Free Shamrock Green by Jessica Stirling Page B

Sylvie couldn’t bring herself to do the killing, though, and left that side of it to Jansis who had no compunction about despatching chickens. ‘Born to die,’ Jansis would say. ‘Born to die, that’s all they are, poor things,’ as she stretched out a feathery neck and tugged.
    The coop was well ventilated but did not get quite enough light and every morning Sylvie opened the wire gate to let the birds out into the courtyard. That particular morning the weather was breezy and bright. Chimney cocks whirred on the roof of Watton’s warehouse, small white clouds scudded across the sky and gulls soared restlessly overhead. The holidays were over and Maeve was back at school. The commercials had breakfasted and gone their separate ways and Mr Dolan was off, albeit nervously, on a tour of the harbour. There was a war going on in Europe but Sylvie was too locked in on herself to dwell on it.
    She was angry with Fran, resentful of the fact that he’d left her in the lurch and that she hadn’t heard from him for the best part of a week. Beneath her resentment, though, lay fear that he had come to harm or that now he’d had what he wanted from her he had thrown her over and she would never hear from him again. She had just filled the water basins and scattered fresh grit when, looking up, she saw him in the archway. He had on the long overcoat, collar turned up, but he wore no hat and the breeze toyed with his hair.
    â€˜Fran?’ she said, under her breath. ‘Fran, is it you?’
    He was too far off to hear but when she turned towards him he started down the lane and raised a hand in greeting and she felt her heart open like a flower. Putting down the basin, she wiped her hands on her apron, ran a few steps and threw herself into his arms.
    â€˜God,’ she said. ‘Oh, God, I missed you.’
    He hugged her against him. He felt strong, so strong, stronger than Gowry had ever done. She did not know what words or gestures would explain what he had come to mean to her during the days they had been apart but uttered instead a little uh-uh-uh of pleasure when he pressed his lips against hers.
    He drew back. ‘Is it safe?’
    â€˜Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’
    â€˜Where’s Maeve?’
    â€˜At school.’
    â€˜And the girl, the maid?’
    â€˜Shopping.’
    He did not ask about Gowry.
    Sylvie laughed, kissed him again, took his hand and led him into the kitchen.
    Breakfast dishes, newly washed, gleamed in the sunlight. Three small saucepans glinted on the stove. She could hear the crackle of new coals and smell the smoke that leaked from the iron stove in windy weather. She had the taste of him on her lips, the relief of knowing that she was not alone in loving after all.
    â€˜Can we go some place?’ Fran said. ‘Is there somewhere safe?’
    â€˜Have you eaten? Have you had your breakfast?’
    â€˜Yes, yes, I’ve had my breakfast. Don’t you want to?’
    â€˜It isn’t that. I just—’
    â€˜Upstairs, can we not go upstairs?’ He frowned. ‘Is it not convenient?’
    â€˜Convenient?’ Sylvie said. ‘What sort of a word is that? Yes, it is convenient, dearest. It will never be more convenient. Come.’
    She pulled him along the corridor. He moved jerkily, as if he had forgotten how to give in to impulse. They paused on the first landing. He put his arms about her and pressed himself against her. She tilted back her head and let him kiss her cheeks, her brow and, lifting up her hair, her ear. He cupped her breasts and sighed as if holding her again removed the pain of being Fran Hagarty.
    They stumbled noisily into a vacant bedroom.
    And closed the door.
    *   *   *
    â€˜See,’ Sylvie said, ‘you were hungry after all.’
    â€˜It’s true,’ Fran admitted, ‘but one appetite overcame another.’
    She gave him a nudge with her