by Paula Clamp
"Crikey, Conor, you’re quite a collector." Ellie ran her eye over the incongruous antique collection.
Above the fireplace, was a picture frame covered in the same kind of tatty, old bed-sheet as the ones on the hall walls.
"Conor, may I have a look."
"Sure."
Ellie slid the old sheet off the gilded frame, revealing first of all a mop of light-brown curls, then chocolate-brown eyes and a half-hearted attempt at a smile. The portrait of the man, in and around his thirties, was instantly familiar to Ellie. Standing beside a log-fire, the figure had broad shoulders and a wide jaw. His dark colouring was the same as Conor's, but it wasn't Conor that she saw in the man's face. He reminded her of someone else, but she couldn't quite place him.
"Who is he?" Ellie asked admiringly.
"My Da, Bernard. This used to be his room."
Ellie needed a moment to gather her thoughts and to rest. After the long journey to get to Northern Ireland, her fatigue had come in waves throughout the day. In the room there was a high, four-poster bed, draped in a heavy quilted bed-spread, with a matching pleated canopy above. As she sat down on the soft mattress, Ellie’s floral cotton dress yet again clashed with everything around her. She would never have asked Conor, but as she sat there, Elle couldn’t help but wonder what mischief the rogue, Bernard Sullivan, got up to in this bed.
Conor surprised Ellie by then sitting down beside her; she was unsure if he was going to be in his jokey, good-for-a-laugh mood, or his subdued, evasive one. There were so many things she wanted to know about the Sullivans, but she knew one false step and Conor would retreat away from her. Ellie had to tread so carefully.
"What happened to your father?" Ellie immediately wished she could take the words away, "I'm sorry, Conor. I didn't mean to sound so nosey." She meant it.
Conor gave his best, warmest smile - a bright light in the gloom of the room.
"It's alright. He died when I was a toddler. I was too young to remember anything about him. I’ve never known the details of his death and I don’t want to know. I’ve learnt not to ask too many questions.” Conor paused and flicked a piece of fluff from his trouser leg, leaving behind hundreds of others, “Luckily, my Da appears to be the kind of fella no one likes to talk about – especially my Ma. She’s originally from Dublin and they were in their late thirties when they married. To be honest, I think he only married her for her money and...”
"And?" Ellie pressed forward, gently.
"And you're lying on my bed."
"This is your room too?"
Conor looked across at her, his wide chocolate-brown eyes brimming with playfulness. Whereas Ronan made her feel vulnerable, Conor had a way to make her feel at ease.
"Ellie, I wish you..." Conor leant forward and stared straight into her eyes.
Ellie prayed that this time Conor had finally stopped playing games with her, but she couldn’t afford to let her guard down. She waited a moment for him to continue with what he was about to say, but he didn’t. Ellie was fearful that she was about to be the butt of yet another joke, so she got up from the bed. Embarrassed to look back, Ellie went over to the window.
The south-facing room looked out across the neglected, once formal gardens. The late-evening sun had lost all of its intensity and now only simmered, rather than scorched the overgrown lawn and box-hedgerows. Back home, Ellie’s once beautiful garden had turned into a fractured, tarmac backyard, with chipped, concrete slabs to the front. The neglect wasn't as grand, but the abandonment was just the same. Beyond the garden, Ellie could see fields dipping into soft hollows. Out of one came the rich, lush branches of a tree that she instantly recognised. From out of his window, Bernard Sullivan would have had the most perfect vista of the majestic oak. Moreover, Ellie suddenly realised, without anybody really knowing, he also had his own secluded view of everyone who secretly visited the Liberty Tree.
Chapter 24
After an awkward farewell between Ellie and Conor, where they had self-consciously shaken hands, as if pretending to be grown-ups, Ellie returned to the Airbnb shortly after nine-thirty in the evening. Soupy’s brother, Cormac, was sat on the front step, alone, as if he was waiting for someone. When he saw Ellie, it was clear from his eager face that that someone was her.
