‘It would have been the making of him,’ Orla shook her head sadly.
Chicky felt this needed some explanation. ‘Shay’s not himself these days. He’s depressed. Nobody can reach him. We’re all hoping it’s just a phase.’
‘Depression in young men is very serious,’ Henry said.
‘Oh, I know it is, and Dr Dai is on the case but Shay won’t take medication or go for counselling or listen to anyone,’ Chicky sighed.
The others had begun to arrive in the kitchen so the matter was dropped.
Nicola sat beside the handsome American who was still calling himself John, and who had found a new friend in a local man called Frank Hanratty. Frank had driven him miles over mountain roads in a pink van to meet an old film director who had retired to this part of the world years back. A very pleasant and contented gentleman who had given them nettle soup.
‘Did he recognise you?’ Nicola asked, unguardedly.
Up to now they had never acknowledged out loud that John was in fact a film actor, a celebrity.
John took it all casually. ‘Yes, he was kind enough to say he knew my work. But he was fascinating. He has hens, you know, and beehives and a goat. He has a house full of books – he’s as happy as anyone I ever met.’
‘Extraordinary,’ Nicola was wistful. ‘It must be wonderful to be happy.’
John looked at her sharply but said no more.
Before they went to bed, they went outside to breathe in the cold sea air. Orla was just wheeling out her bicycle and on her way home.
‘Do you ever get tired of this view?’ Henry asked her.
‘No, I missed it so much when I lived in London. Some people find it sad. I don’t.’
‘What about the poor birdwatcher you were telling us about? Does he find it sad?’
‘Shay finds everything sad,’ Orla said, and cycled home.
It was at three o’clock in the morning that Henry and Nicola were wakened by the sound of birds crying out to each other. It wasn’t nearly time for the dawn chorus or the early-morning gathering of the gulls. Possibly it was a bird in distress out on their little balcony.
They got up to investigate.
Silhouetted against the moonlit sea was the thin figure of a teenage boy in a thin jumper, holding his arms around himself, his head back and weeping.
This must be Shay. Shay, who found everything sad.
Without even consulting each other, they put on their coats and shoes and went downstairs. They let themselves out into the cold night air.
The boy’s eyes were closed, his face contorted. They couldn’t make out the words that he was still crying aloud. He was shaking, and his thin shoulders were hunched in despair. He was dangerously near the edge of the cliff.
They moved towards him steadily, talking to each other so that he would not be startled at their approach.
He opened his eyes and saw them. ‘You’re not going to change my mind,’ he said.
‘No, that’s true,’ Henry said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re right. I’m not going to change your mind. If you don’t do it now, you’ll do it later tonight or next week. I know
that
.’
‘So why are you trying to stop me?’
‘Stop you? We’re not trying to stop you, are we, Nicola?’
‘No. Lord, no. People do what they want to do.’
‘So what
are
you doing then?’ His eyes were huge and filled with terror and his thin body was shaking.
‘We wanted to ask you about the greylag goose. We saw one today. I gather it flew in from Iceland.’
‘There’s nothing odd about seeing a greylag goose. Sure, the place is coming down with them. Now if you’d seen a snow goose,
that
would be something to talk about,’ said Shay.
‘A snow goose? Do they come from Iceland too?’ Nicola was moving round behind him but almost nonchalantly, and looking vaguely out to sea as if hoping to catch a snow goose in the light of the moon.
‘No, they’re from Arctic Canada, Greenland. You’d see them over in Wexford on the east coast. They don’t come here much.’
‘Have you seen them yourself?’ Henry wondered.
‘Oh yes, often, but as I say, not round here. I saw a bean goose last year. That’s fairly rare.’
‘A
bean
goose!’ Henry tried to put awe and admiration into his voice.
The boy smiled.
‘Could you come in and show us the bean goose in the bird book?’ Nicola asked, as if the thought had just come to her.
‘Ah, no. I’d only have Chicky going on and on about my going to the doctor. I hate doctors.’
‘Oh, I know.’ Nicola rolled her eyes to heaven as if sharing his view.
