Page 19 of Boomerville at Ballymegille

‘There is a spirit, recently passed, who is watching you,’ the Shaman said.

Bill had felt foolish as he rubbed at his eyelids. This man, with his wrinkled weathered skin and strange headgear of feathers and beads, was, in Bill’s opinion, barking mad. Bill heard him droning on about spirits who’d left this mortal plane and he’d yawned as he wondered how soon he could escape. The tent-like structure was dark and oppressive and he’d longed to be out in the garden, making his way to the silver class to work with something solid and real.

‘Be rid of your anger,’ the Shaman had whispered and Bill opened his eyes to see the man standing with arms crossed against his tattooed torso. His bare feet poked out of baggy cotton trousers as he stared down at Bill. ‘Namaste,’ he said, placing his palms together.

Bill had scrambled to his feet.

The Shaman moved to an opening in the canvas and held the flap back. ‘Be rid of your anger,’ he whispered as Bill hurried out into the meadow.

‘Weirdo!’ Bill muttered and brushed furiously at his clothes to remove pieces of straw. A potent smell of burning herbs clung to the fabric.

Stay away from that crack-pot; don’t get involved with all the nonsense!

Bill imagined his mother’s scornful spirit hovering over the tepee. He shook his head to clear it of the experience and strode to the gate that led to the garden.

‘Off to your next class?’ A woman came towards him and Bill recognised the hotel manager.

‘I most certainly am,’ Bill replied.

‘Has the Shaman sorted you out?’ Hattie asked.

‘He’s crazy. Why on earth do you send people to him?’

‘Aye, he’s as mad as a box of frogs, but some folk swear by his sessions.’

‘I shan’t be going back; don’t put me down for any more.’

‘Just as you like,’ Hattie said. She glanced at her watch. ‘Don’t be late, you’ve a date with the silversmith in a few minutes.’

Bill left Hattie on the path and turned to walk through an archway that led to the courtyard. A building with a red door faced him. A sign read, “Silver Class”.

‘Ah, Bill Bradbury with two ‘b’s,’ I believe.’ Lucinda studied the new arrival.

Bill had the urge to turn on his heel and escape as he recognised the tutor, the dreadful woman who had recruited him to her art class, and now, here she was doubling up to teach silver.

‘Don’t look so terrified,’ Lucinda said. ‘Sit down and pay attention.’ She pointed to an empty seat. Wearing an industrial cotton coat, daubed with dark stains, Lucinda walked over to a table laid out with odd looking instruments.

Bill shuddered as he joined the other students. He could hear his mother scoffing,You’re wasting your time with this lot!and thought of her pleasure at seeing him humiliated and not standing his ground.

Lucinda explained to the class that to begin, they would be making a bracelet, using oval wire. She pointed to her tools and explained that she would be showing techniques that involved filing, soldering, sanding, shaping and hammering.

Bill listened to her instructions and thought that he’d like to take a hammer to Lucinda’s hawk-shaped face and rearrange her features. But as he slid his arms into the cotton coat folded neatly on his table, he remembered how much he’d paid for the privilege of attending the session and determined that he would get the most out of it.

Now, after the events of a long and tiring day, Bill sipped a refreshing pint of bitter. He looked around and saw other guests gathering to discuss their classes and hoped that no one joined him. As he reflected, Bill realised that he’d enjoyed himself. The bracelet that he’d produced in the silver class was wrapped around his wrist and he felt quite jaunty to be embellishing his body with jewellery.

His mother would turn in her grave.

* * *

Hattie satin Jo’s living room and placed her foot playfully on Sergeant Harry Knowles’ knee. The polycotton fabric of his standard issue trousers felt rough against her bare skin as she rubbed her toes up and down his thigh.

‘Now then, Harriet, don’t be starting all that up again,’ Harry said as he bit into a slice of carrot cake and sipped from a mug of tea. ‘I’m on duty.’

Hattie raised an eyebrow. ‘Duty?’ she asked. ‘Where have you been for the last hour?”

‘Doing my duty.’ Harry gave her a wink. ‘Policemen are entitled to a lunch break.’

He put his mug on the table then brushed crumbs off the front of his shirt and, lifting her foot, began to caress her toes, making Hattie squirm.

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