​For Bren... I may finish this story off someday, I hope you enjoy what there is of it :)

SIOBHAN

Siobhan eyed The Queen coolly, estimating the effort that would be required to wrestle her opponent into submission. Reaching into her belt, she withdrew her leather gloves and carefully donned them, pulling the tubes interlined with delicate steel mesh meticulously down each of her fingers and pressing them into place. She flexed and curled her fingers a couple of times to ensure the fit was perfect.

She turned and surveyed her tool belt, which she had spread out on a stone bench beside her. Selecting a tool, she held it up before her, turning it around slowly to check the blades for careless snicks and scratches. The razor-sharp edges gleamed with purposeful intent.

Focusing beyond the tool she held in front of her face, she blinked as a small flash momentarily dazzled her eyes. She paused, and raised one brow. The tall security guard who had accompanied her from the gatehouse stared back blandly, his dark sunglasses hiding his expression. He lowered his camera, and said “For identification purposes.” His voice was slow and deep, his English heavy with an intriguing foreign accent, weighting each syllable with equal import.

Siobhan forbore to comment. The estate owner obviously took security very seriously. Her very own personal guard was evidently going to stand watch over her until she had completely finished her work. That was too bad for him, as she felt no inclination to rush this job. She had encountered The Queen before.

“Yuri will escort you,” she had been told at the gatehouse. She had done work for the previous owner, but obviously the new one was leery of letting anyone he did not personally know wander about the grounds. A tall young man in the black suit and dark shades which seemed to be the uniform of security men everywhere strolled past her without comment or even looking at her and led the way.

​She had deliberately not hurried, removing her tool belt from the carrier on her motorbike and securing it firmly around her hips before following him. She noted that he did not turn around, merely slowing to allow her to catch up to him. She had followed his broad back, their feet crunching on the shell paths. She had felt no need to fill the silence with small talk. She liked silence.

After an hour of gruelling labour, she stood back and surveyed her work. Blood dripped down her arm from a particularly deep scratch. Despite her precautions, The Queen had fought back viciously and had scored a couple of direct hits. But Siobhan had successfully uncovered the brass nameplate on the wall bearing The Queen’s proud French name, and the crank to lower her trellis.

She examined it carefully. It was rusted solid. Of course it was. Just her luck. She gave the handle an experimental tug. Definitely frozen. She turned to the guard, who had stood watching her without a word while she worked and said “Garden shed?”

He nodded once and turned and walked away. He was obviously not one to waste words. Or maybe his English was not so good? She suspected the former. She followed him into a nearby outbuilding and selected a likely-looking silicone spray and oil-can, plus a couple of rags from the clutter on the bench. The interior and contents looked as neglected as The Queen had been. She nodded once at her guard to signal that she had found what she wanted. Two could play at that game. Despite the cool darkness of the outbuilding, he had not removed his sunglasses. She was mildly amused at that. It was a bright day outside, but she had not donned her own shades as she needed her eyesight completely unhindered while she dealt with the beautiful, but extremely thorny climbing rose that she had been despatched to prune.

He fell in right behind her as she walked back into the sunlight. She felt a prickle of awareness on the back of her neck as she returned to the garden wall where The Queen cascaded in ferocious and untamed abandon. In her peripheral vision she could just see him pacing right behind her. She refused to be un-nerved; walking with an unhurried gait, her posture queenly and serene.

Taking a long file from the array of tools on the bench, she carefully worked away the rust from the mechanism. Finally, she detected some movement from her experimental tugs on the handle. After applying a liberal spray of lubricant, she grasped the handle firmly and threw her weight into turning it. With a screeching groan, it yielded a quarter-turn and the chains holding the trellis of the enormously heavy rose rattled ponderously through the rings bolted to the wall. Then it stuck fast. She planted a booted foot firmly against the wall and pulled back on the handle with all her weight. The trellis lurched downwards another foot. She paused, panting softly, gathering herself for another assault.

Then she looked up with surprise as a large tanned hand firmly covered hers, plucking it off the apparatus while his other arm snaked around her shoulder and pulled her away. She was deposited a few feet away. She watched with interest while he grasped the handle. He did not remove his jacket. The handle turned steadily under his persuasion, the trellis slowly shuddering down to its lower limit.
He stepped back and looked at her.