‘Anyway, you could look it up yourself. She has all the books in there.’
‘It’s not the same. You could explain . . .’
‘No, I wouldn’t feel easy about it.’ He was about to back away. Nicola was right behind him.
She put her hand gently on his arm. ‘Please come in with us. Henry can’t sleep, you see, and it would be such a help to us.’
‘All right, so. Just for a bit,’ he said, and came with them into the kitchen of Stone House.
They found him a big tartan jacket while his thin sweater was drying on the radiator. Nicola made them tea and they had some bread and cheese. He was still there explaining how you would tell a barnacle goose from a brent goose when the O’Haras arrived, calling out his name.
They had read the note he had left on their table; the note saying he was sorry but this was the only way out. They had been praying as they ran across the cliffs that they would be in time.
Shay’s father sat down at Chicky’s table and cried like a baby.
They phoned Shay’s mother, who had been so deeply in shock that she couldn’t come with them in the search. Chicky had come downstairs and was coping with everything as if this was to be expected in a day’s work.
‘We need a doctor,’ Shay’s sister said.
Shay looked up, annoyed at the idea.
Chicky was about to explain that there were already two doctors in the kitchen. Henry shook his head.
‘I’m sure Dr Dai would come,’ he said.
‘He’ll know what to do,’ Nicola agreed.
Chicky understood.
Next morning at breakfast they didn’t talk about it. Orla already knew. The whole of Stoneybridge had heard how the two English visitors had talked the boy out of the death he had planned. She looked at them gratefully as she served the food.
Some of the guests had thought they heard shouting in the night. A thing of nothing, Chicky explained, and they moved on to talk about plans for the day.
They called on Dai Morgan later in the morning.
‘There’s a human being alive today because of you,’ he said.
‘But for how long?’ Henry asked. ‘He’ll do it again, won’t he?’
‘Maybe not. He has agreed to go into hospital for observation. He says he will take his medication and he might talk to a counsellor. That’s a long way further down the road than before.’
Henry and Nicola looked at each other.
Dai went on talking. ‘I’m anxious to get my own move started as soon as possible. I’ll start telling people today. I was wondering . . . it’s a bit far out, but I was wondering . . .’
They knew what he was going to say.
‘I’ll need a locum for a couple of months. Would you think of it?’
‘They wouldn’t trust us. We’re outsiders.’
‘I was an outsider.’
‘But that’s different. They don’t know anything at all about us.’
‘They know you saved Shay O’Hara’s life. That’s as good a calling card as any,’ said Dai Morgan.
And then there was a lot to talk about, as plans were made.
‘It doesn’t have to be for thirty years, like me,’ Dai told them.
He watched them as they stood together in the winter sunshine, relaxed now as they had never been before.
‘Or then again, of course, you might even stay longer,’ he added.
W
hen Anders was at school and they asked him what would he be when he grew up, he always said that he would be an accountant like his father and grandfather. He would go to work in the big family firm with its impressive office in Stockholm. Almkvist’s was one of the oldest companies in Sweden, he would tell you proudly.
Anders was a very happy child with blond, floppy hair in his eyes. He loved music from an early age and could play the piano creditably at the age of five. He wanted a guitar when he was older, and learned to play without any instruction. You could hear him playing in his room night after night after he’d finished his homework; then their housekeeper, Fru Karlsson, introduced him to the
nyckelharpa
, the traditional Swedish keyed fiddle. It had belonged to her grandfather, and as she had learned how to play from him so she now showed Anders. She taught him some traditional Swedish songs to play on it, and he fell in love with its ethereal sound.
He lived with his parents, Patrik and Gunilla Almkvist, Fru Karlsson and their dog, Riva, in a beautiful apartment overlooking Djurgårdskanalen. He told people that his was the best school in Sweden, and that Riva was the best dog in the world. To praise Papa’s office was only just another part of the contented world he lived in. Two of his cousins, Klara and Mats, had gone to work in the family firm already, gaining office experience as they did their accountancy studies. Mats was a bit self-important but Klara was very down to earth and already knew the business inside out. They knew that Anders, as the heir and successor, would leave his piano and his
nyckelharpa
behind and go away to university to be groomed for the job that would one day be his. Meanwhile, they would take him out for coffee and tell him stories of the clients they met.
