Chapter 24
THE BOATSHED
The sun casts a warm golden glow on the rugged Irish landscape surrounding us as we drive towards The Lake House, painting the green hills and distant mountains in a delicate brush of light.
James, with one hand casually gripping the wheel of his well-loved jeep, gazes ahead with a sense of peace and nostalgia in his eyes.
I take in the strong contours of his face, softened by a hint of a smile.
I’m entranced by the beauty of the scenery – and the company.
We drive in comfortable silence for a few more moments before James speaks. ‘I’m glad you came, Daisy,’ he says, his voice slightly hoarse.
I turn to look at him, taken aback by the emotion in his words. ‘I wouldn’t be here without you; thanks again for all your help,’ I reply sincerely. ‘From what your dad said, you and Mick had a very close bond. I know how hard it is losing someone you cared about.’
A sadness passes briefly across his face as he nods in response, but it swiftly fades and is replaced with a small smile. ‘He was a great man,’ he remarks fondly.
We lapse back into silence as James weaves through the country roads, through valleys and over hills.
We pass by sprawling green fields, cattle grazing lazily in the distance.
I love the smell of the fresh Irish air, and the sound of the birds chirping in the trees.
The peace and quiet is interrupted by the occasional car or motorcycle racing by, but other than that it’s just us and nature.
The scent of woodland and wildflowers fills my lungs as I gaze out across the rolling hills and lush meadows, so different to London’s smog-filled skyline.
An unexpected sense of connection washes over me here, a calming energy that sparks my creativity.
What stories could these hills tell? I think as I take in the scenery.
Bright red poppies, their petals reflecting in the sunlight, dance between blades of grass.
A brilliant brand-new hue. Is it vermillion?
Flame? Dark coral? As I stand here watching nature’s colours unfiltered, I’m reminded why coming here, away from the city, even just for such a short while, was such a good decision for me.
If it wasn’t thrust upon me, I’d have been too scared to take this trip.
How long had I wanted to come to Innisfree but never did?
And then, out of nowhere, James O’Connor shows up and here I am, winding through country lanes, feeling a sense of belonging like none I’ve felt before.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ I say after a while.
‘Sure.’
‘Why have you gone to such lengths to do all this for Mick?’ I’m eager to learn more about the man who played such a crucial role in shaping the person sitting beside me.
He looks across at me, his eyes darken. ‘It’s complicated…
’ he says. He takes a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is even softer than before.
‘Like Dad said, Mick was like a father figure to me,’ he explains.
‘He was the one who took me in when I had no home, no family and no hope. He believed in me when nobody else did. He showed me that life could be so much more than what I’d imagined and gave me the strength to make something of myself.
’ He pauses briefly and his shoulders slump as if weighed down by memories. ‘So, I owe it to him.’
My heart softens at his words; I can’t help but admire his strength of character, despite all his pain.
I know there’s more to the story than he’s telling me, but I also know that it’s not my place to push him.
So I just sit next to him, offering him my support and understanding.
Because sometimes, that’s all you can do for someone.
Just be there for them and wait till they’re ready.
Up ahead, a single sheep begins to wander across the road. Then another comes. And then a whole flock joins them. A man in a flat cap is standing in the middle of them, waving a stick around.
James brakes, bringing the jeep to a stop. ‘Roadblock,’ he mumbles before slumping in his seat. ‘Grab a snooze if you’d like; they’ll be here for at least twenty minutes – sheep are notoriously slow.’
We sit in silence, then James blows out his cheeks and straightens up, locking his fingers around the back of his head. ‘You sure you want to know…?’ he says.
‘If you’re sure you want me to,’ I reply.
‘Come on then – I’ll show you.’ James flashes me a sideways grin before shifting gears and leaving the main road for a dirt track. ‘We’ve time for a quick detour.’
We follow the winding track until we reach a clearing surrounded by old-growth trees.