“Thank you.” She said politely, her voice soft and lilting with its slight accent. She couldn’t help a slight sour downturn of her mouth.
He murmured something she did not understand, and returned to his watching position. His mouth had quirked slightly at her expression. She snorted mentally. Show-off. Did he ever take off his shades? She wouldn’t mind seeing the rest of his face. No doubt it was as good-looking as the rest of it. What she could see of it, anyway.

A few hours later she stepped back and viewed her handiwork with satisfaction. The glorious fall of greenery, flowers and hidden thorns that was The Queen tumbled over her own special garden wall in a rather more decorous fashion than she had in her previous dishevelled state. The trimmings had been disposed of and the shell paths carefully tidied with the help of a wheelbarrow and rake which she had retrieved from the disgrace that was the abandoned outbuilding.

Yuri had stood and watched her silently the entire time. Only once had someone else strolled past, another security guard accompanied by a large dog. Dogs did not intimidate her. She ignored them while the guard conversed briefly with Yuri then moved on. A couple of times her guard had pulled out a phone and spoken into it in his own language.

She stood beside the stone bench and carefully wiped down her tools with an oiled cloth before stowing them back in the tool belt. She lifted it and buckled it once more around her hips, then turned and looked squarely at Yuri, unhooking her own sunglasses from her back pocket and placing them with slow deliberation on her nose. She stared at him for a moment in silent challenge, then turned and walked away. The heavy tool-belt gave her gait a slight involuntary swagger which she did not bother to lessen.

She paced deliberately back to the gatehouse, her dark head held high, and listened to him walking right behind her. She just knew he was grinning broadly at the back of her neck. She stood beside her motorbike and folded her tool-belt tenderly back into the carrier. She nodded at the guard stationed in the gatehouse, then turned and looked at Yuri. He stood watching her inscrutably; his brows dark slashes above his hidden eyes.

She hooked her sunglasses down her nose, and looked at him over them.

“So,” she said, “Shall we do this again sometime?”

He grinned, and slowly took off his shades so she could see his eyes. They were a very light silvery grey that gleamed in his dark face.

“Sure,” he said easily. “When?”

“The Green Man at six?”

“Six,” he agreed smoothly.

As she rode away from the gatehouse, she laughed out loud.

GRACE

Grace leaned forward, arms braced and hands griping both sides of the lectern; and addressed her audience in earnest tones.
“We need this housing estate; Carleton needs more people, this town is slowly withering away!” She enunciated each word clearly, looking her opponents straight in the eye.

“You all know this is true! Our young people leave, and never come back…”

She frowned as her audience’s attention wavered. Heads turned and loud murmurs of conjecture erupted as the double doors at the back of the tiny school hall opened and a stranger paused in the entrance.

The murmurs died away and everyone in the room stared at the tall man standing there.

He strode down the aisle towards the podium, his beautifully tailored cashmere coat swinging around him like heavy black wings. Heads turned to follow him as if by some strange compulsion.

Grace had stood up straight, as surprised as everyone else. She blinked at him as he stood below her. He had gazed directly at her until he had reached the stairs that led up to the podium.

“May I address the meeting?” His voice was low, with a husky timbre and a strong Russian accent. He seemed to be speaking to her alone.
She had to give him points for chutzpah. He had immediately zeroed in on the person occupying centre stage, and was telling her to push off. She imagined that very few people said no to him.

Recollecting her poise, she nodded. “Everyone has the right to speak here.”

She smiled as she stepped back from the lectern, inviting him up. He leapt nimbly up the stairs and took her place without looking at her again. Instead he had swept his gaze over the small collection of elderly men sitting on uncomfortable school chairs behind her. The parish councilors sat there, looking almost like mice that had unexpectedly attracted the unwelcome attention of a very large cat.

She passed behind him to regain her own seat on the stage but had no fears that she was distracting the audience. All eyes were riveted on the man behind the lectern.

.....................................................................................

