Declan examined the inky symbol for a long time as if it was an important clue to the mystery of his being. Finally, Declan looked at Fionnaugh and shrugged. He didn’t know. Fionnaugh licked her finger and tried to rub the mark away but it couldn’t be removed. It was permanent.
Fionnaugh produced a hen’s feather from the pocket of her apron and tickled it lightly over the gently rolling contour of Declan’s muscled biceps.
“Graidhean,” she whispered. Declan stirred then rolled on his back, scratching his arm. Since their mating a month ago, she and Declan had managed to get together in the barn several times. The last time they’d been together he’d done something that shocked her. Expecting, wanting to feel his lovely man-thing inside her, she was confused when he held off and put his face between her legs. Was such a thing possible? Apparently it was. The second his tongue touched her she’d been suffused with an electric tingling throughout her entire being. Surges of pleasure immediately rolled though her.. She cried out. Declan had seemed surprised by her instant reaction. He’d put his hand over her mouth to muffle her cries. Moira was somewhere about.
Declan thought about Moira’s behaviour from the time he’d arrived here. He understood that Moira, in her confused state, believed he was her missing son, the poor Johnny who drowned at sea. It wouldn’t do for Moira to think that Johnny was fucking his own sister.
As soon as Fionnaugh recovered from the revelation of realizing Declan took pleasure in tasting between her legs she was quick to encourage him. But when Declan indicated she should return the favour she balked, shaking her mass of strawberry curls, her blue eyes wide with fright.
“Aw, c’mon baby,” Declan pleaded, stroking his shaft. He wanted nothing more than to feel that sweet pink mouth around the end of his dick. He put one hand around the back of her head, drawing her down towards him. Fionnaugh took a small, tentative lick of the tip. Declan let out a soft moan. Fionnaugh glanced up in surprise. This was unexpected. She could exert power over him. She opened her mouth and went for it.
“Aaargh!” yelled Declan, pulling away. “No, no, fuck no,” he cried. She’d used her teeth.
Fionnaugh pulled back in alarm then burst into tears. She picked up her skirts and scrambled down the barn ladder. Declan went after her. He found Fionnaugh behind the barn sobbing as if her heart was broken. Declan wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair.
“I’m sorry baby. How could you know?”
After a few minutes, when Fionnaugh had calmed down, Declan indicated for her to stay, then darted up to the root cellar of the house returning with a carrot. Fionnaugh looked completely bewildered. What was this strange creature going to ask of her now?
Declan led Fionnaugh gently back inside the barn and sat her down on a bale of hay. He tightened his lips then, using the carrot, showed her how she was to move over him. He pointed to his teeth and waved a finger indicating no, then grabbed his crotch and made a noise of pain. Fionnaugh finally understood. She opened her delicate mouth, folding her lips across her teeth. She took the carrot from him, and showed him how she would caress him.
“Yeah that’s it,” he sighed in relief. “You got it Elizabeth. Now let’s try it for real.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Declan’s mother Joan was busy sorting first editions of Leonard Cohen’s early books of poetry into their respective years when she heard the customer bell ring. She’d taken a part time job in ‘Ancient Books’ as a way to keep her mind occupied. She enjoyed the sense of calm that books gave her. They were voices, silenced between covers, that sprang eagerly to life when she opened them. She also relished their fusty yellowed smell and their reliability. A book was never going to tell you it had to be charged electronically before you could read it. Joan, however, was a pragmatist. She fully understood that books were going the way of the pay telephone; slowly disappearing although, thank God, reading seemed more popular than ever, even if it was on a tablet.
The customer walking towards Joan was of medium height and fit. She guessed he was in his early fifties from the strands of silver shot through close-cropped hair. The most remarkable feature about him was thick eyebrows like a logjam in a river. The eyes set beneath them were deep hazel emitting a natural twinkle.
“May I help you?” asked Joan.
“Yes,” he replied. “I’m looking for a biography of Nora Barnacle.”
