The dog halted so immediately, so precisely, it was clear Finbarr had this power all along.
‘Out,’ Finbarr commanded, and Alby spat the ball onto the grass. Finbarr approached him with measured steps, scooped the ball up and held it in the air. ‘Nan,’ he said, ‘make a wish.’
‘I wish I could stay in Ireland forever.’
He threw the ball, a long arc, and Alby went rushing for it, catching it mid-air, paws miles above the ground.
‘Granted,’ Finbarr said, and turned to me. Magical enough to make it so.
A few days later, he came by the house after helping Uncle Jack. I had finished mucking out the stables and lay on the hill in a pocket of clover, still reeking of manure, reading A Room with a View. Brutus lay beside me, resting his head on my stomach.
‘Your uncle will need a new dog before long,’ Finbarr said. Alby stood at his side, ears perked. ‘You can tell they’re getting old when they’re tired at the end of the day.’
‘Doesn’t Alby get tired sometimes?’ I shaded my eyes to see him.
‘Never.’ Finbarr said it with a confidence so firm it had to be wishful.
‘Well, Brutus will never get old,’ I said, also wishful, patting the dog’s narrow, tawny head. From somewhere nearby a skylark chirruped, continuous and complaining. Of course, there were birds in London but I’d never noticed them much. Since coming to Ireland I’d learned the sky was its own separate universe, just above our heads, teeming with its own brand of singing life.
‘I brought you something.’ Finbarr held out a four-leaf clover. I reached for it without sitting up and straight away the fourth leaf fluttered away. He’d been holding it there with his finger.
‘Fake luck.’ I flicked it away with a laugh, still delighted.
Finbarr flopped down beside me. He never minded being contradicted, just like he never minded me winning game after game of tennis. He never minded anything.
‘I hope I don’t smell like fish,’ he said.
I thought about lying and saying no. Instead I said, ‘Well, I smell of sheep and horse shite, so we’re a good match.’
‘I smell of those things too.’ He wove his fingers together, arched his arms over behind his head and made a pillow of his hands. ‘You like to read, do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I could read that book when you’re done.’ He stared straight up at the sky, not at my book. ‘Then we can talk about it.’
‘Do you like to read?’
‘No. But I could start.’
‘This one’s mostly about a girl.’
‘I don’t mind reading about girls.’
I turned my head and stared at him, and he tilted his head towards me. Long black eyelashes framed eyes of layered blue. Soon Uncle Jack would come up over the hill and he wouldn’t like to see us, lying side by side, even though we were a good two feet apart.
‘I think I’d like to be a writer,’ I said. It was nothing I’d ever thought of before. I liked to read but had never tried my hand at stories or poems.
‘You’d be a grand writer,’ Finbarr said. ‘You’d be grand at anything.’
He put a strand of grass between his teeth and turned his eyes back to the sky. Legs crossed at the ankles. Alby tugged at his trouser legs, dissatisfied with a full day of running, or else eager to get home for the evening meal.
‘Nan O’Dea,’ my aunt called from the house. ‘You get up this minute, please, and wash for supper.’
I knew the sternness in her voice was over me and Finbarr lying down together, not my need to wash. We jumped to our feet, both of us with mussed hair, sun from a day working outdoors rosying our cheeks.