"Ellie, at last. I’ve been waiting here to speak to you alone. My brother has told me about why you are here, in Lusty, and I understand how difficult it must be for you. I’m going to tell you something now - something you must keep to yourself.”
Ellie was completely taken off-guard. Finally, someone who was willing to talk to her.
“Please, anything.”
“Ellie, Your mother other did live in Lusty – for a short while.”
Ellie’s heart skipped a beat, “Really?”
Cormac checked over his shoulder, ensuring they were out of ear-shot, “Look, nobody knew where she’d come from – she very much kept to herself. The gossip mongers worked over-time guessing your mother was in hiding – maybe, from an abusive husband. Little did they know. Niamh Byrne made a big impression in every sense. There wasn’t a man in Lusty who did not become fascinated by her – myself included.” Cormac’s voice had reduced to a whisper, “She was so unusual – exotic almost. Bernard Sullivan was the most smitten, probably, because she was the first woman he’d ever met that turned him down - even after he gave her a job and accommodation here in the big house. The more she rebuked him, the more he tried to prove himself – including chasing after every other young woman in the village. He had some perverse point to prove - endorse his virility somehow. He wasn’t a nice fella. So, this may not answer too many of your questions – but I wanted you to at least know that your mother wasn’t actually from Lusty - and she didn’t stay long.”
Ellie was shell-shocked. So much information and none of it what was she was expecting.
“Thank you. Thank you so much. But I don’t understand why those here in Lusty, who would have been around at that time, why would they deny ever knowing my mother?”
Cormac stood up and opened the front door, for Ellie to enter, “Ellie, take the advice of a man who’s getting on a bit, forget about the past and move on with the future. I so envy you your youth – don’t waste it away on what is ancient history.”
Back in her room, Ellie had less than half-an-hour before she was expected to join Ronan and each second weighed her down like a wet sweater hanging on a clothesline. The drip-drip, tick-ticking in her head grew louder. At least one piece of the puzzle was solved – her mother had been in Lusty. But where she had come from and why she left, was still a mystery. Her mother had made an impression that much was clear and this was what Ellie needed to explore further. The letters in the tin were beckoning her, but Ellie didn’t feel brave enough to re-enter the lives of Roisin and Ciaran. Ellie had begun to make comparisons between the letter writers and her parents, but she desperately hoped that, unlike her own parents, the letter writers would find happiness and a future together.
Ellie was also starting to feel nervous about meeting Ronan and she was just as anxious about how she’d just left things with Conor. Ellie couldn't stay in her room with nothing to do, even for a short while. With her Afghan coat tied around her waist, Ellie ran back over to the Sullivan house; not really understanding what she was doing, other than she had unfinished business.
Chapter 25
The sound of her boots, thumping down the road, appeared not to belong to Ellie; a split-second, sound delay gave the impression that she was being chased. As she turned off the road and onto the field, just ahead of her she could see what appeared to be white petals floating down from the branches of a tree. The air was so still, the tiny boats swayed rhythmically from side to side. Now that she was under them, however, Ellie discovered that the petals were in-fact feathers - the result of some kind of an aerial tussle in which there was a fatal outcome for one unlucky bird.
Slightly panting, Ellie knocked at the side-door of the big house. There
was no answer. Her boots now created a crunching sound on the gravel as she quickly raced around to the front of the building. Again she felt a pang of envy at the thought of the restoration project Conor had on his hands; in a house this size, Ellie would never feel big.
"Conor! Conor!" Ellie tapped on the window of the music room, but no one was there. She lifted her head and called again up to the top of the house, towards the room that once was Bernard's, but now belonged to his son.
"Conor!”
"What?" Conor was right beside her.
Ellie jumped back, almost hitting her head against the glass, "Jesus, you scared the life out of me!" She playfully punched him in the arm and Conor dramatically fell down in pain.
"Hey, give over, Ellie - you've a vicious punch for a girl."