“Oh yes,” said Joan. “James Joyce’s wife. I think we might have a copy down the back.”
She led him through a series of stacks to the biography section and located a worn book.
“Yes, here it is.” Joan pulled out the book and handed it to him. “Have you read Ulysses?” she inquired.
“Has anyone read Ulysses?” he responded.
Joan laughed.
“I must admit I have,” she said. “I used to teach it when I was a professor at University College in Dublin.”
The man’s substantial eyebrows lifted.
“Impressive.”
“Why is it you’re interested in Mrs. Joyce, the former Nora Barnacle?” asked Joan. She added, “not a lot of people are these days.”
“I thought it might give me insight to make Joyce more comprehensible,” he said.
“It will certainly do that,” affirmed Joan. “He basically plundered Nora’s life. Took all her stories and used them as his own.”
“The bastard,” he said.
The man smiled at her, a radiant addition to his lean face.
“Yes,” agreed Joan, “he was that, and schizophrenic, although people didn’t know it at the time.’
“I’d no idea when I came in here that I’d find such attractive expertise,” said the man.
Joan felt herself blushing beneath his gaze. She wasn’t sure what to say next. The man extended his hand.
“Byron Sparks,” he said.
Joan took his firm grip and shook it. She noticed his left hand was devoid of a wedding ring.
“Joan Thomas,” she said.
“Pleased to meet you Joan. May I call you Joan or do you prefer Mrs. Thomas?”
“Joan is fine. I’m not married.”
Byron Sparks glanced at her wedding ring.
“Widowed,” explained Joan, twisting the ring around her finger. This customer was having the most unsettling effect on her. An easy familiarity seemed to have sprung up between them, something Joan was unused to. She was generally reserved, taking her time to get to know people.
“Well Joan,” said Byron, “it’s not every day I get to talk to an expert on James Joyce. Might I pick your brain further, perhaps over coffee?”
Joan hesitated. The invitation was unexpected, however, not entirely unwelcome.
“In the interests of literature? Sure, why not?” she said.
“Absolutely in the interest of literature,” said Byron. “How much do I owe you?
Joan led him back to her desk at the front of the store to ring up the sale. Byron paid with a credit card. She popped the book into a paper bag for him.
“Is today convenient for that coffee?” he asked.
Joan glanced at her watch.
“Not today. I have to pick my grandchildren up from school.”
“Tomorrow then?”
“Tomorrow would be nice,” said Joan. “Say three?”
“Three. Nice meeting you.” With a nod of his head and another dazzling smile, Byron Sparks strode from the store.
Joan was surprised to find herself a little breathless. She glanced at her watch again. She hoped Hersh, her boss, wouldn’t be late. He was the owner of the store, an elderly academic given to loose woolly cardigans that emphasized his bony frame.
The customer bell tinkled as Hersh came shuffling in. His first question to her was always the same.
“Any sales?”
“Just one,” Joan replied. “A biography of Nora Barnacle.”
Hersh gazed over her head, his mind sorting through sixty years of knowledge until he’d located what he was sear
ching for.
“Oi, she was a dirty one, that one,” he said finally. “Do you know Joyce called her his little fuck bird?”
“Yes, I do know that Hersh,” said Joan gathering up her things to leave. Hersh wasn’t going to let the topic go.
“Do you know she wrote dirty letters to him?” he asked.
“Yes, I know that too,” said Joan.
“In one, she told him he could roger her backside,” chuckled Hersh.
“Yes, yes,” said Joan, impatient to get out the door.
Hersh shook his head. “Roger. What a word for it. Those Irish I tell ya.”
“I have to go Hersh or I’ll be late to pick up the kids. I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Joan.
“Sure” said Hersh.
He made his way down the stacks muttering ‘roger’ and chuckling quietly to himself.
Joan flew out the door and grabbed a cab. It took her ten minutes by taxi to reach Miss Springfield’s Academy. She was only a few minutes late. The twins liked their new school but Joan knew they’d be happy to see her.
