Free In the Shadow of the Trees by Elenor Gill Page B

drowned ferret.’
    There was nothing to say, so I stood there, dripping a small circle onto the floor. He placed fiddle and bow in the centre of the table, then turned to flip the light switch. The room sprang to life around us.
    ‘I’ll get you something to dry yourself on. I was going to make some tea.’ He returned in a moment with a bundle of towels. I hadn’t moved. I think my mouth was still wide open. He flung one of the towels over my head then put a light under the kettle and rummaged on the draining board for a clean mug. I had obviously been rained on a lot more than I realised. My jacket was soaked through and the boots waterlogged and loaded with mud.
    ‘That was one hell of a storm,’ I said.
    ‘I’ve seen worse.’ He looked over his shoulder, his eyes fixing on me accusingly. ‘You weren’t afraid, were you?’
    ‘Me? No, of course not.’
    ‘Here, sit and get this down ye. And for God’s sake dry yourself. I won’t be responsible for you getting pneumonia.’ He placed the mug on the table.
    Obediently I perched on the chair he had thrust behind me. I took a sip of the tea. It was hot and strong and brought me to my senses. I made some attempt to towel my hair. It was comfortable in here. A corner of the building had been partitioned off and fitted up as living quarters with sink and cooking stove, table and bed. There was another door through which he had gone to get the towels. I guessed it led to a bathroom.
    ‘Liam, isn’t it?’
    ‘That’s right, Liam Connors.’
    ‘And I’m Regan.’ He nodded. ‘What was that you were playing?’
    ‘A slow air. “An Droighnean Donn”, in the Gaelic. It means “The Blackthorn”. It’s a love song. “My love is like the blossom of the sloe that grows upon the blackthorn.”’
    ‘Oh,’ was all I could think of to say, so I sipped the tea for something to do.
    He started to put the instrument back in its case.
    ‘Oh, no. Please. Don’t stop. Play some more.’
    ‘I don’t play for the entertainment of others.’ He continued to loosen off his bow. ‘Music’s a personal thing.’
    I placed my mug on the table. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause offence. If it’s that personal I’d better leave you alone with it.’
    For the first time his eyes softened. ‘No, it’s me that should be apologising. It’s just that I’m used to being on my own. I’ll give you another tune if you drink your tea. But no more slow airs if that’s the effect it has on you.’ He nodded at my dripping fringe and mud-streaked legs.
    Resetting the bow and adjusting the tuning, he lifted the instrument to his chin, tucking it beneath the fuzz of beard. This time he broke into a jig so fast the notes tripped over each other as they came tumbling from his fingers. I was forced to put the tea down in order to slap my legs in time with the dance. My feet beat out the rhythm, mud splattering the floorboards, until the last, drawn-out note brought the tune to an end. I clapped and cheered and told him it was wonderful. I’m not sure, but he may have smiled. It was hard to tell what went on underneath all that facial hair.
    ‘And what sort of a jig was that? Was it a jig?’
    ‘Yes, a pair of slip jigs, nine-eight time. The first is called “The Butterfly”, then “Hardiman”.’
    ‘And the first tune you were playing, that was an air?’
    ‘A slow air, it’s called. Played in free time.’
    ‘It was very sad.’
    ‘Yes, there’s many a sad tune come out of Erin. But then there’s much sadness born there.’ He finished putting his fiddle back in its case.
    ‘Is that where you’re from? Southern Ireland?’
    He snapped the catches down firmly but gave no answer.
    ‘What brought you here?’ I asked.
    ‘I needed work. Sullivan needed a handyman. That’s all.’
    I was beginning to get a feel for the boundaries of his conversation. Just steer clear of people in general, Ireland in particular and anything personal.
    ‘What’s he like to work