‘Doesn’t anyone use it anymore?’ Miranda asked looking up at what was once a pretty sailboat.
‘It was my grandfather’s but he hasn’t sailed in years. Not likely to now, either.’
‘Oh,’ Miranda said and she wasn’t sure what else to say. She thought she knew everyone in the village of Ballycove, but she couldn’t ever remember seeing Richard’s grandfather. Surely, she would have remembered him, if she had. She knew his grandmother, a homely-looking woman, with silver flecks through hair that must have once been very close in colour to Richard’s.
‘He’s not well mostly,’ Richard said as he caught a few large drips of varnish hanging from the base of the boat. ‘The war,’ he said making a face, ‘the Great War? It did something to him and he’s never really been right after it.’
‘Same as my dad so.’ Miranda exhaled. It was the first time she’d actually admitted to anyone that her father was not right. ‘He came back a month ago and he hasn’t spoken two words to me since.’
‘They used to call it shell-shock, from all the loud bangs, but I don’t know… my grandfather was an officer in the trenches, listening I suppose to others over his head dropping bombs around his ears.’
‘It had to be scary as hell, I suppose,’ Miranda supplied. ‘He must have been very brave.’ She knew the value of hearing something good about her own father.
‘Yes, I suppose he must have been. He hardly ever leaves the estate now, hasn’t for years, and can’t bear to go beyond it.’ Richard Blair shook his head as though he could hardly understand it.
‘I can’t imagine staying put all the time; of course, our house is a lot smaller than Blair Hall.’ She laughed now to cover over her nervousness – the last thing she wanted was to make him feel as others had done to her. ‘My dad can’t stay still at all. Sometimes, he goes off walking at odd hours, even in the middle of the night and when he’s home, well, he’s never really there, if you get my meaning.’ The sadness in her voice was as much for her mother and her father as it was for herself.
‘We’re a right pair so.’ Richard Blair smiled, a lopsided movement of his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Miranda could see in it something of her own experience of happiness always restrained by some unresolved emotion. Over the last month, this halter on her emotions had risen up in her. It was love mixed with fear and guilt and whatever other sentiment she was supposed to feel at any point. It was hard to feel unbridled joy when you were carrying such a sadness about your heart all the time. ‘Here.’ He searched in a satchel that had been cast carelessly along the bench and handed her a thick sandwich. ‘You can have half of mine.’ He opened a tall flask that smelled of something between sugar and coffee. ‘My grandmother makes the best hot chocolate,’ he said smiling at her before pouring them a cup each.
‘What about this?’ She pointed towards the name on the side of the boat, which was facing them now. ‘Funny Girl,’ she whispered softly. ‘Wouldn’t it look great in the red?’
‘Perhaps it’s what we could call you?’ Richard said as he angled a long and gentle gaze in her direction. ‘No?’ He smiled then, blushed a little, and went back to his sandwich. ‘See if you can’t paint around it and then we can decide later. There’s a nasty shade of yellow as a second option.’ He wrinkled his nose. It took almost the whole day to get the boat ready and it would take another day to dry it fully. ‘We’re lucky, the sun will dry it out quickly. We could be out catching our first fish tomorrow afternoon,’ he said.
‘I’ve never been properly fishing before…’ Miranda looked back at the huge, expensive looking rods that stood sentry inside the boathouse.
‘Well, perhaps I’ll show you how…’ Richard said with a lazy smile.
When they finished patching and painting, they took their rods along the bank and Richard set up Miranda, holding her steady and working with her hand over hand, his arms around her until at the same moment, they both seemed to realise the intimacy of the situation. Then, they dropped their lines just for fun. Richard had a jar of fresh worms dug up the day before and stored in the cool darkness of the boathouse, saving them for his first trip out on the water.
The day was hot and hazy and the water shimmered, a musky blanket attracting flies just close enough so the salmon nosed towards the water’s top. Too many silver salmon jumped up, tantalisingly close to them, but none of them lured by the measly bait on offer. Miranda lay back on the soft grass, enjoying the sounds of summer all around. The river was home to every water animal from frog to stoat and each rustle in the undergrowth suggested the proximity of something teasingly uncommon.