Grace sighed in relief as she shut her front door behind her and followed her nose to the large comfortable kitchen sited at the back of the old farmhouse. She paused when she spotted her younger brother busily frying potatoes at the stove.

“Where’s Siobhan?” Siobhan was supposed to be on kitchen duty today.

“She has a hot date at the Green Man,” Niall said with a grin. “So as an obliging brother, I agreed to swap duties.”

“A hot date?” Grace queried, her pale blond brows pleating softly in enquiry.

“One of the security guys up at the estate. She met him today.”

“Did she call him that?” Grace couldn’t imagine her cool and composed sister saying anything so unguarded to a brother who loved to tease.

“Hot? No. You know Siobhan and me. We communicate on a need to know basis only. But Fiona fussed over her and sent her off all buffed and polished, in a carefully casual kind of way.” He winked. “Wanted to make a good impression, obviously.”

“Sooo…how did the meeting go?” he asked, piling potatoes on a plate and placing it in front of her as she sat down at the kitchen table.
“Fried potatoes again?”

“I like fried potatoes.”

“It’s like herding cats,” she grumbled, spearing a hapless vegetable. “You know the councilors. They can, they do spend hours talking, nearly always about things that are not on the agenda. And the Witch was there, predicting the end of the world, or at least our peaceful village ways, if we allow damned foreigners to invade our fair town. Or even worse, live here.” They both grinned. The most vocal opponent to the new housing estate regarded their own family as invaders who should have stayed on the other side of the Irish Sea. Never mind, she thought, that their father was third-generation English and only their mother had actually been Irish.

“But at least we have the High Street on my side... if the councilors want to be re-elected, they’ll do what’s good for the town, and not allow themselves to be bullied. I don’t mind protecting them from Mrs Stevens.” Grace smiled, looking forward to the next battle with the old sourpuss.

“The property developer showed up,” she added casually.

“What?” said Niall, “Mr Big-shot tycoon himself?”

“Himself.”

“And what is he like then? I hear,” he said slyly, “that he is considered very handsome by the ladies.”

She gave him a repressive look.

“Everyone was riveted. I think nobody dared to say boo to him… not even the Witch. She just shut up and sat there like an old sour prune while he expounded on all the wonderful advantages all these new people would bring. He didn’t wait to answer questions. He said his piece, marched off the stage and strode off, collecting his swat team as he went.”

“Swat team?”

“Men in Black. You know, security. He had two stationed at the door – I don’t anyone would have dared to leave until he had finished speaking! Actually, I don’t think anyone would have dared question or disagree with him anyway.”

“You sound a mite peeved, dear sister. Isn’t this what you’ve been saying all along?”

“Well yes, but it’s a bit annoying that he should grab my audience just as I was about to turn the tide…”

“Tut, the cheek of him, swiping your audience.”

“Haha”.

She would have said more, but paused at the sound of a knock at the front door.

Opening it, she was disconcerted to find two councilors standing on her front porch. They looked slightly nervous, as if they were up to no good, and their wives might find out at any moment.

Ten minutes later, she stared at them over her cup of tea and regarded them with mild astonishment.
“That’s right,” said the man she was staring at. “The chairman is stepping down and we want you to replace him.”


THE GREEN MAN

Siobhan had set briskly off down the narrow lane to the village sometime before six o’clock, intending to be there to greet Yuri when he arrived, since she had issued the invitation.

She arrived at her destination a good ten minutes before six, and observed only a few couples sitting in the courtyard of the little pub. Much to her surprise he was already there, dressed inconspicuously in a dark blue Aran sweater and jeans. He was nursing a beer and Suzie the regular barmaid was hovering attentively.

Siobhan stepped up smartly to the table, greeted Yuri warmly with a dazzling smile and sent Suzie off to fetch a soft drink. Not that she wanted one, but getting rid of Suzie was her first priority. Having prized her quarry loose from his closed eco-system she had no intention of allowing some-one else distract him.

She sat down smoothly opposite him and regarded his tanned smooth-shaven face with appreciation. No sunglasses this evening, she noted.

“By the way,” she said, “My name is Siobhan.”