Generally, Elizabeth picked the children up but today she had a dental appointment. Joan paid the driver and tipped him. As she exited the cab, she noticed a young woman in a mini-skirt wearing thigh-high boots and loaded down with shopping bags.
“Yoo hoo,” called the girl.
Joan decided the girl was calling someone else and rushed inside the school.
“Granma!” yelled the twins when they saw Joan. They charged to her, wrapping themselves around her legs.
Miss Mott, the nursery room teacher, extracted a thick binder and flipped to ‘Thomas’. Three photographs pasted on a page, showed Elizabeth, Declan and Joan. Miss Mott examined the photos carefully, glancing from the page up to Joan and back again.
Oh for goodness sake, thought Joan. It wasn’t the first time she picked the children up. Clearly she was authorized.
“Goodbye Camille and Jack,” said Miss Mott, nodding her assent.
Joan took the twins by the hand and turned, bumping into the young woman with the shopping bags she’d seen outside. The woman had obviously followed Joan into the school where she watched the proceedings with keen interest.
“Excuse me,” said Joan, irritated.
“It is you,” said the woman. “I thought it was.”
She dropped to her knees in front of the children.
“Don’t tell me these are Declan’s? Hello you two.”
The twins immediately became shy and hid behind Joan’s legs. The young woman straightened up.
“Do I know you?” asked Joan. The woman seemed familiar.
“I was Declan’s girlfriend,” said the woman. “I came to your husband’s funeral, remember? I’m so sorry for your latest loss. What a blow.”
Joan instantly remembered a girl who’d been most annoying, weeping hysterically at her husband Charles’s funeral.
“Oh yes,” said Joan hesitantly. The young woman babbled on.
“Declan was my boyfriend for quite a while. We were in love. I’m going to Scotland to see where he died.”
Oh no, thought Joan. Could this be…?
“I’m Natasha,” said the girl, smiling at the twins. “Oh my God, such beautiful kiddies. And doesn’t the little boy look just like Declan.”
As soon as the girl said her name, Joan inhaled sharply. This was the nutcase who’d attacked Declan and Elizabeth and who’d gone to jail.
“I’m sorry,” said Joan coldly. “We’re late. We have to go.”
“Yeah, no problem,” said Natasha. “Glad I bumped into you, and the adorable kiddies.”
Joan hustled the children out the door with alarm bells ringing in her head. What to do? Elizabeth would be horrified if she knew that this vile, unhinged woman was not only out of jail but had seen her children.
And going to Scotland to see where Declan died? It was pure craziness. Elizabeth was only now returning to her old self. News like this would be a real setback. Joan decided that, for the time being, she would keep quiet about her disturbing encounter with Natasha. Hopefully it meant nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jimmy Mack was working on Effie with his tongue. She had straddled his face, leaning slightly forward so he had easy access to her engorging bud. At the same time Jimmy was furiously jerking himself off. They both came at roughly the same time.
Jimmy had been delighted that Effie came easily and frequently, her juices flowing with each orgasm. Panting, Effie climbed off Jimmy and flopped down beside him, curling into the crook of his body. Jimmy reached for some tissues beside the bed, wiping his moustache and stomach.
“My God woman,” he exclaimed. “Yer’ve got the sea between yer legs.”
Effie sighed. She’d been postponing this conversation.
“You do it for me Jimmy. I think you’re the sweetest, loveliest, not to mention sexiest, man I’ve ever met.”
She reached over and began twirling his chest hairs with her fingers.
“But there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
“Aye,” said Jimmy. “I know. Yer leavin.”
Startled, Effie propped herself on one elbow, looking into his grey-green eyes.
“How on earth could you know? I haven’t …”
Effie was about to say she hadn’t told anyone but then she remembered she’d asked Tattie and Bridie to take Elizabeth’s dog Django.
“I’m sorry Jimmy,” she said.