Ellie, immediately, stopped the play-fighting. Was she really that strong? "Conor, I'm so sorry…"
Conor grabbed Ellie's wrists and pinned them against the window, "Got you." He began to laugh as Ellie struggled to free herself.
Ellie couldn't quite work out which side of Conor’s character was the more intrinsic to his personality; he could switch between a laugh and a scowl in an instant. His long, scruffy fringe, flicked across his smiling eyes, as he held firm whilst Ellie squirmed.
"Let me go, Conor. I'll be late.”
“Late for what?”
“I’m meeting Ronan.”
Why on earth she told Conor this, Ellie didn't know. She had made it sound like it was important, when it was very clearly anything but. She could feel Conor's grasp tighten.
He was no longer smiling, "Just be careful of your date's motives."
Her date? If only, "Ronan's motives are very clear - he asked me to go with him to the karaoke as a benign show of friendliness, that’s all." Ellie haughtily defended Ronan - after all, he had kissed her - briefly.
"Ronan thinks benign is what you will be after you be eight." Conor’s grip was beginning to hurt Ellie, "All I'm saying, Ellie, is that Ronan sets low personal standards and then consistently fails to achieve them."
"I see, so meeting me tonight is setting low standards is it?"
"You know I didn't mean it like that…"
Conor's grip loosened, but Ellie didn't free herself. She stretched out her fingers against the glass, which reflected back the image of the setting sun. Conor then released her wrists and locked his fingers into hers. His hands here so huge and where his palms met hers, Ellie could feel their pressure. Conor’s thumbs, suddenly, began to stroke hers, tracing her nails, lightly caressing their tips and then back down and up again. Ellie was unbelievably disorientated, as she too began to respond and opened out her fingers to allow Conor to explore each one with his own. His touch was delicate and controlled, as he slowly stroked her palms and then along her fingers. When he reached the tips with his own, they were barely touching; just enough for Ellie to imagine the swirling contours of each of his fingerprints.
Ellie closed her eyes, allowing her sense of touch to intensify above all her other senses. Instantly, the sensation was magnified. She began to feel herself sinking into the soft gravel, getting smaller. Ellie felt small and feminine. From out of nowhere that Ellie could understand, the image of Conor’s father's portrait flashed before her.
For that heavenly moment, gone was the awkward joker, who had disturbed her peace on the bus earlier that morning. Ellie no longer cared about Conor’s motivations and intentions. Right there and then, all she cared about was how she was feeling. This had become the most incredible day of her entire life.
"Let’s go to the tree." She whispered.
Conor swiftly pulled away and dropped his arms down by his side, still holding her hands, "What?"
"Let's go to the Liberty Tree."
"Why?"
With the spell now broken, Ellie released her fingers from Conor’s. He didn't stop her.
A kind of centrifugal force was pulling Ellie to the old oak; the stories of first kisses happening under the protection of the old tree evoked a romantic sentimentality that Ellie never believed she’d ever experience. The kisses from Ronan had been brief and playful; she knew in her heart that a kiss from Conor would be anything but. For the first time in her life, the two boys in Lusty had jointly given her a sense of self-confidence and self-belief. Sadly, however, the moment with Conor appeared to be literally slipping through her fingers.
Conor looked bitterly annoyed, "I just don't understand why…"
"There's no why, what or where." Ellie explained softly, suddenly, feeling ridiculously self-conscious about her romantic notions.
Conor tilted his head to one side, "Is that all you're interested in, Ellie – the bloody tree?"
Did he really think so little of her?
“Because if you are, Ellie, then you're speaking to the wrong guy. Ronan is the one you want. You’re wasting your time with me."
Ellie stared into Conor's imploring eyes, willing him to take back his words.
"Well, go on - you'll be late for your date." He added bitterly.
Ellie remained where she was, desperate for Conor to back-down. He stood there in silence. Was he now weighing up whether the cost of fighting to keep her with him was worth it or not?
Conor then stepped to one side to let her pass.
He wasn't even going to try.