“Shi… veen?” he repeated carefully. He looked puzzled. “Is that… Indian?”

“No,” she said with a smile, “Irish”.

“Yuri Ivanovich,” he said, and extended his hand across the table.

She shook it gravely.

“Formal introductions” she said. “I contract for my sister Grace Sullivan, who runs an odd job business. She organizes catering, and sends me out on gardening jobs. Our brother Neill takes care of the mechanical jobs. And little sister Fiona is a seamstress. We live in the farmhouse just down the lane to the estate.” He looked unsurprised. She was willing to bet that he knew all that already.

“And you?” she prompted.

“I work for Mr Volkov. In security.” Well, that much she knew already.

“Security, huh? Well, I guess I better not ask you any questions about that.” Good thing she wasn’t terribly curious about the new owner. She wasn’t one for social chat.

Suzie approached the table again and carefully placed a tall glass in front of Siobhan. She hovered, looking expectantly at Yuri.

“Thanks Suzie,” said Siobhan. “Can you bring us a couple of menus?” She smiled to herself as she lifted the glass to her mouth. Suzie would find herself being pinged straight back to the kitchen every time she hovered. Yuri was hers.

“I’m curious.” She smiled at him.

He looked warily at her over his beer.

“Who did The Queen snag?” she asked.

His black brows creased over those arresting silver eyes. He looked confused. “Snag? Who is the queen?”

“The Queen is my nickname for the rose I pruned today. She’s famous for capturing anyone who strays too near, and always draws blood before she lets anyone go. Her real name is “La Belle Dame sans Merci”, and it suits her.”

“Oh.” His brow cleared.

She smiled encouragingly.

“A guard dog. And then the security guard who tried to rescue it.”

“Poor dog!” She laughed. “Was that dog and guard that I saw? Well, it won’t make the same mistake again I’m sure.”

Yuri grinned back. “Don’t you care about the guard?”

“Sure, I just care more about the dog.”

Suzie reappeared at Yuri’s elbow with the menus.

“Thanks Suzie!” said Siobhan enthusiastically. “Oh… I think that couple over there are waving at you,” she added helpfully. She tried not to smirk as Suzie reluctantly departed.

Yuri quirked one eyebrow at her and asked, “Will she return to take our orders, do you think?”

Siobhan openly grinned. “Of course she will. Everyone here is madly curious about you mysterious newcomers, especially about your boss and his intentions, you must know that. That proposed housing estate is a big deal for this dead-end town and feelings are high. My sister Grace is really keen. More people, more business, she says. She’s waging a bitter battle against an old harpy who’s dead-set against it. ”

“And are you for or against?”

“Oh, for.” She shrugged. “But I leave the local politics to Grace.”

Deciding that she had done her duty in dropping their names in the way of future business should he have any influence back at the Grange, she considered how to get Yuri, obviously a taciturn type, to open about himself.

She smiled to herself. Younger brothers did have some use after all.

It didn’t take her long to find out that he was an avid soccer fan. Since she enjoyed teasing her brother about his favourite team’s chances she had no trouble taking a provocative stance and playing down the merits of Yuri’s favourite team.

As she expected, Yuri was spurred into vigorous defence of their chances in the next international competition and soon they were embroiled in an amicable argument.

By the time they were strolling back down the lane together at the end of the evening, Siobhan had found out that he was twenty-four years old, spoke excellent English and had worked for Volkov for five years, three of them in England. Not bad, she thought, considering that extracting information from Yuri was like getting blood from a stone.

She paused in front of the gate of the farmhouse. “Thank you for an enjoyable evening.” She smiled up at him. “Would you like to come in and meet my family?”

“I need to get back, so regret that I cannot. Maybe next time? Are you free later this week?”

She agreed that she was. “You can call the farmhouse,” she said, indicating the sign with Grace’s business name and telephone number. “I don’t have a phone.”

He looked down at her smiling face, hesitating.

“May I kiss you?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she murmured, reaching up to put her arms around his neck.

She opened the front door in a warm smiling daze. Yuri was rapidly striding down the dark lane towards the Grange. She would see him again in a few days, she was sure.

