his pockets.
I took out my purse to check what I had, but he’d already run off to a nearby shop.
He came out a minute later carrying two ice-cream cones.
‘I hope you like sprinkles!’ he said just as the bus pulled up.
Chapter 6
The next afternoon Colin had to help his mum in the guesthouse, so I decided to write some lyrics. I needed to forget about what had happened at the doctor’s the day before. That had really done my head in. I just couldn’t accept that all that stuff was caused by something … What had she called it? Paranormal? Supernatural? Whatever it was, it was weird, but there was no way I was calling it any of those things. Maybe I was in denial, but I just couldn’t go there. Mum had asked me how it went and seemed relieved when I used the allergies excuse again. I wasn’t ready to tell her what Dr Cahill had really said.
I didn’t need to think about that now; anyway I had more important things to consider. It was far too long since I’d written a song. The noise on the building-site-that-was-my-home wasn’t making it the most inspirational place to write, so I threw my notebook into my patchwork bag along with my favourite pen, and headed for the village. I knew exactly where I’d go – to Avarna’s communal garden. It was in a little hidden-away spot down by the river, the perfect place to write a song.
As I walked along the road I began to feel a bit better. I was happy with this plan. Arranging words to music has always been an important part of my life. After writing a song, I feellike a weight has been lifted from me, as if some of my deepest feelings have been released. I suppose you could say it’s become my way of dealing with things. I find it much easier to write a song than to talk my problems over with somebody else. Putting the right words to my feelings seemed to make them more real, more permanent. Maybe that was why I found it so hard to find the words to describe what was happening … About what the doctor had said. I didn’t believe in that kind of thing. I didn’t want that to be part of my world, to consider the ‘supernatural’ a reality.
Love, on the other hand, was a totally different matter. I wanted that to be part of my life. I wanted it more than anything. I bent down and picked a daisy and pulled off the petals as I walked along. ‘He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.’
I hurried down the path to the garden entrance, pushed open the white painted iron gate and stepped inside. The garden was surrounded by a low hedge. It was small but perfect, with a wrought-iron bench, a water fountain in the centre and a picnic table down near the river. I was glad to be alone in this miniature paradise.
A family of ducks floated on the river, the smallest one diving beneath the surface every few moments. The water was still except for the ripples made by the ducks. I was tempted to skim a stone and watch it bounce along the surface, but resisted. I didn’t want to frighten them away.
A path led through the garden to the wrought-iron bench, which was under an oak tree. The iron felt cold against my back as I settled down, my patchwork bag beside me. Hundreds of people must have sat on this bench, each with their own stories,their own obsessions, their own pain. I took out my notebook and pen and started to write.
The words seemed to flow on to the page as easily as the river ran downstream. I like to just jot down whatever comes to me, not worrying whether it makes sense or not, and then work on it later. I read the words I’d just written, knowing that they were far from perfect, but knowing too that they reflected my feelings so, if nothing else, they were certainly honest.
When I thought about the last song I’d written it seemed like a lifetime ago. So much in my life had changed since then. I remembered it had been in Dublin, in my bedroom. I’d been so angry with Cian. I couldn’t believe what he’d done.
I took out my purse to check what I had, but he’d already run off to a nearby shop.
He came out a minute later carrying two ice-cream cones.
‘I hope you like sprinkles!’ he said just as the bus pulled up.
Chapter 6
The next afternoon Colin had to help his mum in the guesthouse, so I decided to write some lyrics. I needed to forget about what had happened at the doctor’s the day before. That had really done my head in. I just couldn’t accept that all that stuff was caused by something … What had she called it? Paranormal? Supernatural? Whatever it was, it was weird, but there was no way I was calling it any of those things. Maybe I was in denial, but I just couldn’t go there. Mum had asked me how it went and seemed relieved when I used the allergies excuse again. I wasn’t ready to tell her what Dr Cahill had really said.
I didn’t need to think about that now; anyway I had more important things to consider. It was far too long since I’d written a song. The noise on the building-site-that-was-my-home wasn’t making it the most inspirational place to write, so I threw my notebook into my patchwork bag along with my favourite pen, and headed for the village. I knew exactly where I’d go – to Avarna’s communal garden. It was in a little hidden-away spot down by the river, the perfect place to write a song.
As I walked along the road I began to feel a bit better. I was happy with this plan. Arranging words to music has always been an important part of my life. After writing a song, I feellike a weight has been lifted from me, as if some of my deepest feelings have been released. I suppose you could say it’s become my way of dealing with things. I find it much easier to write a song than to talk my problems over with somebody else. Putting the right words to my feelings seemed to make them more real, more permanent. Maybe that was why I found it so hard to find the words to describe what was happening … About what the doctor had said. I didn’t believe in that kind of thing. I didn’t want that to be part of my world, to consider the ‘supernatural’ a reality.
Love, on the other hand, was a totally different matter. I wanted that to be part of my life. I wanted it more than anything. I bent down and picked a daisy and pulled off the petals as I walked along. ‘He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.’
I hurried down the path to the garden entrance, pushed open the white painted iron gate and stepped inside. The garden was surrounded by a low hedge. It was small but perfect, with a wrought-iron bench, a water fountain in the centre and a picnic table down near the river. I was glad to be alone in this miniature paradise.
A family of ducks floated on the river, the smallest one diving beneath the surface every few moments. The water was still except for the ripples made by the ducks. I was tempted to skim a stone and watch it bounce along the surface, but resisted. I didn’t want to frighten them away.
A path led through the garden to the wrought-iron bench, which was under an oak tree. The iron felt cold against my back as I settled down, my patchwork bag beside me. Hundreds of people must have sat on this bench, each with their own stories,their own obsessions, their own pain. I took out my notebook and pen and started to write.
The words seemed to flow on to the page as easily as the river ran downstream. I like to just jot down whatever comes to me, not worrying whether it makes sense or not, and then work on it later. I read the words I’d just written, knowing that they were far from perfect, but knowing too that they reflected my feelings so, if nothing else, they were certainly honest.
When I thought about the last song I’d written it seemed like a lifetime ago. So much in my life had changed since then. I remembered it had been in Dublin, in my bedroom. I’d been so angry with Cian. I couldn’t believe what he’d done.
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