I watched her for a moment from the top gate. She crouched at the water’s edge, turning over certain stones or pebbles, reckoning the one from all the others at her feet. The dog slipped through the bars and ran on, barking. I saw her take fright and put her hands up, letting fly what she grasped in her left hand. The dog yelped and ran into shallows, snapping and growling at the ripples spreading out on the surface.

- Don’t mind the dog, I shouted. He won’t bite!

She rose to her feet, and kept her eyes fixed on the collie. She’d seen my years I’d say, but indoors. Small hands, dark hair licking a round face, nose pinched up a little at the end. She wore a jacket of light blue, made of a new material that promised proof against wind and rain. I’d seen the like of it in a catalogue and on her it was not as garish as I’d imagined. She turned to look my way. I put a hand to my cap and pulled it an inch lower to my eyes.

- Sorry, I got such a fright, she said.

She’s English. I whistled and the dog slunk to the ground with a whimper between us.

- Oh, he’ll not harm a fly, I said, leaning on the stick. She was still staring at me. Most did.

- I’m Dr. Morecombe, Department of Geology at Durham. Is this your land?

I called the dog to my feet as she took a step towards me. It was a habit: a dog and a few feet of separation, for my sake in the main. When I still ventured into town at night, I saw their hands tighten ever more grimly around pints as I walked by the window of the Harbour Bar, for fear I might step in and do what a man might do of a pleasant evening, order a round and talk about the price of lamb and the pities of our land. But she was English and maybe she didn’t know better how we should look. Thought I was married to a cousin no doubt. I rubbed my chin and re-settled the flat cap.

I think she took that as a no.

Impatience, another weakness in the English in general to my knowledge.

She went on talking. And on. Oh, she could talk a majestic talk, about the university and this here important field trip and her students arriving about six and the wonderful opportunity to study the volcanic geology of the North Antrim plateau. She slowed down to ask me,

- Do you know your schists are some of the oldest in the British Isles?

I pondered her ‘schists’ but she went on without drawing breath, leaving me glancing around for their ancient forms like a stranger on my own land. You’d need the whole of your health if this was anything like a conversation, but it hardly needed the two of us so I braved another look as she pointed at this and this and this.

She was fine. Shapely but not fat. A vigour in her cheeks and arms. The thought came into my head, unbidden but pleasant, that she’d not decline hauling sheep by the neck through the dip while I watched from the side, a leisurely smoke and a smile at my lips. We’d go home and eat bacon and fried eggs and homemade wheaten bread at the kitchen table with the dog lapping up oily scraps we’d throw to the flagstone floor.

Dr. Morecombe bent for a second then held up a rough, grey stone as she talked. No thanks, I have a million of those I wanted to say. Her sleeve slipped back and I caught sight of the watch on her wrist. It had a fine oval face and gold links. Just like my mother’s. I had it in a box somewhere.

Then she laughed, sort of like a child. I hadn’t a notion what she’d said.

- Sorry, I didn’t rightly hear, Dr. Morecombe. Something about tents?

- I was saying about the two nights. We have to move on after that.

It must be the accent. I could gather neither a request nor a settled fact from her words. It seemed to have been agreed regardless. I chanced a yes.

- That would be fine by me. I’ll show you where you can put down.

I turned from the lake and headed for the field closest the house. We walked up and over the ridge that held back the waters. The farmhouse was below, shielded by hazel and beech, winter cover my father had planted in days of ambition. It was not much, you might have thought it shabby, but it was home enough for myself and the collie and Sheba, the big grey mouser.

- It’s all mine down to there, I told her. Set yourselves down anywhere here, up to the stone wall. Just mind out you shut the gates, er, Dr. Morecombe.

- Oh yes, we’ll be extra very careful I can assure you, oh, I’m awfully sorry, you must think I’m rude, I didn’t ask your name.

- Finn, they call me Finn.

- Pleased, I’m sure. ‘Finn’.

She looked straight at me. She said my name like it needed an explanation, a plain truth that wasn’t. Maybe so.