James pulls up to an aged wooden gate bearing a sign that reads ‘The Boatshed’, and we get out of the jeep and cross through the gate, making our way down a narrow path lined with tall pines.
We walk down the glen, through the heather and the gorse, to the place where a babbling brook sends its melodic lullabies upstream.
The air is fresh and clean, smelling of wildflowers and new grass.
This place is unlike any I’ve ever visited in person, apart from the places that existed only in my mother’s stories.
I’m starting to realise how having a vivid imagination is like flipping two sides of a coin.
It’s easy to dream up any possibility – both dreams and nightmares.
I find it easier to see things as they could be rather than how they really are.
But here, for the first time, I feel those two visions are aligned, closer together than they’ve ever been before.
James offers me his hand as I try to navigate my way down the steep grassy drop to The Boatshed, pausing every few steps so he can point out something or ask me about my life in London, about my work, about the books and music I like, about my hopes for the future.
I slip forward slightly. A grassy verge gives way underfoot, and he catches me, both hands firmly holding me by the side.
‘I’m sorry. Clearly I’m not the mountain goat I like to think I am.’
In an instant, I can feel the weight of his gaze on me.
I look up at him and hold my breath for a moment.
Our eyes lock and the air around us seems to change.
My heart races; is he feeling it too? I want this, whatever it is that’s happening here, to be real.
All I can do is hope that his smile is real, and it’s not all in my head.
I can’t be sure. I step back to regain my stance, and he fiddles with his watch, blushing.
‘Anyway. If you can stick with it, we’ll be there in less than a minute.’ He laughs. ‘Unless we go into injury time.’
We walk a few more feet until the terrain shifts to flat land, and suddenly, through the canopy of trees, I can see it all.
I gasp in wonder as we approach – at one side there’s a vast lake filled with crystal-clear water reflecting like glass across its surface; on the opposite side, a three-story white house with a thatched roof and two chimneys stands tall.
The original windows of the manor overlook the lake that laps around the estate – all set against the backdrop of rolling green hills stretching out into eternity.
James leads me to a little wooden boatshed on the banks of the lake.
Turning over a large stone, he finds a key and unlocks the door.
The small space is so cosy and charming, a little workshop with tools hanging on the walls, a large canvas of pencil etchings and scrawled notes.
A scratched window, devoid of any curtains, gives a perfect view of the lake and the peaks in the distance.
James lights a lantern and sets it on the table.
He opens a small chest and takes out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.
He pours us each a glass, and we sit down at the table.
‘So… here we are,’ he whispers. ‘Where it all started and where it all ended…’ He takes a sip of his drink and stares out the window, lost in thought. ‘Right, so I was a complete tearaway when I was younger – stupid, arrogant, bad-tempered, reckless… you name it.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you weren’t that bad,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood.
‘No, I was worse.’ He gives me a half-smile. ‘I had a mullet.’
‘Oh, okay… that is bad.’ I laugh.
‘Anyway, my dad used to bring me fishing here when I was a lad, and it was the only time I was ever calm. It’s like this place has some kind of magical power over me.
But as I got older, we fought more and more – I was in trouble at school, in town, out late, up to no good.
Of course, he was mortified as he felt he was a respectable pillar of the community. ’
‘Was it just you and your dad at home?’ I ask, wanting to understand his story without being too intrusive.
He nods solemnly, biting his lower lip. ‘Yeah, my mum died the day she had me due to sepsis. So, I never knew her. In the hospital, we spent a few hours together until they realised something was seriously wrong. Each year, on my birthday, my dad would tell me that when he woke up on this same day however many years ago, he was a happily married man with a beautiful wife but ended the day as a single father.’
James pauses and takes another sip of his whiskey, his eyes looking miles away.
My heart aches for him; my mum had been taken away from me too soon but at least I knew her, remembered her, shared special times with her.
But James’ situation is different, losing his mother and then never really knowing his father’s love either, it must be a unique kind of pain.
Jonathan’s words cause a swell of anger inside me; how could he talk like that?