“Ya daft wee lass,” said Jimmy giving her a hug. “I woulda been more surprised if yer told me yer was stayin.”
“Really?” said Effie.
“Aye. Yer a city lass. Ya need yer cappuccinos, and yer taxis, and yer pollution. This here’s no place for yer.”
Jimmy was right.
“Would you consider coming to visit me in Toronto?” asked Effie. “If I sent you a ticket?”
“Och no,” chuckled Jimmy. “Who’d look after ma cows?”
Jimmy’s second cousin had recently died and left him six shaggy highland beasts with massive horns and suspicious expressions.
“Well, maybe you could find someone,” said Effie kissing him.
“I dinna think so,” said Jimmy. “I’d be a haddock out of batter in a city. I dinna even like Inverness. Too many people.”
They lay cuddled in silence for several minutes.
“I’ll miss you Jimmy,” said Effie. She gave his penis a loving squeeze. “And I’ll miss your big fella.”
“Aye. He’ll miss your cunny too. When is it yer going?”
“The day after tomorrow,” said Effie.
“Right,” said Jimmy rolling on top of her. “Ah think we’ve got some fuckin to do before ya go.”
Later that night, Effie and Jimmy stopped into the Rhichonich Hotel for a few drinks. They cadged a ride from Muriel, one of the locals, deciding to walk back rather than risk being stopped by the lone policeman.
Effie had been surprised at how conscientious the Scots were about not drinking and driving but then again it made sense. A car was of paramount importance in such a remote location. Losing your licence would be disastrous.
The bar of the Rhichonich was small and therefore fairly full. Jimmy slid onto a stool with a worn and slashed leather seat and patted the one beside him for Effie. He ordered himself a pint of cider and a McLeish scotch for Effie. During her time in Scotland Effie had developed a taste for scotch, learning to savour the smoky taste of the single malts.
“How’s yer tractor Jimmy?” asked Angus the bartender, a man with a large strawberry birthmark on his face. He wiped the Formica bar in front of them with a rag.
“Aye, fallin apart but I manage to keep ‘er going,” replied Jimmy.
“Ya just missed Willie,” said Angus.
“How’s he doin?”
Even Effie was aware of Willie’s medical problems and knew his time was limited.
“Bought a round for everyone and took several for himself. He’d just come from the doctor’s. He
was in rare good form.”
“So he musta got good news,” said Jimmy.
“Aye,” said Willie. “The doctor told him he had another six months.”
Effie shook her head in disbelief. Only in Kinlochbervie would a death sentence be celebrated if it meant another few months of going to the pub and drinking with friends.
She took a sip of her scotch, feeling warmth trickle down to her stomach. Jimmy toasted Effie with the word “Slange” meaning good health. Effie replied in kind. She would miss this oddball place and the well-endowed Scotsman beside her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Joan checked her face in the mirror. Normally, she wore little make-up but this morning she thought she might add a touch of extra blush. She was meeting Byron Sparks for coffee, providing he showed up. He was well preserved, obviously intelligent, and seemed immensely comfortable in his own skin. Would he find her attractive? She had a few soft lines around her wide blue eyes but that was to be expected. She was forty-eight after all. She didn’t mind the signs of ageing. She thought they gave her a softer appearance and added character.
Rather than pull her blonde hair back and keep it away from her face, she decided she would leave it down today. Yes, she decided, she would definitely do for Byron Sparks. Was he interested in friendship, or possibly something more?
The idea of anything of a sexual nature unsettled Joan. She was unsure she’d know what to do. She calculated the last time she’d had sex. It had been seven years ago. Her late husband Charles had been much older than she was. His weak heart meant he couldn’t take Viagra and he wasn’t the sort of man to even consider toys.
Over the last few years of married life their intimate contact consisted of loving kisses and cuddling. Joan didn’t mind. It had been a relief, in a way, that the whole messy business of sex could be put aside. It was one less thing to deal with.
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