Sobbing and too hurt to stay any longer, Ellie ran along the gravel path and back around the side of the house; her footsteps no longer chasing her, but leading her away.
Chapter 26
New Year’s Day 2002
Dear Liberty Tree
Our Past
Is it wrong when something bad makes you feel so good? I feel guilty for sharing this with you, but I've no one else I can trust. It started a few weeks ago - eighteen days to be precise. But I need to go back a bit in order to put things in context. Firstly, I'm sorry we didn't keep up with the letters, but myself and Ciaran have had a tough time since our baby was taken from us and still no-one has been held accountable...anyway, we've been drifting apart. I didn't see it at the time, but I see it now. Everything's much clearer. I can see now that Ciaran wasn't really there for me. He won't talk to me you see - why bother when there's poachers to catch, lines to patrol and heads to bury in the sand?
I feel claustrophobic here and I can't stand it anymore. I have to get away from the reminders that are everywhere.
I know I have a good man at home, but God forgive me, it's amazing what the love of a bad man can do for you.
As I said, it started a few weeks ago. Bernard Sullivan came looking in the bar for his Da. The Old Man had gone off on one of his drunken benders again. It was the usual quiet slot between the lunch and evening session, so I offered to help Bernard find him. We searched everywhere. After nearly an hour we tracked him down to one of the derelict cottages at the back of the big house. We found him fast asleep, in an abandoned cast-iron bath. The old fart had secretly built a still in there. Whilst he waited for the slow drip, drip of the potcheen to fill a bottle, he must have fallen asleep. We woke the Old Man up and sent him back home. But Bernard didn't follow. He went absolutely crazy trashing the place: the still, the empty bottles, the buckets of potato skins - everything was wrecked. It's odd - you think that these ones with money have everything, but his wealth and his reputation counted for nothing. Bernard was obviously hurting badly about something. He wouldn’t tell me what – in fact, he said I was the last one he could tell.
All I wanted to do was make him feel better. I shouted at him to stop, but he wouldn't. So I just joined in: I threw bottles, old tiles, bits of pipe. I went crazy. We both had an anger in us that needed to come out. For the first time since I lost Marianne-Mae, I felt alive. When there was nothing else to grab, we grabbed each other. I had never been kissed before like that. Even though I had not been unfaithful in body, my mind was disloyal from the second we first kissed.
Our Present
Bernard is meeting me here any minute. We arranged to meet a
t eleven and it's already a quarter to. I can hardly write. I'm a wee schoolgirl all over again. I have my hair down loose, the way he likes it.
Our Future
Right, I've taken a moment to get myself together. Okay, this is a tough one. When I think of our future, I can only imagine Bernard's and mine. Maybe, we will be living in Dublin, being introduced to some of Bernard's posh friends at dinner parties…maybe, visiting the museums and galleries.
I know it's all rubbish - I've been through enough reality, Old Tree, to know what's a dream and what isn't. But it's what keeps me going, you see. Who knows what the future holds? Right now, it is the present that matters and when Bernard arrives…
Roisin’s letter wasn't complete and hadn't been signed. On the eventual arrival of her suitor, Ellie imagined Roisin stuffing the letter and the box back into their secret hiding place. She could imagine Roisin as being nervous, shaking, exhilarated. The letters in the first years that had begun as frivolous expressions of new love had now entered the realm of deception. Roisin and Ciaran appeared to have been caught in a fast-moving, destructive slipstream. But Ellie couldn't be angry with Roisin. The more of the letters Ellie had read, the closer the bond tightened between herself, as voyeuristic reader, and Roisin, as the author. Was Roisin that different from herself - simply caught up in the flattery and attention that had been hitherto absent in their lives? Was Ellie just an object of amusement in a village, where nothing happened, in the same way that Bernard Sullivan was no doubt using Roisin? Or did losing someone dear to you make you so unhappy that you lost all reason? Is that what happened to Roisin?
Did Ellie’s mother also lose someone important to her? Ellie certainly had.