All kinds of well-known personalities from big business, sports and entertainment filed through the big arched doors of the office. There were meetings in the boardroom, there were discreet lunches in the private dining rooms of restaurants. Everyone in the office dressed very well; Mats wore designer suits and immaculate shirts, while Klara always managed to look elegant. Although she wore understated, sober office clothes she always looked as though she was ready to step on to a catwalk. Efficiency, style and discretion were the watchwords at Almkvist’s. Mats and Klara looked and sounded the part. Anders wondered whether he would ever feel comfortable in this world.
It was the style aspect Anders found the most challenging. He hardly noticed what other people wore, and always liked to dress comfortably himself. He could not begin to understand the importance of handmade shoes, precision Swiss watches and pure silk ties, and they certainly didn’t figure in the world of folk music to which he was most drawn.
His mother laughed at him affectionately.
‘Well-cut clothes make you look much more handsome, Anders. The girls will admire you if you dress well.’
‘They won’t notice clothes. Either they will like me or they won’t like me.’ He was fifteen, awkward, unsure.
‘So wrong, so very wrong. They’ll love you but first they have to look at you. It’s the first impression that counts. Believe me, I know.’ Gunilla Almkvist always looked elegant. She worked for a TV station where they set a high value on style. She never left the house before she was properly prepared for what the day would bring. She walked the two kilometres to work wearing her trainers; her elegant high-heeled shoes were kept in her office on the bottom shelf – seven pairs of them.
She made every effort to interest Anders in dressing more smartly, trying to build an enthusiasm where none existed. By the time he was eighteen she had stopped cajoling.
‘It’s not a joke any more, Anders. If you were in the army you’d have to wear a uniform. If you were going to be in the Diplomatic Service there would be rules about what to wear. You are going to work in Almkvist and Almkvist Accountants. There are rules. There are expectations.’
‘I’m going to study accountancy, isn’t that what it’s about?’
‘It’s what
some
of it is about. But it’s also about respecting the family traditions, about fitting in.’ There was something different, something odd in her tone this time.
He looked up. ‘None of that’s important, surely? It’s not what life is about.’
‘If you remember nothing else I’ve ever told you, just remember this. I agree that in the great scheme of things it is
not
important, but it is one small thing you can do to make life easier. That’s all. Just remember I told you that.’
Why was she sounding so strange?
‘You’re
always
going on about clothes and style. I don’t have to remember it, you keep telling me.’ He smiled at her, willing everything to be normal.
Everything was not normal.
‘I won’t be here to tell you,’ she said, her voice sounding as though her throat was constricted. ‘That’s why it’s important you listen now. I am going away. I am leaving your father. You will be going to university this autumn. This is the time for change.’
‘Does he know you are going?’ Anders’ voice was a whisper.
‘Yes. He knew that I would wait until you had finished school. I am going to London. I have a job there, and that’s where I will set up home.’
‘But won’t you be lonely there?’
‘No, Anders. I have been very lonely
here
. Your father and I have grown apart over a long time. He is married to the company. He will hardly miss me.’
‘But . . .
I
will miss you! This can’t be true! How did I not see anything or know about all this?’
‘Because we were all discreet. There was no need for you to know anything until now.’
‘And do you have somebody else in London?’ He knew he sounded like a seven-year-old.
‘Yes, I have a warm, kind, funny man called William. We laugh a lot together. I hope as the years go on you will get to know him and to like him. But for your father’s sake, just remember what I said about smartening yourself up. It will make your whole life much simpler.’
He turned his head away so that she would not see his distress. His mother was going off to London with a man called William who made her laugh. And what was she talking about as she left? Clothes. Bloody
clothes
. He felt his world had turned sideways and everything had slipped out of focus.