The Changeling by Helen Falconer Read Free Book Online Page B

it. A young woman disappeared out of the next valley soon after, and everyone said she’d run off with a travelling man, but my father said the sheóg had fetched her away.’ Shay raised his dark green eyes and looked straight at her.
    She looked straight back at him, saying nothing. She was remembering mad John McCarthy in the graveyard, and how he’d said Eamonn Foley was convinced his wife was a lenanshee.
    The softness went out of Shay’s face, like he knew full well what she was thinking. He turned his face away. ‘Sure, my father believed in a lot of things.’
    Instantly Aoife felt terrible. Shay Foley never spoke to anyone about anything, and now here he was opening up to her about his father, and she had just stared blankly at him like he was talking nonsense. She said quickly, putting her hand on his arm, ‘Your father was an artist, wasn’t he?’
    He glanced at her in surprise, and his expression softened again. ‘Where did you hear that? I didn’t think anyone remembered that.’
    ‘They do, of course. Is that where you get your own talent from?’
    ‘My . . .? Oh . . .’ He became suddenly self-conscious, more his old withdrawn self. ‘No, that’s nothing. I’m no good, not compared to him.’
    ‘You are – the drawing of the dog was brilliant.’
    He shook his head, flushing slightly across his cheekbones. ‘Seriously, he was a real artist. Other people thought so too, people who knew, but he never would sell to them. After he died some Galway fellow auctioned his paintings for us, and they went for a good amount. I didn’t want to part with them but my brother needed the money to get the farm going again.’
    It came to the tip of her tongue to say I’m sorry for your troubles like everyone said at funerals. But it seemed stupid and pointless, so long after the fact. Instead, she said, ‘What sort of thing did he paint?’
    Shay hesitated. ‘Portraits.’
    She nearly asked of who, but John McCarthy’s voice piped up just in time: Painting and painting her portrait over and over again. Eamonn Foley painted his wife, nobody else. ‘Did you not keep any of his paintings?’
    ‘Just one. A small one. I have it in my room.’ His eyes were bright. On impulse, Aoife took his hand; he didn’t pull it away. His palm was hard – a typical farm boy’s hand. He ran his thumb absently over the back of hers. A surprisingly intimate gesture for the boy who usually kept his distance from everyone.
    In the silence between them, two lines passed through Aoife’s head:
    Her body lies beneath the sea
    But in my room she watches me.
    She shivered, and Shay looked worried and disengaged his hand as if it might be the touch of him that bothered her. ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘Fine – just the breeze is a bit cold. I guess you need to get on to Clonbarra.’
    He checked his phone. ‘Bit late for the mart now.’
    ‘Is it? Oh God, I’m sorry . . .’
    ‘No bother – live chickens don’t go off.’
    So there was still no room for the bike in Shay’s car, and Aoife ended up having to push it home after all. That evening, she lay on her bed and had a long conversation with Carla about the amazingness of Killian, who had actually texted Carla to ask how she was.
    ‘Wasn’t that lovely of him?’
    ‘Yeah, really nice.’
    ‘I said I was fine and I’d see him in school tomorrow.’
    ‘That’s great, well done.’
    Carla said suddenly, ‘Aoife, are you all right? Has something happened?’
    Aoife flopped over onto her back, stared up at Lady Gaga. ‘Mm. A couple of things.’
    ‘Well, like what?’
    ‘I ruined my tyres.’
    ‘Ugh, bad luck – those potholes in your lane are getting ridiculous.’
    That’s what it was! Two days in a row she had ridden right over the growing potholes instead of going round them. No wondered she’d ruined her wheels – nothing strange was happening to her. She said more cheerfully, ‘And I saw Shay Foley. You won’t believe this, but he was