing abilities.”

  “You’re unbalanced.”

  “I’ve been told that, as well.”

  ***

  I came into the kitchen a minute later, and saw Mrs Warner, standing at the counter with a large cake before her. There was a stack of small plates beside it; she cut the cake into slices, sliding them onto the plates one by one.

  She looked round at the sound of my footsteps. “There you are, dear. What say you give me a hand transporting this cake?”

  Ten minutes later, I sat in the parlour with the others, watching as they talked, laughed, and ate. I myself was cake-less; and had opted for another beer, instead.

  “Are you sure you don’t want any?” Mrs Warner asked me.

  “Quite sure, thank you, Mrs Warner.”

  Thea was absent from the gathering. She had left in early afternoon with Kevin (at John’s insistence, and to my disdain). Her efforts thus far had failed to take effect with Mr McAlbee – and she was off, now, looking for some sort of ground-up orange powder in the shops.

  I kept to the parlour for a while longer, but finally went to the kitchen to rinse out my empty mug. I listened to the buzz of voices in the next room; till the low, droning sound began to make me drowsy.

  I made myself a cup of tea, retrieved my cloak from a chair at the table, and then made my way back out to the porch. I sat, this time, in a padded rocker by the door, not much caring anymore about which stars I did or didn’t see. I rocked slowly back and forth, sipping my tea, and staring straight out into the dark, empty street. The lamps were burning dimly, casting an eerie glow down onto the cobbles.

  I must have sat for over an hour, going twice back into the house to refill my teacup. I was waiting for Thea.

  I listened as thunder rumbled in the distance, shaking the sky with its ire. I anticipated lightning, but it did not come. I held tightly to my teacup, willing the noise to pass.

  I endured the storm for fifteen minutes more, before Thea came. She plodded tiredly up the steps, hefting a small sack in her hands. Kevin trailed behind her.

  “How was your trip?” I asked.

  “Rather lucky, I’d say,” said Kevin, “seeing as we just missed the rain.”

  “Lucky for us,” said Thea. “But not so lucky for Mr McAlbee.”

  “You didn’t find what you were looking for?”

  She shook her head.

  I looked at the sack in her hands. “Then what’s in there?”

  She sighed. “Only some things that I thought worth a try.” She looked to Kevin, and held the bag out to him. “Would you bring this into the kitchen for me?”

  He nodded, taking the bag in his hands. “Can I get you anything inside?” he asked.

  She shook her head, and he flashed her what I thought was a very mischievous grin. But she did not seem to notice.

  She came to stand beside me. I looked up at her, trying to smile through the not-so-insignificant feeling of jealousy that was settling itself into my chest.

  Who did that Kevin Warner think he was?

  “How was your day?” she asked.

  “Fine.”

  “I’m glad,” she said, stepping forward to get a better look at the sky. She was quiet for a minute. “It’s a wild thing, isn’t it?” she asked finally.

  I stared for a moment, my eyes fixed on the back of her golden head. She had moved to stand on the steps, and moonlight fell down from the sky, illumining her hair like an ethereal halo.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “The sky,” she said simply.

  “What’s so wild about it?”

  “Everything. Just think about it –” She pointed to a flash of lightning up above us. “That lightning could hit the house right now, and we would be dead.”

  “I – why would you say that?”

  She looked back over her shoulder, and smiled uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. It’s just the storm, I think. It makes me a little strange.”

  “It rains all the time. You’ve never talked about dying before.”

  Not a moment after the words had left my mouth, the rain began to pour. It came down in sheets, falling slantwise with the wind and blurring my view of the street. Thea laughed, and ran out into the yard.

  “Come out of the rain!” I called.

  “No! You come in!”

  I moved to the top of the steps, squinting into the downpour. “You’re an absolute nutter, do you know that?”

  She laughed wildly, spinning round and round in full circles, arms wide open. “What’s the matter, Katie? Are you afraid you’ll drown?” She stood still, then, smiling at me through the rain. “And I’m the one who doesn’t know how to swim!”

  I hesitated a moment; but she ran to meet me, grabbed my hands, and immediately resuming her twirl around the yard.

  “We’ll catch the worst colds of our lives,” I said.

  “Oh, Katie, you should know better than that by now. Rain doesn’t make you sick; germs do.”

  I tilted my head back, letting the water spill onto my face. It was so cold, and so hard, t
hat I felt as if it were washing away all of the unwholesome feelings which Kevin Warner inspired in me. I shook my head all about, clearing every last one of them from the cobwebs of my brain, in which they had stuck and begun to rankle.

  “Do you know,” said Thea, putting a hand to the side of my face, “how very beautiful you look, in the pouring rain?”

  “Really?” I said. “And what about when it’s not raining?”

  Her fingers lingered round my left ear. “Same.”

  We went to sit on the steps, where the awning protruding from the roof created a dry, safe space. (Though, with the water that dripped already from my wet hair, and down onto my face and neck, taking that particular measure did seem a little unnecessary.)

  Darkness reigned out in the yard; for most of the dwellings around us had no porch-lamps. John had said, already, that the Warners’ lamp was only a warning to the Hounds; and that all the others on the street bothered not with such things, for they would have had no effect anyway. Nearly all those residents of Marcker Street were so entangled with the doings and wanderings of that little pack of criminals, something so trivial as a porch light would have done very little in the process of severing the ties which had already been formed.

  It was when the conversation was hanging around this note, that one day Kerry Warner shared with me the story of the man who was the father of her children. (Dawber was his name.)

  Apparently, he had been one of those fellows who became just a little more friendly with the Hounds than most people thought wise. Oh, sure – others would accept the stolen food and goods which the young ruffians offered; but only, they said, because they simply could not afford to pay what they were really worth.

  But, anyway, it seemed that Mr Dawber, in those months that preceded his death (which just goes to show you the full benefits of running with a crowd like that), grew thick as thieves with those adolescent devils.

  Pardon the pun, of course.

  Even in his younger days, during the time when he had chased Kerry all about, with intentions quite as honourable as a fellow of his nature could possess (much to the displeasure and frustration of poor Mrs Warner), he had apparently been something of a troublemaker. Innocently enough, of course – until he met the Hounds.