I leant in and stretched out over the dog. I took her hand briefly. Just the one slight tug downwards and a bit of an up. I felt it all over.

She’ll stride off now, I convinced myself. I’d tip my hat good day and then maybe again in two days as she drives off along the track up to the main road and that would be that. I’d think about her and then damn myself for the lack in me. I’d try to forget, I’d sit with the farming news on the radio and Sheba on my lap, purring. So I put myself in that delicate territory, to my mind, especially considering the caution and isolation I’d endured since my father died, of looking like a fool up against these wits, and to dare the regard of her dark beauty, the black curls and the glint of yellow on her wrist. When I finally spoke what I said was so very far from how I felt, that I blush yet to think of how the words seemed to hang then drop, like her flinty schists, to the shores of the Vanishing Lake.

- Would you like some eggs in the morning? The hens are in good form.

She considered a reply. I could see the yes or the no rising up slowly. The dog and I could have taken a run round the lake in the time it took to meet her lips. Maybe she had eggs. Or maybe she didn’t even eat eggs at all, I’ve known such a thing. And what an eejit I must have sounded, her talk of volcanoes and ‘igneous outflows’ and then my eggs. Oh, Dr. Morecombe, what did you see? What made you say yes in that finger snap of time about which my world lurched?

- Yes, she said. Yes, that would lovely, really. Very kind of you. Really.

The way she said ‘really’, I could have wrapped it around me like a cloak.

- Fine. And what time would you be rising?

She smiled again.

- We’ll be ‘rising’ about seven. Not too early I hope?

- Not at all, Dr. Morecombe. I’ll be done milking by then.

I didn’t ask if she’d want milk, still warm, from my cows. These people can only go so far.

- Lovely. We’ll all look forward to the eggs. And call me Janet, please.

I searched her face for the deceptive niceties I’d always considered fell more easily from English mouths but her eyes held me with an honest gaze, lips quiet now against hidden meditations. The Mona Lisa had a sister.

The dog barked; it was time to go home. We said good day and I walked on, resisting the temptation to throw a backwards glance over my shoulder. In the house, I stood in the room and stared out across the small field of potatoes. A red car jolted and smoked along the track out of the yard. I watched until it disappeared along the main road.

On the shelf in the kitchen, beside the range, amongst the jumble of old bills and papers, lay a book on Animal Husbandry, a 1967 Pears’ Compendium, not much touched and a Collins School Dictionary. I pulled down the slim volume. Nothing on schists, old or new. I went back up the field to where we’d parted. The cows were already in stately progress towards the gate, lowing quietly at the prospect of milking.

After a supper of tea and bread and a bit of ham, I poured myself a good measure of whiskey and a drop of water. I sat in the high-backed yellow arm chair with the cat and went over the matters of the day gone by. Sheba, I said, I can second guess cows better than humans. She gave me her best vacant stare. When the light fell, I drained the glass and went up. From the window, next the last trees, I could see the light of a camp fire and tall shadows in the branches. I watched until the dark shapes sank behind the farmyard wall.

In the morning, I drove up as quick as I could manage to check the sheep and scatter hay for the cows. At the house, I slipped off work clothes and washed all over. I stood at the bed end at the mirror. The sun was too feeble yet to chase away the murk in the corners of the room. What did Dr. Morecombe see? I ran two roughened hands along and down white and blue flesh, shivering lightly from the chill touch. And nerves.

In the wardrobe, at arm’s reach, there was my father’s suit. He’d had two, worn on alternate Sundays, his only streak of vanity. The dark blue was older, narrow lapels, shiny in the seat. I put him in the black for his funeral. At the wake, I sat while friends and family prayed and shuffled around the open coffin but he was not himself. His remains were puffed out by the embalming fluids and cotton wool in his cheeks. They’d taken a decade off him, I’d thought, though he’d not have cared about that, only that a good suit, not ten years old, was buried with him. That would have killed him. He looks like Uncle John, my cousin Mary said, fixing the rosary beads in his cold clasp. He’s his own father swore another. I couldn’t see how we revert to our forebearers in death. To me, flesh and bones are a disguise, saying nothing more about who lies inside.

