Page 4 of Heart of the Wren
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I sat in my gloomy living room with the radio on low. The wallpaper — unchanged since the 1950s — frayed slightly at the joins and the carpet had worn thin in places. I leaned my book towards the lamp so I could get a better look at the etching of a Bronze Age fort. Like all my books, I’d read it at least ten times before. The ceiling creaked with the heft of Dara walking to the bathroom. Pipes rattled as the bath filled. Soon there came a gentle, half-heard melody, a tune sung in Irish that I didn’t recognise. The last thing I needed was a noisy guest. I tutted and set my book down for a few moments before turning up the radio.
Chapter 3
DARA
I PROVED as good as my word. I hopped out of bed before dawn and stretched. The bed was far from the most comfortable I’d ever slept in but it made a nice change from the fields and meadows of the past few weeks. The van was too cramped for me to properly stretch out in but come the worst of the winter weather it’d be the sensible choice. So I’d been making the most of outdoor sleeping while I could.
I gave myself a quick wash in the bathroom, being careful not to make too much noise. No one liked a noisy guest and I didn’t want to rock the boat too much at such an early stage. Lorcan lived alone and was likely a bit set in his ways. I know I am.
From my rucksack, I pulled out my cleanest shirt. I’d have to ask Lorcan later on if there was somewhere I could wash my clothes.
Lorcan found me the kitchen, waving a wad of smouldering sage around one corner of the ceiling. “Good for keeping spiders away,” I said.
Thankfully, he didn’t ask any questions. I wasn’t prepared for him to be so good-looking. Gruff face and high hairline, noticeable belly and big hands. Nice arse on him, too. Just my type. I didn’t see any sign of a woman around the place, which was promising. Such a shame, the sadness in his eyes. He couldn’t hide it. Or he didn’t try to. I wasn’t sure if he was aware of what was brewing on the farm, so I had to tread carefully.
Over breakfast, I told him how I’d often find casual work on farms. “Usually a season or two, here, there, and everywhere. There’s not a corner of this island I haven’t been to.” I’d worked with sheep before. And cattle too. Lorcan didn’t give much away and didn’t talk about himself. I could almost see the walls he had erected around himself.
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The morning was dry, as I said it would be.
Lorcan said he was surprised. “I suppose someone who sleeps in hedges must have a fairly good sense of the weather.”
The expected cold weather of winter meant the sheep would have to be kept indoors. Lorcan had tasked me with assisting in clearing out the main shed in preparation.
The shed was fairly new. Tall, long, made of corrugated iron, and lined inside with pens. The smell could bring a tear to a man’s eye but I didn’t mind. A young lad of around 17 or 18 shovelled old straw from one of the pens. I walked right up and introduced myself, shaking his hand.
“I’m Eddie.” He was taller than me, mixed race, I guessed, and lithe, with dark hair, dark eyes, and an English accent. “I’ve been here all year.” He leaned on his pitchfork, grateful for the chance to pause his work. “In Ireland, I mean. I’m living with my uncle Michael. Have you met him yet?”
I said I hadn’t but I was looking forward to it, to which Eddie only raised his eyebrows.
“Here, you!” A voice called from the far end of the shed. “Get that feckin’ wheelbarrow moving.”
A man with a halo of unkempt grey hair and muddy wellies pointed at me.
“You must be Michael,” I called back to him. “Nice to meet you!”
“There’ll be time for pleasantries later. C’mon now, ye hippy, ye. We’ve plenty to be gettin’ on with.”
I took the wheelbarrow by the handles and grinned at Eddie. “He seems nice.”
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Three little songbirds hopped along the roof of the sheep shed in the afternoon. A robin, a sparrow, and a goldfinch.
“I’ve never seen birds do that,” I said.
Lorcan folded his arms. “You would swear they were friends,wouldn’t you? They’ve been hanging around all week,” he said. “Like a gang.”
Lorcan’s farm was a small plot on a hill, surrounded by groves on two sides. Driving up to the farmhouse meant crossing the stream over a wide, flat bridge with iron railings. The other — older, stone, and arched — was barely wide enough for two people to walk on, and led to the barns.
“Hence the name, ‘Twin Bridge Farm’,” Lorcan said. “It’s been in my family for three generations but it won’t be seeing a fourth.”
I made sure to choose my words carefully. “You’ve never married?”
“No siblings either. Not… No, ever since Mam and Dad passed on, it’s only been me and the dogs.”
