Although it was not the first day of the holidays, it seemed to Miranda that her summer began that day, when she met Richard Blair. He was sitting idly on the bridge, his legs hanging over it while he skimmed stones downriver. A boy, perhaps a year older than herself, he was fair-skinned to her tan, blue-eyed to her green and his hair was somewhere between a very light brown and a dark blonde, whereas Miranda was so dark, she might have been a gypsy child roaming about the roads. He looked at her with a mixture of mischief and camaraderie.
‘Hey,’ he said as though he’d been waiting there for her to come along. It was early yet, full of promise; one of those long hot days that seem like a dream when they’re over. Miranda had already spent what there was of it trying to put distance between her father and herself. Instead, she’d offered to bring vegetables to old Mrs Bridgestock who couldn’t leave her house because she was a martyr to the gout.
‘Hello,’ she said spotting his icy blue eyes squinting against the sun while at the same time they picked out flashes on the water beneath him. Miranda had never seen this boy around before and Ballycove was small enough to know everyone. Then she remembered she’d heard her mother say the Blairs had guests, back for summer holidays with a boy not much older than herself. ‘On holidays, are you?’ she asked hopping up on the bridge next to him.
‘I am,’ he said, flashing a shy smile and handing her a flat stone to skim across the water’s surface.
‘Good shot,’ she said as she watched an elongated hopping string of splashes along the water’s rim. She threw her own and it almost matched his, and she smiled with satisfaction when she saw a glint of admiration in his eyes for her skill. ‘Are you staying with the Blairs?’
‘Yes, they’re my grandparents. I’m here for the whole summer long.’ He nodded towards the trees and she presumed he meant the big house, Blair Hall.
‘You’re really good at that.’ She nodded towards the river where another flat stone scudded efficiently across the water’s surface.
‘Thanks.’ He laughed then. ‘Richard Blair.’ He held out a hand formally. ‘Very pleased to meet you.’
‘Miranda Reilly,’ she said, swinging her legs across the bridge to get a better angle on her next skimming stone. ‘Delighted, I’m sure,’ she said to match his formality. Then she remembered the time. She needed to get back or her mother would surely have organised a search party. ‘Aren’t you a bit old to be skimming stones?’ she said to make fun of him, throwing one last shot along the water.
‘I probably am really. There’s not a lot else to do here at the moment. I’m looking forward to getting my fishing rod out. My grandfather is letting me borrow his old punt, but I’ll have to do a bit of tidying up on it first.’ He jumped down from the bridge and began to walk with her.
‘I’d love that… fishing on a boat in this weather. It sounds like heaven,’ Miranda said. Trips on boats were few and far between, since most of the boats were fishing boats and they had no room for children who just wanted to sightsee. ‘I could help, you know, get it ready, if you wanted,’ she said, unsure of what that would entail, but if it meant getting a few boat trips it would be worth it.
‘Ah, I’m not sure that’s really the kind of thing a girl would be any good at…’ He turned now, smiling at her. There was no animosity in his words. ‘You know, painting, it’s all very messy and it’s damned tricky work.’
‘Huh, I’ll have you know, I’ve probably done a lot more painting than you have.’
‘I’m sure you have, but this is proper painting, not flowers in vases or fruit in bowls.’ He bent down, pulled a bunch of cardinal flowers and handed them to her. He laughed then but his eyes were kind.
‘That’s not proper painting…’ she began, because there was one thing that living without her father had taught her over the last few years and that was how to be practical. Each Christmas it was her job to run the paintbrush around the edges of doors and windows, skirting boards and tiles. She had, her mother always said, an eye for detail.
In the distance she heard a church bell ring out and felt a stab of panic. She’d been gone much too long. The short jaunt had turned into not only a long ramble, but stopping here, with Richard Blair, had also robbed her of time when she should be getting back if she didn’t want to be grounded for the rest of the summer. That notion made her heart sink. She couldn’t imagine being shut up in their little cottage with her father for days on end. ‘Where’s your boat anyway?’