I pulled out the suit. I put it on over the whitest shirt. It hung in places it should wrap and it wrapped where it should’ve hung but I liked what it could hide. For a moment, I was a film star, a tall, dark stranger, the smoke of a cigarette spiraling up from two fingers poised just like so, falling in love with Bette Davis.

I loved her eyes in that. Like my cows’.

I was ready apart from eggs. Bantams, I thought, give up your finest Grade A.

I went outside. The foxes had gone at the coop fence in the night, digging a brave way under the wire though it had held. I’d let the dog sleep inside and he’d taken his comforts too well. But for one egg without a shell, the hens were panicked out of laying. I made repairs to the breach as quickly as I could manage and then made my way up the back lane into the field. I saw about eight or ten young people, rolling canvas and packing poles. Dr. Morecombe was on a stool, head down, reading what I took for scientific materials. I shuffled around at the gate. I was in a state of nerves, I’ll confess it now. The students glanced over as I walked through but they paid me no mind. I leaned an arm against the stone wall at the side of where she sat on the low stool. It was not learning but maps which concerned her. I waited for that absent moment to occur where a body raises their head but she kept hers down, marking this and this with a pencil. I coughed.

- Sorry, Dr…Janet.

- Oh, Finn, you came. We had to make do without your eggs, I’m afraid.

- Sorry, only the fox…

- Not at all, I assumed you had got caught up with lambs or urgent farm matters. Never mind, it was the thought that counts, I always say –  you’ll have them all to yourself now…

Another type of volcanic outflow.

- I know I did say we’d be here two nights but there’s been a change of plan, and yes, listen Finn, you might be able to help with this, a trip by road, we’ll need to take in a number of locations, all fascinating places, geologically speaking. Here, look, what do you think we should do, clockwise by the A2 and onto the B14 or… up to this village, I believe it’s called… Cush – Cushendun? She looked up, one finger jabbing the folded sheets.

I stepped close and looked over her shoulder. The lines and contours swirled in front of me, making no sense however I angled my head at them.

We were inches apart. I must always remember this, I thought, my finger tracing hers across the print, the way she rounded up stray curls behind an ear with a careful sweep, the smell of her hair, the pencil end on her bottom lip, tapping out a rhythm. No one else saw it.

Janet studied the map.

Did they want the scenic route? Or is it all business now?

- Well, let’s see, there’s only one road worth taking to Cushendun, and that’s round by Torr.

- Oh, that sounds interesting. Along here?

She pointed to a location but I didn’t understand the map so I told her,

- You take the signs from Ballyvoy.

I waved the stick at the horizon behind us where the Ballyvoy lay just out of sight. She looked down at the map and slowly put down a finger and the pencil.

- Yes, yes, I see it now, a C road, along the coast. Oh, and cliffs too it seems.

- You’d need a keen pair of eyes on the road, Dr. Morecombe…er, Janet. There isn’t six feet in a straight line.

- Goodness, we’ll have to watch out, Finn.

She would rise to the dare, I had no doubt. I regretted telling her now. I could see her talking away and her wee red car taking a shortcut to the bottom of the Irish Sea.

She was leaving. Ask her one thing, I thought, just one question, anything, for the knowledge of having done it as you watch them drive off by yourself.

- Would you be coming back this way by any chance? I mean to say…

- The simple answer, Finn, is yes. The complicated one is more of a plea, you see, to store our camping equipment here for us to pick up on Friday, that is if you wouldn’t mind doing that. We’d be ever so grateful, as we’ve decided to add to the itinerary. It’s more of an introductory geological survey of the Antrim Plateau than for sample collection, to be honest, but I’ll get that past the Head of Department somehow. Leave that to me, it needn’t bother you obviously, ha ha, it’s just that we shan’t manage it all unless we set off by road today. Of course we’ll have to find a hostel or B&B and actually, maybe you can help me there too. Oh I know I should have come down and asked first but I thought you’ve been so kind with the eggs and everything I just thought I didn’t want to trouble you further.

