mean, but that is how it seems to me. We shall be good friends, shall we not?’
She looked at me with the warm smile which I found so utterly appealing. I was about to speak of the hope that was beginning to grow in me, born out of the strange situation in which we found ourselves. But I didn’t manage it. Without any warning, a huge noise away to my right broke in on me, a noise that filled up all the space inside my head.
‘That noise, Deara, that awful noise. Whatever is it? Make it stop. Oh, please make it stop. I can’t bear it. It feels as if it will make my head burst.’
I covered my ears with my hands and felt tears spring to my eyes. She couldn’t hear it. I knew she couldn’t hear it. And she wouldn’t believe me if she couldn’t hear it. Nothing I could say would make her believe me. I wanted to scream and scream, but no sound would come. Everything was blotted out by pulsing waves of pressure. I couldn’t even see her any more. Then I felt her hands on my wrists.
‘Deirdre, my dear friend, I am here. Give me your hands. Do not shut out the noise. Listen to it. Let it speak to you. I will not let it harm you.’
There was a strength in her voice I had not heard before. It was firmer than reassurance, much firmer, it was the strength of one who speaks to command. She drew my hands away from my ears and held them firmly in her own.
‘Listen, listen to it,’ she insisted quietly. ‘It cannot harm you now.’
As suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. I could see her face again. She was watching me with enormous concentration. She released my hand as I moved to get my hanky out of my pocket. I blew my nose and mopped up my tears.
‘Are you all right now? Has the noise gone?’
‘Yes, it’s gone. I’m so sorry, I can’t think what happened to me. It’s so silly. Please forgive me.’
‘Forgive you? What is there to forgive between us? It is you who must forgive the woman who harmed you in this way.’
‘Woman? What woman?’
‘A woman with glass in front of her eyes who crept up behind you when you were sitting on the stones by the God’s well and talking to yourself. The same woman in a long bedgown who found you walking in your sleep and scolded you, and when you spoke of hearing a noise she said you were telling lies. A woman who did not comfort you when you wept.’
‘That’s my mother. She died the week before last.’
‘Such women leave great burdens on the spirit. You must rest and pray to your God.’
‘I have no God.’
‘Then I shall pray to mine. It makes no difference,’ she said, as she touched my cheek with her hand. ‘You are very pale. Will you drink a cup of wine? It would help you.’
Suddenly I became so aware of the blue threads in my jeans, the fallen petals of the rose and the soft, brown hand still holding mine.
‘Thank you,’ I said, nodding and looking up at her.
But she was gone. I was sitting on my stone under the hawthorns. Indoors, the phone was ringing. I didn’t move. I let it ring until it stopped.
I sat on for quite a while, letting myself absorb what had happened. Then I realised how thirsty I was. I got up and walked across the garden to the path along the bottom edge of the rockery. There was the circle I had begun and not completed. I bent down and drew my finger through the soil to close it.
The phone rang again, that fierce, strident ring I could identify as the Anacarrig phone from wherever in the world I might hear it. I went in and picked it up.
‘Deirdre Weston speaking.’
I heard my name as if it were the first time I’d ever used it. It was the estate agent with a query about the rateable value. I told him what he wanted to know and wished all queries could be dealt with so easily. And yet, as I filled the kettle, I felt sure that finding answers to the questions that were really important to me was going to be a whole lot easier. If there was something I had to do while I was here, then I was being helped to do it. There was no point asking for it all to be clear to me now: I just had to get on and do the best I could.
Despite the optimism of the estate agent, no prospective purchasers arrived to view Anacarrig the weekend after my meeting with Deara in Alcelcius’s vineyard. I had a blissful two days. It was warm and sunny and working in the garden was a delight. I read a lot, wrote a massive letter to Matthew and short notes to some of my local friends suggesting that we meet.
More than once, I caught myself just sitting, lost in my own thoughts, beside a flowerbed I had set out to weed or a bookcase I had decided to sort and pack. Once, I even found myself sitting on the low wall near the back door unable to remember what I was supposed to be doing there until I saw the neatly tied bag of rubbish at my feet.
To my amazement, the peaceful quality of the weekend persisted into the following week. We all have good hours and good days, times when things go right beyond all reasonable expectation, but that whole week it appeared I could do no wrong. Whatever I put my hand to, some tedious job in the house or some piece of executor business, the problems just melted. Like the child who had once walked round the garden with a magic ring, making things happen, I appeared to be mistress of all I surveyed.
Entirely new to me was the sense of steadiness and purpose I felt. Sometimes I just marvelled at my good fortune; at other times, I found I was looking around for new worlds to conquer and had to laugh at myself.
I was able to finish a routine piece of work for Robert Fairclough in record time and I had lively phone calls from the friends to whom I’d written. I wrote page after page in my blue notebooks, sketched out thoughts for short stories, and developed an idea for a longer work. As if this were not joy enough, early one morning I even had a call from Matthew in Maharajpur.
We tripped over each other and said the most banal things in the few minutes that could be spared on the up-country hospital’s one and only phone. There would be another opportunity for us to go to India together and work on the project we’d had to set aside this summer, he said. He sounded so excited at the prospect and both pleased and relieved that I was in such good spirits with things going so well at Anacarrig.
But beyond and behind all the objective things that had lifted my spirits, there was Deara. Unlike any friend I had ever had, however dear, her presence seemed to reassure me in a way I could not put words to as yet.
When I tried to puzzle it out, I told myself it was because she had survived a situation far, far more dangerous than anything I had ever experienced. With no one to care what happened to her, she had been totally vulnerable after Merdaine died. The actual threat from the Druid I would have found terrifying. And yet, despite everything being against her, she had won through, she had kept her nerve and ended up with Alcelcius, a man who was not only kind but one she could be sure would never let her down.
Day after day as I went on with the work in the garden, I thought about her, going over in my mind all I knew of her, putting together everything that first meeting had offered with what she herself had told me when we discovered we could talk to each other. I longed to see her again, and yet, as I moved through those memorable days, I felt she was with me, an