How could he be so callous? I move closer to him, gently placing a hand on his arm.
I can feel his sorrow as if it were my own.
He looks at me, and I offer a small smile.
‘By the time I hit fourteen, things weren’t going well at home.
So, I decided to leave, and I came down here and just slept rough, basically…
And then Mick smoked me out one evening.
I thought he’d send me packing, but he didn’t.
He understood me, he listened to me, he bollocked me in a way that didn’t make me feel worthless.
I started helping him out and then ended up staying with him.
We became mates; he said I was the son he never had…
nor wanted.’ He laughs and shakes his head.
I can sense how much he looked up to his older friend, for being there for him when no one else was. ‘No wonder Mick was so important to you. Sounds like he was a big support.’
He gives a definitive nod. ‘Mick was the one who put me on the right track, saved me from hanging out in bars and pool halls with a bad crowd. Without him, my life could have gone in a very different direction. He helped mend the relationship between my father and me. And then I grew up a bit and it was my turn to look out for Mick, so when he told me he wanted to build a boat…’ James sighs and pinches his nose between his fingers, squeezing his eyes shut.
‘I couldn’t turn him down: he’d taught me so much about woodworking that I could follow his instructions with ease.
He only needed a strong hand and a younger set of eyes for some of the more manual labour.
The design, the material selection – all of that was up to him.
I was just here to do the grunt work and spend time with a great friend. ’
His voice trails off and he looks at me, his blue eyes piercing in the lantern light.
‘I thought the silly beggar would wait until we’d finished it…
but he didn’t… And one night, when the moon was full and the tide was out, he decided to take it out, a little test run…
just to see how it went.’ James pauses and looks out the window, his face solemn.
‘But it didn’t go well. The boat capsized and Mick drowned. ’
I reach out to touch his hand but stop, my fingertips half an inch away from his skin, before quickly drawing back and tucking them into my lap. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for him, reliving those painful memories. He stares out the window, his eyes fixed on some distant point.
His lips are in a hard line and he shakes his head.
‘And I blame myself,’ he murmurs. ‘I should never have let him talk me into helping him in the first place.’ He turns to face me, his expression filled with anguish and guilt.
‘It was a disaster waiting to happen. If I’d talked him out of it or given him a dose of common sense, he’d still be alive.
He’d be here this very day – I know it. I know it too well. ’
‘It wasn’t your fault!’ I say desperately. ‘You couldn’t have known what would happen.’
‘I should have known,’ he says quietly. ‘I should have stopped him.’
After losing the only person who ever really understood him and now carrying this burden of guilt, it’s no surprise he’s clung to this spot, never wanting to forget Mick’s memory.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.
‘So am I.’ He nods, a slight smile playing across his face as he begins to recall the adventures they had together, from sneaking out in the middle of the night to go fishing, to swimming in the lake in freezing temperatures.
As he talks, his face lights up and I can see that being here helps him feel just a little bit less alone in the world.
He eventually pauses, looking around as if awaking from a dream. ‘We should probably go now,’ he says softly. ‘Enough hearing about my sob stories.’
As we turn to leave, I glance back and something on the shelf catches my attention. It’s a postcard of Innisfree, encased in a heavy wooden box frame – a perfect copy of the one my mum owned. The one that had pride of place everywhere we moved to, the only item she truly seemed to cling to.
‘One minute.’ I reach up and take it down. ‘Do you know why Mick would have this?’ I ask.
James shrugs. ‘No clue.’
I hold it in my hands and wipe the dust from the glass.
‘Framing a postcard – I mean, that’s the kind of daft thing he’d do,’ James says as he looks at it more closely. ‘It’s Mick’s handiwork though.’ He runs his fingers along its edges in admiration before turning to me with a nod.
‘Would it be okay if I took this with me?’ I ask.
‘No need to ask my permission, Daisy. It’s all yours.’ He opens his arms wide and gazes around. ‘I mean that. It really is all yours.’