I watched her talk, the whole gallon, then pause and look over, waiting for my reply. I saw the next sentence gathering so I swung the crook aside and said, flat on top of the half-formed words in her mouth.

- Yes, it’s no bother.

Then, again, slowly,

- No bother. No trouble at all. Janet.

Her lips closed and softened into a smile. Success.

- Thank you so much. Finn.

- Sure I have space in the barn for storage. I’ll see no harm to your belongings until you return. Friday?

- Lovely, yes that’s it, Friday. About six? It’s the night boat we’ll be taking back to Durham.

She gathered the students and gave out orders. They took only a frantic minute to throw bags and boxes into the back of a minibus they had driven down from a lay-by on the main road. Dr. Morecombe conducted with one arm, then the other, barking out instructions.

‘Careful, Peter!’

‘No, no, Sophie, how many times do I need to -’

‘Don’t stack those, Andrew’.

Then, to me, before leaving, unguarded, ‘See you on Friday’.

She got in to her red car. Andrew got in beside her holding the map. They drove away. I could see her left hand talking.

She’ll return, I thought, then she’ll leave. Three more days for words to coil in my head, like a noose of my own making, made from a fancy that a woman like the Dr. Morecombe would have an interest in a shell like me. Better to undo the knot with grace.

I tried.

On Friday it rained as I drove into town. I picked up messages at the vets and then at the chemists, less troubled by the stares and with little thought of fleeing back to the farm. I waited until the library seemed clear. I opened the rear door. It was quiet, about half an hour before closing. I passed along, trying to make out the arrangement of the books on the shelves. Impossible. I should have left more time. I edged up to the desk.

The librarian gave me one of those country looks that were more of a gawk. Coming in here dressed in the likes of that.

- Have you anything on science?

- Science? Yes. General science is that way and textbooks on health and medicine in the reference section. What exactly were you looking for?

- Rocks. Books on rocks. Geological, that is.

- Oh, I don’t think we have those. Sorry.

- I see. Thank you now.

I turned to leave. She called out when I reached the glass door.

- Excuse me? There might be something in ‘local interest’…if it’s about local rocks?

A Geological History of Ulster, a rich vein, you might say. I picked another next to that, for the better look of it when I checked them out, called Myths and Legends of Ireland. She stamped the books in a hurry and bolted the door like a drawbridge behind me.

After tea, I heaped the turf on the fire in the front room and with the cat peeking over my shoulder from the top of the chair, I opened the first book. Introduction, then the earth’s core and tectonic plates, then the index, in despair.

Schists, you see, are everywhere. It’s new rock formed from older layers through the combined effect of heat and pressure. But here’s the thing. Nothing is lost or gained. It’s like the way turf turns to coal or coal to diamonds. The one thing becomes the other, but doesn’t change inside. Fearfully and wonderfully it transforms.

I heard a noise outside and looked up. A minibus was stopping on the main road where it had parked earlier in the week. They’re back. Her red car jolted once more as it made its way down towards the house.

I went out to help the students take boxes and tents from the barn but it was Janet’s show and so they were brisk about it. They were soon done.

- Would youse like some tea? I said. Inside, faith had drained away. There was a shaking of heads, talk about the wet roads and a pressing need to make the night ferry to Stranraer. Dr. Morecombe took a step forward.

- I’d love a cuppa, thank you Finn. I’m taking the Liverpool boat tomorrow. More convenient for visiting relations this weekend.

If anyone thought it odd, it didn’t show. They were filling the seats as she spoke, as if they couldn’t linger one more moment.

I went inside as she saw them off and watched her go to the car and rummage in the boot. I slipped into the back kitchen so as not to be seen standing at the window like a ghost. The clock ticked by two minutes. The rain stopped. She knocked politely at the front and pushed the door open.