The first thing she saw when she opened the front door was Neill bounding down the stairs, a teasing grin on his face.

“There you are, darling sister,” he said. “How did it go? What do you think of Mr big-shot Volkov’s baby brother?”

She stared at him.

“What?”

“You didn’t know?” Niall hooted loudly. “That’s what you get for not reading gossip mags, darlin’!”

“But… but… his name is Ivanovich…”

“That’s his patronymic, not his surname.”

“And you found this out how?” she demanded. “Reading women’s magazines now, are we?”

“Ha, what else is there to read at the dentist?”

“Wait till I tell the others!” he grinned back at her over his shoulder, leaving her standing in the hall.

‘Wait indeed,’ she thought. ‘Wait until Yuri calls. I’ll give him a piece of my mind. Letting my little brother put one over me.’
‘If he calls.” She added to herself.

BABUSHKA

Grace sighed, and straightened slowly, rubbing her back. The strip of flowers behind the low stone fence that bordered the lane looked much better now. Weeding helped her to think, and she had much to think about.

Sadly, she thought, there was far too much time to spend weeding. Well, at least the garden looked beautiful. Business was slow. This quiet little town just got quieter each year as its young people left school, and then left altogether. If their father hadn’t given them this house when he remarried and moved away to the nearest big town himself, things would have been pretty tough.

She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the morning sun. A gentle breath of air, scented with disturbed earth and flowers, stroked her cheek. A soft murmur of cooing from the dovecot behind the house barely soothed the sudden restlessness that filled her soul. Change was coming and good or bad, she welcomed it. For the last eight years since the death of their mother, it felt like her life and those of her siblings had been in stasis - although of course it hadn’t. Their father had remarried two years ago and promotion had taken him away from this tiny town. He had only been in his late forties and his new wife wanted children so now they had a darling little half-brother whom they saw at every birthday and celebration of their big combined family.

The twins might leave first. Niall had been offered a full-time job as a mechanic and bubbly Fiona would no doubt flit away somewhere livelier anytime now.

And Siobhan… independent, self-contained Siobhan, who gave little away, had found some-one to date. She smiled wryly to herself. Her own half-hearted relationship had fizzled and faded away a year ago.

So, here she was, twenty-six years old, with a failing business in a quiet backwater, no relationship and no immediate prospect of one, while her siblings circled the nest in preparation to fly away in search of the rest of their lives.

She scolded herself at her sudden melancholy. Change was good. They had been treading water for too long.

She smiled to herself. Maybe she should put herself forward to chair the parish council. Goodness knew that she had the time to devote to parish affairs. Wouldn’t that put Mrs Steven’s nose out of joint!

“Dobroye utro. U vas yest' prekrasnyy sad.”

Mildly startled, she opened her eyes. A tiny bird-like elderly woman with bright eyes was smiling at her on the other side of the garden wall. She must come down the lane while Grace had been wool-gathering. Her greeting sounded… Russian? And Grace did not recognize her. She must be from the Grange in that case.

Grace smiled at her. “Good morning,” she said, returning the greeting and reached for the latch on the gate.

“Would you like to come in?” she said, gesturing in welcome.

She paused with her teacup halfway to her mouth, but relaxed when she heard Fiona bounding down the stairs to answer the loud knocking at the front door. My, this was turning out to be a morning for social calls. Welcoming the distraction, she had led her visitor on a tour around the garden where she had exclaimed over the flowers and the carefully-laid out vegetable plot and fruit trees that Siobhan tended. Grace had not understood a word, but her visitor’s delight was obvious.

They were now enjoying a comfortable cup of tea on the patio outside the big country kitchen at the rear of the house, French doors spread wide to let in air and sunshine while doves strutted around their feet, unconcerned by the elderly cat curled up on another chair.
She looked up to see Fiona’s cheerful face in the doorway, and her jaw sagged slightly when she saw who was standing behind her. It was Volkov himself, flanked by two stern-looking men in black suits. Grace looked from the unmistakable relief on their faces to her visitor’s impish smile with a dawning sense of enlightenment.

“I think,” said her sister. “That you’ve been entertaining our new neighbour’s grandmother.”
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