She stood there with a bag on one shoulder and a bottle in her other hand, which she waved at me, as if it might ring out a prodigal chime. She stepped into the narrow hall and stopped beside me. Did she too draw a shallow breath as we stood at the door?

She did not.

- So, Finn. How long have you been passing as a man?

I leant on the wall with one hand. I invited her in and closed the green front door. I sat down in the high backed chair and picked up the iron to poke the turf and stared and put my hands to their meagre heat.

- You need to sort out your kitchen Finn, all I could find were these sherry glasses, oh and you’ve no corkscrew… I’ve had to push it down with a fork handle so don’t mind those floating bits. They won’t kill you.

Dr. Morecombe, it’s not the cork that’ll kill me.

- I’m going to need a large whiskey, I said, nodding my head towards the sideboard. She brought me a glass and the bottle of Bushmills.

Then, as if the ridge gave way and the lake poured down onto the house, I spilled out my life. I never felt myself in girls’ clothes. A tomboy is welcome on a farm with no sons, but my parents fretted as I became the ‘confirmed spinster’, the country dread. ‘Wear the lovely green dress’ and ‘I’m happier in high green waders’, the ones we don for the sheep dipping. Mother wouldn’t let me out to mass except in a skirt, so I’d stopped going at eighteen. Then, when they’d both passed away, I’d put away skirts and dresses and bright colours for good.

Maybe it was the red wine, but she listened. There was a moment of quiet when we both stopped. The turf crackled and sparked in the grate.

- Do you want to be a man, Finn? Only there’s things they can do, you know?

I stared at her.

- Not at all, I said, in the way the Irish add syllables with intent. I drained the glass.

- Sure who’d be a man? Full of hollow vanities, like the radio news, broadcast themselves to all the wide world. No, I’ll do as I am. I’m happy this way. But in a suit.

Janet roared, like I’d pushed a lever for a new gear. She wiped her eyes with a finger of each hand. Laughing is crying. The comedy drained away, she spoke again, still in these new tones.

- Oh Finn, I’m so sorry. Poor you, I thought, stuck out here, what kind of a life is it. But look at you. You have your own farm, the cows, sheep and chickens and you can come out with all that. And, if I may be frank for a second….

Don’t change on my account.

- You do look good in a suit.

She sipped from her glass and waited. I didn’t reply. A look passed from north to south on her round face. I turned away to the grate. I filled my glass. I struck a match to a cigarette. The warmth of the whiskey rose inside me and the smoke spiralled up from my left hand. Everything was good.

- You’ll not drive after that bottle, I said. Stay the night, I could do supper, though it wouldn’t be much.

- I’ve a better idea, she replied, getting up from the chair. I’ll get another bottle from the car and then I’ll make supper. I already know your limits, Finn, kitchenwise. We’re having ham and cheese omelette. Maybe a tomato on the side.

As I’d observed at the lake, Dr. Morecombe was a woman whose presumptions had the ring of facts. She smiled and raised her glass. She was a dealer in knowledge, an expert in rocks and volcanoes and getting her own way. I raised mine in return. Her way was my way. Let it unfold like the night spreads the stars.

She patted my arm as she passed into the hall. I stood by the low doorway to the kitchen where she’d started to pull out bowls I’d forgotten. She talked to me about the trip and the places they’d seen, our natural wonders that were ‘about so much more than science’. She took off her watch and placed it on the table.

I felt the heat of the yellow metal and I longed for the source.

We ate in the low light, the scrape of knife and fork and Janet’s voice filling the room. She washed up and I dried.

Metamorphosis, the book said, about her ancient schists, but the same on the inside.

- It’s Finnuala, I said, quietly.

She stood there, her lips apart.

- Finnuala, I said. That’s what I was named at birth. So…Finn or Finnuala, take your pick, Janet.

She paused.

- Finn or Finnuala. Lovely. Lovely.

She smiled and went on talking.

 

Paul McMichael is the winner of the 2013 Bristol Short Story Prize. Born along the rugged coast of Ireland’s north eastern tip, he now lives in London with Marc, his partner of 26 years. He is working on his first novel.